Missed Kicks, Flower-Pickers, and Dingbats

I was 17 years old when I "surrendered to the ministry." 

My reformed friends have no idea what I'm talking about.

This was a Baptist kid thing. And as a Baptist and a female, my options were limited. I could either be a missionary, a Sunday school teacher, or a minister of women. (Deaconesses and lady preachers are the unicorns of the Baptist church.)

I was under the impression you had to a be a professional Christian to really be used by God. I had yet to learn that God uses mothers and fathers, teachers and artists, plumbers and computer engineers, businessmen and farmers to advance his kingdom.

In my mind, you were either a star player or a flower-picker. There was no in-between.

A lot of us think this way, which is why us ordinary folk are content to stroll along the outskirts of the action. Leave the SportsCenter highlights to the pros. Am I right?

Don't answer. It was a rhetorical question.

Last Saturday, I watched my son play his first soccer game. I honestly thought he'd be a flower picker.

Just keeping it real. He's new to the sport and--like his mama--he kinda lives in his own little world most of the time. And well...doesn't he look like a flower picker to you?

Imagine my surprise when the whistle blew and I saw this...

I never thought I'd be that mom, but I was jumping up and down, clapping, and whooping. Not because he scored a goal. He didn't. And not because he got it all right. He didn't (see above photo). But because he threw himself into the fray.

I wasn't nearly as proud of Micah's success as I was his effort. His willingness to try. Did I care that he missed the ball on a couple of kicks? No! I had the time of my life watching him miss those kicks.

May I submit that God feels the same way about us? And that maybe he has a way of using our missed kicks?

As I mentioned before, I'm a flower-picker type. A frequent flyer to La-La Land. And don't ask me to multitask. More often than not, it goes wrong.

I know, I know...women are supposed to be phenomenal multitaskers. Blah, blah, blah. Yeah...no.

Last week, I attended Project 41's monthly Worship Night. It was an amazing night. I just love it when the Holy Spirit drops. There's a holy weight to the air. A sweetness in the atmosphere. It's good stuff.

Anyway, one of the worship leaders dedicated a song to "two very special ladies" and encouraged us all to sit back and soak it in. But as I closed my eyes and settled back onto the sofa, my friend nudged me and asked me to pray for her headache. I was happy to.

But I could only give the song a half ear at best. For whatever reason, the song I heard was "Just a Closer Walk with Thee."

My friend's headache improved, but hadn't completely gone away when we moved into a time of prayer. So I announced her headache to the group. (Beware of being my friend.)

She sat in the chair in the center of the room, and I took a front row seat from which I watched God love on her through the people around her.

In the midst of the outpouring, I had a vision of Jesus walking her through a garden, pointing out the flowers, showing her how beautiful they were. With the vision, he gave me a song to sing for her.

My pulse raced and heart pounded. I may be a singer, but this kind of thing always makes me nervous. So I asked everyone to join me as I sang, "In the Garden."

The following day, my friend thanked me for the song. She said, "When they sang it the first time, I wasn't sure it was for me. I thought they meant two other ladies. But when you sang it, God showed me it was for me."

I blinked. Wait, whaaaa????

I had no idea the worship leaders had already sung that song. At first, I argued with her. "They sang 'Just a Closer Walk with Thee,' not 'In the Garden.'"

A third friend and the worship leader who'd led the song confirmed it. With droll grins.

Nope. "In the Garden."

Awkward. All I could do was laugh. I can be such a dingbat. 

I'd committed the musical equivalent of a missed kick. (A difficult thing for a musician.) But that "missed kick" made my friend feel more loved than she would've felt otherwise.

There are a lot of ways to live surrendered to the ministry. 

 

The key is to live more surrendered to God than to self. To be more afraid of someone missing out on God's love than of looking like an idiot.

Some of us are star players who get paid to score goals and get kicked in the shins. Most of us...aren't. I'm not. But that doesn't mean I should leave all the work to the pros. We're a body. A team. There's a place for us all.

Which means there's a place for flower-pickers, too. Pick flowers to the glory of God! There's a time and a place for that ministry. I should know. Just be ready for the ball when God sends it your way.

Engage. Take risks. You may miss a few kicks, but God is an ever-proud papa. He cheers every effort in His name. You may be a dingbat, but His laughter is kind. And you can trust Him to turn even your failures for good.

Adjustments

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Vincent van der Pas

My parents' friend Gary Bulloch says this true thing--"Life is a series of adjustments."

We adjust from childhood to puberty, from young adulthood to marriage, from marriage to parenthood, from parenthood to empty nesting, and from empty nesting to the winter years of life with lots of adjusting in between. It seems like the moment we find our groove, the music changes and we have to adjust again. 

I hesitate to say I'd become comfortable with illness. (It's difficult to become comfortable with a disease which tries to kill you on a regular basis.) But being sick was my normal. 

A few weeks ago when I began to heal, Tim, a new friend of mine told me I wouldn't heal all at once because everyone around me had to adjust to the fact that their wife/daughter/mother/friend was getting better. And he's right. But they're not the only ones.

I'm adjusting, too.

It's kind of surreal that three months ago I was a shut in and now I'm going to events. 

Note: Project 41's White As Snow gala went very well, the most successful gala to date. We learned a lot, raised support for the ministry, and yes--I ate the food (!!!!!) Side effects were extremely mild. The night was a personal celebration for my family and me. 

Remember this poem I wrote a year ago?:

Some diseases are a death sentence.
Some are a life sentence.
Which is easier to bear?
A small cell or the chair?
A cage or a casket?
No one knows
and both are hard
on the sick one and the watchers.
Some of us die in here,
but I believe
there is a key
for me,
an early release.
Or so I've been told
by the Prison Ward
who is kind and good and wise and hard.
The door will open
when the cell has done its work
and the bars have made me free.
Or so I believe.
But all I see
are steel and concrete.
Spare walls and a lonely lock
mock my faith.
I smell sky and pine.
Sun shafts through the window.
Voices chuckle and cluck,
a murmur through stone,
a reminder of what I'm missing,
a promise of what's to come.
But the Warden visits me--
and this place has be-come
Home.
"For a while," He corrects.
So I believe.  

Well, the cell has done its work, apparently. The bars have made me free. The Warden has thrown open the prison gates, and while He hasn't exactly tossed me out, it's very clear He doesn't expect me to stay inside. Nor do I want to. I'm ready to bust outta here, yo!

But there's this very real rehabilitation period to contend with. 

I'm learning to live in the world again. (There are people out here!) I'm asking big questions. (i.e. "What now?") I'm doing things. Going places. It's weird.

And my body hasn't quite caught up with my to-do list. 

 

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Alan Bloom

These days I'm either enjoying my freedom or recovering from it.

Chronic fatigue, pain, and food sensitivities are still things as I pick up Micah from school, take Sara to her dance lesson, undertake my own housework, shop, go to church, visit with friends I haven't seen in forever, attend prayer meetings and events, and accept ministry opportunities. All in addition to what I was already doing.

Except I don't have much time to write. Not fiction anyway. My journal, however, sees lots of action. 

 I filled up this guy in two months!

Thus, my writing goals for the year may not be possible. 

I'm not complaining. I'm adjusting. 

It's difficult transitioning from a slow waltz (not that I've ever been that graceful) to a cha-cha. Even if the change is a blast. 

Moms, you know what I'm talking about. How great is it when your youngest transitions from two naps to one? But that free hour you had in the morning to drink coffee while it was still warm? Gone. Vamoose.

Or that moment you're done with diapers, but then you have to ask the kid whether or not she needs to pee every 15 minutes and haul her to the bathroom umpteen times a day whereas before you could change a diaper every three to four hours and you were good. (Yeah, I cried, too.)

C'est la vie. 

I LOVE the season I'm in, but it isn't easy. 

 

What do people expect of me now that I'm out and about? What does Brandon expect? What do the kids expect? What do I expect?

Does a writing career still fit into my life? I hope so. I want it to. But for now I feel that living real life is more important than writing made up life, and I don't have energy to do both. 

Most importantly, what does God expect of me? 

The Lord hasn't given me a copy of A Former Shut-In's Guide to Engaged Living in 5 Easy Steps. For now, I have only three hints to go on, and none of them are cut and dried:

1) "And she served them" (Mark 1:31). When Jesus healed Peter's mother-in-law, she didn't stay in bed. She got up and served Him. 

This is the word the Lord gave me in 2012 not long after my illness began to really present itself. This last chapter of my story was always going to end with my healing. I was given my marching orders three years before it happened. Service, not ease, is God's expectation of me. Of course, service can wear many hats. 

My family is the most important recipient. It's time to seize the things sickness stole from me. It's time to show up, take some of the enormous burden Superman has carried on his shoulders these long years, and clean my own bathrooms for goodness' sake. (God bless my mother in law for keeping my house from falling to chaos. Debbie Keaster, you are THE BEST.)

2) Limits. Everybody loves boundaries. Even kids. We think we don't, but we do. Limits make us feel safe. 

God has flung open the doors of my cage, and I'm so thankful. There's also a part of me that's glad I still have to count spoons. Because it reminds me--"I can do anything, but not everything."

When I was a prisoner, I talked about all the things I wanted to do when I was free. I wanted to sing in a choir again. I wanted to join that Flannery O'Conner short story class at Auburn Avenue. I wanted to be involved with this ministry and that ministry. Oh! And that one! I wanted to take Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu with Micah. I wanted to teach music lessons, offer cooking classes, and write novels. 

Yeah, right. 

I'm pretty sure the limits of 24 hours in a day and I don't know...SLEEP may disallow all that nonsense. Not that any of those things would be a bad way to spend time...unless I tried to do it all. 

Most days, I manage the things I was doing before I was better (child-rearing, cooking, dishes, laundry, homework, baths, bedtime routine, etc.), a little exercise, and maybe one outing before I'm ready to crash. 

Mondays are my rest days. On Monday, I. just. can't. (See monkey picture above.) I'm done. Stick a fork in me, and whatever you do, don't ask me to do anything extra.

3) A magic thread. In George MacDonald's fantasy for children, The Princess and the Goblin, Princess Irene is given a ring by her fairy godmother. Attached is a magic thread which is promised to always lead her safely back to her fairy godmother. 

One night, goblins enter little Irene's bedroom. She puts on the ring and follows the thread outside into the mountain wilderness, trusting it to guide her into the arms of her godmother. When it leads her into the dark caves, which are home to the goblins, she doubts and tries to feel her way backward. But behind her, the thread disappears. She can only go forward.

So onward she goes--through darkness, danger, and even a wall of rock--until she finds her friend Curdie who is held prisoner by the goblins. Irene rescues Curdie, and leads him out of the caves. At the end of her thread, she finds her godmother, as promised. 

God has given a magic thread to every believer. His name is the Holy Spirit.

The Spirit knows the mind of the Father, who has written my story. He leads me where I should go. Many times, I don't understand where He leads, but if I will hang on and press on, I'll find my way. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to lead a Curdie or two to the safety of God's arms along the way.

I appreciate your prayers as I adjust. 

I'm so happy right now. It may seem I don't need prayer. That assumption is incorrect.

I have so many questions. I don't know where the thread is taking me, and my feet are dragging half the time. I long to write, but can't manage it, which is kind of frustrating. As I'm able to focus less on myself, my eyes open to the devastation around me. While the miracle does my family good, the last four years have also left a mark. We're all kind of damaged, and now it's time to pick up the pieces and rebuild. Reconstruction is hard work.

So yeah...keep praying! And thank you for all the prayers that have come before. I hope you, too, are reveling in the miracle God has performed. You're part of it, after all. I hope it reveals an attribute of God you never noticed before, and leads you to marvel before His throne.

As I said to a friend this morning, prayer is never wasted time. And it's the perfect answer to every adjustment life throws at us.

This Little Light of Mine

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Herr Olsen

"No one, when he has lit a lamp, puts it in a secret place or under a basket, but on a lampstand, that those who come in may see the light." ~ Luke 11:33

Last week was a big week for me, and I wasn't quiet about it. Almost every day, I posted (to Facebook) some major event, a mile marker on my road to recovery.

On Tuesday, I took a walk in the cold with my little man while Sara was in her dance lesson. Within 25 minutes, I developed a headache and felt I was on the verge of a "crash." I hadn't really planned on a crash or what I would do in the event of one. It was just me and the kids a full half hour from home. But as I warmed up in the car, I said a quick prayer. The headache cleared. I could move my arms again with ease. As a bonus, on that same trip I was exposed to Lysol, and didn't have a major reaction. Believe me when I say this is BIG.

On Wednesday, I pumped gas. I couldn't remember the last time I'd done such a thing. Nor could I remember which side of the car the gas tank was on. Nor how to operate the credit card machine at the pump. But I figured it out. Brandon had admonished me to wear my mask and gloves. I did and had no problems. It made me feel like a grown up again.

On Thursday, this happened...

Nope. Not kidding.

The last movie I had seen in a theater was Les Miserables in December 2012, and I left that feature violently ill. Fast forward to January 7, 2016. We see STAR WARS, and I leave the theater in perfect health! I wore my mask on the way in and out of the theater and during the first half hour or so while people were eating. The theater wasn't crowded, it being the first showing of the day during the middle of the week three weeks after the movie's release. With plenty of space between me and my fellow movie goers, I was able able to enjoy most of the film mask free.

Only a few months ago, I doubted I would ever enjoy another movie in the theater. Which was a shame because before I got sick, movie dates were "our thing."

What I didn't post to Facebook is what happened after the movie...

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Daniella Segura

An Encounter with my Arch Nemesis

 

Several triggers have tried to kill me over the years, but nothing has come as close to success as "The Peanut." 

Back in 2013, I tried to make a healthy peanut butter for the kids. Big mistake. That little experiment sent me to the brink of death. I struggled to breathe, my blood pressure dropped, I couldn't think or communicate, and my body temperature plummeted to 94.1 degrees. I thought I would meet Jesus that day. 

Since then, I've had a couple of freak reactions to peanuts. Once, when I went through a frozen custard drive-thru. Another time when I kissed the kids after they'd eaten frozen custard. (Custard became a cuss word in this house, as you can imagine.)

Peanuts don't mess around. They carry a fine dust which easily disperses in the air and settles on things like napkins, custard cups, and hard surfaces. Trace amounts are enough to trigger the sensitive and allergic, and the reaction can be severe. Bad stuff goes down when peanuts and I are in the same room.

When it became clear that God was healing me, Brandon and I agreed we wouldn't experiment with triggers which have caused shock reactions. Secretly, I asked God to allow an accident to occur with each shock trigger, but only when my body was ready for it. 

God answered my prayer sooner than expected. 

After the movie on Thursday, B went into the hardware store where we buy local honey. At the entrance is a massive drum of peanuts in the shell. The honey shelf is right next to it. As are the paper bags.

Brandon returned to the car and placed our paper bag of honey in the backseat. Five minutes later, my face and tongue began to swell and my thinking went all...swimmy. 

I swore. Because I knew what it was and I thought it was going to be bad and we had just been on our first date in three years and it was going to end in an emergency. Or so I thought.

Brandon pulled over. I took my rescue meds. Brandon treated me. And I was fine. 

Usually, peanut reactions continue to worsen over the course of a half hour, and it takes me a week to recover. Brandon skipped hunting that evening to keep watch over me. I kept smiling at him, assuring him I was okay. I told him about my secret prayer. 

God wouldn't have let that happen before I was ready. He doesn't give good gifts just to yank them out of our hands.

The timing of this little accident was so perfect. It happened before I shared a meal with my prayer group last Friday, which gave me extra confidence even though they were careful to accommodate me. More importantly, it happened before the White As Snow Gala for Project 41, which I will attend on the 22nd.

 (Purchase your tickets here.)

Now we know--even if the worst case scenario happens I'm not going to die. Brandon will be able to relax and enjoy instead of worrying about me the whole time. To an extent. And I'll be brave enough to try the food after all these weeks of asking God to allow me to eat it without issue. 

(I'll let you know how that goes.)

Sharing the Light

 

I realize my constant praise reports may annoy some of my FB friends. I get it. Ecstatically happy people can be irritating. My sick friends may think to themselves, "What about me?" Been there, done that. I know exactly how you feel. 

But after carefully cataloging the descent, it would be seriously neglectful not to document the rise. Don't you think?

My heart is to encourage. For four years, I've been a walking reminder that life can go terribly wrong. That joy can be found in the midst heartache when you lean into Jesus. Now I'd like to be a walking reminder that God hears and answers prayer. I want to be a parable of resurrection. So I continue to display my candle on a lampstand that others may see the light. I pray others will join me with their own healing stories.

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Esteban Chiner

Healing is Contagious

The people who have walked with me through the darkness are the most affected by the light. Maybe more so than me. When you've watched your wife/child/mother/friend fighting for her life against a supposedly incurable, progressive disease, it does something to you when the tragedy is rewritten with hope.

My doctor and friend, Carolyne Yakaboski, often shakes her head in wonder. My parents grin over my latest experiments. Fear loosens its grip on my Superman as he learns to trust and believe. Sara asks me to take her to Sonic so she can play on the playground. 

"Soon," I say. 

But Micah...oh, man. 

Micah is a sensitive kid. He doesn't always show his emotions (as opposed to Sara who wears her heart on her sleeve and wants everyone to participate in whatever she's feeling at the moment). But he feels deeply. Mom reminded me the other day that Micah was adjusting to a baby sister when I got sick. That's a lot of life change for a sensitive little guy. 

Micah has only a couple of memories of me when I was well. He has lots of memories of me in bed. Of being passed around from caretaker to caretaker. Of my absence. He'll be seven next month. I've been sick for over half his life. 

The other day when I told him I would start picking him up from school some days, a gap-toothed smile spread across his face. Tears filled his eyes until one slipped out and ran down the side of his freckled nose. "You made me cry, Mama."

"Does that make you happy?" I clarified. 

He nodded, and I kissed that little nose.

Not long ago, he told my mom with wide, serious eyes, "God has finally heard our prayers."

Lately, he's been praying for other sick people we know with confidence. He believes. And he's been...I don't know. Happier. Almost as happy as when he was a baby.

Mom and I talked as we watched the kids play one day last week. "This is going to stay with him his whole life," she said. "He'll never forget what God did for you. It will shape his relationship with Him forever."

My story probably won't have the same impact on you as it does on my husband and son. But because there's a chance it will shape your view of our good, good Father...

This little light of mine

I'm gonna let it shine

"Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house." (Matthew 5:15)

Why I Journal: 21 Reasons

Journaling is often described as a lost or dying art. Maybe it is. I lack necessary statistics to prove or disprove that hypothesis, but I don't know many people who do it. My mom. My mentor. A couple of my friends.

The reason for this, I think, is that journaling is a discipline before it's an art, and discipline is dying.

It's understandable, if you think about it. There are countless demands on our time and energy. It's kind of a miracle you're even reading this post right now. The mere act of reading demands your time and mental real estate, and what you're reading is about yet another discipline in addition to the ones already on your plate. Not to mention, this particular discipline reeks with the odor of your middle school classroom and all its unpleasantness.

I mean, what adult wants to assign themselves homework, right? (Besides me.) Who has time to doodle in a notebook for 20 minutes several days a week--or ever--when they're already trying to exercise, eat healthy, pray, read more books, and organize their homes while working, parenting, and sleeping enough to stay alive? Not to mention keeping up with The Voice and scrolling the Facebook newsfeed...

Adulting is hard. 

But you know what I've learned about myself? I have time to do the things I want to do. I always have. When I was a full time music student, a part time piano and voice teacher, a children's minister, and had a 30 minute commute (minimum) everywhere I had to go. When I was a working mom. When I was so sick I could barely pick up a pen.

I want to journal, so I do.

But WHY do it?

 

Throughout the centuries, people have journaled for many reasons. To preserve history, for one. For entertainment. For posterity. The written word is longer-lasting than the human body, so people write what they want to be remembered.

Today, psychologists tell us that journaling is good for our health. It relieves stress and depression, and strengthens immune cells. Some research indicates journaling actually relieves the symptoms of asthma and rheumatoid arthritis.

But I don't journal for those reasons. As a believer in Christ, I don't feel pressure to be remembered. And I don't write as a perk to my health.

I write because I must. I need to write like I need to eat. Well...almost.

(I realize I am not the norm.)

That being said, I do have reasons to journal in addition to blogging, Facebooking, tweeting, texting, emailing, and novel...ing.

My Journaling History

 

I began to write poems, short vignettes, and various tidbits as soon as I could write. My parents kept some of them.

I began a formal journal in the 5th grade. Mrs. Pilgreen assigned a writing prompt each day, and required us to write a three to five sentence paragraph in our speckled notebooks. (To this day, I still love speckled notebooks.) Overachiever that I was, I often filled the page.

Mostly, I wrote lies I wished were true fiction, but my 5th grade classroom is where I learned the basics of journaling. Which is to record important events, thoughts, and feelings.

Since then, I've tried various forms of journaling--scrapbooking, blogging, Facebook, even food journaling. Art journaling was a FAIL. For obvious reasons.

But I always come home to the old school long-hand journal.

When I Write

 

I write when I have something to write about. But not always.

I could write every day. Inspiration is everywhere. In God. In Superman. In my little gingers. In nature. In the things I read. In what people say. In how people are. I'm always watching, observing. It's what writers do.

Just kidding. Sort of.

However, I don't hold myself down to a schedule. I don't journal every day. Unless I want to. Which sometimes I do. But other times, I go weeks or even months between journal entries. 

What I Write

 

There are all kinds of things in my journal. A record of events and how I feel about them. Random thoughts. Quotes. Bible verses. Meditations. Prayers. Dreams. Visions. Prayer lists. Gratitude lists. Cute things my kids say. Goals. Proudest moments. Darkest secrets.

My journal is my confessional and my trophy room.

Which brings me to...

Why I Write

 

I'm a pretty open book. Chances are, if you ask me something point blank, I'll tell you the truth and probably more of it than you want to know

BUT any time I present a part of myself to the public, whether that public consists of one person or a thousand, I edit. At least a little. (You do it, too, even if you're unaware of the fact.)

You'll find the fluffiest, most cuddly version of Melissa Keaster on Facebook and Twitter. Or in a scrapbook. You'll get a peek beneath my skin on my blog and in my fiction. But my journal? That's where you'll see the good, the bad, and the ugly of my soul. Which is why some of my journals have warnings in the front (i.e. "Do not read without my permission unless I am dead"). I do the least amount of editing there, which makes for interesting (and sometimes entertaining) material.

Journaling is where I get to be as honest as I know how to be, but that's only the foundational reason I do it. Here's an arbitrary list of other reasons off the top of my head:

1. To process life with integrity
2. To remember God's faithfulness
3. To help others remember God's faithfulness
4. To record prayers and answers
5. To record prophecies and their fulfillment
6. To record goals and progress
7. To collect favorite quotes
8. To capture my wrestling matches with God
9. To find out what I think about things; sometimes I don't know until I write
10. To contemplate Scripture
11. To get my words out (I have a lot of them.)
12. To have a safe place for my wildest, weirdest thoughts
13. To write the things people may not have time, interest, or patience to hear
14. To tattle on people to God (Yes, really...though you should know--any time you tattle to God, he always turns it around on you.)
15. To remember cute things my kids say
16. Blog fodder
17. Novel fodder
18. Because sometimes people can't handle my joy, sorrow, grief, or passion, but God and blank pages can (Tip: Keep a tissue or handkerchief handy; you don't want to blot the pages with tears.)
19. To leave something of myself for my kids and grandkids to enjoy
20. To show my descendants how God loves us from birth to old age and beyond

So yeah...I've got reasons. And maybe among my reasons, you'll find reasons of your own.


What about you? Do you journal? What are your reasons? If you don't, do ya wanna start? Need tips? Encouragement? Accountability? I'll be happy to help you along.

I love, love, love comments, so feel free to drop me a line and ask for my help. I'm supposed to teach a journaling class soon, and it would be great to get in some practice beforehand!

The Power of Worship

Worship changes things.

The posture of a soul. The climate of a household. The complaints of the body. There's all kinds of healing to be found in turning from ourselves and the concerns of the moment to behold the beauty of God.

I used to have episodes. Spells, I called them. In the evenings, when I was tired, drained, and weary of discomfort, I'd still have to cook. Cooking seemed a monumental task in those moments. Impossible. Living felt impossible.

Arthritis made it difficult to peel vegetables. Phantom stakes drove into the fibromyalgia points in my neck and shoulders. Heat radiated from my skin, tender to the touch. A tension headache would form, unable to be helped by medication or essential oils. I was too sensitive. Still am. And the worst part was the dark cloud which hung over my head, weighing me down.

Either the pain isn't as bad now or I'm used to it. Maybe both. The cloud still visits me sometimes. 

But God (a lovely pair of words, don't you think?) is faithful. He speaks into the cloud. Through the storm of pain and discouragement, I feel Him. Nudging me, reminding me. I'm here. Reach for me.

I always begin with prayer. I ask for help with plain words, sometimes gasped, depending on the level of discomfort. But help doesn't always immediately come.

I move on to gratitude. I reflect on God's kindnesses. They're always there, even in the midst of the ashes. Eventually, with eyes to see and practice, you don't have to look very hard.

A couple of years ago, I thanked God for the strength to stand at the kitchen counter. Back then, I didn't take that strength for granted. Then, maybe I thanked Him for the squash in my hands, which would bring nourishment to me and my family. The infant clinging to my ankles. The little boy bouncing off the furniture. The husband on his way home from work. The messy house.

Gratitude penetrates the cloud, but it doesn't always chase it away.

So then I preach to my soul. Words hidden in my heart find their way to my tongue, sounding from my pulpit at the kitchen sink.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul? Why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance." (Psalm 42:5)

"...If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?" (Romans 8:31-32)

 Be bold. Be strong. The Lord your God is with you.

The cloud begins to lift.

But worship is the ace in the hole. It not only dissipates the cloud; it often relieves my physical discomfort. Or at least makes it less important.

Saturday night, I had a bad case of the ickies. You know what I'm talking about. I was all out of sorts, self-conscious about stupid things, and grumpy about having to figure out what to do with the pound of bison I'd thawed. My family was in a funk, too, and not the fun kind.

I remembered my ace, and decided to make it my first play.

Everyone was watching TV, so I grabbed my iPod, stuffed in my earbuds, and turned up a favorite worship album. I sang softly as I cooked and folded laundry, and you know what? I wasn't the only one helped. The atmosphere of our home shifted.

I've learned to expect that. Which is why worship has become my go to remedy for maladies of all kinds.

One night last week, Sara threw a major hissy fit right before bedtime. Girl's got a temper.

  I know you wouldn't believe it looking at this precious face.

But yeah...

I'm a firm believer in not going to bed angry, so I asked God how to help her. Silent prayers in the rocking chair weren't doing the trick, and she was too hysterical to pray herself. I sang a few of her favorite hymns. It helped, but she continued to thrash and cry, inconsolable.

I asked her to sing with me. We sang her current favorite, "At the Name of Jesus." Then she calmed enough to look up at me and say, "I wanna sing 'Jesus on da Cross.'"

I combed my fingers through her downy curls. "I don't know that one, Love. Will you teach it to me?"

Sara sang the following words to a simple melody which made the former music teacher in me proud. She made me repeat the phrases, which helped me to remember the lyrics long enough to copy them down in my journal:

Jesus on da cross...
His name is glorious...
He won da victory for us...
He died on da cross...
So He could save us...

Not a bad little song. And in the process of singing it, her anger evaporated. I tucked her into bed peaceful and content.

Now I wonder how many of my own passions I can reprocess into worship. Fan of experiments that I am, I'll be trying it out in the weeks to come.

In the meantime, what about you? Have you experienced the healing power of worship? Post your story in the comments below so we can all marvel at the healing weapon God has given us.

"Make a joyful shout to God, all the earth!
Sing out the honor of His name;
Make His praise glorious.
Say to God,
'How awesome are Your works!..."
(Psalm 66:1-3)

 

They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab

Back in January, I deactivated from Facebook. I needed a break. A breather. A social media detox, if you will.

I had become addicted. And let's face it. I'm not the only one.

Have you seen the haunting photographs from Eric Pickersgill's project Removed? Oh my word, what an indictment!

It's a sad deal when we take something good and make it ultimate. Social media is purposed to bring us together, but when we look to it for validation and use it as an emotional numbing agent, it divides us.

That's what happened to me. So to break my habit, God put me in social media rehab for eight months. Here's an overview of how that went:

Facebook Rehabilitation Diary:

Day 1: Good day. Withdrawal set in this evening, manifesting in agitation and a pounding headache. Apparently, Facebook withdrawal is a real thing. Who knew?

Day 2: Devastating news for our family. Glad I'm not on Facebook.

Days 3-10: Undulating between rage and depression with almost no in between. Trying very hard to be a supportive wife and mother. Wrestling with God over the first few chapters of Job again. I was one chapter from the end of the book, but my heart is in chapters 1-3. So thither I return.

Week 1: Rediscovered Pinterest. In my defense, I'm using it to learn how to write a better book. Mostly. Also, I discovered cat memes.

 

Week 2: Lonely. Had things to say and no one to say them to. I texted instead. That helped. Can't go outside or stand near the door because of the cold.  So depressed all I want to do is eat and sleep. Since I don't have FB, I spend free time doing novel research.

Week 4: Not as angry now. Seeing good come from the bad. Stronger relationships with B and the kids. Spiritual growth in B. Began Draft 2 of my novel.

 

Month 2:  Beginning to crawl out of The Pit of Despair. Family vacation. Hit my writing stride.

 

Month 3: Look how much I can accomplish without FB! Look at all these inflammatory events I'm missing! All the stress I'm avoiding! What is this new, fabulous world?

Month 4: Turns out...to be accepted by an agent and sell actual, real-live books, I must have an author platform, which includes FB, Twitter, and an active blog. Bubble busted.

Month 5: Draft 3 of my novel complete. It's probably time to return to Facebook. Resistance. Anxiety. Avoidance.

Month 6: Suddenly realized I'm lonely. Returning to FB now would be like a recovering alcoholic strolling the liquor aisle after his dog died.

Month 7: Working on face-to-face relationships. Draft 4 in progress. Facebook return imminent.

End of Month 7: Submit manuscript to beta readers. Deep breath.

(Dog memes are also fun.)

Almost month 8: Logged back in.

What I Learned:

 

1) Facebook is legitimate community.

While nothing can replace the people in front of me, there's something truly grand about the ability to connect with human beings all over the globe. My best friends live out of state. I've met some incredible people who live in other countries. I missed them while I was away. 

2) Facebook is its own kind of social assistance.

We don't have time to keep up with every person we care about. In our fast-paced culture, everyone is swamped. During the eight months I was away, I talked to my best friends maybe 2-3 times each and saw almost no one outside of immediate family. Every now and then I would get a text or hear from mom that someone missed me or wanted to know how I was. People didn't stop caring just because I was away. Neither did I! But without Facebook, we no longer had a convenient way to check in.

3) Facebook hiatus was good for my health.

Facebook stresses me out. It's not just the drama over politics, current events, and what Christian women consider acceptable entertainment (read into that what you will), though that's plenty bad for sensitive folk like me.

The main reason Facebook stresses me out is because I walk through life with this strange, genetically-rooted complex which makes me believe every vague or negative status and delayed private message response is my fault and that I somehow offended this person and I must do something to make it right.

Slowly but surely, I'm learning I'm not the center of the universe and not everyone is thinking of me when they type in their various vague/negative statuses and that I should calm the heck down and give people the benefit of the doubt. *breathes into paper bag*

Stress is mast cell trigger. I don't think it's a coincidence that I enjoyed the healthiest few months I've had in a while during my FB absence.

4) Facebook hiatus doesn't automatically strengthen face-to-face relationships.

It's far easier to swap addictions than it is to learn new habits. I struggled with this throughout my hiatus. If it wasn't FB, it was Pinterest. Or music. Or Netflix. Or my novel. I had to work to connect.

Though my health is stable now, life is still hard. Painful, even. It's easier to self-medicate with technology (since I can't do it with food, liquor, or medication) than it is to acknowledge the pain, process it, and relate to others.

5) The world keeps spinning with or without me. 

For eight months I was invisible to nearly everyone except the people under my roof. And the world didn't end. Everyone was fiiiine. (I know. I can't believe it either.) I find this both humbling and comforting.

6) Now that I'm clean, I enjoy Facebook more. I'm free to enjoy the gift without the gift possessing me. Which is way more fun.

All in all, I loved being away and I love being back. The thing that was poison to me in January is a treat to me now. And that's a good place to be.



What do you think? What pros and cons does Facebook hold for you? Is its cultural impact mostly positive or negative? Does it connect us or divide us? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Agree with the Enemy

 Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of J Brew

Have you ever run through a patch of bull nettles? Well, neither have I, but Superman once did and told me what it was like.

I've experienced the spiritual equivalent many times. I'm nipped, pinched, and stung until I take off at an aimless sprint, desperate to find my way out only to find myself farther in.

That restless nettling is often accompanied by words. Words of condemnation.

You are filthy with sin. 
How can you think something like that and call yourself a child of God?
You may look good on the outside, but you know you're rotten at the core.
You're a failure.
You're an addict.
Look at how much time you wasted today.
You always say the wrong thing.
You don't deserve to be healed.
You're a sad excuse for a mother. 
Look at you. You can't help yourself. How can you expect to help others?

When I stop to identify the tone and timbre, I know immediately--that ain't my Shepherd's voice. This isn't the way God deals with His kids.

But recognizing the presence of the Enemy is just the first step. I can't simply wish him away. I have to engage. Whether I feel like it or not.

And let me tell you something--he's fiercely clever and more patient than I'll ever be in this life. He always pounces when I'm too tired or sick to fight. He hits me where I'm weak.  

And 99.9% of the time, he attacks me with the truth. 

Satan may be the Father of Lies, but he knows me. He sees me read my Bible. He watches as I soak up solid teaching.

An outright lie won't work on me. When one comes, I literally laugh out loud, and say something like, "Seriously? That's what you're going with today?"

So he comes at me with half-truths.

It's true that I'm filthy with sin, that my thoughts are impure, that I'm rotten to the core. That I'm a failure, an addict, a time-waster. I do say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I don't deserve to be healed. I am a sad excuse for a mother. I can't help myself...much less anyone else.

How to fight little-'t' truth: 

 

I had the pleasure of falling asleep last night and waking up this morning to bull nettles.

Those fiery little arrows were aimed as true as the words. They paralyzed me. Until God reminded me of a battle tactic I learned from family friend, Deb McCracken, a few years ago--

"Agree with the Enemy."

 

 It may seem counterintuitive, but I've found it exceedingly helpful.

Think about it. When the Enemy attacks with the truth, should we counter truth with a lie? Does it really help to say, "Pssshhhaw...I'm not a sinner. I'm just fine, thank you very much. I'm a great mom. I do deserve to be healed. By the way, why haven't I? What gives, God?"

Umm....no. Let's not abandon truth just because it hurts.

Instead, we zero in on the weakness in the Enemy's attack. You can bet your bottom dollar that he will never come at you with the whole Truth.

So agree with the Enemy, and then...

Complete the Sentence.

 

When the Enemy comes at us with half-truths, it's our job to complete the sentence. Writer type that I am, I always enjoyed these exercises in elementary school. Even if you didn't, you must learn the skill if you want to win the battle.

A helpful hint: All Truth ends with Jesus, and it can only be found in God's Word. (This is why it's so important to know the Bible. You can't walk in victory without it.)

When you've completed the sentence...

Preach to Your Soul.  

 

Soul preaching is an important skill for all believers because our feelings don't always align with the Truth. Take a page out of David's book (Psalm 42), and preach Truth to yourself.

For example:

Yes, I'm filthy with sin, but Jesus died for me while I was at my worst (Rom. 5:8; Eph. 2:4). If He gave His life for me then, He won't abandon me now (John 10:28; Heb. 13:5). 

My thoughts aren't always pure, but Jesus is transforming me by renewing my mind (Rom. 12:2). Lord, help me to think on things that are true, noble, just, pure, lovely, good, and praiseworthy (Phil. 4:8).

My Pharisaical tendencies break my heart. I'm sure they break God's heart, too. But Jesus loves Pharisees. It was to Pharisees Jesus said, "How often I wanted to gather you together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings" (Matt. 23:37). Praise the Lord, I'm willing to be gathered!

What does it matter that I'm a failure when Jesus has fulfilled the law for me (Rom. 8:3-4)?

Show me the man or woman who isn't an addict. God loves addicts! Addiction cannot separate me from the love of God (Rom. 8:38-39). Lord, heal my addictions by satisfying me with Yourself.
 
Thanks for pointing out that I wasted time today. Lord, I repent. Thank you for never wasting a minute of your life on this earth. Help me to follow your example. 

I totally said the wrong thing today. Jesus, thank you for your promise that all things work together for good to those who love you--even my failures (Rom. 8:28). Transform and purify what I said. Teach me your ways and words. Fill me with your Spirit so that I may speak the truth in love and keep silent when silence is best.

I don't deserve to be healed, but I open my hands to whatever good gift it pleases you to give for the good of your Church. Help me be a faithful witness to your grace, whether it be delivering grace or sustaining grace.

I'm not a great mother, it's true. I thank you, Jesus, that my children's salvation doesn't depend on my mothering skills but on your marvelous grace. Cover my efforts with that grace.

God, it's true that I can't help myself. But you say, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 5:3). You didn't come to help the strong, but the weak. Because your strength is made perfect in my weakness, I trust you to empower my poor efforts to strengthen my brethren. I thank you that you are our Helper and that no one counts on me (Heb. 13:5-6).

 
As you can see, these preaching sessions can easily turn into prayer, and that's how I found my way to freedom this morning. May this bit of battle strategy help you find a little freedom, too.

"There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit."

-Romans 8:1

There's a Place for Us

There are many facets of illness I find difficult. The loneliness. The uncertainty. My food sensitivities are always changing and growing in number. What will I eat tomorrow? A year from now? What if a wasp stings me while I'm alone with the kids? Would I survive the flu? Winter is coming, so freedom will be going. How bad will the depression be this time?

But nothing presses me quite like the question...

Where do I belong?

Before I was sick, I was a mom who did stuff with her kids. Brandon and I taught first graders at church. I sang for area congregations when asked. I gave music lessons to children. I traveled to Ruston once a week for one-on-one discipleship, and was part of a community group. I met one friend for playdates and another for prayer. I led a couple of choir things for our church. I had a place.

When I became ill, it all burned to the ground. Nothing survived, and nothing has revived. But my soul-razing has proven to be a very good thing.

My activity was aimless. 

 

Just because I did a lot of stuff, doesn't mean I was functioning as part of an organic whole. There's much more to life than just being busy. 

"A spiritual gift is given to each of us so we can help each other...It is the one and only Spirit who distributes all these gifts. He alone decides which gift each person should have. The human body has many parts, but the many parts make up one whole body. So it is with the body of Christ..and God has put each part just where he wants it."-1 Corinthians 12:7,11,12,18

I have friends who strongly disagree with me about this, but I believe God brought illness into my life. (Maybe that's not the best way to say it. Maybe I should say that when Satan asked to bring this illness to me, God agreed because He knew best.) I see it as mercy. Severe mercy, I grant you, but mercy nonetheless.

I'm where God wants me. Most days, I'm okay with that.

Based upon what I understand of my spiritual gifts now, I can say with 99.9% certainty I wasn't using them much prior to 2012. I may have had a place, but I had no function.

But how does one cut off from the body function as PART of the body?

 

This has been a question with which I've wrestled throughout. I still wrestle. Here are three ways God has answered it:

• A church outside of church. We live 45 minutes away from where we attend church. For a while, a few people helped us, but there was no way to sustain it. We were too needy and lived too far away. Besides that, we were absent. So my family became my church. Brandon, Mom, Dad, sister, brother-in-law, grandparents, and in-laws rallied around me. Not only did they offer Christian support, but it was within this tiny church that I discovered and began to exercise my true gifting.

• Christian friendships. I have several friends who live out of state. Others an hour away or a few miles down the road. By God's grace, we haven't lost touch. The encouragement these ladies have offered over the years has been essential to my spiritual health. They're champions to hang with me through all this craziness. I hope I've been half as good a friend to them.

• The invisible ministry of prayer. When I couldn't attend church myself, I prayed for the churches my people attended. For a while, Brandon and the kids went to church with my parents. So I prayed for Cedar Crest Baptist Church. My in-laws still attend the church Brandon and I married in. So I prayed for FBC Marion. My son attends Wednesday night services at my grandparents' church. I so I prayed for Faith Baptist Church. And God never released me from claiming The Bridge Community Church as my home. Through prayer, I went from feeling church-homeless to feeling like I had four churches. 

A word about invisible ministry...

I think we're all a little afraid of being invisible. But let me assure you, as someone who has been invisible for four years, it ain't so bad when you understand: The only Eyes that matter see you.

When Hagar was alone in the desert, the Angel of the Lord found her. He spoke to her. And then she called His name--You-Are-The-God-Who-Sees. That understanding was her lifeline.

And just because you aren't seen, doesn't mean you don't matter.

"In fact, some parts of the body that seem weakest and least important are actually the most necessary. And the parts we regard as less honorable are those we clothe with the greatest care. So we carefully protect those parts that should not be seen, while the more honorable parts do not require this special care. So God has put the body together such that extra honor and care are given to those parts that have less dignity. This makes for harmony among the members, so that all the members care for each other. If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it, and if one part is honored, all the parts are glad."--1 Corinthians 12:22-26

Paul says here that though I seem weak and unimportant, I'm actually pretty necessary. I may be hidden, but I'm vital. I require special care, but I'm part of what makes the body tick. I may have less dignity than others, but I'm not all that interested in dignity and frankly, I don't think God is either. If my ministry nosedives, people who will never meet me will feel it. And if God heals me or prospers me in any way, the entire body benefits.

Widows, young moms need your wisdom and helping hands. Come be a part of our families.

Young moms, your job is the most important in the world. God sees your sacrifice when no one else does.

Invalids, the way you worship God in suffering inspires us all. You are living proof of God's sustaining grace. We need that.

Shut-ins, maybe God sequestered you to be an intercessor, or a writer, or a messenger. Ask for grace to get past the self-pity and embrace your calling. It's necessary.

Waking Up

For the better part of this year, I've lived in isolation.

A large part of that is necessary for my health. If I leave my house, I can bank on returning at least a little bit sick.

By "a little bit sick," I mean I have to crawl into bed for a while, my energy is zapped, and I experience a variety of discomforts, which may include swelling, asthma, severe headache, joint and tissue pain, dizziness, loss of balance, blood pressure drops, fainting, insomnia, and/or fever.

And then, there's always the risk of returning home "very sick," which means death and I brushed shoulders along the way. I'm happy to report that hasn't happened in a while, but there's always the risk.

You see why I don't get out much.

Another part of my isolation was self-imposed. I withdrew from social media because I felt doing so was in the interests of myself and my family.

I was right.

January, February, and March leeched the life out of me. It was a difficult time for all of us, and the scant energy I had needed to go to Brandon and my kids.

My memory blocks seasons of extreme difficulty. All I remember from that time is anger, hollowness, and a weariness so deep death sounded good.

Also, God. The grappling, the crying, the fight for grateful living. Exhilarating answers to prayer. Growth. Painful, excruciating growth.

Oh! And Gilmore Girls. God bless Gilmore Girls.

The final part of the isolation was inevitable. God gave me a book to write, and guess what--you have to write in isolation. There's no other way. Without going bonkers, anyway.

Those lonely months with nothing but God, my family, my characters and their story restored my strength. Solitude was just what I needed. Funny, isn't it, how the Great Physician never gets the prescription wrong?

On July 15, I completed a typed draft of my novel. Woohoo!

I frolicked about in post-writing afterglow for a week or two. I traveled to Baton Rouge to see my friend/mentor. I watched television. I read Blake Snyder's Save the Cat!, grinning like a Cheshire cat each time I realized I had followed pro-writer advice without even knowing it. Cha-ching! I basked in having written something Mom and Brandon really liked. I took naps. 

And then I woke up. 

If you ever have the misfortune of running out of water in the middle of the desert, you will begin to feel sleepy after a time. You will sleep, and for the length of that sleep, you will feel nothing as you edge closer and closer to death. 

But when you wake, you'll experience a thirst unlike anything you can imagine. You'll be mad with it. You'll drink anything--urine, antifreeze, bleach.

Waking up to isolation was a bit like that. A bit.

For months, I slept through the pain of loneliness. To heal. To write. It was good and it was necessary and I don't regret it. 

But now...

Facebook would've been an easy fix, but I know enough of myself to realize that going to Facebook with a need like that would've been the soul equivalent to drinking antifreeze. So I waited...

In the meantime, what was I supposed to do with this desire and no clear way to quench it?

The purpose of desire, I believe, is to keep us alive and point us to God. Granted, we can warp desires into bad things when we fashion them into idols, but for the most part, God gives us desires to meet them. He's good like that, yo.

C. S. Lewis puts it like this: 

A man's physical hunger does not prove that that man will get any bread; he may die of starvation on a raft in the Atlantic. But surely a man's hunger does prove that he comes of a race which repairs its body by eating and inhabits a world where eatable substances exist. In the same way, though I do not believe (I wish I did) that my desire for Paradise proves that I shall enjoy it, I think it a pretty good indication that such a thing exists and that some men will. A man may love a woman and not win her; but it would be very odd if the phenomenon called "falling in love" occurred in a sexless world.

Thus, I conclude that if I desire community, community exists. Even for shut-ins. Even for me. And based on what I know of God and the Bible, community is good and necessary. We are built to need each other. So I don't have to worry about whether or not the desire is right.

But what does community look like for someone like me?

I don't believe God would awaken me to thirst just to let me die. I'm thirsty so I'll drink.

So the question isn't "Can I attain community?" but "How will I attain community?"

Which is something I'm figuring out as I go.