2 Chronicles

"If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land."
2 Chronicles 4:17

I've heard this scripture quoted quite a bit over the past few days. I've heard it quoted by men ranting on Facebook about "THOSE WOMEN". I've heard it in the same post as another person saying, "Well, I guess there's a lot of husbands cooking their own dinner tonight," meaning - Saturday, the day of the March.

I've read it and then watched comment after comment appear with people saying, "I don't support these women," and "If you don't like it, you can get out," as well as, "Idiots", "Stupid", "Feminists", "God-haters", "liberals", and "THIS is what's wrong with our country."
I've watched women, christian women, back away and go quiet.
I've wanted to call out, "where are you?"

Oh, I was angry. And I wanted to fight back. The words clambered over each other to free themselves from my mouth.

But then I clicked it off. I am learning this kind of anger doesn't get us anywhere. I have to feel it and submit it. Submit it and channel it.

God's TRUTH is greater than my feelings.
I cried in the truck as Jeff and I drove home from LA. I prayed. I ripped off all my fingernails. I tried to breathe as anxiety and frustration built and clawed and threatened to choke out my breath.

And I thought to myself, "God? I am a christian. I love you. I believe in you. I do my best to follow you. And I can't get behind those comments. I can't."

I wondered if there was something wrong with me. Maybe I don't know God at all. Maybe I'm just a bad egg.

Here's the thing, folks. God is the same. For everyone. Across the board. He does not contradict. He does not show favoritism. We are all fearfully and wonderfully made.
So if there is apprehension and confusion going on, that's on ME. That's on YOU. Hard questions need to be asked. Hard answers need to be found.

And this is tough because guess what? Christians are lazy. We take what we hear, or we read one scripture, and we don't dig or question or read more. We take the easy way.

Jesus never took the easy way.

Loving is always harder than judging.

The woman at the well? He listened.
The woman thrown down in front of him after she was caught in adultery? He listened and he protected. (Let's not even get going on where the other half of the adultery act was. Or, you know, LET's. Interesting how the man wasn't brought out and thrown down, isn't it? Interesting how she was caught in the act because these men, these religious leaders, were obviously watching her, yes? Interesting the double standard that was shown here and even MORE interesting is how Jesus reacted. With love and mercy and all the men backed away.
He. is. my. hero.)
The demon possessed man who ran up to him? He talked to him and freed him.
The woman who was sick for years and banished from society because she was a bloody mess and pushed her way through to touch his robe? He healed her. And you know what? That woman? She was a marcher before her time.
The teenage girl who was pregnant and unwed and gossiped about? Yeah, that was his mother.


I have said, and will always say, God is not afraid of our hard questions.
We are. I am. I get afraid and I'm going to tell you why.
I get afraid because what if I ask God a question and the answer I get is something that causes me to doubt WHO HE IS and if HE IS REALLY GOOD?

I can ask the hard question or I can take the easy way.
The easy way though, doesn't help anyone. Not the maligned. Not the mistreated. Not the sinner. And certainly not the saint.

I started asking questions. I started writing them down. And a thought would come, and then another. And soon I was writing those down. Then, more questions. And I paid attention as my life flashed before me and all the things I have been asked to live and all the decisions and the day I walked into a small church in El Cajon dressed in boxer shorts and anger with eyes that said, "Stay. Away. From. Me.", and I was hugged. I was hand-held. I was looked in the eye. I was loved.

That's why I kept going back. I was loved.
No one asked me first how many drugs I had done or if I had stolen or how many people I'd made sex with or if I hated men or hated God or smoked or cursed on the regular. No one asked me later either.
I was loved.
Foul-God-hurting-MAN-hating-mouth-cursing-middle-fingers-up and all.

And as Jeff and I drove home and I thought of all my yesterdays, I got a word. And that word was freedom.

Someone did awful things to me when I was a child because he had the freedom to make that choice and do so.
Someone was able to choose him and not me because they had the freedom to do so.
Someone can live gay or live straight because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can hit a crack pipe or hit the gym because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can go to church and sing with their mouth and hate everyone there in their heart because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can love others and love God and serve serve serve quietly all their life because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can love God and be mouthy and go against the church current because they have the freedom to do so.
Someone can grow up in a house that loves God and decide for themselves they don't want to and they have the freedom to do so.

And do you know where this freedom comes from? God himself.
He died for us all. And He allows us all to make a choice.

And yet here we sit, day after day, telling everyone else they can't have one, because we are elevating ourselves to the place of God.

if my people,

I have a confession to make.

who are called by my name,

A number of years ago

will humble themselves

same-sex marriage was on the ballot,

and pray

Proposition 8,

and seek my face

and I did not listen to the hard question nagging at my skull

and turn from their wicked ways,

and I did not ask for a hard answer,

then I will hear from heaven,

and I took the easy way, with the rest of the crowd,

and I will forgive their sin,

and I was wrong.

and will heal their land."

This is the Lord speaking in this verse, speaking to Solomon. And do you know who he's talking about?

US.

Christian. Christian.

If WE will humble ourselves,
If WE will pray,
If WE will seek his face,
If WE will turn from OUR wicked ways,
THEN
He will forgive US and heal our land.

When we don't listen; we are not humble.
When we call people stupid and idiots and say the words "THESE WOMEN" in a tone of disgust and rage; we are not humble.
When we don't stop to ask ourselves WHY ARE THEY HURTING?; we are not praying.
When we don't feel bothered by injustice; we are not seeking his face.
When we condone or remain silent or cheer for someone who promotes treating others as less than himself, ourselves ; we are not turning from our wicked ways.


We don't have to agree. We are ALL still learning, how to love God, how to love people, how to love ourselves, better. But we can't begin to do that if we have PRIDE.

Ego.
The need to be right.
The last word.

I hope these words shake you. I hope you dig and search and seek and look for yourself. I hope if you are angry, you ask yourself why and then ask God to reveal it to you.

You can stand for what you believe in - it's very easy. Make sure you don't do it. That's it.

I wonder what would happen if we stopped focusing on what others are doing and saying and living, and we began to be more like Jesus? He did not pass laws. He spoke to people. He did not put them on blast. He loved them.

In fact, the only time I see Jesus getting mad and throwing tables and calling people a "brood of vipers", is when he spoke to the religious. Chew on that one for a bit.

"They" are not the problem. "These WOMEN" are not the problem.
We are.

God help us.

XO

#olw

Last year, for the very first time, I chose #olw, or as the non-hashtaggers know it, one little word.
I liked the idea of choosing a word to live the year by - a mantra to set my heartbeat to. And if I'm being completely bare and honest, it was super trending in the facebookinstagrampopulargirlssquare.
And at that point, for all the wrong reasons, I really wanted to trend.
All the cool kids were doing it.
And I was struggling, struggling to find my place in friendships and groups so I followed. If it was good enough for the cool kids, well, it was good enough for me too.

The word I chose was "INTENTIONAL". Which is really laughable when my reasons for choosing it (reread above and picture my eye roll) were so far from it.

Can you guess how well it went?
I failed. Like, big time.
The sad part is I may not have even noticed if someone hadn't pointed out how completely UN-intentional I was treating some tiny people I love.

I sat with that realization for a good bit, chewed on it, let it get under my skin and into the marrow of my bones.

Flash towards the eve of 2017 and the #olw was trending yet again.
This time I was not even close to wanting to roll with any cool kids. I almost nixed the idea of "one little word" altogether but my reasons for that would have been just as impulsive and wrong as the first time around.

I thought about the past year of my life. What had I learned? what had hurt? what had healed? What had I contributed to the building up, or the tearing down, of ALL the relationships surrounding me? Where did I want my efforts to go?

Tough questions require answers brave enough to not just shake hands, but to take my shoes off, trudge through the mud in my bare feet and THEN splash in the streams. I am learning (always always always learning) the best relationships include both. A relationship with depth and life and conversation must be wide enough to hold the sticky mess and the happy clean.
Otherwise it's just a convenience. You don't get one without the other.

guilty. and also, enough of that.

So this year I picked my word with a lot more thought and a whole lot of intention. (It took a year but I finally got the real meaning of that one.)

C U L T I V A T E.

1. to prepare or prepare and use for the raising of crops. also (and I really love this. I mean, really really love this) to loosen or break up the soil

(All the praise hands here. I mean seriously, WHO ELSE prays this alldayeveryday ? Break it up, Jesus. All that rock. All the hard earth clay that is unyielding and useless. Grab a hoe, a rake, a shovel, heck - let's get some jackhammers and make a real mess here. Break it up. Prepare me. Prepare all of me for CROPS. I can practically see all the lettuce heads popping up with people's faces on them. LOVE THESE. WATER THEM.)

2. to foster the growth of
(I mean, YES. this also seems like it should have a "duh" at the end.
Grow.
grow in love. grow in faith. grow in being teachable and let's get some of that forgiveness and grace in there too. Yeah? The people who need grace the most are the ones you don't want to give it to.
The conundrum being - then how will they know what it is???) DUH.

3. to IMPROVE by LABOR, CARE, or STUDY
(Labor. WORK. Cultivating is not automatic. It is not second nature. Maybe not even fourth or fifth.
To cultivate, to love, to foster growth, to care for and to allow yourself to be loosed and broken, requires a whole heck of a lot of work, and don't for a second think that work is like, cracker jack easy.
Oh no.
Grab your antiseptic and some tissues. It's going to hurt at first. You will bleed. You will ask yourself, "holy heck - IS THIS EVEN WORTH IT?"
The answer is YES.
Yes it is.
Then you'll see it. Green. Growth. Buds of life and love and friendship and family pushing through so much you want to weep in thankfulness and joy)

I pray every day God helps me to do this. I know I will not always be successful. I'm human. I get tired and selfish and hurt and I've never made any secrets of how BLACK my heart is.

BUT.

(and this is when the BUT is oh so good)

Jesus loves my black heart. Period. YOU may not love it. I may not love it. But HE does.

And.
He also knows how much this black heart wants to LOVE
and forgive (well, most of the time. some people. I'm still working on this.)
and WRITE
and be free
and laugh
and really just fly itself all the way up to heaven,
singing
at the top
of its lungs.
XO

Everyday People

"I don't have any friends."
She said it drunk. She said it after she laughed so hard she just might pee. She said it after we bonded over pickle juice and whiskey. She said it perched on a stool with laughter coming out of her mouth and sadness making her eyes bright.
They say a drunk never lies.

I knew she meant every single word.

I don't have any friends.

What do you mean, I asked her? Your friends are here.

No. No, these are people I used to know. I don't have any friends now.
I have no one. I'm all alone.

She looked at me, eyes glazed with Christmas red and eyeliner that had given up hours earlier, and asked the same question I have begun to ask myself, "How did this happen?"

And long after we had moved on in conversation, long after I had puked up the trendiest line of shots I've ever done while sitting cross-legged on a bathroom floor, long after we were dropped off at our hotel and I realized I forgot my new beanie in their car, long after more ounces of iced coffee a person should consume in one sitting was drunk in tired desperation, and long after I arrived back home to wash party clothes still clinging to last nights smokes, her words haunted me.

I had no idea a drunken conversation at a Christmas party would stick with me like a shadow. Always at the peripheral, showing itself just enough to let me know, I'm right behind you.

I am almost 40 and I have close to zero friends.

I'm not talking about the life friends that you call if you lose your job, or your husband has an affair, if your mom is dying of cancer, or your kid came home to tell you they are pregnant. We all have these friends, right? When something major starts throwing down on your life, they will suddenly show up,
and shoulder you up.
They will let you cry, and be afraid, and wait for you to settle enough to get in your face with harsh realities and "pull-up-your-big-girl panties-you're-stronger-than-this-shit" lectures, just in time for you to get brave again. Yes.
I have these friends, the Rally-ers. The Charge-ers. The Cheer-ers.
I am grateful for them because guess what folks? These times are coming. They come to all of us.

No. I'm talking about the everyday friend. The one who is there for the ins and the outs of the mundane and the frustrating. The one who meets you for a coffee and a beer.
Preferably at the same time.
The one who calls on a Wednesday to see if you want to get together Friday. The one who doesn't bother to clean their house when you come over because that's just how real it is now. Piles of laundry and dog hair in tufts on the floor be damned. The one you can text while you're at Target to say, "Which doormat? The one with flowers or the bike and flowers?"
The one who sends you a quick text to say, "hey!!! thinking about you. Let's kick some ass today!" The one you can complain to about not getting laid in over a week. The one you can say, "I just don't feel enough today - do you think Jesus is giving up on me?" The one who reminds you Jesus never gives up on you, and hey, neither will I.

Everyday friends are important. Necessary. Breath.

I know. Life has different stretches for all of us. And there's a time and a place for different people as we walk down our roads.
I know. This is true. We grow. We change. I know.

But I also know this is bullshit.
We invite the people we want to walk with us,
and we leave the rest behind.

Have you ever been in the "leave the rest behind" group? (insert hand raised emoji here.)
It sucks ass doesn't it? ( and insert poop emoji here.)

I am so guilty. So guilty of saying, hey! Let's get together soon! And having absolutely no intention of hanging out. In six months. Or maybe even ever.
I'm just being polite. Everyone knows how to play the polite game.

I'm not talking about polite. I'm not talking about acquaintance pleasantries.
I'm talking about people who were your people and now they are not. Or you aren't sure.
Which is almost worse.

And our culture right now makes it so hard to say that, doesn't it?
So hard to say,
I miss you.
Why don't we talk anymore?
What happened?
You're my friend and I need you.

We can't say that. It makes us needy. It makes us high-maintenance. It makes us jealous.

When really, we aren't any of those things. Maybe all we are is sad.

These things can get messy and I'm not trying to get messy. Six months ago, a year ago, it would have been real messy. I'm talking fat-tears and snot-river messy. I'm talking emotions stretched and frazzled and waving white flags with middle fingers while screaming and crying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Why is this happening? I"M SORRY!!!" And you have no idea what you are apologizing for but you just want to make it better and also go away.

Messy.

I'm not messy right now. I am observant. A little bewildered. A lot reflective.

And I am sure I am not the only one.

Here's what I am learning.

I'm doing ok by myself.
Now, we aren't built to be on our own f o r e v e r by any means. Humans are designed for relationship.
But it's good to be alone and work your thoughts and see what you are capable of,
and what you are not.
We all need to know this.

Also, I'm walking in a new way with Jesus. Rather than talking to my everyday friend and then going to Jesus, I am now going to Jesus (or Jeff. I'm not perfect here) and then,
that's it.
There's no everyday friends to bounce it back off of. To clarify. To affirm.
It's Jesus and me. And that can be brutal and beautiful all at once. You know what I mean if you've had to do this. There's a realness in my talk with God. It's so real in fact that sometimes I wonder if I am slipping backwards.
When pretense and "supposed to's" are waved out of the way, when walls are walked around and you're just standing there, all raw and exposed and blinking, it's unsettling. Wobbly.

And in nervousness or conviction or repentance or need,
You get down with the Lord. You let it all hang out because well, there aren't any closets, or any hat racks for that matter. There are only your hands and your heart and you figure what else can you do but open it real wide and just let him see it all?
He's going to keep on loving you or he's a liar.

And also , it's ok to be me.
It's ok to say, "I need this." And it's ok when someone else says, "I can't give that to you."
It's ok to know what makes me feel special and how I like to connect. It's ok when other people are not capable of making that connection.
We all have our own stretch of road.
My fear,
my fear,
my fear though,
is that we will give up too quickly and realize too late,
it was something worth digging for, worth suffering for, worth doing more,
for.

But we'll have told ourselves,
I'm too busy
I'm too hurt
We're too different.

And we'll all become people we used to know.

the sick people

Later, Levi invited Jesus and his disciples to his home as dinner guests, along with many tax collectors and other disreputable sinners. (There were many people of this kind among Jesus’ followers.) But when the teachers of religious law who were Pharisees saw him eating with tax collectors and other sinners, they asked his disciples, “Why does he eat with such scum?”

When Jesus heard this, he told them, “Healthy people don’t need a doctor—sick people do. I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners.”
- Mark 2:15-17

And in two verses, everything I love about Jesus is summed up.
If this were an instagram post I'd have to hashtag it; #dropthemic.

Let's get something clear.
Jesus was a radical badass. He was The MAN. Speaking to the ones everyone else shunned. Healing those that everyone else had forgotten.
He crossed every societal boundary and snubbed every stance of pretension.
He was the ultimate rebel of love.
Jesus took zero craps from anyone pretending to be greater than what they were; extending instead, endless love and bottomless mercy to those the "holy" deemed undeserving.
Jesus was not impressed by the exterior show of purity.
His bullshit detector was on point.
And when he said to love your neighbor, he showed us how. Jesus would have treated everyone with the same hand if they had let him. It's baffling to think the ones that took his hand were the adulterers, the cheaters, the liars, the oppressed, the poor, the cast-out, and the lepers.

I can only assume it is because they knew, just as I know, the last sentence in the verses above, is their truth.

"...but those who know they are sinners."

They knew exactly who they were,
what they lacked,
and their indescribable need for HIM.
Nothing else would satisfy.
All else had been tasted and the soul was left,
wanting.

But we all know. Don't we? When we really get to the push and the shove and the let go of it?
We all know.

I am far, far, far, from anything close to resembling Jesus. The more I get to know HIM, the more I want to hide.
And yet, I also want to run.
To Him
As fast as I can, arms out, hair flying, mouth panting,
JesusJesusJesus.
I want him to swoop me up.
I want him to rain all over me.
I want his light to break apart all the pieces of my dark.
I want his love to pour in and flow out.
I want people to see Him; see Him in me.
I want it to give them hope.
Just like it gave me hope, when I saw Him, for the very first time.

I cannot say it enough.
Oh how he loves. Oh how he loves. Oh how he loves.
Us.

XO

It was a wedding morning

I couldn't believe it when he walked away from me. I inhaled deeply on my smoke and tried to calm down. My emotions jumped around like fleas on a rabid animal. It was hot, right here in the Econo Lodge parking lot. I thought of one thing (flowers), then another (where's my flat iron?), mentally making a list (tissues, cell phone, lip gloss)- don't forget (the flowers!). Remember that(sand).

I took another drag and focused on the blue sky, avoiding leaning on my car, covered in country dust.
I should have smoked hours earlier.
A break was a good idea.
But there wasn't time. There still wasn't. Not really. But if I didn't have this right now, I was going to lose it. I just wanted quiet. For three minutes.
Quiet.
And I desperately needed a hug. The sureness and strength of his arms. That would settle my nerves.

God knows my frantic panic prayers of "help me, sweet Jesus" weren't working.

I glanced behind me and he was still gone.

Dropping the butt to the ground, I stubbed it haphazardly with my toe and grabbed my phone, forcefully pecking out an adolescent text to my struggling husband, with my newly nailed finger.

thanks a lot. you're awesome.

Which, on that day, loosely translated to, "Where. The. Hell. Are. You. Going?"

He came back to me, his eyes frazzled and distracted, looking at my arms full of bouquets, a dress, and a box of converse; and he asked, in a calm I wished I felt, "What can I do?"

The unruffled mother/wife I had envisioned I would be this day, delegating tasks with a generous,sunny smile and a dollop of rainbows, while I walked in serenity through the ceremony chairs, praying , had evaporated about two hours before.
It became painfully obvious to me I had watched way too many Jennifer Lopez movies in the past week.
And I was almost as unholy as Satan himself.

A really great wife would have just answered the question. What could he do?

I wish I could tell you I was a really great wife. I really do.

I did the exact opposite.

Worse than the opposite.

I completely lost my shit.
I stood at the bottom of the concrete stairs, in the hotel parking lot, exposed in the sun and the rawness of my frustration, and I unraveled like a ball of worn-out yarn in the hands of an experienced cat.

Obscenities punctuated obscenities which then turned into questions with obscenities, and ended in declarations and more obscenities.
Clearly, "fuck" had become my favorite word.

When I finally stopped and looked up, a grandmother stood on the stairs, eyes full of understanding and a little bit of pity.
Awkward.
I was caught in a moment rarely seen outside the safety of my own home and my husband's forgiveness.

I wish I could tell you I felt really bad about it.
But I didn't. I felt relief.
I kind of wished I had done it sooner.

He still didn't get it.Not quite. I am guessing all my cursing gave him the hint something was a little off, but he still wasn't sure about the particulars.

And so he asked again.

"Babe. What can I do?"

And then I couldn't speak. The words tumbled through my throat and got stuck with tears. My mouth was quiet but my head screamed.

Do? Do!
I don't want you to do anything. I just want you to be.
Be with me.
Stand next to me.
Let's watch her together.
Our daughter is getting married today.
Can we stop doing for ten minutes and savor it?

Do you get it?
Do you understand?
I'm never going to see her like this again.
I'll never get this day, this moment, that smile, her laugh, the teasing, a glass of champagne from a pink bottle, the flitter of all her friends as they come in and out of her room, in various stages of bridesmaid dress.
This is it .
This is it and I have already missed so much.
I've been gone all morning, making decisions; where to put this and what about that? Can we add something here, take away from there?
Arranging and answering and conversing with people I don't know and may not ever see again.
All I want to do is sit and watch. For just a moment.
Sit.
and watch.
Her.

All the while, her hair is being brushed, curled, sprayed.
Her makeup has been swept across her face, eyeliner penciled on, mascara brushed to her lashes.
I've missed it.
Did she laugh the whole time? Did her eyes light up? Did she get a nervous giggle? Did she and her bridesmaid make a toast? Did she have help putting on her garter belt?
Don't you understand?
She doesn't look like my little girl anymore.
She already looks like someone else,
a bride,
an almost wife,
and I missed it.

Do?
I don't want you to do anything. I want you to be.
Be with me.

I thought of my own wedding day and how terrified I was.

My own mom was not there. She never saw me get giddy in nervousness and laugh with my bridesmaids. She doesn't know we ate donuts that morning. She doesn't know one of my maid-of-honors had to hike up her skirt and readjust her undergarments on the front porch during pictures so the photographer went ahead and snapped that too. She doesn't know my favorite Latina applied my make up while joking about boobs and sex and men, while punctuating every joke with a high-pitched laugh and a "right, Shannon? Right?!" She wasn't there when I got out of the car and made my way to hide in the bedroom. She wasn't there when I walked out with my dad, who was trying so hard not to cry himself, and instead said low, "Let's do this" as we stepped out to Etta James. She wasn't there to see my bridesmaids get too drunk to make a coherent speech and swat at bees.
And she wasn't there to soothe my feelings when my new family made hushed, pointed comments about people "already leaving."
My mom missed it all.

The empty spot of my mother remains.

I will always hold it. It doesn't matter that she's with me now. It doesn't count that I am able to call her today and catch up or meet her for coffee and a walk. Precious times, every single one, but it doesn't make her magically appear in all the other parts.
She will be forever missing from those memories.

And I knew I would be missing from not just some of Bre's, but also some of my own, in order to help create others. In being absent, I was giving her my own gift.

A wedding of her dreams. A wedding to remember.
And it was!
It was perfect and beautiful and lovely.

But standing in the hotel parking lot, with the sun beating down on my head, and an armful of bouquets, and a husband torn between staying at my side and going back to his parents, I did not know yet that was going to happen.
I only knew I needed him and I needed to be with her.
Just be.
For a small moment.

Do? I don't want you to do anything. I don't have a list. There's nothing to be fixed.

Take my hand.
Let's walk up the stairs. Let's sit in the room that's exploded in clothes and makeup and champagne.
Let's watch her with her friends. Let's capture the finishing touches.
Let's be.
Jeff grabbed the flowers. He kissed my forehead.
And that's exactly what we did.

XO

Day 1

I haven't written in much too long. It's crazy because there is CONSTANT flow of consonants and vowels in my head. I'm always thinking, "I should write that down for later." And I never do. Then it's lost.
If you are reading this, thank you. I will never lose sight of what a privilege it is for someone else to read my musings, my struggles, my convictions. I am sure you have 283768394 other things you could be doing right now.
Laundry. Dishes. Yelling at your kids. Grocery shopping. Meal-Prepping?
Picking up your husbands dirt-crusted socks.
Oh wait ... that's all the things I could be doing. ;)
Instead I am writing.
And this is a BIG DEAL, because I always feel torn, like I'm not doing enough, and because writing is such a pleasure, I feel guilty. As if it should be a reward that comes after everything else instead of the THING that makes my heart beat faster, the THING that makes me feel like matter.

I have challenged myself to write every. single day.
Some posts may be very, very short.

Your welcome.

I am going to write about everything. I will warn you now that there may be a lot of things you don't like or agree with.
You may even decide after reading a few posts, you don't like me much at all.
That's ok.
I have this habit of broadcasting all my faults, or unappealing habits quickly, so we can both get it out in the open if I'm not going to live up to your expectations. I learned very young that LOVE was a bargaining tool and so now, when a relationship forms, I prefer to just lay it out. Before we waste too much time or get our lives all invested. I hope you stay but if you have to go, I get it. Really.

So here we go. I am a wife, sometimes not a very good one, and every day I count myself blessed to have the man that I do. I tell people all the time he is the nice one. Sometimes I get a hearty chuckle in response as if I am being coy.
I'm not.
That's straight up truth right there.
I'm a Christian. I love Jesus with everything in me and I think the church I go to is pretty fantastic.
However,
I usually prefer the company of non-Christians.
I find them refreshingly honest and I have to tell you, a whole lot funnier.
I am drawn to the hurting, the abandoned, and the looked-over. They are my people and I remind myself on the daily to never forget that.
I am a mom! Best and hardest thing I have ever done. I wish I could tell you I have been the perfect mother.
I have not.
But what I have done is raise some pretty decent humans who aren't a-holes.
They are kind. They are funny. And they see people.
That makes my heart grow more than anything.
I have a love/hate relationship with anger and confrontation. It was so much easier before I had Jesus and wanted to be more like Him and less like me. I'll tell ya, punching someone in the face puts a situation in perspective really fast but this whole "love your neighbor as yourself" thing has pretty much put a shut-down on all things physical.
And quite a few verbal.
So there's lot of praying instead.
Which is a good thing.

I want to be a good person all the time. I really do. It only gets difficult when other people are involved.
Which says a lot about my heart.
I want it to be white.
But I think it is gray, gray as concrete, with bruises of black, and a smattering of white dots.
This is exponentially whiter than it was before (and by before, I mean a whole lot of tragic crap that I'll probably get into in future posts... I know that any bad can be used for good and there's no way I am letting all that rot go to waste).

I bet you really want to read more now, don't you?
Well, I hope so. I mean that. I hope you read. I hope you comment but more than anything I hope it shines a light in some dark places of your own.
Because we all have heart damage; bruises that go deep.

Some just have white duct tape over it.

Here's to the brave and the hopeful.
We will not be disappointed.
XO

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.

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.

Hope Sent .. The Book

Hello friends,
Can I say first off, thank you so much for reading this! It is my heart. Not the heart in my chest of course. Not the one that pumps blood into my veins, but more importantly, the one that pumps life into my soul. The one that makes life worth breathing. I ask you to please be patient and take your time. I know it looks so long but in the end, worth it. For all of us.

Three years ago, I began Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry with one idea in mind – meeting someone right where they are, in their very own home, with a tangible expression of hope and love. The idea came to me as I sat at my desk at work and chatted with another administrative assistant on the phone. I knew her husband had passed months before and so I asked her how she was doing, how her Christmas was, if she was hanging in there.

I mean, I can’t imagine.

Christmas.

Without my sweet love. Without my comfort. Without the stealer of my covers at night.

My heart skipped when she answered quietly, “I still miss him so bad.”

What do you say? If she had been in front of me I would have hugged her. But she wasn’t and so I couldn’t and I just sat for a moment, speechless.
After we hung up, I got back to work but Alice would not leave my mind and so just minutes later I spun around in my chair and quickly wrote on a yellow sticky note “Send Alice a card”.

My whole life my mom has always been a sender of cards. Cards with confetti. Cards with bows. Cards that sparkled. And always always she wrote so much in them that the words turned sideways and upside down and before long trailed along the backside, a last wave goodbye. I inherited my mom’s love for cards and all they give to the person that opens them. I buy them everywhere. I save them for the right time, the perfect person, a moment of need.
And so began Hope Sent. Not just my words written, but the love of God mixed in, the Giver of Hope, the Bestower of Grace. It’s been almost three years now. And I am touched always by the prayer card requests that continue to come in.

People submit card requests for themselves, for their kids, their fathers, their mothers, their husbands, and their wives.
What do they want prayer for? Life.

The nit and the grit of it.

Deployment. War. Affairs. Drugs. Abuse. Salvation. Loss. Death. Cancer. Divorce. Miscarriage. Abandonment. Suicide. Grief. Incest. Alcohol. Depression. Self-esteem. Hope.
Or rather.
The loss of it.

There are times I cannot speak, I cannot catch my breath enough to get the words out; my heart in a fist.
But this. This is what Jesus came for isn’t it? For the broken and the hopeless. The weak and the forgotten. The lost and the left.
And so I pray. And I write.
And I have faith in God’s promise that is given in Isaiah 55:11,
So shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.

I have always dreamed of being a writer. For as long back as I can remember, I kept journals, wrote poetry, and then began a love affair with essays. It has been an outlet, an escape, an accountability, a diary of hope, longing, future. Dreaming is not an easy thing for me. Most of my life has been spent surviving it ... who has time for dreams when it’s all you can do to pay rent, put food on the table, fold the laundry, and read bedtime stories to your kids?
I tell you.
That’s the perfect time.
My dream? A book. I had a few ideas what this book would be about and I have started many first drafts. But God told me to STOP. WAIT.

Not

quite

yet.

And so I have waited. Sometimes patiently. Sometimes with my foot tapping.
It was driving to pick up my son from school, at the most random of unholy moments, in workout clothes and flip flops, teeth possibly not brushed yet, failing to rock a sloppy topknot, when God spoke to me,

“You should write a Hope Sent book.”

Three years. Three years I have lived Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry. Three years with an abundance of volunteers, and sometimes only one. And not one time, EVER, have I considered a Hope Sent book. So I did what I usually do when God speaks to me… I asked Him if it was really Him,
And then I asked Him why.
Oh. My. Jesus.
You are so patient, patient, suffering long, for us.
For me.
Can I get an AMEN?!?!

Then it came. Thoughts. Not complete. Splatches of it. Here and then

there

and somehow God getting his point across and I just started bawling my eyes.

All of us, so many of us, suffering, and thinking we are so very alone but we are not, we are not alone, not even a little bit. Wouldn’t it just be awesome, I mean, wouldn’t it just be God-Awesome, to read someone else’s prayer, someone else’s pain and struggle and heartbreak, that sounds pretty darn close to yours and then read the prayer that was written over it and laid before the heart of God?!?! To see the words of hope in your hand, highlight them in neon yellow, underline them in blue, and then pray them for yourself? Share it with someone you know?
I think yes.
Yes it would be so very God-Awesome.
And so here we are. Here I am. Ready to write the book.
And you, yes my dear sweet loves, YOU, are going to help.
And we are going to rock the world with love. And hope. And the peace of God.

Together.

HOW IT WORKS
1.Spread the word.
2.Mail in your prayer letter. You don’t have to sign your name or give a real address. You don’t even have to tell me if you’re a boy or a girl or how many times you have turned 29. Be as anonymous as you want to be.
3.Or you can email it. And still be fairly anonymous.
4.Wait.
5.I write the book.
6.Then I ask God how we’re going to publish it. I’m sure He already knows. He also knows a control freak like me is still learning to walk by faith and not by sight.

SOME OTHER STUFF
1.You will not get a Hope Sent card back. This is for the book only.
2.You will not get your prayer letter back either. Sorry.
3.This is not through the church or any organization.
4.You don’t have to go to church to do this.
5.I hope some of you don’t.
6.Let it all hang out. Even if you think it may shock me to the bones, God’s got this.
7.I’m praying for at least 120. Why 120? That’s the number God gave me.

Thank you. I love you. Let’s do this.

EMAIL: hopesentministry@gmail.com
ADDRESS: P.O. Box 3648
Ramona, CA 92065

-----

Some days there is just so much, so much to say
so much being felt.
so much being moved.

That for now, right now. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in five minutes,
but
right now.

Say nothing.

You say it's your birthday ...

A few months ago, in the too-tight back room of Starbucks, after a hectic night of slinging coffee, a co-worker guy asked me, "So, what's your secret? Like, how is it possible to stay happy all the time?"
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.

I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.

My answer was simple. Just three words.

A grateful heart.

He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??

Yes.

Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.

Pretty good stuff.

right?

I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,

I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.

I began to cry.

It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.

And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,

I walked away.

Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.

I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.

Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,

ashamedashamedashamed

he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.

Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.

I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.

Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.

And I am relaxed.

I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.

I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it

or

I can not see it.

My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.

highhighhigh and higher still

I got saved in a Pentecostal church. I know - that sounds very Christian-y doesn't it? What does that even mean?? It means I met Jesus and decided yes, I am a sinner, yes, I need forgiveness, yes, I am going to go ahead and ask him for it, yes, I am going to ask him to change me from the inside out. And I did this in a church where I heard people talk in words that were not words and they sounded like crazies, in a place where people clapped and sometimes shouted "Wooo Jesus!!! Oh my Jesus!" and then danced, in a place where people would shake and fall to the floor and others would walk by and lay a blanket over the legs of the ladies so they wouldn't accidentally show their stuff when they got back up again.

it was weird. and scary. and i used to just watch. i would scan with my eyes and pick out the people i was sure were faking it. at first it would bother me but now i think, so what? So what if they wanted something to happen so much, if they thought they needed it so bad, they cried and flapped their hands and dropped to the floor themselves?

There are worse things.

I would talk to my friends that experienced all this weird stuff and those that didn't. I thought it was cool we could just sit in the same place with Jesus, together.

And then one day it happened to me. I got laid out. I felt this thing, surge through me so hard, my body could not remain still. I cried. This is not unusual. I almost always cry when I worship God. It's my way. But the rest? The rest was not my way.
And i fought it.
There was no way I wanted to fall to the ground. I didn't want someone to walk by and cover me with a sheet. I didn't want anyone to look at me and wonder, is she faking? Is that girl for real?
And then I went down. I laid there, pulsing and shining with .... God. And I didn't care anymore who saw me or what they thought or if i looked awkward laying there or if I sounded like a freak show with all this weird stuff coming out of my mouth. All i knew was I was being immersed in Him. dunked to the core, and I thought to myself - this is what people who get high try to feel. And I'm getting it from God!

And then, a few years later, a lot of bad stuff happened. My life crumbled apart. Not only did I not feel God anymore, but I was pretty convinced He had left me hanging, and so I did what a lot of people do when they feel like God has stopped listening to them.

I tried my hardest to self-destruct.

Some people believe in Karma. I don't think so. Karma says you get what you deserve. And although I believe completely what you put out there comes back around a lot, I also know, mercy and grace beats out what we deserve
every
single
day.

Because most of us are a-holes. Some of us are recovering a-holes and so it only comes out every now and then. Some of us try really hard to beat the a-hole inside of us down and we pushpushpushpush, but eventually it springs back up and punches us, and that other person that knocked on your sleeping a-hole's door and woke her up, in the face. The trick is to look at the inner a-hole - eye to eye. Don't pretend she's not there. Acknowledge her. And then lift her up.
highighhigh higher still.
And just say, "Ok God, I'm not sure why you want this a-hole but I'm giving her to you". And you know what?
This makes God's heart beat faster. He loves this stuff.
The key is to do this
every
single
day

His mercies are new every morning. That's 24 hours peeps. Some of us need new mercies every five minutes. That's cool too. Lift up that a-hole however many times you need to. God never refuses to take more.

So I found myself at church last night. Well, that sounds funny right? I didn't find myself there. I went there purposefully with my husband. There is a conference going on about the moving of the Holy Spirit and we wanted to check it out. My husband is fascinated by healings. I am wary of them. My husband prays in tongues all the time. I do it rarely. He hears stories of people being healed, falling in the spirit, demons coming out, and his face lights up. I hear the same stories and my face closes up.

Obviously we are not on the same page as we walk inside. Honestly. I wasn't even sure why I agreed to go.

Before I continue, some of you are thinking, "oh here she goes. Now she's going to say God laid her out and everything is sunshine and butterflies".

Nope. Just so we're clear.

I love worship. I love the music, all the voices rising together, everyone in one place focused on the same thing - Jesus. It is so beautiful to me. And so I cry.
I'm crying, singing, hands up ... and the worship leader says something about "wanting more from God". You know, believing God has more, desiring to get more, being open to all God wants to do in your life. And i thought to myself,
"When did I stop wanting more?"

And my mouth went a little dry.

And just like i try to give God my a-hole every day, I think it's pretty important to give him all my not very Jesus-like, good religious girl thoughts, as well. And so I lifted it straight up. I mean, He already knows I thought it. I don't really say much when I give it to Him, just toss that sucker in the air.

Worship ends and this visiting preacher starts speaking. I was tense. I expected not to like him. I expected him to rant and rave and shout and flail his arms around, trying his dang-est to convince us all God was going to do miracles last night.

He didn't do that.

He was the opposite. Mellow. Funny. Honest in his short-comings. And I felt myself relax, heard myself laugh, and I thought to myself, "Ok God. I'm listening."

God really likes that. When we listen.

It was towards the end, when I began to get sleepy and my legs were cramping, when my heart was shot. People were standing up and getting prayed for and walking to the front and talking into the microphone about how God had just healed them. Like in that minute, that five minutes. I felt my eyes narrow. I am sure my face said, "Skeptic"! Because I was. And then the preacher said something, said something about a woman being healed who wasn't expecting it and another woman that was healed who was. God does whatever he wants. He can heal. Or not. He can heal those that love him. And those that don't.
He's God. He gets to choose. But if you can, expect. If you are open to it, expect. If you want it, expect. That doesn't mean what you are asking for will happen, but something will. Expect something from God.

I was caught up though, not in the healing or the not healing, I was tangled up in the word "expectation."

I thought of all the things in my life I had expected.
I expected to have a mother that protected me.
I expected to have a father that didn't leave me.
I expected to have a grandfather that didn't take my clothes off.
I expected to have a family that I could count on.
I expected to have a husband that kept his vows.
I expected to have a valentine's day with love and chocolates and flowers.
I expected to have a romantic dinner with conversation.
I expected to have a marriage that didn't fall apart.
I expected to have friends that didn't turn their back on me.
I expected to have a church that would lift me up and help me keep moving forward.

I expected a lot of things. And every single one of these expectations left me feeling ripped apart and shattered. Not one of them came true.

I began to cry a little in the car when Jeff and I left. You see, Jeff's face glowed with expectation. He was like a kid on his birthday, just knowing, something good was going to happen.

I knew my face didn't shine the same way. Or at all. My heart hurt.

I looked at Jeff and said, "How am I supposed to learn... how i can allow myself the luxury of expectations when my whole life has taught me to never expect anything but ... disappointment?" I almost couldn't get the last word out. The raw clutched my throat in a fist.

It was awful. It was beautiful too.

God can do anything. I know this. He can heal us all up ... or he can let us recover slowly. Or sometimes, we don't heal completely or at all, not in our bodies. Not the way we may ask for it.
It's our insides that matter. Our soul stuff.

So I'll take it. The awful and the beautiful and the raw.

I'm going to lift it up
highhighhigh and

higher still

and expect him take it from me.