Robin Gilbert Luftig's Blog, page 41

Regaining Social Skills after A Brain Injury

[image error]If you’ve followed my blog for any time at all, you’ve seen shared posts from people I highly respect for one reason or another. Today I’m sharing a post from Michelle Munt, a brain trauma survivor. She’s battled back and continues to gain momentum in her journey of healing–and we’re all on a journey of healing, right?

https://www.jumbledbrain.com/2017/07/17/shy-sociable-brain-injury/

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Writers, Do You Have Any Idea What You’re Doing?: A Review

[image error]Like most authors, my goal as a writer is to weave words into a beautiful tapestry; thoughts that take the reader’s breath away. To do this, I grab time when I can. While doing laundry or cooking dinner … or instead of doing laundry or cooking dinner.

But when I see it happen–when I read a piece that tightens my chest and stays with me for days–I know I’m in the presence of brilliance and need to share it with the world. That happens many times when I read Lori Roeleveld’s work.

Check out her latest piece. Find out why writers write. 

This may help those who live with writers understand why their clothes may still be in the hamper or their dinners periodically get burnt.

Thank you Lori.

Stop Words That Cheapen Redemption

[image error]The value of words is immeasurable. They shape our lives and determine how we see the world around us. Because of their power, we need to monitor what we hear and read—and think. Christians tap into specific words of power and comfort.

Blessed. Redeemed. Forgiven.

Because of the power in words, it’s imperative for Christ followers to be on our guard against damaging words. Satan wants to destroy the lives of Christians, often using our own words against us.

Loser. Unworthy. Ashamed.

Stop the madness! Don’t let these words find residence in your heart. We all have past experiences that helped we’d wish weren’t there, but we can control which experiences define us.

Our redemption is our greatest gift. Not only does it free us from the weight of an eternity of torment, it gives us a vehicle to help others.

We’re in good company if we see our past sins for what they were. Take in the words of the Apostle Paul. He was able to look beyond his past to see how he could still shine for God:

“You know what I was like … how I violently persecuted God’s church. I did my best to destroy it. I was far ahead of my fellow Jews in my zeal for the traditions of my ancestors. But even before I was born, God chose me and called me by his marvelous grace. Then it pleased him to reveal his Son to me so that I would proclaim the Good News about Jesus to the Gentiles.”

The greater the offense, the greater power of God’s grace. When we get down on ourselves from past mistakes, we doubt our value. That, in turn, cheapens Jesus’ gift to each of us. I remember my past sins—there’s no way around them. Harmful relationships were like a drug to me. And like someone addicted, I felt powerless against my compulsion. But when I learned after accepting Jesus as my savior that God took my sins from me, never to recall them again, I took those words to heart.

I no longer allow my sinful history to define who I am. Instead, I choose to allow Jesus’ redemption to describe me.

Beloved. Forgiven. Child of God.

Remember, the creator of the universe knows who you are. If you need scripture to point to, how about this one: And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God… Luke 12:7

Remember the power in words. And remember your place in Jesus’ heart.

Memories of Treasures Long Ago

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J. G. Gilbert & Robin Gilbert Luftig at Lake Lavine, MI, Summer 1958

Even though my family of origin was pretty dysfunctional, one of my favorite pastimes, when I’m feeling a bit low, is to remember stories about my dad and how he honored my feelings and held them close to his heart.

I always jumped at the chance to be with Dad in his room—the Gun Room. It was a treat to steal away with him when he went upstairs to his room. He kept guns, cameras, family photos and film equipment, and special sentimental pieces from his childhood there. I am certain he kept us out for our own protection when it came to the guns. We were all told the only time we were allowed to go in there by ourselves was if the house was on fire and we could safely get the family’s 8mm films out and save them from being destroyed. Other than that, the Gun Room was strictly off limits. Whenever I saw him in there, I would beg to join him. And he always obliged. While he worked away on whatever project he was concentrating on, I looked around his private sanctuary with marvel. I would fold my arms behind my back holding tightly on to my wrists, just to make sure I did not touch anything. I did not want to run the risk of inadvertently grabbing for something and causing harm.

One of the items I often searched out was a stuffed bird, about the size of my palm, with [image error]wild ostrich feather plumage glued onto it. Dad kept it secured away in a glass cabinet I was completely mesmerized by its splendor. It was so odd to see this delicate piece of fluff surrounded by items dedicated to hunting and killing animals. I made stories up in my mind about why this fragile object was set apart with reverence and displayed only for Dad’s eyes to see. Was it a gift from a princess he had rescued from the grips of a ferocious dragon? Was it a piece of treasure he had found while hunting with Indians? My imagination knew no boundaries.

I figured—with all the wisdom that a four-year-old could have—that since Dad liked it so much, I should give it to him again. Father’s Day was quickly approaching and, lucky for me, Dad and I were already in his room, so I had access to the sacred bird. When Dad was not looking, I carefully walked over to the display case and opened it. Slowly, I reached into the case and carefully grabbed the stuffed bird. I held it in my tiny hands as if it were precious jewels. I abruptly left and took my stolen booty to my bedroom. Securing the bird in a safe place, I left my room to bring back newspaper and masking tape. With all the care I could muster, I wrapped the stuffed bird as his Father’s Day gift. I was sure he would be thrilled with my present.

On Father’s Day, after dinner was finished, Mom and Dad were having their coffee and The Boys ran out to play. I ran upstairs to bring down my special gift for Dad. Standing before him I ceremonially offered him my carefully wrapped package. He looked at the crumpled ball of newspaper encircled with bands of masking tape and pulled me up into his lap so I could have the perfect view of the unveiling. As he carefully unwrapped the mound of tape and paper, he revealed the soft, fragile stuffed bird that I had taken from his glass cabinet. He paused, smiled and said that he loved it. Thank you for the perfect present, Robbie. This is such a cute bird. I’ll keep it forever! With that, he smothered me with hugs and kisses. I strutted away as if I had just been awarded a national medal for being the most loving and awesome child of the year.

Later that summer, we began to prepare to celebrate Dad’s birthday that September. He never wanted much of a fuss, but we enjoyed honoring him the best we could. I had no idea how to out-gift Father’s Day. Then the answer came to me. One day while he was in the gun room, I asked to come in so I could see his precious treasures. Again, I carefully opened the display case and grabbed the feathered masterpiece. And as before, I took it to my room and wrapped it with newspaper and masking tape.

When the time came for presents after dinner, I made sure I was at the front of the pack. Dad, once again, scooped me and my ball of newspaper and masking tape up and pulled me on his lap.

[image error]Then he opened the present.

When he saw all the plumage and beautiful colors, he never missed a beat. He raved on about how beautiful this present was and how he was so pleased that I knew just what he liked. He never let on that he recognized the bird from the glass case in his room or that he even knew I had taken it. Instead, he made a fuss over me and my re-re-gifted item that had already belonged to him. He made me feel like I had offered him the moon and it was the most special gift he ever received.

In my preschool mind, life with my dad was the most perfectest life ever.

I have so many wonderful memories of my father. With Father’s Day around the corner, I will—just like every year—miss his hugs. Memories will have to be enough.

If possible, find something to thank your father for. You’ll be glad you did.

Even in the most dysfunctional family, there are good memories. What stories do you carry in your heart?

(Re-posted from June 2012)

Where does the time go? A day flies by after brain injury – #jumbledbrain

You know how you meet someone through Social Media and you are immediately drawn to them by the power of their words? Michelle Munt is like that for me. 

Check out her description of time after her brain injury. Each time I read her work I find myself saying, “Yes, that’s what happened to me, too!”

I would say I’m busy most days and yet I don’t get much done. Since my brain injury time just flies past me. Or am I just really slow?

Source: Where does the time go? A day flies by after brain injury – #jumbledbrain

Asking to See

Have you had to walk away when all you wanted was to curl up and cry? Or maybe you didn’t know what you wanted. Watch transparency in action. Can you relate?

BeautyBeyondBones

I don’t know how it got to be today.

How, after being home here for five months after my mother’s stroke, that I am packing up my things to return to NYC.

I’m going to be honest, I haven’t even made it through the socks and underwear yet, and I’ve already cried twice.

I was not expecting this. Returning to New York is supposed to be joyous. Full of celebratory anticipation. And yet, why do I feel my heart is shattering?

I was driving home from getting groceries today when an Audrey Assad song came on: Lead, Kindly Light. And one of the lyrics really stopped me in my tracks:

“Here in the dark, I do not ask to see.”

I rolled that over and over in my mind. And I realized, that’s just what I’ve been doing during my time here at home. Things were dark – I was…

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Surviving Mother’s Day Sorrows

Mother’s Day is not always filled with cards and sunshine. Sometimes it’s accompanied with a heavy heart. Guest blogger Tammy Treat-Boyne knows all too well of the pain that accompanies celebration.

[image error]As Mother’s Day approaches I am brought back to my memories of a missing puzzle piece of my heart. I have buried a child. No parent should go through this. Friends tried to placate me with the 23rd Psalm and words of “she is not in pain anymore”. That did not help this grieving mother.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil” Psalm 23:4a (NKJV)

I was there all right. In the valley and I was angry, sad and disappointed.

Fearing evil? No, that never entered my mind. But all the other, yep. Why? My baby girl had just died. No, she wasn’t an infant, she was 24 years old, but she was still my baby, my child.  Brain cancer had whipped out a life too early.

I remembered how the doctor had handed me this small squirming girl. I inspected her, as we mother’s do. Counting her fingers and toes as my own fingers caressed hers. I smelled that sweet baby smell as I marveled at her black tuft of hair wrapped in a purple bow. Gingerly I rewrapped all 6 pounds 12 ounces of my second girl and prepared to return her to the incubator. Her lungs needed help and I could not hold her except for a few moments of time.

Nineteen years later this delightful, often, rebel child was diagnosed with P-Net (Pineblastoma CNS primitive neuroectodermal tumors) cancer. It had been hidden from the time she was born. A brain cancer that lays dormant in children until the ages of six through 20. This cancer begins, lives and draws on the brain stem and cerebral fluid, often running down winding throughout the spinal cord and affecting multiple organs.

A short four years later, I was again in the hospital with this girl. She was totally bald this time, looking at me with angry, hurt, dark mad eyes. Spitefully she said, “No one ever told me I was this sick”.

Those were my child’s last words before she slipped into a coma.

A few hours later, my daughter took her last breath and died. My mother and I held hands at the foot of her bed. We could not look at each other as we had shared the burden of raising my three daughters. The tears fell. My other daughters surrounded us. The room was void of everything except our pain.

Isaiah 66:13a (NKJV) “As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you”

The following week I was raw. But Jesus was there. He walked through the valley with me.  He covered me from the shadows. Even on the days that I didn’t know He was there, He was beside or He carried me. He protected me, gave me peace and a strength that I didn’t know that I had.

That was fourteen years ago. Even today there is a continued peace and comfort. Somedays I must lift my tear-stained eyes to my Lord for peace as my heart is heavy with new pain. But through it all, I know my daughter is pain-free.

[image error]Tammy Treat-Boyne is a survivor. Life has thrown multiple adversities in her path, but through the strength of her Lord and Savior, she is able to carry on.  From the death of her father Christmas Day, 1971, through an abusive marriage. From the loss of a child to the struggles she now has with Fibromyalgia. Tammy’s rally cry is “I will Survive”.  Her life verse is I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.  Philippians 4:13 (NKJV)

Tammy has two grown daughters and six granddaughters. She also has two step-children, a boy and a girl with two step-granddaughters and a step-grandson.

Tammy is an inspirational speaker, teacher and she also sings and writes about her past, present and her future in Christ.  You can find her on Facebook. Stop by and tell her hello!

Challenged to Do What’s Right on Mother’s Day

[image error]Picking the perfect Mother’s Day card has always been a challenge for me.  I can spend hours at the card shop reading sentiments like You’ve been the best influence ever or You’re my best friend.  These thoughts are beautiful and touch my heart, but don’t come close to the relationship I have with my mother.

My mother and I are not as close as many mother and daughters are.  I love my mother and know without a doubt that she loves me.  But some of life’s dark twists and turns along the way made it challenging to reach the level of closeness these cards reflect.

While we both sought Norman Rockwell moments, we accepted the fact that there would always be that elephant of dysfunction in the room with us.

It wasn’t until we discovered the unrealistic reality of our expectations that we found peace. We learned to deal with awkward silence. We learned not to expect what the other couldn’t give.  [image error]

Expectations ~ the human side of shoulds or oughts ~ cause most of our problems in our relationships with parents. But Christ’s divine guidance offers standards that set everything right.

Simply put, we are instructed to honor our mother and father.

Apostle Paul says in Ephesians, “Honor your father and mother” ~ which is the first commandment with a promise ~ “so that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth.” (6:2-3 NIV)

The love I have for my mother may be difficult to explain.  It isn’t about cards and flowers and ooey-gooey sentiment, but all in all, I love her.  It’s a love that’s true. And that love blesses us both through my obedient. God tells me to, and in the toughest of times, that’s enough of a reason to do so.

If Mother’s Day is difficult for you, know that obeying God’s word brings life.  And life is a good thing.

Do your best to find the perfect Mother’s Day card.  There’s still time. Walk past the flowery or sappy ones if you must. But find a card that offers her the honor she is due. You’ll be glad you did.

The Waiter from Hell?

Forgiveness is a powerful thing. Consider what could happen if we practice it more.

Mitch Teemley

All I wanted from our server was for him to tell us what the specials were, to make a few recommendations, and then bring us our food, quickly and hotly (is that a word?). Instead, he seemed offended at everything, recommended nothing—except that we go somewhere else—and then brought us the wrong food, slowly and coldly. When I complained, he said he’d had it with my attitude. Ahem, my attitude?

A few months later, I told our new roommate my “waiter from hell” story, thinking it might serve as an icebreaker. It didn’t. Dave paid his rent on time, did his dishes, and respected the house rules. In return, all he asked was to not be probed with churlish personal questions like, “Hello.”

When someone is moody I have to know why. It’s probably equal parts snoopiness and compassion, but whatever it is I keep at it. So I kept at Dave…

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