Who is that Family?

Ever look at a picture and remember what you were thinking in that moment? I have these pictures hanging in my living room, and we were such a happy little family four years ago. 

But, I know better. 

I see a miserable wife and a teeth clenching husband. I see kids who wondered if their parents would last. I see a family standing in a very dark valley, eclipsed by pretty scenery and bright smiles. Am I the only one who had a season that lingers like a deep stain in the past? If only I could get rid of all reminders. But there was still life there, still love—even if it was put to a fiery test over and over, day after day. 

Sometimes, I wonder what to believe when I scroll through social media. I choose to believe that every smile out there is genuine, and every happy compliment is sincere. But, if you have pictures like me—know. Know that I understand the duality. 

These family portraits are proof that we can fake it. 

I pray that our bumpy past is not “normal”. But then again, I wonder if I could bear the thought that we are the only ones? Messy, ugly, horrible memories amidst tender, loving ones. Glares and biting words and threats of divorce. Children who pretended not to hear, but then implied their knowing—breaking my heart. Over and over. For days. Weeks. Months. 

Praise God that our valley walking brought us up and out—Praise God that even though faith was rocked, He stayed close. But, that time is never far from my thoughts. Sometimes I wonder if we sit in the consequences of that time still—a tinge of resentment, an unsteady trust. Our smiles are more genuine these days though, and our family is good. I’d even say, we are ready to take a different picture, one that will speak truth in every smile.

What Have We Become?

My husband (former fan of D.C. Talk), put on this song after we had a discussion about a news story today. This song. Just so good. Lyrics below.


"What Have We Become?"

A preacher shuns his brother
Cause his bride's a different color
And this is not acceptable
His papa taught him so

It was love that he'd been preaching
But this was overreaching
The boundaries stretchin' further
Than his heart would choose to go

Like an angel with no wings
Like a kingdom with no king

What have we become?
A self indulgent people
What have we become?
Tell me where are the righteous ones?
What have we become?
In a world degenerating
What have we become?

Speak your mind, look out for yourself
The answer to it all is a life of wealth
Grab all you can cause you live just once
You got the right to do whatever you want
Don't worry about others or where you came from
It ain't what you were, it's what you have become

Mom and Dad are fightin'
As Rosie lies there crying
For once again she's overheard
Regrets of their mistake

With Christmas bells a-ringing
Little Rosie'd leave them grievin'
The gift she'd give her family
Would be the pills she'd take

An inconvenient child
She wasn't worth their while

What have we become?
A self indulgent people
What have we become?
Tell me where are the righteous ones?
What have we become?
In a world degenerating
What have we become?

Speak your mind, look out for yourself
The answer to it all is a life of wealth
Grab all you can cause you live just once
You got the right to do whatever you want
Don't worry about others or where you came from
It ain't what you were, it's what you have become

Don't worry about others or where you came from
It ain't what you were, it's what you have become

What about love?
What about God?
What about holiness?
What about mercy, compassion and selflessness?

You know it's true
He is there for me and you
Doesn't matter what you do

What have we become?
A self indulgent people
What have we become?
Tell me where are the righteous ones?
What have we become?
In a world degenerating

What have we become?
Have we come undone?
What have we become?
Have we come undone?
What have we become?

Selfish... [?]
With selfish... [?]
Selfish people
When you gonna learn?
Everyone of us
Gathered 'round in trust
What have we become?

Who Is Undesirable?

What cataracts do I look through to see my fellow man? Is it a careful construct of bias, wealth, health, and elite? Do I choose my friends based on their sameness? Do I avoid a path down a street based on the human I'll have to pass, in all their brokenness, all their outwardly undesirable state?

It is easy to know what is good or bad in this culture--even if each is an imposter of the actual Truth.

Money = Good
Power = Good
Success = Good
Luxury = Good
Indulgence=Good
Blemish = Bad
Weight = Bad
Poor = Bad
Sorrow = Bad
Displacement=Bad

Yet, a man walked the earth centuries ago, and turned these history-old equivalencies UPSIDE DOWN ...

How devastating that we haven't learned--I haven't learned. I hear excuses of, "Well, I worked hard, I deserve...", or "It's just not right, why should my kids deal with that kid..." or "they don't belong here," or  I say to myself, "This is where God put me, and I shouldn't worry about...not my problem, not affecting me."

I think it's history-old because we've had the ugly in our human existence from the very beginning. I look through history-- B.C. to A.D.--and I see it. And the past is NO BETTER than the now, and the now is NO BETTER than the nostalgic days of old. And I saw it in my childhood, in my teen years, in my college years...in my now years. I see it as my children grow and in their friends and in their classmates. And then I see the kids who stay on the fringe, trying to just survive the next minutes, hours until they have a reprieve from the "good" ones...the accepted ones, the desirable ones.

How is it that, after the most influential man declared those fringe wanderers as His FRIENDS...two thousand years later they are still on the fringe?

Bullying is a huge buzzword these days. I don't know how often I mention it when talking about school, kids, culture. And often I hear people say, "It wasn't like that in my day," but I remember different.

I remember bullies. I remember hurt. I remember angst. I remember walking the fringe. 

But, if I am completely truthful, I want to be part  of the "good" ones. Sure, I am a bleeding heart and often weep for those downtrodden on the news, in the books, in the articles...yet, I too avoid those downtrodden in person, in the grocery store, in the crowd of strangers when I just want to fit in.

What would it look like if I walked into church one day, and instead of the sameness as me, I was faced with the poor, the displaced, the unclean, the healthless, the wealthless, the forgotten? Would I stay, or would I say to myself, "This is not safe, this is not good, this is not my people"?

Would I walk away like the young rich ruler who just couldn't see past the cataracts of his life, because who would want to give all the worldly "good" up, for a man who loves the undesirables?

Who is really undesirable now that we are living upside down?

My Difference Makers

Life has been gearing up in super speed. Two teens in sports, one guy in Cub Scouts, and a little lady dancing and tumbling away. Not to mention school activities on top of that. And in between all the running around, we have these pockets of time where we must parent, where ugly comes out and we are facing the same battles of emotional management, bad choices vs. good choices, and anger issues...just like when they hit the terrible twos--only so much more significant in their older ages.

If I allow myself to sit here and try and find the bright side of last night's tug-o-war with brothers fighting, or last week's slew of missing assignments, or consequence-dishing for bad language, I would be sorely disappointed.

This part of parenting stinks. 

It's the part of parenting that not only has me wade in turbulent waters of conflict, but also chips away at my confidence that I am doing my best as a parent. It makes me stare at my child and say, "Where did you come from?" (In my head...I hated being told that as a kid, so I promised myself I would never say it out loud. LOL).

This morning, I was on Facebook and an old memory popped up in my newsfeed. It was a status I had in 2012 about my son (7 years old at the time) giving the rest of his birthday money to a  family who wanted to adopt a baby girl in Africa. And then it brought to mind all the times my kids have poured out generously to others, have shown compassion without being asked to, have given a glimpse of the difference makers they will become.

I suddenly found myself looking from a heart view of each of my children, and remembering the good that was beneath all the necessary growing pains of becoming an adult. And it's so much more important than any drama we have today.  The bright side is there, amidst the mess, and I am just now realizing it. No matter their mistakes or disobedience, I know their hearts are compassionate. From the same naughty lips that speak foul language, come the heart language of a boy who wants to help the less fortunate. From the same brotherly discord, comes a defender of his brother's honor in face of a bully.

While I have been yanking my hair trying to direct these children into adulthood, there's something that I would argue is even more important going on in their rearing.

We've been growing hearts. 

And while there is lots of practical--sometimes excruciating--parenting to do, there are future adults here who will at least remember, and hopefully live out, one of the most important values we could teach them amidst the chaos, one that otherwise gets pushed aside in this culture of success and status. No matter how much my children accomplish on paper or on the field, I hope they remember the words and actions in those pockets of time where we parented beyond the reprimands, but impress upon them the need for compassion.

And, occasionally, my kids are displaying their roots in love and compassion, and I can forget the mess for a moment, knowing that it is truly fleeting. We are only wading through it to get to the good stuff--adults who will indeed make a difference in this world.

A Love Letter to My Children

Dear Children,

It's winter. A time when we pull out over a decade worth of tiny handprints on Christmas ornaments. A season when we focus on a baby, and a mama, and a family. A chance to reflect and remember all the Christmases before, holding tight to the good, and forgetting any bad...or trying to.

I have always said, "I hope my babies remember the best, and forget the worst."

And now, I wonder, will you?

I love you so much that my heart can hardly take the pride attack when you all achieve your goals, give us a glimpse at the people you are becoming, take the initiatives to step toward greatness.

My smile can’t be contained when I watch you all triumph in the face of adversity, even after we argue, even after words have stabbed like daggers, even after temper tantrums, and insecure parenting judgement calls.

Even though you roll your eyes, say heartbreaking things, choose everything else over me—I can’t help but love you.

I love you so much that I sit and watch each of you from a distance, allowing the worries to slip away, and admiring the differences I see between your childhoods and my own, and the similarities. 

You are the babies in my arms even when some of you don’t welcome hugs anymore. You are the little buddies who joined me at every grocery trip, every gas station stop, every morning breakfast table, and every evening snuggle time. One of you takes most of those trips to the gas station on his own now, and a couple of you just eat on the go. Snuggle time? Only half of you need that now...and sometimes, we are all too exhausted to even say goodnight.

My mama heart squeezes tight, and I want to forget for just a moment the fact that one of you is spreading his wings to take flight in a few short years. But, then, I struggle with a longing to speed through these days where every word seems to be a battle, and the angry looks are searing, and so many decisions shatter like glass.

I love you so much that even still, I wake up each morning to see what the day holds for each of you. You are my babies. And no matter what you think about me, I will be here for you until my last breath. You are my children. 

I pray only good things for you. Can you remember only the good things around here? Forget the bad? I can't help but wonder if you will. I can't help but worry. And most of all, I can't help but love you. 

Mom

Becoming October

About twenty-one Octobers ago, my husband, then-boyfriend, and I became exclusive--we said we were "together" and we said, "I love you," all in the same month. It was the month of hope, and love, and dreaming.

Now? Sitting in this October and looking back after seventeen years of marriage, and fifteen years of motherhood, I can say that hope has slipped into disappointment more often than not, and love has become entangled with expectation more often than it should. Yet, in this October, while the leaves are falling, something different is budding within me, and I can't hope or love the way I used to anymore.

Forty has been a rough age so far. When you reach these soul-shaking milestone birthdays, people often tell you to shrug it off and age doesn't mean anything. And whether it is just our imagination or the [old] mind playing tricks on us, these kinds of birthdays do change you--even if it's in some weird self-fulfilling mental lapse kind of way.

Needless to say, I've not enjoyed forty-year-old Angie at all.

On the outside looking in, you see a newly published author, a proud mama of four kids, a wife of a super-hero kinda dad, and a woman who really shouldn't complain.

But on the inside...

It's been pretty void. I feel like my insides are a vacuum, and everything in my brain has been screaming, "ME", and everything in my heart has been shouting, "Get OUT".

It's like that commercial where the person unzips their current body and a whole different person is inside. You know what I'm talking about?

Well, if forty year old Angie had a choice, she'd unzip this person and escape the mess inside. How many times have I told my husband that I just want to crawl out of my skin? How many times have I said I just want to run away? How many times have I absorbed my children's bickering and melted into despair? How many times have I taken that sock lying on the floor so personally, that it makes me send the kids to bed without a kiss goodnight? How many times have I fought for something stupid like a clean kitchen and ruined the chance to have family time because Mama ain't happy?

Somewhere along the way, I've fallen for the lie that it's all about me and what I control. Somewhere along the way, I've become a consumer of my family, and my church, and my world.

And the vacuum inside me just sucks up the justification, the proven points, and the reprimands, and I realize that I have nothing but the crappy broken threads that wrap around the vacuum roller and eventually stop the whole thing from working.

Those broken threads are heartstrings that I've shunned, shamed, shut out from tangling with my own. It's all about me, and I'm just too busy trying to clean up messes without stopping and trying to mend what's going to break.

Well, I was the broken one. And I had wanted change for so long, but I just couldn't unwind those stupid messy strings from the roller. I was stuck.

I was the one who was sitting in a dark pit of despair, feeling hopeless and alone in this whole thing we call life.

So, one day at the beginning of October, I started to listen. I thought, "Maybe I should look for something different." When life feels completely stale and not worth trying for anymore, something different seems like a good change. And I took this tiny little step.

And something amazing happened.

That step took me outside of myself. SERIOUSLY. Like, the little step had me sit in a church I'd hardly ever been and listen to a speaker I'd hardly ever heard. And even though the sermon was hardly something to blow me away, a whisper within the sermon knocked the wind out of me.

And that's the beginning.

Over the next few weeks, EVERYWHERE I turn--whether it be my church services, my Bible study, a conference call for work, a parents' gathering for my son's youth group...EVERYWHERE that I am expectant for God's wisdom...about SEVEN DIFFERENT PEOPLE so far...some who are connected, some who don't even know each other...EVERYWHERE I TURNED GOD SAID THE SAME THING TO ME.

For someone who WAS hopeless, and self-centered, and trying to take control to a point of destruction, I was slowly aroused from my darkest slumber by these three concepts that each of the seven encounters have mentioned and centered their messages on:

Humility

Hope

Living Sacrifice

Coincidence? Go ahead, call it that. There's no special liturgical calendar the seven encounters were using to guide their messages to me. But, I am here to tell you, that the mess deep down inside me is so ministered by the resonance of each encounter speaking the SAME wisdom to me, in such a personal way--meeting me where I'm at--that I can't even begin to deconstruct my experiences and find a way to attribute it to my [old] mind playing tricks on me.

Something inside me woke up...and it wasn't a noisy vacuum. It was a flood of sweet repentance for my inward focus, and a swishing revival of faith--smaller than a mustard seed--but a faith that promises hope again.

This October, I am becoming again. I am not finished in this growing up business...forty really is just a number. I am still figuring this all out. And I am seeing myself outside myself again...but I'm not trying to run away. I'm outside looking further outside--at those I love, at this chance I get to commune with a God who put up with me in the mess, and still sits with me there when I inevitably stumble back again. I can actually see hope in the next step, when before, all I could see was the tangled mess.

October. A month I once fell in love--for the final time. And a month I once gave birth to a son. October. A month filled with changing color. And a month of changing me.

***

Here are a few of the people who've spoken God's words to me. By no doing of my own, except saying yes to the environment they met me at. Completely organic. But completely ordained:

James MacDonald (study, Think Differently)
Greg Hawkins (actually heard him on a conference call, then was led to this book--More)
Andy Stanley (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMpj0cXldnk&feature=youtu.be)

(and....sermons on Hope at Lutheran Church of Hope, and on Solitude and Servitude at Meredith Drive Reformed Church...um...and I just realized, I named this post, "Becoming"...and that's the name of the sermon series at my church...BUT IT'S TRUE FOR ME TOO).

There is no fear in love.

This verse takes on multiple meanings for me.

When life topples my security, the first thing that is questioned is love. How about you? If I can just remember where love came from, then I have nothing to be afraid of, I have no fear.
It's in the remembering.
Every step, every set back, every dark valley--Love was there. Is there. I just need to remember that.

A Plea for Our Super Hero: Cystic Fibrosis Needs A Cure

Ever known a super hero?

He always has a great attitude.
And wears his vest twice a day at least!

Ours is a little guy, with blonde curls, a bright smile and eyes that sparkle at the mention of his friends, his God, and his family. Also add ice cream and baseball to that list.

My family is close friends with his family. The second grade super hero has battled Cystic Fibrosis since he was days old. Yesterday, our super hero went in for his eighth surgery. 8 surgeries in 8 years? The kid is amazing. He is the life of the party and has enough energy and joy for two boys!

You would never tell that he is sick. That his lungs don't work properly, and that he spends his mornings and nights day strapped to a machine to keep his chances of health high. Nope, this kid is an amazing little guy and a great testimony to living life to the full e.v.e.r.y d.a.y.

My nine year old, T, loves hanging out with him. He recently hooked up our Wii at their house the night before the surgery so our super hero would have something fun to do while he recovered. 

T has come to me twice now in tears that he wants to cure his friend. That he just wants him to grow old and have kids. That the doctors need to work harder, and that he wants to give all his money to the CF foundation.

Dickens and our super hero!

"What if the doctors are missing something? What if it's simple?"

"I want to find a cure."

Maybe God is planting a calling in my child? Maybe he will be that doctor? Maybe he will cure his friend? One thing is for sure, he has a heart bigger than his nine year old body and feels things deeply. Especially for those he cares about deeply.

T and his super hero with lil bro. No touching water,  just pretending.
C.F. kids can't risk the bacteria in lake water. 

One day, God will use that for amazing things.

Maybe T will be C.F.'s worst enemy? Maybe my son will become a super hero with a cure. Only in the shadow of our super hero today.

A future super hero?

Right now though, I hope that everyone who crosses our super hero's path, feels the urgency to make that advancement in medicine, that need for scientific research, that chance for a super hero boy to grow into a super hero grandpa.

Today, the median survival age for a person with C.F. is close to 40. That's not acceptable. In a time as advanced as we are scientifically and medically, we need to fight harder.

Learn more about Cystic Fibrosis HERE 

Check out your area for the Great Strides walk near you. I know lots of people out there enjoy walking and exercise...do it with a purpose! 

This is my plea as a mom of a kid who has a huge heart and love for his friend, and also, as a friend of a family who live with C.F. every moment and make the most of life every day.

Casting away Stones to Step Up on the Rock

If there is one thing I've learned from living with a non-believer, is the harsh reality of the world's
perspective of Christians.

Not that it's always right. Or just. Or fair.

But something I see is that the lies about who Christ is are sometimes provoked by His followers.

And the victim mentality of many to think that Christianity is being attacked and suffering is all over the place right now. There has always been rebellion against God's righteousness...since the beginning of time. And it has been within His own people and outside His covenanted family. Christ's church should TURN THE OTHER CHEEK and continue to grow in strength and Love, instead of crying out and puffing up to say that we are being suppressed.

Seriously, what can man do to us?

Maybe I need a break from Social Media because...

I see Christ's name 

run a-muck by those 

who Love Him.

They are fighting 

the world's battles 

for Him but not like Him. 

I am confused.

So, today, I think about all the parables Christ spoke, and the commandments he offers in the New Covenant...and the fact that from the very beginning of Scripture, the underlying foundation of God's commandments is:

To LOVE.

Martin Luther King Jr. said it second best (Christ said it first):

 "I have decided to stick with Love. 

Hate is too great a burden to bear."

Sure, there are things such as righteous justice, guarding our hearts from temptation, not stumbling into sin because of those we associate with, but in the end, nobody can deny that when Christ walked the Earth, He was an example of Love.

In a world driven by media...both hate-filled secular media, and hate-filled religious media, we must choose the Rock of Christ in all our dealings.

Let's not choose throwing stones over giving a hand to the world to step up on the Rock.

Perfect Parenting

It took many years for me to realize I had my son on this pedestal. That I had just assumed as a parent following all the good advice, godly people, and great examples out there that my son would be molded into the exact image I imagined.

Hoped for.

Expected.

And if I peer in his reflection of me, it shows that I, indeed, had myself as a parent on a pedestal as well.

I remember a long time ago, a friend saying that she felt God telling her to not hold her children so closely because she was afraid of the fall if they were taken away.

I totally get that. Because I am tumbling, tumbling from that high place I had put myself on long ago, as I witness the flaws and humanness of my children.

How dare they? How dare they paint me a hypocrite? It's not fair. My intentions were good.

The further I walk this journey, the more I realize the illusion life has painted around us. It goes to show that we need Jesus more and more...because no matter the wisdom or advice a good person exudes, the ears are flawed, the hearts are wayward, and another's journey can only be carved by the One who made it.

My strive for perfection only knocked me down in the end. All I have is Love and Grace to keep me going...and hopefully, it will be contagious for my children's sake!

Seeds of Disbelief, Roots of Love

I have lies in my head. I have the naysayers declaring that the virgin birth is false...that the translation was actually more of a biased implication than a truth. I have the lie blaring in my heart that there is ancient folklore with similar legends to the Christ story. That if there is one culture with a virgin birth or a God turned to man, then that means the whole story of Christ is just a copycat. That the human need for a perfect father (and perfect mother) is the instigator for such a fabricated story as Christ's birth, life, and resurrection.

These are the seeds of disbelief that threaten my heart this Christmas season.

I don't know if my faith would withstand the knowledge I know now, if I didn't have the past years of pouring Christ-centered knowledge into my heart. I see beyond the individual lines of text and I see the overall themes from Genesis to Revelation. I understand the ancient use of covenants, and how perfectly aligned this practice is with the redemption story of Christ's coming. I find the beauty in such perfect historical timing of Christ's first coming, and how He spoke words so deeply wise to the human condition, the human heart, the human creation that even if all the details are skewered and theologies are in error, no man on Earth could have gotten it so beautifully perfect.

But then, His words and His witnesses cannot be denied. He is the Christ. The perfect one sent down
from a Father who chose to relieve his creation of burden and flaw, and redeem them with the final sacrifice to fulfill that final covenant which we broke.
Christ is our Covenant Representative.
He is the one who took the rightful punishment so that we may survive and live. Redemption is ALL OVER the Holy Scriptures...It never waivers, it never disappoints. God can't help but find Mercy, because He loves us.

Enough to dwell among us. Enough to be a walking example of that love. No matter what the naysayers declare, there is nothing more powerful than Love.

From the Love of a God, to the Love of a Young Woman, to the Love of a People, to the Love of a Savior...Immanuel dwelt among us that we might Love. And Live.

A Lesson About Stolen Pretties

I have a lil jewelry thief about the house. She's waist high to me, and tends to find every piece of  jewelry I own. It's not too hard, because I don't have a bunch, but what I have ends up around her neck, on her wrist, or in her little purse.

Thing is, because I don't have a ton, I don't have a lot to give up. I mean, her little fingers aren't as gentle as they should be...and they are certainly forgetful when it comes to any "rules" or hiding places they've found.

Many times, I catch myself saying, "No more! You may not play with my jewelry ANYMORE!" 

And the four year old girl whines and says she loves it.

"It" being costume jewelry at best. I have discounted items that caught my eye on clearance, and dress-up jewelry in a pinch for THAT outfit on THAT occasion. She doesn't mess with the two or three "nice" items I have...because I know better to keep those out of reach.

So, what she steals is pretty much c-r-a-p...but to this non-fashionista...it's something to give that boring outfit pop...

After her playtime though, the gems are popped off, the clasp is broken, or the necklace is a tangled mess.

Thanks to my lil jewelry thief.

There's something that sits across from my jewelry box, on the other end of my dresser. And it's the one reminder that has me clench my mouth shut and swallow the words after I reprimand my daughter.

It's the one thing that softens my scolding to, "Okay, just be careful," when she asks "Pleeeease!"

My Greek yiayia's small brass jewelry box sits empty on the dresser. But it's filled with memories. The glass box is one of the only things I really wanted when she passed, because it was the one thing from my childhood that I remember treasuring most. 

Yiayia never said no when I asked to play with her jewelry--the gaudy necklaces and bangles that sat in that glass box. The jewelry case was as precious to me as Cinderella's crystal carriage because my four foot-somethin' yiayia allowed me to indulge in the pretties each time I'd visit. 

I am also reminded of the bright red lipstick in a mint-green tube that Yiayia let me wear, and the high-heeled shoes I'd slip on from her crowded closet. All the memories stem from this gold and glass treasure that I'd open each time and begin my play. It's a tiny cove reminding me of being loved, indulged, and treated as a princess.

When I spy the glass jewelry box on my dresser now, a year after my yiayia passed away, I think of her generosity toward me, and how she'd say, "Anything!" when I asked for something. She loved to cultivate my childish joy, and it seemed that desire surpassed any value she might have had for that jewelry.

Maybe her bobbles were just costume jewelry like mine are now. All the more reason I should learn from Yiayia when I find my four year old daughter indulging in my own trinkets.

It's just stuff. But the joy it brings is worth the broken clasps or the lost earring...because I hope, years from now, my daughter will remember fondly the mama who let her indulge in the pretties.

TBT: Love & Marriage

To Love Bigger?

Ponder and meet me back here on Wednesday.

Three Times a Change.

I am not quite sure why I have been avoiding a post on here.

Perhaps it is because I am in the middle of a writing groove on my current story (which is always nice).

And perhaps it is because my roller-coaster life poured out in blog-post fashion might cause a little reader-whip-lash. It just seems tiresome to write a post that will, inevitably, be in-valid in the near future because of the newest development in my journey.

Yeah, this desert has been anything but flat and uneventful.

But, something I have noticed, that has been pretty consistent, and a desperate oasis amidst the suffocating sand storms, is El Roi.

The God Who Sees... sees me.

And hears me.

I get to places where I never thought my soul would tread, where the heat of skepticism and crushing pain promise to burn my heart to ash, and I sit there in a shocking state of hopelessness.

Never before had I felt anguish like I have this past year...but I do, and now I understand the same feeling David felt when he had been betrayed by the one he'd looked up to for so long. Funny, I took a study about David exactly a year before I journeyed into these similar emotional battlefields as he once had.

Last night, I was in that place again. The burning place of hopelessness. And I cried to God, "Where are you? Will you show up!" Because I honestly thought I could not do this anymore. My heart had nothing left to give.

And I went to bed numb, and lost.

Only to awake to affirmation threefold (as always...God often affirms me or works in me in three different ways during a pivotal moment of my walk).

First, a text from a spiritual sister who I haven't talked to in weeks. She said that she felt a strong urge to pray for me and that she sensed that I needed it badly. She gave me the verses, Ephesians 6:10-13 -

" Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His might. 11 Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil. 12 For our struggle is not against [a]flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places. 13 Therefore, take up the full armor of God, so that you will be able to resist in the evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm."

Let's just say, sweet drink of confirmation in my battle...in my thirst for understanding as to what the heck this is all about.

Secondly, as I got ready for church, I dropped to my knees in deep conviction to confess to God. And suddenly, I was given some wisdom on how to move forward in all of this. And it had something to do with remembering that verse above, and mostly, the word God gave me in another enlightening moment long ago when my journey in this desert of spiritually mis-matched marriage began:

L.O.V.E

LOVE!!! Why do I forget the meaning of that word? Why do I forget the perfect model of the perfect Person who perfected Love in such an attainable way? I fall into the trap of conditional love time and time again. No wonder I stumble into hopelessness. That kind of love has no hope in it.

It was at church where God sealed this revelation of my next step in the journey. You know, that perfect sermon that needed to be heard (I even had a close friend who knows my struggle, call me to be sure I was going to church this morning)...Did he write it for me? He talked about that battle above, the Person I had kinda ignored because of the trials before me...and then, of course the sermon reminded me of Hope...and... L.O.V.E. You know, all you need is...
Because He loved us first.

Tonight, I sat across from my husband on a quick date night, and I accepted him and I apologized to him for my resentment and conditional love. It was the weirdest moment because I took the time to form the words, sitting there for minutes in silence...knowing my husband was wondering if the "D" word was going to crush our coffee cups between us...and I spoke. And then I realized all this time, I have not given him the compassion and love he needs...and he needs it, because he is hurt and he is lonely and he is stuck. I think this whole thing is bigger than a proclamation of Atheism on his part. So much bigger than a statement.

It's a heart change.

And it's not just about his heart change to disbelief. It is just as much about mine.

And God keeps telling me, and I listen for a little, then I forget, and I keep roaming this desert ready to die of exhaustion.

Praying that this time, I learn...I don't want this journey to last like it has in the past for those Israelites.

40 years is too long!

My Joys

So, it's been a rough 2014, but out of all the sadness, loss, and disappointment, I still find joy in several things...(besides my God who gives me ULTIMATE joy)!

I find joy in writing. A new story that has brewed in my heart for years!

I find joy in friendships. My friends have been such a light in my life. What would I do without them??

I find joy in my children. Ah, my children! So sweet and yet, soooooo energetic! HA!

I find joy in my husband. Although it's been a rough time for both of us, he has always showed me love.

And funny enough, with all the seriousness in my life, I find joy in something not so serious but OH SO FUN...Jamberry! My little business venture has been a blast! Check out my website: www.angiedicken.jamberrynails.net 

Have a Happy Tuesday!

Final Short Story Post, Scene 6

***If you've read this far, thank you. Like I have said before, this is fiction but inspired by very real emotion. The parts where God has shown up, have also occurred in similar ways in my own life. And, I stand by my overall intention for writing this: Healing truly does begin when love pours down.***

WHEN LOVE POURS DOWN, Scene 6

Before this storm, I knelt beside my new husband in the wedding chapel, after the guests departed. He led us in prayer and summoned the canopy of God's blessing upon our union. And the days, weeks, months, and years enjoyed the shadow of God's hand. And I didn't feel the garish sun of hardship. Not really, anyway. My husband was my provider, my protector, my strong tower. It was he who rose early with the rising sun, releasing prayers upon the morning breeze. It was his faithful flurry that stirred my spirit and left me seeking more. And come Spring, I grew to his stature, a budding vine of fruit for my Maker. Perhaps, it was my provider, my protector, my strong tower who might have shadowed my God. And who might have been first in my heart of hearts.

And maybe, this storm is good in a way. Because my husband no longer eclipses my God. No, he is nothing but a man who's stripped away the canopy and burned my soul with exposure to a faith-consuming fire.

But the sun of my God kisses Little Jack who runs ahead on the concrete path to our home. I taste the freshness of a new day upon my tongue as I breathe in deep, and long for joy again. The dianthus are bursting color and the lilies stand proud and tall, tempting me to smile. Oh, how long has it been since I smiled broad?

But the smile is yet to birth when I know Steve is inside, waiting and knowing I tried to leave him. I tried to leave and take Jack with me.

A roaring grind growls into the floral-scented air. The side-gate is ajar and I follow the stepping stones round back. Each toe upon the rock jolts my insides with a nervous wobble. I pray for the huddle of my spirit within.

No more resentment, no more fear. Only love. I must start first with love.

The grind grows louder and I catch a glimpse of the beast. A chain saw slices the fallen willow. At the hands of my Steve. Oh, it slices in pieces the root of Love. A wide hollow in my soul opens its jaw and I can see the belly of a monster. A monster feeding on such an image of the godless man destroying the precious place in my heart. What other task could embitter the tongue of the heartbroken?

“Give him grace. Give him a chance.” The huddle's whisper slams shut the open hollow. I am here for love. The tree is gone by the hand of a different storm, after all. And part of it is still standing. The strongest part is still erect.

“Steve?”

He whips around, pushing his goggles onto his head. A glimmer of delight flashes in his deep blue eyes, and then his lips fall into a frown. “I wish you didn't leave.”

“I am sorry.” Slender willow leaves somersault around my feet. I try to look into his face once more. He inches closer, and reaches a hand out to me. I take it.

“You're all I've got, Lisa.” He pulls me close. “Life in this new perspective really makes you treasure every precious thing.”

“Really?” And doesn't life with my God calls me to treasure every precious thing? Old resentment begins to pry open the hollow with it's twisted design. How can he claim that his way has any good in it? Any similarity to life with God in it?

“He is mine, and I am His.” The Spirit gathers in a warming rush, melting the gap within, closing it shut to my scrutiny. Steve might not acknowledge God in this, but it doesn't mean that God's not in this.

And it's not my place to pull apart the skies and reveal the God who is there.

“I love you.” My words float out like the dainty pieces of a dandelion blown. Soft and fragile.

Steve bites his lip and steps so close that I must tilt my head to see him. Sun shines around his dark curls, and the silhouette of a butterfly flaps it's wings above him.

“You don't know how long I have waited to hear that.” He lowers his head and I close my eyes to receive his kiss.

I may have doubted God through this storm. I may have given the Enemy a chance to stir the winds into a violent tornado of destruction. But no matter the banshee cry of the wind, or the droning of the rain, my God's whisper carries to my heart and he protects me in the rage of it.

I once knelt beside my husband the moments after our vows, and we enjoyed the shadow of God's hand over our hearts. And now, in the broken aftermath of a storm, my husband no longer accepts the canopy, but he stays by my side through the storm.

No elements are tossed about the sky today. But the downpour is ever strong. And it is this torrential flood of love in which He calls me past the brewing brawl.

And maybe one day in the stillness of this healing aftermath, Steve will remember that love is God, again.

But for now, there is flying to do. With wings spread wide, I'll choose to love.

THE END

Short Story, Scene 5

WHEN LOVE POURS DOWN, Scene 5

Before this storm, the trails were paths of gnomes and fairies, talking toads and chatty squirrels. Each hollowed tree was a home, and every blade of grass was a musical string. What joy whipped within the heart of my child-self at the hidden world in the wood.

Now, I am grown, and the woods are for biking and hiking. The only critters—pea-brained squirrels and hopping robins—show themselves regularly. The grass only plays a tune between the thumbs of my child as he blows cheeks big. What foolish things we cast aside as our spines grow toward the sky and our eyes dull to fantasy.

And the sky this day promises another bout of thunder and rain. But I retreat to my outdoor sanctuary while Mel takes my boy to the ice cream shop.

I'll not face Steve just yet.

My hair whips against my cheeks as I sit by a lake of fury. Daggers of wind chop up the surface like a baker's knife mottles the frosting on a cake. The tall elms chatter of the brewing storm above, their rustling gossip coaxed in the chilled air.

“Forgive me. For leaving. For casting off my heart in fear.” I must wait, like I once did for the gnomes and the little fairies to kiss my nose. Now, I wait for Him, who might be invisible but is more real than even the knoll upon which I sit.

He moves. In that secret huddle in my heart, He speaks. And while the whirling air about me swells in some sort of whispering orchestra, I hear His words,

“Love covers a multitude of sins.”

Love.

The very thing that torments me most. The reason I run to His creation and settle beneath the outstretched canopy of branches. Such a different trail ahead of me now, than what I walked as a child. A different path than what I walked just months ago, when Steve still led us on his knees, bowed to his Creator. Now, this trail is not a fancy daydream stroll, but a desperate lost dream search.

“Thank you, Jesus. I must remember love the most.” It is what Mel spoke of. It's what my devotional preaches from my lap, and it's the whisper in that huddle in my heart. No coincidence with God. My soul is quenched, and the elms clap in a vigorous roar above me.

I gather up my journal and devotional, praising and pondering. Preparing myself to live love now. Willing my wings to spread wide and give me confidence in flight. The hollow in my core widens, and I long for Steve.

Clouds grow dark above, tainting the waters an inky gray. The trail ahead promises rain. I no longer run for shelter like I did as that fanciful girl. No, the rain won't hurt me now. Not when I know He's not through with me, yet. Besides, I've spilled many more droplets than the sky threatens to unleash.

“Mama, I felt rain.” A golden curl-topped princess pops up from a nearby picnic blanket, gathering her tea set.

“Hurry, sweetie. We don't want to get caught. Let's finish our tea at home with Daddy.” Her mama begins to load a wicker basket with half-eaten sandwiches, Oreos, and a Thermos.

“Yay! I love tea parties with Daddy.” She squeals. I pass her along the leaf-strewn path.

Fairytales and tea parties are surely a thing of my past. My middle-aged self remorses that my prince has abandoned the King, and my table is bare of all good things.

The storm within me breaks before the sky above me, and I forget His whisper. How can I surrender and love Steve when he's hurt me so? Resentment whips through my core.

“Lord, it wasn't meant to turn out like this. Whatever happened to dreams come true?”

I kneel upon the shore of pebbles before the water's edge. My pen is quick on the pages of my rain-spotted journal. My eyes are thirsty for Him as I skim the book in my weakening hands.

And He is there in each drop upon my soul, in each word on the page. His downpour splashes my spirit and rights my faith again.

His glorious song fills my heart, “You are Mine, and I am yours, my Love.”

Love.

He will never hurt me. My true Soulmate. And I praise Him. Again, the elms applaud in a roar.

“Thank you, Jesus, I must remember You love me most.”

And the trail washes with sheets of rain and I do not melt, but rejoice in His washing of my heart, and the calming of the gale.

While the lake settles at the last pin pricks of rain, the sky brightens. And I remember that sunshine is not dependent on my will, but on His will. It is He who lavishes upon me.

Why did I expect so much from Steve? It was an expectation as notional as my hope in meeting a gnome on the path—unable to withstand the pressure of reality, the fact that only One can make my dreams come true.

Even if the prince declares there is no such thing as Him who delivers dreams, I can live the love greater than any Steve's ever witnessed.

The lake returns to glass as the storm dies. A ray of sun steals through the clouds and illuminates the surface, bouncing fractals across the waters.

“Yes, Lord. I'll love him as You love me.” And the shine becomes bright and I bow my head and the elms chatter above me.

 It is good to meet him on this side of the storm—when the stillness sets in. When the creatures make way as I walk the path with my Lord.

My Short Story, Scene 4

**I have been posting a scene each day. If you want to start from the beginning, please scroll down**

WHEN LOVE POURS DOWN, Scene 4

Before this storm, I flew away from home and lost myself. My painted wings were hidden in a chrysalis of uncertainty, so I decided to crawl along my first year of college and blend in with all those around me who hadn't ever grown wings at all. But the Painter of my wings pursued me, and He knew the best gallery upon which to display His design—the overflow of my heart. When love found me in friendship, my wings began to unfold. And my friends proclaimed the Designer and turned me to Him who gave me wings in the first place.

I fold the blanket across my boy's shoulders as he sleeps. “I am not strong enough.”

“You are right, Lisa.” My bestie, Melissa sips her tea and steadies her gaze on me. “You aren't strong enough, you aren't brave enough, you aren't worthy...”

“I get it.” I roll my eyes and step to the window of her guest room. Darkness floods the sky which had thrown about its elements all day.

“Do you get it?” She sets her tea down on the nightstand and joins me at the window. With a crank, the window rolls open and the scent of drying rain and awakened roots fill our nostrils. “Do you trust in Him alone, or are you taking matters into your own hands?”

Could she know? Really know what I am going through? But she speaks truth now. I packed my bags and left Steve in the name of self-protection...and mama-bear-love.

“Trust? It's not about trusting God.” I think. “But do I trust Steve with Jack's heart?”

“It's not up to Steve what happens to Jack's heart. God's bigger than Steve. And you.”

A gust blows through the screen and catches my hair beyond my shoulders. I am on the edge of the earth, the atmosphere is a thin veil covering my body, flowing behind me in long sheets. Nothing's touching me. I remember God's grasp, and He swells within me.

“You are Mine and I am yours.” Yes, Lord. “He is Mine, and I am his.”

Who?

Steve? Jack?

Perhaps both. But it's not up to me, is it? I cannot run far enough away from destruction and close enough to God to keep Jack's heart safe.

Just like Jonah from the story book. Well, Jonah from the only Real Book.

It's not up to me. I am not the designer of painted wings or human hearts.

His Spirit gathers all my fear and releases it in the wind.

In God alone.

In God alone will He shape Jack's heart to know Him.

In God alone will Steve find Him again.

Nothing I can do will bring about salvation. Nothing.

Except...

“Love is the only thing that will make you strong, Lisa. It bears all things. And really, it is all we are called to do.”

Love. Snapped in two like the willow. Crushed within me by Steve's faith betrayal. But before this storm, it is the very thing that released my painted wings to full span across my soul. It was first in the love of friendship showing me Jesus, and then another surge of love which prodded my heart to bloom and my wings to lift me higher. The love of my soulmate—Steve.

But I know better now. I no longer dream in childish scales, but in mature orchestra swells. My soulmate is Jesus. And Steve is my closest friend. The one I've drowned out with cacophonous conditional love. Nothing like that which my Father gives. Steve's not seen His kind of love from me.

Conviction weighs heavy on my wings like syrupy dew in the orange shade of dawn.

“What do I do, Mel?” The wind dies down and an owl calls from the wilderness outside. “How can I live with a man who'll never let me forget this heartbreak? Who'll test my faith day in and out, and never let me rest?”

She slides her arm around my shoulders and I weep.

“You need to let it go, Lisa. Remember that it's not yours to fight. It's between Steve and God. You are only called to—”

“Love.” I release the word with a breath so deep within me that I am left with a hollow in my core. And a craving to fill it...with love...for Steve.

Lord, where did that come from?

“He is so lost, Lisa. You are his wife for a reason. And Jack is his son for a reason. We may not know it yet, but let God's love get you through this. And share it with Steve. It's hard, I know.” She squeezes my shoulder. “They'll know us by our love, right?” Melissa reaches over to crank the window close and a flutter rushes towards the sill. In a delicate prance across the wood, a butterfly settles it's slender body in the stillness of night.

Its painted wings in perfect design.

His Word came alive to me long ago, that day when my wings were released by love. I knew that I was not good enough, except through Him who designed me in His perfect way. And while the love of my friends brought me to my knees for the first time, the love of my Steve illuminated the design upon my wings to glow with faith, hope, and Him who is Love.

Perhaps my wings were not created for me to flourish in my flight toward Heaven, but designed for me to carry God's love—through the desert, through the storm, and to the broken aftermath?

I peek over my shoulder at my little boy dreaming in fairytales. I am only his mother, not his God. But I'll do my best to show Him God through love. That is easy. A mother's love is hard to suppress. But what of unconditional love for the man who's cast off every condition of my God for nothingness?

 How can I return to the broken aftermath with wings drenched from the storm?

Short Story, Scene 3

WHEN LOVE POURS DOWN, Scene 3

Steve meets me at the door. “O honey. I am so sorry.” My heart skips. But the tragedy shadows his face. He takes me to the back window. The willow behind our house is split down the middle. A victim of the storm outside. One half sprawls to the heavens, the other lies prostrate upon the mud and muck.

“I loved that tree.” I choke back tears. My heart often skipped at its fullness in the summer, and its delicate hanging lace in the winter. We'd sat beneath the tree one Mother's day. My son upon my knee, and the babe hidden within my womb—still alive and growing. And then our anniversary night, we lay just beyond it's crown and counted stars while our little boy slept. The flimsy fingers of the willow then caressed our backs as we danced to our favorite song. It stood on fertile ground where my heart found fullness from the love of a mother and a wife. It was a strong sprout of love out my window.

Love.

Destroyed.

Split in two. Like my marriage, like my heart. But which was I? The fallen one or the one reaching to the sky? Just this morning I would have known. But now, I am not so sure.

While the storm lulls, I want to run. I never ran away as a child. I don't even remember wanting to because I was too scared of bad people and bad places and bad things. But I want to run. Shed this broken shell and find freedom form the torment of Steve's word-view. The blasphemous perspective of life without faith.

Nature outside refreshes from the torment of hail, but the air is stagnant in here. The refrigerator buzzes and the dog whines. Steve returns to his dark room with the dark show buzzing from the dark corner.

My son finds me, clinging close, begging, “I want you to hold me.”

And I just don't want to. I don't want anymore attachment to anyone. It hurts too bad. Yet, I cannot disappoint my son because who will he run to then? The man who's killed God and won't let me forget it?

I gather him in my arms, kiss his forehead and try to praise God. But my heart is overgrown, and the spidery cracks upon my soul threaten to pull apart and leave me in a heap at the feet of Faith.

“Mama, read me a story.” Jack shoves his favorite book in my lap. The one about Jonah. The one with the stories that Steve regrets teaching my child. My husband slams the door to church, blocking it out as if it were a haunted fabrication of our past.

“It isn't good for our son to learn such things. He'll just be deceived all his life, and then struggle when he finds out its all myth.”

“But it's not myth to me.”

And our own howling tempest would begin, where thunder rages from our tongues, and angry tears flood my skin.

Has my little boy suffered from the fight? We try to keep our words low, behind our bedroom door...but he knows. I am sure of it.

Knowledge is at the eye of this outrage.

The knowing of a dead babe within me destroying Steve's trust in God.

Steve seeking man's knowledge to replace his faith.

And my little son's knowledge of our division filling his heart.

And the threat...

“He's gotta know the truth.” Steve insists on worming his knowledge into the ripening fruit of my four year old's fresh soul.

And at that, I whirl in a chaotic wind, and I am dashed about in horror. “I'll not have it! You're not going to screw him up, too!”

Every night, I embrace Jack as he sleeps, and pray angels upon his heart.

Now, I read the Bible stories, feeling like a deceiver according to Steve.

“You know you belong to God, little Jack?” I whisper as he traces his finger upon the illustration of the whale.

“Yes, Mama. Jesus is in my heart.”

And the canyon between my husband and I grows wide and deep like the cracks in my soul. And we are not united parents any longer.

But my foot stumbles on the canyon's edge, and panic fills my throat with a flood of worry.

Will Steve match my whispers to Jack, with his own destructive ideas?

What lies will he tell my son? When you are told over and over who you are, don't you begin to believe it?

A shard of my soul breaks away from the vessel, and I see now that my hope is fleeting.

I'll not allow my son to fall away from God's hands. His daddy won't have that control any longer.

I ignore the One Who Sees. I close off my ears to His mutter. Flesh consumes my heart and I do what I know is best.

Take away my love for Steve. He doesn't deserve it now. I am no longer bound to him as a Godly wife, for he's not playing by those rules.

And I'll not have him crush my son beneath his disbelief.

No. I'll not have it.

“Come, little Jack. Let's go on an adventure.” And I sweep him up, pack his bags, and strap him into my car.

As I drive, humidity fogs my car windows and I crank up the air. Yet, it's the front within me which blinds my peace and drowns the promises of my Savior.

  The air I breathe does nothing to dissipate the fog within.