As I sat praying this morning, the Lord reminded me of something. A time way back when. A time when my children were still small, and we were still young. A time when I wondered--have I made a mistake? Yes, I wondered — for a short time — if I had married the wrong person. Are you shocked? So was I.
You know that portion of Scripture (Phil 2:12) where it says that we work out our own salvation with fear and trembling? Yeah, that one. Only it wasn't my salvation that I was trying hard to work out. It was my husband's. And although he had been raised in a Christian home, I found out after a few years of marriage that he was grappling with his own salvation. He had questions, many questions, and honestly, it scared me to death. What in the world, I wondered, had I gotten myself into? How had I not seen this coming? Was I so totally blinded that I missed this seemingly huge hole? And what about the fact that I thought, no, I had been sure, that I had heard from God about marrying him? He was the one, my true love, my soul mate--but, what about now? What about this? What about his relationship with my God? My heart was breaking as reality was setting in.
It seemed that after almost 10 years of marriage and 3 children later, my husband had come to the conclusion that he wasn't quite as sold on this whole religion stuff (his words) as I was. As he sat there confessing his disillusionment with the church, with God, and with all of religion in general, I sat there with tears spilling down my face, wondering--what now? Just what do I do now?
So what did I do? I prayed. I prayed probably harder during those few months than I had ever prayed in my life. And now that I think about it, I don't know if I've ever prayed as hard since--for several reasons--one being that now, through the trials and tribulations of my life, I have learned to pray and then leave it at the feet of Jesus. At that time, though, I fell completely apart. I had no one to talk to about this new development, and really no one to trust. And two is that I was afraid of being judged and condemned, and also very afraid for my husband. So, praying about it was my only release and also my only solution.
Months passed, and then one day, one of my closest friends called and asked if we wanted to go to a service at a local church that evening. It seemed they were having a guest speaker who was pretty interesting to listen to. I knew my husband would laugh it off and not want to go, but I prayed about it and asked him anyway. And much to my surprise, he said yes. So much for my faith! We all got babysitters, went to dinner first, and then off to the service--all 6 of us. 3 couples in all, 5 witnesses to later be able to share what happened that night. For that night was a night to remember, that's for sure. That night, my husband met God in a way he had never encountered God before.
Really, this is his story. I'll switch modes now and present my viewpoint. One day, he might want to share it in his own words. However, this is what I saw. This is what happened on that fateful night almost 30 years ago.
I was sitting next to a man (my man) with his arms folded tightly across his chest. He had a look on his face that said, "There is no way I will believe anything you have to say." He actually was scowling. And I was embarrassed. So very embarrassed. However, this man of God — preaching, teaching, and sharing the Lord —was looking at my husband the entire time, and the look on his face was one of love; he even smiled a couple of times. In other words, he knew in his heart what was going on in my husband's heart. And after he was done speaking, he looked over at my husband and asked if he could pray for him. After swallowing my heart and wiping the sweat from my brow, I began to pray. Please God, let this man get through to my husband. And surprisingly, my husband said, " Sure, you can pray for me, however, he didn't say it in a very nice way. More embarrassment for me. Much more.
When my husband walked up to the front of that little church, something began to happen. The pastor began to pray for my husband. He never laid a hand on him, he never prayed loudly; all he did was stand there and quietly pray. Minutes ticked by, and he still prayed, and then all of a sudden, my husband's hands reached into the air. Actually, both arms shot into the air like arrows. I almost fainted. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was happening? He then asked me to come up front, too. I went up there, and instead of praying for me, he gently took my hands and began to speak to me softly — saying, "Something new is happening." Your husband is going to begin to grow in Christ, like you've never seen before. His growth will be so rapid that it will shock everyone who knows him. You won't be able to keep up with him. You will have to be very understanding and patient with him. Let him work out this new relationship with the Lord at his own pace. And most of all, be kind.
When the pastor was done praying for us and with us, we walked back to our seats and sat down. I don't know exactly what my husband was thinking, but I can tell you what I was thinking. What the heck just happened? Is my husband a real Christian now? Did he just get saved? Am I dreaming this? Yes, those questions and a million more flitted through my brain faster than a speeding bullet.
That was 30 years ago. And guess what? Everything that happened that night, every word that was spoken, every prayer that was prayed--happened just the way it was told to us. Every single thing.
My husband grew in his new relationship with his God. He began to study the Bible like nothing I had ever seen before. He changed so completely that within 6 months, he was no longer the same person I had married.
And today? Well, today he is in Africa on a mission trip — just him and his God. Ministering to whoever God calls him to minister to. And me? Well, I am home, praying and blogging my heart out. And thanking my God every step of the way. God is good. God is faithful.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Congo Part 2
I'm not used to this. The part where there might be danger. I am used to my husband traveling, however, to Europe, to Asia, to South America, and all over the US. He has traveled for his company all our married life, so I am used to that. But Africa? No. And every so often--I'll admit, my stomach clenches a little when I think that he might be in harm's way. I am not a worrier by nature. I am a warrior by nature. A prayer warrior, an intercessor, a prayer. So I am surprised when, suddenly, out of nowhere, a feeling descends upon me that at times takes my breath away. Emotions wash over me, thoughts invade my brain, and I find myself momentarily paralyzed.
It's over quickly, however, as I immediately begin to pray. My first thought is that God will protect them wherever they are — He is there. I begin to relax, take a deep breath, and am ready for phase 2 — trust. Complete trust that God is in control of this endeavor of theirs. Excitement slowly builds as I realize they are most likely having the time of their lives. They are functioning in their calling. And believe me--there is nothing better. To be walking in complete obedience to God--well, nothing compares to that.
I am so thankful for my friends here. I can feel them praying as I am praying. I know they are praying not only for him and the team but for us who have been left behind. One of my friends actually set up a schedule for people to pray at specific times. Yes, that little team is covered by our prayers.
My husband has been able to keep me up to date periodically. For example, I know that at one airport, they sat on the tarmac for a couple of hours while their plane had to return to the gate twice for mechanical repairs. I know that they barely made their connection in Brussels. He was also able to video chat with me for a couple of minutes on the plane, after landing in their first African city. He and his team had the biggest smiles I've ever seen. They were in their element. They were giddy with excitement — they were in Africa.
I received one more phone call once they were at their destination. They had just finished packing up the caravan of cars with the trunks and goods they had brought from the States when guess what happened? A flat tire! Oh well, that was easily repaired.
We said our goodbyes, again. We said our I love yous, again, and then we hung up. I don't know when I'll hear from him next. So I will pray. And pray. And pray. For him, for his team, and for the people of Africa.
It's over quickly, however, as I immediately begin to pray. My first thought is that God will protect them wherever they are — He is there. I begin to relax, take a deep breath, and am ready for phase 2 — trust. Complete trust that God is in control of this endeavor of theirs. Excitement slowly builds as I realize they are most likely having the time of their lives. They are functioning in their calling. And believe me--there is nothing better. To be walking in complete obedience to God--well, nothing compares to that.
I am so thankful for my friends here. I can feel them praying as I am praying. I know they are praying not only for him and the team but for us who have been left behind. One of my friends actually set up a schedule for people to pray at specific times. Yes, that little team is covered by our prayers.
My husband has been able to keep me up to date periodically. For example, I know that at one airport, they sat on the tarmac for a couple of hours while their plane had to return to the gate twice for mechanical repairs. I know that they barely made their connection in Brussels. He was also able to video chat with me for a couple of minutes on the plane, after landing in their first African city. He and his team had the biggest smiles I've ever seen. They were in their element. They were giddy with excitement — they were in Africa.
I received one more phone call once they were at their destination. They had just finished packing up the caravan of cars with the trunks and goods they had brought from the States when guess what happened? A flat tire! Oh well, that was easily repaired.
We said our goodbyes, again. We said our I love yous, again, and then we hung up. I don't know when I'll hear from him next. So I will pray. And pray. And pray. For him, for his team, and for the people of Africa.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Congo Part 1
I'm not too sure how these new few blogs will develop. I will write about some things that are most likely not very blog-worthy. And yet, they will be important for me to remember. Yes, at some time in the future, I will want to look back on these few pages and reminisce. So, I shall begin with Day 1 of being and feeling utterly and completely alone. No, that's not true, not at all. I am not alone. For my God, my savior has moved me into a little town, a little church, and a little community that takes care of its own. For example, guess how many emails, text messages, invitations, and so on, that I have received? Just guess! I know one thing for sure — I will be so busy these next 2 weeks that I will fall into bed each night, tired and ready to peacefully sleep.
Back to the beginning — I drove my husband and one of his team members to the airport yesterday. I was supposed to be going alone. I knew in my heart, though, that I would cry the minute I dropped my husband off--I knew there would be many tears. Funny, though, how God works--as it turned out, the other wife wanted to ride along. Ride along? Then how would I cry? How would I be sad? It posed a conundrum. I had no choice; I had to be strong. I had to act like I was perfectly fine with the Congo team flying for more than 24 hours, making several flight changes, and landing in a dangerous country — yes, I had to "act" completely OK with that. But was I acting?
Out to the airport, we drove all 4 of us. The guys are talking excitedly about their trip, the women sitting rather silently listening to them, our thoughts running wild. We dropped them off, said our goodbyes, and then headed back home. To live without them for the next 2 weeks. Both of us, it turns out, are used to our traveling husbands — they travel for business. However, we are not used to them traveling to Africa, to danger, and to the poorest of the poor. No, we are not used to that.
When I returned home, I had some cooking to do — fortunately. I was invited over to some friends' house for a lovely barbecue. We ate, we laughed, and I was wonderfully distracted from how badly I missed my husband. Yes, it was a great afternoon with friends. By the time I returned home, I was tired and spent the evening curled up with my dog in front of the TV.
That was day one. I will write more as the trip progresses. Hopefully, our friends and family are praying for this team. I know I am.
Back to the beginning — I drove my husband and one of his team members to the airport yesterday. I was supposed to be going alone. I knew in my heart, though, that I would cry the minute I dropped my husband off--I knew there would be many tears. Funny, though, how God works--as it turned out, the other wife wanted to ride along. Ride along? Then how would I cry? How would I be sad? It posed a conundrum. I had no choice; I had to be strong. I had to act like I was perfectly fine with the Congo team flying for more than 24 hours, making several flight changes, and landing in a dangerous country — yes, I had to "act" completely OK with that. But was I acting?
Out to the airport, we drove all 4 of us. The guys are talking excitedly about their trip, the women sitting rather silently listening to them, our thoughts running wild. We dropped them off, said our goodbyes, and then headed back home. To live without them for the next 2 weeks. Both of us, it turns out, are used to our traveling husbands — they travel for business. However, we are not used to them traveling to Africa, to danger, and to the poorest of the poor. No, we are not used to that.
When I returned home, I had some cooking to do — fortunately. I was invited over to some friends' house for a lovely barbecue. We ate, we laughed, and I was wonderfully distracted from how badly I missed my husband. Yes, it was a great afternoon with friends. By the time I returned home, I was tired and spent the evening curled up with my dog in front of the TV.
That was day one. I will write more as the trip progresses. Hopefully, our friends and family are praying for this team. I know I am.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Humble My Heart
My song to God in prayer this morning--I found myself singing this over and over and decided to write it down...
Oh, hear the cries of my heart, oh my Lord
Oh, hear the prayers of your daughter
My heart cries out for you, oh my God
My heart breaks for your people
Oh, hear their cries, their pleas, oh my God
Oh, heal the hearts of your people
I give you praise because you are my God
My heart belongs to you, oh Lord
O,h hear me, Father, hear my call
Hear the voice of your daughter
Hear my cries and answer all my prayers
Humble my heart before you, oh my God
OH,h please humble my heart before you...
Oh, hear the cries of my heart, oh my Lord
Oh, hear the prayers of your daughter
My heart cries out for you, oh my God
My heart breaks for your people
Oh, hear their cries, their pleas, oh my God
Oh, heal the hearts of your people
I give you praise because you are my God
My heart belongs to you, oh Lord
O,h hear me, Father, hear my call
Hear the voice of your daughter
Hear my cries and answer all my prayers
Humble my heart before you, oh my God
OH,h please humble my heart before you...
Monday, May 20, 2013
Your Time Starts Now
I keep thinking about college testing. Little blue books, number 2 pencils, and silence. I would look up at the clock in the room, divide my time based on how many questions I had to answer, and then, after double-checking the time, it would begin. The professor's voice would speak out--your time starts now. Usually, I would have about 50 minutes to complete the test to the best of my ability. Being an A chaser by nature, I found those 50 minutes, divided equally among my questions, extremely important to me. I had to know — just how long would this test take? How much time did I have?
Which is why I have been thinking of those tests now. You see, the countdown has begun. In a few short days, he leaves. He goes to Africa, to the poorest nation on earth, to a dangerous place, to a place where I am not. So, as I was praying this morning, it hit me. I have so many days left to pray, only so much time left--and my time starts now. I must pray for the Congo team, for my husband, for their safety, for their well-being — emotionally, physically, and spiritually. They will need my prayers. They will need your prayers. For their lives are about to be changed forever.
This is a test — for me, for him, and for them. I am an A chaser, are you? I will pray. My time starts now. Hopefully, prayerfully, yours does too. Our time starts now.
Which is why I have been thinking of those tests now. You see, the countdown has begun. In a few short days, he leaves. He goes to Africa, to the poorest nation on earth, to a dangerous place, to a place where I am not. So, as I was praying this morning, it hit me. I have so many days left to pray, only so much time left--and my time starts now. I must pray for the Congo team, for my husband, for their safety, for their well-being — emotionally, physically, and spiritually. They will need my prayers. They will need your prayers. For their lives are about to be changed forever.
This is a test — for me, for him, and for them. I am an A chaser, are you? I will pray. My time starts now. Hopefully, prayerfully, yours does too. Our time starts now.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Rough Weekend
I rode a roller coaster this past weekend. No, not a real one. Never a real one. An emotional one. That's about as real as I get when it comes to roller coasters. Yes, this weekend was a true ride of emotions for me. It really started on Thursday night. We had our bi-monthly Stephen Ministries meeting. While there, our group leader asked if we might all share just how we came to know Christ. And of course, I cried as I shared just a short, very condensed version of how I came to know Jesus. I left feeling a little spent.
Friday wasn't too bad a day. Oh, who am I kidding? Yes, it was. I had my normal Friday morning coffee with friends. We laughed, we shared, we figured out the world's problems, and then my husband and I met with our attorney. I honestly didn't think this little meeting would bother me. I was wrong. It bothered me — only I didn't know it at the time. We met her to set up a trust. Yep, a "just in case"--you know, just in case one of us kicks the bucket. With my husband leaving for Africa soon, he was eager to get this little appointment over with. We talked about a lot of things that afternoon, sitting there with our new lawyer, discussing houses, cars, jewelry, handbags (hey, don't judge), and other items. Who to leave what to, who should be the trustee--yes, I learned a lot that afternoon, more than I ever wanted to know. We're all set now. If something happens to one of us--we are as ready as we'll ever be. I left feeling a little spent.
Saturday was a fun day. We went to a little town recommended to me by a friend. It was awesome. Quaint little shops full of vintage treasures, and a cute little tea house for lunch to finish off the day. We had fun. I needed that day. A day with my husband--wandering, exploring, daydreaming, planning, coffee, lunch, and memories. I think I was storing up. For what? I don't know yet. I left feeling a little spent.
When Sunday morning rolled around, I was done. It was Mother's Day. Can I admit something here? I kind of hate Mother's Day. I have for the last couple of years, anyway. You know how I am by now. Honest. Especially with my thoughts and feelings. I am not a fan of Mother's Day. I no longer live in the same city as my mother or my children. So, for me, the day is a complete bust. I wake up depressed and have to do a ton of praying to even get motivated enough to get ready for church. However, being the tough cookie that I am, I do it. I suck it up, and I go. And, after a bit, just standing in the presence of my God and worshipping, I relax.
My husband always takes good care of me. He knows how these holidays affect me when I'm not with my kids, so he pampers me. He took me to lunch, and then when we got home, we went for a bike ride. Not just any bike ride. Nope, this one was quite special. Why? Well, let me tell you why. This year, for Mother's Day, my husband turned my cute little teal-colored Dutch bike into an electric bike. He bought a new wheel with a motor for the back tire, along with a battery pack. It's awesome. He did all the work himself and spent hours working on it several nights a week. It can go for about 25 miles on a charge. It just purrs right along with barely a whisper. We decided to ride to our little downtown, we stopped for coffee and did a little shopping, and then motored on home. He was "a huffin and a puffin" while I motored on by--not the least bit sweaty. I hate sweat, by the way. So for me to get home feeling not one bit sore or tired or sweaty was nice, very nice. He had spent weeks working on that cute little bike of mine. It was my mother's gift for Mother's Day. He knew it would be a hard day for me, without my children. So, he turned it all around and put a huge smile on my face. We had fun. Still, after the long day of trying hard to not think about Mother's Day--I left our little downtown feeling a little spent.
Yes, this was a rough weekend for me. I miss my kids. I miss my mom. I miss my grandchildren. However, I am very thankful for an understanding, patient God and a kind, loving husband. I am glad that Mother's Day is over. I don't have to think about it for another year. I can now relax and move forward. I can ride my bike, look at my cards and flowers, and live a thankful, grateful, fearless life — no longer spent. I woke up this morning feeling fine, looking forward to the day — lunch with a new friend, dinner later with my husband. Yes, glad that this weekend is over, glad that a new year is ahead of me.
Friday wasn't too bad a day. Oh, who am I kidding? Yes, it was. I had my normal Friday morning coffee with friends. We laughed, we shared, we figured out the world's problems, and then my husband and I met with our attorney. I honestly didn't think this little meeting would bother me. I was wrong. It bothered me — only I didn't know it at the time. We met her to set up a trust. Yep, a "just in case"--you know, just in case one of us kicks the bucket. With my husband leaving for Africa soon, he was eager to get this little appointment over with. We talked about a lot of things that afternoon, sitting there with our new lawyer, discussing houses, cars, jewelry, handbags (hey, don't judge), and other items. Who to leave what to, who should be the trustee--yes, I learned a lot that afternoon, more than I ever wanted to know. We're all set now. If something happens to one of us--we are as ready as we'll ever be. I left feeling a little spent.
Saturday was a fun day. We went to a little town recommended to me by a friend. It was awesome. Quaint little shops full of vintage treasures, and a cute little tea house for lunch to finish off the day. We had fun. I needed that day. A day with my husband--wandering, exploring, daydreaming, planning, coffee, lunch, and memories. I think I was storing up. For what? I don't know yet. I left feeling a little spent.
When Sunday morning rolled around, I was done. It was Mother's Day. Can I admit something here? I kind of hate Mother's Day. I have for the last couple of years, anyway. You know how I am by now. Honest. Especially with my thoughts and feelings. I am not a fan of Mother's Day. I no longer live in the same city as my mother or my children. So, for me, the day is a complete bust. I wake up depressed and have to do a ton of praying to even get motivated enough to get ready for church. However, being the tough cookie that I am, I do it. I suck it up, and I go. And, after a bit, just standing in the presence of my God and worshipping, I relax.
My husband always takes good care of me. He knows how these holidays affect me when I'm not with my kids, so he pampers me. He took me to lunch, and then when we got home, we went for a bike ride. Not just any bike ride. Nope, this one was quite special. Why? Well, let me tell you why. This year, for Mother's Day, my husband turned my cute little teal-colored Dutch bike into an electric bike. He bought a new wheel with a motor for the back tire, along with a battery pack. It's awesome. He did all the work himself and spent hours working on it several nights a week. It can go for about 25 miles on a charge. It just purrs right along with barely a whisper. We decided to ride to our little downtown, we stopped for coffee and did a little shopping, and then motored on home. He was "a huffin and a puffin" while I motored on by--not the least bit sweaty. I hate sweat, by the way. So for me to get home feeling not one bit sore or tired or sweaty was nice, very nice. He had spent weeks working on that cute little bike of mine. It was my mother's gift for Mother's Day. He knew it would be a hard day for me, without my children. So, he turned it all around and put a huge smile on my face. We had fun. Still, after the long day of trying hard to not think about Mother's Day--I left our little downtown feeling a little spent.
Yes, this was a rough weekend for me. I miss my kids. I miss my mom. I miss my grandchildren. However, I am very thankful for an understanding, patient God and a kind, loving husband. I am glad that Mother's Day is over. I don't have to think about it for another year. I can now relax and move forward. I can ride my bike, look at my cards and flowers, and live a thankful, grateful, fearless life — no longer spent. I woke up this morning feeling fine, looking forward to the day — lunch with a new friend, dinner later with my husband. Yes, glad that this weekend is over, glad that a new year is ahead of me.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Saturday's Breakfast
It wasn't an ordinary Saturday, that's for sure. Anything but. Admittedly, I was a little nervous. I get that way when I am about to meet new people. Believe it or not, I am a bit of an introvert. Stop laughing, it's the truth. I'm shy, kind of. Anyway, we had plans: a 9:00 AM breakfast with my husband, 2 other couples involved with his Congo trip, and 2 couples who were retired missionaries. I really didn't know what to expect. How old were these people anyway? Were they going to be boring, tell scary stories, or talk my husband into moving to Africa? Seriously, all these questions and much more flitted through my mind as we drove into the city. That's what we locals call Chicago--those of us in the suburbs, we're cool like that.
We got there early. I am phobic about being late. Most likely because my husband is the exact opposite. He'll be late to his own funeral. Really, I promise you! So there we were, 1/2 hour early, we parked the car and then saw that our friends had arrived early too. They were there to put our names in for a huge table of 10. We had time to kill while waiting for the others, so my friend thought it might be a good idea to give me a tour of Northpark University — for some reason, she thinks I might be attending seminary there in the near future. The campus just happened to be right across the street from the restaurant. Interesting how that worked out! I instantly fell in love with the quaint campus, its old brick buildings, and warm, fuzzy atmosphere. Ugg. I did not want to like it there. No, I kind of didn't like it there. More on that later, though. This is about the missionaries. Just remember this part about the university for later updates. We'll see, yes, we will see.
When we had all arrived, we were escorted upstairs to a large table where we could sit, get to know each other, and have breakfast. First off, let me tell you, it was the cutest little Swedish restaurant, with 2 stories and also an outdoor patio. Next time I'm eating out there! There was also a Starbucks down the street. And as much as I wanted to head straight there--I knew there would be plenty of time for that later--down the road--as in, another time when I might be attending seminary. Oh brother.
We decided to split up — men on one end, women on the other. I was much more interested in hearing about the good, the bad, and the ugly of visiting an African village than hearing about water treatment facilities. Hey, just being honest here. So there I was, sitting at the table with 2 women from my church who had volunteered to go on this trip, and 2 women who had volunteered not only to go, but to live in Africa. And not on a short-term basis either. One had lived there for over 40 years, raised her children there, and would go back in a heartbeat. The other had lived there for over 30 years, had arrived in Africa with a 4-week-old baby in her arms, and wanted to go back too! It was then that God began to speak to me. Quietly, oh so softly.
I had a hard time that morning. I wanted to cry the entire time. My emotions were on the verge of spilling down my cheeks. However, I held it together. After all, I was not even going on the trip. My husband and my friends were going. I sat and listened to story after story and asked questions I thought would be relevant to my friend's trip. I smiled and nodded and talked, and I listened and found myself praying for them. Praying and thanking God.
At one point during that breakfast, more towards the end of our time together, I happened to look towards the men's end of the table. I could not see my husband because we were sitting on the same side. However, as I watched the men interact, something occurred to me--one day we will be sitting here, talking and sharing our adventures with the next group of willing volunteers. It was then that I had to swallow a huge lump in my throat. I realized that my husband's future and possibly mine would hold many stories to share with others. 20 years from now, I will not be surprised if we are sitting in this same little restaurant across the street from the seminary (that I might or might not be attending) and telling the tales of our adventures. Yes, God was present that morning, and I could feel Him there. Smiling, looking down on us, and He was saying--well done. Yes, well done to those missionaries who had given all to go where God had called them.
I'm going to step out here and sound a little melodramatic--but I want you to know that I sat with royalty that morning. I was humbled as I listened to their stories. Some were scary, some heart-wrenching, some very, very funny. I felt honored. I got to sit at the table. The table with those who walked before me. Who fought the good fight. Who ran the race with all their might? There is no way that I could ever fill their shoes. But, you know what? I just might try. I just might do something that is so far out of my comfort zone--I might surprise even myself, and certainly those around me. God is moving, God is shaking, God is calling us. All of us. Now is the time. Go have breakfast. On a Saturday. With a missionary. It will change your life.
Time for breakfast
Missionaries to Africa
All of them!
We got there early. I am phobic about being late. Most likely because my husband is the exact opposite. He'll be late to his own funeral. Really, I promise you! So there we were, 1/2 hour early, we parked the car and then saw that our friends had arrived early too. They were there to put our names in for a huge table of 10. We had time to kill while waiting for the others, so my friend thought it might be a good idea to give me a tour of Northpark University — for some reason, she thinks I might be attending seminary there in the near future. The campus just happened to be right across the street from the restaurant. Interesting how that worked out! I instantly fell in love with the quaint campus, its old brick buildings, and warm, fuzzy atmosphere. Ugg. I did not want to like it there. No, I kind of didn't like it there. More on that later, though. This is about the missionaries. Just remember this part about the university for later updates. We'll see, yes, we will see.
When we had all arrived, we were escorted upstairs to a large table where we could sit, get to know each other, and have breakfast. First off, let me tell you, it was the cutest little Swedish restaurant, with 2 stories and also an outdoor patio. Next time I'm eating out there! There was also a Starbucks down the street. And as much as I wanted to head straight there--I knew there would be plenty of time for that later--down the road--as in, another time when I might be attending seminary. Oh brother.
We decided to split up — men on one end, women on the other. I was much more interested in hearing about the good, the bad, and the ugly of visiting an African village than hearing about water treatment facilities. Hey, just being honest here. So there I was, sitting at the table with 2 women from my church who had volunteered to go on this trip, and 2 women who had volunteered not only to go, but to live in Africa. And not on a short-term basis either. One had lived there for over 40 years, raised her children there, and would go back in a heartbeat. The other had lived there for over 30 years, had arrived in Africa with a 4-week-old baby in her arms, and wanted to go back too! It was then that God began to speak to me. Quietly, oh so softly.
I had a hard time that morning. I wanted to cry the entire time. My emotions were on the verge of spilling down my cheeks. However, I held it together. After all, I was not even going on the trip. My husband and my friends were going. I sat and listened to story after story and asked questions I thought would be relevant to my friend's trip. I smiled and nodded and talked, and I listened and found myself praying for them. Praying and thanking God.
At one point during that breakfast, more towards the end of our time together, I happened to look towards the men's end of the table. I could not see my husband because we were sitting on the same side. However, as I watched the men interact, something occurred to me--one day we will be sitting here, talking and sharing our adventures with the next group of willing volunteers. It was then that I had to swallow a huge lump in my throat. I realized that my husband's future and possibly mine would hold many stories to share with others. 20 years from now, I will not be surprised if we are sitting in this same little restaurant across the street from the seminary (that I might or might not be attending) and telling the tales of our adventures. Yes, God was present that morning, and I could feel Him there. Smiling, looking down on us, and He was saying--well done. Yes, well done to those missionaries who had given all to go where God had called them.
I'm going to step out here and sound a little melodramatic--but I want you to know that I sat with royalty that morning. I was humbled as I listened to their stories. Some were scary, some heart-wrenching, some very, very funny. I felt honored. I got to sit at the table. The table with those who walked before me. Who fought the good fight. Who ran the race with all their might? There is no way that I could ever fill their shoes. But, you know what? I just might try. I just might do something that is so far out of my comfort zone--I might surprise even myself, and certainly those around me. God is moving, God is shaking, God is calling us. All of us. Now is the time. Go have breakfast. On a Saturday. With a missionary. It will change your life.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Striking the Match
I wanted to read today. It's raining out, drizzly and cold, gray and wet. It's a good day to sit by the fire with a good book. And yet...God is speaking to me. He is reminding me of my calling. One that I rarely talk about but am constantly reminded of. All my life, I have felt it. That strike. Imagine a match, slowly (or sometimes quickly) being laid across a portion of sandpaper and igniting. That's how I feel. From the time I first met Him. From the time I was a small girl. I have felt that fire burning deep down in my soul. A burning, a longing, a yearning for my God, my Father, my everything. From the very first time I encountered Him, I knew that I would put Him above all others. I would do anything, go anywhere, serve, love, pray, honor, and worship Him all the days of my life.
And now all these years later, as I pray, as I seek, as I worship--another match has been struck. I can feel it. A new thing, a new word, a new passion--fresh, exciting, and wonderful. It's hard to explain, to put down on paper, to share with those who've never had this experience, and yet--I feel I must. This longing I feel to serve my almighty Father must be shared with others. This burning, this longing, this life of prayer that is accessible for all who follow Him. For all who believe, serve, trust, and put their lives fully into His hands--a match is being struck.
I wonder — can you feel it? That match? Is he asking you — can I strike that same match in your heart, too?
It is hard for me sometimes, walking around with this passion of mine, burning so deeply, wanting desperately to shout out--can't you feel it? I know that some can and do. I hear it in their voices, their songs, and their prayers. As we cry out to God--heal our land, humble us, and make us more like you-- we want to know you more, serve you more, worship you more, pray more--more of you, oh God, and less of us. That is our prayer. Yes, it is hard for me sometimes--this prophetic heart of mine cries out to Him and asks Him to forgive me, to humble me, to hear me as I pray.
Last week, this is what came out of my heart--a prayer to my God, my Savior, my Father--a prayer for all to know that He is whom I choose, over all others--
Do you know — if I had to choose, I would not choose you. I would choose Him every time. I wonder what you'd think if you knew, every time I'd pick Him over you. And as the song says — you can have all this world, just give me Jesus.
There isn't any person, living or dead, whom I love more than God. He is my everything. He is my life. The match has been struck. Today, instead of reading by the fire, I have spent the day praying. Ready, waiting, willing. What's next, God? What is next?
And now all these years later, as I pray, as I seek, as I worship--another match has been struck. I can feel it. A new thing, a new word, a new passion--fresh, exciting, and wonderful. It's hard to explain, to put down on paper, to share with those who've never had this experience, and yet--I feel I must. This longing I feel to serve my almighty Father must be shared with others. This burning, this longing, this life of prayer that is accessible for all who follow Him. For all who believe, serve, trust, and put their lives fully into His hands--a match is being struck.
I wonder — can you feel it? That match? Is he asking you — can I strike that same match in your heart, too?
It is hard for me sometimes, walking around with this passion of mine, burning so deeply, wanting desperately to shout out--can't you feel it? I know that some can and do. I hear it in their voices, their songs, and their prayers. As we cry out to God--heal our land, humble us, and make us more like you-- we want to know you more, serve you more, worship you more, pray more--more of you, oh God, and less of us. That is our prayer. Yes, it is hard for me sometimes--this prophetic heart of mine cries out to Him and asks Him to forgive me, to humble me, to hear me as I pray.
Last week, this is what came out of my heart--a prayer to my God, my Savior, my Father--a prayer for all to know that He is whom I choose, over all others--
Do you know — if I had to choose, I would not choose you. I would choose Him every time. I wonder what you'd think if you knew, every time I'd pick Him over you. And as the song says — you can have all this world, just give me Jesus.
There isn't any person, living or dead, whom I love more than God. He is my everything. He is my life. The match has been struck. Today, instead of reading by the fire, I have spent the day praying. Ready, waiting, willing. What's next, God? What is next?
Monday, April 8, 2013
Ministers and Africans
What a funny title. And yet, really, there is no other title that I can use. For this was the weekend I became a Stephen Minister, and also the weekend the Congo team (of which my husband is a part) held their fundraising lunch at church.
It began at 5:45 on Friday evening. As I drove to my last weekend of training for Stephen Ministries, I found myself getting a little emotional. I wondered if, after this weekend, things would be different. There are (were) 12 of us in training. We've become rather close over these last 4 months. We've had meals together, role-played, laughed, cried, shared stories, and asked questions. We have become a team. A team of willing followers of Christ, who are ready to listen, share, and minister to those whom God brings into our lives. We do not take this lightly. We're concerned we may fail the very ones we seek to help. However, I believe that our hearts are right before God. And I also believe that He will use us in a mighty way.
And so, after another long day on Saturday of our last 8 1/2 hours of training, with tears in our eyes, we said our goodbyes. Until Sunday morning, that was. However, my day did not end at 5:00 that Saturday. No, my day was to continue on for a few more hours. My husband needed me. He was setting up for a huge lunch to be held the next day after church. The entire congregation (all 200 of us) was invited. Three African families (from our church body) had volunteered to cook all the foods from their native countries, and all we (the team and their willing and very hard-working spouses) had to do was set up tables and chop, chop, chop. Late that afternoon, I walked into our little church kitchen and rolled up my sleeves. With a headache, sore feet, and an aching back, I began to chop cabbage. Some of you know me--I am a type A personality and quite the crazy person. I am organized and fast. I see the job/problem, and I get the job done.
It began at 5:45 on Friday evening. As I drove to my last weekend of training for Stephen Ministries, I found myself getting a little emotional. I wondered if, after this weekend, things would be different. There are (were) 12 of us in training. We've become rather close over these last 4 months. We've had meals together, role-played, laughed, cried, shared stories, and asked questions. We have become a team. A team of willing followers of Christ, who are ready to listen, share, and minister to those whom God brings into our lives. We do not take this lightly. We're concerned we may fail the very ones we seek to help. However, I believe that our hearts are right before God. And I also believe that He will use us in a mighty way.
And so, after another long day on Saturday of our last 8 1/2 hours of training, with tears in our eyes, we said our goodbyes. Until Sunday morning, that was. However, my day did not end at 5:00 that Saturday. No, my day was to continue on for a few more hours. My husband needed me. He was setting up for a huge lunch to be held the next day after church. The entire congregation (all 200 of us) was invited. Three African families (from our church body) had volunteered to cook all the foods from their native countries, and all we (the team and their willing and very hard-working spouses) had to do was set up tables and chop, chop, chop. Late that afternoon, I walked into our little church kitchen and rolled up my sleeves. With a headache, sore feet, and an aching back, I began to chop cabbage. Some of you know me--I am a type A personality and quite the crazy person. I am organized and fast. I see the job/problem, and I get the job done.
Chop, chop. However, that is not the African way — as was so kindly pointed out to me. No, their way is to visit, to talk, to slice, and with every slice/chop, a prayer is said for the person who will be eating that dish. What? Slice and pray? Why will that take hours! My brain almost exploded. I remained calm, though — OK, calm for me. And I sliced and chopped and talked until I thought my back would break from standing and talking and slicing and chopping; however, I learned about Africa and its ways of doing things. And I made new friends. I did it for my husband, his team, and my new African friends. And I tried hard not to think about my food processor sitting in my pantry at home. Really, I did try.
Later that night as we sat at dinner with friends (a very late dinner I might add) we laughed at my naivety. And the next day, I'm glad that we had that laugh. But first, back to Stephen Ministries.
When I got to church Sunday morning, all ready to be commissioned as a trained Stephen Minister, I noticed that I was nervous. I began to pray that God would calm my anxiety. I wanted to really enjoy the service. And He did calm me down, a calmness settled over me, and I was fine, I didn't even cry as our pastor prayed over us. It was a solemn and somewhat formal service. A reminder of the seriousness of what we are about to undertake, it was wonderful.
Right after the sermon, I scooted out to help my husband with the lunch. The tables were all set, the decorations were in place, the African women were setting out the food, the men were grilling, and there was loads of excitement in the air. I wondered and prayed the entire time — how much in donations for this mission trip, this team of 3 — how much would they collect today?
The lunch was fabulous — if I do say so myself. For one thing, the food smelled amazing. I can't pronounce, let alone spell, the many dishes those 3 families prepared, but let me tell you something — they were delicious. There was rice, beans, chicken, and goat. Yes, I just said goat. There were soups and salads, and all types of beautiful fruits. At each table, we set out bookmarks to remind others to pray for this team. During lunch, a video was played, and afterward, the 3 team members spoke concerning their calling to the Congo. I don't know about the others in the room, but my eyes did not remain dry.
After lunch and after everyone had gone home, several of us stayed to clean up. And do you think for one minute that those 3 families from Africa, who worked all week cooking for the Congo team, left and went home? No, they did not. There they were--cleaning, washing dishes, pots, and pans, and making up plates of leftover food for others to take home. They were scrubbing counters and floors, and all the while--just as they do while chopping and slicing--they were talking, visiting, and smiling. I can't help it--I love them. Those sweet ladies whom I now call my friends. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have taught me, through all this, how to relax, enjoy, and savor friendship.
When I got home later that afternoon, I sat down in my chair and cried. I cried the bottled-up tears of a new Stephen Minister. I cried the bottled-up tears of a wife whose husband is about to go on the most exciting mission trip ever. And I thanked God for blessing us with awesome friends — who've donated time, money, skills, and prayer — so that my husband and I could be blessed by God.
It is only April. And already this is the best year of my life. I have seen God work in miraculous ways before, so this is not new to me. However, in saying that — please understand — we've only been going to this little church of ours for about one year now. And yet they have accepted us into their church family, into their hearts, and into their lives. We are two very grateful and thankful people. Yes, this new Stephen Minister, and this man bound for Congo--we are overwhelmed by the goodness of our God. Thank you for praying...
Later that night as we sat at dinner with friends (a very late dinner I might add) we laughed at my naivety. And the next day, I'm glad that we had that laugh. But first, back to Stephen Ministries.
When I got to church Sunday morning, all ready to be commissioned as a trained Stephen Minister, I noticed that I was nervous. I began to pray that God would calm my anxiety. I wanted to really enjoy the service. And He did calm me down, a calmness settled over me, and I was fine, I didn't even cry as our pastor prayed over us. It was a solemn and somewhat formal service. A reminder of the seriousness of what we are about to undertake, it was wonderful.
Right after the sermon, I scooted out to help my husband with the lunch. The tables were all set, the decorations were in place, the African women were setting out the food, the men were grilling, and there was loads of excitement in the air. I wondered and prayed the entire time — how much in donations for this mission trip, this team of 3 — how much would they collect today?
The lunch was fabulous — if I do say so myself. For one thing, the food smelled amazing. I can't pronounce, let alone spell, the many dishes those 3 families prepared, but let me tell you something — they were delicious. There was rice, beans, chicken, and goat. Yes, I just said goat. There were soups and salads, and all types of beautiful fruits. At each table, we set out bookmarks to remind others to pray for this team. During lunch, a video was played, and afterward, the 3 team members spoke concerning their calling to the Congo. I don't know about the others in the room, but my eyes did not remain dry.
After lunch and after everyone had gone home, several of us stayed to clean up. And do you think for one minute that those 3 families from Africa, who worked all week cooking for the Congo team, left and went home? No, they did not. There they were--cleaning, washing dishes, pots, and pans, and making up plates of leftover food for others to take home. They were scrubbing counters and floors, and all the while--just as they do while chopping and slicing--they were talking, visiting, and smiling. I can't help it--I love them. Those sweet ladies whom I now call my friends. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have taught me, through all this, how to relax, enjoy, and savor friendship.
When I got home later that afternoon, I sat down in my chair and cried. I cried the bottled-up tears of a new Stephen Minister. I cried the bottled-up tears of a wife whose husband is about to go on the most exciting mission trip ever. And I thanked God for blessing us with awesome friends — who've donated time, money, skills, and prayer — so that my husband and I could be blessed by God.
It is only April. And already this is the best year of my life. I have seen God work in miraculous ways before, so this is not new to me. However, in saying that — please understand — we've only been going to this little church of ours for about one year now. And yet they have accepted us into their church family, into their hearts, and into their lives. We are two very grateful and thankful people. Yes, this new Stephen Minister, and this man bound for Congo--we are overwhelmed by the goodness of our God. Thank you for praying...
 |
| These are the 3 that did all the wonderful cooking! |
 |
| African lunch |
 |
| We had a lot of food! |
 |
| Thank you for all your hard work! |
 |
| Time to eat! |
 |
| Explanation of food... |
 |
| The grill masters! |
 |
| Thank you to all who came! |
 |
| Sharing about the Congo... |
 |
| And the call on their hearts... |
 |
| Stephen Ministers are being commissioned. |
 |
| And a prayer over our service to our God. |
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Humbleness
My husband made a comment to me last night. I'm going to share it here, without permission. You know what they say--better to ask for forgiveness. If I thought he'd be upset, though, I wouldn't share it, don't worry. So anyway, the comment--he said, I've never felt so humbled in my life.
Let me explain what is going on. Since this little story affects both of us, I am taking the liberty to share. I guess I'll find out what he thinks later. We belong to a local Covenant church, and my husband is preparing to go to the Congo with several others from our denomination. They have had a presence in the Congo for 75 years now. Taking and shipping medical supplies and food goods, and investing financially. And now our denomination is working with World Vision under the name Covenant Congo Kids. I am very proud of my little church; we are small but mighty. A congregation of a little over 200, and yet we support 71 children in the Congo. We are committed financially to send money monthly until they reach the age of 18. We send small gifts throughout the year and pray for them every day. We take this commitment very seriously.
An opportunity came up in our church a few weeks ago. Our congregation was asked if there might be a few people with the heart and passion to join a team and visit the Congo; they would also get to meet the children we support and work alongside other missionaries — doing, caring, and giving as much as possible. The minute the announcement was made, I knew that if there had been a show of hands, my husband's would have been the first to shoot up. I knew that I knew he was going to the Congo. I wonder now if I knew it even before he did. When we got into our car after church, I patiently waited as he gathered his thoughts. He then faced me and said, "I want to go." God is calling me to go. All I could do was look at him, and with tears streaming down both our faces, I said--I know.
He leaves in a few short weeks. He has been preparing like a crazy person. He'll only be gone for 2 weeks; however, with his passion, heart, and intensity, one might think he was moving there for good! He watches videos, reads books, and talks to others who've been. He talks incessantly about his trip to anyone who will listen. And he cries, he tears up, and is greatly moved by anything Congo-related. I've never seen him like this before, and we have been a couple for 41 years. This, my friends, is life-changing. And he hasn't even left yet.
Now, for the first time in his life, my husband has had to ask for help. Normally, he's the one helping out. Whether it be financial, good ol' hard labor, or praying for others--whatever someone needs, he's one of the first to volunteer. That's just how he is. This time around, though, he's not supposed to rely on himself. He's supposed to itinerate. You know--ask for money. And then, he's supposed to pray and trust God that the money will come in and that his trip will be provided for through our church congregation and other donations. I know him. He'd rather pay for this trip on his own. He'd rather not impose on anyone. However, the truth is this — if we had to pay for it ourselves, he wouldn't be going. We couldn't swing it right now — the cost is too great. And I believe that this little trip came up at just the right time. A time when our own finances are lean, but we all know that God's finances aren't ever lean, are they?
My husband and the others wrote letters. They are letters detailing the plans for the trip, sharing their hearts and reasons for wanting to go, and, lastly, asking for support — financially and in prayer. This was a very hard thing for my husband to do — but oh, what growth! I wish you could be here to see it with me. As people commit to supporting his team, tears fall down his face, and he is humbled by the graciousness of our God. God is making a way for this little team, from this little church, to travel to the Congo.
If you are reading this--please pray for their safety. It is dangerous and scary, especially for those of us who will be waiting at home, praying that they will be brought back safely to us. Pray that they are changed, that they are humbled before their God, and that this would be the first of many more trips to the Congo. This, I know--is my husband's heart.
Let me explain what is going on. Since this little story affects both of us, I am taking the liberty to share. I guess I'll find out what he thinks later. We belong to a local Covenant church, and my husband is preparing to go to the Congo with several others from our denomination. They have had a presence in the Congo for 75 years now. Taking and shipping medical supplies and food goods, and investing financially. And now our denomination is working with World Vision under the name Covenant Congo Kids. I am very proud of my little church; we are small but mighty. A congregation of a little over 200, and yet we support 71 children in the Congo. We are committed financially to send money monthly until they reach the age of 18. We send small gifts throughout the year and pray for them every day. We take this commitment very seriously.
An opportunity came up in our church a few weeks ago. Our congregation was asked if there might be a few people with the heart and passion to join a team and visit the Congo; they would also get to meet the children we support and work alongside other missionaries — doing, caring, and giving as much as possible. The minute the announcement was made, I knew that if there had been a show of hands, my husband's would have been the first to shoot up. I knew that I knew he was going to the Congo. I wonder now if I knew it even before he did. When we got into our car after church, I patiently waited as he gathered his thoughts. He then faced me and said, "I want to go." God is calling me to go. All I could do was look at him, and with tears streaming down both our faces, I said--I know.
He leaves in a few short weeks. He has been preparing like a crazy person. He'll only be gone for 2 weeks; however, with his passion, heart, and intensity, one might think he was moving there for good! He watches videos, reads books, and talks to others who've been. He talks incessantly about his trip to anyone who will listen. And he cries, he tears up, and is greatly moved by anything Congo-related. I've never seen him like this before, and we have been a couple for 41 years. This, my friends, is life-changing. And he hasn't even left yet.
Now, for the first time in his life, my husband has had to ask for help. Normally, he's the one helping out. Whether it be financial, good ol' hard labor, or praying for others--whatever someone needs, he's one of the first to volunteer. That's just how he is. This time around, though, he's not supposed to rely on himself. He's supposed to itinerate. You know--ask for money. And then, he's supposed to pray and trust God that the money will come in and that his trip will be provided for through our church congregation and other donations. I know him. He'd rather pay for this trip on his own. He'd rather not impose on anyone. However, the truth is this — if we had to pay for it ourselves, he wouldn't be going. We couldn't swing it right now — the cost is too great. And I believe that this little trip came up at just the right time. A time when our own finances are lean, but we all know that God's finances aren't ever lean, are they?
My husband and the others wrote letters. They are letters detailing the plans for the trip, sharing their hearts and reasons for wanting to go, and, lastly, asking for support — financially and in prayer. This was a very hard thing for my husband to do — but oh, what growth! I wish you could be here to see it with me. As people commit to supporting his team, tears fall down his face, and he is humbled by the graciousness of our God. God is making a way for this little team, from this little church, to travel to the Congo.
If you are reading this--please pray for their safety. It is dangerous and scary, especially for those of us who will be waiting at home, praying that they will be brought back safely to us. Pray that they are changed, that they are humbled before their God, and that this would be the first of many more trips to the Congo. This, I know--is my husband's heart.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
bloglovin--blog claiming!
I just claimed my blog on bloglovin, blogspot is going away, however, I have laid claim to just about everything ladolceveda--<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/5344285/?claim=kmxbf2kjpdy">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Low Carb Spice Muffins
Oh, my goodness--I've been playing around with low-carb baked everything. And I've come up with a go-to breakfast muffin. I used apple pie spice in this recipe, but you could use pumpkin pie spice, too, I'm sure. Also, you could add some chopped fruit or pureed pumpkin, which, of course, would add more carbs--so it's up to you. Here's my recipe...
1/2 cup flax meal
1/2 cup coconut flour
1 cup almond flour
1/4 t salt
1 T baking powder
1 1/2 t nutmeg
2 t cinnamon
1 t apple pie spice
1 cup Splenda
1 stick (1/2 cup) melted butter
4 beaten eggs
3/4 cup water
Makes 12 muffins
Mix all dry ingredients well, add everything else, and mix well. Fill muffin tin.
I use parchment paper muffin cups — they are amazing to bake with. Bake for about 20 minutes.
Use the toothpick test for doneness.
Eat them up for breakfast or an afternoon snack! PS--they freeze great! Microwave for 30 seconds or so. :)
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Impatiently Patient
Maybe it was a good thing that I didn't have time to delve into my bible study book this past week. Maybe God was protecting my heart. I think so anyway. I believe that about Him. He's always there, always protecting me, always shielding me from experiencing overload or too much pain at one time. There was something in that particular study that He wanted me to learn, alright, but the timing of it had to be just perfect. I had barely cracked open my book when my phone rang.
It was one of those scary calls. My mom was in the hospital and in serious condition. Fortunately, I didn't have anything really important on my calendar, so as I waited by the phone for more information on her prognosis, I prayed--all day. I'm going to step out on a ledge a little bit here. I hope my sister reads this blog post and understands why I am sharing this little story. It really isn't about her at all, but more about what God has taught me about myself in these last couple of days.
As my sister explained the details about our mother to me over the phone, she kept bugging me. She used profanity, spoke disrespectfully, and misunderstood some of my most basic questions. In my opinion, we did not have a good conversation. So the next day, when we spoke on the phone again, I let her know what my phone boundaries were. I think she was a little shocked at first, but as time went on, she began to understand, and we ended up having a really good talk. We spoke civilly to each other, clearly and without judgment. It was nice to be heard rather than to be talked at.
Today, unbeknownst to me, God had a plan for my time at bible study. He was going to show me some things. He was going to give me some very clear insight into this little personality of mine. And boy, did He ever. I learned today that I do not have patience with others. That I am not merciful. And that I don't like to put up with people who irritate me. And, as I said earlier, my sister was plain old irritating me. Like sandpaper against sandpaper--was she ever going to smooth out? I really did wonder this!
I also realized this morning that God has been nothing but patient with me! He gently broke it to me that I was the one who needed smoothing out. I was the one who needed to change, not her. God is working out something in me; He is slowly changing me. Ever so gently. Had I started reading this Bible study chapter last week, had I seen the video before talking with my sister over the phone about our mother, I really don't think I would have understood this most important teaching from God. This life lesson would have been lost on me. I think I would have missed it. Yes, I am that hard-headed. I was thinking a little too highly of myself. I was living a lie.
So there you have it, my confession. I am impatiently patient. I prayed for quite a while this afternoon, and I caught myself asking God to hurry and make me more patient. Have I not learned anything? I am happy that He loves me, I could almost hear Him chuckle at my nonsense. I have much to learn, and I thank Him every day that He is my father, who is so very patient with me. And when my sister called back this afternoon with some good news concerning our mom, we had a very good conversation. We talked for a long time. We shared some things. And I was patient. And God was gracious.
It was one of those scary calls. My mom was in the hospital and in serious condition. Fortunately, I didn't have anything really important on my calendar, so as I waited by the phone for more information on her prognosis, I prayed--all day. I'm going to step out on a ledge a little bit here. I hope my sister reads this blog post and understands why I am sharing this little story. It really isn't about her at all, but more about what God has taught me about myself in these last couple of days.
As my sister explained the details about our mother to me over the phone, she kept bugging me. She used profanity, spoke disrespectfully, and misunderstood some of my most basic questions. In my opinion, we did not have a good conversation. So the next day, when we spoke on the phone again, I let her know what my phone boundaries were. I think she was a little shocked at first, but as time went on, she began to understand, and we ended up having a really good talk. We spoke civilly to each other, clearly and without judgment. It was nice to be heard rather than to be talked at.
Today, unbeknownst to me, God had a plan for my time at bible study. He was going to show me some things. He was going to give me some very clear insight into this little personality of mine. And boy, did He ever. I learned today that I do not have patience with others. That I am not merciful. And that I don't like to put up with people who irritate me. And, as I said earlier, my sister was plain old irritating me. Like sandpaper against sandpaper--was she ever going to smooth out? I really did wonder this!
I also realized this morning that God has been nothing but patient with me! He gently broke it to me that I was the one who needed smoothing out. I was the one who needed to change, not her. God is working out something in me; He is slowly changing me. Ever so gently. Had I started reading this Bible study chapter last week, had I seen the video before talking with my sister over the phone about our mother, I really don't think I would have understood this most important teaching from God. This life lesson would have been lost on me. I think I would have missed it. Yes, I am that hard-headed. I was thinking a little too highly of myself. I was living a lie.
So there you have it, my confession. I am impatiently patient. I prayed for quite a while this afternoon, and I caught myself asking God to hurry and make me more patient. Have I not learned anything? I am happy that He loves me, I could almost hear Him chuckle at my nonsense. I have much to learn, and I thank Him every day that He is my father, who is so very patient with me. And when my sister called back this afternoon with some good news concerning our mom, we had a very good conversation. We talked for a long time. We shared some things. And I was patient. And God was gracious.
Galatians 5:22-23
New Revised Standard Version (NRSV)
The Fruit of the Spirit
22 By contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, 23 gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things.Wednesday, March 13, 2013
What You Do Next
To quote someone whom I deeply admire--what you do next says what you really believe about God.
I remember years ago, my women's Bible study at church started a new book. It was Henry Blackaby's study called Experiencing God. I thought it sounded pretty interesting. Experiencing God--sounds good, right? I was anxious to see what this Bible study was all about. Very long story short, it changed my life.
I'll be honest with you here--at first, I didn't care for it at all. Not at all. It was a little too basic for me. It was the 1 2 3's and the A B C's of Christianity, and after all, I had been a Christian for years! I thought to myself--I am beyond this--I need something deeper, something meatier, something that I can really sink my teeth into. However, even though I was a little more than delusional about my walk with God, I was a good little girl, I went with the flow, and with eyes rolled up to the sky, I endured. I began the study with a closed heart and closed ears. But, at least I went, right? I didn't complain or speak with anyone; I completed my first lesson and attended class.
It's so funny and interesting to me how God works in our lives. We see ourselves one way, and yet He sees us in quite another. By week three, I was a complete mess. For although this was a basic study--in the sense that it began at the beginning of how God wants us to live for Him, it was also one of the most challenging studies I've ever endured. Notice I've said I — maybe not everyone who has ever gone through this study was impacted the way I was. I just realized, while writing this, that I'm using words like endure, challenge, and impacted. Yes, it was all those things for me and more. And when I had finished with that book, that study, that basic body of work--God had changed my heart forever. He took me back to the basics that I somehow had missed.
I wonder now, all these years later, what my life in Christ would be like had I not gone through that study. I think that God would have worked it into my life somehow, someway, at some other time. I needed it. I needed a different perspective on who God really is and how God really works. Many quotes stood out to me during that study. Many of which I have drawn upon throughout these last couple of decades. I have at times been stopped dead in my tracks because God will bring to my mind one of these life-changing one-liners that Blackaby is so famous for. One being--what you do next says what you really believe about God.
So, what do I really believe about God? I guess that depends on what I do next! Do I listen to God? Do I pray? Do I trust Him? Do I serve Him with my whole heart? Do I have faith in Him? Do I walk with Him daily? Is he my everything? Or, do I waver in my faith and walk in fear? Do I put prayer off for a more convenient time? And after praying, do I get up and take those burdens with me rather than leave them at His feet for Him to deal with?
During that study, God illuminated areas in my life that he wanted to clean up. Yes, that's exactly what He wanted from me, He wanted me, with His help, to clean up my act. He wanted me to actually walk with Him rather than just say I did. He has taught me over these last decades to trust Him completely, to spend hours praying, to get up trusting, to lean into Him, to hang on to Him, and to never, ever stop. For me--it was all about faith, all about prayer, all about service, all about worship. It's all about taking life one day at a time, and sometimes 1 hour at a time. It's all about keeping my eyes fixed on Him, it's all about knowing--knowing that He is the great I AM, He is my Father, He loves me, He walks with me! And, I will never be alone. Whatever comes my way, I will have my God by my side. He is mine, and I am His, and what I do next in this sweet life of mine--says what I really believe about Him.
I remember years ago, my women's Bible study at church started a new book. It was Henry Blackaby's study called Experiencing God. I thought it sounded pretty interesting. Experiencing God--sounds good, right? I was anxious to see what this Bible study was all about. Very long story short, it changed my life.
I'll be honest with you here--at first, I didn't care for it at all. Not at all. It was a little too basic for me. It was the 1 2 3's and the A B C's of Christianity, and after all, I had been a Christian for years! I thought to myself--I am beyond this--I need something deeper, something meatier, something that I can really sink my teeth into. However, even though I was a little more than delusional about my walk with God, I was a good little girl, I went with the flow, and with eyes rolled up to the sky, I endured. I began the study with a closed heart and closed ears. But, at least I went, right? I didn't complain or speak with anyone; I completed my first lesson and attended class.
It's so funny and interesting to me how God works in our lives. We see ourselves one way, and yet He sees us in quite another. By week three, I was a complete mess. For although this was a basic study--in the sense that it began at the beginning of how God wants us to live for Him, it was also one of the most challenging studies I've ever endured. Notice I've said I — maybe not everyone who has ever gone through this study was impacted the way I was. I just realized, while writing this, that I'm using words like endure, challenge, and impacted. Yes, it was all those things for me and more. And when I had finished with that book, that study, that basic body of work--God had changed my heart forever. He took me back to the basics that I somehow had missed.
I wonder now, all these years later, what my life in Christ would be like had I not gone through that study. I think that God would have worked it into my life somehow, someway, at some other time. I needed it. I needed a different perspective on who God really is and how God really works. Many quotes stood out to me during that study. Many of which I have drawn upon throughout these last couple of decades. I have at times been stopped dead in my tracks because God will bring to my mind one of these life-changing one-liners that Blackaby is so famous for. One being--what you do next says what you really believe about God.
So, what do I really believe about God? I guess that depends on what I do next! Do I listen to God? Do I pray? Do I trust Him? Do I serve Him with my whole heart? Do I have faith in Him? Do I walk with Him daily? Is he my everything? Or, do I waver in my faith and walk in fear? Do I put prayer off for a more convenient time? And after praying, do I get up and take those burdens with me rather than leave them at His feet for Him to deal with?
During that study, God illuminated areas in my life that he wanted to clean up. Yes, that's exactly what He wanted from me, He wanted me, with His help, to clean up my act. He wanted me to actually walk with Him rather than just say I did. He has taught me over these last decades to trust Him completely, to spend hours praying, to get up trusting, to lean into Him, to hang on to Him, and to never, ever stop. For me--it was all about faith, all about prayer, all about service, all about worship. It's all about taking life one day at a time, and sometimes 1 hour at a time. It's all about keeping my eyes fixed on Him, it's all about knowing--knowing that He is the great I AM, He is my Father, He loves me, He walks with me! And, I will never be alone. Whatever comes my way, I will have my God by my side. He is mine, and I am His, and what I do next in this sweet life of mine--says what I really believe about Him.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
What's In A Name
I'm not sure if I read this or heard it. I just know that sometime in the last couple of weeks, this thought has been rattling around in my brain. I've been thinking about the way God named people, or more specifically, how he changed people's names at different times in the Bible. I then, of course, thought about my own name and how different it is compared to my friends' or family members' names. My thoughts then took me in the direction of--who really named me? God? Or my mother?
And then just a couple of days ago, I found this cute quote on Pinterest saying--
Dear Parents, Thank you for giving me such a weird name.
Sincerely, the child who doesn't have a customized key chain.
Yes, my name is weird, alrighty. Strange, different, unlike, dissimilar, unusual, and odd, and yet it is mine. Like I've mentioned previously, I've decided to embrace my name. I've decided to like it. It is peculiar--unless of course, you understand the meaning--the definition of, the true interpretation of--my name. And that is what I believe God was trying to get through to me these last couple of days. I believe that He was saying to me--I named you. I gave you that name for a reason. Now it's up to you to live up to the name that I've called you!
We are told in the Bible that He calls us by name. We are told in the Bible that He has at different times renamed people. So, it is my belief and understanding that names just might be of some importance to God. I'm kind of wishing that I had thought about this a little more before I named my own children, but, oh well. Anyway, this is about my name. I am smiling while I write this. I wouldn't want anyone to think I was being serious right then. I do tend to have a sarcastic sense of humor. So, I will let God take care of showing my children what he wishes them to know about their names. It could be that their particular names mean something that I am totally unaware of at this time. Maybe I'll look into that someday. But, I digress.
I am quite certain that when my parents named me all those years ago, they did not know that "Veda" means "life". I think I was somewhere in my 20's when someone from another country gave me that bit of information. Life. I think that fits. I looked up the word "life," and I really liked these 3 definitions — they resonated with me.
5 vivacity, animation, liveliness, vitality, verve, high spirits, exuberance, zest, buoyancy, enthusiasm, energy, vigor, dynamism, elan, gusto, brio, bounce, spirit, fire; movement; oomph, pizzazz, pep, zing, zip, vim.6 moving spirit, vital spirit, spirit, life force, lifeblood, heart, soul.7 person, human being, individual, soul.
I loved reading these definitions. And with all my heart, I truly believe that God gave me my name. So then, I have a lot to live up to, don't I? And, I have a lot to live for. I am thankful for my name. It fits.I never knew that before. It really does fit. My life. My sweet life, living it for my God. Joyfully and happily.Prayerfully and thankfully.
And then just a couple of days ago, I found this cute quote on Pinterest saying--
Dear Parents, Thank you for giving me such a weird name.
Sincerely, the child who doesn't have a customized key chain.
Yes, my name is weird, alrighty. Strange, different, unlike, dissimilar, unusual, and odd, and yet it is mine. Like I've mentioned previously, I've decided to embrace my name. I've decided to like it. It is peculiar--unless of course, you understand the meaning--the definition of, the true interpretation of--my name. And that is what I believe God was trying to get through to me these last couple of days. I believe that He was saying to me--I named you. I gave you that name for a reason. Now it's up to you to live up to the name that I've called you!
We are told in the Bible that He calls us by name. We are told in the Bible that He has at different times renamed people. So, it is my belief and understanding that names just might be of some importance to God. I'm kind of wishing that I had thought about this a little more before I named my own children, but, oh well. Anyway, this is about my name. I am smiling while I write this. I wouldn't want anyone to think I was being serious right then. I do tend to have a sarcastic sense of humor. So, I will let God take care of showing my children what he wishes them to know about their names. It could be that their particular names mean something that I am totally unaware of at this time. Maybe I'll look into that someday. But, I digress.
I am quite certain that when my parents named me all those years ago, they did not know that "Veda" means "life". I think I was somewhere in my 20's when someone from another country gave me that bit of information. Life. I think that fits. I looked up the word "life," and I really liked these 3 definitions — they resonated with me.
5 vivacity, animation, liveliness, vitality, verve, high spirits, exuberance, zest, buoyancy, enthusiasm, energy, vigor, dynamism, elan, gusto, brio, bounce, spirit, fire; movement; oomph, pizzazz, pep, zing, zip, vim.6 moving spirit, vital spirit, spirit, life force, lifeblood, heart, soul.7 person, human being, individual, soul.
I loved reading these definitions. And with all my heart, I truly believe that God gave me my name. So then, I have a lot to live up to, don't I? And, I have a lot to live for. I am thankful for my name. It fits.I never knew that before. It really does fit. My life. My sweet life, living it for my God. Joyfully and happily.Prayerfully and thankfully.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Another Layer
I'll be sharing a lot about my childhood as time goes on, bit by bit, piece by piece. I am in the mood to share this story. One that I believe catapulted me into what I do today. One that shaped my thoughts on mental illness and one that changed my heart forever.
I was somewhere between 35 and 40; my only training at that time had been Bible college and some counseling classes I took at my church. At that point in my life, I was co-facilitating a sexual abuse group led by a friend and counselor. He wanted me to help out. However, I was very confused as to why. Why did he need me? I felt uneducated and untrained and had not been sexually abused. So why in the world would he want my help? These were the questions that ran through my brain for the entire time I worked with him. And yet--he saw something in me that I hadn't yet discovered about myself. I had it. It being--a listening ear. That's what he believed God had shown him about me. I was a counselor in the rough, so to speak.
And then one day, without too much training, remember, I received a frantic call from my mother-"He's been talking for 4 days, he hasn't slept, and he won't stop talking." I am exhausted and afraid, and I don't know who else to call or what to do. That's what my mother said to me over the phone just about 25 years ago. When my mother called that day, I heard 2 things in her voice: fear and exhaustion. She had had it — she was done — she needed someone to take over. And that's where I entered the picture. I had 3 small children at home, and that's about all I can remember. I couldn't tell you whether it was nighttime or morning, whether it was cold or hot, and I don't remember the season. I just remember being very confused and feeling very overwhelmed, but I knew I had to help as best I could. I told her to drive him over to my house, so she did. I wonder to this day how she managed to get into the car with him, as he was completely out of control.
Believe me when I say this--I had no clue what I was doing or saying. I just acted quickly. I evaluated (how did I even know how to do that?) the situation, and I went into action. I told my mother to take my kids into the other room and stay with them. I proceeded to load my father into my minivan, and with my husband driving and me barking orders at my dad, we drove to the psych ward. That drive was a learning experience in and of itself--let me tell you. Nothing prepared me for his delusions of grandeur. He was completely delusional, saying nonsensical things and acting almost violently. The only way I could control him was to speak with a very authoritarian voice. Now, remember, I was the daughter! This was hard for me to do; he was my dad! However, I realized that the only way to control the drive to the hospital was to speak with authority. And I did, and I did it well. Praying all the way to the hospital, we finally made it.
Once arriving, things took a turn for the worse. My father was certain that the FBI, the CIA, or some other covert organization was after him. He kept yelling and shoving people out of the way, he grabbed a nurse by the hair and that's when security was called. They had handcuffs and guns and looked extremely serious as they made their way towards my dad. I, being the daughter, the protector, stepped in between him and them and yelled for my dad to let go of the nurse's hair NOW! He did. I then told him to SIT DOWN. He did. The guards backed off, and I was once again in control of my father. He was obeying me; I was the only person he would listen to. I couldn't believe it. Something was getting through to him, so I continued in the same vein throughout his check-in, and things went fairly smoothly after that.
Once checked in, he was taken to a hospital room. I then met with the psychiatrist on staff and discussed his situation. Since I was the person who admitted him, it was up to me to make the pertinent decisions. He was administered meds, and he was placed on a 30-day hold so that he could become stabilized. I visited every day. I prayed, I listened, and I waited. I waited for my dad to become normal again. There is more to this part of the story; however, I am going to stop here for now. The rest is more than I can share at this time.
I realize now, looking back, that I grew up quite a bit during that time. I learned some interesting aspects of my personality that might not have surfaced otherwise. For instance--I was cool, calm, and collected during my dad's psychotic episode, I did not panic, ever. And I did not break down once in front of anyone. I was brave. I was strong. Why? Because I leaned completely on God. I kept focused on the task at hand and did not lose hope. I prayed my way through the situation.
After I returned home, though, late at night--I would bury my face in my pillow and cry out to God for hours. Yes, I did that. My husband would hold me in his arms, and I would just sob. I wasn't so brave or strong then, after all, was I? I cried gut-wrenching sobs, wondering what to do next. I had so many questions for God--as to what steps to take, how to handle each situation, how to make sure he stays on his meds, what if it happens again? I prayed, I waited, I tried so hard to be the best daughter ever. Really, I did. However, I learned that the decisions I had to make were very overwhelming for me to handle all alone, so I had to depend on God.
And as far as being catapulted into what I do today? Well, I went on to get a degree in psychology and have been involved in some form of crisis counseling ever since. I discovered that I'm good at it. I'm a natural--so to speak. I love it. I get it. I understand it. It doesn't scare me. My heart breaks for the broken-hearted. And now, I have the tools to help others. I have the knowledge and the education. But mostly I have God. I pray, I observe, I listen, and I am always open to learning and growing.
So, I'll end this story now. I am still praying for my dad. He is still to this day taking medication for his bipolar disorder. And I am still trying hard to be there for him. God has never failed me. He has led me each step of the way. He has given me hope. And as all these many years have passed, He will continue to guide me through this thing called life. It is, remember — my sweet life, and I am forever thankful for it.
I was somewhere between 35 and 40; my only training at that time had been Bible college and some counseling classes I took at my church. At that point in my life, I was co-facilitating a sexual abuse group led by a friend and counselor. He wanted me to help out. However, I was very confused as to why. Why did he need me? I felt uneducated and untrained and had not been sexually abused. So why in the world would he want my help? These were the questions that ran through my brain for the entire time I worked with him. And yet--he saw something in me that I hadn't yet discovered about myself. I had it. It being--a listening ear. That's what he believed God had shown him about me. I was a counselor in the rough, so to speak.
And then one day, without too much training, remember, I received a frantic call from my mother-"He's been talking for 4 days, he hasn't slept, and he won't stop talking." I am exhausted and afraid, and I don't know who else to call or what to do. That's what my mother said to me over the phone just about 25 years ago. When my mother called that day, I heard 2 things in her voice: fear and exhaustion. She had had it — she was done — she needed someone to take over. And that's where I entered the picture. I had 3 small children at home, and that's about all I can remember. I couldn't tell you whether it was nighttime or morning, whether it was cold or hot, and I don't remember the season. I just remember being very confused and feeling very overwhelmed, but I knew I had to help as best I could. I told her to drive him over to my house, so she did. I wonder to this day how she managed to get into the car with him, as he was completely out of control.
Believe me when I say this--I had no clue what I was doing or saying. I just acted quickly. I evaluated (how did I even know how to do that?) the situation, and I went into action. I told my mother to take my kids into the other room and stay with them. I proceeded to load my father into my minivan, and with my husband driving and me barking orders at my dad, we drove to the psych ward. That drive was a learning experience in and of itself--let me tell you. Nothing prepared me for his delusions of grandeur. He was completely delusional, saying nonsensical things and acting almost violently. The only way I could control him was to speak with a very authoritarian voice. Now, remember, I was the daughter! This was hard for me to do; he was my dad! However, I realized that the only way to control the drive to the hospital was to speak with authority. And I did, and I did it well. Praying all the way to the hospital, we finally made it.
Once arriving, things took a turn for the worse. My father was certain that the FBI, the CIA, or some other covert organization was after him. He kept yelling and shoving people out of the way, he grabbed a nurse by the hair and that's when security was called. They had handcuffs and guns and looked extremely serious as they made their way towards my dad. I, being the daughter, the protector, stepped in between him and them and yelled for my dad to let go of the nurse's hair NOW! He did. I then told him to SIT DOWN. He did. The guards backed off, and I was once again in control of my father. He was obeying me; I was the only person he would listen to. I couldn't believe it. Something was getting through to him, so I continued in the same vein throughout his check-in, and things went fairly smoothly after that.
Once checked in, he was taken to a hospital room. I then met with the psychiatrist on staff and discussed his situation. Since I was the person who admitted him, it was up to me to make the pertinent decisions. He was administered meds, and he was placed on a 30-day hold so that he could become stabilized. I visited every day. I prayed, I listened, and I waited. I waited for my dad to become normal again. There is more to this part of the story; however, I am going to stop here for now. The rest is more than I can share at this time.
I realize now, looking back, that I grew up quite a bit during that time. I learned some interesting aspects of my personality that might not have surfaced otherwise. For instance--I was cool, calm, and collected during my dad's psychotic episode, I did not panic, ever. And I did not break down once in front of anyone. I was brave. I was strong. Why? Because I leaned completely on God. I kept focused on the task at hand and did not lose hope. I prayed my way through the situation.
After I returned home, though, late at night--I would bury my face in my pillow and cry out to God for hours. Yes, I did that. My husband would hold me in his arms, and I would just sob. I wasn't so brave or strong then, after all, was I? I cried gut-wrenching sobs, wondering what to do next. I had so many questions for God--as to what steps to take, how to handle each situation, how to make sure he stays on his meds, what if it happens again? I prayed, I waited, I tried so hard to be the best daughter ever. Really, I did. However, I learned that the decisions I had to make were very overwhelming for me to handle all alone, so I had to depend on God.
And as far as being catapulted into what I do today? Well, I went on to get a degree in psychology and have been involved in some form of crisis counseling ever since. I discovered that I'm good at it. I'm a natural--so to speak. I love it. I get it. I understand it. It doesn't scare me. My heart breaks for the broken-hearted. And now, I have the tools to help others. I have the knowledge and the education. But mostly I have God. I pray, I observe, I listen, and I am always open to learning and growing.
So, I'll end this story now. I am still praying for my dad. He is still to this day taking medication for his bipolar disorder. And I am still trying hard to be there for him. God has never failed me. He has led me each step of the way. He has given me hope. And as all these many years have passed, He will continue to guide me through this thing called life. It is, remember — my sweet life, and I am forever thankful for it.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Rejection
Of course, I'm going to write about it. It's all I heard yesterday while sitting in my church at Bible study. The word kept bouncing off the wall like a great big rubber ball. Rejection. I think a lot of the women in the room were thinking about times in their lives when they had been rejected. For them, the rejection might have come via a family member, a close friend, a spouse, or anyone really. For me, it happened once. Well, no, more than that. I've experienced a few smaller rejections that weren't the most fun to go through, but they didn't scar me like the other one did. No, nothing took me more off guard like that other time. Nothing hurt worse than being rejected by my closest friend, nothing.
Way back when my children were small, I had a very good friend. A best friend. Circumstances brought us together. Church actually. Our kids were the same age, as were we. Our friendship grew, and our families did a lot of things together. We hung out, went camping, went to movies and dinners, and spent lots of time in each other's homes. I felt very protective of this particular friend; I felt that she needed me. that God had brought her into my life for a reason. She'd been hurt before, had had a rough childhood, and just needed a best friend to come alongside her and never ever hurt her. I was that friend. I would have laid down my life for her.
As far as I was concerned, things were moving along smoothly when, quite suddenly, I began to notice a change in our relationship. Everything began to change, from our time spent together to subtle remarks being made to other friends, and then they let me know that she was talking about me behind my back. Always the one to give the benefit of the doubt, I ignored the signs for weeks. I just would not —could not — believe that this was happening to our relationship — not us! However, as the weeks progressed, I realized I could no longer stick my head in the sand and suggested that we talk this out over lunch. We met at a local restaurant. After being seated, I was promptly given a list, yes, a list, a list of all my faults. I will never forget this part: it was written on yellow legal paper — 2 pages of things I did wrong, 2 pages of things she did not like about me. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, we talked--for hours.
In the end, I knew that our relationship was over. I had to face the facts: she did not like me, not one little thing about me. I bugged her in every sense of the word. I did nothing right, not one thing. Our friendship was over. I made my way back to my car and sobbed. I wondered what I had done wrong. I prayed and asked God to change my personality so that people would like me. And I wondered--why did He make me this way? If I was going to be rejected by my friends, why did He give me this annoying personality that no one liked? You see, by her rejecting me, she made me doubt myself. And in rejecting me, she took others with her. It became a tug-of-war over friends. Only I wouldn't play her game. I walked away. I left the situation. I left the church. I would not defend myself, nor speak badly of her. In my heart of hearts, I secretly hoped that she'd come back and apologize and that we would once again be friends. Yes, I am that naive.
Funny how things work out. Years later, she did need me. Years later, she apologized and asked me to forgive her. And I did. I did forgive her. She could not understand how I could so easily forgive her after all she had said and done. But, how could I not? I am a Christian.
By the time she finally reached out to me, I had moved away. I was no longer in close proximity. What was sad to me was that she never reaped the benefits of our close friendship. I would have been the best friend she had ever had. In fact, I think I still am in some ways. I still protect her, have never spoken badly of her, and would do anything for her. Because once my friend, always my friend. To this day, all she has to do is call, and I will be there for her.
So, what did I learn through that experience so long ago? I learned that rejection always hurts — no matter who rejects us, it hurts. Sometimes more than others. I also learned that God will always walk me through it. I learned that I am always to forgive — 7 times 70. And I've learned that I never ever want to reject anyone. I never want to hurt someone. I really just want to be used by God. I want to be someone who brings healing and restoration rather than someone who hurts and belittles others. That's what I learned through being rejected. Because love--never fails!
Why am I writing about this? I'm not sure. Something has been stirring inside me, something I may have thought I should share. Something that might, just might minister to others--someway, somehow. And that's why I'm sharing this today. For some reason, God allows others to reject and hurt us. I didn't say that he causes it, I said that he allows it to happen. I have learned a lot through past experiences. I have grown as a Christian. I have grown as a friend. I have had to try hard not to harden my heart against those who have hurt me. I pray all the time that I remain open, honest, and humble before my God. Sometimes I fail. Thankfully, he never does.
Aren't I supposed to trade all my sorrow and shame for the joy of the Lord? I think so. Sorrow lasts for a night, but joy comes in the morning. That's what the Bible says. So no matter how bad I feel at the time, I know this — it's only for a time, an allotment of time — for joy, God's joy comes in the morning. I believe that. I trust that. I wait patiently for that. Even through times of rejection, I will wait on the Lord--that joy, that peace, that comfort that only comes from God--I will wait.
Way back when my children were small, I had a very good friend. A best friend. Circumstances brought us together. Church actually. Our kids were the same age, as were we. Our friendship grew, and our families did a lot of things together. We hung out, went camping, went to movies and dinners, and spent lots of time in each other's homes. I felt very protective of this particular friend; I felt that she needed me. that God had brought her into my life for a reason. She'd been hurt before, had had a rough childhood, and just needed a best friend to come alongside her and never ever hurt her. I was that friend. I would have laid down my life for her.
As far as I was concerned, things were moving along smoothly when, quite suddenly, I began to notice a change in our relationship. Everything began to change, from our time spent together to subtle remarks being made to other friends, and then they let me know that she was talking about me behind my back. Always the one to give the benefit of the doubt, I ignored the signs for weeks. I just would not —could not — believe that this was happening to our relationship — not us! However, as the weeks progressed, I realized I could no longer stick my head in the sand and suggested that we talk this out over lunch. We met at a local restaurant. After being seated, I was promptly given a list, yes, a list, a list of all my faults. I will never forget this part: it was written on yellow legal paper — 2 pages of things I did wrong, 2 pages of things she did not like about me. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, we talked--for hours.
In the end, I knew that our relationship was over. I had to face the facts: she did not like me, not one little thing about me. I bugged her in every sense of the word. I did nothing right, not one thing. Our friendship was over. I made my way back to my car and sobbed. I wondered what I had done wrong. I prayed and asked God to change my personality so that people would like me. And I wondered--why did He make me this way? If I was going to be rejected by my friends, why did He give me this annoying personality that no one liked? You see, by her rejecting me, she made me doubt myself. And in rejecting me, she took others with her. It became a tug-of-war over friends. Only I wouldn't play her game. I walked away. I left the situation. I left the church. I would not defend myself, nor speak badly of her. In my heart of hearts, I secretly hoped that she'd come back and apologize and that we would once again be friends. Yes, I am that naive.
Funny how things work out. Years later, she did need me. Years later, she apologized and asked me to forgive her. And I did. I did forgive her. She could not understand how I could so easily forgive her after all she had said and done. But, how could I not? I am a Christian.
By the time she finally reached out to me, I had moved away. I was no longer in close proximity. What was sad to me was that she never reaped the benefits of our close friendship. I would have been the best friend she had ever had. In fact, I think I still am in some ways. I still protect her, have never spoken badly of her, and would do anything for her. Because once my friend, always my friend. To this day, all she has to do is call, and I will be there for her.
So, what did I learn through that experience so long ago? I learned that rejection always hurts — no matter who rejects us, it hurts. Sometimes more than others. I also learned that God will always walk me through it. I learned that I am always to forgive — 7 times 70. And I've learned that I never ever want to reject anyone. I never want to hurt someone. I really just want to be used by God. I want to be someone who brings healing and restoration rather than someone who hurts and belittles others. That's what I learned through being rejected. Because love--never fails!
Why am I writing about this? I'm not sure. Something has been stirring inside me, something I may have thought I should share. Something that might, just might minister to others--someway, somehow. And that's why I'm sharing this today. For some reason, God allows others to reject and hurt us. I didn't say that he causes it, I said that he allows it to happen. I have learned a lot through past experiences. I have grown as a Christian. I have grown as a friend. I have had to try hard not to harden my heart against those who have hurt me. I pray all the time that I remain open, honest, and humble before my God. Sometimes I fail. Thankfully, he never does.
Aren't I supposed to trade all my sorrow and shame for the joy of the Lord? I think so. Sorrow lasts for a night, but joy comes in the morning. That's what the Bible says. So no matter how bad I feel at the time, I know this — it's only for a time, an allotment of time — for joy, God's joy comes in the morning. I believe that. I trust that. I wait patiently for that. Even through times of rejection, I will wait on the Lord--that joy, that peace, that comfort that only comes from God--I will wait.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Today's Prayer
Do you hear me, Father
Do you hear my prayers
Can you see me crying
sharing all my fears
Do you see me, Father
as I share my heart
Can you hear me cry out
as I fall apart
Do you hear me, Father
Can you hear my voice
as I sing my songs to you
As I call out your name
Do you see me, Father
as I fall down on my knees
to worship you, oh God
Can you see my pain
Do you hear me, Father
As I pray for those I love
Do you love them as I do
Can you heal their brokenness
Do you see me, Father
all these years of prayer
My heart belongs to you, oh God
hear me and hold me near
I will forever praise you
I will never stop
I know you hear my cries
I know you hold my heart
Do you hear my prayers
Can you see me crying
sharing all my fears
Do you see me, Father
as I share my heart
Can you hear me cry out
as I fall apart
Do you hear me, Father
Can you hear my voice
as I sing my songs to you
As I call out your name
Do you see me, Father
as I fall down on my knees
to worship you, oh God
Can you see my pain
Do you hear me, Father
As I pray for those I love
Do you love them as I do
Can you heal their brokenness
Do you see me, Father
all these years of prayer
My heart belongs to you, oh God
hear me and hold me near
I will forever praise you
I will never stop
I know you hear my cries
I know you hold my heart
Monday, February 4, 2013
Rich Girl, Poor Girl
I shared a little earlier about my childhood. In my blog post "The Least of These," I wrote a bit about how it felt to go hungry and be afraid as a child — that was a small glimpse into a part of my life. However, there was another side too. A side of my life that the pendulum swung in the opposite direction. From poor to rich. OK, not really rich, but it sure seemed that way to a child. I'll do my best to describe it. However, you will have to trust me and just go along for the ride because, as preposterous as this story might sound, I assure you it is the truth--from my viewpoint anyway.
I've often wondered, as an adult, why I am so flexible and/or ambivalent about finances. My husband and I started off as many young couples do — working hard at our full-time jobs, paying the bills, and saving for our first home. We had some struggles, but nothing that God could not handle. He taught me to have complete and total trust that He would meet our needs. When troubles came, I prayed. I can look back now and see where that faith and trust came from.
I realize now that I had been conditioned as a child to ride that roller coaster in the area of finances. The ups and downs, the rich, the poor--the come what may. Yes, when you belong to a family, you ride the ride of life right along with them, whether you want to or not. I will share later how this has affected my adult life, but for now, I want to focus on my childhood years.
One thing I would like to interject here is that my father has an IQ of 140. That is not abnormal for someone who has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I won't bore you with the details, but if you'd like to look it up, it's classic. Intellectual, big ideas, high roller, and sometimes, sadly, delusional. My father was a real estate broker and developer — he designed and built homes, and he financed and brokered major deals. His business grew, money flowed, and life was good. Until. Until he would have another psychotic break, and another black mood entered our home. Depression can be a home wrecker. It can scare and scar a child. It can turn a person and a home into something altogether different. Family dynamics can drastically change, as was the case in my little home. My mother had to resume working full-time, my father lay in bed for months on end, and I took over the house. I cleaned, cooked, and made sure my sister and I were taken care of.
Sometimes we would even lose our homes and have to move into an apartment. In fact, we moved around a lot. Apartment to apartment, city to city, and always, always, the reasons were shrouded in secrets. Never the truth, never. We never went on family vacations, we never ever did the normal family outings that my friend's families did. No, we were kept in the dark. We were not told that our father was mentally ill and that he was depressed. My mother went to work, we went to school, and then after school, I had chores to do. I became the caregiver. I kept quiet, I read, and I daydreamed a lot. I believe that it was during this time--my early years--that I developed my close relationship with the God I serve. I believe that it was Him and Him alone who kept me from turning to other outside sources to meet my needs — other than normal teenage curiosity, I pretty much stayed out of trouble.
So, one year we were rolling in the dough, and the next we were eating spaghetti and hot dogs. One year we lived in a nice home and neighborhood, and the next we were in a crowded apartment in a not-so-nice neighborhood. Each year, and sometimes even every 6 months, we would move, and I would have to start all over again, making new friends. Hence, my blog is called "13 schools." Can you feel the hardening layers beginning to build around me to protect my heart? I soon began to escape into the world of books, libraries, and fantasy--to a make-believe world where families were normal and happy, and life was fun. Because mine was not. Mine was scary and dark and sad and lonely. Unless, of course, life flipped again and my father came out of the depressive state that he'd been in. Then the money, cars, houses, and fun would rev up once again, and life was good for a time.
In my high school years, things took a more positive turn. I was growing up, and I was gaining control. At least I thought I was. I learned to stand my ground, and I became a force to be reckoned with. In my opinion, if I were going to do the laundry, clean the house, and do the cooking when the chips were down, and my mother was working to support us, then I needed some say in our lifestyle. I at least wanted to have some sense of stability in my life. If it couldn't be a stable home life, then at least I wanted to go to the same school. And I did, I went for 3 years to the same high school. I latched on and wouldn't let go. Security at its finest. A private all-girls Catholic college preparatory school. A school for smart girls. I loved that school and still cherish the relationships that were built there. Yes, finally some stability. We still moved several times, but my school remained the same. We had a couple of great financial years during that period of my life. Private schooling, horses, money--yes, I was able to surround myself with material goods for a time, and yet all the while I lived in absolute fear of the crash that I knew would eventually come. And come it did, right after I graduated from high school. But that's another blog for another day.
Rich girl, poor girl. Back and forth. Money, no money. House, no house. Friends, no friends. Sad, then happy. Happy, then sad. Manic, depression. This was my life as I perceived it, real or not. It was my reality, my life. This is how I saw it, and maybe, quite possibly, not how my parents saw it. Maybe they thought they were doing their very best. And, maybe they were. So, as I write this, please understand that I am not judging them. I am exploring the whys of my personality. What makes me, me? What happened to make me into an optimist, a roll with the punches type of person?
This is what I believe. When I shifted all my dependency onto God all those years ago, I believe that He rescued me. In my eyes, he became my real dad. He became all that I really needed in this sweet life of mine. He's the one who protected my heart, who taught me life lessons, who comforted me when I was afraid. He made sure that I had food, shelter, and friends in times of need. And with each trial and each layer of protection that I tried so desperately to cover my heart with--I found that He wouldn't let me do that. He said no! He made me watch, listen, learn, observe, pitch in, grow up, and depend solely and completely on Him. Yes, those were great life lessons to be learned--they were not to be angry over, not to be ashamed of, and not to stay quiet about. Rich or poor, I am who I am. I am happy, content, whole, and thankful. I love my parents and my God. Life is good. Layer by layer, life is what I am discovering. Life is sweet. And God is good.
I've often wondered, as an adult, why I am so flexible and/or ambivalent about finances. My husband and I started off as many young couples do — working hard at our full-time jobs, paying the bills, and saving for our first home. We had some struggles, but nothing that God could not handle. He taught me to have complete and total trust that He would meet our needs. When troubles came, I prayed. I can look back now and see where that faith and trust came from.
I realize now that I had been conditioned as a child to ride that roller coaster in the area of finances. The ups and downs, the rich, the poor--the come what may. Yes, when you belong to a family, you ride the ride of life right along with them, whether you want to or not. I will share later how this has affected my adult life, but for now, I want to focus on my childhood years.
One thing I would like to interject here is that my father has an IQ of 140. That is not abnormal for someone who has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I won't bore you with the details, but if you'd like to look it up, it's classic. Intellectual, big ideas, high roller, and sometimes, sadly, delusional. My father was a real estate broker and developer — he designed and built homes, and he financed and brokered major deals. His business grew, money flowed, and life was good. Until. Until he would have another psychotic break, and another black mood entered our home. Depression can be a home wrecker. It can scare and scar a child. It can turn a person and a home into something altogether different. Family dynamics can drastically change, as was the case in my little home. My mother had to resume working full-time, my father lay in bed for months on end, and I took over the house. I cleaned, cooked, and made sure my sister and I were taken care of.
Sometimes we would even lose our homes and have to move into an apartment. In fact, we moved around a lot. Apartment to apartment, city to city, and always, always, the reasons were shrouded in secrets. Never the truth, never. We never went on family vacations, we never ever did the normal family outings that my friend's families did. No, we were kept in the dark. We were not told that our father was mentally ill and that he was depressed. My mother went to work, we went to school, and then after school, I had chores to do. I became the caregiver. I kept quiet, I read, and I daydreamed a lot. I believe that it was during this time--my early years--that I developed my close relationship with the God I serve. I believe that it was Him and Him alone who kept me from turning to other outside sources to meet my needs — other than normal teenage curiosity, I pretty much stayed out of trouble.
So, one year we were rolling in the dough, and the next we were eating spaghetti and hot dogs. One year we lived in a nice home and neighborhood, and the next we were in a crowded apartment in a not-so-nice neighborhood. Each year, and sometimes even every 6 months, we would move, and I would have to start all over again, making new friends. Hence, my blog is called "13 schools." Can you feel the hardening layers beginning to build around me to protect my heart? I soon began to escape into the world of books, libraries, and fantasy--to a make-believe world where families were normal and happy, and life was fun. Because mine was not. Mine was scary and dark and sad and lonely. Unless, of course, life flipped again and my father came out of the depressive state that he'd been in. Then the money, cars, houses, and fun would rev up once again, and life was good for a time.
In my high school years, things took a more positive turn. I was growing up, and I was gaining control. At least I thought I was. I learned to stand my ground, and I became a force to be reckoned with. In my opinion, if I were going to do the laundry, clean the house, and do the cooking when the chips were down, and my mother was working to support us, then I needed some say in our lifestyle. I at least wanted to have some sense of stability in my life. If it couldn't be a stable home life, then at least I wanted to go to the same school. And I did, I went for 3 years to the same high school. I latched on and wouldn't let go. Security at its finest. A private all-girls Catholic college preparatory school. A school for smart girls. I loved that school and still cherish the relationships that were built there. Yes, finally some stability. We still moved several times, but my school remained the same. We had a couple of great financial years during that period of my life. Private schooling, horses, money--yes, I was able to surround myself with material goods for a time, and yet all the while I lived in absolute fear of the crash that I knew would eventually come. And come it did, right after I graduated from high school. But that's another blog for another day.
Rich girl, poor girl. Back and forth. Money, no money. House, no house. Friends, no friends. Sad, then happy. Happy, then sad. Manic, depression. This was my life as I perceived it, real or not. It was my reality, my life. This is how I saw it, and maybe, quite possibly, not how my parents saw it. Maybe they thought they were doing their very best. And, maybe they were. So, as I write this, please understand that I am not judging them. I am exploring the whys of my personality. What makes me, me? What happened to make me into an optimist, a roll with the punches type of person?
This is what I believe. When I shifted all my dependency onto God all those years ago, I believe that He rescued me. In my eyes, he became my real dad. He became all that I really needed in this sweet life of mine. He's the one who protected my heart, who taught me life lessons, who comforted me when I was afraid. He made sure that I had food, shelter, and friends in times of need. And with each trial and each layer of protection that I tried so desperately to cover my heart with--I found that He wouldn't let me do that. He said no! He made me watch, listen, learn, observe, pitch in, grow up, and depend solely and completely on Him. Yes, those were great life lessons to be learned--they were not to be angry over, not to be ashamed of, and not to stay quiet about. Rich or poor, I am who I am. I am happy, content, whole, and thankful. I love my parents and my God. Life is good. Layer by layer, life is what I am discovering. Life is sweet. And God is good.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Scar Tissue
As I sat praying this morning in my own little private time with God, I kept hearing this phrase repeated over and over deep down in my heart. Scar tissue. I knew what He was asking of me. Yes, God was telling me that it was time. Time to start writing, time to start sharing. Time to peel back the layers of scar tissue on my heart. I've already asked my folks permission--because in no way do I ever want to bring dishonor to my parents. I love them both deeply. They both gave their approval to share what I am about to say, and I think they also felt it was time. Because sometimes we are asked to reveal our past to grow into our future. My past, present, and future have always been centered on God and my relationship with Him. And it is now time to share just exactly what was going on in my home during my childhood. I'm sure that most of my older relatives knew our little secret, but many did not, and many still do not know. So, here goes: it's the beginning of my young life, viewed through my eyes and perspective — the scar tissue on my heart.
Something was wrong. My home was not normal. My mother cried a lot, my father drank a lot, and I was scared a lot. Often hiding under the blankets, cowering in my bed while the screaming, hitting, and threatening carried on around me. At a young age, I learned to keep out of the way and to keep my mouth shut. I had not yet met God, I had never been inside a church; therefore, I did not have any means of protection, so that first layer of scar tissue began to build up deep inside. Even then, as a tiny little girl, I remember thinking to myself that if I were bigger, I'd hit back. I think that's kind of funny now. I am all of 5'4", and yet there is that fighting spirit still deep within me--yes, I'd still fight back, I am one tough little cookie. Short, but tough. I had to be tough, I had to.
When I was 5 or 6 years old, my father was hospitalized. I'm trying to go back to what, exactly, I thought was going on. I was told by my mother that he was in the hospital and that he would be home soon. In the meantime, my little sister and I stayed at my aunt's house. I want to interject here just how much I grew to love my aunt. The 2 weeks that I spent in her home were awesome. That's really the best word I can use to describe our visit there. Awesome. It was peaceful and fun, with lots of laughing and playing outside with my cousins. There wasn't any screaming, yelling, hitting, drinking, and most of all, there wasn't any hiding. I didn't want to go home; there was so much love and fun in that little house of theirs that I did not want to leave.
I did not learn of the diagnosis that my father received while in the hospital for those 2 weeks until many years later. I do think, however, that my aunts and uncles knew. At least I think they knew. In my opinion, everyone should have been told. My mother should also have told my sister and me. That's what I think, anyway. Everyone should have known; maybe then they would have intervened a little. Even though my father and mother became Christians sometime during my 6th year, much did not change at home. But here is what did change--no more drinking, hitting, swearing, or yelling. No more living in absolute terror. However, here is what did not change — I still lived with an unsettled feeling throughout my entire childhood. I never felt completely safe. It seemed at every turn, my world was pulled out from beneath me. I will share later on as to why I had those feelings as I delve into my later years.
Back to my father's diagnoses--he was diagnosed with manic depression, or better known as bipolar disorder. He had had his first psychotic break at 30 years of age. I thank God that my parents became Christians and that some aspects of my childhood changed. I thank God that I was never sexually abused. I thank God that when I was still so little, He gave me a portion of scripture to hang on to--
I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Yes, I am unashamedly an optimist. I have so much to be thankful for that this thankful heart of mine far overshadows the memories of my past. And yet, I have had to spend a lifetime grappling with layer upon layer of scar tissue. Had I been told of my father's illness as a child, I believe I would have been able to forgive him at a much younger age. Yes, the word "forgiveness" has just popped up. God has had to help me with much forgiveness.
As God leads me, I will write about each of those layers, how He has revealed them to me and healed me. He has shown me that all those many layers of scar tissue have made me who I am today.
But first, I just wanted to use the clinical term--bipolar disorder. It is nothing to be ashamed of. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain. And, it can be controlled via medication. Some, however, have made unwise choices — such as not taking their meds. This, in turn, can lead to turmoil within a home. This is the case of my childhood home. Living with a parent with a mental disorder was not easy. Living with a parent who pretended it didn't exist wasn't easy. And, as I said before, had I only known--how much different all of our lives could have been.
I hate secrecy. I love truth and honesty. I believe that the truth truly does set us free. And as with any illness, we need to surround that person with love and understanding. So, in sharing, I am hoping to bring about healing and restoration--between my entire family and anyone who suffers from this disorder. I hope that you stick with me in the near future as I peel back layer after layer, a little bit at a time, and that you learn along with me. The first part of this peeling away of scar tissue is just saying it, or in this case, writing it out loud. The secret, if there ever was one, is now out.
Something was wrong. My home was not normal. My mother cried a lot, my father drank a lot, and I was scared a lot. Often hiding under the blankets, cowering in my bed while the screaming, hitting, and threatening carried on around me. At a young age, I learned to keep out of the way and to keep my mouth shut. I had not yet met God, I had never been inside a church; therefore, I did not have any means of protection, so that first layer of scar tissue began to build up deep inside. Even then, as a tiny little girl, I remember thinking to myself that if I were bigger, I'd hit back. I think that's kind of funny now. I am all of 5'4", and yet there is that fighting spirit still deep within me--yes, I'd still fight back, I am one tough little cookie. Short, but tough. I had to be tough, I had to.
When I was 5 or 6 years old, my father was hospitalized. I'm trying to go back to what, exactly, I thought was going on. I was told by my mother that he was in the hospital and that he would be home soon. In the meantime, my little sister and I stayed at my aunt's house. I want to interject here just how much I grew to love my aunt. The 2 weeks that I spent in her home were awesome. That's really the best word I can use to describe our visit there. Awesome. It was peaceful and fun, with lots of laughing and playing outside with my cousins. There wasn't any screaming, yelling, hitting, drinking, and most of all, there wasn't any hiding. I didn't want to go home; there was so much love and fun in that little house of theirs that I did not want to leave.
I did not learn of the diagnosis that my father received while in the hospital for those 2 weeks until many years later. I do think, however, that my aunts and uncles knew. At least I think they knew. In my opinion, everyone should have been told. My mother should also have told my sister and me. That's what I think, anyway. Everyone should have known; maybe then they would have intervened a little. Even though my father and mother became Christians sometime during my 6th year, much did not change at home. But here is what did change--no more drinking, hitting, swearing, or yelling. No more living in absolute terror. However, here is what did not change — I still lived with an unsettled feeling throughout my entire childhood. I never felt completely safe. It seemed at every turn, my world was pulled out from beneath me. I will share later on as to why I had those feelings as I delve into my later years.
Back to my father's diagnoses--he was diagnosed with manic depression, or better known as bipolar disorder. He had had his first psychotic break at 30 years of age. I thank God that my parents became Christians and that some aspects of my childhood changed. I thank God that I was never sexually abused. I thank God that when I was still so little, He gave me a portion of scripture to hang on to--
I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Yes, I am unashamedly an optimist. I have so much to be thankful for that this thankful heart of mine far overshadows the memories of my past. And yet, I have had to spend a lifetime grappling with layer upon layer of scar tissue. Had I been told of my father's illness as a child, I believe I would have been able to forgive him at a much younger age. Yes, the word "forgiveness" has just popped up. God has had to help me with much forgiveness.
As God leads me, I will write about each of those layers, how He has revealed them to me and healed me. He has shown me that all those many layers of scar tissue have made me who I am today.
But first, I just wanted to use the clinical term--bipolar disorder. It is nothing to be ashamed of. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain. And, it can be controlled via medication. Some, however, have made unwise choices — such as not taking their meds. This, in turn, can lead to turmoil within a home. This is the case of my childhood home. Living with a parent with a mental disorder was not easy. Living with a parent who pretended it didn't exist wasn't easy. And, as I said before, had I only known--how much different all of our lives could have been.
I hate secrecy. I love truth and honesty. I believe that the truth truly does set us free. And as with any illness, we need to surround that person with love and understanding. So, in sharing, I am hoping to bring about healing and restoration--between my entire family and anyone who suffers from this disorder. I hope that you stick with me in the near future as I peel back layer after layer, a little bit at a time, and that you learn along with me. The first part of this peeling away of scar tissue is just saying it, or in this case, writing it out loud. The secret, if there ever was one, is now out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
I am forever indebted to whoever created/invented the internet, Facebook, and any other media that helped me find my old friends . And by ol... -
Today is a hard day. I have them often. Hard days. Days when no matter how much I try to hold in the tears, they come anyway. I tell my da...
-
I first met him 25 years ago. We began attending a new church after moving to Ohio. We wanted one with a good youth and college-age minist...