Uncategorized – Page 9 – All The Glitter and Grace

February 2, 2016August 5, 2018

Cartwheels and Muscle Memory

I’ve only recently heard about a thing called muscle memory. If you are a fitness buff or a weight-lifter then you are probably all to familiar with this term. Basically, and I’m sure I’m going to WAY over-simplify this, muscle memory is when your body learns to do a specific task so well that you don’t have to think about it. Building muscle memory saves time and energy because you simply do the task and don’t have to stop and figure it out. Some examples of using muscle memory might include riding a bike or typing on a keyboard. Fitness people can grow their muscles (and their muscle memory) by lifting similar weight sizes until it’s not a big deal any more. And then they lift more weight. It’s how those P90X people do all those heart-pounding moves and make it look effortless. They’ve done it a million times and now their bodies just do it. And it looks smooth. Where I look like I’m having a seizure.

When I was a little girl I was not very graceful. It took me forever to learn to ride a bike because my balance was slightly off and my fear base was more than slightly off. When all my friends were doing cartwheels on the playground I stood by pretending to be the judge, giving them all perfect 10’s. When I was in about third grade my mom suggested I take a gymnastics class so that I wouldn’t feel so out of place with the other girls and maybe, as a bonus, I could gain a bit of gracefulness.

I learned to do a cartwheel right away because that was really all I cared about. Anybody can do a forward roll and only the girls with grand visions of cheerleading needed to learn the fancier flips. I needed a cartwheel so I learned a cartwheel.

A lot of thought goes into learning a cartwheel. At least I required a lot of thought. It didn’t feel natural to fling myself towards the ground. Being upside down felt wrong. But the more cartwheels I did the better I got at cartwheels. They became smooth and dare I say, pretty. I could do them fast, whipping my legs over my head. I could do them slow, with ballerina type precision. I could do a long string of them across my yard, becoming dizzy and falling into the grass. Cartwheels were my jam.

I’m not sure when I did my last cartwheel. I’d imagine it was some time in high school, but maybe after. I never mad a decision to stop. There was no proclamation stating, “Today is the day I stop cartwheeling!” I suppose there just stopped being opportunity or need. My experience has shown that adulting rarely requires cartwheels, which is a little sad if you think about it. Maybe your experience is different. Maybe you do cartwheels every morning. I’m not sure I could do a cartwheel today if I tried. If I stood in my office right now and put some serious thought into it…maybe. But my fear base of cartwheeling is great again – like it was when I was little. What if I fall? Or pull something? Falling is less of a deal when you are 7 than 38. I feel pretty sure the injury would be greater and then I’d have to go to work and explain that I’m in a sling or a cast because I failed at cartwheeling. I can only imagine Pastor Al’s face. While I have a touch of sadness that cartwheels will most likely only exist in my past, I’m also mostly okay with that fact.

I recently lost my assistant. She’s not hiding somewhere. I know where she is and she’s still my friend, so it’s cool. She just doesn’t assist me anymore. Her family supposedly needed her more than I do – which I believe I could have argued if they had just come to my office. Family is the most important thing though so I sent her off with my blessing. I was sad, but I still blessed. I quickly realized, however, that I had lost some muscle memory for a few things. Actually a lot of things. Okay, all the things. My personality lends to more dreaming, visioning, casting of ideas. The details of how to make those things happen can easily overwhelm and paralyze me. Last week was spent making lists and notes in the hopes that I could get a handle on things before they tumbled down hill. I still have the vision but now I need to make the copies to pass out. I managed but in a wild haired, frothing at the mouth, drinking too much coffee sort of way.

Yesterday I woke up and put my big girl panties on. January was crazy enough (I had pneumonia) and February is going to be better. It has to be. I need to build back some muscle memory for organization, list making, and task busting. I worked for a thousand years without an assistant so I know I can make it work again…for a little while. I’m still totally looking for a new assistant. But in the meantime I’m looking fear in the face and saying, “Bring it, Sucka!” I’ve got my planner open, I’m making notes, I’m moving forward.

Moving forward is the key, whether it’s in cartwheels or life. Fear wants to creep in and tell us that there’s no way. Fear wants us to stop, dig a hole, and climb in. But that’s not God’s plan for us. He has created us to be over-comers. The same God who overcame death is living inside of me right now; He’s inside of you. We all get knocked down but He is there beside us saying, “Give me your hand. I’ve got this.” What has knocked you down recently? I know some of you have been pummeled by some pretty huge things. I’m praying for you this morning. Let’s get up together, find a soft hill, and start with some forward rolls, shall we? And when we get comfortable with the feeling of being upside down again maybe we kick up our heels and do a cartwheel. And maybe, just maybe, on our way over, when our feet are flying through the air with the greatest of ease, we kick fear right in the throat and tell it to back off. What do you say?

January 21, 2016August 5, 2018

Practical Applications of Platters and Silver

I watched a video this morning from a beautiful writer for whom I have great admiration. She’s offering an online course in writing and I’ve literally been lapping up all the information like a kitten starved for milk. Every video, post, piece….I read and watch ravenously. I’ve been very sick for a couple weeks with pneumonia though and have been sleeping a lot. The past couple of days I’ve been pushing my stamina a bit, trying to build strength back from a place of deep depletion. After a short trip to the grocery I came home and collapsed on the couch with the laptop to catch up on my instruction.

Her words rang loud and crisp and clear – “Always leave your reader with practical application.” She spoke of hungry readers and the duty to feed them with substance and good nutrition on a beautiful plate with polished silver. While I see great truth in her words and frankly, they are not new words for me to hear, I wanted to throw up. So. Much. Pressure.

I shut my laptop and thought, “Well, I’m done then. I have no words of substance. I have no lovely platters. I don’t even own silver.”

And then I took a nap.

When I woke an hour later I reached for my Step Study books. Pneumonia had left me behind on homework and I don’t like to be behind in anything…especially Step Study.

Lesson 19: Grace

“‘My grace is enough for you. When you are weak, my power is made perfect in you.’ So I’m very happy to brag about my weakness. Then Christ’s power can live in me. For this reason I am happy when I have weaknesses, insults, hard times, sufferings, and all kinds of troubles for Christ. Because when I’m weak, then I am truly strong.” (2 Corinthians 12:9-10)

Part of living in grace is forgiving others. Part of living in grace is forgiving myself. Loving myself. Believing that I am loved by God so much that he not only offers me forgiveness for my sins but that he offers gifts, talents, and beautiful platters. If I can accept God’s forgiveness then why is it so hard to believe that he would also give other good things? Why do I wallow in the weakness, not seeing the strong arms passing me silver?

I said earlier this month that I want my focus word this year to be “fierce grace” and here is God saying, “Yep. It really does apply to you. I am enough and I’ll give you enough.”

I put so much pressure on myself to be everything for everyone and when I can’t be the best – the prime rib on the beautiful platter – I tend to shut up shop and go home. I have lived with the belief that it is better to not try than to disappoint and give fluff. This is not living in grace. That is not what fierce grace looks like at all. That is certainly not trusting that my Heavenly Father has good plans for me and wants me to use my gifts to bring him glory.

“Come. Let’s talk some more about this matter,” says the Lord. “Even though your sins are bright red, they will be as white as snow. Even though they are deep red, they will be white like wool. But you have to be willing to change and obey me. If you are, you will eat the best food that grows on the land. You must obey me. You must obey me.” (Isaiah 1:18-20)

Pressing into the gifts God gives us brings him glory. Shutting down gifts God has given us because we feel they aren’t as good as our perception of the gifts he’s given others slaps him in the face.

I have a gift for communication. It is a passion of mine and I love it. People claim to enjoy my methods of communication. I have a responsibility to learn more about communicating. I must practice. I must learn. I must hone in on what would make me a better communicator in speech, writing. dancing….okay, not dancing. Dancing is not my gift. But the rest, yes. When I communicate, especially about God’s love and grace, it brings glory to his kingdom.

When I look at fabulous speakers like Lysa Terkeurst, Jen Hatmaker, or Shauna Niequist I am tempted to say, “I’ll never be that good. They have said all the words. They’ve reached all the people. I should curl up and quit.” The gremlins in my ear tell me to throw my laptop away and never communicate again.

Then there are the gremlins that like to remind me of all my sins. The time I gossiped, the ugly words I said that time, the stupid text I sent to the wrong person and hurt her feelings….how could I ever be a person who communicates truth when I’m such a screw up? I should throw my laptop and my phone away. I suck at communication.

This is the exact opposite of fierce grace. Not embracing God’s goodness, comparing myself to others, not forgiving myself…it’s ugly. It’s so very ugly.

I think this is where the practical application comes in.

“After you have borne these sufferings a very little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to share his eternal splendor through Christ, will himself make you whole and secure and strong.” (1 Peter 5:10)

This is the point where I got on my knees and asked for forgiveness. I asked God to forgive me for shirking my calling and for comparing my gifts. I asked him to give me the strength to shut out the gremlins that whisper lies. I asked him to help me forgive myself for the wrongs I have committed and asked him to stir in the hearts of people I have asked forgiveness from and have yet to give it. I want to give grace to others and to myself. I want to live in the grace he has given me. I want to do it with fierceness.

I want this for you too, dear reader. God gives us ALL good things. We all have a platter and silver with which we can serve the Kingdom. Your platter and my platter probably look completely different. How boring would it be if they all looked the same? Let’s press into where he’s leading us. Let’s lean on forgiveness – both to give and to receive. Let’s revel in who He has created us to be. Let’s get out our silver and use it!

January 11, 2016August 5, 2018

Half of 38 is 19

Last week I was helping my son with a word problem on his math homework. Y’all 4th grade math is just about my limit. After this grade, I pay for tutoring. Word problems can be so lame though. Like I need to know that Jenny loves pancakes to add her apples and bananas together. And who buys bananas in singles? Whatever. I was sitting with him, talking him through the rationalization of the problem and I said, “Okay, dude. We just have to figure out how many times 2 goes into 38.”

This is where my spaghetti brain unraveled. 38. I’m 38. Half of 38 is 19. Wait. What? Half of 38 is 19.

I was nineteen when my mom died. That means this year, my 38th year, she will have been gone from my life for an equal amount of time as she was in my life. We were mother/daughter for 19 1/2 years before her suicide. I’ve had almost 19 years without her. Had I known how hard adulting would be or how much I’d miss her I surely would’ve soaked up more wisdom from her before I knew I was out of time. Like how to rip out a septic tank or make gravy. So maybe not the septic tank thing. I don’t have one. But she did that. For sure gravy though. I suck at gravy. Time is something you rarely appreciate until it is gone. Just like gravy.

Huh.

I was nineteen when Princess Diana died. Mother Theresa, too. Not that either one of those people meant a great deal to me but I sobbed like I was a member of the royal family twice removed. I’m sure because of the grief I was already trudging through, but frankly, watching those young boys march behind their mother’s casket wagon just about did me in for a week. That was half a lifetime ago.

I was nineteen when I got my first bank loan. I was on my own. Adulting was hard. But I pulled up my bootstraps and did what needed to be done. I was so scared. I’d like to go back and give that girl a hug.

I was nineteen when I first learned that family doesn’t have to be blood. My mom’s best friend scooped me up that year and cared for me in ways I will never be able to fully grasp. She loved me in reach-out-and-touch-it ways. She got me a job and then bought me work clothes. She grabbed my boot straps when I didn’t have the strength.

I was nineteen when I went on my first date with Charlie. We were both nineteen and the world seemed big and crazy and full of opportunity. It also seemed scary and hard and cold and I was so glad I found him. We made terrible decisions together and apart but we learned and made better ones the next time. That’s what nineteen is for. Bounding and learning and growing. I knew immediately he was worth holding onto though and I did…for dear life. Sometimes I held so tightly that he couldn’t even breath. I probably smothered him more than I care to admit that year. He kept coming back though and it was for my gravy.

The funny thing my spaghetti brain realized in that post-math problem moment was that as I count the years I have been without my mom I wrack up years with the love of my life. Grief and love collided in big ways that year. We are adding birthdays and holidays and Tuesdays…more together than apart. I love that. We’ve had so many good times, times of laughter and joy. We’ve had so many opportunities for growth, situations that have been hard learned lessons. We’ve sang and we’ve danced and we’ve screamed and we’ve cried. That’s a lot for nineteen years but I want more.

I want more snuggles on the couch in front of the fire with funny movies on the television. I want more bike rides. I want more floating afternoons in the pool with Bon Jovi blaring on the outdoor speakers. I want more pots of chili with pans of thick cornbread. That’s what 38 is for. And 42. And 68. And 77. And…

Time is tricky. Some days it lulls you into thinking you have plenty while other days you look back and wonder where it all went. I know lots of you will attest to that. I can attest to that. That’s another lesson I learned at 19. And then again at 38. And I imagine I’ll keep learning it for the rest of my life.

Oh, and Jenny had 19 bananas.

January 4, 2016January 4, 2016

Fierce Grace

I’ve made a lot of resolutions over the years. I’ve kept a few but mostly…not so much. They have generally centered around fitness and I have a tendency to start strong and fizzle around March. So this year I decided to do something different. I am embracing. I am embracing who God has made me to be.

What does that look like though? How do I define that in a way that I can work toward a specific place of goal? Is there a word or phrase to wrap that up into a neat little package? The word fierce has been rolling around my consciousness lately. Fierce. I am fierce? Is that even a thing? Could God call me to be fierce? I had more questions than answers so I went to Google. That’s what I do with all my questions.

fierce (firs) – adjective. having or displaying an intense or ferocious aggressiveness. (of a feeling, emotion, or action) showing a heartfelt and powerful intensity.

The definition didn’t feel right to me. I know I can be intense and I’ve been told I’m a lot my whole life but fierce? Could I be fierce? Could that truly be who God has made me to be?

As I pondered the word I thought of tropical storms, hurricanes, and Nike commercials. None of those felt right. My hair can withstand a tropical storm and I’m sure Nike is looking for overweight blondes who ride yellow beach cruisers but still… I wondered why I was still wrestling the word. I’d heard of the thing last year where people were picking a word for the year instead of making resolutions so of course, I googled and found the web site. It suggested that your “one word” be less about the person you don’t want to be anymore and more about who you want to become.

YES!

This was what I needed. I don’t want to run away from anything. I want to run towards my purpose. It fell right in with my desire to embrace who God wants me to be. As I looked at the list of suggested words, grace was popping off the page.

grace (ɡrās) –noun. simple elegance or refinement of movement. (in Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.

Of course I want to always live in God’s favor. Of course I want to be simple, elegant, refined… But fierce continued to be bouncing around my brain.

Fierce Grace? It’s technically two words but maybe one word isn’t enough.

Could that be a thing? As I sat in front of the fireplace this morning, watching the sun light slide in over the tree tops I realized that fierce grace is most definitely a thing and its’ exactly what God is calling me to.

Quick to forgive…others and myself.

Love deeply….those around me and myself.

Look for the best in others…and myself.

Fierce Grace. I intend to wrestle what that looks like in my life and how God wants me to walk that out daily. How do I forgive and yet maintain healthy boundaries? Can I learn to love my body while taking steps to make it healthy? How will I show love to the people in my home/neighborhood/workplace? Can I learn to give the benefit of the doubt without being taken for a ride? I believe this is what fierce grace looks like and it’s what I want to embrace.

Do you have a word? A characteristic? What is God calling you to embrace this year?

December 14, 2015December 14, 2015

Christmas Is My Jam

I’m totally consumed by Christmas this time of year. The tree, the lights, the baking…all of it. I love the candles of Advent and the carols announcing the new born king. I breathe glitter and vanilla and plastic snowflakes. Christmas is my jam.

I’ve had an uneasiness today, though. The glitter is up, the tree is lit, and the songs are playing. The plastic snowflakes are dangling from the deco-mesh and the Advent log is perched upon the family devotional. All the pieces are in place but my heart is lagging. I find myself flinching at the crowds and fleeing from the noise. I want to snuggle on the couch with a quilt, turn on White Christmas, and shut the world out.

Last week was all about fellowship. Almost every night was crowded with people I love doing activities I adore. I was honored to speak at the Christmas Tea at our church on two nights while Charlie and I hosted the staff Christmas party Friday. We had friends over for dinner. So many people, so many laughs…my heart was oozing.

Love. Joy. Happiness.

That was last week. Today feels empty. Today the crowds were hurried and hectic. There was not enough room in the store and the clerks were less than patient. The stops were plenty and the shoes, while cute, were uncomfortable.

Rushed. Tired. Drained.

Why do I put this pressure on myself this time of year? Not every moment has to be an excerpt from a Hallmark Classic. I don’t have to sneeze sparkles. I love the parties. I feed off time with my people – throw in a great bottle of wine and a scrumptious dessert? Win. But I have to learn to balance. I am gaining a new sense of the mind/body balance I need to stay healthy both physically and emotionally. This mean choosing to balance water with wine and veg with cheese. It means turning off the television and radio from time to time and sitting in the silence of the twinkling tree. Balance means saying no even when I’m tempted to say yes. Yes to some things is fun. Yes to all the things empties my heart and steals my joy. Even extroverts need a break from time to time. Focusing on the tasks and lists drains me. My heart leans toward full when I take time to see God in all the moments instead of rushing through the day like a maniac with a gel-penned list.

So balance tonight means pouring a big, bulbous glass….of water. It means lighting the fire and putting my feet up. The wrapping can wait. Maybe I’ll savor a piece of fudge. (Come on…I’m drinking water!) I’ll put on some comfy socks and rest in the knowledge that whether or not my gingerbread men get baked Jesus will still be on the throne. If every last light blows out on my tree He will still be LORD. If none of my lists get finished tonight I can still lay my head on my pillow knowing that God loves me so much he sent his one and only Son to be my Savior. And with that knowledge I will wake up tomorrow and Christmas will again be my jam.

November 30, 2015August 5, 2018

Extravagance from a Barn

“Getting over a painful experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward.” – C.S. Lewis

I became an orphan after my mom’s suicide. There were lots of reasons for this and truthfully, most could never be fully explained. It just happened and I was alone. The peace I have come to, however, after almost 19 years, is that pointing fingers gets you nowhere. Every soul grieves in it’s own way and even within family we don’t always agree on what the way should be. People need space to process, to understand, to breathe. Each heart touched by tragedy has it’s own cracks, it’s own scars. We all experience the story from a different seat and judging the point of view you can’t see from your angle is madness. It’s a waste of time. It serves no greater good.

This weekend I experienced nothing short of a miracle. I prayed a simple prayer for over 18 years.

“God, show me where I came from.”

My previous knowledge of my family had come from a child’s view; the stories I knew by heart heard through the ears of a small girl. I wanted to look into eyes that were my eyes. I wanted to touch skin that was my skin. My heart learned to identify itself with a heavenly father. I made peace with a wrestling that tied me to an eternal home and an angelic clan. Yet even still, I wanted flesh and bones to cling to.

“God, show me where I came from.”

This yearning is the fertile soil that a passion for family ministry grew from. It’s the place I tilled and planted and cared for my husband and my own children. I wanted, no needed, people to call my own.

My husband’s family scooped me up and adopted me as one of their clan. They call me daughter, granddaughter, sister, cousin, niece. I love them every minute of every day for the gracious ways they have loved me. They have loved me well. Yet I still prayed.

“God, show me where I came from.”

I wanted the connection again. I wanted to walk in a yard where generations had gone before me. I wanted to sit under a blanket stitched with loving hands that looked like mine. I wanted the recipes. I wanted to laugh at the inside jokes. I wanted the knowing glances and the finished sentences.

And then the call came.

A weekend gathering. A meal. A barn. My people. They called me and invited me home.

We ate and we laughed and I sat with Grand Daddy, who at 97 is sharper than many people half his age. He patted my hand and said he was so sorry for wasted years, time lost, decisions made in anger. Aren’t we all? My kids snuggled in hay with other great-grandchildren and surrounded him. All of them were only slightly aware of the history, the stories, the joy and the pain. They smiled, not all-together sure how the DNA connected them, how their eyes matched.

His children sat with him, smiling, missing two. One because of work, one because of death. They, the carriers of the stories, smiling through pain and gladness, survivors of their own right, moving forward; letting go.

“God, show me where I came from.”

God answered. And as he is accustomed to doing, he answered in the biggest and grandest of ways. There was a barn and a fire and a swing. There were stumps to sit on and turkey to eat. There was laughter and tears and hugging and clinging. There were questions and answers and knowing. There was healing. There was so much healing in that barn. I heard stories with fresh ears. I learned new pieces of history, pieces a child couldn’t have known. I leaned in and was embraced. I realized I was never an orphan, only a missing child. I have been found.

It was when I finally made peace with being without that God surprised me with a gift. I never gave up on asking but had come to be okay with the answer being negative. God is so faithful. He is so loving and he is so good. He is extravagant in the gifts he gives. As we enter this season of Advent, this time of waiting, I think about the people who prayed for hundreds of years for a word from God; an answer. They prayed to be connected. And then there was a barn where He displayed extravagance. This God of love couldn’t stand his people being separated from him by sin and they needed a Savior. He sent his one and only Son, not as a mighty warrior in a palace, but as a baby who needed a family. The one who would save the world came as a helpless child; a baby w ho needed touch and skin and love. A baby born into family.

I pray that you would hear the story fresh this year; that your heart would be fertile soil for beauty to grow. I pray that you would not give up on asking God for new revelation, new connections, and new perspective. I pray that you would see wounds heal and scars fade. I pray that you would know where you came from and know how to move forward. I pray you too, will experience extravagance from a barn.

November 20, 2015

Surviving the Holidays Without Punching Someone in the Throat

Today marks the last day of school for my kids before the holiday kick off. When they walk out of the school doors today they will be in full on holiday mode. They have the entire week off for Thanksgiving, Advent begins the following Sunday, and then Christmas, quickly followed by New Year and Epiphany. It’s one great big bundle of celebration and I love it. I love the food. I love the lights. I love the holiness of the days. I. Love. This. Time. Of. Year.

But with all the excitement comes great expectations. Expectations that I build in my mind. Expectations my family has built into their minds. Expectations from every place, everywhere, in every one. I want the table to be set just right. I want the ribbon to match the paper. I want the lights to twinkle at just the right speed…not too fast, this isn’t a disco, but not too slow. I like the house to smell a certain way. My kids want me to bake their favorite cookie. I want them to help me decorate a gingerbread house.

My Expectations are fine if they are reasonable. The problem that sneaks in with expectations is when I have them and don’t let anyone know what they are. The problem is when I expect too much from people, places, and events. When I drop the ball on communication expectations can be let down quickly.

Part of working a healthy recovery program is being prepared for situations. Every year I read everything I can get my hands on that deals with preparing you heart and mind for the holidays. This year I decided to wrap up some of my favorite tips and strategies for surviving the holidays without punching someone in the throat. “Wow!” you may think, “that escalated quickly!” I realize jumping from handling appropriate expectations to punching someone may seem like a far leap. Clearly then, you have not spent a Thanksgiving with me.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

“But I’m not in recovery,” you may now be thinking. Read on anyway. Everyone needs some recovery at Christmastime. We all need a little help in coping.

Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. One on the key pieces of recovery is to have an “attitude of gratitude” and while it may sound hokey, it helps. I promise. When you start to feel like a white pin standing at the end of an alley and life is rolling at you full speed, spinning hard and fast, ready to knock you down….stop. Take a deep breath. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. With each breath you exhale whisper one thing you are thankful for. Aim for at least three things but more is certainly a good deal. It turns your focus from what you don’t have to what you do. And you have a lot.
Shut down Facebook or the other places that tempt you to compare your everyday life to someone else’s online presence. This is the time of year we Instagram our cookies and our pies and our shiny new wreath. It’s okay. They are beautiful and we love them and we want to share them. We all do it. But realize that those family pictures are staged. Know that woman didn’t wake up looking like that and her kids have just as many boogers as yours. No ones life looks (at least not every moment of every day) like the Christmas card they send you. No pie started out pretty. Everyone makes a mess wrapping presents. No picture is as perfect as it seems.
Serve. Serve others. Not in a way that makes you crazy because you are serving hot cider and cocoa at your Pinterest worthy cocoa bar. I mean seek out a place or a group of people in need. Adopt a family or an individual from an angel tree. One of the best ways to take the focus off your own worries or struggles is to check out the path someone else is walking today. Studies have shown over and over again that kids have a healthier self focus when the focus is turned outward. Put some money in the red bucket. Donate time at a shelter or soup kitchen. Serving and giving changes your outlook on more than the holidays; it changes your outlook on life.
Difficult feelings will arise. It’s almost a guarantee. You will miss your loved one. Someone will be insensitive. Sit in the discomfort for just a moment and ask yourself what you’re really feeling. Are you sad? Are you angry? Are you hurt? Confused? Name the emotion. Claim the feeling. Know that feelings aren’t facts, they’re feelings. Talk to someone you trust; someone who is safe. This isn’t the time to share with your sister who judges your every move. Talk to a pastor, a counselor, a sponsor, or someone who will speak gentle truth in love. This is when we are tempted to drink, eat, shop, watch….or whatever your coping mechanism is. We want to bury the uncomfortable and pretend it’s not there. It is. Burying it with eggnog does not make it go away. And burying those feelings day after day means that they will pop up when you least expect them; when it’s very inconvenient. It will probably look like you punching your mother-in-law in the throat because she asked where you keep your Windex. This is another time you may want to try the deep breathing technique. Breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. With each exhalation whisper a Godly truth. Whisper something that is the opposite of the uncomfortable feeling you”re fighting. “I am a child of God.” “God loves me unconditionally.” “God gave his Son for ME!”
Self care is important now more than ever. Sleep is necessary. Lots of water is so healthy. There are sweets everywhere. Have a bite…not all the bites. But don’t get hangry (so hungry you are angry). No one makes smart choices or stays rational when they’re hangry. Those Snickers commercials are funny because they’re true. Make sure to get enough protein. And exercise. Go for a walk, take a jog, ride a bike. Exercise is key when you want to punch someone in the throat. Take a breath, clench your fist, and walk out the door. Going for a walk or jog or ride is a great time to pray. Tell God your frustrations and ask him to show you your part of the situation. With each step you take you push the negative energy out and let God scoop it up. He’s glad to take it from you. He wants to take it from you. You will be better equipped to deal with difficult people and hard situations if you are caring for the physical aspects of your body.
Take conscious and intentional steps to focus your heart on the reason for the season. God loved us so much that he gave his one and only son that whoever would believe in him would not perish but have eternal life (john 3:16). That’s it. God loves you. He loves you so much that he gave the life of his son for you. He wants a relationship with you in the deepest, most honest, and most vulnerable ways. We wants to help you bake a turkey. He’ll sit with you while you wrap gifts. He’ll throw on his jogging shoes and hit the trails with you. Talk to him. He loves that. He loves you.

So here’s to great turkey, perfectly sweet sugar cookies, deep breathing, and no punching of anyone’s throat.

November 17, 2015November 17, 2015

There Are So Many Things I Won’t Miss About Frank

There are a lot of things I won’t miss about Frank.

I won’t miss his hair being everywhere. I won’t miss how it would explode from his body with the slightest move and billow like a brown cloud if he sneezed. I won’t miss not being able to walk through my living room without socks because the hair would coat them and pierce my toes. Do you know how dog hair feels when it pierces your toe? I won’t miss that.

I won’t miss finding hair on the furniture because he was sneaky and got on the couch to snuggle with one of the kids. That hair would get in the crevices and couldn’t be cleaned. Some of it would wipe out but not all of it. My couches will forever have some hair in the deepest parts of the cushions.

I won’t miss finding a bed covered in hair because he crept past the baby gate we kept on the stairs to slide into bed with the kids. He loved the warmth of their covers and curling up with Seth or Shelby was just about his favorite thing on earth; especially on a stormy night. But you might as well through away a comforter where he slept. That hair is never coming out.

I won’t miss him sneezing in my face. He liked to get up close to sniff me and love on me….and sneeze on me. He would blow snot on my face, on my shirt, on the furniture where I sat, on the walls. Oh, the walls. I won’t miss finding a string of snot on the wall, or the kitchen cabinet, or the windows, or the ceiling fan. I don’t know how it happened. Actually, I do. He always, always, always had a long string of drool hanging from his lip. Always. the gooey, slimy, disgusting snot would fling to the nether regions of the house. I won’t miss that.

But I will miss seeing him fall asleep in front of the fireplace. I will miss him sun bathing on the back patio. I will miss him sitting on the rug in the kitchen with his tail dancing behind him, swatting the ground impatiently, waiting for dinner. I will miss the way he would try to squeeze under the breakfast table when it was thundering. I will miss how he would get between the kids and strangers to protect them. I will miss the way he would whine and pace around the pool while we swam, so worried that we were facing incredible danger. Either that or he was upset we were dirtying his water bowl. We never figured that out for certain.

There are so things I won’t miss about Frank. But for every reason I won’t miss him there are twice as many why I will. Having a pet is like having a bonus member of your family. Having a gentle giant like Frank changes the dynamics of your family entirely. He was our protector and our friend. He was a bringer of joy and carrier of peace. He made us laugh and smile and yesterday, he made us cry.

Farewell, my sweet friend. You gave us seven and a half years of love and we will love you for all of our lives.

November 6, 2015

Yeah, That’s God

“Mom, can I talk to you in private?”

Seth was home sick for two days this week and we’d had a lot of one-on-one time. The sudden intrusion of Dad and Sister seemed to be overwhelming him. He was fresh from the shower and as much as I will it to happen, that baby fresh scent disappeared long ago. He just smells like a boy, albeit a clean boy when shower is done. He was clean and ready for bed but wanted to talk.

We walked into my bedroom and, after shutting the door, he climbed to the middle of my bed. I knew it was serious.

“How come I don’t see miracles in my life?”

Whoa. This was clearly deeper than I expected. In our two days of sick leave we had discussed Legos, Star Wars, pizza, and why we both hate shots but have accepted them as necessary. The miracle question caught me off guard.

“Tell me more.”

(This is a great little piece to slide into any conversation when you have no idea where it’s going.)

“Like Moses. I’m really intrigued with his life. God did miracles with Moses and people knew that God was real. Like the time Moses threw his staff on the ground and it turned into a snake but then it turned right back into a staff. And the plagues. I mean, I don’t want plagues, but they were big and God protected Moses and his people. I want to see some miracles like that.”

Seth has always had a huge love for the Bible. He received an “Action Bible” a couple years back. It’s the graphic novel version of The Word. He reads it every night and has read it cover to cover many times over.

“Mom, I don’t think God does miracles like that anymore and I don’t understand why.”

Okay. Deep breath. The boy is open to listen….here’s your chance….

“Well, I know it sometimes seems that God doesn’t do big miracles like that but I believe he still does miracles every day. We just have to open our eyes and ears to be aware of them. Like this week when you got so sick. I asked lots of people to pray for you and then we went to the doctor and you got a shot. You felt better in a couple of hours. That was a miracle. If you hadn’t had the shot you would probably still feel terrible.”

He crumpled his forehead and I continued…”God answers our prayers all the time. Sometimes he says “yes” and sometimes he says “no” but he’s always listening and protecting us.”

“No, Mom, I know he hears us. I want to see a miracle. I want to SEE something. I’d really like it if God could do something big on the playground or at recess. I don’t know how to tell people about God so they know he’s really real. I can talk about the Bible but it’s a book and my friends know it’s a book. If God could just give me something big when I’m with my friends then I could say,”Yeah, that’s God.””

I hugged him and told him to just start asking God for exactly that.

“Sweetie, if your heart’s desire is that your friends know that God is really real, then start asking God for that to be true. God wants your friends to know that he’s really real. He may not give you a burning bush but he will give you words and opportunity.”

“But what if I don’t know what to say?”

This kid is killing me.

“Pray that God will give you words to say when you need to say them and that he will shut your mouth when you don’t need to say anything. I pray that prayer all the time.”

He hugged me and ran to play with his dinosaurs, not even realizing that I had just seen a miracle.

This is that whole thing Jesus talked about. It’s why he hushed the disciples and said that the children were welcome at his side. Kids get it. Kids understand that people need Jesus and that some people need to see him show up big. There is wonder and amazement in the heart of a child and they know instinctively that the kingdom is mighty and awesome.

I don’t know where it is along the way that grown ups lost the amazement. When did we stop praying for miracles? Not selfish miracles that only benefit ourselves but the kind that point people to Jesus. Maybe I need to start praying bolder prayers. It’s possible that as I’ve aged, I’ve forgotten how big God can be. I want to pray for burning bushes and transformations and protection from plagues. I want to pray it, not just because it’s cool, but because I can point and say, “Yeah, that’s God.”

October 31, 2015October 31, 2015

I Have Run the Race

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. -2 Timothy 4:7

I used to be a runner. Scratch that. I used to be a sprinter. The word “runner” conjures up the idea of people who lace up sneakers and hit the trail for miles upon miles. I did not do that. When I was young, I’m talking Junior High young, I was a sprinter. I ran the 100 m, 200 m, the 4x100m, and the 4x200m. I was fairly fast when I was 12. Fast enough to qualify for State but not fast enough to win. I have really long legs for a gal of 5’1″ (which I reached at age 12) and I have been blessed with my mother’s calves. My calves have incredible strength. Strong calves make for great sprinting.

I loved Track and Field in those days. I actually still love it. It’s my favorite Olympic sport to watch. I loved training and knowing that every practice out of the blocks would make me faster on meet day. I loved watching our coach stand at the finish line with her stopwatch. I hated when she said, “That’s not enough, Duckworth, you’re gonna have to give it more gas” and I lived for the times she’d say,”That’ll get you a win, Duckworth.” There were no other Tamara’s on my team but I loved that she called me “Duckworth” like I was a real athlete.

And there it is.

Like. I. Was. A. Real. Athlete.

I joined the track team in 7th grade. I went to all the practices. I had both home and away uniforms, plus a sweatsuit. I had my own spikes. I had blocks assigned to me. A set that they duct taped my name on the underside so no one would mess with the setting. I had two coaches who knew my name and took time every day to time me, train me, and help me grow as an athlete. I ran in races by myself and with relay teams. I won ribbons and trophies and was even in the local paper a few times. “Duckworth Advances to State” was an actual title. I have it in a shoe box in my closet so I can go look at it if I want. It’s a little yellow but it’s real.

So why all the doubt? Why did I worry that one day someone would find me out for the fraud I was? Why did I never accept myself as an athlete?

I had lunch with my friend Karen a few months ago. We hadn’t seen each other in ages but had reconnected through an online course in blogging. We met up one day to talk it all through. Our hopes, our fears, our doubts, our husbands….well, the husband part was just bonus conversation, but we discovered something funny that day. Not funny ha-ha. Funny sad. Each one of us felt strongly that God had put a burning desire in our hearts to write and speak. Both of us were writing and speaking. We both had blogs. We both had worked in professional ministry and done ministry on the side. We both had spoken publicly at events in front of actual people. We both had even been paid (on occasion) for these things. Yet as we sat at that table we discovered we both were very leery of calling ourselves writers and speakers.

“Hello, my name is Tamara and I’m a writer. And a speaker.”

It sounded like a lie to me. I couldn’t do it.

But I plugged away. I finished the course. I became more diligent and purposeful about writing. Even when writing was hard. Even when I wasn’t sure my words had value. I sat down, stared at the blinking cursor, and pounded out the posts. I did it because I learned a long time ago that if you never put your feet in the blocks you can never sprint to the finish line. And if you never practice coming out of the blocks you will probably fall flat on your face on race day.

Last month someone in our online support group for Clumsy Bloggers introduced us to the Write 31 Days Challenge. Could I do this? Could I write for a whole month? Every day? That sounds like something a writer might do and I’m not a real writer so probably not.

But you know that pounding that comes in your heart when you’re about to do something crazy? It’s that pulse rate rising feeling you get when your toes are on the edge of the highest diving board at the public pool and all your friends are watching. I had that. And I knew I had to sign up. I had to commit.

I’ve been plugging away all month; churning out posts day in and day out. I missed 2 days. But I wrote all the rest. I wrote because I committed to writing. That’s what writers do. They commit to writing.

Last week I met a woman at a thing and when she asked me what I do I looked her directly in the eye and said, “I’m the director of children’s ministry at my church and I’m a writer.” I didn’t flinch and neither did she.

Today is the final day of the challenge. I faced my fear and I wrote. Some of it was crap, I’m not going to lie. But some of it was good. Some of it was really good. I trusted in the call God gave to my heart and he has been faithful. He’s always faithful. My prayer is that he will continue to nudge and prod me, like a good shepherd does, so I will continue to press on towards the goal of writing and speaking. I want to continue to hone my craft; to be the best I can be, which is why I’ve joined another course. I want to continue to learn from those who have run ahead of me…those who have run a few races and have a few ribbons to show.

Thank you friends, for holding on tight with me this month. It has been exhausting and exhilarating and exhausting. I’m looking forward to taking a few days off, carb loading, and hitting the track again…next week. But I pose the question to you now. What is your thing? What is the thing you’ve been doing but you think you can’t do? What is the burning desire of your heart? Are you standing at the starting line of something big and denying that you are in the race? It’s time to run, my friend. Run like you have purpose and know that I will be at the finish line cheering you every step of the way.

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For a list of all the posts I’ve written this month, the good, the bad, and the ugly….you can click here.