Plan-less

I wrote a couple weeks ago about my addiction to control and how I'm learning to let go of my compulsive need for plans. It's a painstaking process. I realized this morning, while processing with the Almighty, that what He's really up to is dealing with the real problem and not just the symptoms. It's not about getting me to stop planning all together or, conversely, to only give up one plan at a time. I think it has to do with acknowledging that my plans need to be in line with His plans. It's about slowing down to consider what He's done and what He is doing in my life. It's about seeking after Him more than seeking the next thing I want.

To be quite honest, I struggle with articulating the real lesson I'm getting in all of this. Partially because I don't fully understand it yet. I get it cognitively although I've yet to embrace it emotionally. I can't help but look at life sometimes and wonder if He's lost His mind. And I spout off a lot about what it is I'm fed up with and what I want changed and that I wanted it changed like yesterday. This isn't really appropriate behavior on my part. The Lamb of God already spilled His blood and defeated death for me. Do I really have the right to ask for more? Maybe not the right...but I do have the freedom, the permission, to ask. I'm even encouraged to ask because God wants to give me good things. But I'm not sure this temper tantrum asking is really what He's looking for. I'm pretty sure that's not right.

And that's just it. In the midst of my tantrums, I'm confronted with the fact that as a Christian I am meant to have a peace that passes understanding and a noticeable inexplicable joy. If Paul and Silas could sing in prison, can't I manage at least a smile in my far less dire circumstances? I catch myself focusing on what I don't have that I believe I need instead of dwelling on all that I already have. I'm carrying a miracle. All babies are miracles but my son is one of those should've-never-happened babies, the opposite of an 'oops baby'. I was broken...my body wasn't doing what it was designed to do. And yet here I am, my belly getting more huge every day (just ask my achin' back!). I have so much to be grateful for. I get thunderstruck just thinking about it sometimes.

And that's just it...this baby, this timing, this wasn't my plan. My plan was to get pregnant 3 years ago. My plan was to have a big enough house and car for a kid (or two) and $5,000 in savings before having a kid. My plan included Shiloh but not Bode. My plan didn't foresee Curtis getting laid off or my having to work full-time. And my plan most definitely didn't include whatever it is that lies ahead for us...because I have no idea what that is. My plan was a good plan. A methodical plan. A responsible plan. But it relied completely on me. And a little on Curtis. And just a smidge on God.

So when things changed...when I didn't get pregnant for two and a half years...when Curtis did get laid off...when we adopted Bode (and even I thought we were nuts and it was my idea)...when Shiloh died...my plan didn't account for those things. I guess that's why the 'it's all up to me' mentality doesn't really work for me. I might behave that way but the bottom line is...I don't really believe in it. I can't. Maybe it's because I don't want the responsibility when it all falls apart. But what I've really come to think is that if it's up to me, then I have no hope. I don't have any answers right now. And there is absolutely nothing I can do to change the things that worry me and keep me up at night. I am powerless. And this isn't about me being self-deprecating or buying into some outdated dogma. It's a fact. There is nothing I can do to force the situations in our lives to change. We've thrown every dart at the board and nothing has stuck.

But I can rest knowing that God has a plan, it's a good plan, and it's always been His plan. Because His plan took into account a struggle with infertility, the frustrations of job loss, and even Bode and Shiloh coming in and out of our lives. I might not be able to follow the story arc but that doesn't mean that there isn't one. And just because my plans haven't worked out doesn't mean that His plans aren't being worked out. He has power when I have none. He has wisdom when I'm all out of brain power. He has patience when I'm at my wits end. He doesn't get jumpy and abandon ship for the next good idea. He stays the course and brings me along with Him, even if I'm whining the whole time. (Believe me, I would've made a great Israelite...). And at the end of the day...sometimes literally...that's my best hope. There's still a plan.

Hmm. I've been looking at my life as being plan-less simply because I'm unable to work one out. And then I sit here and yap about God having a plan. There's a disconnect, don't you think? Okay, so it's not that my life is plan-less. It's just that it's void of my agenda at the moment. This may not be profound to anyone else but I just had a huge moment. And maybe that's why I bother writing any of this down...to sort out all my convoluted and contradictory thoughts. And I share it because maybe one of you is just like me...and if you are, I feel your pain!

Barren to Beautiful

He makes beautiful things.

He makes beautiful things out of the dust.

He makes beautiful things.

He makes beautiful things out of us.

Out of the dust wildflowers can thrive. Out of the dust gems can be found. Out of the dust we were created. God isn't limited by His materials. What we see as something to sweep away can actually hold the potential for life in the masterful hands of the Creator.

All this earth...

Could a garden come up

from this ground

at all?

Earth needs to be fertile to sustain life. A womb must be fertile, too. Without fertility the farmer's fields remain only dust. Without fertility a woman's womb remains only dust. But diligent care and planning by the farmer and the woman can help foster fertility. But I believe that all this is done in good faith, inviting the Creator to extend His healing touch to bring what was dead to life. 

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You

Every now and then I hear this song on the radio while I'm driving. And as I said yesterday there is life coming up out of the ground everywhere I look. The fields are now a patchwork quilt of greens and yellows, stitched together by ditches now colorful with wildflowers. What was once useless swamp land is now verdant farm land. The hard work across the generations, expertise of seasoned farmers, and the blessings of a gracious God have worked together to bring bounty to this corner of the world. And I have a dream that one day life will grow inside of me. The hard work of taking tests and tracking data, the expertise of seasoned doctors, and truly the blessings of a gracious God will someday bring life to my little corner of the world.

You make beautiful things
(You make me new)
You make beautiful things out of the dust
(You are making me new, making me new)
You make beautiful things
(You make me new)
You make beautiful things out of us
(You are making me new, making me new)

Every year this land is made new. Fresh seeds planted, fresh crops grow, fresh harvests are gathered. The seasons change, allowing the land to rest and nutrients to replenish. I am being made new all the time. Each day is an opportunity to be made new, be made better, be made more fertile. Not only for bringing forth new life, but fertile in my heart. This journey of infertility has ended up being about far more than bearing a child. This has exposed areas of infertility in my heart and my mind and my soul. Where doubt, fear, and bitterness reside there it is barren. Where my heart is hardened and my mind is made up there it is barren. Grace, joy, love, peace cannot grow in those areas, no more than life can grow in a barren womb.

He makes beautiful things.

He makes beautiful things out of the dust.

He makes beautiful things.

He makes beautiful things out of us.

~~ Beautiful Things, Gungor

No matter what happens I know God is making beautiful things out of the dust in my life. It is the deepest prayer of my heart that I will someday be able to hold something in my arms, something beautiful made out of us. Regardless if the day ever comes when I get to bring forth life the truth remains that God makes beautiful things out of the dust, and God is making beautiful things out of us.

If you've never heard this song you can listen to it here. It is well worth five minutes of your time to let the truth of this song wash over you and make you new. Praying for blessings and bumper crops in your life.

The Future Hopes of a Silk Ribbon Quilt

I love my new background. I chose it on the Fourth of July, when I wrote my last post, because it looked fresh, summery, and inviting. There's just something about old, careworn quilts that I love, especially quilts with stories. My family doesn't seem to be too big into quilting, but someday I will inherit a very old quilt made from silk ribbons. I hope I have this story right...(Mom, let me know if it's not!)

My great-grandmother lived next to a cemetery and in those days the ribbons were made from real silk, instead of the plastic stuff they're made of now. After a time the cemetery caretaker would take down the wreaths, and offer the ribbons to her. Mamie would take them and hand-stitch them into beautiful, soft silky blankets. One particular quilt she pinned a note to explaining that it was for her first great-grandchild. She died when my mother was just a child so this blanket was made with hopes for the future in the belief that the family tree would keep on going. My great-grandmother probably figured it would be a child of my aunt's, being the oldest, but it was my brother Adam in 1980 that was the fulfillment of her future hope.

It seems that families and quilts go hand-in-hand. Patches of clothes and bits of fabric, silk ribbons saved from the cemetery, stories in every piece, love in every stitch, plans and intentions for warmth and love to continue on.

And I think of my family as a patchwork quilt, sometimes a crazy quilt. I have a hard time defining my family. If you asked me about them I'd have to ask you 'which one?' With Mom and Dad being divorced I've got step-parents, step-siblings, even step-nephews in the mix now. Of course I have my brother, his wonderful wife, and his precious baby girl to count. I've got family on my mom's side, and family on my dad's side. I consider my in-laws to be my family giving me two more brothers, another sister-in-law, a niece, and a nephew, as well as many aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. And of course, there's my very own nuclear family: Curtis, Shiloh, Bode, and even Simon the Cat. We're a small family, and very furry, but we're a family all the same.

If I could turn my family into a quilt it would be colorful, vibrant, with many patterns and styles. My mom would be represented by soft pastel flowers, her sister by bright bold colors, my baby niece with little pink teddy bears, my 4 year old nephew with John Deere, my PapPap with corduroy sturdy and warm, my Grandpa with something red, white, and blue for his time in the Navy.

The pieces of a quilt don't all have to match or go together. By arranging them just right a mish-mash of fabrics can turn into a beautiful piece of art and love. The pieces of my family quilt don't all match or go together, but they're arranged just right, by God, in my life. When I finally abandoned the idea that a family is defined by only one certain set of criteria and simply let God shape and mold my family, or families, I was given a beautiful gift. A crazy quilt hand-stitched by the Ultimate Creator. He choose each person with care and placed them just right in my life, and I was placed just right in theirs.  Some of the edges are frayed and the pieces might not be quite square, but it's a masterpiece all the same.

Some people think that divorce means broken homes and broken families. And sometimes it does. I see a lot of that with students at my school. But in my case...God took all of us torn fragments, added some fresh new pieces (the next generation of my nieces and nephews) and made something whole out of it. My family might not look like the ones on TV, or like the people in the next pew at church. But my family is mine, patches and all. And like a warm cozy quilt stitched up with love, I appreciate it and value it very much.

Someday I will be able to pass on one of Mamie's silk ribbon quilts to the next generation, and my intention and my prayer is that something far greater goes along with it. I want the fibers of a family to be sewn up into my future little ones and my nieces and nephews--faith, love, acceptance, forgiveness, graciousness. These core values, the fibers of a family, is what brought all the pieces of my 'family quilt' together and what keeps us together. And its that family quilt, the one that isn't tangible, that is the real legacy.

We're Not Alone

We're not alone. Wherever you're at in life, someone else is there, too. If not in this century, in another. I often take time to remember that the pleadings of my aching heart is nothing new to God. He's heard it all before but it doesn't weary Him. He's heard each woman across the ages cry out to Him. From Hagar under the tree in a desert, watching her little boy die of thirst, to Mary Magdalene searching for her Lord at the empty tomb. Lost, scared, aching, lonely. Frustrated, angry, nearly bitter. Burned out, exhausted, at the end of the rope. He's heard it all and He's handled it all. He provided for Hagar, she called him 'The God who sees'. He appeared to Mary, showing her that her faith, devotion, and love was not misspent.

I think about the women who read my blog. I don't know exactly who does and I don't know exactly what you're going through. But I would bet my bottom dollar that you are struggling with something as you read these words. In our fallen world it is an inevitably. But you are no more alone than I am. We may feel all alone but Jesus did, too. His three closest friends couldn't even stay awake to pray for Him in His night of deepest anguish. He knows how it feels to be let down, betrayed, disappointed, and all alone. He felt all alone so we could know that we never truly are alone.

Divorce. Death. Barren wombs. Empty nest. Disease. Financial stress. Teenagers. Toddlers. Broken cars. Broken hearts. You are not alone. Someone somewhere in the annals of time across the world has walked in your shoes, maybe is walking in them now. And the One who is in Heaven is also in You, walking in your shoes, carrying you when you're too weak and tired to walk, when you can't see the path, when you don't want to go on. You are not alone. We're not alone.

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. --John 14:27

Empty Arms But A Full Heart

A note from my heart: I wrote this post over a week ago. It's honest, it's personal, it's sincere...all things I believe this blog needs to be in order to be worth writing and worth reading. And I felt that I needed to write this, not only for myself, but because there may be someone who needs to know they're not alone. I am so thankful for the brave women who write, women I will never meet this side of heaven, because their honesty lets me know that I am okay and I am not alone. I would be remiss to not pass it on and share my story so someone else can know that they are okay and they are not alone.

There was a certain man... whose name was Elkanah... He had two wives; one was called Hannah and the other Peninnah. Peninnah had children, but Hannah had none.
... Because the LORD had closed Hannah’s womb, her rival kept provoking her...till she wept and would not eat. Her husband Elkanah would say to her, “Hannah, why are you weeping? Why don’t you eat? Why are you downhearted? Don’t I mean more to you than ten sons?”
 Once when they had finished eating and drinking in Shiloh, Hannah stood up. Now Eli the priest was sitting on his chair by the doorpost of the LORD’s house. In her deep anguish Hannah prayed to the LORD, weeping bitterly. And she made a vow, saying, “LORD Almighty, if you will only look on your servant’s misery and remember me, and not forget your servant but give her a son, then I will give him to the LORD for all the days of his life, and no razor will ever be used on his head.”
As she kept on praying to the LORD, Eli observed her mouth. Hannah was praying in her heart, and her lips were moving but her voice was not heard. Eli thought she was drunk and said to her, “How long are you going to stay drunk? Put away your wine.”
 “Not so, my lord,” Hannah replied, “I am a woman who is deeply troubled. I have not been drinking wine or beer; I was pouring out my soul to the LORD. Do not take your servant for a wicked woman; I have been praying here out of my great anguish and grief.”
Eli answered, “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him.”
She said, “May your servant find favor in your eyes.” Then she went her way and ate something, and her face was no longer downcast.
Early the next morning they arose and worshiped before the LORD and then went back to their home at Ramah. Elkanah made love to his wife Hannah, and the LORD remembered her. So in the course of time Hannah became pregnant and gave birth to a son. She named him Samuel,saying, “Because I asked the LORD for him.” (1 Samuel 1: 1-20)

I love this story because, you see, I am Hannah. I've been tested, blood drawn, womb checked, one test left me crippled in pain and throwing up for hours. The tests have yielded some answers but no results. Month after month I force a smile and say to my dear husband, vacant! As if it is a room for rent. Which maybe it is. A temporary home for someone--someone who may never come to hang the 'occupied' sign on the door.

My husband is Elkanah. He loves me. He sees the pain, the agony in my face. He knows he can't fix it. He tries to say the right thing, never knowing for sure what the right thing is. The poor man never knows if this month I'll shrug it off and really be okay with it, or if I'm going to sit quietly in the bathroom and cry. Why do women always hide in the bathroom to cry?

I can only imagine how much deeper Hannah's grief was at having to share a husband and know that his other wife could do what she could not. How much more broken did she feel? Because that is exactly how I feel. All broken. What good is a vase that can't hold water? Like the Island of Misfit Toys--a caboose with square wheels. Broken. Useless. There is a reason the text uses words like 'anguish', 'deeply troubled', 'grief'.

These are the words we associate with mourning, with loss. Isn't that what Hannah is doing? Mourning her loss? Mourning the closed womb that cannot bear life? Mourning the reality that she may never feel the kick in her belly, the pain of contractions, behold the cry at birth? She has every reason to mourn. Every month is an egg unfertilized, an egg dying, an egg that might've been a child.

I wonder if women talked about it in those days. Kind women, not just 'her rival'. I wonder if Hannah had a mother, a sister, a friend who tried to comfort her. With good intentions they tell her that she still has time, they give her remedies and tell her what worked for another friend. They tell her to pray to God. They tell her to stay strong. Oh, isn't that what Hannah wants more than anything? The strength to bear the anguish of a barren womb. It's so hard to be strong sometimes.

We see what desperate women will do for a child in Sarai, before she became Abraham's princess and the mother of Israel. So desperate for a child to raise, she pushes another woman into her husband's bed. Never thinking of what her feelings afterward would be, she can only picture the perfect ten fingers and ten toes, the cooing and crying, diapers hanging on the line with her husband's cloaks. The things women do in despair.

Her granddaughter-in-law, Rachel, would follow suit. Trying to compete with her homely sister who bore their shared husband child after child, Rachel pushed her servant into Jacob's bed. She claimed her servant's child as a victory for her, and yet, still felt empty, broken, anguish. This is how we got the Twelve Tribes of Israel. Rivalry between sisters, one loved but infertile, one unloved but fertile, and two servant girls dragged into the baby drama. Rachel died birthing Benjamin as Joseph proved to not be enough for this desperate mother, and the poor child is saddled with the name 'son of my trouble' until daddy renamed him 'son of my right hand'.

The Bible doesn't tell us much about Elizabeth's infertility journey. We see more of Zecheriah's unbelief at what Gabriel is trying to tell him. There is doubt because perhaps they've finally come to terms with the vacant womb. Maybe they've found a way to laugh like I try to do. Maybe they've embraced other people's little ones, doing for other people's children what they would've done for their own. Maybe they've just finally come to grips with it all and then this angel appears and throws it all into chaos again. I can hardly blame Zecheriah's doubts anymore than I blame Sarai's laughter in Genesis. It's hard to keep believing when hope seems to dwindle away every month. Hard to believe even when God Himself is telling you to hang on.

“The Lord has done this for me,” she said. “In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people.” --Luke 1:25

We want this verse to be outdated. We want to believe that in the 21st century with the women's lib movement and our enlightened minds that a woman is not disgraced when she can't have children. Let me tell you...that's not so. Every time someone looks at you and wonders just what you're waiting for when the reality is you've been trying for a long time. Every time someone asks you when you're going to have kids, and you hesitate before answering. Sometimes I smile and say, when the good Lord wills it. And sometimes I just smile and shrug, and hope that my eyes don't betray the pain.

I vacillate between peace and agony. Sometimes I can hold on tightly to God and His ways and find peace there. We've been trying for a little over two years, I know people who tried for over ten before getting pregnant. I think about adoption, I have a cousin who adopted a son. There are so many little ones already who need to have a family, to be loved. Sometimes I can even find peace in knowing that I may not be a mother, but I am already an aunt and a friend. There are plenty of small ones in my life that I can love on and teach them what I know. Other times I pour out my sadness. It aches, it's awful, it's heartbreaking to wonder if I'll ever have that joy that I've always, always expected.

But I don't want to become a woman desperate for a child. First, what kind of life is that for me? I am more than a womb, vacant or full. I am more than a would-be mother. I am a child of God, an intentionally designed creation, a much loved princess of the Most High King. Second, what kind of life will that make for a child, should I have one? If I've become desperate for a little one, I won't be able to let him go, to raise him as I should. My life will revolve around the little one, neglecting myself, my husband, my God. This isn't healthy for a child. Parents that give up their own lives, figuratively speaking, for their children are really doing them a disservice.

I love this story of Hannah. She is in agony, but not despair. Her husband is sensitive to her breaking heart and does what he can to alleviate her pain.  Eli comforts her but doesn't try to give her a bunch of answers. He simply prays over her, blesses her. And when Hannah receives this blessing she gets the elusive peace she's been seeking. She worships God, she eats food. She takes care of herself, and then, she gets pregnant. And she gives the child to God. This child who will become the anointer and advisor of kings.

I've written about Hannah before, but I didn't tell you why. I've wrestled with this for a long time. Wondering if I should be honest about my journey, if I could be. But I've been feeling God leading me from the darkness and into the light. There isn't shame in my journey as I am sometimes tricked into feeling. And God has been whispering into my heart that my husband and I don't need to shoulder this pain alone. Until now we've kept this 'news' in close family circles. In fact, many members of our families don't know. I don't want to be smothered by pitying looks and cliches. I just want to be loved and valued for what I already am. And, more than anything, I want people to come alongside in prayer. Praying that we will have wisdom to know what God wants, that we will hear His voice prompting us in this journey, that we will have strength to take the steps required. Praying for a miracle. And praying that if that miracle never comes that we'll see the blessing hidden in that.

Confessions of a Perfectionist

I remember being 14 or 15 and making plans for my life. I was working at the history museum with my mom, it was summer. I was in the old meetinghouse, kept cool and dim by the long shades over the windows, all alone with my thoughts and my dreams. Pensive by nature I delved deep into my own heart, trying to make sense of what I felt and what I wanted. And I made a bunch of plans for my life, for the man I would marry, for the family I would have. It seemed like a necessary thing to do. These were plans I resolved deep within myself, plans that would prevent pain and harvest happiness. And, truthfully, there is part of me still clinging desperately to those plans.

With some distance between myself and the old me I can see what I was really trying to do. I was grasping for control, I was groping for some order. And the only thing I felt that I could control was my own future, my own family of someday. This was a reaction to my parents' divorce, that I am sure. It's strange, there is a distance of years and forgiveness between the divorce and now. I've let go of so much, I've stopped letting this singular event be the lens though which I experience every other event of my life. And it seems that as the big wounds heal, I find smaller scars I never noticed before. Thankfully, when I find these scrapes and scars it doesn't devastate at me, as in years before. I puzzle over it, I ponder it, I hold it at a distance and figure it out. It doesn't define me, I won't let it. Instead, I define it. And this is what I've been thinking about.

This desire for control, for plans, for creating expectations that aren't fair or altogether reasonable to expect. It's that grasping for sense, for something to hold onto, for something over which I alone can be sovereign. But it's a fallacy. There is nothing over which I alone can be sovereign. There will always be other people contributing to my world and to my experience. For that matter there will always be weather, traffic, and bad Internet connections interfering with my plans. I truly cannot control my world.

And I cannot manufacture the family I always wanted, the one I planned. At twenty years old I sacrificed my dreams for the husband I had imagined. Broken-hearted and devastated for the second time I decided that whatever I had planned for at 14 was an impossibility. I gave it up. And within six months I met my husband. Not the man I had planned, but the man I needed. Not a Cary Grant, but a Jimmy Stewart. Practical, down-to-earth, compassionate and sweet. Never mind that books bore him to death and his favorite part of musicals is always the part where someone fights. He's the man I couldn't have planned for, the one I couldn't have imagined. But I had to release my expectations to find him, and release them again to let him have a fighting chance.

I tend to choke the life, the chance, the joy out of everything in my life with my lists and plans and expectations. Planning my wedding was more of a nightmare than a dream. I ended up in tears when I watched most of our guests leave before our first dance. This wasn't what I planned! People weren't following my script and I didn't know how to cope. Our honeymoon suffered the fate of my over-planning. I had over thought things and it didn't work out how I had imagined. My thinking about things too much had led to making a stupid choice to save some money, and when it didn't work out, I was again in tears.

Every time my husband and I plan to go somewhere I get sick to my stomach. My mom says I get too excited and my system can't handle it. And it especially can't handle the devastation I feel when things don't go well. Our trip to Cleveland to see Les Mis prompted this discussion and this post. We think I got food poisoning from the restaurant in the hotel...but then again...maybe I was just sick with expectations that couldn't be met.

Now, and this is important,  I can't and I won't renounce the whole thing. There is something to be said for making plans and being prepared. Dreams are a good thing, perhaps even a gift from God. They inspire us, keep us going, and give us a method by which to achieve.But the fanatic and frenetic energy with which I do the whole thing is what causes the damage. I create expectations that cannot be met, and I am only left with varying degrees of disappointment. I rejoice in what worked out, but I always notice what wasn't quite right. This makes everything bittersweet, every glass can only ever be half full. Or perhaps full but smudged with fingerprints. Never perfect.

I think spiritually we all long for perfection because we had it once. There are echoes of Eden crying out that this imperfection isn't what we were created for. We were designed for perfection but must live in brokenness. No one feels that crippling reality more than the perfectionist. But we have been given an out, a way to freedom...accepting that perfection simply will not happen this side of heaven, but life can still be beautiful.

Some of the best memories I have are from the messiness of life when things didn't go as planned. When we had to improvise to make the best of things. When life takes you off script you can melt down or you can improvise. I am learning to improvise.

I still dream of my someday family. I still have plans and ideas for those little ones I've yet to conceive but pray for everyday. But the deepest prayer of my heart is that I will learn how to stop this great expecting. What I want most of all for that someday family is that they will not have a mama mired down in plans and expectations. I don't want this scar of mine to become hereditary or contagious. I don't want my husband to tiptoe around his frenetic wife and feel that his plans will never be as grandiose as mine, and therefore, not good enough for me. I want to be free to plan but not control, to dream but not build my world in those dreams.

That girl in the meetinghouse at the museum12 or 13 years ago...she meant well. She was hurting, probably scared, probably angry...not just at the divorce...but at being a teenager, at being young. Those years were full of disappointment and frustration (as well as beauty, laughter, friendship, and fun, I must add). Teen years always, always, always are, if we're all honest. And I look at her with compassion, but I can't honor her plans anymore. She simply didn't know what she was talking about, she didn't really know what she wanted. She didn't want control, she wanted security, she didn't want compulsive plans, she wanted safety.

And here she is today. A woman safe and secure in spite of the plans which didn't come to fruition or the ones which changed shape several times. A woman ready to let go of one more hurt in order to be stronger. A woman, wobbly like a toddler, learning how to step into uncertainty and embrace the unexpected, trusting the strong hands of the Father who alone controls.

This post doesn't signify the end of the lesson, it is not the reflections of triumph, but the promise of a future change. More like a caterpillar entering the cocoon then the butterfly leaving it, more like that wobbly toddler just starting to step than the adult resting from the run. My inspiration, I feel compelled to explain, is my five month old niece, not even able to crawl just yet...but trying, flexing those muscles, noticing new strength every day. If she can learn, so can I. She's got her whole life ahead of her, and so do I. A life of beautiful dreams and just-right expectations. I want her to learn from me. There are two ways we learn things from older generations. Looking at them and saying, never will I be like that. Or looking at them and saying, I hope to be like that.

Here's to becoming the latter.

~*~*~Believe~*~*~

I used to live life with a voracious appetite for living. I was once told--it must be exhausting to be you. I used to crave making the most of each day. Doing as much as I can with as much passion as I can and as much joy as I can. It was exhausting, but in a really good way. But somewhere along the line I got jaded and cynical, and the passion fizzled away to nothingness. Now life is just a daily grind, and most of the time I ponder how I got here. I feel so disconnected from the way things should be.

I used to indulge in the simplicities of childhood. When a friend once asked how old I feel inside I readily replied 6 or 7. Stressed out? Bust out of the coloring books and crayons. Frustrated? Mash up some play-doh. Bored? Blow some bubbles. Fly a kite. Sing a song. That is actually how my favorite word became 'believe'. I wanted to believe in everything. Now, I don't mean everything. I mean believing in Santa Claus, Fairies, and that stuffed animals and doll babies become real if you love them. Believe that animals can talk at midnight on Christmas Eve. Believe in magic, in possibilities, in dreams. By embracing the impossible, the world comes alive with color and wonder. That's why children see endless possibilities, and adults can't get anything done. They have a belief system that allows them to believe in the fantastical. That's why I love the word 'believe'. It speaks to all of that. The wonder of it all.

But the impossible that I believe in, truly believe in, is the biggest impossibility of all. And it is the only one that can give me a sustainable source of passion and joy. This is the impossibility of a God revoking His God-given rights. The Creator. The Omniscient-Omnipotent-Omnipresent becoming flesh, becoming contained in a body with aches, pains, and limitations. It's impossible to suggest. It seems fantastical, but that's what I believe.

And even more impossible is the wonder of the Cross. What kind of God allows Himself to be taken prisoner, questioned, beaten, flogged, spat upon, mocked, stripped naked, and nailed to beams of wood for all to see His shame? There is no God in all of mythology that would do such a thing...but this is what I believe.

Perhaps it is the love of God that is the most wonder-ful. I can't quite wrap my mind around such love, but when I get close I feel over-whelmed by it. It seems unreal--a love so passionate, so determined, so good as to move heaven and earth to be with me for now and always and forever. As far as I know there is no other religion or belief system that claims such a wondrous thing. A God that loves His creation, His people so much that He came up with a way to remove their sin. Not with thunder and lightening, not with endless tasks and works, but with self-sacrifice. He gave Himself so that I might live and know His love. Impossible.

This is the word the White Witch murmurs upon Aslan's appearance after His Resurrection. Impossible. But I believe it. More assuredly than I believe in Santa and Fairies and all that other stuff. Those things are silly and fun, keeping me grounded in youthfulness, in the joy of childhood, in the simplicity of childhood. But what I believe in Jesus Christ keeps me grounded in eternity, and should keep me rooted and established in love--in joy.

And it's this joy that I'm missing. I've lost the wonder of the Cross. The extraordinary has become ordinary. The impossible has become commonplace. The unfathomable has become familiar. And with that all the passion has fizzled out, like throwing water on a flame.

I'm called to live life abundantly--that's why He came. Eternity doesn't begin in the grave, it begins with grace. And to live any other way is to squander what I've been given. To walk around with a somber face and melancholy is to extinguish the flame of wonder. Sometimes a misguided sense of religion and righteousness makes me want to be serious and all-knowing about my Savior, but this isn't right. The resurrection shouldn't produce a serious, well-measured amount of thanksgiving but uncontainable joy in celebrating the impossible becoming possible.

My favorite scene in the book The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is just after Aslan has come back from death and the Stone Table has been cracked. Lucy and Susan are in awe, speechless, overjoyed. And after Aslan briefly explains how it is possible (deeper magic from before the dawn of time) there is wild celebration. He is just as exuberant as Susan and Lucy. But they don't just watch Him revel in what He's done, they join with Him in the celebration. Aslan plays with the girls, chasing them, throwing them up in the air, as a father might with his daughters.

It was such a romp as no one has ever had except in Narnia; and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind.

He romps, he plays, he rejoices in being alive....and he invites Susan and Lucy to join with him. And I am extended the same invitation from our Aslan. I can play and rejoice, dance and celebrate with Jesus. I am invited to believe in the impossible and when I truly believe I have no choice but to celebrate. My world comes alive with color and wonder.

Now, I know that not every day can be a wild dance--life can be immensely hard some days. But I have to think that maybe it should be. What I mean is perhaps that's what we were designed for. Because of our fallen state and our fallen world things will get in the way, suffering happens, stress happens and gets in the way of the exuberant celebration. But we were made for celebrating, for rejoicing, for dancing. And I think if I can keep that in the middle of my beliefs I can find a way to live life with enthusiasm. Even in the hard days there is still a moment to embrace the impossible. Maybe the hard days are the ones when I need to impossible the most.  After all, Susan and Lucy had just lost all hope...Peter, John, and Mary had lost all hope...but then in an impossible, wondrous, fantastical moment the impossible was broken and made possible.

I think this is the beginning of that appetite for living--taking of the Bread of Life. From the Cross comes all color and wonder to bring my world alive. And from God--the creator of all things good, including passion and abundant life--can come the wellspring of enthusiasm for living life as I was created to. I was made for the wild dance, I was made to live my life in color, I was made to live life exhaustingly.

Surrounded by love, who can worry?

I'm a chronic compulsive worrier. I can't help it, so I've always claimed. It runs in my family. Like a love for peanuts and games and music and big Christmases...worrying is a family tradition. And worriers tend to wear it as a badge of honor. It's a form of martyrdom. It's a way of life we defend with passion.
Concern and worry are different. Planning and worrying are different. Being prepared and worrying are different. But the line between them is so blurry for us worriers. Most of the time I have no idea that I've crossed that line until my finger nails have all been chewed off, my shoulders are immovable with tension, and I can't sleep for the thoughts racing in my mind. Then I realize....that line I can't see, I crossed it.

I married a man who is most definitely not a worrier. Generally he doesn't know what to do with my fretting and fussing. It's a language he doesn't speak, it's a lifestyle beyond his experience. But we've talked about my worrying. Always have. Even when we were dating, he'd offer up some Bible verses, crack a joke, and with his adorable crooked smile, I'd find a breath of air to suck in. Worrying feels like suffocating. Sometimes I wonder if I've been breathing at all.

This is where I was last night. Fretting. Anxious. Turning over and over and over again my fears for the coming day. So quietly with tears stinging my eyes, wanting peace desperate, I confessed to Curtis,

"I'm worried...but I don't want to be."

This is a huge step forward for me. Usually I'll admit that I'm worried but then rattle off all the reasons why I should be. How dare someone tell me that I shouldn't be worried! But it's been sinking in and coming at me from all sides that worrying is not healthy, constructive, or godly. Ouch. Worrying is a sin. I kept thinking about that last night in the darkness. I wanted to give it over to God but I didn't know how. Honestly, how do you take your worries to Jesus without getting all the more wound up by telling Him what your worries are?

Answer...let someone else do it. I confessed to Curtis my worrying and he knew instantly what was on my mind. Rather than sighing and telling me to not worry, it's pointless so on and so forth. He told me it would all be okay and then he asked, 

"Do you want me to pray for you?"

Hallelujah! A break through for both of us.  A humble confession, a simple reply. Exactly what I needed. So he held me and prayed over me and I felt peace and deliverance. As Curtis prayed specifically for my concerns, I just kept asking Jesus to break this stronghold in my heart and mind. It's one of Satan's best guarded defenses. He's built a castle wall with archers at the ready and then dug a moat around this stronghold of worry within me. It's impenetrable for me...but not for Jesus.

I fear that Philippians 4:13 has become a bit of a cliche for me. And the problem with cliches is that we all know they're true but they've ceased to bring real meaning to our lives. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" is a true statement, packed with power and promises. But it can be all too easy to just rattle it off without letting it actually rebuke the Enemy and give me what I need--an actual lifeline to that strength. Today I learned not to just mutter the verse like a over-used mantra but to actually await the strength, to expect the help. And I got it. I was strengthened by an outpouring of His love, and when that is overflowing into my life, how can I worry? How can I let the lies and distractions get the best of me when I see the evidence of His presence in my life?

My absolute favorite scene in 'The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe' movie is when Peter and Edmund are losing the battle. It looks hopeless but then in the 11th hour, to everyone's astonishment, Aslan appears at the top of the mountain. He roars and His army of the redeemed stands in boldness and determination around Him. Having conquered death, the White Witch is nothing to Him. I cried in the theater as His roar filled the dark space...not only the theater but also in my heart. God is ready, able, and wanting to come to my defense, to roar and fill up the darkness with His power and might.  (Incidently, an entirely different scene is my favorite in the book...but more on that closer to Easter).

So here I am, asking Jesus, my Aslan, to come in and defeat my White Witch of Worry. No more winter in my mind--bleak, hopeless. I've been freed from death, how much more so have I been freed from worry, depression, and anxiety?? Just as Spring spreads across Narnia with the presence of Aslan, Spring will spread across my heart and mind with the presence of Jesus.

I can't claim to be cured. Not yet. Not by a long shot. But last night and certain signs from my Deliverer this morning reassure me that I can be. This stronghold can be broken down and defeated. I can learn to plan and not fret. I can learn the difference between cares and concerns, and the downward spiral of worry. And praise the Lord for a husband that will pray for me, that will listen but not encourage the worrying, that knows just how to make me laugh, and with laughter start breathing again. God shows His love to me in a thousand ways, my husband's tenderness is one of the best. And last night, as I drifted to sleep, I felt my puppy's warm tongue on my hand and soft fur on my fingers as I drifted to sleep. Love defined in a puppy's perfectly timed kiss. Oh, how He loves me. And surrounded by love, who can worry?