“Holi-Daze”

Not to worry this isn’t one of those “Christmas in July” tales or wait… yes, it is. I intended to have finished and published this piece much, much sooner but the year is whizzing by at breakneck speed and here we are, already mid-July (and then some). It’s been a process to work through the thoughts and feelings swirling through my mind for the past six+ months hoping to get a solid grip on the subject at hand while simultaneously completing this post. But truth be told I’m not entirely sure that an actual resolution is possible. In fact, more likely than not, other than to purge myself of the guilt and self-doubt which this topic creates, there are few if any words to capture what I’m feeling. Trying to make sense of the waves of emotion that have both slithered and slapped their way through the last several months, as well as the endless and piecemeal drafts of this post feels something akin to the expression, “herding cats.” If that analogy wasn’t vivid enough, there’s this… I imagine it must be like sitting down for a root canal with no anesthetic.

Bear with me though please… it is with Christmas still in mind, I remember my favorite Aunt gleefully greeting anyone she spoke to every single Christmas with the following expression… “Christmas gift.” It wasn’t a reference to any tangible gift, or at least I don’t think so. Sadly, Aunt Cora passed before I thought to ask her about the annual greeting, so I’ll never know the nostalgia associated with that happy little remembrance. It’s one of those random memories that comes to mind every so often, and if you’ll stay with me, hopefully I’ll be able to make the connection between that recollection and the “dazed” portion of the reference in this post’s title.

Last Christmas, I received a greeting too, but it was nothing like the one Aunt Cora used to bestow. Mine arrived unexpectedly and drudged up a boatload of emotions I mistakenly believed had been successfully processed. I was wrong. Whether the sender intended to stir up the chaotic mental gymnastics which followed is not clear, but with each passing day, I’m leaning into the theory it’s possible.

THIS TEXT AND CHRISTMAS “GIFT” WAS NOTHING I COULD HAVE EVER FATHOMED RECEIVING, PARTICULARLY DUE TO THE NATURE OF THE MATERIAL INCLUDED WITHIN THE MESSAGE AND THE EMOTIONAL TSUNAMI WHICH ENSUED.

As the text exchange shown above illustrates, I believe there was a legitimate cause to pause. My 28-year old Son had just dropped a bomb when he relayed that he enlisted in the Military. Please don’t misunderstand; there’s no part of me that doesn’t respect, admire, and feel incredible gratitude for our brave servicemen and women. Quite the opposite; I have a familial legacy of military service. My paternal Grandfather, and an Uncle, as well as my own Father were all decorated officers in the Navy, and I’m very proud to have that distinction included as a part of my heritage. That said, I just never contemplated or ever heard my Son express any interest in military service, so in addition to being taken by complete surprise, I was also dealing with the weight of an emotional mass of baggage the size of the Pacific Ocean. While I have shied away from elaborating on much of the workings of my relationship with my son for the past four to five years, it’s not for lack of caring. It has far more to do with my lack of understanding, and the gut-wrenching reality which I have yet to fully reconcile for myself about the depth of our disconnect. About five years ago, possibly more, my Son appeared to begin resenting the constant presence and role I had in his life for the previous 23 years. Some part of my being felt the increasing resistance, but I was unsure of the best way to address his growing surliness. That doubt most likely marked the start of our estrangement. Truth be told I had a very full plate for the first couple years that A.J. was away at college, yet in spite of several challenging issues, I consistently set aside my own troubles at home and continued to travel to Alabama, making every effort to assist my Son with the adjustments of being away at college and the increased academic pressures. Nonetheless, what was initially subtle tension between us gradually grew and expanded until eventually there was an inevitable breaking point. I confess to being blindsided by one of the factors contributing to our breach, but I shouldn’t have been. Perhaps it was easier to believe A.J.’s not-so-sudden retreat from my life was due to the affections of a very needy, busty and ambitious blond that he had been sweet on for several months. I recall well sitting in the enormous leather Wingback chair which anchored a corner of The Cantina’s downstairs great room one very stifling Texas afternoon on the phone with Steve, the shrink, explaining my fears and anxiety about A.J.’s choice of women and summer travel plans. 

Here's the deal… in retrospect, although I loved the IDEA of living in Texas with its 24/7 access to the Cutting Horse industry that I so love, it’s fair to say that the same lifestyle didn’t hold the alluring appeal for everyone else in my crew. Still, it was awfully bitter medicine when A.J. told me about his summer plans with the “new arm candy” (my words, not his) to stay at his Father’s home in Santa Ynez for a week’s vacation (his graduation present to the girl) rather than bring her ‘home’ with him for the one week he had free that summer. I mistakenly assumed that my home was the one my Son considered his as well. That he had NEVER stayed or spent an entire week with his father during the prior decade was disconcerting, disheartening, and disappointing at best. Had I missed something? Why the sudden attraction to the same man who’d been little more than a sperm donor for the past 12 years of both my kid’s life? Em was resolute regarding her experiences with and knowledge of her father and felt strongly about her unwillingness to grant him a pass. A.J. was not as clearly transparent as his Sister, but for at least 7 years following our divorce, A.J.referred to Al as “you know who,” not even willing to address him by name.

In the 10 years following the divorce, I could count on one hand the number of instances A.J.’s father ever availed himself of the provisions in our MSA regarding the time he was entitled to receive. Al never asked A.J. to spend a night, never attended any of A.J.’s sporting events, never offered to take or pick him up from school, never asked to take him on a vacation or even a weekend, all of which Al was legally entitled to because of our joint custody provision. Yes, Al paid school tuition and health insurance for the kids because I insisted that the lawyers make it a non-negotiable item during mediation, but once certain age-specific milestones were reached at 18 years of age, all other financial contributions, like child support and anything else stopped cold. All other efforts and expenses were always paid for and expended by me. I didn’t then and will probably never understand what could possibly make someone such a neglectful (or more accurately) shitty human, much less a parent. There were more occasions than I can recount when I watched Al drive past Rancho Valiente, in one of his thoroughly identifiable vehicles, while his/our Son was riding in our large Roblar street-side arena. Not once did he stop or follow up to inquire about watching?

LESS THAN A MILE DOWN THE STREET FROM ONE ANOTHER LIVED FATHER AND SON.

FORTUNATELY WE HAD A TRIBE OF SUPPORTERS AND MANY GOOD MEN WILLING TO STEP UP, INCLUDING SEVERAL “HEELIN” GOOD COWBOYS… BUT THEY WERE NOT MY BOY”S FATHER.

With all of the above disclosed, the new dynamic between A.J. and his father was confusing to say the least. Still, I was trying to be evolved, even mildly understanding when I told A.J. after hearing of his plan to spend a week at his father’s in Santa Ynez, “of course I understand. It’s totally fine and yes, I will call Katie (our Santa Ynez hairdresser) to schedule an appointment for Kristen.” Apparently, Kristen had told A.J. that her hair was a mess, and she couldn’t possibly go to California without a “color-treatment.” Even though I felt like a shovel had just hit me upside the head, I was stealing myself to be as gracious and accommodating as possible. Sadly, the way I handled that situation was reminiscent of my upbringing and the mantra which lies dormant in my mind most of the time reminding me of my childhood marching orders, “your only job is to be nice.” Well, I have finally evolved beyond my early conditioning and say enough… fuck nice! It’s one of those little oddities in life but “swearing like a sailor,” as guttural as it may be, has a deeply cathartic type of satisfaction to it. I mean if I were to have said, “oh darn,” where’s the riveting emotional punctuation in that? Nowhere. And while I may have chosen to be good-natured with my Son during our phone call about his taking the bimbo girlfriend to visit his Father and “senior’s renter,” (a.k.a. live-in girlfriend) for a week, NICE was certainly not what I was feeling; far from it. I was hurting, desperately trying to put those feelings behind me, but not getting very far. Why did I feel like a total wreck and failure? My kids were grown, making their own decisions, no longer in need of mothering, and while I probably should have felt proud, there was also a pang of disappointment inside. I used to love the expression, “there are two things all parents should give their children: roots and wings.” Maybe therein lies the rub?  Could I have been feeling so blue because I had done it and was dealing with the emotional fall-out from reaching “the wing” part of von Goethe’s quote?  Or wait, was it possible that I was afraid of the damage that might result from A.J.’s new-found relationship with his father? Ohhh, ouch.

At the juncture which marked the beginning of our estrangement, Steve the shrink still had a smallish role in my life, and despite both the time and geographical distance between California and Texas, we had developed enough of a rapport during the preceding 9 years that I could do a therapy session via the telephone. Earlier I referred to this conversation and the huge leather Wingback chair which sat next to an imposing Iron floor lamp, with its opposing Pistols supporting a large cowhide shade in one of the downstair corners of The Cantina, as I dialed the familiar number at our previously scheduled time. Steve answered the call on the first ring, greeted me and then listened while I essentially verbally vomited for the next several minutes excising all my feelings and concerns, before we actually engaged in any back and forth exchange. “Missy, I hear your anxiety and get where it’s coming from, but there’s nothing for you to do.  This is A.J.’s decision. Any damage that may occur is his to experience.” I responded saying, “Steve, but you know how manipulative Al is; I’m just concerned that A.J. may be no match? He’ll get sucked in by all the lies and garbage his father spews every single time he opens his mouth.” Steve continued, “well, that’s a possibility, but you can’t micromanage their new rapport, nor should you. A.J.’s all grown-up and it’s his time to make these choices. You have no control over whatever’s going to happen. It’s going to be tough, but one thing you can count on is that Al will eventually show his true colors; he always does.”  All I could say was, “are you kidding? That’s it? There must be some way to prepare A.J. for what he could be walking into? I was frustrated and my voice was shaking, but Steve was unwavering in his response, saying very simply “no, there’s nothing to do. Al’s a ‘special’ kind of sociopath and there’s no way to know when “his switch will flip” or what could possibly set him off, but eventually A.J. will do or say something contrary to Al’s liking, and A.J. will discover then what type of person his Dad really is. It could take years, but people like Al can’t hide their true selves forever. If you insert yourself into this situation now, you’ll just be feeding into the game Al’s playing with your Son, and it will do nothing more than create a greater divide between you and A.J. – can’t you see that? Your best move is to do nothing but be the same Mom you’ve always been, perhaps with a little less hovering and enabling.” Our brief therapy session didn’t go very far towards assuaging my stress, but somewhere inside my mind, I recognized the wisdom in Steve’s words. Heaven knows I was always hard-headed enough in my own younger days to push back when my Mom tried to spare me the harsh lessons I was determined to learn in my way, in my time, and I knew my two kids also had that same stubborn streak running through their veins. I took Steve’s advice and didn’t throw any more fuel on the inevitable fire that was sure to be ignited at some point.

What has transpired over the past four plus years, however, has become a sore spot I seem incapable of healing. A.J. fell hard for Al’s “unique skill set,” (just as I had decades earlier) and I had nothing left to combat the damage Al was so unbelievably capable of exacting. My mind simply didn’t work the same way, nor could I concoct the lies or manipulate people with the ease in which Al operated. To make matters worse, my attempts to explain, or show A.J. the documentation detailing all the twisted legal machinations and fraud Al exhausted over the past many years were futile. A.J. would neither hear, nor acknowledge any of it. Later in the Fall on the occasion of another phone session with Steve following A.J.’s summer reunion with his father, I mentioned that I was hesitant to voice my displeasure regarding A.J.’s recent behavior, the ditching of school and the essential tutoring which had been such an integral part of his academic success, as well as a violation of the boundaries we agreed upon surrounding the financial support I had been providing. I confessed to Steve my fear that any mention I might raise about those issues would push him further away, possibly even causing me to lose him. Steve’s next comment took me totally aback when he said, “do you feel like you have him now or that he’s respecting you and the agreement you made?” I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it previously, but Steve was spot on; A.J. was flexing the newly rekindled resource that was his father. It almost felt like he was taunting me to draw a hard line. Eventually, I resigned myself to the fact that I was simply no match for Al, a man with no scruples nor a conscience. Unlike when the kids were young and Al would have had to expend far too much effort to maintain a relationship with them of his own volition, things were different now. Airfare and vacation housing was easy for Al to provide. There was no need for discipline, rules, boundaries, or the genuine effort that being a responsible, committed parent requires. “Parenting” with no sacrifice, little thought, and no care beyond writing a check was the type of “Disney dad” experience which suited Al perfectly. Unfortunately, that type of relationship suddenly appeared to be not just agreeable to A.J. as well, but desirable. My depression reached new heights while my faith in humanity plummeted to an all-time low, and I mourned the sad reality that I might have to lose contact with my Son for a while. Experience had taught me that anyone involved in, or at all close to Al’s orbit posed too great a threat. Self-preservation would finally become a consideration in my life. I had already come face to face once, a decade earlier, with an event which could have led to the death of our Daughter under Al’s watch, and he had dealt with the near fatal incident, which totaled her Land Rover, by bartering a measure of financial support and legal aid for our Daughter, if she would agree to remain silent and protect the person (close to Al) who had put her life in jeopardy. To witness the pain my Daughter experienced knowing her father used her “accident” as nothing more than a bargaining chip, was heartbreaking. Closing myself off from the kind of agony which Al seemingly delighted in creating felt like the only option moving forward. The feeling I was left to deal with, seemed eerily familiar to the bewildering wave of fear I experienced as a child whenever things were spinning out of control. The safest way to survive in my family was to make myself small, virtually invisible, and it took me far too long to acknowledge that some of the patterns from my upbringing had been repeated in my marriage. None of the factors from my childhood could begin to approach the level of terror that crept into my marriage with Al, its eventual demise, and far beyond. Still, regardless of all that ugliness, I seized upon the hard truth at hand and availed myself of a much-needed crash course in self-respect and preservation. 

Has it been easy to maintain that emotional distance, holding my son at an arm’s length, other than with the exception of a few random texts from time to time, or calls on Birthdays and Holidays, and accept that A.J. was/is absent from my life? Not for one minute, but did I believe it was necessary for survival… unequivocally, YES.

What’s worse is that over time, I no longer really recognized the Son I so lovingly and painstakingly raised from birth, and that unfathomable reality was and remains a debilitating blow. Somehow, over the years, my value to A.J. appeared to have been diminished from anything even resembling substantive to that of a vessel of convenience. VIP tickets and weekend for four at “Bonnaroo” was expected, just as my blind compliance to any assortment of A.J.’s whims were de-rigueur. A brand-new, high-tech titanium bike… no big deal; the Jeep provided for his use during a semester or two was, and I quote, “a piece of shit.” So too my efforts to provide academic support, a comfortable lifestyle, complete with apartment furnishings, big-screen T.V.s, new suits for “Pike” formals or weekends away, first-class travel, whichever new rifle or shotgun might be beneficial for his position on the university Shooting Team had all become presumptive items of necessity. But with full-disclosure, I was a willing participant until it finally became impossible to overlook the seemingly nonchalant sense of entitlement and lack of appreciation with which all those items were received. But A.J.’s decision to cut his Sister, brother-in-law, and me out of his college graduation ceremony in favor of his father’s attendance was the final straw. Despite all our collective efforts and loyal support for years and years, in addition to having had our hotel and flight accommodations booked for months in anticipation, the three of us watched A.J. graduate from college on a taped, live-stream TV feed. It was one of those moments that tends to linger in the far recesses of your mind, emerging unexpectedly and begging reexamination… still does.

THE RESULT OF MANY OF MY LIFE’S EXPERIENCES IS EMBODIED IN THIS QUOTE ABOVE.

Before the strain and disconnect in my relationship with A.J., one of the many activities “the kids” and I had always enjoyed together was taking in a whole host of shows and concerts. Whether it was seeing George Strait and Rod Stewart in Jacksonville; front seats for The Knicks, Rockettes and Jersey Boys in Manhattan; catching Tim McGraw, Garth Brooks and Eric Church at Mid-State Fair, and Eric Church again at The Staples Center; taking in a full slate of big-name artists during a full-weekend experience at Stagecoach, attending the NFR (twice) and watching Andrea Bocelli perform in Vegas complete with front row seating; the annual sponsoring, participating in, and enjoying the entirety of Santa Barbara’s Old Spanish Days Fiesta Rodeo from our three, front-row boxes of seating for prime viewing; or honky-tonking at Billy Bob’s in Fort Worth while listening to LoCash… whatever it was, we always had a blast, or I thought we did?

Today, life looks a good bit differently than it did four or five years ago but shows and concerts are still a constant. Last Fall, Morgan Wallen was in town playing with Hardy and Ernest, and my crew and I were in attendance. The year before we saw Luke Bryan; both were wonderfully memorable shows and big fun. But the Morgan Wallen event was not just super special, but emotional as well. “7 Summers” has been a favorite song of mine since I first heard Wallen sing it, and every song he’s done since plays on regular rotation in my house, particularly “Tennessee Fan,” being the Alabama Tide fan that I am, but loving Nashville too. So when I heard “Thought You Should Know,” a part of me melted. While the song represents a varied version of whatever the situation with my Son may or may not be, I was struck by the depth of sincerity and sentiment contained within those words. A week or so after the concert, I texted A.J. telling him about seeing the show, expressed my feelings about “Thought You Should Know” and said something sappy about how it reminded me of him. I didn’t get a response. Several weeks later, my birthday came and went and still nothing from A.J. but considering the events and time that had elapsed, I don’t guess I expected anything different. Still, that locked-up, tucked away part of my heart ached with regret and disappointment. Would we ever find our way back to the loving and close relationship of years gone by?

Texts and a phone call or two now represent the exchanges between my Son and me, which sadly is the new norm, and an unfortunate consequence of his choice to so closely align himself with his father. While I’m not proud of the way our relationship devolved nor the part I played in that transition, I couldn’t ignore some of the new patterns which were emerging and served as a reminder of the need to establish a measure of distance between my Son and myself. Much of Al’s chicanery used to include baiting me (or others) to achieve his personal agenda, while simultaneously keeping the same people whom he had deceived in the dark. There’s absolutely no part of me that wants to believe A.J. was or is capable of the same deception and detachment I experienced at his father’s whims, but I couldn’t ignore that some of the same signs were present in recent interactions and that just flat scared the living daylights out of me. Fear is a powerful motivator, and while I may feel a bit embarrassed, I’m not too proud to say it’s that same fear which has guided many of the tough decisions I’ve been forced to make over the last few years. I genuinely hope that by sharing these vulnerabilities with you, it may empower, or at the very least provide some small measure of comfort to others who have had to deal with similar interpersonal issues. There’s nothing easy about opening-up our souls to expose our individual weaknesses, but I do know with complete certainty, there is solace to be found in knowing we aren’t alone in owning our humanity and frailties.  There’s an online forum called “Quora,” which actually provides many opportunities to connect with others who have also suffered the damages exacted by covert and/or sociopathic narcissists like Al, and I’ve found it to be more than just a wee bit validating recently. You may want to check it out, if any of this sounds familiar.

As I’ve explained here, throughout the duration of our estrangement, my Son and I still exchanged occasional messages; some were simple and short while others a bit lengthier.  But as was my habit, I always texted A.J. on his Birthday in addition to any and every holiday, as well as for no reason at all. Last Christmas was no exception. Rather than weave and relay some tale that could be misconstrued or negated, I chose to show you the screenshot of our interaction, but to be truly real and authentic… my history of relying on thorough documentation hasn’t served me well with my Son.

Even in what felt like a semi-comatose state, much was running through my mind this past Christmas, but all I could do was wait to hear more from A.J. and hope that when he was ready to talk, he would call and tell me more. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from racing with a loop of questions and emotions.  It never entered my mind that my Son was considering the military; his first declared major at college was Criminal Justice, which he then changed to Kinesiology, and which I presume is the Undergraduate Degree he earned. At least that’s the field of work he pursued as a Personal Trainer once he graduated.

I saw this passage once in a bookstore that read, “If you want to be strong, learn to be alone.” Over the past few years, I have found myself becoming more reclusive, and while that doesn’t mean I don’t engage in real-life events anymore, it does mean that when I choose to interact in social situations, I do so on my terms. After decades, almost a lifetime of living with and reacting to an exhaustive list of lies, one after another and rarely feeling safe, I’m extremely choosey of when, where, and with whom I decide to spend my time. Recognizing, addressing, and ultimately surviving the terror that was my marriage to, and life with, a covert narcissist and sociopathic liar, as well as the nine-year legal nightmare that followed our divorce is in good part responsible for the birth of this blog and my new mindset. This space has provided more solace than I ever dreamed possible. But that comfort and the reassurance that it’s provided over the past four years didn’t kick in right away when I heard this latest news drop. Instead, I felt paralyzed and emotionally frozen, waiting, and anticipating the call that was promised to follow. In between the Christmas text, the ensuing call on January 11th, and the subsequent texts and calls which have occurred from then to now, I confess to feeling totally torn up and broken in hundreds of pieces. In a somewhat parallel yet bizarro world, it could be 30+ years ago, and I could be sitting in a heap on the floor of my Mom’s house in Montecito waiting for news from the man I’d been dating and living with for eight plus months but was currently missing (for what had become the better part of two to three months), and was also the father of my child to be. At the time, Al had last shared that “he was out, and needed his space” I was left demoralized and stalled, waiting for him to call with some decision about whether or not he had chosen if he wanted to be a father again. His answer wasn’t going to change my decision to become a mother, but it would change the manner in which the dynamic might take shape. But that was then… this is now.   

When A.J. and I finally spoke on January 11th, my shock was intensified as I heard a profound sadness and broken spirit reflected in his words. I could have cried, wishing there was some way to reach through the phone and hug my Son with a vigor that would restore the once happy, charming, enigmatic, young boy turned man that I remembered. Grateful for the opportunity to, even if briefly, “reconnect” with A.J., I refrained from peppering him with questions or attempting to make idle chit-chat. Instead, I let him talk while I listened in earnest. What he told me was as alarming, as the manner in which he spoke… solemnly and void of any joy. His voice was haltingly slow and serious as he relayed that the entirety of his life had become one of conflict and struggle; “he had hit rock-bottom, felt broken, and believed that enlisting in the military was his best, no… his only option.” After more sharing on A.J.’s part, we eventually exchanged a bit of back and forth talking before ending the call, probably 10-15 minutes in all. When I could finally let go of the device in my hand and set the phone down beside me, I felt the moistness of tears rolling down my face as well as an overwhelming mixture of anguish and bewilderment combined with a ferocity of anger that was difficult to contain. I sat there, motionless, as I attempted to process the conversation and information. It wasn’t hours or days before I could begin to put words to the emotions churning within; it’s been months. There’s a better than decent chance, I still can’t grasp the totality of it all, but seven months later, I can share with you that I’m coming to terms with both the reality and the gravity of the feelings I have been wrangling.

Initially, I was both stunned and incensed to contemplate that after four years of Al’s presence and influence in A.J.’s life, our Son felt so broken and directionless, that joining the military felt like his only option. What the hell happened? Two decades plus of experiences in my care had produced a kid who navigated and managed both school and extra-curriculars, never wrestled with drugs or alcohol issues, was a treasured member of our family as well as a valued part of our community, in addition to having two and a half years of college to his credit. The change so abundantly clear to see in the young man that went from my ‘umbrella of guidance’ to his father’s was alarming at best. Worse still, A.J.’s undeniable depression was news. The last substantive exchange I had had with my Son was when learning in the Fall of 2022, via texts and photos, that he was engaged to a new girlfriend, apparently a nice, smart, attractive girl attending Med School, and they had recently moved from Tennessee to Colorado. Exactly 15 months later, that plan had somehow spiraled to $$hit, and the mess that was left in its place resulted in a Son who felt empty and lacking purpose? Again, I wondered… WTF happened? I couldn’t help but question if the moment Steve had referenced several years earlier during that one Texas therapy phone session had finally materialized? Had Al, true to form, finally snapped and lost his carefully crafted façade and mask? Was his fury unleashed on A.J. and did that have anything to do with A.J.’s radical new life path?

If you’re asking yourself right about now why I’m so sure Al’s got something to do with, or could somehow be culpable for this latest development, and how it is that I might still harbor ill-will towards the man, stay with me, please? While I can appreciate your skepticism, be assured that once you have been on the receiving end of Al’s rancor, as well as the litany of fraudulent legal cases and traps I was forced to endure for a decade, it’s more than a little challenging not to lay a whole semi-truck load full of disgust and blame squarely at Al’s feet.

While I can’t speak to all the details that may be involved in A.J.’s past few years of alignment with his father, I also can’t absolve A.J. of his responsibility. He’s a grown man and had more than fair warning about his father’s lack of integrity or conscience. I can only offer the small tidbits I know from having people send me screenshots of A.J. and Al together on many occasions over the course of the last four years, together with the various source’s queries about what the devil was going on? Wish that I knew is the only comment I offer.

I vacillate still between feelings of hope that A.J. finally caught on to his father’s twisted games and sought to find a situation which might offer constancy, structure, as well as great distance from Al, (a.k.a. the military), to utter despair knowing that my Son has made a dangerous and lengthy commitment to an institution run by our government, which right now is anything but stable and has utterly failed Americans as well as our brave service people for the past four years.

There’s a part of me that holds tremendous pride and reverence for the path my Son has now chosen, but I can’t help but feel anguish too. The number of holidays that have passed since learning of A.J.’s decision is approaching double digits, but I still believe my title for this post, “Holi-Daze” is as apt today as if I wrote it back on Christmas morning, and that’s not terribly comforting. Nonetheless, it does remind me of a couple songs which probably sum up better than any other words I could possibly utter right now of just how I plan to keep going; the lyrics to both tunes impart powerful messages, even if one of the artists is in a bit of hot water. Maybe give a listen to “Pray” by JimmieAllen, Little Big Town and Monica, as well as “Thy Will,” by Hillary Scott of Lady Antebellum, and her family, and tell me what you think… I’d love to know. Lastly, regardless of all else, the graphic below will always remain true.

A POWERFUL TRUTH.