“You Don’t Know My Story” – I’m a Beautiful Disaster

It is the greatest ache in my soul to be separated from my children. Three are grown and living their own lives. Three are not, and they’re not with me. The older three and I talk and are in each other’s lives; that is good. Good, good, good. But the younger three … often I catch myself staring off into space – thinking of them – thinking about how I failed them – thinking how I miss them – wondering how they are – wondering how they are doing – what they are doing. Often I lay awake at night thinking of them – thinking how I failed them – thinking how I miss them – wondering how they are – wondering how they are doing – what they are doing. Tears fall – though I’m better able now to hold them back now.

It’s coming up on the sixth anniversary of the day I left St. Louis – in a panicked flurry, I packed my things into my car and drove six hours, through floods of pain and grief, to the safety of my parent’s home in Tulsa. Part of the drive, my brother – who was in Kansas – kept me on the phone in an effort to keep me “sane” and “calm.” My hysterical crying scared him, I know. He understood that I was driving away from a volatile situation and that if I had stayed that I was not going to survive. Not physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. I would have died had I stayed. So, I fled – and began the ‘fight’ of my life.

Fear was my constant companion. So much so did it consume me that I was incapable of rational thought and incapable of the real, legal fight to get shared custody of my children. Paranoia gripped me, and around every corner and behind every door, I saw the potential, impending danger. My mind created terrifying scenarios one after another, and I was terror-stricken, flailing insanely in a dark pool of water – and no matter how many people told me to put my feet on the floor of the pool and feel the bottom, I could not. I would not. I was tormented and only capable of small breaths above water – frantically trying to survive and swim away from what tormented me. Then, the decree was signed, and I lost my children. Fear and shame shrouded me, and I drank away the pain as time passed.

The first three years of healing are blurry to my memory now, though I know they were full of fear, confusion, and self-hate. Snippets of memory come to me in unexpected moments, and I find it hard to digest that those are things and events that I endured, caused, and survived. In my fight to live, I had two stints in psych wards and was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and Bipolar disorder – and I was put on medication. I was ostracized by good Christians, some even family, for my sins of adultery and divorce – most choosing judgment instead of discovery of root causes and healing. It was said of me that I was a bad influence, and young family members were encouraged not to talk to me. I’m not bitter; those are their conversations to have with Christ. They did not stop to consider years of volatility that I was not equipped to navigate, nor did they ask before passing judgment. Not making excuses for my past behaviors; I am stating facts. I was naive, sheltered, and brought up in a traditional Christian church environment where I did not learn tools to face abuse, drug use, or narcissism. I came to a place of depression and hopelessness where I believed that I was unloveable and unworthy of answered prayers, and I gave up. I died inside, and my life became a quasi-suicide mission with a smile plastered on my face. I remember the feelings, but it all blurs together now … the couple of years where I “lost my mind” and the first three years of “healing.”

It wasn’t healing that happened in those three years, not really. It began, but I also found myself dependent on alcohol. More and more, I drank myself into oblivion at night. Killing the pain. Killing the self-hate. Killing the guilt. Killing it – and not understanding myself. I wanted to live for my kids and show them I could be better, so war raged inside me. I wanted to be better. I wanted to deserve God’s love. I wanted to deserve my kid’s love. I wanted a man to love me. But I also did not believe, despite what I had endured over years of private hell, that I deserved any of those things. I had been told for so long that I was unwanted – I believed that lie, and I snapped and stepped into despicable sin – then, I believed I was a walking sin, undeserving of forgiveness or grace. I wanted to be numb, to let sweet Vodka drift it all away. I went to therapy, sure. I dated, absolutely. For so long, I’d been told I was unattractive and that no one would want me, and I needed to prove that wasn’t true to myself. Vodka was my private therapist.

In all that ‘healing’ time – and to this day – because of my love for my children, I have kept my private hell story locked away from them. I do not speak hate-filled words, have not, and won’t about the past. There are things they do not need to know … not until they ask, and I believe they’re mature enough for the conversation, and perhaps, not even then. It is not for me to seek vengeance or comeuppance. That is God’s department – and mine is to seek restoration of my heart, soul, mind, and body and to pray for my children. That is what I am to do.

Four years into healing, I began to talk to God more, and I listened to Him as well. Long story short, God took the reigns from me – and He taught me how to accept His Grace – and not walk in fear. I found myself to be the woman in John 8, and I tattooed “By Grace” on my right arm as a daily reminder that God loves me! I am saved by Grace! I am to live by Grace! I am to love with Grace! No longer do I take medications for depression or disorders. No longer do I ascribe to the diagnoses given to me by doctors who did not know my whole story. No more do I accept or claim Borderline Personality Disorder or Bi-polar. I suffered from PTSD (which I do not want to merely gloss over here with a slight mention – PTSD is real; it is debilitating. I was disabled by it. Crippled. Lost.) and a lack of honest, authentic faith. God led me to AA, where I have learned to take a deep look inside of myself and get honest regarding my instincts and responsibilities and the greatness of God my Father as I understand Him, and then, He, this great Father God, led me straight into the arms of Patrick Cunningham. It is an act of God that he and I met. We know it, and we are grateful to God for His mercy and kindness. Patrick has his own story, and suffice it to say that as a result of his own struggles, his faith is rooted in knowledge and experience. God is real to him, and he’s the most authentic person I’ve ever known.

People don’t understand how any mother could not fight for at least joint custody of her children, and I no longer feel I need to defend myself to any of those people because I know my story. I see it through clear eyes now, and I know that I was mentally ill – emotionally drained, spiritually sick, and consumed by fear. I know that, but then … I waiver at times because I miss my babies. It is a battle inside of me waged between knowledge and feelings. I’m no longer living in fear or self-hate, but guilt creeps in … the guilt of leaving my children – or, in the words of another person, the guilt of abandoning my children. When that creeps in, I take a deep breath and pray; I look at the tattoo on my arm. I thank God for bringing me to a place of healing and grace, and I ask Him to remind me that I am His. Yes, I miss my children desperately, and I think about them constantly, but I know at this point in my life, it is for me to be about the tasks God, my Father, sets in front of me each day. I continually pray for my children, and I thank God for each one of them. I pray that they will know beyond anything else in this life that God is real and that Heaven and Hell are real, and it is for them to choose for themselves where they will spend eternity. This I do, and I remember that God’s grace is sufficient for this disaster of a woman that I have been and am. The devil wants to push guilt on me, and I, at times, let that guilt in, but I know this … it is not now and never will be guilt at leaving a volatile situation. For that wild escape in the midst of a mental, emotional, and spiritual breakdown, I am grateful.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see.

This sweatshirt is from "Beautiful Disaster" - a company who supports survivors of domestic violence.

“I Know What I Saw”

Watching paranormal shows is a not-so-guilty pleasure for my husband and me. “Ghost Adventures,” “The Dead Files,” and “A Haunting” top the list, but we will watch any that are recent and well-produced. Last night we came across “My Haunted House,” and I confess, I jumped and yelled out more than once. More than once last night in two episodes, I heard people recount their stories of paranormal events, and they said, “I know what I saw.” Whether or not anyone believed them, they said, “I know what I saw.”

I’m a firm believer that the supernatural realm is real – though I do not know how or why. In the Bible, there are instances of those who had died reappearing in both the Old and New Testaments. Angels and demons are talked of in real terms – like the angels with chariots of fire surrounding Elisha and his servant. Elisha prayed for God to open the servant’s eyes … and He did. Jesus cast “Legion” out of a man and into a herd of pigs. “Legion” knew who Jesus was, and it was terrified. Saul went to see a medium and had her call up Samuel from the dead for him to talk to. Samuel was most displeased, and Saul died not long after. Moses and Elijah spoke with Jesus – and the disciples witnessed it.

People that I love have had spiritual encounters, and I have heard their stories. I have also heard of frightening encounters that people I know have had. I do not doubt or question their experiences. What I know is this … God is a lot bigger than me, and just because I find something hard to digest or understand does not make it less real. So, I believe the supernatural realm is real. It’s all around us.

This is one of the reasons I’m intrigued by paranormal shows. Do I believe everything I see on these shows? No. Some folks are getting their 15 minutes of fame, but there are some … you have to sit back and think, wow. Okay. I’m always in a space where I’m wondering if those who have gone on before are in a supernatural state waiting for Christ to return – and they are outside of time but present. Or do all believers go on straight to Heaven … but if they’re outside of time, then that could be immediately or not … I have no earthly idea. Literally. Is it only those who were unbelievers in their living years that are stuck in a waiting space – waiting on the day of judgment to arrive? Is that purgatory? Is being stuck in an earth-bound but ghostly state – is that purgatory? Can people be moved on to the light? Is it possible for them to not know they’re dead? I don’t know. I just have no idea, and it intrigues me. I want to know more about Heaven and life beyond what we know here on this earth. Do all humans go immediately to another place upon death in their spirits? Does the supernatural realm that exists around us on this earth only consists of angels and demons? That’s possible. I know that. So many questions, and I’m intrigued.

I believe that there’s more to “reality” than what we see, hear, touch, feel, and taste on this earth, though, until about a month ago, I’d never had any unusual circumstances in my own life.

It was 9:15 a.m. or around that time. My class would begin at 9:30, and I sat at my large metal desk in my office preparing my lecture, doing final touches, and, also, talking to my daughter, Kennedy, on the phone. Sitting catercorner on my desk is a desk organizer that holds pens, markers, a notebook, and some bookmarks – items I need from time to time. There is no fan in my office, no window, and the door was closed. It was just me in the room, though Kennedy was on the phone, and as we talked, I noticed the black marker in the desk organizer began to move side to side. The red and green markers next to it, partitioned separately, did not move. The pens and pencils on the other side of it (partitioned in another section) did not move. Just the black marker. It lasted seconds, but I saw it.

“Did I just see that?” I said out loud.

“What, Mom?” Kennedy said.

“The marker on my desk just moved!”

“What?”

“The marker on my desk just moved back and forth by itself! It’s standing up in the desk organizer, and it just moved side to side on its own!” I kicked my desk. It did not move. I shoved my desk. It did not move. I told Kennedy what I was doing. She said, “Mom! Really?” I’m not sure what that was supposed to mean – perhaps that her mother is crazy … but …

I know what I saw.

It was time to head to the classroom, so I packed up my stuff, said “adios” to my daughter, and I walked to the office door. I took a look back toward my desk, where all was still. Just wow. Okay … I went to class and put the odd occurrence out of my mind.

The following week, it was a Tuesday, I believe. Patrick was home. He and I were home alone – in the dining room. As we normally do, we were talking – about life, everything, all subjects welcome. We enjoy each other’s company. He often sits by the fireplace and smokes, and I sit nearby, and we talk hours away. We decided to go to Lowes – which is another thing we often do as we are remodeling our home. So much do we visit Lowes that some of the employees know us by name, and we know theirs. I’m so effective at using their app that I can locate products before their younger employees can say, “I don’t know,” and they fumble with their Lowes phones, which is a common response when you ask for a super particular product location. I’ll find it for us. No worries. So, that particular day, Patrick and I were plotting our trip to Lowes. He said something about a smell, but we dismissed it. I stood up and noticed between our french doors, which sit on the west side of our house, and our dining room table, there was a low level of smoke. Patrick saw it too. It was about 3′ high and about as wide as it was high. It was unmoving, but it was there.

In that part of the room, there is an outlet, so I moved toward the outlet to see if we had a fire brewing. Nothing. The smoke disappeared. We were both standing now, looking around. There are no other outlets in that area, no fire in the fireplace, nothing burning, and no more smell. Nothing. To be safe, it was decided that I would stay home to keep an eye on things just in case there was a fire, and he would go to Lowes and get what we needed for the project that day. After he left, I sat and watched that area from about 10′ away. I watched the whole area. The paper snowflakes I’d hung for the Christmas season still hung from the ceiling all around the room, and a few near the french doors moved slightly. Nope, thought I. I got the ladder from the garage, and I took all of the snowflakes down. The smoke never returned. It has been over three weeks, and it has never returned. That’s a slow-brewing fire if that’s what it was …

I’m not saying it was or was not paranormal, but I know what I saw.

A Fight-less Marriage

That is what I have, and I could not be more grateful.

Patrick and I are coming up on our 2nd wedding anniversary, and we have not had one single fight. That is not to say that we have not had disagreements; we have. What makes it fight-less is that we talk. And we not only talk to each other, but we talk to ourselves.

By talking to ourselves, I mean that we each take a long look inside ourselves and understand our own motivations and our own wants, needs, failures, and instincts inside of circumstances; we discuss with ourselves and with God what our responsibilities are in the circumstances and in the feelings, and then, we proceed to talk to each other. These conversations happen with love, honesty, and no secrets.

These are not principles that came naturally to me, nor to Patrick – whose years-past-tattooed-on-his-body nickname is “Fuse” for a reason. Both of us have had previous relationships and marriages that were consumed by fighting. We, as individuals, were both caught up in addictive behaviors, anger, self, weakness, and all-out internal and external war. I repeat, these are not principles that came naturally to me, nor to Patrick.

These are principles learned through Bible study, AA, and the 12-Step Program. My husband has been a sober alcoholic for 36 years, and I have been sober living for 2 years. Recovery teaches you to lean into God, to be honest about and with yourself, and to be honest with others. That is putting it far too simply, but it is the nuts and bolts of sober (which means so much more than just abstaining from alcohol) living – which can only be accomplished by reliance upon a higher power – which, for Patrick and me, is God Almighty, the Creator of the Heavens and the Earth, and Jesus Christ, His Only Son.

This past October, a person from my past tried to rile me by stating that I was going to put a wedge between Patrick and me if I got Patrick involved in my dealings with that person. At first, this was humorous to Patrick and me because we know that because of the way we choose to live in openness and honesty, this is not true. After the humor, though, it struck me as sad because I realize now that most people (and once myself) do not live in introspection, nor do they take responsibility for their own actions. Most people find themselves embroiled in anger, fear, fighting, and drama because they do not have the tools to navigate life toward positive living and joy – or they have the tools or know of the tools, but they choose not to use them or don’t know how to use them – like past me.

Jesus gave the two greatest tools in Matthew 22:37-40. He said, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, your soul, your mind, and your strength. Love your neighbor as yourself. All the law and the prophets hang on these two commandments.”

Put God first. Develop a true understanding of the human’s greatest need, which is a higher power. Each person must come to their own understanding and reverent fear of God through reflection, research, study, fellowship, and honesty. Some will. Many won’t. Facts. I am beyond grateful to understand that I am a child of God and that He loves even me despite my weaknesses and failures.

Love others THE WAY YOU LOVE YOURSELF. Aye, there’s the rub. So many people don’t know how to love themselves. They do not take time to know themselves, to dig into themselves, to root out what is mysterious or hidden inside, to know why they do what they do, to understand their instincts, to be introspective, to be honest about gifts, talents, weaknesses, and failures, and to find a way to accept and love themselves. THEN, to give others that same kindness and be of service to others.

All the law and the prophets hang on these two commandments. Everything is summed up in Love God and Love your neighbor as you love yourself. Everything. Interesting, isn’t it, that such simple commands are so hard to live out.

Why don’t Patrick and I fight?

We admit that we are powerless over our addiction (our behaviors and thinking) – that our lives had/have become unmanageable
Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God
Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves
Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs
Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character
Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings
Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all
Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when doing so would injure them or others
Continued to take a personal inventory and, when we were wrong, promptly admitted it
Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood God, praying only for knowledge of God’s will for us and the power to carry that out
Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

I am grateful to God for His forgiveness and love, and I am grateful for Patrick. I am grateful to be the wife of a man who lives his life according to these principles, which are not just for alcoholics and addicts. They’re for everyone.

I am stepping into year 3 of marriage to this man, who chooses God first and then me second, with a grateful heart.

Grateful is my word, and I’m keeping it.

Giraffe to be Kidding Me! – Available on Amazon.

Giraffes are people too! Don’t believe it? Look at the pictures we found of giraffes doing people things.

https://a.co/d/dgWLyRf

“Giraffe to be Kidding Me” is a coloring book – full of giraffes doing normal everyday people things.

Illustrated by Kennedy Inman and edited by Dacia Cunningham (Kennedy’s mom).

Grateful Living

Tonight was special; I am 2 years sober, and we had a party. Not just for me, but for others celebrating sober birthdays as well. Like my husband Patrick who achieved 36 years this month. 36 years. How does he do it? He is intentional in working his sobriety and his relationship with God! I had the honor of introducing him at the end of the meeting so he could receive his 36 year chip. Incredible. What a night of fellowship and honesty and faith! There’s nothing like a roomful of sober alcoholics to bring on authentic conversation about God and how He works in our lives!

I am grateful.

Grateful to God for this life I have.

Grateful for His grace and His mercy.

Grateful to be the wife of a faith-based, sober man who weighs all things against His understanding of God and God’s will.

Grateful to get to share with others how God has brought me through many hard things.

Grateful to no longer turn to alcohol to drown myself. Not alcohol or shopping or men. I am free, and I am grateful!

Grateful to be alive.

Grateful to be a wife, a mom and a grandma, a sister, a daughter, a friend.

My word is Grateful, and that is how I now live.

Student Engagement is Simple

It baffles my brain when meetings are held, books are written, and discussions are had on how to engage students. Student engagement is easier than it is made out to be. It is quite simple – well, it should and can be. This will be a short post because I have straightforward and uncomplicated things to say.

How to Engage Students:

Be passionate about your subject.
Relate your subject to their lives.
Tell them HOW your subject has impacted your own life.

Be passionate about your subject – I have been a student and am now a Professor, and it has been my experience that many who teach are not passionate about their subjects. I have never understood this, and I sit in meetings and listen to the topic expounded upon, and internally I scream, “Be passionate about what you teach! Students will listen if you care about what you’re telling them!” I know this because I teach (of all things – English), and my students are eyes forward and engaged through entire class periods. Semester after semester. Year after year. This is not bragging – this is stating the truth. I am passionate about what I teach – and the students know it – and they respond to it. Now, I did “cut my teeth” teaching at a trade school – an environment where just about every student said, “Why do I need an English class? I’m an HVAC (or welding, plumbing, building maintenance, electrical, medical assistant, etc…) student. I don’t need this.” They had their minds set on hating my class. Our classes in trade school environments were capped at 30, and most semesters, I had 30 students in each class (sometimes seven classes per term) who despised taking an “English” class. Quickly I discovered that if I was passionate about the subject (and the next three things I’m going to discuss), my students listened, and they not only listened, they learned and they changed.

Relate your subject to their lives – #RealityPedagogy (Thank you to my education guru, Christopher Emdin). Every semester one of the first things I tell Comp students is that my class has the potential to teach them how to make money and keep that money – no matter who they are or where they come from. My class has the potential to change their lives. With confidence, I say this because I see what we do (Literary Analysis, Rhetorical Analysis, Learning Critical Thinking Skills, and Persuasive Argument) as soft skills training. Recently I watched a video that complained about soft skills being called “Soft Skills” – it was stated they should be “Human Skills.” Whatever they are called so as to not ‘offend’ by a title, the truth remains that communication skills showcase emotional intelligence, and emotional intelligence is vital to success in life. I share the article “Hire for Attitude” by Dan Schwabel – published in Forbes – with my students. It shares the statistic (with evidence to back up the claim) that 80% of the time, people are fired or quit because of a lack of emotional intelligence/soft skills. Comp classes teach (SHOULD teach) people how to think critically, be persuasive, and communicate – all part of the soft skills arena. I make this very clear to students on day 1. They want to learn when it relates to money and their success …

Tell them HOW your subject has impacted your own life. Use personal experience to back up your claims! This is argumentation skills 101. There is no need to tell whole life stories, but use examples of how impactful your subject has been on your own life as well as the lives of others. I do not need to expound on this. Stories sell.

These are not complicated ideas, nor are they difficult to enact IF you are passionate about your subject. Which brings me to wonder, why do you teach if you have no passion for your subject? If you are reading books and attending seminars on engaging students, the best course of action for you is to take a deep look at yourself. Are you passionate about what you teach? Do you truly believe in the power and necessity of your subject? If not … you should do something else with your life.

There is another thing that baffles my brain while sitting in meetings and listening to faculty talk … plagiarism. This is not something that comes to my classes as an issue – because I create unique assignments, specific assignments, and assignments that require each student’s perspective. The only time I come across plagiarism (running Safe Assign on all final drafts) in the classroom is because commas are in wrong places, quotation marks are used inappropriately, or parenthetical citations need adjusting.

With this, and the above commentary on student engagement, what I know to be true is that both of these ideas require WORK and intentionality on the part of the Professor. There are days after teaching that I go home exhausted because I gave so much of myself to the subject at hand. It is worth it. Every damn time. This WORK (teaching students how to think for themselves and not be persuaded by pathos-laden arguments) is something I am passionate about. This WORK, which I see as a service to humanity, brings me joy, growth, and power in the form of confidence for myself and others! I hear Charlotte Perkins Gilman in my head when I think about what I do … regarding why she wrote “The Yellow Wallpaper” after she struggled with post-partum depression, Charlotte Perkins Gilman wrote, “Then, using the remnants of intelligence that remained, and helped by a wise friend, I cast the noted specialist’s advice to the winds and went to work again – work, the normal life of every human being; work, in which is joy and growth and service, without which one is a pauper and a parasite; ultimately recovering some measure of power” – (Why I Wrote “The Yellow Wallpaper” – Gilman).

It takes WORK to be engaging. It takes WORK to be an effective educator. In all things, do it or don’t. It’s really quite simple. What you value comes through loud and clear – students will see, observe, and respond accordingly.

Sobriety Celebration! 🎉

Today marks 2 years free from alcohol for me. It’s my sober birthday! January 4th. This is a day I will celebrate every year, and in it, be proud of myself and grateful for God and His great mercy!

Many might not know that I struggled with alcohol addiction … though I never tasted an alcoholic drink until I was 32 years old, the addictive personality, or rather , allergy, was there lurking inside me. It manifested in other ways. Attention seeking. Shopping. Eating. And then … a strawberry daiquiri changed things. I won’t recount the whole story, but suffice it to say, I came to rely heavily upon alcohol to get through my roller coaster life. Wine, Rum, Vodka, Tequila … dangerous obsessions for a sick heart and mind that only ever wanted and needed to escape.

There’s a novel in there, but I’m not writing it now, if ever. It’s my story, and I learn every day more and more about the Grace of God, and my word now is “Grateful.”

I will celebrate this birthday with joy! And I will know I am in good company! Congratulations to Sir Anthony Hopkins on 47 years! And congratulations to my husband Patrick, on the 12th, he will have 36 years sober! 🎉

If you’re struggling, do find a 12 Step Program. 🤗 It can change your life.

Momma – A Reflection of My Mother

What follows are my reflections on my Momma – Marjorie Ruth Snare Hinkle – these I shared at her memorial service, though my eyes teared over as I spoke, and I was unable to read, so I ad-libbed most of what I said in her honor – which was not hard to do for such a precious Momma. My brother gave the memorial service message on joy and devotion (two words that aptly describe our mother) after I spoke, and it was incredible how many similar things about our Momma that we BOTH prepared to say without discussing it with each other. Such a testimony to a wonderful Momma – that her children would rise and call her blessed and say so many of the same reflections regarding her as a mother, a woman, and a Child of God Most High.

Here are my reflections:

I know you knew and loved the beautiful little lady that we celebrate today; that is why you are here, but she was my Momma, and I want you to know her from my point of view – if even a little.

To you, she is Marjorie, Marjorie Ruth, Margie, Margie Ruth, Marge the Barge, Mrs. Hinkle. To me, she is Momma, at times Momma Ruth, and some days, affectionately, Mommy. Mommy a lot in the last few weeks – as her decline sped up, I cared for her as she had often cared for me.

What I want you to know about Momma is this …

She was daily in the Word of God. Every morning growing up, I would later find Momma with her Bible open and a pen in her hand. A journaling notebook sat nearby, where she wrote many of her prayers. It was her private time, and I knew even as a small child to respect her time with God. Over the years, stacks of those notebooks filled her bookshelf in her bedroom. Never have I looked inside of one.
Momma read to David B and me every night before bed – Bible stories, the Chronicles of Narnia, devotion books. We used stickers to mark the pages we had read, and I loved getting to put the stickers on the pages. Sometimes, she wrote notes on the pages – like the night she read a story in “Joshua Wiggins and the King’s Kids” about Joshua’s grandfather being ill and, in the hospital, going to pass away. We had a conversation that night after Momma read the story about Heaven and grandpas. She prayed with us; our Grandpa Hinkle went to Heaven that night. Momma wrote that special note in our book.
She filled our home with Christian music – like “Bullfrogs and Butterflies,” “The Music Machine,” or “Marcy Sings Sunday School Songs” – I still sing “Have Patience” and “Self-Control” in my head when faced with squirrely situations in my own life. Momma loved Jesus, and she loved music, and she surrounded David B and me with Biblically-based music.
When it was cleaning time, Momma made it into a game. We became the characters Matilda and Tildy Ann and had “fun” cleaning the house. Insert a raised eyebrow from me here. Still, in the last year, Momma asked me, with a raised eyebrow, if Tildy Ann had done her cleaning; I am not the greatest housekeeper.

Momma let me help raise the ‘baby’ when David B was born. I was 5. And he turned out pretty well with “2 moms.” Momma never minded sharing him with me, though he is truly a Momma’s boy. Rightfully so.
She built tents with us, played with us, colored with us, crafted with us – especially when Dad would be out fishing; he would come home with the catch, and Momma would fry it all up. The best days!
Momma did not allow us to fight with each other; we learned to get along and be close friends. She often said, “This is the only brother you’ll ever have,” to me, and to David B, “This is the only sister you’ll ever have.” She ensured we loved each other and treated each other with kindness.
Rides in the car with Momma were awesome! David and I would roll up in balls in the back of the station wagon (which we ‘affectionally’ called The Green Grasshopper) while Momma drove us around McAlester, and sometimes, she would come to a stop sign and say, “Which way? Right or left?” And we would get to decide where we were going!
Momma often took us to the library, and I came to love the smell of well-read books, and I fell in love with reading – and writing, which was a love that Mom and I shared. She was a writer – though many people do not know that. She wrote a series of children’s books all centered in a land called Kindredland. Wonderful stories with moral tales; Momma was passionate about her characters and infusing their lives with Scriptural principles. She wanted so much for children everywhere to know the Gospel!

She so often doubted her own abilities … those stories have not been published, but I have them. One of these days, I will make it happen for her.
Within the last few months, Momma authored a short story about her mother, my grandmother. I quickly had it published on Amazon, and Momma was able to say she was indeed a published author! She got to hold the book in her own hands and sign copies for her nieces and nephews just before she grew unable.
She loved stories! Stories about Jesus. Stories about God. Stories that pointed to God.
Momma loved to reach Christian romance novels – this is something she shared more in common with Amy, my sister-in-law than with me. Karen Kingsbury was a favorite, and she loved the Janette Oke series – and anything by Francine Rivers. Momma loved to read books about Heaven and angels.
She taught me to sew and to crochet … though, to her consternation, I never followed patterns – I would start well … but … yeah, I tended to wander off the pattern and create my own “masterpieces” … which were not masterpieces. Bless her heart and her amazing patience with me. Her last big sewing project was a navy-blue-based crazy quilt for me; I will treasure it always.

Momma did beautiful sewing and crochet work, though she always struggled to see her own work as talent. She made sock monkeys for each of her grandchildren; those are treasured.
Speaking of consternation, she faithfully set timers for me to practice piano – and I did not have the same love for playing the piano that she did, but she got her musician in David B. He is a trumpet player – we both love to sing though.
The only time I remember being ‘horrified’ by Momma was when she called me out in 5^th grade for holding hands with a boy named Paul Weaver in the back of her music class. Momma was my 5^th-grade music, PE, and language arts teacher. I do not think I had a single year in K-12 without one of my parents in the same school as me; it was normal. Momma and I were at the same school building from kindergarten through 5^th grade.
The only time I remember being ‘afraid’ of Momma was when she threw our Cocker Spaniel, Blade, out the back door after he bit a hole on the skirt of the golden swivel living room chair. My favorite spinning chair – though not her favorite of my favorite things. David and I loved to sit there and spin and spin and spin … which we would do until we were noticed.
Momma never cursed. But she would say, “Honest to Pete,” … which has sent my girls into fits of giggles numerous times. “Honest to Pete, Kadi,” she would say. “Honest to Pete, Kennedy.” They have no idea who Pete was and no memory of what they did to deserve their grandma’s “harsh” words, but they love the memories – and we say those words to each other now randomly.

We also were not allowed to say “fart” in our home. Instead, we were to say “poot,” … as in “who pooted?” I can only now say, “Honest to Pete, Mom.” I will never be able to say “poot” without giggling.
I loved hearing her say “David!” when Dad would suddenly take us off-roading in our 4-wheel drive Jeep Cherokee, daydream grand plans, or say something slightly inappropriate that secretly she found funny but would never admit to.
Before she could not speak, her last words were “David, David…” – my father’s name. That is something I will always cling to. Her last words were to call for my dad, her love of 55 years.
Memories of her playing the piano at home or church will forever be with me – I loved listening to her play and watching her fingers fly! It soothed her, and it excited her. It was beautiful to watch, to sit beside her and sing.
It filled Momma with joy to lead the church adult and the children’s choirs – her energy seemed boundless! It is so funny that such a shy lady could be vivacious in front of a choir! It was because of the music. She loved music that celebrated God!

Momma wrote a couple of children’s musicals. At least one was performed in church.
I loved worshipping next to my Momma in church … especially when the music was too slow for her liking. Oh, how she loved music! How she wanted all worship to be JOYFUL and excited because we are singing to our God! She used to say it is not supposed to be a dirge. I would giggle and say, “Momma … they’re trying to be reverent.” She would raise an eyebrow. I know she is singing in an excited choir now!
Anytime I sat next to Momma in church, we held hands, and I twirled her rings on her finger. When I was a little girl, I would lay my head on her lap during church, and she would rub my hair.
When I needed my wisdom teeth removed at 20 years old, Momma came to Joplin and drove me to the appointment. How she got me back to the dorm is beyond me, as I had been sedated, and I only have brief recollections of consciousness from the drive back to the dorm. Somehow that little lady got me to the car from the oral surgeon’s office and then to my dorm room. She talked to me about how students were milling around the campus, and no one offered to help her with her inebriated grown child – not even to open the doors. I have no idea how she managed to get me to my bed, but she did. That lady was strong and determined.
Momma was sensitive to the Spirit and Spiritual things – she knew the supernatural realm is real, and she was a woman of prayer and blessing – this was intensely personal to her, but something she shared with me. She would often pray over rooms in our home, the homes of others, her classrooms, her students, and our friends. This was private to her – between her and our Father.

Momma always welcomed our friends into her heart as her own children – her family. There are so many I think of that my Momma loved as her own daughters among my friends; Lana, Jackie, Kiley, Debbie, Wanda, Tammy, Jenny, Lauren, Karri, Becky, Sandy, and most recently, Veronica, Rebecca, Sonya, Haley, and Maureen.
She had deep abiding friendships through the years – ones I am so grateful for – for her. Joan Hagood Donelson, Pat Howe, Patricia Wilson, Elane Crosby, Carol Walker, Cheryl Patton, Jeretta Sudduth, Connie Cooper, Zelda Waldron, Lynne Holman, Jane Glenn, Diana Jackson, her sisters Doris (dec.), Dorothy (dec.), Mary (dec.), Lesta, and Wilma, her sisters-in-law Anita Hinkle, Jan Hinkle, and Aldeana Hinkle (dec.), Bobbie Snare (dec.) – she loved you and treasured your friendship. I know I am leaving some out – not intentionally at all. My mind is racing.
Most recently, Patricia Cunningham and Dorothy Egnew became Momma’s special friends – as my life took an amazing turn, and I married into the Cunningham Clan. To the Cunningham Clan, thank you for the last year and ten months of loving my Momma as one of your own. My mom and my dad became a part of the family – and Momma loved the get-togethers, the laughter, the honesty, and passing the trash … she loved the family for who they are and how they love me.
In January 2021, God directed me to Patrick Cunningham. The circumstances of our meeting can in no way be described except by God’s direct intervention – my mother knew this, and she treasured Patrick. To Patrick, in front of those gathered for Momma’s memorial, I said, “You two had, and will always have, a special connection – kindred spirits – it relieved her of many concerns to know that you love her wild-at-heart and once broken daughter. You are an answer to her long-suffering and faithful prayers.” It is true. Momma relaxed in life once she knew I was safe and loved. Part of me wants to feel humiliated and guilt-ridden that I was such a great cause of worry and pain to her over the years, but I will no longer take that on. She would not want me to. Momma knew Patrick was the answer to her prayers over my life. She and Patrick had a private conversation just after hospice care began for Momma. I watched but was not fully privy to what they talked about. It was theirs – their conversation. Their love and appreciation exchanged.
As a grandmother, Momma was sublime – she played store with my children, did crafts with them, and read to them; she loved them unconditionally and was patient with them – a haven of safety for each of them always. Keenan, Kennedy, Kadi, Koel, Caley, Blake, Klayton, Koby, Joey, JT, and Moti … Grandma prayed for you daily. Nothing brought her more joy than her grandchildren’s smiles and “I love you” … except sweet hugs from her great-grandbabies, Josephine and Kaleb.

Momma and I talked on the phone for hours in this lifetime. We were the best of friends – though I often shocked her – she loved me through my roller coaster life – she never condemned me or judged me – she loved me. She listened when it was hard. She loved when she did not want to. She was always a shoulder. She prayed faithfully. She was and is the best example of grace, kindness, and self-lessness God could have given me …
In her final days, we sang hymns together, and when she could no longer sing, I continued with Dad and David B to sing hymns over her – hopefully bringing her peace and comfort as she slipped from us.
Patrick came to the hospice room, knelt next to Momma, and read Scripture to her. She relaxed as she heard the Word of God read to her. That woman loved the Lord and loved His Word.

Marjorie Ruth Snare Hinkle was a strong little lady who did not complain but bore her (and our) struggles, her two bouts with breast cancer, her diabetes, her COPD, and her heart failure with a faith rooted in daily Bible study and prayer. She smiled in the storm even when it was dicey because Momma kept her eyes on Heaven with a song in her heart! Over the last couple of years, “God Will Make a Way” became a theme for her, and I sang it to her multiple times over the week that her health declined. The words that brought her so much comfort …

“God will make a way

Where there seems to be no way

He works in ways we cannot see

He will make a way for me

He will be my guide

Hold me closely to His side

With love and strength for each new day

He will make a way; He will make a way.”

I have watched her, learned from her, and I understand the lesson … Live my life understanding, as Momma did, that I am not a citizen of this earth but a citizen of Heaven and a child of God Most High. Be in His Word – and weigh everything against His love.

A Lesson From Momma’s Life

My brother’s plane out of Dallas was delayed because of windshield wipers. My husband Patrick and I waited in the Tulsa airport lounge for him to arrive, and as the minutes ticked by, my prayer intensified – “Lord, let David kiss her while she’s breathing! Please.”

David arrived in Tulsa at 6:15 p.m, and with arms wrapped around each other, we left the airport – both lost in the knowledge that our mother was soon going to Heaven – a place she longed to be, and neither of us could begrudge her from desiring or achieving! To have such a mother of faith is a gift that both of us realize we have and have had. We made it to the Clarehouse – hospice care home – at 7:00 p.m.

We stood on either side of our Momma as she lay there in the bed, unresponsive but still breathing. Dad was in a chair near her bed – where he’d sat faithfully for the three days she’d been in the care of the Clarehouse. David and I leaned over and kissed her, and we told her that it was okay to go. My hand lay on her chest where I’d been placing it for the past day or so, feeling her heartbeat – willing it to continue – feeling her life wildly beating under my hand. Her chest stilled, but a large vein in her neck still pulsed, and I looked at David with confusion. He said this was normal and assured me she was leaving. We stood there and kissed her, told her we loved her, and Momma breathed her last. She had waited for her baby to arrive! And we were there as a family in that room with our beloved Momma. She passed away Saturday, November 12, 2022, at 7:06 p.m. with my brother, my dad, and me at her side.

As I write this, I am at work, and my students are doing peer reviews in the classroom. They’re discussing essays and laughing together – this is a welcome distraction, but my heart and my mind are on Momma.

To each class this morning, I sent a note of thanks for their patience and understanding over the recent weeks as I have cut classes short, tossed substitutes at them, and had to cancel classes.

“Many thanks to you all for your patience and understanding over the last few weeks.

Momma passed on Saturday evening (11/12/2022) at 7:06 pm with my brother and me on either side of her. My hand was over her heart when it stopped beating. We told her it was okay to go and that we loved her. It was a special moment that I will hold close to for the rest of my life.

My Momma was a precious soul – a kind woman – and it is for me now to honor her by living my life as she did. In kindness and appreciation of those placed in my path. Each day is an opportunity to bring smiles to those I encounter – and I will endeavor to this do just as my Momma did.

Tell those that you love that you love them. Never take for granted the time that you have today to do so. This is a takeaway for me in this time of mourning. Hug your people. Tell them you love them. Life for TODAY. None of us is promised tomorrow. Be a good human. Always. Find the JOY in life. Do things that you’re passionate about. Play with Bubbles!”

Every word of that I mean for all of us. Live today. Love today. Tell those that you love that you love them.

My Momma lived that way. She was a kind woman – whose soul was full of the Love of Jesus. Daily she was in the Word of God – and daily, she sought His guidance and strength to be kind and loving. What a beautiful example!

I was privileged to write the Obituary for my precious Momma, and in honor of my Momma, here it is:

“Born on August 25, 1943, Marjorie Ruth Snare Hinkle, daughter of Lester P Snare (dec.) and Lillian Louise Wingett Snare (dec.), sister of Dorothy Snare Bolding (dec.), Doris Snare Coghlan (dec.), Mary Snare Pritz (dec.), Lesta Snare Ryan, Perry Snare, and Wilma Snare Reinhardt, beloved wife of David B Hinkle I and dearly loved mother of Dacia Lene’ Hinkle Cunningham and David B Hinkle II, also adored mother-in-love to Patrick Cunningham and Amy Abels Hinkle, cherished grandmother to Keenan Wilkinson, JT Inman, Kennedy Wilkinson Inman, Mordechai Ben Lulu, Kadi Wilkinson Ben Lulu, Koel Wilkinson, Joseph Cunningham, Caley Hinkle, Blake Hinkle, Klayton Wilkinson, and Koby Wilkinson, precious great-grandmother to Josephine Inman and Kaleb Inman, and treasured aunt to 34 nieces and nephews as well as 9 brothers-in-law and 6 sisters-in-law, passed away on November 12, 2022, in Tulsa, Oklahoma with her husband and her children at her side.

Affectionately known to most people as “Margie,” she loved the Lord and served him daily as a wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, daughter, sister, aunt, choir director, church piano player, elementary school teacher, and friend. Margie’s love of Jesus was evidenced in her kindness and grace. Anyone who met her, or spent time with her, knew she was a special lady who looked forward to Heaven every day of her life! She lived knowing her citizenship was Heavenly and not of this earth. Her family celebrates her life and the blessing it has been to be loved by such a woman of faith!

Margie’s Celebration of Life will be Saturday, November 19, 2022, at 10:30 am. Highland Park Christian Church, 5708 E 31st Street, Tulsa, Oklahoma 74135.

In lieu of flowers, please consider donations to the Clarehouse (hospice care home) in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Every Gift Matters | Clarehouse <https://www.clarehouse.org/donate/> or mail checks to Clarehouse 7617 S Mingo Rd, Tulsa, OK 74133.”

The lesson is… Love people.

Momma evidenced Matthew 22:37-40 in her daily life. It is for me to honor my mother by living in the same manner.

³⁴Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together. ³⁵One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question: ³⁶“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”

³⁷Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’^[c] ³⁸This is the first and greatest commandment. ³⁹And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’^[d] ⁴⁰All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

A favorite passage of Momma’s was Philippians 4:4-8:

“⁴Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! ⁵Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. ⁶Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. ⁷And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

⁸Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

Amen.

My Mother is Transitioning

11/12/22 –

Woke up not long ago, and I’m reflecting back on the last few days of this journey with my Momma. I’m grateful for the time with her; I’m grateful to have been by her side as each day brought drastic changes. I’m grateful to have been able to kiss her and sing with and to her, to ease her as she became confused and incapable of getting out of bed. I’m grateful for Clarehouse where she is now as she makes the final transition to Glory. I’m grateful for all of the family and friends who have reached out and/or visited. My sweet Momma touched many people with the love of Christ, and I’m grateful to be her daughter and a direct recipient of lessons of love from her life.

I am grateful for my husband Patrick, who brought me home yesterday to rest. He came home early from working out of town to be by Momma’s side. So many people have come and prayed with and for Momma over the last week, but Patrick … he read Scripture for and to her. Her breathing had been heavy and rapid and noisy yesterday until Patrick read from the Word of God, and Momma calmed. Her breathing slowed, the noises lessened, and she heard him. She heard the Word of God that she knows deep in her soul. My Momma read the Bible daily and meditated on it. It permeated her life! She loves Jesus sweetly, and I rejoice knowing she will be with Him soon! Hallelujah!

Patrick brought me home to rest yesterday; I’m just waking up from nearly 9 hours of sleep. I learned over the last two years time after time to listen to this husband that God placed in my life. He loves the Lord and seeks after wisdom, and he said it was time for me to let Momma rest and to get some rest myself. I kissed my sweet Momma, and I let Patrick and my sister-in-love Veronica bring me home.

No phone call came in the night, and my brother will be here later today. We do not know when Momma’s transition will happen; we know it will be soon. I’m hoping that David will be able to kiss her today before she goes; that would be good. Very good. But what I know that is bigger than all of this and all of us is that Momma longs to be in Heaven! And perhaps, she, meaning her soul, is already there. Yesterday, she was unresponsive but for opening her eyes a few times; I witnessed her body calm as she heard the Word of God. Perhaps her little body whose heart is overworking and worn out is simply there for us to kiss and work through our own struggles and faith inside of our earthly loss. I don’t know how God’s mysteries work, but I trust Him. I know He will receive my Mother – He may already have. And, I am grateful.

11/11/22 –

We have Momma now in a special hospice house. I brought things to bring her smiles. Her wedding ring which has been too big to wear properly, her Bible, the story she wrote about her mother, her blanket, our family picture on a pillow, and special items from home like photos, a teddy bear, a gift from Kadi Ben Lulu , a sweet drawing by Kennedy Inman , a cross from my wonderful mother-in-love Patricia Cunningham . and my dad. #alwaysbringdad

It’s quiet here. Peaceful. They’ve been very nice; most are volunteers. I am grateful we, Momma and us) have somewhere like this to be during these days. She’s sleeping most of the time; she’s not eating. She’s confused much of the time when she is awake. This is hard, but we are together, and I am grateful for this place, for my amazing students and colleagues who are all so gracious in this heartbreaking time, for our family – so full of blood-related and not blood-related chosen folks – that we are blessed beyond measure, for God’s gift of peace that passes understanding in difficult days where we are able to sing “It is Well With my Soul” and mean it. I rejoice for Momma that soon she will dance on the streets that are golden! (a lyric from one of her favorite songs – “We Will Dance” by David Ruiz).

After that moment comes, I sure will miss this precious lady, though she will ever be in my heart.

Oh, Momma, I love you so!

11/10/22 –

We are going to have Momma moved to a hospice house. The hospice nurse was here today to see Momma; the nurse was surprised at Momma’s decline, which has been rapid – and we talked things over. The nurse is going to get mom signed up for a hospice house – it could be now, it could be a week from now before Momma gets in; the nurse wasn’t sure when they’d be able to get her in. All of Momma’s needs will be taken care of there, though, and we can be with her as much as possible. Dad can stay with her too.

These past two days have been hard beyond belief – seeing the decline of my beloved Momma and being here with her and Daddy. My heart is breaking, and I am praying Momma’s transition into the arms of Jesus will be peaceful for her and for us. No pain, just peace. Lord, please.

11/9/22 –

Dad went down to get breakfast in the dining hall.

I’m sitting on the floor in Momma’s room listening to her breathe. It’s dark in here, and I’m full of so many emotions. I have no idea what today holds, but I’m here with her.

Going to love my Momma and pray, too, for God to let her come on home to Him. She wouldn’t want to be like this. She wants to be in Heaven rejoicing!

I’m sitting here listening and thinking. We should all strive to be kind and loving in our lives just like Momma has been. She is the beautiful woman she is and has been because of her love for our Lord; Momma has always understood that our lives here are to be spent for His glory and not our own.

I want to be like that too.
God has us here to love.
I’ve learned that from my Momma.

FINAL THOUGHTS here after reposting my Facebook posts from the last three days … perspective tells me that in times like these, what is most important in life shrinks down to love. How did you love? How do you love? Nothing else matters.