I saw your picture today

My life has been more hectic than usual lately. I find myself constantly muttering reminders and walking into rooms with no idea why I'm there.
Everything is so busy.
I have one daughter getting married, another moving away, and my son starting his junior year of high school. I try not to worry, I do. But it comes anyway, in waves and gulps and mist. Sometimes I can breathe through it, pray, unhinge my shoulders from my ears.
But the past few weeks, my mind is a hamster wheel with a cat stuck inside.
And I'm the hamster.
running running running
glancing back occasionally to see how close that cat is to me.

A few days ago I was cleaning off my desk of the zillion little things that accumulate all week with no purpose whatsoever and yet I can't throw any of it away. Paper clips, receipts, mail, ribbon.
I had a few pictures, pictures that I needed to PUT AWAY IN THE BOX ALREADY.
I don't know why I do this but I see them and instead of putting them away, I just move them over 5 inches.
Maybe stack them neater .. and then move over 5 inches. It's so dumb and completely breaks some rule about clutter and touching one's things more than once without putting them in their proper home.
I don't know.
But this day, this day I was making progress.
Up I scooped them and to the closet I went. I keep a plastic bin in there that holds an attempt to organize all my pictures.
A very sloppy attempt.
I can't ever find what I am looking for without going through them all a thousand times. Today though, instead of dumping the handful in, I pulled the box out, sat down, scooched my back up against the wall, and took off the lid.
I smiled.
There they were. All my babies.
Small. Laughing. Safe.
I lifted a stack out and started rummaging through them; remembering what it was like to have Breann run up to me and give me a hug around my legs, laughing at the look of mischief on Sammi's face as she eyeballed her sister, smiling at the seriousness of Jacob on my wedding day when he was just five. I always get a little misty when I look at these.
Our life.
How fast it goes by.
I continued to filter through them and then, random, I found an old one of me.
Me. Kendra. Tracy.
I blinked.
This was Kelly St.
All the houses in the group home were named by the street they sat on.
Kelly St. was for newbies.
Tracy was my roommate. She stood on the far right.
Tracy.
So obviously hard in her leopard print pants and football jersey. Eyes like steel. Eyes that screamed, STAY AWAY FROM ME.
Kendra. She doesn't look loud here but I remember. Her voice carried like a mega-phone was attached to it. It was like she sucked all the oxygen in from the room and then it came roaring out every time she spoke or laughed or yelled. And she did all three. Frequently.

And then there's me. I look so ... so...
small.
A child. Face partially hidden in my hair. Hand clenched inside my shirt. A jean skirt and black high-topped converse.

It's the shoes that got me.
The shoes that grabbed a hold of my eyes and my memory and then slammed my heart against a concrete wall painted baby diarrhea green.

Leaning against the wall in my hallway while I sat on the floor. Nobody home. No one to hear me. I leaned my head back and bawled.

You ever see those car commercials where the city is dark and yet you can see lights zipping through the city, the freeway, and it's just a blur this way, a blur that way?
fasterfasterfaster

That was my brain. Zipping and blurring and skidding along, trying hard to grasp what I was supposed to see here, what I was supposed to get.

This picture.
Taken in the group home.
Which was after juvenile hall.
which was after I was arrested,
and when I was arrested I wasn't wearing any shoes.
Shoe-less
Calloused
Hard.
Exposed.
Going in barefoot. Well, that was no big deal.
Walking in toes out, in the middle of the night, doesn't compare to the humiliation of being stripped, searched, squatting, coughing, jeered at by coaches and detainees alike.
But going out, in brightness of midday, with a complete stranger, to a waiting van...
well... I kind of think it's how Adam and Eve must have felt.
Naked.
Exposed.

Seen for who they had become.

I relate to how they must have frantically searched for leaves, brush, anything anything to cover themselves, because I would have given anything for at least a pair of shower shoes.
but juvie.
They don't give anything away.
Your vulnerability is on full display.
Remember this moment, child.... and don't come back.

This picture.

I'm thirteen.
Smiling. In a group home. With shoes they bought me.
You would never guess by looking at this that just months before I had started smoking cigarettes,
and then weed,
and then snorting lines of meth,
and drinking more alcohol than I could puke out,
and giving my virginity away to a greasy boy I didn't like and didn't like me,
and then swallowing a bottle of pills the next day because I was so disgusted and wanted to float,
and then taking a car that wasn't mine,
and then putting my hands up with a gun pointed at me.
You wouldn't guess that for the first two weeks in juvie I ate with a dixie cup cut in half and couldn't have a blanket with corners and they peeked in the window every half hour to make sure I was still breathing..
You wouldn't guess that I would jump up, fists swinging at
anyone anyone anyone
who looked at me crazy or uttered a word about me being white or young or a princess.
You wouldn't guess that I had stopped caring a long time ago and
nothing nothing nothing
would make me flinch in fear.
I knew what to be afraid of and these girls and this place wasn't it.
I grew up with monsters.

This picture.

In a place that most couldn't wait to leave but I felt safe.
I could breathe and smile and go to school and close my door and refuse the phone.
I didn't have to pretend.
I didn't have to run.
I could just be.

This picture.

I held it in my hand as I cried on my floor. Thinking back to all the places I had been, the things I had done, the horrors that had been done to me.

And I'm more than just o.k. now.
I do more than just survive.
I live.
I love.

I think about all the people that have said to me,
You're so strong.
You made it.
You did it.

And I always get asked the question,
How?

And my answer, so inadequate, such a let down to what they were hoping for.
Just a shrug. A nonchalance, not because i didn't care but because I didn't know what to say.

And as I sat on the floor, it came. Something I have known but didn't really grasp until right then.

This picture.

I stared at it, blurry in my tears, heartsick in the worry that sometimes wants to drown me for my own kids, and their struggles, and the pain and disappointment they are learning to feel and walk with and grow in. All the things I can't save them from.

I could weep for the girl in this picture.

But I won't.

I've done so much of that already. A mourning for a different life that was stolen in whispers and darkened bedrooms with a person that's now dead.
I celebrate her instead.
For waking up.
For somehow choosing to keep going.
For dreaminng of something bigger.
For sacrifcing so her kids would have what she did not.
It's incredible.
The strength.
Not hers but from the one she shunned and raged against and blamed for so long.

HIM.
Giving a strength she could not muster.
There were no big girl panties to pull up. Someone had yanked those down from her long long before.

This picture.

It's a child.

And then I knew.
He was right there, in every moment I felt alone, in every tear I dropped, in each place I felt my heart crack and shudder, He was with me. His heart broke next to mine.
All that love He walked in and pursued me with ...
it is the same love He walks and pursues my kids with.

They will struggle and their hearts may break,
but they won't die.
It won't kill them.

He will carry them,
strengthen them,
and they will do more than survive.
They will live.

I get it.
And I hope you get it too.
Our kids, we want so badly to protect them from everything... and it's our job to want to do that. We should do that in all the best ways we can.
But we also have to know that is an impossible task.
We are here to love them, guide them, pray over them, support them,
and let them go.
They are not alone.
Not ever.
Breathe deep mamas. Unhinge your shoulders from your ears.
It's a big love out there.
It's a perfect peace.

Shake a-what?

I have a secret.
A diet food secret.
I'm going to tell it, not because I feel comfortable or safe or because I have hit Angel status in a bathing suit.
I'm going to tell because the struggle is real and yet I feel amazing.
Strong.
Tight.
Energized.
I feel like a better human.
I signed up for Beachbody 21 days ago. Shakeology. Shakeo.
Yep. I'm one of those people.

I didn't tell anyone really. Jeff. My bestie. My kids.
Mostly out of gut-twisting fear. Fear of being judged for what I look like.
Or more accurate - what I don't.
Fear of failing. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of not having enough will-power to walk away from the chips. Fear of not being able to say, “NO”, to the sweet caffeinated heaven of Starbucks. Fear of being too tired or too lazy to do the workouts.

Every. Single. Day.

The night I sat outside with Jeff and told him I wanted to sign up; that was hard too.
Suddenly I was doing more than lamenting the fat, I was committing to doing something about it.
Out loud.

If just acknowledging we are too big with our mouths meant we are being proactive, I'd be equivalent to the Energizer Bunny.
If the spilling of our words burned calories, I would be hot.
Like, super hot.
I can burn words like nobody’s business.

Burning actual fat is a whole other piece of pie.

I can tell myself, “Hey you have THREE kids.” (And I have)
But guess what? I actually gave birth to the baby almost 16 years ago.
So ….. ???
I can tell myself, “It doesn’t really matter. Life’s too short. Eat what you want.” (And again, been there, said that)
And it’s partly true. Life is too short. But too short for what exactly??
Too short to not eat the fry?
Or too short to actually feel good about myself?
You see, I’ve used that line a zillion times. All overweight, unhealthy people have. It’s our solace (I’m actually enjoying my food while you eat rabbit grass) and our downfall (but I’d kill for your body. Kill for it. Not work for it. Duh).

If I can eat it and not rip myself to shreds afterwards, then F A B U L O U S.
But I can’t.
And it’s not because I ate.

It’s because I want something else more and I don’t think I’m worthy enough to have it.

Jeff can tell me I’m beautiful all day, every day.
He can kiss my belly and whisper it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
He can grab my butt like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to touch.
And sure, I’ll feel good.

Until the lights come back on.

Until he turns away from me and I look down to see stretch marks, and dimples, and waves where flatland should be.
Then it starts.
You know.
The whispers.
You. Are. So. Fat.
And Lumpy.
He only thinks that because he loves you. (Like this is a bad thing)
You felt him squeeze your roll, right?
Oh yeah, that’s attractive. (insert eyeroll)

Shutting these thoughts down requires a butt-ton of energy.
More energy than 30 minutes of working out. That much I know for sure.

You see, Jeff can say all those things to me. He can mean it too.
Every single time.
But it’s not his job to make me feel good about myself. It’s not for him to keep all the bad thoughts away. It’s not his place to pick me up every single day. It’s not his purpose to carry my self-worth.

That’s a burden too big for anyone.

I have to do it.
I have to look in my own eyes and say, “Ok, You were created for a purpose. Fearfully and wonderfully, you are made. Unique. Special. And altogether beautiful.”
That’s what my God says about me anyway.
My Papa. My Designer.
And if I think any different, I’m calling him a liar. Every time I criticize, every time I tear down; I am saying He did a bad job. And that’s just not true.
Everything he makes is good.

If I think it’s not good, it’s probably because I’m not treating it very well.

We all have our reasons right?
To not treat ourselves well. To make ourselves a dumping ground, or a party pad, or a junk yard.
We can take it way back to our daddy issues, the day someone walked out, the moment we were cheated on, the second someone took advantage of us and we wanted to disappear, when the popular kids called us fat, or maybe when we got passed over again and again and again by the guy we really liked because he liked our best girlfriend; the pretty one.
Maybe we feel safe here, snug in our yoga pants and over-sized sweatshirts, secure behind the filtered selfie that only gets us from the chest up, reassured in our husband’s voice that we are, that I am,
beautiful beautiful beautiful.

I have to tell you, I just got tired.
I’m tired of all this crap.
Tired of being tied to all the voices in my past.
Tired of looking in the mirror and sucking it in.
Tired of always choosing “extra large” at Target.
Tired of making another excuse.
Tired of hating summer and not because it’s hot (like I say), but because I can’t hide in my clothes. The thought of going to the beach leaves me in anxiety that ends up hiding itself in a container of Ben and Jerry’s (Chunkey Monkey please) and then a personal chew-out session in the mirror.
The self-hate. It doesn't just go away. We have to tell it to get the hell out. We have to push it to our edge and heave it over a cliff.

We have to choose US. I have to choose ME.
My Best Me (as my Coach would say).
Notice I am not saying, my skinniest me,or my hottest me, or my most-ripped me. I am saying my Best Me.
And I'm more than positive my Best Me doesn't include a lot of negative self-talk and more than a little body-hating.

I was ready.

And 21 days ago I decided to put my money in my health, my mouth to food that's fuel, and heaved my butt off the couch and started moving.

We all know when that moment comes. When what we have always been and always done no longer works for us.
No one can convince us.
No one can talk us into it.
We have to finally convince ourselves.
WHY NOT?
Why
not
me?
And so I read the instructional book, and I took pictures, and I prepped and prepped and prepped (there’s a lot of prepping) my food for the week.

Jeff helped me take my beginning measurements; one of the hardest things I have ever done. He’s seen me naked more times than I can count but this was the first time it was with a measuring tape. It looked like a death sentence.
I’ve never felt more exposed.
And so when he got to my stomach,
I began to cry.
My hands shook and I oscillated between wanting to vomit all over his head as knelt down to read the number, and yanking him up by his hair, screaming,“I’m sorry for being a number that’s going to make you want to turn around and leave!”
Me.
Turn around and leave
me.
Irrational.
Crazy. (issues ya’ll. For real)
Oh oh so real.
But he didn’t leave. And he didn’t pass out in horror. And he didn’t say, “Well it’s about time you did something.”
And he also didn’t say, “How ’bout a cheeseburger?”
He hugged me. Kissed my forehead.
And told me I was going to kick ass.

The first week of exercises I literally thought I was going to D I E.
I couldn’t do them all. My thighs burned. The side plank had me cursing as I tried over and over to heave my butt up off the floor and it refused me every
single
time.
It was like a bad date I couldn't leave. I was stuck there, counting the minutes until it was over.
My weights were only three pounds.
And let’s be real – I was worn out after the warm up.

But I grunted and sweated and heaved and lifted and I kept going.
60 seconds.
You can do anything for sixty seconds.
That’s what she kept saying. The lady in the video. The one you want to punch in the face every time you see her because she looks amazing and you look like death on a hot day.
But then I started to say it too.
And every day I felt stronger, tighter, smaller!

Until the night I bought the scale. And got on because I was feeling so good. And thought for some strange reason it was going to be my new bestest friend?
.
Thank God Jeff wasn't home.
Small mercies. For both of us.
I won’t tell you what my number was. Is. Still. After another week.
I will say it is higher than I thought.
I cried when I saw it.
And then I ate some chips.
And then I got out some dip and ate the chips and dip together.
And then I said (out loud for crazies sake), “Screw that effing work out.” (But I said it the real way, not the way we say it when we are trying to watch our mouths and make Jesus proud. I said it the way we do, the way I do, when I feel defeated and super pissed)
And I went to bed feeling like a giant, bloated whale who must have inhaled my very own Jonah and possibly the town of Nineveh too.

Thank God for new mornings and fresh starts. Thank God for a clear head and grace.
You have to look at the scale differently. This is what God told me.
(How do I know it was God? Because it was for my good, not harm.
And because it was sane.)
The scale measures our weight but it does not measure ourselves. We have to start seeing the difference. I have to see the difference.
I am not a number. I am me and all that encompasses. The scale is a line in the sand; sand that shifts and moves and erases.
It’s not permanent.

I did my workout that night and guess what?
I held that effing side plank for 30 seconds on each side. (a first ya’ll)
I squatted, low, weights at my shoulders, and held it without collapsing.
I use eight pound weights now, not three.
And instead of doing one 30 minute workout, I do doubles. One hour. (fist pump. YES.)
I grunt. I sweat. I shake until I think my limbs are going to fall off.
But
I
finish.
You ever see Legally Blonde? And in the movie everyone thinks she’s going to fail. She pushes ahead anyway and works hard, focusing on the goal; the summer internship. In the defining scene, everyone crowds in the school hallway, trying to see the list of names of who made it. She squeezes her way to the front, sees her name, turns and shouts triumphantly, “ME!” (and basically gives everyone the finger with her smile)

That’s how I feel every time I finish.
Every time I shakily get to my feet on my mat.
Every time I roll out of bed a little bit sore in the morning.
Every time I button my pants and they are a little less snug.
Every time I say “No thanks” to something unhealthy.
Every time I wrap the tape around my body and see the new number.
If I could, I’d high-five myself all over the place.
ME.
I am triumphant. (and giving dimply fat the finger).
I did more than I could 21 days ago, more than I could last week, and more than I could yesterday.

ME.

I am worth it.

You are too.

Ready?

Bones

I have been a christian for half my life. I've taken classes, studied, praised, counseled, ministered, been ministered to, and God's word is like cake to me. Gooey. Rich. Sweet to my soul.

I have found though, the longer I am saved, the less I feel deserving to be.
I remember so clearly who, and what, I was before Jesus.

Possibly because some of my struggles are the same.

Anger. Pride. Ego. Lust.

I know. Women don't talk about lust much. It seems like a topic reserved for men and honestly, I almost left it off the page. But that wouldn't be my truth. So. There.

Sure. It's less than before .... Less most days, but every now and again, B A M.

Still oh so human.

I must actively pursue God. I must make my love for Jesus a verb.
The bible says, "to love Him is to obey Him." (john 14:15) Words are not enough.
Every day I am confronted with how undeserving I am, how completely unworthy, when I am faced with God's goodness and my sin.

It would be so much easier if I felt good all the time. Good is such a lame word. But you know what I mean, right? If I always felt comforted, alive, found.
But sometimes I don't. Sometimes I feel lost. Sometimes I feel alone. Sometimes life is so hard.

The bible is clear, no student is greater than his teacher.
Nothing about Jesus' life was easy.
I imagine he did not feel good all the time.
Like when people only wanted something from him. Like when he was followed only for what he could do for others. Like when he was lied about. Like when he was stabbed in the back by his friends. Like when he hung on a cross, forsaken.

The more I learn about who He was and what He went through, the more I realize just how much he understands my own struggles, my own life.

He really does get it.

I think of his weariness.

I have grown weary.

And yes, I am reminded too of the scripture, "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." (Galations 6:9)

I know this.
And I am still weary.

Running on fumes.
Not much left to give.

I sat outside, in the cold dark, and cried while speaking to my husband.
I cried for the ministry I started. I cried for the hiatus I have taken. And in the middle of my tears I said for the first time out loud, "I just don't want to do it anymore."

Broken. Lost. Tired.

I am so tired. I feel it in my bones. They don't want to move. And I don't know how to rest, how to fill up.

I try to read my bible. Sometimes I just stare at it, unable to absorb anything.

I try to pray. And sometimes all I can get out is, "help me. please."

My husband is so blessed.
He attends a weekly prayer meeting every Tuesday. Fifty men show up to pray and encourage one another. He works with a man who is a strong Christian, and they are able to swap God stories and speak life into one another every. single. day.
He comes home with story after story of people he has met at the gas station, at Home Depot, the bank, that he has talked to and prayed with.

I am envious. Envious of his immediate response, good or bad, but mostly good, from the people he comes in contact with.
I am envious of his fill up. every. single. day.

I am not intending to whine.
My heart.
My heart though,
is troubled.

The whispers in my head grow louder.

Look at him, he's a better Christian than you. He must love Jesus more.
Why aren't you going to a prayer meeting?
Why aren't you getting a response?
Because you fail every. single. day. to show God's love, his peace.
You reflect too much Shannon.
You just aren't good enough.

I know it is the Enemy, my Accuser.
How?
Because I am left feeling guilty and condemned.
There is no grace, no mercy.

Jeff says it is a season. We all have different seasons. Jeff reminds me of the people I get to touch on a weekly basis. He reminds me that my prayers are honest, from the heart, and sincere. Powerful.

I don't feel powerful though.

I feel tired.

For the past month we have started to go to a second church for services. It is one hour and fifteen minutes that I can sit and listen and learn. It is the only time in my week I am not there to give. It is a blessing. I am grateful for it.

I am not sure what my purpose is in this blog. I just know, in the pit of my heart, I needed to write it.

I can't be the only one.

These bones. My bones. They cry out.
I am dry.
Rise them up, Lord.
Breathe into me.

Tree

I love trees.
I love when they tower over me in shadows and green.
I love the denseness, the smooth moss that grows over the scarred bark.
I love the way the sun can glint and make a single leaf sparkle.
I love to hear the birds I cannot see, to listen to their song and chatter of joy.
I love being covered.
Hidden.
Cocooned.
Listening only to my footsteps on dirt, crunching through pebbles.
My breath.
Labored
but alive.



I have a picture of a tree hanging on the wall in my bathroom.
It is black and white.
There is not room for color in this photo.
Only stillness.
Only a message.
Only the stand.

You can see that the tree was traumatized when it was very small.
Something happened.
Something pushed it off its course, and instead of growing up ....
it leans to the side.
It leans to the side, barely keeping itself off the ground, barely keeping itself from giving up.

It leans.
I wonder what happened to you Tree?
Did someone cut you? Did someone come and try to rip you apart?

Maybe you were in the way, Tree.
Maybe you were in the way when another was cut and torn and as it rolled down, thumping and skidding on dead leaves and broken branches, maybe it hit you. Maybe it didn't mean to, Tree. You were just there.
And so small.
Barely seen.

Maybe it couldn't stop itself, Tree. Maybe it tried.
Maybe it cried, Tree, when it knocked you and hurt you, not knowing if you would survive.
Maybe it whispered, in the black and white forest, "I'm so sorry."
Maybe it said a prayer as it slid past you, farther to the bottom, "please be ok."
Maybe it knew in the center of its marrow, in the sap running out, that you would.

I see you, Tree.
I see you leaning.
I see you holding on.

And then, there you are, Tree, reaching up ...
reaching up to the sky,
reaching for the sun.

You are so beautiful, Tree.
Stretching up, in all your pain and all your sorrow.
Determined.
Strong.

Tree.
You grew!

You didn't stay low to the ground.
You grew.
Straight up to the sky
blooming
with leaves.
And, I know, with color.

This tree hangs in my bathroom.
A reminder.

I gave this tree to my mother.
It hangs in her room.
A reminder.

The courage to grow despite wounds.


XOXO

NOTE: I first saw this tree at a conference, a conference for survivors of abuse, a conference I did not want to go to but am so grateful I did. I sat in a room, full of women and a smattering of men, all of us crying, shaking our leaves for the damage done, and then straightening with the strength of what we knew.
We had survived.
We had grown.
Despite wounds.

Sallie Culbreth wrote a poem about this same tree, called The Courage Tree. It is beautiful. It is what she sees when she looks at this tree.

I am writing what I see.

Photogragh by Dave Dietrich Young.

The room

A few weeks ago at church I heard something said that hit me so hard in my mind, so deep in my gut, I can't stop thinking about it. The words spoken were so on point, my soul stood still, riveted by the love and the truth that was so bravely spoken.

"Jesus, does not subject you, to the room."

I know. What?

But let's think about it. Let's really go deep for just a few minutes (because any more than that and I would be a bawling mass of jelly) and digest this statement.

"Jesus,
(God. Our Redeemer. The one who knows everything about us; what is seen and not seen, including our secret motives we bury with ten shovels under mounds of dirt because they stink so bad)
does not subject
(open or expose)
you,
(me, all of us)
to the room."
(the room meaning - the people who are lunging at you while gnashing their teeth, salivating with their claws out, in anticipation of ripping you to shreds for an act they want you to pay for)

Have you ever been subjected to the room?

Have you ever been judged, condemned, banished, because of something you have said or done?

Have you ever once been loved, and then, not loved, because you made a mistake?

Have you ever had to stand and try to explain to someone who won't listen, or doesn't care, who refuses to see you at all, and the panic rises in your belly, because you know no matter what comes out of your mouth, or your eyes, it won't make a difference?

(An even harder question - have you ever been the room? But that's a whole other blog post.)

Yes.
I have.

The room is ice cold.
The room leaves you very alone.

It can, and often will, bring you to your knees, with your face to the floor, water leaking out of squeezed-shut eyes, and with every breath, every thought...

shame. guilt. humiliation.

And you will claim them as your own.
You will pick them up,
tie them around your neck,
embed it across your forehead,
pin it to your clothes.
You will declare to the world, to yourself, what others have declared to you.

The room can leave quite an impression.

And you know what you did.
We always know, don't we? We know what we did, what we said, what we thought.
We know it was bad.

Sometimes the room gets the particulars right.
Sometimes the accusations are correct.
Sometimes the list is long.


We know sometimes we get away with it.
Sometimes
the room never knows.

But we know.

Jesus knows too.

But unlike the room that is filled with upturned noses and arrogant stares, a room bent on penalties and retribution, a room seething in hypocrisy and double-standards, without the slightest hint of grace or redemption; Jesus gives love.

Jesus says, "Here, I'll take that."

And he lifts the shame off of your face and places it on his forehead like a crown.
He takes the guilt from the depths of your heartbeat and holds it tight in the palms of his hands.
He gathers the humiliation that drapes over you and allows it to be whipped into him.

He tells the room to get out of His house.

And then he looks at you, he looks at me, with mercy swirled in compassion, grace dipped in love, and says, "Go. Sin no more."

Go.
A new moment, a fresh breath, a clean house.
Go forward, and with each step, know, you don't have to be what you thought you were or do what you have always done.
You are new.
No longer subjected to the room.


Let it sink in; what He did, what He does.
You.
Free in Jesus.

XOXO

Awestruck

I could not take my eyes off the lightening. It stretched and ripped across the night, making everything else fall back into the peripheral. I turned my head to blurt out to the guy sitting next to me, "Hey! Did you see that?" But his headphones were on and his eyes were closed and he wouldn't have seen it anyway - I had the window seat. I looked around to check if anyone else had their face glued to the 1x1 pane but no, people were nodding off, reading, staring at the tv, completely oblivious to what was happening outside, high up in the air with us.

I turned back to the window. I must have stared in silence for five minutes. The lightening didn't look any farther away; in fact, it looked closer. Like it was dancing towards us, a zigzag salsa, a rolling of the hips, a tease in its legs.

"I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now I'm not." Step back. "I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now, I'm not." Step back.

The black turned gray and pinkish against the clouds as the lightening sliced through the air again.
Almost at the same time, the plane rocked.

What?

I must be imagining things.

Again, the lightening flashed.
Again, the plane rocked.

My heart thumped. I closed my eyes.
I gripped my armrest.

There it was again!
And we rocked, again.

I am not a flyer. I mean, I will fly if needed and I don't have to be completely inebriated to do so, but I prefer to drive. Oh, I know the statistics, you're far more likely to get into a car crash than a plane crash and blah blah blah, but I can't help it. There is something especially terrifying about hanging in the air in a metal tube. I mean, if a bird the size of my foot can take it down if it gets caught in the fan blade ... how safe can it be? And I don't care how many times I see a flight attendant demonstrate how your seat becomes a raft if you hit the ocean; I for one, will pray for an immediate heart attack. I don't even think I would have to pray. It would just happen. My heart will thump so fast in terror it will literally thump itself out and I will squeeze my eyes and meet Jesus before anything crashes, explodes, or gets sucked into the ocean full of giant sharks to match their giant teeth.

I opened my eyes.

Yes. The lightening was definitely closer.
It shot across the sky, eerily defined, it seemed like I could make out each electrical pulse.
The plane rocked ...
and then dipped down.

People began shifting in their seats. I could hear them murmuring, "Whoa! Did you feel that?"
Yes, yes I did.

And then with each flash across the sky:

f e a r.

It's as if it had been waiting on the floor, hiding under the seats, staying out of sight until it was ready to make its move. And move it did.
I felt it start in my toes as they clenched and squished in my flip flops. I felt exposed, like I needed a blanket, or at least some socks. Up it crept, until my hands were clammy and my heart was racing and panic prayers erupted in my skull.
What's a panic prayer? This is a panic prayer.

"Oh my Jesus. Oh my Jesus. I don't want to die. helpme helpme helpme ..."

Perhaps you have said these before too.

I normally have them when I wake from a nightmare, get a call from the school principal, or when I ride in airplanes with lightening right outside my window.

I was starting to FREAK OUT.

I did the only thing I know how to do when things are bigger than me.
I began to pray.
Something slightly more literate than a panic prayer, but not much.

And then I was reminded of a boat that rocked and bounced in the storm while Jesus slept. I was reminded of how the disciples panicked as they saw the waves and the black sky. I was reminded of what they said to Jesus.

"Wake up! Save us! Oh Lord, don't you even care that we are going to die?!"

A panic prayer if I have ever heard one.

Oh sure, we can try and justify ourselves by saying, "Well, Jesus was right there. He was with them! Why would they panic?"

But isn't He right there with us too? Wasn't he with me?

“You of little faith, why are you so afraid?”

And then I wasn't.

Just like that.

Praise God.

I looked back out the window.
The lightening was still striking. (I know - biggest storm ever it seems like.)
The plane still rocked.

But now I could see how beautiful it was.. how magnificent. I noticed all the color in the clouds as the lightening went through them. It was so ... pretty. My fear had been replaced by awe. The awesomeness of God and the power of his majesty. My mouth hung open just a little.

I wonder.
How many times do we allow the Enemy (because that's where fear comes from) to keep us so focused on that one thing, and make us so afraid, that we fail to see the beauty of our situation? And there is beauty. In all things.

You may think there isn't, that there couldn't possibly be ... but that is the Enemy.

God says,
I will turn beauty from ashes.
My mercies are new every morning.
Great is My faithfulness.

And great it is my friends. Great it is.

XOXO

Who do you say ?

"But what about you?", he asked. "Who do you say that I am?" Peter answered, "You are the Messiah."

Let me start by saying, I in no way feel prepared to write this blog. I am not a scholar, a bible historian, a Jesus expert, a theology major, or a Sunday School teacher. I am just me. Just a woman who is trying to run the race God has set before her. I can feel it in my bones, in my chunky fingers with chewed up nails; I am supposed to write this.
I have prayed.
I have asked God to direct my words, my thoughts.
I have asked him to help me be as honest and open as He wants me to be so that maybe, just maybe, if you aren't sure of how to answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?" ... maybe I can help you.

My Life Group meets every Thursday night. In an email, the Life Group leader challenged us to come prepared to answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?" (meaning Jesus), but threw in a twist... Not only should we say who we say He is now .. but who did we say He was before?

Before, what?
Before.
Before you saw his face and recognized him.
Before you started attending church and life groups and women's ministries and food banks and became so involved with where you are going that you forgot where you came from.
Before.
When you were a hot mess... and I mean this in a bad way, not the hip, slang way it's thrown across a t-shirt. (And yes, I desperately want that t-shirt!)
Before.
When you woke up in a bed you didn't know, in a room you didn't recognize, with a person you couldn't remember.
Before.
When your past haunted you and no matter how fast you sprinted, it was right there, breathing down your neck, laughing at you, mocking you, tripping you and leaving you flat on your face with a black eye and bloody nose, unable to get up, unable to crawl away.
Before.

The room became instantly quiet as we all pondered the question. Jesus isn't messing around when he asks you - Who do you say that I am? It's not flippant. It's not easy. It requires an answer from your heart; from the very center of YOU.

When it was my turn, I began to cry.
Just like I am crying right now.
You see, some of my group, they weren't sure at all about who God was before,whether he was real or just some "big guy in the sky" their parents used to keep them in line, get them out of the house.
But I knew different. I knew God was real from a very small age. One of my most treasured memories is sitting on my Grammy's lap while she read me bible stories and would tell me, "Oh yeees DAH-ling," in her southern drawl, "my sweet, sweet Shannon, Jesus loves you so very much!", and she'd squeeze me tight into her squishness and I felt safe there. I felt cocooned.

And so when the bad things started to happen; when my grandpa would take naps with me, when I would be forced to climb up into his bed, when he would put a pillow over my face while i cried, when he would tell me after, "You better go pray now and ask God to forgive you ... You are a naughty girl." And I would believe him, because he was an important man at the church, an important man around town, He definitely knew God more than me,
and I....
I was just a small girl.

A small girl who believed God was real. A small girl who would pray and ask God to forgive her,
to help her, to save her, to make all the bad stuff stop.

A small girl who stopped believing God was good when none of her prayers were answered.


Who did I say God was?

I said if he was a man, if God was really this Jesus and this Jesus was God and God came as a man, I would never
ever
ever

ever.

The thought of asking a man to forgive me for my sins made me want to vomit in my rage.
If i could have torn off the skin from face with my own fingernails to stop hearing it, stop seeing it, stop feeling anything at all; I would have.

Who did I say God was?

Every foul word you can think of and more.



And now?
I am grateful to my marrow that he never struck me dead on the spot for all the abomination I felt and spewed and spread and draped myself in.

Something happens when we meet Jesus.
The real Jesus, not the one people use an excuse for their ignorance or hate or agenda or own moral code of living.

Jesus.
The one that wept when his friend died.
The one that got hungry when he walked in the desert.
The one that time after time, and woman after woman, showed compassion and love and gentleness and acceptance - quite unlike most of the men mentioned in those same stories, mind you. I think that's when I really started to like him.
Prostitute? He loved her. Adulteress? He loved her. Diseased and banned from society? He loved her. And then he healed her.
And with each and every one of these women, he faced a group of men and took a stand for her - not approving what she had done or what had happened - but stood for her, as a person deserving of respect and wholeness and love.
Jesus.
He made the playing field equal. Men were no longer superior because they had a penis.
Jesus.
Who was beaten, spit on, laughed at, mocked (who's going to help you now? If you are God - save yourself!), stripped, naked, exposed ...
Bleeding and shredded ... He hung on a cross and said, "My God, My God - why have you forsaken me?"

I used to look at people like they had lost. their. mind. when they would say Jesus understood everything I went through.

But in that .. in those last days when he was arrested and abandoned by those closest to him,
in those last moments while he hung there, exposed and humiliated,
in that last desperate breath full of agony and isolation,
I knew he understood. I knew he got it.

He had felt everything I had felt. He asked the same thing I did.

My God, My God, ... why have you forsaken me?

"But what about you, Shannon?"
Insert your name there.
Whoever you are.

what
about
you?

Who do you say I am?


I say Jesus is my Healer.
Every awful thing, every black spot, he has covered in His love and I no longer twist in agony from my past.
I say Jesus is my Man.
The very first man to wait until I said ok, the very first man that was gentle and asked permission, the very first man to not take my love and twist it inside out and hold it to my throat like a knife.
I say Jesus is my Redeemer.
I needed redemption ya'll. Just take my word for it.

I say Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah, God, love in human form, forgiveness, grace, mercy, and forever.
Jesus is forever.

But what about you? Who do you say he is?

Not what you have heard, not the rumors, not the jokes, not a news story, not what one group or another may say, who do YOU say?

I recently transferred Starbucks stores. The store I left, I loved so much. The store I went to - I heard awful things. About the store, about the manager, and I have got to be honest, it made it hard to be objective, to see, and meet, and get to know, without a preconceived notion. People talk trash.
Right?
I mean, we buy magazines that talk trash, we are glued to our trash talkin' tv shows and post about them on Facebook, laugh about them during pedicures. I've enjoyed an episode or two myself of TMZ and US Weekly and The Bachelor, ok? But let's be real - I don't know Britney Spears or Jennifer Lawrence or Drew Barrymore. I only know about them.

Take whatever you have heard about Jesus and throw it out of your brain, flush it down the toilet, set it on fire.

And then get to know him yourself. I'm sure every person reading this has had people say not-so-nice things about you to others.I know I have.
Imagine if no one ever took the time to actually meet you.

So, Go.
Meet Him. See who He really is.
And then answer.

It's the most important question you'll ever have to examine.
Reflect well.

XOXO


*For further reading and getting to know Jesus, I am including below where you can read about the stories of Jesus and the interactions with the women mentioned in today's blog.

John 8 - Woman caught in adultery
Luke 7:11-18 - Woman who's son died (not mentioned in blog - bonus!)
Luke 7:36-50 the Prostitute
Luke 8:40-55 Woman who was healed

Just Not There

Here I am Lord, Send Me.

Isaiah 6:8. A scripture that has become a popular tattoo, Facebook cover photo, Pinterest pin, necklace print, and Christian motto that gets thrown into conversation with excitement and promise. We picture in our mind all the places the Lord is going to send us; exotic countries, new business ventures, church ministries, and yes, blogs, along with all the people that are going to be moved away from the rock inside their heart or set free from addiction and fear, and even saved, by what we are doing.

But what happens when we are sent somewhere we don't want to go? I can tell you what happened to me, what is happening....
I move throughout the day feeling a lot like Jonah.

For anyone who doesn't know who Jonah is, a quick recap. Jonah was a prophet in the Old Testament days.. a guy the Lord would speak to and off Jonah would go to wherever God told him, to deliver news of repentance, faith, and restoration. Jonah had a pretty good gig going on. I imagine his track record was excellent and numbers were up. I imagine he took some pride in where he went and what happened once he was there.

Until God said, "Go to Nineveh."

Say, what?
Nineveh?
Are you sure, God? Because those people are jacked up. (Not Old Testament terminology but you get the essence here, right?)

Jonah did not want to go. These people in Nineveh; they weren't his cup of tea. A reputation proceeded them and Jonah thought "hey - let them get what they deserve. Sure God ... you can send me .. just not there."

Eventually Jonah ended up going but not until he faced an angry ocean and a large fish. If you want to see a quick synopsis that gets right to the point - watch VeggieTales. It will catch you up real quick.

I always found it a little easy to judge Jonah. ( I know - gasp! - the "J" word) but let's be honest. No one wants to think they would be found in his company.

And when you do .. it's really uncomfortable.

You see, I think we all picture we will gladly say "Yes!" That we will pick up our cross (or our suitcase, our apron, our dollar bills) and set off towards whatever God-adventure lies ahead with gusto and a smile to match. But I also think we picture the God-adventure is something we will want to say Yes to. It will align with our own dreams, desires, wants. And yes, while God does place dreams in us and gives us the ability to make them a reality, there is something He cares about far more than that.

People.

God cares about people.

He cares about you, me, our family, our church family... but He also cares about the homeless guy that asks for money on the corner and he might not buy food with that money; it is quite possible he will buy beer. He cares about the woman who stands outside your grocery store with her small children and pretends to be homeless but drives off later in a BMW. He cares about the guy who works hard to provide for his family but when he comes home he's exhausted and irritable and can only knead his brow and drink his beer when the kids start screaming. He cares about the woman who has excelled and becomes so successful in her business yet goes to bed feeling empty and lost and wondering what her purpose is. He cares about the teenagers that are smoking pot around the corner, behind 7-11, who laugh too loud and curse too much. He cares about the ministry leader at your church that is burnt out and beat up but keeps smiling, keeps pushing, and keeps asking Jesus, "Is this enough? Is this? Am I making a difference for you, God?"

It's not about us. It's not about me.

That's kind of a tough truth to swallow, isn't it?

Sure, we say we know this, but when we are asked to make our words a verb, when we need to step waaaay out of our comfort zone and go somewhere that makes us cringe, we sure don't act like we believe it.

I know I don't.

It's been two weeks since I've started to look at Jonah with a little more compassion, a little more empathy; considering him as a human and not just some backwards hero in the bible. Isn't it funny how God does that? The way he flips a mirror of all the things we dislike about other people and reveals those same things stamped across our own face, written inside the secret places of our own heart?

It's called pruning. The bible talks a lot about that too. Getting rid of the branches that don't produce any fruit to make way for ones that do.

Pruning hurts. I mean, have you ever pruned a rosebush or cut the branches on your trees? The shears are sharp, sure, and final. They don't leave room for halfway or uncertainty. No one can slice off an eight of a branch - it's all or nothing.

That's how God wants us when we say, "Here I am Lord, send me!" He wants it all.

I was recently promoted at work .. but for the promotion I have to leave a store that I know, people that I love, and go to one that has a not-so-good reputation, with a boss of not-so-good character. They are not all of ill regard. Not all, mind you. But enough. Enough to make my stomach twist and my feet drag and my mouth grimace and my palms sweat.

Just. Not. There.

I knew as soon as I was offered the position that I would accept it. I knew because I was laughing inside at how God is ... He isn't going to put me where I want, He's going to move me where I'm needed.

I keep trying to be grateful for it.

I am not always up to the task.

I recently started reading Jesus > Religion by Jefferson Bethke. He makes a statement on Page 10 that I wish I could have highlighted to infinity. He writes, "In the scriptures, Jesus isn't safe."

Let that sink in for a minute.

"In the Scriptures,
Jesus
isn't
safe."

It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Isn't it?

So many of us are in awe of Paul, Peter, John, Mary, David, Moses, Noah, Jesus .... and the list goes on and on. We are struck by their courage, their steadfastness, the persistence and dynamic faith they all demonstrate. Not one of them did anything safe.

Can you imagine being in any of their prayer circles? Can you picture praying for Moses before he parted the Red Sea or Noah before he built the Ark in preparedness for rain no one had ever seen before, and pray for safety? The immediate act of what they were doing already nixed safety. In the middle of miracles, there's not a sliver of room for safety. I would bet, you would probably get laughed at, for even suggesting such a thing.

Why do I expect any different?

No. I'm not parting a sea, or leading an army, or speaking in front of kings. But I am moving forward, one foot in front of the other, towards people that are lost, hardened, cynical ... people that need to know they are loved just as they are, right where they are. And if you have ever felt unloved or unacceptable, you know how hard it is to be convinced that you are.

So I am praying. I am praying my heart is right before God. I am praying for God to help me do this work.

I am praying that I am worthy of the task before me. And because I know I am not ... I am praying that God's grace and love and light will be more and more evident for all to see.