I’ve been neglecting my bathroom…. in all the worse ways. My bathroom, I actually have my own, to myself, don’t have to share her with anyone. Kids, all gone. The man of the house has his own abode as well. And me, ungrateful me, doesn’t show appreciation to the ‘Pink Lady.’ The ‘Pink Lady’ is old, but, strong. Sturdy wide tub with a shower head. The ‘Pink Throne’ – with a white seat, double sink, nestled in a long vanity, that, you guessed it, is speckled Pink. The large mirror, the old fashioned kind that you don’t see to often, majestic, no cracks. The ‘Pink’ wallpaper mixed with white, blue and silver – covers 90% of the bathroom.

The tile on the floor is ‘Pink’ – with a little mixture of 2 different kinds of pink. The old fashioned tile – the type that does not come up, it’s fixed, to the floor. Not one tiny tile missing because it appears to be one big piece of tiny tiles. Glued together like a jigsaw puzzle.

The ‘Pink Lady’ has a window that overlooks the massive backyard where nature is at play all four seasons.

But, I digress.

As I was saying. I’ve been neglecting her.

Inside the shower / tub enclosed by old fashioned glass doors with chrome metal handles – which, by the way, caresses me at least 5 days a week with an awesome, hot, long shower to help me prepare for work.


The ‘Pink Lady’ needs to be CLEANED.

Not the superficial cleaning I give it at least once a week. The ‘Pink Lady’ needs a good old fashioned cleaning. So, that’s what I did.

Before I washed my hair, I sprayed the glass doors with scrubbing bubbles (we work hard so you won’t have to). Got a scotch brite pad and scrubbed the two glass doors inside and out.


The doors seemed to be smiling at me with approval. So. I did it again.


I looked at those ‘Pink’ square tiles that line the shower wall on three sides. They looked like they were jealous cause the glass doors were getting all the attention.

Hmmmmm…. I wondered to myself. What to do?

I got in the shower and washed my hair. Standing there, under the falling water, washing my hair, I got an idea.

I opened the glass door, grabbed a scotch brite sponge, doused it with Bon-Ami, got back in the shower and started scrubbing the ‘Pink’ tiles while the shower was still flowing. I repeated this at least four times scrubbing all three walls.


The ‘Pink’ tiles lit up like fireworks. ‘Pink’ fireworks.

My bathroom. A room of my own is so many things to me.

A library – because I read in there every morning before my shower.

A spa – because sometimes I need to soak in that ‘Pink’ tub filled with warm water and Epsom salt.

A make up closet – because the old fashioned mirror is huge and I can see my whole self.

A glimpse to the outside – the window faces the backyard and nature is truly my friend.

A good friend – because the ‘Pink Lady’ is always there. Even, when I’m not.

Remembering Maryann

When I think of Maryann Mahaffey, I think of a short woman who thought Tall.

When it came to the “least of these,” people without means, people without housing, the downtrodden, the forgotten. Maryann thought Tall. Maryann spent several nights on the streets with the city’s homeless people to bring attention to their plight during her 31 years in office. Unlike so many other politicians who talk the talk, Maryann was brave and, privileged enough to walk the walk.

When it came to the “working class.” People who work with their hands as well as their heads, Maryann thought Tall. In 1995 when employees of the Detroit News and Free Press went on strike, Maryann was arrested after she and others blocked the entrance to the Detroit News during a sit-in. She participated at the picket sites, intervening with the Detroit Police to protect the pickets. Maryann walked the walk, she stood Tall.

Maryann Mahaffey was born January 18, 1925 in Burlington Iowa. She moved to Detroit with her husband, Herman (Hy) Dooha, in 1952. Maryann worked as a social worker and advocate in public housing – as well as community centers and welfare rights groups. She was elected to the Detroit City Council in 1973, the same year that Coleman Young was elected Mayor. Maryann was one of Detroit’s longest serving politicians – she retired at the end of her 8th term after she was diagnosed with leukemia. She passed away, July 27, 2006.

I’m not sure why Maryann and her husband chose to move to the city of Detroit or the state of Michigan, but, I for one, am glad they did. In my eyes, Maryann was a true Servant Leader.


Written By: B Knox for Presbyterian Villages of Michigan, Brush Park Manor, Paradise Valley August 2006.



When you look into one’s eyes.

You’re bound to become, hypnotized.

You see things that you rarely see.

Like Peace, Love and Harmony.

You’ll stare and glare, all through the night.

And then you’ll seem, to regain sight.

The eyes will put you in a daze.

And, you’ll just stare there, in a maze.


Written By:  B. Knox




So strong, Yet weak.

HE walks alone, HIS shadow hidden.


To strong to ask for guidance

To weak to admit HE needs it.

But, willing to NEED a Woman.


Not really.

HIS need is greater, because his want is hidden behind his



Written By B. Knox

Slow Me Down, Lord

Slow me down, Lord.  Ease the pounding of my heart by the quieting of my mind.  Steady my hurried pace with a vision of the eternal reach of time.  Give me, amidst the confusion of my day, the calmness of the everlasting hills.  

Break the tension of my nerves and muscles with the soothing music of the singing streams that lie in my memory.  Help me to know the magical restoring power of sleep.  Teach me the art of taking “minute vacations,” of pausing to look at a flower, to chat with a friend, to pat a dog, to read a few lines from a book.

Remind me each day of the fable of the hare and the tortoise, that I may know the race is not always to the swift, that there is more to life than increasing its speed.  Let me look upward into the branches of the towering oak, and know that it grew great and strong because it grew slowly and well. 

Slow me down, Lord, and inspire me to send my roots deep into the soil of life’s enduring values, that I may grow toward the stars of my great destiny.  Amen.


From LIFE Guide, A Resource for Wellness Planning, copyrighted by Wellsource Inc. 1988

The Child Stalkers

They prey upon our children like wild wolves in the night. They prey on our children’s innocence and trust. They prey on our children, not always as strangers but, as fathers, uncles, men of the cloth, teachers and friends of the family. People whom we trust; adults whom our children are taught to trust and obey; adults who take advantage of that trust. One out of every four girls is sexually abused before puberty. One out of every three girls is sexually abused by age eighteen. One out of every eight boys under eighteen is sexually abused in this country alone.

Pedophiles, child molesters, who are they? Where do they come from? What makes them stalk our innocent children? What makes them molest their own children? What makes them scar a precious little life? What is it about babies, children, the little people, that sends a pedophile into a sexual frenzy, committing the worse sin imaginable towards a child?

Some believe that pedophiles were abused as children and therefore turn around and re-enact that pain on another innocent child – why?  If anyone can understand the hurt and pain that is inflicted on a child, it should very well be the pedophile who claims that he, himself, was sexually abused as a child. Why scar another life and another and another (pedophiles usually molest many children before they are caught) as they were scarred. Pedophiles, child molesters and abusers of children, should stand up, recognize that what happened to them was wrong, realize that it wasn’t their fault, get help through counseling and become healers to our children, advocates for children rights, mentors to kids who find it too hard to tell, and nurturing parents to their own children – educating should be the repercussion of a child molester abused as a child instead of an abused child evolving as a child abuser, himself. But, all child molesters were not sexually abused as children and all adults who were sexually abused as children are not child molesters – what’s going on here?

Adults make decisions in their lives. That’s one advantage of being an adult in our society. The majority of adult decision makers have morals and beliefs that they strongly adhere to. Sometimes we do things that we wouldn’t normally do in order to survive, to eat and provide for our families, to make a better life for ourselves and our loved ones. We accept the responsibility for our actions. The pedophile makes a decision to rape a child, to shatter their childhood, to inflict pain not imagined by an innocent human being, to force an unwanted and unknown act on a little person. The pedophile makes a decision not out of survival, not out of the need to provide for his family and definitely not for the well being of his victim – the pedophile makes a decision out of selfishness – who else could he possibly be thinking of when he performs such a cruel and horrendous act. He makes a decision, not a mistake. These wolves in sheep’s clothing tend to blame others for what they do – their spouse, jobs, society as a whole and even their innocent victims. It is estimated that 90% of child sexual abuse involves a person whom the child knows well. It is also estimated that 25% of Americans have been victims of child sexual abuse. In incestuous child abuse cases the most common is father –  daughter or stepfather – daughter, where, in the eyes of the pedophile, the daughter takes the place of the mother. Usually, in this incestuous situation the mother either knows or has a strong indication that something is wrong. The child inherits a sort of power that is silently acknowledged in the family’s household by both parents – the child in this situation is referred to as an “EXECUTIVE CHILD.”

We hear about children being molested all over the world, everyday on the news, in the paper, at work, school and even at church. Priests, doctors, fathers, entertainers – all walks of life molesting their own children or someone else’s. There is evidence that women pedophiles exist; but the male clearly dominates this unbelievable practice. To make access of children available to them, these men tend to enter into professions that involve direct contact with children, interacting directly with them, gaining their trust and eventually molesting them.

Whom do our children turn to in a world that insists that children should be seen and not heard. These children are confused, scared and lonely. They want to tell, but who will believe them? (Children rarely lie about such things as sexual abuse.) The child reasons with herself that it would be better not to tell than to have family members doubt them, and some family members do tend to doubt the child, some dismiss it altogether and think the problem will just go away – it will not just go away. People who dismiss this awful problem are just as bad, maybe worse, than the pedophile who stalks our children. They have the power, the law to stand up against these individuals yet a large portion of them do nothing but close their eyes. We must listen to our children when they are trying to tell us something, we must make them feel comfortable when it is too hard to tell. (Telling someone is the first step to recovery.) We must encourage our youth to be honest and tell the truth no matter how much it hurts. We must notice different behavior patterns in our children: nervousness, restlessness, withdrawing from people who really love them. Parents, listen to your children. They may be trying to tell you something.

By:  B. Knox




Imagination or Reality

As the rain fell lightly onto the window,

my imagination wandered farther and farther into distant places,

taking me to higher regions of imaginative thinking.


playing in huge green parks,

laughing and screaming, enjoying their childhood – As children ought to.


sharing thoughts, that they had never really shared with anyone,

in fear of being laughed at or made mockery of.


of all races and backgrounds,

uniting, and

trying to make this world a better place for all.

A world of Peace.


To the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the least of these


everyone else.

Will this world ever see such a thing in REALITY?


Will it be, just a thing, for the imagination to dwell into, occasionally.

As my imagination comes back to reality,

the rain still falls onto the window,




By, B. Knox



Way down deep inside of ME.

There lies another living being.

Someone that knows ME very deep.

And, sometimes talks to ME in my sleep.

Someone that guides ME day by day.

And, helps ME along my hurried way.

When I’m feeling all alone.

In my heart, I search and roam.

For that person I never really see.

But, I know, lives deep down, inside of ME.


Bridget Knox (Written in 1980)

CHANGE: (Written October, 2005 for Presbyterian Villages of Michigan) Bridget Knox, Admin. Assistant

When I think of October.  I think of CHANGE.

The leaves of the trees CHANGE colors from simply green to brilliant bright red, yellow, orange and gorgeous gold.  They light up the sky for a season like beautiful Christmas lights – except, the leaves are perfect.


The leaves take on another CHANGE.

They fall.

They fall to the earth with their bright reds, yellows, orange’s and gorgeous gold’s and their brilliant colors decorate our lawns and busy streets.

Children play in the leaves and toss them to and fro while their parents or older siblings rake the leaves and put all those brilliant, bright and wonderful colors away.

Nice and tidy. Like a package of crayola crayons.

CHANGE happens.

The way we react to CHANGE has a lot to do with our attitudes toward CHANGE.

Are we willing to CHANGE ?

Sometimes, CHANGE is forced upon us. Then, we must CHANGE!

If we could make CHANGE more comfortable, whether good or bad.

Then maybe.

We could CHANGE.

Like the leaves.

From simply green.

To bright, bright, gorgeous, GOLD.





Integrating my Life through Words.