Mother of the Year, Runner Up; 21 Years and Counting…

am rounding the final bends of active motherhood with only 4 more years to go before I shift into a more passive role.  I will NEVER stop being their mother but my relationship with them will and must change.

Perhaps, like me, you started the journey with stars in your eyes and a heart bursting with hopeful expectation.

Those early newborn days were the dawn of a whole new world for me.  I held my child, fell so deeply in love, trusting with all my heart that all in order to be a good mother I must generously apply the best of what I knew (worldly pop-psych), and then do opposite of all my parents had done so wrong.

I was a great preschool teacher and babysitter; creative and so much fun– so I would be a great mother too, right? Easy breezy!

And, (if you’re done snorting and laughing now….) you know that NOTHING could be further from the truth…..

Lawd, there were days, the voice of Gone With the Wind’s “Prissy” rang clear in my mind: “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies!”

It scared. me. to. death.

Because what none of us is prepared to factor into the equation is the same parent problem God deals with all the time: free will.

About the time I’d get one factor under semi “control”…something else would spring loose and cause internal panic and external chaos.

Did I mention I was terrified? Yeah.

Once I realized how hard…how daily and how endless the challenge was going to be and how ill-equipped I really was, well then, I was terrified of doing it wrong and ..don’t miss  this….VERY concerned about what other mothers were thinking about me.  Because, of course, they were getting it “right” and nobody invited me to that information meeting.

I honestly believed I was one of the few who felt this way.
I honestly believed I dare not tell anyone how I felt.

I had no idea what to do about colic, night terrors, imaginary friends, tantrums, picky eating, obsessive-compulsive nighttime rituals, home  school, dating, college, FAFSA…gah!

And you know what they say in the “big leagues”; you’re only as good as your last “at bat”. Y’all, I  couldn’t get it right long enough to cover the distance. I’d be chuggin’ along, juggling responsibilities, chainsaws and feral cats … doing fine until that ONE moment…strike three.

My running joke was “There goes Mother of the Year– again! Dang…I was SO close!”

Truthfully, God has grown and raised me, drawing me closer to Him through this experience than I knew possible.  I’m convinced, motherhood, like other relationships, is designed by God supremely for that reason. The other benefits are just icing on the cake.

So, I learned how to calm colicky babies, pray through night terrors, set an extra place for imaginary friends, redirect tantrums, puree veggies into the mac-n-cheese and how to patiently endure the night time routine…a thing of the past I miss so much.

I read, played, got dirty, painted, yelled, cried, laughed, learned, taught, fought, failed, yelled and cried some more…and said I’m sorry….a lot.

I’m amazed. Yes, by what God has done, but also….by YOU. These communities out here in the blogosphere and in(RL) making themselves accountable and available to one another.

I’m amazed when I see mothers out here sharing and loving in community, leaning on one another for advice and that extra sniff of hope which allows us put two feet back on the lego-strewn floor and try again.

Today, mine are 21, 18 and 14. I’m blown away by the hand of God on our lives and evidenced through theirs. Oh the gracious grace.  I see also, I didn’t do as badly as I thought either. Wanna know some secrets I learned?

1. Have a humble and teachable spirit; start over 24-7-365 if necessary.
2. Bunt, switch hit, steal a base…whatever….just stay in the game.
3. Find community, be honest, learn and grow.

And oh Mommas…don’t judge one another; mercy one another, walk side by side and share, share, share. Not only the “pretty” stuff, share the “poopy” stuff too because…well, it’s the fertilizer of life and we need it all to really grow.

There. You are hereby crowned “Mother of the Year” and I leave you with this poem hung on my wall and in my heart for 21 years:

This article was originally posted at girlgrowsup.com on May11th as part of her “Thanks to Motherhood series. I wanted to share it again here. Go give my girlfriend a visit too! She’s PRESH!

stumbling blocks and altars

It feels good to sit here now….the outside air has cleared my head and sorted my heart in just the right ways and the press of rough work and gravity against my soul have settled me into a quiet and peaceable place.

I can still feel the phantom weight of the 3lb hammer in my hand. A tingling buzzes along my arm from the pounding of the board and brick against the ground I’ve been shaping into a path. Dirt and dust still clings to my skin and nostrils. It feels good and alive.

I’m building in my herb garden. A path…a prayer bench…a place of quiet repose in the presence of God and any or all of my 6 cats!

It’s been a 3….4, (I don’t know five?) year passion of mine to turn this patch of sour dirt outside my kitchen door into a savory herb garden. The patio, the path, the prayer bench — these were afterthoughts. 

Truth be told, as time spent with this dirt unveiled the story within me, those things just invited themselves into the project. Art is like that.

I started bricking it when I was angry. I mean, the “tearing-up-the-ground” and “pounding-on-the-earth-with-heavy-tools”  kind of angry… when I needed a place to refocus my heart, destroy the lies and rebuild in truth. Brick by brick.

The brick is reclaimed from a scruffy patch of woods behind our house…discarded, forgotten and half-buried in a tangle of roots and vines, left there from a structure torn down long ago.

Somehow, along with each brick I redeem from that dirty, tangled mess, I’ve redeemed a piece myself in the process. It’s been a wholly and holy therapeutic endeavor… rough and raw..edgy and beautiful.

Like my life.

I do this because it’s in my creative DNA but also, I do this… because it’s something my mother did as well. Watching her from an early age, I learned how to turn a desolate piece of dirt into a slice of paradise. No matter where my mother found herself, she left NO stone unturned and very little unpainted in her path!

I’ve been thinking a lot about her as I go along with my heavy hammer, brick and dirt.

She’d like it, I think.

This Sunday is, of course Mother’s day but this Saturday would have been her 68th birthday.  It’s hard to believe she’s been gone for almost 10 years. Ten years and I’m only beginning to know how to grieve.

My mother was a hard woman who’d had a hard life, difficult to please and very private. I confess, I feared her more than I was able to love her and I really didn’t understand her. But I’m starting to…now almost 10 years later..

I see why she pounded the earth too.

I’ve spent the past 3 months guiding a group of beautiful women… breaking free and learning how to tear down strongholds, sort the precious from the worthless and rebuild with the good.  And many of the things I used to carry around in anger, confusion and darkness against my mother and myself, have melted away in the healing light of God’s love and truth.

What remains is precious….refined and beautiful. So while these thoughts and memories hurt, they heal at the same time.  Put in the correct place and position, these things are valuable. I can finally look at them straight on.

My one regret is that I was really very unsuccessful at sharing my relationship and love for Jesus with her. In fact, I’d go as far as to confess that I was probably her greatest stumbling block.

I hate that.

I realize it now and it breaks my heart.  I fear  I was often more interested and invested in speaking the TRUTH of the Gospel over her life but not so good being the LOVE of the Gospel when it really mattered. I’m afraid that I didn’t really know how.

The truth is; I didn’t know how to LIVE with my mother…
and I certainly didn’t know how to help her die.

Fear will do that.

But there were dozens of grace-laced moments I can cling to and this is something I know I must absolutely trust to the hands of God. Freedom has always been His ultimate plan. I can….I must rest there.

So I’m re-building, using those stumbling blocks–the ones I laid in ignorance and those placed in my path by others…. the beautiful, the broken, the rough, worn and discarded

and I’m building an altar.

It’s an altar of remembrance…not for me or my mother, but of God’s faithfulness “thus far”. He’s been faithful to see me through the triumphs and the tragedies and when I’ve stumbled and fallen; He was right there to hear my repentant cries and set me on my feet again.

And while this garden I’m building really isn’t for her, or about her, I have some of her things which are precious to remember: a rusty wagon and coffee pot, a beautiful amaryllis, an angel statue and this plaque that reads, “Old Gardeners never die, they just spade away.”

That pretty well sums up my mother.

As I work, no doubt there are precious pieces of her present and working through me with every swing of the hammer and with each brick I place on the tar papered dirt path. 

Honestly, I think she’d be proud…and if she was here I like to believe she’d be rebuilding too…both of us; side by side.

*********** linking up with Nacole’s Concrete Words at SixIntheSticks and these other beautiful places I am privileged to walk from time to time:

where story is born

 

Where is story born?

I tend to believe that stories are an eternity in and of themselves, spoken into existence at the beginning of time when God, the original Author  said,

“Let there be”.

Stories just are. And they’ve always been.

And a writer begins when the Author of the Story comes near and whispers your name into every line…when HIS eternal story becomes your story too, and you just know it’s the way He’s going to speak to and through you for the rest of your life.

At least, this is my story. I know it’s different for everybody.

In one way or another I’ve always been a writer.  I didn’t know it was God speaking to me in the midst of those stormy years.  I realize it now and see how He sent some wonderful people my way to add to and encourage the story in me along the way.

There was Mrs. Gardener, my sixth grade teacher. 

Life was hell at home, period. School was not only my great escape, it was my lifeline; an oasis and the one place I could safely shine.  Mrs. Gardener managed to bring out the shiniest bits of me every time. I didn’t have many friends but was absolutely certain she was my friend and that was good enough.

My memory is sketchy (it was about a hundred years ago!), but I vaguely recall once all my regular class work done, she’d let me choose a “story starter” from the file box on her desk. I loved that thing!

I’m sure I wrote just gobs of fantastical 6th-grade nonsense but Mrs. Gardner made me feel as if I was one of the greatest writers ever to cross her threshold, often sharing my work with the class.

She gave my story a voice.

I know now she also must have known what kind of story that little ragamuffin was really living outside her classroom. I’m certain. Because one day, she asked me to stay after class. Nervously, I waited at my desk until the other kids left all the while wondering, what had I done wrong?

As the last student filed out, Mrs. Gardner called me over to her desk and handed me a flat box. She seemed a bit nervous herself. I can’t recall what she said except, maybe, ” I thought you might like this.”

A sweater. A beautiful salmon pink sweater just my size…

a treasure.

I’d never had anything that nice … I’d have to hide it in order to keep it. Stunned, I probably wore that thing slap out before the year was done!

Ultimately, the gift Mrs Gardner gave me that year was so much bigger than a sweater box. She looked deeper and she saw me.  Mrs. Gardner encouraged the writer in me, gave me wings and guided me to see through the lens of imagination to a place beyond my circumstances . Best of all, 

she added “hope” to my story.

Fast forward a few years to high school. Different town. Foster home. New school. And the story goes on.

Enter Dr. Gary Kerley, my English teacher. Insecure and lonely, I’d gone through a lot to get to this chapter of my story and was less likely to trust and share it with anyone. My voice was nearly mute with only a whisper of hope left.

Apparently, it was enough.

First day impressions: A short and round bespectacled man with a very wry and very dry sense of humor: THIS was Dr. Kerley! Just inside the classroom door,  a Far Side calendar turned to this cartoon (I’d never seen these before) and I just about wet. my. pants! Ermehgersh! 

Walking into his classroom that day in the middle of the school year wasn’t as challenging as it could have been. By this time, I could hold my own.

The challenge was in writing for Dr. Kerley and it wasn’t long before he had me digging deeper than I’d ever dug before. He encouraged me to carry the weight of a heavier story and to write from that place.

somehow he made me want to go there every time.

And oh oh OH….the dreaded term paper with all the necessary accoutrements.

GAH! How I hated those things until, once upon a time, THIS happened: 

It was E.M. Forrester’s “A Passage To India” Geez Louise! And yeah, as you can see, it was late (remember…I HATED writing these things!)

But those words:

“You got the gift!” He said.

My life changed right there. My story was born anew and I have never been the same. #truestory.

I’ve been taking this trip down memory lane partially out of gratitude for these (and others) who helped shaped the writer and woman I’ve become…to say thankyou to them but also to say thank you to ALL the “Mrs. Gardener’s” and “Dr. Kerley’s” out there today.

You know some of them…they touched your life too. You are one of them…touching the life of another and breathing new hope into their story today.

I see it happening all over the place as we take the time to step into each others stories; helping to sort or carry the heavier bits because we understand what difficult business life can be.

My friends..the Author births this story IN us,
in order to bring the HIS story to life through us.
It was never meant for us alone.

So, we choose to listen. We choose to see. We give ears to the stories of others and sometimes,

we help to give their story a voice.

I saw it HERE this past week…in the life of a precious Sister who took the time to be a “Mrs. Gardner”in the life of one of her students. Wonderful.

I saw it HERE through the eyes of a precious Brother who listened with his heart and gave voice to the story of another who’s earth story is about to come to a close.

And HERE , HERE and HERE   where stories are invited and shared for all to see so that healing can be wrought as we place our writing on the altar before the Author. It’s a beautiful thing.

Have you seen this too? Tell me about it.

And you…. What’s your story? Tell me, I’d LOVE to know.

well-seasoned

For a brief  eight months I lived in Louisiana with my birth Father and his family. During this time, I was introduced to some of the best food I’ve ever eaten made by some of the best cooks I’ve ever met. I mean it was

DELICIOUS.

There, my sweet Aunt Della taught me a few things and although I am by no means an “accomplished” Cajun cook, I’m proud to say I can turn out a decent jambalaya and gumbo and I can surely make a roux!

Aunt Della taught me about the Cajun “holy trinity”: bell pepper, onion and celery…the three main ingredients found in nearly EVERY dish on the Cajun’s menu. Contrary to popular belief, while some recipes are known to have some “kick”, good Cajun food is not always spicy….it’s simply well-seasoned, balanced and flavorful.

Seasoning is the key issue.

I’ve spent time thinking about seasoning these last few weeks as I’ve wrestled with and have begun to unravel answers to one of life’s pivotal questions:

Who am I?

Probably much like you, it’s a question I’ve been trying to answer for most of my life. I have a whole host of words I could use in response:

• Woman
• Wife
• Mother
• Friend…

 the “no-brainers”; easy to recognize, easy to proclaim and easy to “own”. But it goes deeper still. I am also:

• Teacher
• Missionary
• Writer
• Artist
• Editor
• Musician
• Thinker…

Sometimes weightier, these are my highlights– by no means comprehensive in describing the person I’m learning to be or these gifts I’m discovering how to lean into.

So…uh…excuse me Lorretta, what’s the point?

(Hang with me….I promise there’s something more going on than some sort of psycho-self-reveal)

See, I’ve pondered this for a while especially since I’ve stepped out into the wide open range of the blogosphere and have been traveling it’s inroads and outer circles now for over a year.

There’s a lot of talk in these places from people I hang out with about mission, purpose, size, shape and reach. We talk about our readership and influence and seeking to discover our “niche” and audience.

So, I feel it’s important to be clear about my purpose for writing here. I think at this point, I owe it to my readers and to myself to state what it is I’m doing and why I will keep on doing it…and for Whom.

See, there’s a HUGE overlay for all those words and titles I used to describe myself.

I am a Christ follower.

 I don’t think this comes as a surprise to anyone who knows me but it’s worth stating again because you need to know this is much more than a simple, surface adjective or modifier placed upon my life and work.

It’s important because it might be easy to assume I could write about whatever’s on my heart and mind–express my opinion and perhaps throw in a little “Jesus seaaoning” to balance out the “flavor” while attempting to make what I have to say a little more palatable…sound a little more “spiritual”.

No.

It’s something I need to be careful and acutely aware of at all times.
Cuz we don’t need more “Lorretta” in this world; we need Jesus.

{Oh God, I pray, help me to never abuse these great gifts in this way.}

I am aware that if each one of those words and titles, gifts, talents and purposes were to be stripped away, at my core and on my surface…

all I am… only…ever… is HIS.

 I will and must always write from this place and this awareness God has birthed in me. It’s the overflow and the natural byproduct of my deep conviction and all-encompassing world view.

I will write about God and what He has done in my life and what I see Him doing all around me in the lives of others because

It’s where my identity begins and ends.
It’s where I live because it’s who I am.
It’s how I see the world He loves.

And the words written here are, I pray, from the Me you’d discover anywhere we’d meet.

These words from Colossians 4:5-6 challenge and inspire me:

“Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.”

This is one place and space I must make the most of
EVERY opportunity God affords me.

I’ll hold NOTHING back from Him if it means He can get the glory and another can learn more about this great God I serve. If my pain, my mistakes, my joys, embarrassments and triumphs can be used to guide another along the path to knowing Jesus better as I go, then

my greatest joy and service is that His MESSAGE would be found in and through my MESS.

It’s time.

• So yes, I will continue to share stories and insights.
• I will go as God leads and lead as God guides.
• I will seek to share the saving Gospel and shine the Light of Jesus into the darkest corners of this part of the universe.

My prayer for you is that as you join me, with the Spirit’s help, we will together taste and see that the Lord is GOOD and my words here will be flavor-FULL of Jesus, balanced and well-seasoned with grace and mercy.

It’s my calling and mission.
It’s who I KNOW I am.
Do you KNOW? I really want you to…so let’s find out together.

{Some of the wonderful, beautiful folks I “click” with can be found here}

Eighteen Years of Covering

It was a dark and stormy morning…. no really!

It had been a rough week of storm after raging thunderstorm the year of our first full Spring in Tennessee.

I had no way of knowing if weather like this was normal or not but honestly, I didn’t mind. Thunderstorms have always been my favorite.

These were good times…sweet times for us as a family. A decent move to a new station in a better market meant more stability for my photojournalist husband. Now we were only 4 hours away from our Georgia home and family versus half way across the country in Nevada.

And that day, sleeping peacefully in the back seat of our station wagon, was our 4 week old son. We were on our first outing together while Daddy and big sister did their thing back home.

We had just finished up with his one month well check and since he was doing so well, I figured this was as good a time as any to run some errands while I was still in town.

Pulling into the strip mall, I made a mental note of the dark clouds gathering in the western sky just as the first few drops of rain hit the windshield. No umbrella…and the sky opened up.

“Oh well,” I thought, “the baby is sleeping so I’ll take some time to straighten out the checkbook till the storm passes”.

Turning off the engine, with amusement I noticed the shoe store ahead of me was having a sidewalk sale and thought, “Who in the world would want to buy rained on shoes at ANY price?!?”

Funny how certain details get burned into your mind.

There really was no time, not a split second more, before that thought was interrupted by the hammering sound of wind and flying…hail? Dirt? Rain? What?!?!… spraying my car with the force of a sandblaster.

Each thought could only occupy a fraction of space and time and as the car began to rock and sway, lifting off the ground to one side….I knew;

tornado.

The unspoken force of that single word with all of it’s meaning exploded with lightening force through my mind, snapping my body into a single motion, flying half bent over the driver’s seat to shield my baby boy.

And the windows blew in.

Glass, dirt, rain,
roar, wind, pain,
howl, cry…
“Lord have mercy! Lord have MERCY!”

Hush.

The silence was nearly as intense as the storm.

I rose to see that seven of the eight windows were gone, raining bits of glass from my head and back into the carseat below… where my child…my son… lay sleeping, a halo of broken glass around his head and body.

True story.

The storms that day, at the peak of the noonday lunch hour almost 18 years ago, left a huge swath of damage through the area. Miraculously, no one was killed or seriously injured. I was treated for minor cuts at the local hospital and released to a very grateful husband and father. At some point, I’m pretty sure the boy finally woke up to eat!

*******

And today, that strong and courageous, gentle and sweet soul; my son, turns eighteen.

Eighteen.

My heart swells and my eyes get teary just thinking about it. 

Eighteen years of legos, star wars, broken arms and stitches, artistically carved spears and swords, guns and bows and knives and My Little Pony?!?  Er…um “Brony”.

Growling and fussing, Close encounters of the dangerous kind, X-box, dub step, first deer, first prom, first car…

..eighteen years with another seeing, feeling and thinking, passionate soul much like myself.

An artist.
A lover.
A man…. my son.

Bittersweet as it is to reach this milestone and recognize the days of our life together under one roof are coming to a close, the next chapter of his story is really the one we’ve been writing and preparing for all these years: manhood.

I couldn’t grasp it then but it’s very clear now;  this is the very reason I covered and protected him in that first storm and through the many “storms” that would follow; release.

Releasing him with God’s help, into manhood with as much faith, wisdom and training as any mother is able to impart to her child, has been the goal all along.

 And I do.

I release him with much love.

Today, I want him to know I am so proud the man he is becoming. I pray he’ll continue to learn how to lead well and lean hard into God as his guide as he goes, trusting in His care and always… throughout all of life’s storms, I pray he’ll always know the way Home.

*****
(I link in these lovely places with these lovely people)

It’s everywhere….END it.

It’s real. It’s rampant and it’s the personal hell of many young women and children. You don’t have to understand how it happened to know it’s happening and to be a part of ENDING the nightmare. Speak up.

This is not a “3rd World” problem…
This is also a CHURCH problem…

EVERY time there is a major sporting event or conference in your city…

[Yes, EVEN in America]

…girls, young boys and women are shuttled in to supply their “services”.

Who are they?

• They may be the housekeepers at the local hotel.
• They may be the “new girl” working at the nail salon.
• They may be the “hitchhiker” at the local truck stop.
• The individuals in that porn video you clicked and watched.

They don’t know where they are most of the time; moved under the cover of darkness, mildly drugged;

Fear is the currency keeping them silent.

Who will listen? Where would they go? Who will keep them from being hurt or killed? Who would even want to help? Is there any hope?

Stop. Look. Listen.
End it.

pretty is not good enough

He likes pretty girls; 
not me.
He likes sexy girls; 
not me.
He likes those busty, bronze-skinned babes
Who turn a guy on with the tap of a nail…
Not me.
He likes a somebody; 
not me.

               Ugh.
I cringe at the ugh of it all.

I wrote that lovely piece of (ahem) poetry at the ripe old age of 15. I don’t know who the guy was at the time but I was certain that  I was anything but pretty and therefore, of little value and unworthy of love.

I was an awkward, insecure and friendless freshman in high school at the time and deep in the throes of “I hate me-hood”.  And for a variety of reasons, I have sorta stayed in that neighborhood for a long, long time.

But I don’t live there anymore. In fact, I exited that place, shook the dirt off my sandals, packed up it’s baggage and sent it back to the pit of hell with all the other lies that somehow have had a hold on me for so many years.

And I want to go on record today with the following statement:

Pretty is not good enough for me.

Furthermore,  I’m not interested in settling for the lesser life of striving to be “pretty” according to the world’s standards. 

I was made in the image of Someone more
..for something better.
And so were you.

My handy-dandy built-in Apple dictionary defines the word in the very way I’m thinking:

• “attractive in a delicate way without being beautiful or handsome.”
• ” an attractive thing; typically a pleasing but unnecessary accessory.”
• “used to refer in a condescending way to an attractive person; usually a girl or a woman.”

Here’s the thing: I firmly believe that the quest for pretty kills a lot of truly beautiful people. Or, at the very least, it distracts us and stunts our growth for a long, long time.

Because pretty never satisfies; it was never meant to.

Somehow we find ourselves selling our souls to the proverbial devil so that an external and outwardly based view of ourselves and others becomes a reasonable substitute for deep, abiding and true beauty. Sin has distorted the way we see everything, fear and doubt have crept in and

we strive and settle for less.

We buy the lie because pretty is what sells..and it’s what’s being sold to us through advertising every day. It’s shallow and superficial–about an inch deep and a mile wide and often consists of very little substance.

Pretty has no choice but to be SELF-ish, self-focused and fear-based with make-up masking as confidence. Pretty is typically very insecure and has to work hard to draw attention and keep up with the changes. As a result, pretty is in a constant state of anxiety; depending heavily on what others think….or what it thinks others are thinking. Always fearful of being too

• old
• young
• skinny
• fat
• tall
• short
• WHATEVER!

Because the definition of pretty changes with the latest fad….so that what might have been pretty yesterday is definitely not today and tomorrow it might even be considered ugly.

Why do we do this to ourselves?
Why are we allowing lies, whispers and “others” to define us?

I’m here to say NO MORE.

I’ve finally come to this place of peace and gentle resolve: I am beautiful. Specifically,I am the beautiful woman of God I was created to be. At any age, at any stage…and I choose to see others the same way. So, in case you didn’t get the memo:

Pretty is out and Beautiful is IN!

I know it sounds simplistic and rather clichè but take it from someone who has spent over half her life trying to dance to the beat of every other drummer but her own: the King (God) is enthralled by my beauty …a beauty defined by Him alone which grows as we walk together.

This beauty is within and it’s what I am because of Whose I am.
The difference between pretty and beautiful is ETERNAL and EVERLASTING.

Beauty is rooted deep in the bedrock of it’s Source, the creator of all beauty; God, who created all manner of color, shape and size and gives depth and dimension to all of His diverse creation. Beauty bubbles up from here and is life-GIVING.  This is the place I will live from.

But, let’s get real; in this world, it can still be a struggle to see and love ourselves honestly.

I’m a loooooong way from 15 and the days have come when I look in the mirror and simply wish I’d embraced these truths and rested here sooner. 

One thing that helps me keep my focus is to surround myself with others walking in the same direction, seeking only to follow the voice of Truth found in God’s word. And there are some beautiful and encouraging writers and resources out here today.

Which is why I’m really rather excited by my new friend, author Trina Holden, who’s just spent some time wrestling with these same issues and has written a wonderful and HONEST resource guide entitled: Embracing Beauty; A Style Guide Just For Moms (on sale NOW)

I’m well past the “New Mom” stage…I’m quite the “old” Mom now but this is some sound and sweet advice for any woman at any stage of life who’s striving to break free of the stronghold of “pretty”. For the one ready to embrace and relax into the beautiful woman she truly is in the eyes of the Lord.

Trina shares her self-image testimony which inspired me to take another long look in the mirror and ask honest questions about why I believe what I believe about myself and ask, who am I listening to? I’m learning it’s important to keep a balanced perspective on this issue and to embrace beauty the way God does.

Embracing Beauty is not a simple pep talk book for “ugly ducklings” who want to become “beautiful swans” someday. Trina helps us sort the lies from the Truth so we can “come out of the closet” so to speak and “Rock our personal style” with full confidence no matter what age or stage of life we find ourselves in.

Embracing our true beauty is not simply the gift of confidence we give to the girl in mirror;

• it’s the gift we give to those around us…our daughters, our sisters, the girls we may mentor…our friends.
• It’s the way to living a Beauty FULL life.
  
• It’s the gift of seeking and finding our identity and confidence in Christ alone and the beauty of living with all these things redeemed by Him.

So I can honestly say to you today…don’t settle for pretty; embrace beauty because you need to know:

the King is enthralled with YOUR beauty
and so am I.

**The FTC now requires book reviewers to disclose the 
following:
 Book reviews appear regularly on this website. 
There are books I review on this site I've purchased
myself or have been given as gifts. However, I do 
occasionally receive books, at no cost, in exchange for 
a fair and balanced review with no other compensation 
provided. 
This review is made as part of an affiliate program 
where a small compensation will be received from sales 
and applied to Christian  missions. Thanks!

Some of the Beauty-full people I hang out with on occasion:

 

one step closer to the light

I am learning that life with God
is a series of “beginnings.”

Looking back upon my journey with Him, I can surely see the Holy Spirit guiding me each step of the way and at those moments when it seemed I’d reached an end, it was really another place for me to die to myself and rise again to the next level of walking with Him.

It was this sort of experience during Holy Week nearly 12 years ago which brought me to a place of such radical insight, that I’ve never been the same since.

It was the beginning of a season of epiphanies…a moment of time on the edges of such gathering darkness that any light at all could seem bright but this Light…was breaking in and shaking me like none other. This Light was drawing sharp lines and outlining the shades and shadows of places I had yet to see and understand.

God was moving me… whispering into my soul in words and ways I can’t fully explain–calling me deeper and higher at the same time….moving in closer. 

and has been steadily moving me closer to Him ever since.

I’m sitting in her chair now.

A gift to me from her husband, soft amethyst and rose-budded. A wide and comfortable wingback with a matching fringed ottoman: perfect for late-night feedings and a new mother’s waiting arms. It had no doubt been arranged, close by in preparation for a day that would never come.

I barely knew her.

We hadn’t been there long ourselves when they stood to join the church one Sunday and she was already well along in her pregnancy. Conversations were brief and fell along pleasant lines but honestly, I don’t know that we ever had time to get past the idle Sunday morning chit-chat.

I like to think eventually, we would have.

Holy Week in this place was observed as a time of deep and almost mournful introspection. There was the labyrinth for prayerful preparation. Slots had been filled earlier in the month for the round-the clock vigil held in the sanctuary immediately following the Good Friday service…where the altar was stripped bare and black and the lights remained low. Dark-in-the-grave…no-stone-rolled away…silent, still and cold.

I had chosen two watches the week before…never knowing where they’d take me in that 48-hour period.

The word spread in a sickly slow-motion, shock wave rumbling beneath the surface of our congregation. A horror of words strung insensibly together: midnight, aneurysm, brain-dead mother, still-born child, father couldn’t save them…bone-crushing grief.

There, alone in the 3 a.m. dark of night I sat, keeping watch for those hours, dumbstruck and confused by the penetrating pain of that moment in time. It mingled with the dawning understanding of a moment in history nearly 2000 years before represented now in a black, cloth-covered cross.

Thinking.
Watching.
Waiting and praying.
Not understanding the need for such loss…on either side of the cross.

Wasn’t it just a few months earlier that we celebrated and danced at the birth the sweet baby born in Bethlehem, wrapped in swaddling cloths, heralded by angels to Shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night?

Wrapped in strips of linen then…wrapped again now and laid in a tomb..the baby…the Son, the God-Man…

Oh Jesus. You saved others, could you not save yourself?
Oh Jesus. Could you not save this mother and child?

These thoughts and scriptures held tight to my heavy heart all through the next day as I struggled to pull my head into the life of my family and muster up a spirit of celebration for the sake of my own children. But something had shifted inside of me and something else was taking It’s place.

My second vigil slot came again in the mid night hours which had seemed prudent at the time but now, felt like an unearthly excursion into a dark and difficult reality.

I almost didn’t go.

Head and heart bowed low I walked the few feet to the sanctuary and the scent met me moments  before my hand could reach the door; lilies.

Lilies and light!

The room was filled with the heady fragrance and blinding whiteness of lilies and candlelit vestments on the freshly dressed altar. In preparation for the Sunday celebration taking place at dawn, the church had already been transformed from a place of mourning into one of celebration.

And I felt it..heard it nearly audible-like in my heart:

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?
He is not here, he has risen!”

And I understood: the curtain torn in two from top to bottom opened the door so I could see…so clearly see:
the baby born in Bethlehem truly was a precious child gifted to us from a precious, loving God who knew that as miraculous as it is,

even an incarnation wasn’t enough.

• Justice would have to be served.
• God’s wrath would have to be satisfied.
• The price would have to be paid.

We would have to know the weight of the price needing to be paid and why..

 Jesus paid it ALL.

As I was reminded in a Holy Week service today..He paid it willingly; modeling and ministering up until the very hour of His death. Even in agony, Jesus offered forgiveness and mercy–from the cross–letting us know that even  at that moment of darkness and despair, if we seek, we will find.

Our friend did. 

He found his strength in loving friendships and community and he found his hope where it had been before and is still now: in Jesus. He has remarried and now he and his wife are ministers who specialize in grief and counseling. He is a resurrected man living in the light of our resurrected Savior: Jesus– the light shining in the darkness that could not…will not be overcome.

And I am a resurrected woman.

(a few lovely places I hang out with a few lovely authors)

the deliverance

I don’ t know
how He did it.

How he kept his sinless mouth shut against the insults and accusations taking blow after blow knowing….
knowing each one of His accusers…. intimately.

How he allowed them to strip him naked never once comprehending how stripped and naked He’d already become for the sake….of this.

How, looking down upon the spectacle of His own death and asking only that they be forgiven of their ignorance, even as they mocked Him all the more.

How, pierced and cosmically positioned on a cross-shaped plane, bridging the gap between heaven and hell with every ounce of sin-saturated gravity pressing down upon His shoulders…somehow, even in death…He remained sinless and upright.

He didn’t cave.

I don’t know how He did it.
In that moment, I might have told them all to just “go to hell”.

I can barely stand up under the weight of my sin full today….now rubble piled under the weight of many broken yesterdays. Pushed down in my dirt, sucker punched by the same old accusing enemy taunting like a playground bully just daring me to rise, call on and claim my “Deliverance”.

Even knowing the promises…..in that place they only add insult to injury and feel foreign to the Truth I claim to know. Even though I know, it’s not the truth. Whether I FEEL it or not, I know what’s real

and what God reveals, He intends to heal.

But it hurts all the same and broken-hearted, I reel and spin from the pain, almost yield to the lie and confusion … the aftershocks against my world still quaking and not making any sense.

I don’t ask why… because I know it’s the wrong question.

I can only ask “How”?
Because, on most days,  I really don’t know.

Steeling myself to silence my stricken soul, I WAIT. I wait for the rightness to surface because I know it’s there. The seeds were planted there just this morning in a heart song sung internally for my audience of One as I meditated upon the Word I’d gathered in the day before and would take again in huge gulps  before meeting time.

Knowing those seeds and promises never return void….even in the moments devoid of reason.

Even if it takes countless seasons ,
fruit will be born.

It comes with the rush of wind  on a firewood run, staring, bleary-eyed into a clear, star spattered sky. Chest heaving out another choking cry for relief.

“Show me how. Just please. Show. me. how.”

Biting cold, heavy log rolling while seeking to find a manageable slice, I find the courage to ask for what I need and trust Him to show me how to want it too: “I need mercy. I need grace”.

There’s no silence or pause before the whisper comes:

“Then give it.”

And I know it’s the Truth. And I know it’s no use fighting it…not if I want to go where He leads in every other way.

It’s not romance; it’s reality..this “turn the other cheek” business is the breath of the Living Body which breathed it’s first just one moment past the empty tomb.

He showed the way then and He shows the way now.

Forgiveness fuels the unquenchable flame of resurrection and is kept and kindled through an obedient and willing heart held and stilled before our living God.

He’s alive..He’s alive and I’m forgiven–heaven’s gates are open wide….

Walking it.

The {Heart} of a Prayer

She was ready to go.

Months had passed since she’d entered the hospital for a “routine” check on her dying heart. While her strength was rapidly fading, her courage never wavered and her spirits remained high considering all she’d been through up until this point.

The fact was; her heart was failing and now a kidney was too and the wait was taking it’s toll. Time was not on her side.

If it was time to go, she was prepared knowing that her greatest battles had already been fought and won.

She’d been a tremendous beacon of light and support for the transplant community. More than a spokesperson; she was a valiant warrior and everybody’s favorite cheerleader. She’d been a faithful member of a loving community and the unchallenged reigning “Queen of Hearts” of her family.

Just a few months prior, she’d gotten well enough to share the joy and dance lightly with her husband of 38 years at their oldest daughter’s wedding and the youngest had just announced her first grandchild would be born in the coming year.

God had been so good, so gracious and while they hoped for more time, she was not about to complain.

Her Carepage site had been constantly updated with the newsy news of her status quo, or  hilarious encounters with her own “Dr. Dreamy” but always, always focused on purposely encouraging those who stopped by

• to seek first the Kingdom of God and take time to get the most important things in order,
• to have a growing relationship with Christ and daily walk with Him through whatever came their way, 
• and to focus on serving and loving others with the Spirits’ help.

A follower of Jesus, this was definitely NOT her religion…it was her identity.

*   Even on the cloudiest days; she pointed to beauty and light.
*   Even in the darkest moments; she found humor and laughter.
*   Even now…as her body’s systems were beginning to shut down and the receipt of donor organs was seeming less and less likely…

she had peace that her prayers were heard by God and being answered.

It was o.k.

Trusting, praying and knowing God was listening; her family and friends were prepared to say good-bye if that was God’s will…even while praying for more time, they knew, by faith one way or another the answer would come.

And on December 8, 2012, God’s answer came.

Just hours after being placed on dialysis, word came that a donor heart and kidney match was available.

Her husband broke the news over the Carepage and I still remember the initial moment when I thought I knew what the message was going to say and my heart fell for just a moment until I realized it read:

“Surgery is a go! Please pray for her and for the surgeons. Also please pray for the donor family. Someone is hurting tonight and we need to remember them also.”

The Donor family.

My heart went out to that family and for days and days as my friend recovered, I thought of them and do still now– with a mixed sense of gratitude and respect. While we were soberly rejoicing in this “good news” for our friend, another set of people was mourning a great loss.

I’ve wondered; did they know Jesus? Had they prayed too? Surely, they must have begged for healing or hope ….or maybe they didn’t know…

It raised the question in my soul about God and prayer, what He hears and how He answers. The question could be and has been raised; did God say “no” to one prayer and “yes” to another?

I don’t believe it could be as simple as that.

It’s more than my feeble mind can comprehend. I can only come to the edges of such glorious knowledge but I am learning one thing about prayer and about God: time and again prayer seems to be more about changing and teaching our hearts about God than about changing God’s mind. God is unchanging; it is we who must change and grow and try to see things the way He does. Even when it hurts.

I am beginning to believe that God always answers “yes”.  However, the answer comes in many ways and forms and for reasons we may not understand at the time..or may never understand… in ways that seem hard and painful at first but on the whole are good and glorious.

No, I can not explain.
No, I do not understand why.
I am not God.
But I trust Him.

I am certain: God did hear and He does care and He did answer. Either way, His answer was going to be for the greatest good and for his greatest glory. Sherrell knows this too.

The healing and hope for that donor family came through the beautiful gift of life bequeathed by their loved one to my friend Sherrell and it is most definitely not going to be wasted as she continues to serve and bloom faithfully in all the areas she’s been planted. 

I pray they know this hope.

But the truth for Sherrell is that her hope was never placed or found in a set of organs; her hope is found in her relationship with Jesus Christ and until her time is done here on earth, she will serve Him as tirelessly as she can to reach out to a dying world….in His name and through the vehicle of organ donation. I pray that donor families everywhere can know this hope and those who receive them will know the real hope as well.

This hope is mine.
Is it yours?

Furthermore, I am a tissue and organ donor who understands that all I am and all I possess– including my organs– belongs to God. And  if I can somehow be a part of His answer to that prayer in someone’s life I am available.

And for a little while longer, so is my friend, Sherrell Gay.

If you are not a tissue or organ donor, I would urge you to consider giving this gift of life. Most states allow you to indicate your preference when you renew your driver’s license. Or, you can go to www.donatelife.net. and find a listing of registry sites around the nation.