February 8, 2012

Listening to “The Proposal” off of Fred Hammond‘s  latest smash: God, Love &Romance this a.m. Have this song on repeat as well as “You Never Turned”. I have always loved Fred’s music because of his authenticity. He doesn’t sound like he is trying to be oh so super spiritual with some metaphysical or fluffy foolishness that the average broken person can’t get with. His music has always sounded like a journal entry from his heart to God’s. I don’t have time to try to dissect the original Greek and Hebrew terminology of some abstract spiritual somethingness some folks in the industry call music. I just need instant take away value. And Fred’s music is just that. I am simple girl at heart and when my life is out of wack (as it is currently) it’s because I’m doing the most and making it complicated.

I notice the further I get from God, the less optimistic I am.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Pounds… December 11, 2011

Yesterday my workout buddy informed me she was taking the big step and taking the “before” picture. Oh sigh. Up until this point that is all I have been harping on, how we need to document the beginning of the extreme makeover as we tear these houses down and build them back up into architectural displays of curves and tone. And now that she is finally on board, it is I who want to drag my feet. Why? Part of it has to do with facing the reality of where I am now physically.

I thought I had faced it when we made the decision to start working out consistently 4 weeks ago. And we have been going hard in the gym at least 4-5 days a week since then and consequently my clothes are fitting differently and my body is feeling alot better. (Whew chile, there is nothing like completing an exhausting 1.5 hour workout to make ya feel like a champ!) But to truly move forward into a better me requires some evaluation of not only measurements but milestones. How did I get to the place where I am uncomfortable taking a picture of my body? Why have the tags on my clothing steadily increased every other year? When was the last time I could get dressed with the confidence that no matter the outfit, it looked good on me?

Facebook tells no fairytales, for sure. Recently, one of my high school friends posted a pic of me from our Junior Prom Committee back in 2002. Honey, I was skinty LOL. My facial structure was not as round as it is currently and I remember I had a safety pin in the back of the blouse of the suit I was wearing because it was too loose. I also remember that I was never concerned with how my body looked, I was 5’9″ and somewhere between a 12 and a 14 and everything was proportionate. My main concern was that my clothes themselves were cute and fashionable, not that my body needed to look a certain way.

Even looking at pictures of  my freshman and sophomore years of college, I was still skinty, fortunate enough not to be overtaken by the “freshman 15″ mostly because the food left quite a bit to be desired. But it was during my sophomore year that things began to unravel. My father had passed away from prostate cancer a few years earlier in my junior year of high school and at the time, I was so busy being “the strong one” in my family that I never gave myself permission or time to grieve such a devastating loss. But how many know that when the pressure is on, what’s in you comes out? I had transferred to a much more academically rigorous school that year in search of how God and my life fit together and little by little, the strain became too much. By the end of the first semester of my sophomore year, I had stopped going to class altogether, only occasionally did homework and was spending most hours of the day in bed. Full on depression had set in. I was completely overwhelmed by the ever mounting workload and not understanding why my intelligence was not up to the task. My emotions were on overload and I was struggling to keep up a normal facade for all of my friends. Not surprisingly, my grades reflected my struggle and I  was put on academic probation. And yet, I was determined to keep up appearances. Spring semester came and though I started well, I eventually spiraled down even further. The end result was being placed on academic suspension for the following semester.

Failure had officially smacked me in the face. Me, the smart one. The one who never really had to study in any class (except Math). I was kicked out of school for not handling my business. So after being forced to tell my mom what was going on, I agreed to start going to grief counseling while I was living at home and working. My mom and I went to group sessions every week and it did chip at the edges of the block in my chest but that was all. I was accustomed to strategically avoiding anything that would evoke an emotional response concerning my dad that I thought it was normal to not take full breaths into my chest. I would get such severe headaches immediately after therapy due to the internal struggle of trying to release everything and also not really wanting to. I decided to do what I did best, avoid the present and focus on the future. I wrote a letter appealing my suspension and was allowed back in school once again on probation. But the issues I thought I had left at home in the basement showed up once more and I just became so apathetic toward school and once again was kicked out.

By this time, it was spring 2006 and then fall 2006 most of my classmates were heading into their senior years of college and deciding on grad school and pursuing all kinds of awesome opportunities in life. What was I doing? Working at a gas station, working in a call center, working meaningless jobs that did not even begin to serve my purpose in life. Talk about depressed. And so it started. Little by little. I noticed my clothes getting tighter in the winter months but attributed it to “hibernation mode”. The same clothes were still tight in the spring but I brushed it off, telling myself I always lost weight in the summer. Which occurred, slightly. But then my clothes were too small in the winter months and so I went up a size. And stayed there. And the next winter I went up a size. And stayed there. The cycle was in full effect and I was clueless, or at the very least, in deep denial.

I stopped looking in the mirror in the morning when I was getting dressed. Then I stopped wanting to take pictures or change my profile pic on Facebook or any other site. I stopped wearing shorts and caring about clothes. I became a tshirt and capris or tshirt and jeans/sweats chick. But through all of it, God sent little nudges and kept putting me in situations where I would repeatedly come face to face with my grief and my anger at Him for failing me, for not healing my Dad. Little by little, He began to peel back the scabs of my old wounds by placing trustworthy people in my life to love me back to life. They were women who spoke His Word over me, who encouraged me to seek out the source of my frustration in Him, who held me accountability for being reactive as opposed to proactive in my life. Oftentimes, it was tough love which at first offended me and then opened my eyes to the state of mediocrity I was wallowing in.

One of these mentors went through a Bible study with me which challenged me to evaluate how much I knew and believed God personally. My trust level was so low, it caused me to see how I had basically chucked the deuces at God, halted our relationship and turned to other things or people to fulfill me. Only when I was truly out of options did I seek Him and even then it was only long enough to get what I needed and then I was off doing my own thing again, full aware that I wanted/needed/desired more out of my life than what I was getting.

In the fall of 2010, my sister coerced me into attending a retreat called Tres Dias. And it was literally 3 days in the woods with some random white folks from a myriad of denominations who loved the heck of Jesus in such an intimate way that something in me broke. I remembered the days when I was young and had a heart for God and His people and I was determined to be a missionary and make His face recognizable to everyone I came across. I wanted to go back to trusting God for everything and confiding in Him and having a day to day relationship with Him as opposed to spurts here and there. I wanted to know what it felt like to call Him Daddy and believe it with every fiber of my being. And so He told me to move out to this area specifically so that I could learn how to receive His love and flow in my gifts.

I moved to the mountains of PA on January 4, 2011 and this has been one crazy ride ever since. There have been so many ups and downs and lessons learned and trust built and trust betrayed, only to be restored once again. I have come to know Grace personally, am learning to love Truth above all else and am understanding that my only task for the day is to listen to the voice of God and do the next right thing. And so here I am in the place of restoration and about to embark on a new season. And God is reassuring me it’s okay to take the “before” picture and not immediately burn it afterwards. Because someone else needs to see it and understand the depths from which I was restored, that it takes hard work and determination and renewing of the mind to become transformed. We always want people to see the end result and the exaltation, but nobody wants to go backstage and read the script from the beginning and tell how it all began. This is the beginning, complete with illustration. And it’s all good.

*Pic will be posted later *

Be Careful Who You Speak To December 10, 2011

So this morning I read that Michelle Duggar miscarried her baby. As I was sitting here processing the information and grieving for her and myself, someone sits down at the computer next to me and proceeds to offer his commentary on the matter.  His flippant comment was something to the effect of “I knew she was gonna have trouble with this one since she has had so many children. She has enough kids.” Up until he said that, I wasn’t even sure if I had enough boldness to write this post as very few people know that I recently had a miscarriage. But I need to do this, for my healing and for every other woman who has been at that stage of almost-motherhood.

I found out the hard way that I was pregnant. What I thought was just a very bad cycle turned into a 2am emergency room visit once I saw unmistakable evidence that convinced me otherwise. The events leading up to the miscarriage in the early morning hours of September 7, 2011 some say could be used in a malpractice suit. But what purpose is that? The end result is still the same. As I writhed and groaned and cried on the exam table in the ER, the PA very sadly looked at me and said “I’m sorry, you’re pregnant and you’re having a miscarriage.” In that one moment, my life was forever changed. In the same moment, I learned that I had someone growing inside of me and then…I didn’t.

I was alone that night. Alone at home, alone in the car ride to the hospital, alone on the table. I had called my cousin and was on the phone with her through most of it but she was in Biloxi, Mississippi and I was still alone. They gave me shots of morphine for the pain and all I felt was sleepy and still in pain. It was like the medicine went everywhere except where it was supposed to go, did everything except what it was supposed to do: heal me. heal my womb. heal my wound. There was no getting around it, I was really in this hospital, this was really happening to me. The only buffer during the whole ordeal was my nurses. It was as if God had handpicked just the right ones to be on staff that night. They attended to me, cried with me and did their best to make me as comfortable as possible in such a loving manner. I know they were God’s way of saying, I am here with you too.

I was in shock, I felt guilty, I felt hurt, I felt angry, I felt betrayed, I felt like a disappointment, I felt ashamed, I felt sad. Through the night, my emotions vacillated between all of the above and then some. All kinds of thoughts ran through my head: How will I tell my mom? What will people think? How could I have put myself in this position knowing what I know and being who I am? How could I set myself up to be somebody’s baby mama when I really just want to be a wife to one man and mother of whatever babies God brings through that relationship?

I was discharged at 8am and I went home to pack my things. I was already scheduled to go home to Ohio and visit my mom for her birthday and I knew I needed her more than ever. On the bus ride to Pittsburgh, I tried to play out the scenario in my head: what would she say to me, how would she look at me, would she think differently of me now? My mom picked me up from the bus station and we headed home. Once we got out of the city traffic and onto the highway, I took a deep breath and told her about losing the baby I didn’t even know I had.

Tears filled her eyes and she grabbed my hand and squeezed and whispered, “I am so sorry.” I finally let go of the breath I was holding and the vice around my heart eased a little. She still loved me. She didn’t look down on me. She didn’t condemn me for my actions. She didn’t remind me that she had raised me better than this. She didn’t interrogate me. She just loved me. And that was all I needed.

We made it home and I got in the bed with her and everything was okay for a little while. And then, she got a call that my uncle in California had passed and since she was the only sibling that was not working, she was elected to go and represent the East Coast family. She asked me if I wanted her to stay with me and although I desperately needed her  to stay with me, to help me through the next few days, I told her she had to go since she was the only one who could. And so, when she left that Monday, I was alone. again. Dealing with the secret shame, the secret hurt, the secret secret that was only between me and 2 other people. I called a close friend to finally tell her and she completely glossed over the announcement and nonchalantly proceeded to move the conversation to other topics. I hung up the phone devastated and I was alone. Again.

That week at home was a blur because I tried my best to fill it with as much activity as possible to hurry up and get over this death since apparently it was not something that fit into anyone else’s timeline (I felt). I smiled and talked to old friends, pretending I was in town just to spend time with my mom even though she was 3,000 miles away. I didn’t really say too much to God about it because I wasn’t entirely sure  what His response would be. At the end of the week, I just headed back to the mountains and got ready to go back to work.

It has been just over 3 months since losing the baby and I still am not completely sure how I feel about the ordeal. God and I are good with it, and I understand that what I do  does not affect how He sees me. I am still His daughter. I am ok with knowing I am forgiven.  I have gotten over my anger at the gynecologist and what may or may not have been done incorrectly weeks prior. I understand that I don’t need to cast my pearls before swine but I also don’t need to remain silent and not reach out for help. Wounds only completely heal once exposed to light. I recently began the process of sorting out my feelings with a trusted counselor and friend. I wonder what the baby would have looked like, how I would have been as a mom, how the circumstances of my life would have changed. But I do know that it has been enough to bring me to place of saying Ok, God it’s official, I tap out. You can have my life for Your purpose. As a result of that surrender, doors are being opened and my path is being made straight. I now have this scar so that I can tell someone, I’ve been there, I’ve felt that and now I am working through it to come to the other side of through. This crack is in my imperfect vessel to let His light shine through. Nope, I’m not perfect but this is my life through grace.

Spending the Night With Big Viv November 27, 2011

**This blog and these tears are brought to you by memorablemama.blogspot.com. Dang her for making me cry at work. Dang me for reading her old blogs today.**

My Big Viv was almost 86 years old when she passed back in June. She was definitely the matriarch of our family, sister to 12 siblings (9 of which she raised), mother of 9 kids, grandma of  about 20+ grands, great grandma of 4 great grands.  She was the only grandma I ever knew (as my dad’s parents died before I was born) and believe me lol, she was enough for me.

“Stand up straight girl, shoulders back, head high girl,” she would always tell me. “You gotta carry all that chest so you betta walk tall like ya know. ” When I cut my relaxed hair and started rocking a TWA (teeny weeny afro), she looked like her heart was broken. “Why you gone and cut all your pretty hair? You done let your hair go back home girl.”  Translation: your hair is no longer smooth and manageable and is therefore no longer acceptable to me.  My Big Viv was never one to mince words or fake the funk. You knew exactly what she was thinking because she always gave it to you straight no holds barred.

Most family shindigs were at my grandma’s house: ribs on the grill in the patio, pop and beer in the washtubs in the garage, kids outside in the backyard or on the porch. Viv always had her cutoff shirt and shorts with scarf wrapped around her rollers or her house dress with cutoff sleeves. The kids knew better than to try to enter the house for any reason other than the bathroom and for that we knew to hit it to the basement. Nobody wanted to commit the cardinal sin of tracking in dirt on her “good white rugs”. Only Mabel Vivian could cover her floors with white rugs and have no fear of any speck of dirt coming anywhere near them. She always had spotless white rugs in her house, even with 9 kids.

My Big Viv’s standards never changed for anyone or anything. Beyond stubborn and determined, she always got what she wanted. When her kids were growing up, she wore the same tired house dress restitched and held together with safety pins so that she could make sure her children had good clothes to wear. She had one good church dress that she wore on Sundays and she was super sharp going to church. (Sidebar: everything Viv liked was deemed “good” and anything less than was a “dirty puppy”.) Her family was always clean and pressed and starched like none other, faces bright and shiny from a good scouring and some Vaseline. She didn’t understand why anyone or anything would look otherwise and took it upon herself to scrub and scour the neighborhood kids as well when she deemed necessary.

Once the kids were all grown and out of the house, Grandma decided to make up for wearing one dress for all those years. Sears and Dillard’s were her best friends and she bought every sharp dress with matching shoes, pocketbook and hat she could get her hands on. She also loved big earrings, her “doorknockers”  as she called them and her White Diamonds or Jessica McClintock perfume. Every Sunday, she was shut up sharp for church. I used to be amazed at the transformation from the weekday Viv with cutoffs and rollers and scarf to Sunday Viv with handkerchiefs and “good” leather pocketbooks and heels.  She had definitely paid her dues though. While raising my mom and her siblings, after making breakfast and getting them off to school, my grandma would clean houses for the white people half a day and then return home to make lunch for the kids and start chores for the day. My mom said there was never a time that my grandma was sitting around idly, she was always cooking or cleaning or washing and ironing laundry.

Big Viv had a special name or phrase for each of us that let us know we were loved by her deeply. The way she said your name made each of us feel like we were the favorite because she said each name with a particular cadence. She was so proud of her kids and grands and would introduce us and try to tell the family history everywhere we went.

In the last few years of her life, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and had other health complications as well. To see such a strong, resilient, headstrong woman start to deteriorate mentally was an incredibly hard thing to digest for all of us. We ultimately made the decision to put her in a nursing home as the Alzheimer’s began to worsen. In June, Hospice was called in as the nurses felt her time was coming to an end. The family came in from all across the country that week and it was such a bittersweet time. One night I decided to spend the night in the bed next to Grandma, just to have time alone and come to terms with the fact that the one I truly thought would never die was coming close to that time. I stayed up most of the night, watching her chest rise and fall as her breathing was labored and she was starting to struggle to breathe. I thought about the character of my mom and the type of woman she and her sisters were and the deep bond they all have and thanked my grandma for raising them with her unflinching standard of love and discipline. I thought about us her grandbabies and how we all were in various stages of beginning our lives and careers and I thanked Grandma for what she instilled in us, to respect and honor our parents no matter what, to be proud of ourselves, to always do our best and trust God for the rest.

I am the result of a strong black woman who feared God and took no mess from anyone. I am where I am today because she endured segregation and “colored” fountains and movie theaters, because she endured an alcoholic husband who was present physically only, because she held her head high and marched forward, determined to give her family the best life possible. I am here because of Big Viv.

 I love you Grandma and am glad you are finally at rest in your mansion with its good white rugs.

I Think Ya Betta Let It Go… November 27, 2011

So finally, 9 months after I was told to let him go, I have. I could say better late than never which is bout .3% true but ultimately I’m too mature for this. Knowing full well that delayed obedience is disobedience, why did I wait this long to act on what my Father told me? Insecurity, loneliness, comfort, habit, “love”? Above  all, fear of being by myself and truly alone with God. Now there is no buffer between me and Him, no idol to place between us so I can continue the pretense of living like my life is my own when deep down I don’t even want my life to be my own, I just want to know that it matters, that it makes an impact. So again, if this is my heart’s desire, why  would I continue to stand in my own way of achieving it? The old man and the new man stay going toe to toe constantly and whoever I feed is the one who wins the belt that day. So when I’m lazy, which is often, the old dude wins and gets his way. Still fighting this habitual mindset of being reactive as opposed to proactive in my life, still pretending I’m 5 and manna falls from heaven and all I do is go get it, smash on it and then wait for it to fall again. Lol and God is like no boo boo, the ram is in the bush but you need to get off ya tail and go get it.

I think about my Big Viv (who  I am missing somethin serious today) and wonder where this complacency and mediocrity came from, most definitely not from her. Everything she did was intentional and preparation for whatever was to come in the future. Anything she put her hand to was done efficiently and excellently the first time, no wasted effort or half steppin, period. Granted, she was raising 11 kids and working part time  so maybe she felt like she had no choice but to handle her biznass for her babies’ sake, because if she didn’t, who would. But her kids are the same way for the most part, minus one or two who suffer from “hand outs are us” syndrome. But my mom and her sisters naturally strive to do what’s best for themselves and their families at all costs. There is no waiting to see what will happen, there is only the early bird gets the worm and they have worms stockpiled as a result of 6am days.

I come from a line of women of virtue, so why do I feel like mine isn’t yet activated? My hunger and thirst for righteousness is more like a slight desire for a quick snack, just enough to tide me over for the next lil bit of life. I don’t like being in the gray area of life. Bottom line, I’m the only one who can do something about that. I was reading A Piece of Cake by Cupcake Brown and her sponsor was telling her essentially, sobriety is not achieved by how bad you need it but by how bad you want it. And that pretty much is where I’m at: past the point of the necessity of surrender and to the point of desiring it. And I’m pretty sure I know what God does with the desires of my heart. So here I go, one foot in front of the other.

 

A Year After the Call… November 15, 2011

Last October, I went to a retreat called Tres Dias that was definitely a spiritual milestone. God, with His infinitely multasking self, did all kinds of work inside of my heart that weekend in the woods with a bunch of unknown white people. One of the results of that uncomfortable weekend was Him telling me to move to middle of nowhere central PA so that I could learn to receive His love and flow in my spiritual gifts. He failed to mention that the process of receiving His love would require me to let go of all the things I hold on to so dearly. Failures, habits, poor thought patterns, my security blanket of mediocrity, fear of rejection, desire to make myself look like an accomplished 26 year old, to name a few of the major ones. But one thing about God that is so cool is when you let go of the things you think you need to survive and let Him make it do what it do in your life, you come to see you have been living in a corner eating a crust of bread instead of walking in abundance, stepping into provision already set out for ya.

 

Just a blurb for now…I will finish my thoughts later…

6 Month Checkup January 23, 2011

**Since this has been sitting in my drafts for like 5 days, finally decided to finish and post it.

So on the 23rd of this month, we will be at the 6-month-okay-you-can-now-be-considered-a-couple-with-the-makings-of-a-track-record mark. In keeping with the apparently recurring theme of this blog, time for some sporadic self reflection and evaluation.

I had a conversation with a few of Rich’s residents this afternoon on the “porch stoop” aka the hallway in front of his dorm room. They are 3 attractive, hilarious 18 year old kids who crack jokes and pull pranks on each other like it’s their full time mission in life. However, they are also 3 young black men who already defying the odds by being college freshmen who are at the top of their game. Each finished their first semester with A’s and B’s and the occasional C, which they assured me, is a figure that will not appear on future report cards. At any rate, these guys routinely make time each day to stop by the room and antagonize or attempt to pull (imaginary) rank on me or Rich or if they are lucky, the both of us.

Today, however,  I told them that I had moved to PA and Rich and I were officially on long distance status. Each expressed his own sentiment of shock and disappointment that I would no longer be the only female resident on the 5th floor and that Rich would be lonely and in despair. The conversation progressed to how me and Rich met and started our journey and ultimately to their pursuit of young ladies on campus. The buffed out jokester, Jermaine said he didn’t want to be single anymore that even at his young age, he was ready to settle down with a serious contender. He talked about his search and how he wondered if he just needed to stop looking and let the woman come to him. Ever the traditionalist, I told him he is the pursuer and it is his job to hunt for the woman. I also told him to open his eyes and look for her in the most inconspicuous places, as opposed to the next Kappa party or the club.

Our conversation gave me pause to stop and think back on the past year and a half with Rich. Roller coaster doesn’t begin to sufficiently describe the ride. The whole hunt and elude portion of our relationship was in itself a novel. Even after I decided he genuinely liked me for me and knew I had already felt the same for quite a while, the unknown still kept me from giving in and taking the plunge. For me, the fear of the unknown has been a recurring factor in my life. Many opportunities, whether for jobs or positions that would provide invaluable experience, have gone by the wayside simply because I wasn’t brave enough to walk through the open door and see what it held. Relationships have always been a tricky course for me because of the whole vulnerability, exposing yourself to someone and being at the mercy of their discretion. Also, what if what is inside me surprised or embarrassed me in the process of exposure? What if my offering is rejected? And a million other what ifs to spare.

Rich is so sure of himself, so confident in every move he makes and I am so the champion second guesser, sure of about 17% of the moves I make. And on paper, his life looks awesome lol for a 25 year old. It made me view mine as less than upwardly mobile, seeing all my failures listed in bullet points. So all of this insecurity basically led to me resisting his pursuit of me for the better part of almost a year and a half. Even though our dates were always fun and full of conversation and flirtation and I floated home from our encounters, even though he was kind and considerate, always the gentleman, did little cute things to pique my interest, even though I was madly in like with him, I.was.still.scared.

Enough with this doggone theme in my life. And it’s wack. I hate it. So I’m working on it. Big time. Evidence of this work is the fact that we are together and daily I doggone endeavor to tell him how I am really feeling, squelching my fear of the consequences. Surprise! Lol it’s usually nowhere near as bad as I think it will be. Baby steps I suppose. I hate baby steps. I wear a size 10 dadgumit, I should be stomping through life. Nevertheless, as my best friend and fellow perfectionist who also holds herself to impossibly high standards likes to remind me, as long as it’s forward motion, it’s progress, whether centimeters or yards.

Ultimately, it feels so good to be able to relax and lay back and float in this relationship, at least in the sense of choosing not to worry if he will hurt me. I have decided if that is the case (a) no sense in wasting time worrying about the inevitable and (b) pretty sure God is big enough to heal my heart. I need to dedicate my time to working on my butterfly and backstroke, building my endurance to hang in there and let this chocolate man love for me, in spite of me and return the love wholeheartedly, freely. I am eager to see what our future holds but also content to enjoy each moment as it comes without questioning or wondering about peripheral issues. Is that naive? I hope so.

Saying Farewell to CandyLand and Chutes and Ladders…Introducing Myself to the Game of Life January 23, 2011

***Original intended post date 12/09/10…Due to procrastination, actual post date 1/23/11…

So after the latest snafu, we have determined that a better coping strategy needs to be implemented. Lol which basically means I need to find a better way to deal with our disagreements as he is pretty mature about moving through the emotional process. But this gives me cause to reflect on the ways I’ve handled other situations in different areas of my life to see if this immaturity is limited to my love life or if it is pervasive in other areas. In retrospect, I can honestly come to the conclusion that I have not really have a plan for handling much of anything in my life, choosing instead to take the punk passive way out and let life come and wreak havoc as it may and then pick up the pieces later. Why? Is it because I am to afraid of implementing a plan only to watch it fall apart in my hands?

One of the things I admire about Rich is the way that he concocts a plan and executes it with total swagger, like he never even contemplated the possibility of its failure. This type of confidence is a bit foreign to me in most areas of my life. In fact, I can’t easily recall a single instance off the top of my head. I was about to say school but seeing as how I haven’t been enrolled since 2006 and have yet to complete my undergrad, this is prolly not the best example.

Feeling Far Away From You… January 23, 2011

This must be kinda what God feels like when we start to move away from Him.

All Things New= Moving Forward January 9, 2011

As this fluffy white snow falls outside the window, fresh snow for a fresh beginning in good ol Eburg, I am thinking of the words I had to hear to see, the words you spoke to me in church today. As we were pulling into the church driveway, the sign said “Put off the old and put on the new”. I remember glancing at the words and thinking what a typcial New Year’s message. By the time we parked and started unloading mommies and babies and newborns and diaper bags I had forgotten all about it.

Fast forward to praise and worship time and a man comes over to me, puts his hand on my shiny forehead and still damp from the shower hair and says what You told him to say to me: Release the old so that you can receive the new. I want to give you a greater understanding, a greater knowledge, a greater love. I need more time with you to show you what I have for you, greater things than you could possibly imagine. Give me time to get into you.

I sat for a moment to let it sink in and not just wash over me, smiling as I realized I had missed Your first note to me, even though You put it on the doggone church sign lol. But it’s cool, You know that sometimes I’m oblivious lol and caught up inside my head. So You tugged my shoulder a little harder and whispered into my ear. This time, I heard you. Loud and clear.

I though I had done a pretty good job of releasing the old, the old fear, the old hurt, the old scars, the old anger, the old depression, the old uncertaintly, the old insecurity. My fists aren’t clenched at you anymore…to be continued