Words For This Day

My heart raced and I found it difficult to breathe as the mall grew increasingly crowded with strangers. Strangers whose demeanor, appearance and attitudes suggested they walked in darkness.

While frantically planning my escape, everything and everyone in the room stopped–frozen in place.

And I–carried above the scene–looked down to see myself, amid the crowd, encased inside of a protective bubble.  A bubble held in the hand of Christ.

“Fear thou not.” He spoke gently to me. “For I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

The impressions felt during this dream have returned to me often through the years.  I so badly desire to walk with, serve with and love with the boldness offered to me through the words and images given in this vision.

Some years ago, during church service, I expressed this desire to my Father in Heaven.  “I am sorry that I am frightened.” I told Him. “And that anxiety and panic attacks have stopped me from doing Thy work.”

The room fell silent as I was carried away into a realm of perfect love and acceptance.  A place where Christ, who payed to know me intimately, spoke words that made me feel more understood that I have ever felt before.

“You have been wounded.” He said, filling me to such capacity with His love that I couldn’t stop myself from sobbing before Him.

With His perfect love and understanding I felt a new understanding and love toward myself.  Because though I have been wounded, when evil conspired to destroy me at a young age, it cannot change the truth of who I am.

(When triggers come, bringing with them a message that I am broken, lost and defeated. I envision myself as a warrior. The warrior that I know I truly am. Standing steadfast among the rubble as chaos and destruction swirl around me. I am not broken, lost or defeated. Through my Savior, it is an impossibility that simply cannot be.)

I am a child of God. Sent here by Him to do His work.  My wounds will always be a part of me and I will always suffer side-effects, triggers that will throw me off balance from time to time.  But I cannot, I will not, be stopped by them. For my God is with me, holding me in the right hand of His righteousness.

–and He understands.

(Upon completion of the inspiration wall in my kitchen, it made me smile to see that I had inadvertently placed the fun-loving, free falling–representation of who I want to be–crazy lady in the palm of the Savior’s hand. Everything I am, everything I hope to become is made possible through that guiding hand.)

 

Pondering the life and mission of Corrie Ten Boom, I wondered if one such as I would ever be able to walk with her same faith.

I started to express my inability to even envision such a thing but stopped myself, knowing that if I can’t envision it then it will surely never happen.

Instead I asked the Lord to please work His miracles in me that I might one day be a servant such as she.

At the completion of my prayer–and still feeling deeply inadequate–a tap on my Instragram icon brought me this message,

“Okay.”  I surrendered. “This is all I need to know. I will be a patient student under thy tutelage and trust in thy will.”

The peace and light I felt from this confirmation was short lived as the forces of darkness descended upon me, conspiring to make me feel miserable, unworthy, incapable–Depressed!

It is a common tactic. One that has worked to stop me many times before and one that nearly worked again as I contemplated giving up writing and interaction with the human race entirely. But this time it couldn’t work. Not with the knowing I have received from my God.

He told me to write. He showed me the outcome. To give up now would be to deny His word and the power of His promises.

And–

even if it means that I have to scrape myself off of the floor to scribble prose with shaky hands–

to deny Him is something I simply cannot do.

F

Yesterday I heard a story full of intrigue, greed and deception–where lives hung in the balance.  A story in which the tobacco companies–desiring to double their sales–teamed up with Hollywood to make smoking appear attractive for women.

This story–an awakening for me–came at the perfect time as I had just that morning prayed for–as Corrie Ten Boom so eloquently worded it—

“Jesus to lift me out of the vicious circle of ego into the light of His love”

The tobacco story was a reminder for me that I live in a world that will stop at nothing in making me believe that I as a woman am most attractive when I’m “smoking”.

“The main goal of the art style in Ancient Greece was to celebrate humanity.  Often, subjects of sculptures were shown to their full potential and perfection regardless of true form. The average was not shown as much as the ideal.

This depiction of idealism and perfection is still very prominent in not only art but in nearly every form of human representation in society now despite much of it being false representation.”

Today–the hazards of smoking exposed–a new story has been born. A story wrought with such impossibility that I, the protagonist, will never reap the fruits of its demands. This story–heavily depicted in every form of human representation–tells me that growing older is something I simply mustn’t allow myself to do.

It is a story designed to rob me of truth, hope and God-like attributes while–distracting me from the highest light–it leads me on a tireless campaign of selfishness and despair.  With it I will live to leave a legacy of envy instead of Christ-like love.

“In the Republican period, art was produced to depict hard work, age, wisdom, being a community leader and soldier.  Patrons chose to have themselves represented with balding heads, large noses, and extra wrinkles, demonstrating that they had spent their lives working for the Republic as model citizens, flaunting their acquired wisdom with each furrow of the brow.”

Only time will tell–though I wish I was strong enough to predict the ending now–if a sculpture depicting my time here will show the bald head, large nose, extra wrinkles and furrowed brow of a life spent in acts of service, adventure and selfless love or if I will be found sitting alone in the corner, cigarette in hand, while the greatest joys of creation and miraculous gifts from God pass me by.

May Jesus, I pray, lift me out of the vicious circle of ego into the light of His love.

‘Cause you were just too busy being fabulous

Too busy to think about us

Lookin’ for something you’ll never find

You’ll never know what you left behind

‘Cause you were just too busy being fabulous

~Eagles

Twice this summer I have started new books on my Kindle.  Twice I completely immersed myself in them.  Until the darkness they brought into my heart, the thoughts they brought to my mind, and the words they brought to my lips caused me to abandon them both.

Frustrated, I searched for something better, settling on Corrie Ten Boom’s “Tramp for the Lord”.  A book that, in contrast to the others, filled me with light and–as Corrie’s words perfectly describe it,

“…the abundant life in Jesus Christ–the joy, the unspeakable love and peace that passes all understanding.  It was though I was carried by the Holy Spirit through the joyful storehouse of abundance that we possess when we know Jesus.”

While reading this book I am filled with the desire to fall to my knees, rejoicing in the wondrous plan and power of my God.  While reading this book I feel empowered, I feel enlightened, I feel whole.

While reading this book I walk with my Lord.

And in all of this I am left to marvel.  Marvel that the day will surely come when I will again read books devoid of light because their intrigue is simply too great to put them down. 

I’ll harden myself to the unseemly parts in the movies I watch because the good parts are just so good.

And I’ll excuse the suggestive words and meanings in the songs I listen to because their sound energizes me while I clean or drive.

And where my prayers are now filled with fire and the glory of God, with these choices they will again fall flat as–with heavy eyelids–I whisper my standard thank yous and desired blessings before climbing into bed.

It is true that these activities will fill me with temporary joy, but at what cost?

Because though He always, always stands at the door–I fear that the darkness I invite into my heart, the thoughts I introduce to my mind and the words I allow to hover on my lips–will keep me from hearing His knock.

And I need to hear His knock.  Oh how I need to hear it. That I might welcome Him in, walking more fully in His will and being carried “through the joyful storehouse of abundance that we possess when we know Jesus”.

“Trying to do the Lord’s work in your own strength is the most confusing, exhausting and tedious of all work.  But when you are filled with the Holy Spirit, then the ministry of Jesus just flows out of you.” ~Corrie Ten Boom

Throughout my teenage years and on into young adulthood, my parents shared our home with foster children.

Many days brought the excitement of a Christmas morning as we would run into the house after school to find the gift of a new baby waiting to share a piece of our hearts.

Through these babies I learned of the unspeakable horrors of this world, but I also learned the joy that can come through sharing our love and light with others. I loved to snuggle with them, sing to them, make them laugh, and whisper “I love yous” into their tiny ears. I loved making a difference.

It was with that desire, to give love and make a difference, that later–as a young mother of three–I decided to become a foster parent.

I was still young enough to think that I could save the world but–as I would soon find out–too young to know how.

Because after a year and a half of what seemed to be endless hours spent on my knees asking the Lord to direct me on how to help my family and the two precious little boys who had come into our lives and taken my heart,  I found myself–on my birthday–standing in my front yard saying goodbye.

An event that would haunt me to destruction even now were it not for the loving grace of my Savior.

My experience with foster care, and other difficult events in my life, have helped me to understand and cling to the truth that the Atonement of our Savior is our healing balm, the great equalizer.

His grace is sufficient to heal the heart of the mother who–after sobbing at the feet of her children as I prepared to take them home after a visit–still chose drugs over them.

It is sufficient to heal the little boys who–by no fault of their own–had their hearts torn out again and again by those who should have loved them most.

And it is sufficient to heal the one, young enough to think she could save the world, but too young to know how.

I never learned what happened to the two little boys who came into our lives and took my heart.  Fruitless online searches have given me hope that perhaps adoption has changed their names. I pray that it has.

Though I may never get answers in this life, I am strengthened by my unwavering hope in Christ. I find hope in His love, hope in His light and hope in His promise when He tells us that–

“I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.”

He has graven us upon the palms of His hands and I find hope that it is in those loving hands that my two little boys–now grown men–have, and always will, find their refuge.

 

 

 

I took a Spanish class in college.  And though I didn’t retain any Spanish from the experience, what I did receive would prove far more valuable.

Because it was there–in that college Spanish class–that a young man walked past my desk, bringing with him an undeniable message spoken straight to my heart that told me, “You could marry him.”

That assuring voice from God changed the course of my life, and the absolute knowing that it brought to my soul has enriched and protected our marriage these 26 years.

A couple of weeks ago an assuring voice from God spoke again to my heart. This time bringing with it a message of certainty about my writing.

It whispered promises that I can’t even begin to comprehend, but the knowing that it brought to my soul has once again changed the course of my life.

I can no longer entertain thoughts of doubt, fear or insecurity.  I have been told to write and I have been shown the outcome. I don’t know what I must write–My novel? This blog?– I only know that I must write.

So I’ll show up everyday and I’ll do my part, knowing that He–with His infinite power and wisdom–will take care of the rest.

 

Yesterday I woke up to the realization that I was born into a cult.

A cult that has so deeply brainwashed me that–even with my new found clarity–I’m not sure I will ever be able to separate myself from it.

This cult says that outward beauty should be one’s greatest aspiration–and I fear that it is many members strong.

Yes. I’m in deep. And the fact that I even paused to think, as I drove my kids to the library–sans makeup, messy bun, clothes that would land me a spot on the TV show, “What Not to Wear”–that perhaps I shouldn’t be seen in public the way I looked, really ticked me off.

“Why shouldn’t I be seen?” I wanted to yell.  “If I want to look this way who cares?”

Yes…

Who cares?

That’s when reality pierced me. The reality that I’m the one who cares.

I’m the one who carries myself differently, thinks differently, interacts differently… when I don’t feel beautiful.

I am angry with me.

Because, though it may be true that I was born into a cult, it is my thoughts and my thoughts alone that will dictate the bearing this will have on my life.

And if, when you come around the corner to find me–whether I’m all made up or not–the smile on my face and light in my eyes lets you know how beautiful you are to me,

I’ll know that I’m finally getting it right.

I’ve never stopped thinking of you.

I know that–after years of empty promises, cancelled rendezvous and treating you as some sort of dirty secret, a shameful affair–my words probably feel hollow.

But it’s true–you’ve never left my mind.

I wanted to come to you, yesterday when you called.

You didn’t have to say anything. The electrical current that began as a tickle of nausea inside of my stomach, pulsating through me and weakening my defenses–let me know that it was you.

Succumbing to the seductive tease your presence awakened, I planned to sneak away last night–to find you.

To give to you my body–my mind–abandoning my higher thoughts and submitting myself to your demands.

Until, lying in my bed, security placated my passions, squelching them with promises of comfort, ease and a life of certainty.

And now I’m afraid–terrified–that, tiring of my games and refusing to remain in second place, you’ll leave me, giving yourself to another.

Another who–when you call–will risk everything for the intimacy with creation that is found in your embrace.

 

 

 

I awoke to a vision–not a vision of grandeur or of life changing consequence–a vision of a blue typewriter.

“You will find a blue typewriter today.” I was told, as a clear image of it filled my mind.

My plan to fulfill this prophecy by searching thrift stores was quickly interrupted by another thought. “No, you need to go to the Antique Mart in Chandler. You will find it there.”

This seemingly unusual phenomenon is actually quite normal for me. I’ve been lead to many such treasures before.  Leaving me to wonder, just who among my ancestors likes to come for a visit–sharing in one of my favorite pastimes–with insider tips on where to find the good stuff.

I have always known that my ancestors are aware of me. I have felt their presence, I have received their counsel, I have been enveloped in their love and I have been buoyed by their strength.

I honor their time on this earth. They lived extraordinary, beautiful lives and they laid the groundwork for me to do the same. They were here–fingerprints scattered throughout my house remind me of this everyday–and now they want to help me be here.

(Grandma Johnson)

(Grandma Shumway’s china)

(Grandma Rogers’ aprons)

(Grandma and Grandpa Cooper’s cow creamer)

(Grandma and Grandpa Johnson always had lemon drops in their candy dish and now so do I.)

I know that my ancestors feel as the Savior felt when He said,

And now I am no more in the world, but these are in the world,

I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from evil.

This is my time to be in the world and I feel my ancestors cheering me on, pulling for me and doing everything in their power to help me in this my little place in history.

They are invested in my happiness and it’s not hard for me to believe that perhaps one of them–with a little twinkle in the eye–knows how much joy I would find in owning a vintage blue typewriter.

 

To the elderly gentleman I met in the grocery store a little over a year ago–

You didn’t know, when you stopped to talk to me in the produce section, that watermelon is my favorite food group and that–were it but in season year round–it would be the main staple for my existence.

You didn’t know that–in years past–cutting open a carefully chosen watermelon would fill me with trepidation akin to that of opening an envelope of freshly developed, pre-digital prints.

You only knew that you had wisdom to share and the courage to share it.

Since that day I have followed your every instruction, paying special attention to the melon’s weight. “A very heavy melon has a lot of juice.” You told me.  So I search for the heaviest I can lift, hoisting it into my cart with gleeful anticipation.

And since that day every (and I do mean every) watermelon I bring home is glorious!

You didn’t know–when you stopped to talk to me in the produce section–the joy your gift would bring to my life.

You only knew that you had wisdom to share,

And I thank you for sharing it with me.