Jealous of Shorty...

The length of her legs reaches to my eyelids and her hair hangs at the side of her size 2 waist. She has to be a fitness coach, professional dancer, or super model because really, who looks like a Grecian goddess at 5:30AM? 

She and I have history. Oh boy, do we have history! One morning in spin class we happened to sit on bikes that were next to each other and I, being the non-competitive girl that I am, had to exert more energy, sweat more sweat, and push pass pain. She, on the other hand, whisked through the workout effortlessly. 

At the end of the workout the instructor glanced in my direction and said, Good workout, Shorty! Obviously she was talking to the girl who stands 5'4'' (on a good day).

Obviously. I smiled a proud smile until she said, No, girl! You're not Shorty, she is, as she points to America's Next Top Model. She must have seen the confused look on my face. To encourage me she quickly replied, You're not Shorty. You're Killer! 

I blinked my eyes with rapidity to indicate my disbelief. Did I wear a spiked collar and leather chaps to the gym today?

No, I wore a hot pink top and black pants which doesn't scream Killer the last time I checked with Stacy and Clinton. I called my best friends and recounted the story. They laughed at my expense... I hope you can too. 

I saw her today and thought about all the things she didn't have to do.

You know, like hem denim, wear 4-inch heels to look like the average height of a woman, stand on tip-toes to get stuff in a cupboard.

I felt like my skin was turning every shade of green with every envious thought bubbling in my mind. A cauldron of jealousy was brewing and I caught myself...four hours later.

I wish I could say that I bowed my head, prayed for forgiveness, and repented from my heathen ways that very second. But I didn't. 

I read this morning in Proverbs 27:4, Wrath is fierce and anger is a flood, but who can withstand jealousy? I was totally convicted because for months I have been jealous of a woman I didn't even know. 

But if we're honest with each other, we all have moments of jealousy. 

Her husband, his car, their fabulous hair. Let's be honest and recognize that we fall short in many areas. The question is how can we change? How can we reposition our minds to focus on our blessings? Where do you fall short?

Let me tell you, I fall shorter than 5'4'' in many areas....even with 4-inch heels on.

by Bianca Juarez, In the Name of Love

On Freedom and the Blossom

The snow here has finally let go in the sun. A few days get warm enough to remind us of Spring, a coming time, though the ground still crunches with frost underfoot.

The sniffles and the water puddles in the drive have kept us cooped in exhausted routines, in the smells of sick winter. The unopened windows bend in the shape of old house, and so do I.

Some days I want to run out of here with my arms open to the sky. I want to ride in a convertible car with a beautiful scarf holding back my hair, riding behind me on the wind.

Some days I would change my name, call myself Tululah, and become a studier of nightingales or a singer in parks.

Some days I consider a life of anything other than this one, and I do it because I am impatient for Spring.

So much of this life in the body isn't about freedom with our skin. It's not the wind in our hair that makes us free. It's the movement of the Spirit, the growth of our invisible side.

My son asks that we watch a bean sprout in a clear plastic cup, and in no time, it does. A white tongue lapping out for water, breaking through. The seed of a full grown plant drops into water and becomes a new plant, green and alive.

Spring is coming. We feel it.

So our invisible sides imagine the ground shifting and then releasing - not ghosts - but new, live bodies in a blossoming chorus. We imagine the Deep Love swooping, calling deep down love to rise up to meet Him.

One day we will be Spring, the faces of our hearts in our final, great, and eternal Ode to Joy, our real freedom, real birth.

by Amber Haines, the run-a-muck

Bare branches

Three and a half years ago my life fell apart.

In one emotionally draining [understatement] week, I lost it all.

My best friend.

My ministry.

My church home.

My peace of mind.

My understanding of where life was going and what the next day/month/year would even look like.

Something died that week. 

Do you know that feeling? I think we all do at some level, right? 

The realization that, in a moment, so many things housed in the TRUTH category can be ripped out and put in the THAT'S WHAT YOU THOUGHT category.

Painful. To date, the most painful experience I have ever known.

And though details would make this a juicy story and a real tear-jerker, I've never written about it and I won't.

But. What I will tell you about is how God used that experience to change my entire life.

As Bible teacher and author Beth Moore says, "God allows wounding in your life so that He can bring healing."

And that statement, my friends, can have permanent residence in the TRUTH part of your heart.

In the few months after the total destruction of the life I knew, God began to speak to me of His love. At first, my reply was, "Uh. Yeah. Are You serious right now? Cause hello! You just allowed my life to FALL-A-PART. I'm supposed to label that as LOVE?!?"

[Cause sometimes a sarcastic tone is all I can muster. Forgive me.]

I went to a new Bible study during this LOVE season. My heart was broken and in all honesty, I felt a bit lost in my own skin. So anytime someone invited me to something involving God, I went. 

The leader passed out a drawing, a tree with a girl standing in front of the trunk, to each of us. The goal, she said, was to add leaves to the tree with words representing all the ways God is using you in the world, yadda yadda blah blah blah. I stopped listening.

I stared down at my tree. And it looked just like me. Bare. Empty. Dead.

My eyes began to focus and see something coming out of the limbs. I grabbed my Raspberry Crayola marker and began to color.

There, in the empty, in the death, in the absolute absence of life, was L-O-V-E.

Can you see it?

When everything was pruned away, there I was, standing under the tree of His love.

Today, if life seems to have thrown you more curve balls than you can even fathom, if all that was true yesterday is suddenly false, if you are broken in the deepest of places,

I'm asking God to draw near to you.

Because somewhere in your bare branches, He is writing His love to you.

by Annie Downs, Annie Blogs

I Surrender

The only part of launching my blog I didn't enjoy was coming up with something for the unavoidable "About Me" section.

Despite the fact I was blogging about any and all aspects of my life, summing myself up in a few sentences seemed daunting. 

I wasn't a wife or a mother. I had already given up my career and taken on a disability status. As I think is true with most people, I felt like I could say who I wasn't much easier than who I was. 

Rather than mess with it, I wrote instead about what I wanted the blog to be for people. One of the lines was this:

"This blog is about me, my life, my disease and learning to adapt to the changes life throws at all of us..."

When I read it again recently, the concept just didn't sit right with me anymore. I remember typing it and believing it, but over the course of writing the blog my perspective changed greatly.

To me, adapting now feels a bit like a negative concept... like God and I have different ideas about my life, and by adapting I'm begrudgingly adjusting my view rather than surrendering to His. I've learned through the trial and error of life that I don't want to adapt anymore. 

I want to be so present in my moments that adaptation isn't necessary.

I have an autoimmune disease that has gradually stripped me of life as I knew it. I went from being a healthy, outgoing, talented individual who dove head first into life, to a person permanently confined to her home. I am in constant pain with limited amounts of movement, energy, and severely limited abilities.

It didn't happen overnight, although sometimes it feels that way. Instead, I've spent the last fifteen years watching my life, as I knew it and as I dreamed it to be, slip from my grasp. I lived a number of those years fighting with all of my might to hang on to every piece I could.

I adapted sparingly because I had to, but I didn't like it.

My doctor didn't like my version of adapting either, when she walked into my hospital room and saw me working on my laptop. I was typing dictation of an interview I'd conducted from my hospital bed, so I could write an article for the magazine where I worked. And I was doing it while hooked up to IV's of steroids and antibiotics and Demerol. Yes, I was adapting to my situation, but not graciously. I was fighting for my old life every step of the way.

Now, don't get me wrong. Having a bit of spunk is a good thing, but the intention behind the spunkiness matters. I wasn't fighting to maintain my life because I thought it was in God's plan for me. I didn't push myself because it was in my physical or mental best interest. I fought because I was stubborn and wanted my life to be the one I had planned. I was adapting as a compromise between my desires and His. 

And there should be no compromising when it comes to God's purpose.

So, I've changed my thinking... and it changed my heart. Just as much as I would embrace a miracle of healing with open arms, I choose to embrace all that comes into my life the same way. I've learned to embrace the pain. Embrace the solitude. Embrace the constantly changing plan of my day as my pain and energy levels fluctuate.

I've stopped trying to adapt between what I want and what I have...and I've learned instead to want what I'm given. By removing the expectations I placed on my life, I've come to appreciate the moments He's entrusted to me.

It doesn't make the journey easy.

But it does make it worthwhile.

There are lessons in the pain. There is discovery in the solitude. There are blessings in the opportunities that have come because of my limitations. I've learned to love hearing about what's going on in the world outside of my home as much as I loved living it with my friends.

 I see every moment of my life now, both the difficult and the joyful, as moment to be embraced. Because I know that God is in the middle of all of them. He is in the center of my storms and my blessings. He sees it all with eyes that know and understand and foresee the purpose of my situation. And I want what He wants. 

So I no longer adapt, compromise or adjust. I surrender. I simply trust that whatever is in front of me at any given moment, He is in the center of it. 

And there's no place else I'd rather be.

by Sara Frankl, Gitzen Girl

The Large White Sign on the Side of the Road

Recently, I was going to visit my mom who lives several states south. 

I kept myself plenty entertained by admiring all the delights one can find while riding the back country roads of a Southern state.

Dilapidated barns were tucked in fields of chopped down crops I couldn’t name. JR’s Barbecue sat right beside the Red Shed Store proudly proclaiming, “We build ‘em, you fill ‘em.”

The filling station is well stocked with snacks for all the people required to come inside and pay for their gas. There were three large jars on the paying counter just waiting to entice the traveler’s taste buds- giant pickles, pickled eggs, and pickled pig’s feet.

I kid you not.

And y’all the jars were half empty. Normally, I’m a half full outlook kind of gal… but somebody had been eating some snacks that made me feel a little off kilter.

And speaking of off kilter, there were no Starbucks.

No ma’am we don’t have them fancy coffee places in these parts. Who would pay $4 for a grande, skinny vanilla latte, single shot, 7 pumps, no whip, extra hot cup of joe when the pickled pig’s feet gas station has a pot that’s been sitting there three days waiting for you to enjoy it’s scalded goodness.

Seriously. The nerve of my little uppity self.

And don’t you dare ask if they happen to have wireless. They have keys for their locked restroom facilities attached to large chopped off pieces of PVC pipes… and they have dust 5 inches thick on their gum for sale- but no wireless.

Anyhow. Lots to observe.

But, the thing that grabbed my attention more than any other was a large, white, hand painted sign. The letters on the sign were too black and bold to miss. Everyone driving by the sign would have to read its warning: “Repent! The day of Jesus is coming. Repent of your sins today!”

I must admit, the sign made me frustrated. I rolled my eyes and thought who is going to read that sign and suddenly say, “Well, I’ll be… that’s what I’ve been missing all my life. I need to repent.”

I wanted the sign to talk about Jesus’ love.

Or forgiveness.

Or grace.

Or second chances.

But repentance?! That’s just kind of a tough introduction to my Jesus.

Good thing I’m not in charge of painted signs on the side of Southern roads. I’ve been thinking about that sign and my feelings have now changed.

I am humbled by my hard hearted assumption that the sign was meant for other people. When in reality, I think the sign was meant for me.

A reminder that I fall short.

I can be selfish and self-centered and distracted from what really matters.

And I can be more concerned over the dust on gas station gum packets than the soul of the tired old man working behind the counter.

I am brought low by the realization of just how self focused I can be sometimes. 

I had a great time visiting my mom.  But I’m starting to think my trip was never just about a simple hometown visit.  Rather about a large white sign on the side of the road and a girl’s heart who thought the sign could never be meant for her. But it was. It is. And it forever will be.

by Lysa Terkeurst

My Story Is Ugly

I was living and ministering in the inner city when a stranger broke into my home and attacked me at knife point, threatening the lives of my children—who were asleep in the next room—to keep me silent.

It was as awful as it sounds, and not a story anyone should tell.

I did tell—the moment I broke free from my bonds, in fact—calling my husband out of a meeting at church. "Come home," I said, crying and shaking. "I've been raped." And then together we turned to our family and church for support. They rallied around us, and my slow healing process began.

The time came, though, when I began to wonder if people thought of me only as "the girl who was raped," and the shame of it was almost as unbearable as the rape itself. I wished I hadn't told anyone. I wanted to go back.

That was fifteen years ago, and thank goodness God has brought me forward.

Back then I wouldn't have believed I would one day speak internationally about my journey from rape to restoration and write a book on the subject that would be translated into many languages—and that I would be thrilled to do it!

My story, as it turns out, is not ugly at all. God makes all things beautiful! I became pregnant as a result of the rape, and God gave me a beautiful baby girl who is a constant reminder of his faithfulness. I have gained so much more than I have lost.

I'm not just the girl who was raped; there is so much more to me than that. But I'm no longer ashamed to admit it is a part of my life. And if my restoration will give hope to even one other person, I'll tell it one more time.

by Heather Gemmen Wilson

Now You're Speaking My {Love} Language

Understanding the love languages of your spouse and family can play a huge factor in your relationships with those closest to you. According to Gary Chapman's best-seller, The 5 Love Languages:

"Of the countless ways we can show love to one another, five key categories, or five love languages, proved to be universal and comprehensive—everyone has a love language, and we all identify primarily with one of the five love languages: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch."

My husband and I both have Quality Time as our highest love language and Receiving Gifts as our lowest, which translates into lots of date nights and few actual gifts. It was only after reading a Valentine's Day post about a husband who almost forgot a card and gift that I even noticed that I didn't receive them. It doesn't matter to me. What mattered was the dinner and movie date we shared.

My husband could have brought me flowers and a diamond ring and it wouldn't have meant as much to me as taking me out for quality time, alone.

For me, it's the little gifts—like picking up a sweet tea for me on the way home from work—that say "I was thinking of you."

We are blessed to be so in sync on our primary (and lowest ranking) love languages. Apparently people tend to be attracted to those whose are different than their own—opposites attract. We're learning to work on the areas where we're different.

I rank high on Acts of Service and my husband is low. The good news is that he isn't offended if he comes home and dinner isn't ready and I haven't cleaned the house. The bad news is that he didn't realize that leaving unchecked items on my honey-do list for an extended period of time makes me feel hurt and neglected.

He scores much higher on Physical Touch than I do (this category doesn't refer to sex, although that is obviously an important component of marriage). I'm learning not to get impatient when my husband sidetracks me for a hug or kiss when I'm in the middle of something else.

Understanding a spouse's love language can literally save or jumpstart a suffering marriage.

I've been analyzing my friends, children, and other family members, too. My eight-year-old son who wants to run errands with me? Quality time. My two oldest daughters? Words of affirmation.

Knowing a person's love language enables you to communicate your love more effectively.

The grandmother who mails cards for every birthday and holiday enjoys receiving gifts as much as sending them. Since I'm not a gifts person, I'd never recognized that until now.

My ten-year-old daughter, who also loves giving cards, and her great-grandmother have become long-distance pen pals, exchanging notes and drawings. It's obvious that the communications are a blessing to each, as they show they care in the way that speaks it most effectively.

Do you know your love language? Your spouse's or children's? If not, take the quiz and discover how to most effectively communicate your love to those around you.

by Dawn Camp, My Home Sweet Home

Touched By An Angel

On Sunday, we worshiped with Kenyans at one of the Compassion International projects. As we entered the village, hundreds of children ran up to us. It was the first time I felt mobbed by kids, but in a positive way. They were extremely poor.

Once I entered the church building, I immediately noticed a girl in a pink satin dress, her Sunday best. She had Down Syndrome and was absolutely beautiful.

I found a seat and Gina found me.

 

She walked up and smiled. It was the smile of an angel.

She reached out and put both of her hands on my face.

She moved them slowly, carefully, feeling my face as if she were blind. I sat perfectly still. It was almost a holy moment.

She finally backed away and found her place at the front of the church, near the worship leader. I sat there and tried to process what had just happened. It was a surreal moment in which I saw raw beauty. Unrefined glory. I was in the presence of one of God's precious children.

And then the congregation stood to worship. Gina stood next to the worship leader as if it were a regular place for her and she danced. I looked around to see if anyone was surprised by her behavior, but it seemed to be the norm. No one stopped her or told her to go and sit down. No one whispered in her ear that she was a distraction or a nuisance. I was so thankful they treated her as Jesus would have. I imagined He thought of Gina when He said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me."

She lifted her arms and moved them slowly in the air to the music. She closed her eyes and moved to the rhythm as she lifted praises to God. I almost had to look away, like I was interrupting a private moment between this special girl and The Holy One.

Kenyan church services are very long, two to three hours. Gina adored God with every song.

After the service, she found me again. Once again, she stepped up close to me and caressed my face. I was so humbled by her beautiful gentle act as her eyes looked deeply into mine. I saw a bit of Heaven in her innocent face.

 

I'll never forget the day I was touched by an angel.

Gina is one of Compassion International's million sponsored children. She is one of the blessed ones. There are so many who still need a sponsor. Thousands of kids who don't know the joy of a dependable meal or a Godly social worker concerned for every part of their lives. For such a small price, you can change a life. The life of an angel, like Gina.

Would you consider sponsoring a child today?

by Kristen Welch, We Are THAT Family

* To learn more about Kristen's journey to Kenya, read the series on her blog.

Gussy-ed up: Giveaway Winners!

The good news is we. have. 3. Gussy. laptop. bags. left! (But not for long. . . )

 
  
Update: Thank you ALL for filling out our little survey. Your responses blew us away and will help us serve you better. We have three randomly selected winners of Gussy laptop bags. . . I've sent an email to the three winners. Check your inbox. It might be you.

Simply irresis-tea-ble

   Sometimes a bully arrives in disguise: in this case, an unexpected snowfall, beautiful to the eye, glorious to (my snow-deprived, Southern) soul but cruel and unpredictable to tire's tread.  

The bully double-dog dares me to move, and I march across his silly imaginary line, defiant and bold on the outside while a rabble of butterflies swarm in my belly.  I haven't driven in snow for 100 years and never for 300 miles.

A few weeks ago, treacherous driving conditions threatened to cancel our annual Valentine Tea Party.  Stubborn and determined, I wasn't going down without a fight.  

Why did it matter so much to me?  Why would I leave my husband and sons?  Why would I ask my socially-busy daughter to give up her friends for a weekend?  And why in THE world would I drive five hours in SNOW when I wasn’t sure if anyone else could even make it?

Within my reasons for pressing on, I think there's encouragement and challenge for all of us.

[1]  It's a way I "arise and call her blessed".

Honoring my in-laws is important; it's a command with a promise.  That indicates it's important to God, too, especially because He repeats himself on the matter--old testament, Gospels and more.

Fifteen years ago, my mother-in-law Sarah, asked me if I'd be interested in hosting a mother-daughter Valentine Tea Party for my then three-year-old daughter.  My "Yes!" was immediate, and Sarah's sparkling eyes proclaimed her fingers-crossed, hoped-for answer.  

A little confession?  A few years ago, right after we moved five hours away, I was done...finished...over it!  But at some point before the next February, I realized this tradition was bigger than my personal inconvenience.

Now, I will do anything in my power to continue this tradition for my mother-in-law's sake. 

As evidenced by driving through Friday afternoon Atlanta traffic in the midst of a freak Southern snow storm.

 [2]  It binds the generations and teaches by example.

For a few hours on "Valentine Saturday", three generations of women skirt the dining room table and feast on friendship, family and Valentine fare.  Appealing to palate and eye, the menu is decidedly girly. The table is dressed in polished silver, dainty fine china, wrinkle-free linen and flower-laden vases; the ladies--the "littles" and the {ahem} "bigs"--are dressed in holiday dazzle with the loveliest accessory of them all:  good manners!

"Please" and "thank you" pour as freely as sweet tea.  Conversation is laced with news and opinion and of course, stories of another time.  Laughter rains.  Smiles paint faces.  Younger girls learn not to demand more than their share of attention and conversation becomes art...a masterpiece brushed by a room full of artists.

No one rushes to leave.  

 [3]  My daughter refuses to stop growing.

She's over half-way through her junior year of high school, and I hear the clock ticking.  Loudly.  

We've encouraged independence in our children and from the time they toddled, ignorant arrogance easily proclaimed "we aren't raising them for ourselves, we're raising them for someone else."  I still believe that but its truth stings my heart.

She has no memory of a Valentine's Day without the Valentine Tea and even at 17 she appreciates the value of tradition. This hasn't been explicitly taught, it's been caught by years of consistency and observing key women in her life--aunts, cousins and one Best Friend Forever for each of the granddaughters...and a very well-intentioned mother and grandmother.  Relationships connect the years.  

Real conversation unravels when you have ten hours alone in a car.  This is my favorite part of her age--her probing questions, watching her wrestle with contemporary issues through the filter of faith.  She tells me about another student who is pregnant at her school and the door is opened to frank discussion on premarital sex, dating, birth control.  

She doesn't expect some of my responses, but she gets to see how I wrestle, too.  Then we tackle alcohol and casual drug use.  Next, friend frustrations.  She has permission to speak freely and sometimes I have the privilege of helping her see with new eyes.  Sometimes she does that for me.

Traditions are important; not for traditions' sake, but because they honor those who take part, bridge generations and strengthen family fabric.  

 Your turn:  Besides the obvious "big" holidays, do you celebrate in a way that breeds tradition?  Might you consider beginning your own?  Because I haven't done this with my boys (and my husband doesn't have a similar annual event with them either), I'm especially interested in suggestions you might have for sons.  

by Robin, Pensieve