Author name: Tami

Set Free from the Ties that Bind

3 Comments / Healing, Hope, Memories, Praise / /

For God did not give us a spirit of timidity or cowardice or fear, but of power and of love, and of sound judgement and personal discipline (abilities that result in a calm, well-balanced mind and self-control).  ~ 2 Timothy 1:7 {AMP} Today I’m giving myself permission to free-write in my “good journal.” To write whatever comes to mind, as in Dear Diary…and go from there. I know…normally I wouldn’t take such a daring risk without having a specific topic in mind, but I’ve confined myself to patterns of strictness and structure my whole life and today I just want to let go, have fun, live life, and que sera sera (whatever will be, will be)…at least as far as my writing goes. A writing coach once made the suggestion regarding the “good journal” (to actually use it) and had me almost convinced it was a good idea. I know…it boggles the mind! I was “this close” to diving into those special pages that I was saving for the perfect words and the perfectly special day they would arrive. But I decided against it. Deep inside I was thinking, “what if I make a mistake, my hand-writing is bad, I scribble, or accidentally smudge ink globs onto the beautiful paper?” It would all be ruined, never to be my perfect journal again. The gamble was too great. I decided for all non-structured writing and off-the-cuff thoughts, I must stick with the notebook paper I picked up at the dollar store. The last thing I wanted was for the pages of my beautiful, leather-bound journal to fall into the wrong hands…my hands. The paper needed to remain perfectly unblemished, awaiting the fruition of a secret dream, that sometime in the future my elegant penmanship would be found as an old, abandoned journal, pages yellowed with age, the ink (from an inkwell, of course) forming sentences flowing flawlessly across the page in calligraphic style, telling tales of danger and heroism. But how could that be? I didn’t have that journal, or that life, or those words. I only had my life and my words. So…that prompted me to reflect on my own childhood and of being a little girl in 1960s America. Maybe I could find something “there” to write about. So many recollections of growing up bring a smile to my face and warmth to my heart. So much so, it’s even tempting to want to return to those simpler days, but of course that’s not possible. And I almost want to interject here that forward is the only option open to us, but that’s not quite true. Sadly, we can also remain stationary, static…stuck. I’ve actually spent a lot of time there; in the stationary, stuck in the status quo, held hostage by something that at its root is fear. More specifically, it’s a fear of ruination (that’s RUIN-ation not another word referring to using the facilities). Anyway, it begins, shall we say…innocuously; and when you’re five years old just about everything is innocuous. Merriam-Webster defines innocuous as “not likely to give offense or to arouse strong feelings or hostility.” If we were lucky, our little-kid-selves went about each day being little kids. Our job was to play, learn, play some more, eat, sleep, and repeat. Children are sponges. They soak everything up, take everything in, even or especially, the innocuous. And sometimes an internalized, innocuous message lasts a lifetime. Allow me to share a story. One day recently I was thinking about my childhood dolls, what their names were, when I got them and what eventually became of them. There are two or three I gave to my daughter when she was little and they remain with her, but what of the others? I decided to do an Internet search for fun. Not to find my very dolls, but to find their likenesses, if possible. To my delight, I found most of them for sale on vintage resale sites like e-bay and other online sellers, and it’s simply magical how a first glance of an old toy can bring back the sights and sounds of bygone days, or trigger the memory of the unique smell of opening and holding a new doll on the Christmas mornings of yesteryear. I didn’t get dolls throughout the year, so that special “new-doll-smell” is forever married to Christmas in my mind and heart. Anyway, through the miracle of technology I found Baby Boo, who cried whenever her pacifier was taken away, and Snugglebunnie Baby whose name I shortened to simply, Bunnie. Then I came across Baby First Step and Swingy, who weren’t infants but rather, toddler dolls who walked and danced with the power of batteries and pull-strings. That’s when, in my scrolling to peruse images of my childhood treasures (accessories included), I came across the doll I had named “Teeny Baby.” She was petite, hence her name, with milky white skin, rosy cheeks, and strawberry-blonde hair. In the online photo I didn’t recognize the dress she wore as one I’d ever owned or seen before, but something else was amiss and the more I studied her image, the more I knew this Teeny Baby lacked something. I looked closer: her hair was exactly the right color as though blonde locks were stained gently by red berries, her porcelain cheeks kissed by angels, and the pink pout of her lips as perfect as a freshly-born babe. She was beautiful. But she was different. This was a close likeness of my Teeny Baby…and yet she wasn’t her. “She’s exactly the same doll, so what is different?” I studied her carefully, not able to put my finger on it. Then it hit me. This doll’s hair, while still tidy and obviously well-cared-for after many decades, was loose and free, just a little mussed. But my Teeny Baby’s hair had been perfect; perfectly coiffed, never a hair out of place…because it was also perfectly contained in parts of her original packaging. A tight, white net

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Weathering Seasons of Change

4 Comments / Change, Harvest, Renewal, Seasons / /

“I will bless My people and their homes around My holy hill. And in the proper season I will send the showers they need. There will be showers of blessing.” ~ Ezekiel 34-26 “There shall be showers of blessing; this is the promise of love; there shall be seasons refreshing, sent from the Savior above. Showers of blessing, showers of blessing we need; Mercy drops ‘round us are falling, but for the showers we plead.” ~ There Shall Be Showers of Blessing ~ Baptist Hymnal 1956 “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under Heaven.” ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1 “To everything, turn, turn, turn, There is a season, turn, turn, turn, And a time to every purpose under Heaven” Turn, Turn, Turn Lyrics – The Byrds ~ 1965   In the mid-1960’s the folk-rock group, The Byrds, made popular a song whose lyrics were taken almost verbatim from the Bible from the book of Ecclesiastes, King James Version, although the sequence was rearranged to fit the melody. When I hear it, I think of seasons of life…past, present and to come…and I reflect on what I’ve learned. Autumn is my favorite season and we are in the throes of its beginning for this current year. I’m not exactly sure why it’s become my favorite over the years, but it has. In fact, for me, there’s something fascinating about the changing of every season that causes me to sit up and take notice. I suppose that Winter into Spring, the shedding of dormancy into new life, is the most obvious seasonal change. After all, what compares to new beginnings and rebirth? Less apparent I think, but not less important, is the morphing of Spring into Summer. This continues the growing season, the time we take advantage of light and warmth to prepare for the colder months ahead. These are the lazy, hazy days of Summer-fun coupled with rest and relaxation; in a very real way, the calm before the storm. We plan, plant, water and nurture, day after day and week after week. We know if we are diligent, a harvest of bounty awaits us at the changing of yet another season, one in which we’ll need the fruits of our Summer labor to carry us through, to sustain us when life is colder, darker, more bleak…a time when it’s up to us to lean on and utilize the provisions with which we’ve been blessed. Whether a harvest of fruits and vegetables ready for preserving, or the blessing of strength and health that permits us to work so we can be warm in winter: Cutting wood for fire, knitting or stitching warm blankets and clothes, or the good health to attend to the work of our employer or business for steady income. After laboring comes our harvest, the yield of blessings we reap from sowing and nurturing during those prior seasons of growth. But “therein lies the rub,” a common phrase reminds us. We have to “make hay while the sun shines” another admonishes. The opportunity to care for ourselves, being good stewards of our resources, may pass us by if we’re not careful to take action. I don’t know about you, but in my depressed (and often anxious) state, this is much easier said than done. So that is the topic that concerns me today; how do we transition during the changing seasons and circumstances of life? Right now I’m doing what is called “writing in process.” It means I don’t have it all figured out and I’m not exactly sure where my words will take me. I’m thinking and writing concurrently. I know there is something deep down that I need to figure out for myself, and maybe help you along the way, but I don’t have the answers just yet. So I’m talking to you as I type, hoping that will help, the way chatting with old friends and baring our souls often leads to seeing challenges in a new light or helps us begin to understand something that, until now, has escaped us. Fall is a slow fade into dormancy…not death, but dormancy. And in times of hardship, that’s the hope because dormancy doesn’t last forever. It will pass. But for now…there’s a meme that floats around social media this time of year that declares, “autumn is about to show us how beautiful it is to let things go.” I don’t know the origins of this phrase, but it is usually accompanied with photos of falling leaves of yellow, orange and red, some being tossed by the wind and others laying in piles beneath barren trees. And every time I scroll across these words, I find myself in awe. It’s such a simple, yet profound truth. And isn’t that the way truth is? It sometimes eludes us, even for long periods of time because maybe, just maybe, we make it too hard. We rack our brains trying to wrap our mind around life’s circumstances, and try as we might, there often seems to be no answer. Then suddenly it’s there. Maybe not a complete answer, but a beginning…somewhere to start. Let go… The simple thought crosses our mind. It’s like a whisper, but from where?  And there is a subtle “knowing” deep in our soul.  “Your ears shall hear a word behind you saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.” (Isaiah 30:21) Let it go… There it is again, a little more emphatically. You feel the muscles in your hands relax as they loosen their grip. You breath quickens and you hear the gentle rustle of the air, as that thing you’ve held tightly to for so long wafts to the ground. Your heart races as it surrenders to change. When that thing…that stubbornly held belief, or the insistence of control over something no longer yours, the toxic habit that was never good for you, or the relationship long since dead…when it hits the ground there isn’t a thud. Instead there’s a

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A Cry for Freedom ~ Part 2

Leave a Comment / Healing, Hope, Restoration / /

“Stand fast in the liberty by which Christ has made us free, and do not be entangled again with a yoke of bondage (slavery).” ~ Galatians 5:1 NKJV ~ “He delivers me from my enemies: You lift me up above those who rise against me; you delivered me from the violent man.” ~ 2 Samuel 22:49 NKJV ~ “He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never sound retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement seat; O be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on! “Glory! Glory hallelujah! Glory! Glory hallelujah! Glory! Glory hallelujah! Our God is marching on!” ~Battle Hymn of the Republic~ It has been said that freedom isn’t free. There is always a price to pay; a cost to be counted. In this imperfect, sometimes downright evil world, being free means an enemy has to be conquered. So who is the enemy? It could be argued there are many different enemies who show up in our life and the course it follows. And while that’s correct, the rock-bottom truth is there is one enemy of this world and the people that inhabit it. Satan is that enemy and he is called the Prince of Darkness (Eph 6:12), The Enemy (Psalm 89:22), The Adversary (1 Peter 5:8), Father of Lies (John 8:44), Evil One (1 John 5:29), Lawless One (2 Thes 2:9), Devil (Rev 12:9-12), (John 8:44), Deceiver (1 John 3:7), Murderer (John 8:44), Tempter (Matt 4:3), Serpent (Gen 3:14-15), Accuser (Rev 12:9), and Beast (Rev 20:10). I hold to a Biblical worldview, and referenced above is scripture that uses these names and descriptions for Satan. It is not complimentary, by any means! At first glance, in the tedious, routine conduction of our daily lives, we might not recognize his menacing ways: the whispers of self-criticism (or hyper-criticism of others) that creep into our thoughts and often set up camp, or the daily struggles that we all experience that might consume us unless we fight back: low esteem, sickness & disease (including physical, mental and emotional pressures), financial difficulties or job loss, divorce, death of a loved one, domestic abuse, addictions, or homelessness. Any of these and more, while they might be part of what we experience in life, can be made worse by the common enemy we all share. His many names are listed above. He is the enemy. But we have victory in Jesus! We are instructed in 1 Peter 5:8 to “Be sober-minded and watchful. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” Yet just prior, in verse seven, we are told, “Give all your worries and cares to God, for He cares for you.” Friend, you do not have to be a slave to the enemy or captured by his advances. He has the power to try to derail your joy, your success, the good things in your life (or use the inevitable unfortunate circumstances of life to make you feel worse), but the truth is, he has already been defeated. He lost at the cross when Jesus, the perfect sacrifice, shed His blood, died and rose to life again. In that act, that battle, Jesus secured our future once and for all time. This world, this earth, this universe has been in a fallen state since mankind first sinned and allowed evil to be brought into creation’s history. And it will still be in a fallen, cursed state until Jesus comes a second time. He came the first time as a baby, a lamb to be sacrificed. That happened, when as an adult, he hung and died on a cross. But when He comes again, it won’t be as a baby, meek and mild. He’s coming as the Lion of Judah, to rid this world of evil and redeem His creation…all of it: the earth and all that is in it, the galaxies with their stars flung to the far reaches of the Universe, and most prized of all, His people…His beloved children…restored to perfection. In the meantime, the bible says in 2 Corinthians 5:17 “Anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!” As a teenager in the 1970s, I first memorized this verse the way the Living Bible Paraphrase puts it: “When someone becomes a Christian, he becomes a brand new person inside. He is not the same anymore. A new life has begun!” Our newness begins in that moment. God no longer sees us as the mish-mash of mistakes that our life has become, but sees us only through the filter of the perfection that is His Son. When we admit we can’t do it on our own, when we put our faith in Jesus and choose Him…to love, to follow, to pattern our very life after…we become brand new in His eyes. We belong to Him; we are His beloved child. We may look the same on the outside, to the physical eye, but we are not the same…we belong to Jesus and that newness of belonging is all that will ever matter. There is freedom in Jesus. The first words in the first sentence of this blog post are “freedom isn’t free.” And it isn’t.  Jesus paid the price with His body and His life. He gave it willingly because He knew that was the cost of freedom…a perfect, sinless sacrifice.  We could never meet that standard of perfection to do it ourselves, even if we wanted to. “God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whoever (you and me) believed in Him would not perish but have everlasting life.” (John 3:16)  It cost God His Son, it cost Jesus His life, so that we could have His Holy Spirit save us (rescue us) from tormenting captivity. The Bible says this is the free gift of God, and not something any human could

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A Cry for Freedom ~ Part 1

1 Comment / Healing, Hope, Restoration / /

“Blessed be the Lord, my Rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle.” ~Psalm 144:1 “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightening of His terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on… Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!  Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!  Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth is marching on.”                                                           ~Battle Hymn of the Republic During this month of celebrating our nation’s independence, I can’t help but ponder the words of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, by Julia Ward Howe.  The anthem, not written during the Revolutionary War, but during the American Civil War of 1861-1865, is a call to arms and a cry for freedom for those still enslaved, regardless of race or creed. The author exhorts those who are willing, to fight for freedom, to the death if necessary, but without complacency as an option. Human beings…family, neighbors, loved ones…were being exploited, abused and enslaved for the gain of certain others who weren’t willing to change. Her heart cried out for an end to this abomination resulting in the penning of this sacred hymn. America was a nation split in two over an evil that was being tolerated, and it was time for that abhorrence to end. In the years just prior to his presidency, in a speech during his bid for the U.S. Senate in 1858, Abraham Lincoln quoted from Scripture, “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” In a modern biblical translation, the New Living Translation, it reads, “A kingdom divided by civil war will collapse; similarly, a family splintered by feuding will fall apart.” This was our country in the mid-nineteenth century; fast forward to modern times and this was my home-life for longer than I care to admit. As a young bride, I wrongly believed my complete love and devotion could heal, even reverse, the wounds of the past that manifested in my then-husband. He’d had a difficult upbringing, for sure. But I believed with my whole heart that my love could, and would, stem the tide of his brokenness and set his life—our life together—on a steady course. Smooth sailing was to be had for those who believe that love conquers all. But there were more than a few inherent problems with that line of thinking, the first being that of the two of us, I was the only one who believed it. As it was, I suppose that served to motivate me to try all the more. I was young and naïve but I would soon learn that one-way love is not a recipe for wedded bliss. Problems two and three weren’t any small challenge either. I had married someone with an addiction who was also incapable of humility or returning love—a narcissist. When I married in 1985 I didn’t even know what those things were, not by definition anyway, but I quickly learned their meaning by sharing life with a person who was plagued by these disorders. There is a lot of information available now on these topics, but not so much 40 years ago. Nor was access to information easy in those days. I’m not going to belabor the clinical aspects of these disorders with their deep, gnarly, life-choking roots, but I will share my experience in the hopes of dissuading others from following a similar path, or to encourage you if you are reading this and find yourself in need of hope. I unfortunately realized when I married at age 23 that like The Wizard of Oz’ Dorothy, I’d been “caught up in the cyclone.” That’s really the most concise way to describe the whirlwind that quickly became my life. You see, I came from a family of stability and my childhood was relatively uneventful in terms of trauma or chaos. My parents both held down steady jobs. Their work ethic was strong, and the first thing done with money from their paychecks was the paying of bills; there was a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back. Whatever was left-over after meeting financial obligations went toward other life necessities, and then, perhaps, a few “wants” on the side. My sisters and I had bicycles and games, toys and books, and if truth be told, we were probably the envy of the neighborhood. That neighborhood was filled with families of modest means, including mine. It was far from affluent, not even close, but we were blessed. Blessed with parents that worked hard, knew how to budget, and knew how to make the most of what they had. They were both children of the Great Depression and my life was blessed, in part, because of their knack for “making something out of nothing.”  I think this is a long-winded way of saying my sisters and I were loved and cared for, our needs met, and we were blessed with a fair amount of extras, as well. This is not to say my family was perfect because all families have some amount of challenging dynamics, but it is fair to say we were closer to The Cleaver’s than The Hatfield’s and McCoy’s. (Now that I think about it, there might have been a tad bit of Hatfield and McCoy thrown into the mix, or closer still, the occasional Beverly Hillbillies…but mostly Cleaver by the time it got to my generation). Anyway, families like my family of origin do not just happen out of thin air. The reason we benefitted was because the adults in the home were, in fact, adults. They lived responsible lives because first, it’s who they were, and second, because they understood what it meant to “train up a child in the way he should go” so that

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Faith of My Father

8 Comments / Comfort, Memories, Reflection / /

“Faith of our fathers, we will love both friend and foe in all our strife, and preach thee, too, as love knows how, by kindly words and virtuous life: Faith of our fathers, Holy faith! We will be true to thee till death.” ~ Frederick W. Faber, 1814-1863 (Baptist Hymnal, 1956) “Yet, the Lord set His heart in love on your fathers, and chose their offspring after them…as you are to this day.” ~ Deuteronomy 10:15 I’m not one of those people who can say, “As a kid in church, I remember how my dad sang the old hymns loudly and boldly, belting out his love for Jesus in beautiful, baritone-rich harmonies.” Oh, no! Some of my young Sunday school friends could claim it, or even boast of their parents singing in the choir. My dad, however, was special for different reasons. First of all, as a five year old, this girl thought he was quite handsome, standing tall in his black Sunday suit, crisp white shirt and tie, and polished dress shoes. Music filled the air of the small Southern Baptist church, rising on the voices of parishioners as the old hymns rang out with piano and organ in one accord. “Let’s all stand as we open our hymnals to page…” This is how the song director usually began, as we rose promptly to our feet, and Daddy, opening his hymnbook, would hold it close to my mother so she could read and sing along. He, personally, never uttered a word or sang a single note, but he stood tall, proudly participating in congregational worship without missing a beat, so to speak. You see, the only time my father let anyone hear him sing was at home when, four times a year, he would help sing happy birthday to my mom or one of us girls. He, of course, was given a reprieve on his own birthday, but as the years went by he stopped singing altogether, even on these few simple, annual occasions. Anyway, this is how we all knew that his lack of song participation in church was really about the gift he was giving to others around him; the gift of silence. But we kids never gave it a second thought, as we knew that this man, who was our everything, couldn’t carry a tune to save his life. And thankfully, for the hearing world, that was never required. Although, it also wasn’t that he was completely without musical talent, for he and my mom, during their dating years in the 1940s, made quite a pair in the world of square dancing and clogging. He could make his feet dance up a storm, but exercising his vocal chords was entirely a different matter. Some years after his passing, my sisters and I were helping our mom go through old things in the garage in advance of selling her house. One of my sisters, I don’t remember which, discovered a tattered box belonging to Daddy, filled with memorabilia he’d kept from his youth. There was a worn photograph of his very first car, a 1931 Ford Model A, that one of my sisters remembers him telling her about. By the time he was old enough to purchase it, sometime in the late ‘30s or early ‘40s, the car in the photograph looked tired and a little worse for the wear. Also in the box were a variety of other older photographs, some odds and ends, and miraculously one old report card from his elementary school days. We huddled around taking note of his childhood grades when we saw it: “Music…D!” We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks and were doubled over with aching bellies, immediately sending us back to those childhood Sundays that Daddy graciously spared us his (lack of) vocal giftedness. But, the Bible says to simply make a joyful “noise” unto the Lord, and so what he lacked musically, he more than made up for as husband, father, and child of God. He daily, quietly, the epitome of the southern gentleman that he was, lived out his faith. He “sang his song” differently than most. Was he perfect? No. And none of us are. That’s why we need Jesus, and that is the song his life sang each and every day. From the time I was born, he and my mom took me to church. At mealtime and bedtime, he taught me to pray. When I was injured, he would clean and dress my wounds (and somehow the mercurochrome solution didn’t sting as bad when he painted it on). Scraped knees and elbows, splinters and bee stings, all were his specialty…he tenderly met my physical needs while soothing my fears, as only he could. Not to sound sacrilegious, but he was “like Jesus with skin on”…doing what Jesus would do, ministering to needs. As an aside, I need to mention that visiting the doctor was also not as frightening with him there. This was usually Mama’s job, but I distinctly remember occasions when this duty fell to him, and whatever pain the doctor and nurses could inflict, or threaten to inflict, was nothing compared to the strength and stoicism he brought to the situation. I realized I could be brave because he was brave. Tucking my small hand into his larger one made all the difference. He wore that same quiet strength every day of his life. Daddy had a way with people that was genuine and “down-home.” His folksy ways didn’t allow room for a pretentious bone in his body, a product of good stock and being brought up with love, discipline, and a rock-solid sense of right and wrong. If older neighbors or family needed their lawn mowed, he mowed it. If someone was in need of a car ride to their destination, he gave it. If money was in need, he gave out of his meager but blessed livelihood. And if any of his children’s friends needed the kindness of

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Footprints to Follow

3 Comments / Healing, Hope, Memories / /

“Let us labor for our Master from the dawn ‘til setting sun, let us talk of all His wondrous love and care; then when all of life is over and our work on earth is done, and the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there.” James M. Black 1856-1938 ~ Baptist Hymnal “She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue. She watches over the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed…Charm is deceitful and beauty is in vain, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her the fruit of her hands, and let her works praise her in the gates.” ~ Proverbs 31:26-28a & 30-31 (ESV) She is still, silent, never to speak again. “Oh, Mommy,” the child in me choked upon seeing the woman who gave me life, laying lifeless in her hospice bed. Only an hour or so since breathing her last, she is sallow with that tell-tale pallor of death. I round the foot of the bed, coming along side her. Taking her cool hand in the warmth of mine, caressing timidly, I notice higher on her arm, toward her heart, she is warm. For a moment I wonder if the doctor was wrong and there is still life deep inside, waiting to be revived…just waiting for permission to live again. Laying my head on her chest, tears trickling from my eyes to pool on her skin, I startle, surprised at the left-over sounds of life gurgling in her hollow lungs. Once, evenly and robustly moving air in out, now echo as though a shell; silence, except for the settling of air. The remnants of her life’s breath. I long for you to speak, for your eyes to flutter or your hand to squeeze mine, but it’s not to be. You lay there peacefully, your eyes closed in the deep sleep of death, and your hand cannot return my touch. But as for speaking…you continue. Your “voice” is different now and I can no longer hear it with my ears, for it has become a voice I must hear with only the memories of my heart. You promise me I’ve learned enough to go on from here, that you’ve taught me well, and this isn’t the end. As with all the motherly teaching you’ve done in my life, you remind me you’ve simply gone up ahead so that I have a footpath to follow. So, I’ll take shaky steps into those footprints that always seemed too large for me, and I’ll try to fill them to overflowing so my own children can be confident in the way they lead. Because this is not our home. From the beginning you pointed me to Jesus, because He is The Way home. He is exactly where we need to be. The only One we’ll ever need. “For in Him, we live and move and have our being.” ~ Acts 17:28 (ESV) “Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it.” ~Proverbs 22:6 (ESV)

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Speaking Truth and Light to the Silent Darkness

5 Comments / Encouragement, Healing, Hope / /

“I did not speak in secret, in a land of darkness; I did not say to the offspring of  Jacob, ‘Seek me in vain.’  I the Lord speak the truth; I declare what is right.” ~ Isaiah 45:19 Lately, I’ve been feeling listless, restless, uneasy, empty, aimless and out-of-sorts. I’ve felt this way at other times in life, usually in relation to fleeting or unfortunate circumstances; a temporary downturn. We all have them. But as I look more closely at this moody word list, it begins to resemble a quiver of arrows, all pointing toward one, encompassing, emotional theme: purposelessness. Or so it seems. I know I was not created without purpose, and neither were you, but honestly it is how I’ve been feeling for longer than I care to. Pondering this thought a little further, I sadly determine I’ve hit on something significant. I’ve battled depression most of my adult life, probably longer, with subtle signs evident as early as high school. I see this only now, looking back. I wish I’d known then what I know now (don’t we all), as I could have interpreted the world around me, and those in it, differently. I would have understood that my terrifying fear of abandonment was a perfectly expected reaction to the periodic silent treatment I endured in my youth, and the on again-off again absence of affirmation, conversation, and relationship that was utilized as a form of discipline. Silence effectively told me I’d been a disappointment, although I didn’t always know why. But emotional abandonment isn’t discipline. It is wrong, plain and simple. Routinely cutting the lines of communication in a valued relationship, especially with a young child, is traumatizing. In my case, it laid the groundwork for developing a mindset that emotional control over my life belonged to others, not me; toying with my emotions became permissible and ripe for the taking. Further, it set the stage for my people-pleasing propensity and this became my mission, because I would do almost anything to make the pain of silence and rejection end. Every human being comes into this world with a need for love, affection and acceptance, and being ignored by a significant other isn’t conducive to any of that. By school age the silent treatment was a well-established form of “communication” that grew more frequent as I entered my teen years. I learned early that communication can happen with a voice…or with no voice at all. (Something occurred to me just this very minute: I have loved the written word since my youth. I prefer it over verbal communication a thousand fold. I find that ironic; isn’t it amazing how, even late in life, the lightbulb can suddenly come on?) Anyway, growing up, there were other instances of implied abandonment, or the outright-stated-threat of leaving that I won’t go into at this time, but never-the-less they escalated my fears. As time marched into adulthood and I left home, this nearly-all-consuming fear of losing loved ones kept me chained to a controlling spouse, who did his homework and learned well how to keep me tethered. He studied the people-pleasing aspects of my personality and took full advantage. Ironically, it was the laying open of my heart and soul that taught him where I was vulnerable. He learned well the lessons that I unwittingly divulged as I shared stories of my youth. I thought in confiding in him that I was running to safety, a harbor in the storm. I naively believed my purpose was to take care of him and love all his demons away. If I could somehow make up for everything he lacked or lost in boyhood, then he would be happy, and by extension, I could be happy. But once he learned this about me, he began to expect that his happiness was my purpose. Just as in childhood, my job, my purpose, was to appease certain others, and in this case, him. I was to be present and accounted for, even if he wasn’t (and he often wasn’t).  If I failed to be pleasing in any way (perish the thought), then his sadness or anger or other myriad emotions became my fault. I shouldered the blame and the punishment: silence, shouting, shoving and leaving. And that, my friends, isn’t simply an unkind person; it is the essence of betrayal by a master manipulator impersonating a “husband”. It’s an insidious malignancy of torture that eats away a person’s soul until they feel so small and empty the only thing alive is a heart, faintly beating in the chest, and lungs that weakly breathe in and out. Consequently, I would often recite to him this old Mother Goose rhyme: Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her, Put her in a pumpkin shell, And there he kept her very well. It was a favorite nursery rhyme of mine as a child because I loved pumpkins, but in truth, I had no idea what it meant. Later I came to realize I was once again held captive under a heavy hand, this time by a controlling, alcoholic, narcissistic abuser who reeled in the catch of his life, gutted me and put my carcass on the mantle above the fire; the trophy wife he could display like a prized, hunted, and very dead animal. And from the outside no one could see that I, indeed, was hollow. Bottom-line, I’ve made some poor decisions in my life. Not all of them, but when I did, they were significant. For instance, why did I marry this man in the first place? The answer is important (and I hope this saves even one person from misery!)  The reason was to flee a perceived lack of control over my life as a young, single woman. The root that took hold so long ago from the punishing silence was now bearing fruit. I was living at home in my early twenty’s, and still under (perceived) authority even at that age.

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Never Too Late

3 Comments / Encouragement, Healing, Hope / /

“Then the Lord answered me and said, ‘Write the vision and make it plain on tablets.’” ~ Habakkuk 2:2 I love a blank page: A new journal never written in; a new binder with crisp, white pages begging to be filled. For most of us, January feels like the time to begin something new. For me, it’s always the same; I long to fill the pages of my notebook from the pages of real life. It’s all well and good at this point; fun and games and pie in the sky dreams. Then reality hits. I’m the one who’s supposed to offer up the ink, to form the words, to weave the story that fills these pages with tales, and lessons learned from daily life. But without fail fear begins its nagging whispers, and panic hangs heavy, until it enshrouds me and I succumb to literary paralysis. I have fallen prey to this tactic of the enemy for many years. It became a stronghold long ago, and this isn’t the first resolve I’ve made to change my trajectory. I do, however, hope it’s my final resolve. Somehow, this year, this season of my life, seems more urgent and the call to obedience is absolutely non-negotiable. Is it because my age literally stares me in the face on a daily basis? If we’re given three-score and ten years of life on this earth, or four-score if we’re lucky, then I’m on my last “score”, and I’m acutely reminded that the dead cannot proclaim the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. The issue, aside from age, is disobedience. I’ve known since I was 12 years old I was to be a writer and share the love of God through my creativity with words. We don’t get to be “creative” with the Word of God, but if words are our area of art and giftedness, then we are to use this gift “as unto the Lord.” I am guilty of allowing fear to limit my efforts, and without that effort there are no results. Seeds of life planted, watered and nurtured by reflection and study are for the purpose of teaching others, lifting up our fellow man and communicating Jesus’ Gospel of love to the ends of the earth. But if we leave the ripened fruit (our gifts) unharvested, withering on the vine or rotting on the ground, never shared with the world or those in need, then what good is that? I don’t want to go to my grave, taking with me all I’ve learned, to be buried with me there. I want to share it now, today, in this life in the hopes that God will take my tiny offering and multiply it as only He can. Just as He did when He blessed the little boy’s lunch of fish and bread, or like He did with the widow’s two mites. They gave all they had, unreservedly. After three-score on this earth, I am ready to release my fears to the only One who can calm them, and get in line with the boy and his brown-bag lunch, and the poor widow with only two cents to her name, and trust Jesus to multiply my words for the sake of others who are hurting like me. I am curious about what I will write in this coming year, and wonder about where it will lead and what works it might accomplish. And while those musings are all well and good, it will continue to be for nothing if I don’t relinquish my fear daily, push up my sleeves and dig around in the dirt (water, prune and feed), so that in time a healthy harvest can nourish those in need, rather than going to waste in the fields of my own mind where no one benefits. It is my prayer that you will join me on this venture, walking with me on a road I’ve never really braved before, as we focus on the joy of togetherness for the journey, more than simply a final destination. “I will take my stand at my watchpost and station myself on the tower, and look out to see what He will say to me, and what I will answer concerning my complaint. And the LORD answered me: ‘Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it.’ For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end—it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay.’” ~ Habakkuk 2:1-3

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Nothing Wasted

3 Comments / Encouragement, Hope / /

“For as the rain comes down, and the snow from Heaven, and do not return there, but water the earth and make it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; It shall not return to Me void, but it shall accomplish what I please, and it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.”    ~ Isaiah 55:10-11 Watering the newly planted grass that was to be my yard, watching the droplets fall to the earth from the hose I held in my hand, I prayed a simple prayer: “Lord, speak.” Through the leafy trees, rays of sunshine spot-lighted kelly-green blades of baby grass peeking through the soil, and I wondered what Jesus might say to me. Continuing my task, I could see trees, grass, earth and blue skies, but I couldn’t ‘hear’ the whispered words my heart longed for. I muttered again: “I need You to say something to me, Lord. This ministry is starting, the train has left the station, and while I believe with every ounce of me that this is my reason for being, I’m afraid I have nothing to say.” I quieted myself and focused on the water droplets spraying from my garden hose for the sole purpose of giving drink to these fledgling seeds. Without it, they wouldn’t survive. The labor of ground preparation and planting would be in vain. I worried and wondered if the seeds would germinate; if a lush green lawn was in my future…or perhaps, a writing ministry I feared I wasn’t qualified for. That’s when His answer came to me (in my own paraphrased way) and was quickly conveyed to my heart: “as the rain comes down and does not return without watering the earth, so My word goes out from My mouth and does not return void but accomplishes ALL for which I sent it.” (Isaiah 55:10-11). And I knew it was His answer to my question. I have been tasked with sharing my experiences with others. Mine has not been an easy life; no one’s is. But if the things I’ve suffered and contended with over the years merely “resolve” without benefiting others from lessons learned, then my suffering is in vain. And that’s where the disconnect has always been. Fear enters the equation (every single time), and it looks something like this… Life happens, something causes uneasiness, which leads to an inexplicable need for me to write, quickly followed by a fear to do so. Fear of a blank page turns into an even greater fear of putting my words on the page; words representative of vulnerable places inside me. This fear results in not writing; not following my calling. Often, I don’t even attempt that which I know God is patiently waiting for me to do. I knew I wanted to be a writer at 12 or 13 years old. By 16, that desire turned to need as a way of expressing myself, processing the world around me and finding my way. Teenaged angst can be a powerful motivator. It certainly was for me. So, I wrote. Like a painter paints and a budding thespian acts, I wrote poetry with abandon. I also spent a fair amount of time outside letting God inspire me through nature. If I were to look back and read my early works (and I have), I would be embarrassed at my immaturity and melodrama. However, if I were to also look beyond the surface, I’d see a young girl who not only placed value on language, but who literally basked in the beauty of the written word. In studying her drafts, I would see attempts at making words leap from the page and embrace in a dance of lyrical prose, and I’d see edits when those words didn’t quite communicate her intention. Fast forward forty years. Life took some left turns; the opposite of right. And while yes, I know that’s a bad pun, it’s also truth. My friend Holly used to say, “when making a life decision between two good things, ask yourself this question: ‘is it merely good…or is it right? Better yet, is one of the choices only cloaked in a mask of goodness?’” I wish I’d known that when I was young. How many wrong choices might have been avoided, and how much heartache saved? That includes my very recent years of intense grief over lost time and lost dreams. Life circumstances…even the most tragic ones…usually and eventually resolve to an extent that is compatible with life. The black hole of loss, the stinging memory of unfortunate words, the deep ache that settles over us when we’re hit with the realization that our own choices play a part in the agony…and worst of all, knowing that the pain of consequences extends to those we love but who share no blame. These things we can usually move beyond, to a place of healing acceptance. But for me, it’s been the sinking realization that precious time has slipped away, imperceptibly, coupled with the knowledge that time itself cannot come back. We don’t control it. A very tough pill to swallow. If there is one good thing about the passage of time, it’s that we can look back and identify where the wrong turns were and when they happened. From that knowledge, perhaps wisdom is gained and that is valuable. Like most of us, I wish I’d known then what I know now. So, what can we do now to step up to the plate and discern whether to take our best swing, or hold up? There are reasons we don’t swing at every pitch. Some pitches are simply bad. But if it’s fear, we shouldn’t let that factor into our strategy. Fear of failure, in and of itself, is never a good enough reason to decline to follow God’s leading. Sometimes fear is good;

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Seasons

Leave a Comment / Encouragement, Hope / /

The steam curls up from the top of my cup, floating in the air, then fading from existence. Staring, I look for answers as though I expect words to pop out from the steam and hover in the void of space before my eyes. But it’s not that easy, I’ve discovered. I wish it were. Life progresses through seasons. Answers to the questions we have surrounding our circumstances arise from lessons we learn while in those seasons. The natural world changes predictably from one season to the next, but events in our lives can move us (or hurl us) unpredictably and without asking permission. I call these life events “seasons” because once we’re there, we usually stay awhile, soak everything in, take note of what we’ve learned, and then move forward as a changed person. Or not. The “or not” is up to us. Looking over my life, I can identify distinct seasons. All of us have them; the difference is they aren’t as timely or convenient as Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. We experience joy, sadness, hope, disappointment, fullness, emptiness…life, death. There’s a balance and a natural order to life, but sometimes from our limited, human perspective, we refuse to cooperate. Sometimes we like life, sometimes we don’t. I know I’ve tried to rush life’s seasons, growing weary of the pouring rain or the gale force winds. And then, when you want it, where is that rush of cool air in the blistering heat? Without looking deeper, it might appear that in the heat, the hardware store of life is all out of fans. In truth, heat refines us. In Spring, the mild temperatures thaw frozen areas of our heart and mind. It feels good to be warm. Like buried bulbs, we break through the hard earth, allowing the sun to smile on our accomplishments, our brilliant colors blossoming to the possibilities. Then Summer comes, still ripe with color, but warm becomes hot. I am not an extreme-weather person. I don’t thrive in the hot, dog days of Summer, or in the frozen realms of Winter. I find my happy place in mild, gentle conditions. Sadly, good character isn’t formed under gentle conditions. For instance, fire purifies gold and silver by extracting impure metals from the ore, leaving behind a richly refined product. Furthermore, while still exposed to the intense heat, the metal becomes soft and pliable, ready to be fashioned into a design of the crafter’s choosing. This is akin to the way our Creator works. Now and again, the Lord allows us to go through things we’d rather not be part of; painful things, yes, but they refine us in the process. Other times, we choose our own circumstances, although not very wisely. We sometimes get ahead of ourselves and we run ahead of wisdom. We’ve all done it. Personally, I’ve crowned myself the queen of unwise choices. I have some extreme regrets but living in a place of regret and self-condemnation doesn’t produce anything of value. Conversely, the pain we find ourselves enduring may have nothing to do with us, and everything to do with another person, or people. I know someone who is guilty of love. That’s all. She loved with her whole self, sacrificially, as Christ asks. Her reward was the pain of betrayal by an extremely flawed person, who falsely presented himself as someone possessing the utmost in moral character. He was the fraud, but she still bore the brunt of the fallout. He bailed and she was left to hold herself and her children together. But the truth is, she was never alone. And neither am I; and neither are you. One of my favorite verses is Psalm 34:7&8. “The Angel of the Lord encamps around those who reverence Him, and he delivers them. Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him.” When I read the word “encamp” a few images come to my mind: hot weather, camping, being entrenched, old military encampments with white tents. And in all these scenes, I imagine the Lord and His host of angels surrounding, supplying and protecting His warriors. I envision the soldiers gathered for evening rest before having to battle another day, a campfire in the middle for cooking, warmth and light. And while it stands to reason the enemy could also be surrounding and looking out on this scene, plotting its next attack, I believe to the depths of my being that those plans are in vain, because whatever surrounds God’s people, God surrounds it! No matter what season of life you find yourself in right now, no matter if it’s one that is natural, expected and predictable…or if it’s one that hit out of nowhere, like snowmageddon, a 500 year flood, or the drought of the century, it is a season in which you are not abandoned, you are never alone, and you will learn and grow. Not only that, but I predict you will thrive. Press into Jesus. Let Him love you. Let Him teach you. Let Him refine you. And always, always remember that “The Angel of the Lord encamps around those who reverence Him, and He delivers them.” Psalm 34:7

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