Two Years and Something New

I’ve been blogging for two years now, and on the day it all began, I wasn’t capable of imagining the journey that had just begun. I had never read a blog before. I knew basically what a blog is, but I had no inkling of the vast power and size of the sphere I was stepping into.

A friend suggested I consider blogging after she saw a note I posted on Facebook. I didn’t have anything better to do since I had just lost my job, so with the quick excitement and lack of thinking things through that is typical of me when fresh opportunity comes my way, I started—that day. With no knowledge of html codes or websites or the blogging world and with no clue what I would say or how I would say it, I sat down that night and stayed up through the wee hours creating my space.

It was hideous.

I wrote whatever came to mind. I filled the sidebars with every eye-catching widget I could find. It was a busy, sloppy mess. But over time, I began to find my voice, personality. I changed the look of my site, changed my address, and started writing with the goal of giving encouragement to anyone who found herself in my space. I began sharing parts of my story.

Since then, things have really grown—I’ve grown. I published two devotion books and have started writing my third book—{w}hole—which tells the story of my journey through depression and eating disorder. I’ve met a wonderful group of people in this online community. I’ve developed many friendships and received much support and encouragement. I’ve gained a new family.

What I thought I was doing on a whim, God was doing by design.

And as I’m learning and growing and stretching and changing to accommodate the demands of His design, this space is too.

I’m excited to announce that on July 1^st, deidramanning.com will have a new home—one that is more reflective of my purpose and personality, one that is professionally designed.

But…

I’m also scared. Really scared. I’m switching platforms and there are some elements of the site that will not be the same. I’m not really sure that those of you who follow me on blogger will be able to access the blog through there anymore. I will no longer have the comfort or mockery of the widget that shows my number of followers on the sidebar.

But…

Change is good. Change is necessary. And though it is difficult and I don’t have all the kinks worked out just yet, I trust that through my willingness to step out in faith God will handle all the details.

And that’s my encouragement to you today—trust God to work the kinks out.

Life is difficult and scary sometimes, and often, we have to make changes—sometimes big ones— to accommodate His purpose for our lives. At some point, we will all be called upon to make room for our gifts and we will have to make the choice: change and see His plan unfold, or stay comfortable and wonder what could have been. As for me, I’m changing and trusting. I’m working through the hard parts. I can’t quit now; I’ve come too far. Will you trust Him? Step out with me today.

And because it’s so good and it’s right where I’m living, this verse again today:

Trust God from the bottom of your heart; don’t try to figure out everything on your own. Listen for God’s voice in everything you do, everywhere you go; he’s the one who will keep you on track. – Proverbs 3:5-6 (MSG)

On Crushing Candy and Spiritual Sagas

Red and green and purple they fall, stacking high into place. I look for matches, for patterns, for moves to make; I try to align the pieces. And sometimes I get lucky: more pairs than I’d planned find their way together and powerful, striped pieces are formed. And as stripe bumps stripe, obstacles are crushed, dropping me deliciously close to my goal. Then another lucky break—a brown, sprinkled confection is formed. I tap it and smile as it zaps various areas of the board, smashing up even more of the stubborn pieces left in my way. I can almost taste the victory.

Then I see my stats—three moves left, eight jellies left to clear. Reality sets in. The candies I need to crush in order to move on to the next level are at the bottom. The only matches to be made are at the top. I’m not going to make it.

I’ve been at this stage a long time; I know what moves to make. I understand the objective. I realize that in order to make it to the next level all the pieces in this one must align perfectly to crush the gelatinous obstacles that hem me in. With no other choice but to finish the round, I shuffle the sweets. These maneuvers won’t get me to the goal, but I have to finish in spite of sure failure. I have to keep moving if I want the chance to try again.   

Striped blue and white and happy with exclamation, the banner pops up: “Level failed! You did not reach the goal!” And even though it’s just a dumb game, I get aggravated with myself. What is your problem? Why can’t you get past this?

My spiritual life is a Candy Crush Saga of sorts. I look for patterns and moves to make; I align matching pieces. And sometimes things are easy. At times, God bumps obstacles together, crushing them at my feet. I step right over them, hastening toward the goal. Other times things fall perfectly into place and God zaps the troubled areas I’ve been praying about, wiping them clean off the board. I can almost taste the victory.

But inevitably it happens—I see my stats. I focus on the areas left to work on rather than the progress already made. I realize I’ve only got a few moves but a whole lot of area to clear. I take God out of the equation because I can’t see a place He could possibly come in. And I give up, resigning myself to failure. I put on the “Level failed! You did not reach the goal!” banner and wear it like a costume—like it’s my new identity. I let it cover up who I really am, who I want to be.

I don’t realize the new stripes I don are prison clothes.

Somehow I don’t get that by internalizing and personalizing and wearing the failure I’m actually sabotaging my ability to reach the goal.

I’m too devastated by my lack of resourcefulness, by my incapacity to make the right moves that I’ve forgotten all about my chance to start again, my choice to keep moving. And Satan likes that, because he knows that it is when I keep moving, even toward failure, the way for opportunity is opened.

Movement is the key to reaching the next level—tenacity and resolve and persistence and insistence. My capacity to attain the goal doesn’t lie in my knowledge of the moves but in my willingness to move. I’ve got to put  my trust in the God who made the board, understanding that He can take my steps—even the ones leading to certain failure—and order them, causing them to produce good.

Have you failed lately? Be encouraged today. One or two or five-hundred failures don’t define you. It’s what you choose to do after them that determine your character. Move. Refuse to wear the prison stripes of “You didn’t reach the goal.”

Remember, it is when you move that He can work. God can’t meet you where you haven’t arrived. Don’t sit down and give up. For it is in our movement, in our willingness to meet Him that God can take the road, even the one leading to failure, and order it, creating opportunity where there once was none.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him and he will make your paths straight. – Proverbs 3:5-6 (NIV)

Trust God from the bottom of your heart; don’t try to figure out everything on your own. Listen for God’s voice in everything you do, everywhere you go; he’s the one who will keep you on track. Don’t assume that you know it all. Run to God! – Proverbs 3:5-6 (NIV)

New or Know {And an Announcement}

I’ve been quiet lately. I don’t have much to say. I fumble for words and grapple for ideas and hunt for notes and search through quotes and pray for guidance, but nothing comes. It’s nothing new and will eventually pass, but it always makes me feel a bit sad and a little angry. I want to be able to do the thing I’ve been called to, but it’s hard when it feels stagnant and dry. I stay in my corner praying the words will come back; I sit and stare at the screen hoping my fingers will somehow start hovering over the right keys and begin pecking out truth subconsciously.  But obviously that hasn’t happened.  And I know everyone says to push through it—that if you’re a real writer you’ll keep going anyway—but I’m tapped out and I’d rather say nothing than something stupid or uninspired.

And I think it’s okay to be out of words, to be quiet, to have nothing new. Because it is in these times I realize I don’t always need the new I think I do, I just need what I know: in spite of my lack—even when I don’t see Him, even when I can’t hear Him or feel Him—He is still there. He doesn’t move. He is constant and unchanging. My location and situation may have changed, but His has not. God knows, He sees, He cares. He is not limited by my feelings or struggles; He is not confined to the box I sometimes put Him in. He has not forgotten me—He knows right where I am.

I don’t need something new—I just need to remember what I already know. He is good. He is faithful. He works for my good in spite of all these things—in spite of me.

So, I’m going to take a break for a while. I’m going to concentrate less on finding something new and just settle in with what I know already.

Are you seeking fresh and new but just can’t seem to find it? Be encouraged today. Sometimes we don’t need new. Sometimes we need to focus less on finding new revelation and concentrate on putting into practice the knowledge we already have. Sometimes we just need to remember.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. – Hebrews 13:8 (NIV)

Next week I will be out of town in a secluded area that has little (if any) access to technology. I’m hoping that it will help recharge my writing batteries and allow me to regain a sense of purpose. I hope to come back fresh and full of words. Also, I’m still working on the new site. The process has been much lengthier than I had anticipated, but it will be worth it in the end. It is my goal to have everything ready by the end of June, so be on the lookout for announcements.

What I've Learned from the Storms

When I first moved to Oklahoma from Georgia a little over eight years ago, I didn’t really know what I was getting into. “OOOOOOOOOOklahoma where the wind comes sweeping down the plain, and the waving wheat can hmm, hmm, hmm…Oklahoma, OK!” was about the extent of my knowledge. I didn’t know the weather could go from zero to crazy in a millisecond; I didn’t realize how wild the wind can be without giant pines and looming live oaks to slow it down; I didn’t know chunks of ice falling from the sky is a fairly common occurrence. So, when I experienced my first Oklahoma thunderstorm—just an average, ordinary one, mind you—I freaked out. I heard the wind howl, saw the walls shake, listened as pea-sized hail tapped the windows and went into panic mode. I grabbed my three children and crammed them into the world’s tiniest shower stall, shielding them with my body. I thought we were riding out the big one, until I called my husband. Needless to say, I will never live that one down.

Since that time, I’ve learned the difference between a bad storm and an average one. I’ve become desensitized to the howling and blowing and flashing and roaring and pelting. I’ve grown accustomed to typical spring weather. But recently, that’s changed. Several large tornadoes have ripped through nearby areas leaving a vast trail of devastation and heartbreak. And it’s made me more alert. Just this morning we had a string of thunderstorms roll through and I’ve found myself watching the radar a bit more closely. I’ve been more alert than I would ordinarily be under these circumstances. Destruction close to home has gotten my attention and given me a new awareness of just how quickly things can change.

Isn’t it like this in our spiritual lives too? At first we’re in tune to everything that’s going on around us. We are sensitive to the slightest changes in the atmosphere. We listen to reports and heed warnings. We take precautions and have things in place just in case. But over time, we grow accustomed to the air around us. We get comfortable. We get complacent. Our discernment wanes. We begin to pay less attention to what’s happening in the environment.

And while we are off guard, while we are too busy with life to look up at the skies and see the signs, while we are running from here to there and everywhere doing what we do, pressure has been building, volatile air masses have begun swirling, a vortex has formed. And we get caught off guard. There’s no time to pack a bag. There’s no time to run and hide. There’s no time to gather all we want to keep safe. It’s too late. And then we cry out to God asking why. We wonder and wander and blame and accuse because we missed the signs.

We can become so desensitized that nothing short of destruction gets our attention. We are left with broken pieces and shattered dreams, the life sucked right out of us because we weren’t prepared. And when we’re digging out of the rubble, we realize it’s not what we have that is important. We only care that life is accounted for—that we come out with whomever we went in with. Who—instead of what—takes precedence once again.

Be encouraged today. Don’t be caught off guard by the storms of life. Be prepared. Make time to read and study and pray. In the end, that’s all we really have to stand on. Our relationship with Christ is the only cornerstone on which to rebuild. If we don’t have that, we don’t have anything. Refocus on what truly matters, regain your sensitivity, listen to reports, heed the warnings, slow down, pay attention to those around you. God wants to use you as a shelter for those who are hurting, as a place of refuge in time of trouble, but He can’t if you’re not alert and ready.

“These words I speak to you are not incidental additions to your life, homeowner improvements to your standard of living. They are foundational words, words to build a life on. If you work these words into your life, you are like a smart carpenter who built his house on solid rock. Rain poured down, the river flooded, a tornado hit—but nothing moved that house. It was fixed to the rock. But if you just use my words in Bible studies and don’t work them into your life, you are like a stupid carpenter who built his house on the sandy beach. When a storm rolled in and the waves came up, it collapsed like a house of cards. – Matthew 7:24-27 (MSG)

Who in Spite of Why

Shelter bags ready, weather reports playing in the background, she raises her voice to ask the question. I knew these days would come eventually. I had hoped to be prepared, to know what to say, to be sure of my answers. But the difficulty of their inquiries has increased proportionately with their ages; gone are the days of easy answers and simple, ambiguous responses to pacify until later when they can really understand. Now is later. They do understand.

“Why does God keep letting these bad things happen to people, Mama?”

I can see it in her eyes—the doubt, the concern, the sense she can’t make of tragedy, loss—and I know she’s trying to make everything she’s ever learned about God mesh with this reality. God is big. God is good. God has a plan. God looks out for us. God wants to save us and help us. God is always with us. God loves us. But this same God watches and sits idly by while multiple tornadoes ravage towns demolished just two weeks ago by another tornado. This same God sits still on His throne while people’s houses are blown to bits and children are drowned and cars and businesses and lives are sucked up into oblivion and thrown hard to the ground in shattered pieces miles away. 

A Sunday school answer won’t work this time.

I breathe out a sigh, pull her in close, and look her straight in the eye. “I don’t know, Baby. I don’t know.” “Well, is it because they’re bad?” “No, Honey, it’s not because they’re bad. It’s just life; it’s the world we live in. Bad things happen, and sometimes for no reason, sometimes to good people, sometimes more than once. And I don’t know why. I know God doesn’t make it happen, but I don’t know why He doesn’t stop it. There are just some things we will never understand. Some questions don’t have answers.”

I wish I could give her more. I wish I could tell her there’s a reason for everything. I wish I could tell her there will be an answer to every question she ever has. I wish I could make it make sense. I wish I had an answer. But I don’t.

I feel foolish and unsure.

I feel her questions, too.

I want to ask God why.

But I know I won’t get an answer; I realize that even if there was one I wouldn’t understand it; I recognize that why is often a tool of the enemy to make us doubt, to make us angry, to make us resentful toward God.

I don’t want to do my daughter the injustice of making her think there are always answers, explanations. Sometimes there aren’t any. The reality is that life is filled with unknowns, unanswered and unanswerable questions. Not everything can be explained. Not every event has a purpose we can see or understand. But God’s sovereignty and goodness are not up for debate.

It’s okay to not know.

It’s okay to not understand.

It’s okay to ask why.

But we don’t have to be controlled by the uncontrollable, inexplicable. We don’t have to let the blame cast by why keep us from trusting in Who. We can choose to trust God rather than focus on the events we are quick to judge Him for. We should run to Who instead of why, because in the end why will never matter, but Who always will.

How do I know? I lost a child to miscarriage. I lost a home in bankruptcy. I lost years of my life to mental illness. I don’t know why God allowed these things, but I do know He was with me every step of the way. I know He is good and faithful. I know He has never left me.

Who helps us rebuild in spite of why.

Who loves us through why.

Be encouraged today. Go to Who instead of why. We will never know or understand the answers to many of life’s questions, but we can choose to believe in spite of our doubts and fears. We can choose not to engage in the blame of why but trust in Who—He Who is faithful, He Who is just, He Who is good and holy.

If we are faithless, he remains faithful, for he cannot disown himself. – 2 Timothy 2:13 (NIV)

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” – Isaiah 55:8-9 (NIV)

Accept the Help

It seems I’ve run out of words this week, so today I simply offer His.

They’re far better than anything I could ever come up with anyway.

Hebrews 4:15

For we do not have a High Priest Who is unable to understand and sympathize and have a shared feeling with our weaknesses and infirmities and liability to the assaults of temptation, but One Who has been tempted in every respect as we are, yet without sinning. - (AMP)

We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help. - (MSG)

Be encouraged today. Jesus really does understand—take comfort in that truth. Take His mercy; accept His help.

Stalled {Again}: A Refresher

“We might even shave a little off our time,” he says as yellow lines stretch into blur beneath us. Straight road, clear vision, low winds, and sparse traffic built confidence—the highway was ours. Cruise control set, leaning back in the seat, we settle in. “And I was worried,” I chuckle to myself, “This hasn’t been bad at all.” But I didn’t know what was up ahead.

Bumper-to-bumper traffic, screeching brakes, exhaust-filled air. Complete stand still. A single orange sign stands in the distance, too far away for me to make out its instruction. Zero visibility, engine over-heating, tempers rising—the dream has ended. What was easy, unobstructed, uninhibited is now blocked by forces we can’t see. And that’s the worst part—the not knowing.

The stagnant air of the unknown fills our lungs. We breathe in speculation, breathe out defeat. On great waves of heat doubt rolls in, “Great, we’ll never make it now.” Assurance becomes question, progression becomes stationary.

It’s like this is in our spiritual lives, too. Rolling along, minding our own business, cruise control set, we lean back in the seat. With the confidence of wind at our backs, straight road, clear vision, and little traffic we start rolling on auto pilot, stop paying attention. And then it happens—the unforeseeable. Caught off guard we slam on brakes, breathe in speculation, breathe out defeat. Filled with doubt, we resign ourselves to defeat, all assurance becoming question, all progress becoming inert.

Because our vision is limited, because we’re too far out to read the signs, because we overheat and let tempers rise, we think the dream has ended. We allow one stretch of immobility to steal the advancement we’ve made; we believe the lie that because we’re not moving He’s not working.

Construction—a damaged roadway being repaired—that’s what was out of view, that’s what was keeping us at a standstill. We couldn’t see beyond the other cars to know it was for our safety and future smooth travels that we were being detained. We didn’t realize that stopping on this stretch would allow for improvements on the next one. And so we got worked up, agitated, antsy over something good. Because we couldn’t see it, read the signs, we assumed it was a setback when it was actually a set up.

Be encouraged today. That thing that’s become stale, that place with no forward movement, that dream you’ve let die because it didn’t look like anything was happening—those are the places He’s working on. He’s stopped traffic now to create safer, easier, better travel later. Don’t get all worked up and overheated. Don’t assume that because you’re still now you won’t be moving later. He is always working on our behalf—in ways we can’t see, in places we don’t understand. He hasn’t forgotten you; He knows right where you are. He has gone before you to prepare the way.

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. – Isaiah 43:19 (NIV)

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. – Proverbs 3:5-6 (NIV)

Distorted Vision

In the New Testament, we are encouraged to walk by faith and not by sight. I’ve always thought of this strictly in terms of my ability to see. I must live according to my faith in Christ because on my own, I am simply unable to ascertain all that is around me; I can’t see everything; I am limited. But the truth is our eyes are pretty powerful. They constantly send information to our brains about the world around us. Most of what we do and how we do it is based on the visual cues our brains receive from our eyes.

And although we must have our eyes to see what is around us, they themselves are not what give us vision and perception. Our eyes are receptors, collectors; our brains are processors, directors. Our eyes provide raw data, but our brains assimilate the information.

Our brains piece together information received through the eyes and make assumptions based on that data. They automatically put things into perspective based on context (other items around us), and use past experience to process current information. To our brains, perspective is reality.

But perception is often wrong. Our brains interpret data based on what has happened to us in the past, and on other items in our field of vision. Depending on where you are standing and what point of information you are focused on, your brain can make incorrect assumptions regarding the facts it sees. For instance, if you are standing far enough away and looking from the right vantage point, pieces of an item can appear to make a whole, abstract lines can form a complete image, and things can appear smaller or larger than they actually are.

When I think of it this way, I can more clearly understand what it means to live by faith and not by sight, and I realize it has more to do with my brain than my eyes. It has to do with past experience and current context. What my brain tells me I see may not actually be there in the way I have perceived it; what appears to be a whole issue may only be parts; what looks like an outcome may simply be abstract lines; what looks big may actually be small. It all depends on my vantage point.

Where I stand determines how accurately I see and perceive the information around me. If I am standing in Christ, I will be able to visualize my surroundings accurately; I will be able to put things into proper perspective; I will not make invalid assumptions based on what’s happened to me in the past or on the context of other things around me. From a vantage point of faith in Christ, I can understand that things aren’t always what they seem—that even though my vision is good my brain may misinterpret the stimulus.

And that’s why it’s a faith walk—not because I can’t see clearly, but because my brain, my heart, my carnal nature takes what I do see and distorts it into something that may not actually be there. I have to trust not in spite of what I see, but in spite of what my history, my hurt, my habits, my helplessness, my hang-ups, and my handicaps tell me I see. Those take the information and distort it, automatically making assumptions that through the power of Christ are not so.

Faith is not the opposite of sight; it’s the opposite of feeling; it’s the opposite of hallucination—things we make up, believe and perceive when we look at things from the wrong vantage point—any place apart from Christ.

Be encouraged today. Things aren’t always easy. Life ain’t always grand. But, when we view life from the proper perspective, we will see God’s hand overshadowing, holding, guiding, and protecting; we can appreciate the truth—that no matter what happens, God is with us. We are held, we are His, and He will never let us go.

For we walk by faith [we regulate our lives and conduct ourselves by our conviction or belief respecting man’s relationship to God and divine things, with trust and holy fervor; thus we walk] not by sight or appearance. – 2 Corinthians 5:7 (AMP)

Maybe

Maybe has been a big part of my vocabulary lately.

I say it with regard to situations overshadowed by question marks hoping it will somehow bring positive to what is otherwise negative. I say it with the brightness of hope, but I feel it with the depth of fear. I say it because I’m a pessimist pretending to be an optimist—because maybe is the most expectant word I can conjure with my cynical heart.

I know that sounds really bad, but that’s just where I am.

I’m stuck somewhere in between yes and no, grasping at maybe with sweaty palms.

And I’m finding that maybe isn’t worth the effort.

Maybe doesn’t answer my questions; maybe doesn’t change anything.

I’ve prayed every prayer I know how to pray. I’ve hoped against despair and believed against doubt. But here I am, dangling on a maybe. And the truth is, maybe could lead to yes or maybe could lead to no.  I have to decide what I’m going to do with that—this maybe is all I’ve got.

I only have two choices: keep holding on or let go.

One is hard, the other easy.

One will eventually bring an answer, the other won’t. And even if it isn’t the answer I want, at least I won’t wonder any more, but if I let go, I’ll never know either way. And I hate not knowing.

So today, I’m clinging to maybe, trusting that whichever way this maybe leads—whether to yes or whether to no—God will help me deal with the outcome.

Holding on is the only way to the answer; holding on materializes maybe.

Holding on is hard.

Holding on is work.

Holding on is faith.

But holding on is worth it.

Be encouraged today. Keep holding on. Don’t be discouraged by maybe, but realize that it is what you do with your maybe that determines the outcome. Rely on God’s strength. He will help you when you call on Him.

Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. – Isaiah 40: 28-29 (NIV)  

When There Are No Words

I rarely weigh-in on current events or tragic happenings or political discussions. Quite frankly, I don’t think people really care what I have to say, and besides, rants about any given subject are a dime a dozen these days.

But today I do want to speak, because this one hits close to home. Literally. I live about an hour from where the tornadoes of Sunday (Shawnee, OK) and Monday (Moore, OK) touched down. My heart is broken for the people of my state. And as I continue on with my normal, as I look at the pictures and hear the reports and try to wrap my brain around the thought of such devastation and destruction, all I can do is cry, pray. In spite of my desire to articulate my emotion and empathy and sadness, I have no words.

And I think that’s okay.

I mean really, what’s there to say?

What do you say to the parents digging through the rubble that was once a school as they look for the baby they dropped off that morning thinking it was going to be a normal day?

What do you say to emergency personnel who have worked tirelessly to find life in the crumpled piles, having not even seen their own families?

What do you say to the people who lost 30 years of work in a matter of seconds?

What do you say to those who are still searching, not knowing where their unaccounted-for loved ones are?

What do you say to the mom who grabbed her daughter’s hair to keep her from being sucked up?

What do you say to the countless good citizens who dropped everything and ran to help?

What do you say to the injured in hospitals, impaled and bruised and lacerated?

What do you say to the doctors and nurses and counselors and social workers who have come to their end trying to help someone realize they can begin again?

The same old stuff we always say—

That God has a plan?

That the Lord doesn’t give us more than we can handle?

That everything happens for a reason?

That something good will come from this?

That we’ll be praying for you?

I don’t think those are words I would want to hear if my house just blew away or my child just died or I was left with nothing but the muddy clothes on my back.

I don’t think I’d want to listen.

I think I’d want to be held.

I think I’d want to cry.

I think I’d want to pound my fists.

I think I’d want to scream.

Sometimes silence is better.

Sometimes open arms and tender hands and broken hearts and crying eyes and listening ears say more than any words ever could.

Sometimes we need to hurt with our neighbors as if the pain was our own.

Sometimes we should not say the things we always say just because we don’t know what else to say.

Sometimes we shouldn’t say.

Sometimes we should just do.

Because sometimes there are no words.









Pouring my heart out and linking here: http://thingsicantsay.com/

The Perfect Storm {A Sneak Peek}

Sharing some of what I’ve been working on today.  I hope to have my memoir, {w}hole, completed by summer’s end.                                                           

{1990}  Bright-flowered, big-haired, I pose in front of azaleas. Forced onto the front row, I hear them chatting. Cameras in hand, they snap pictures and at each other, “Her dress is a size 6.” “Well hers is a size 4.”  I wonder why it matters.

                                                                       

{1994}  Snatching my keys, I steal one last peek and breathe a sigh of relief. Flat. I have a date after class. I haven’t eaten all day so my belly won’t pooch.

                                                                      

{1997}  Trembling, I put the knick-knacks back in place. I giggle with them to calm my nerves. I pretend I’m not agitated; it was just a joke. We turn out the lights and settle in, each blanket straight, even. Husband kicks and pulls and laughs. I furiously repair; I can’t sleep if it isn’t fixed.

Wearing the ugliest dress I own, I choke back tears through “It is Well with My Soul.” There are 172 specks on the tile beneath my right foot. It isn’t well. My father is dead.

                                                                  

{2000}  I watch him bob up and down with the sway of the pony. He’s one today. Sweat-formed ringlets bounce and my eyes swell. I’m not ready for this. Pregnant again already—he won’t even be two when it’s born.

I woke up today, belly protruding, more tired than when I laid down. I’m ten weeks. I’ve scheduled an early sonogram; I just don’t feel right. Twins.

 

{2001}  March. After thirty-four weeks, two days, and a life-time of worry, they’re here. I’m hemorrhaging in more ways than one. Three days later I come home alone. Guilt is my new best friend. Everyone says I should be thankful for the rest and extra time to prepare. Everyone says it will make things easier when they get home. Everyone says I should enjoy this time off. Everyone says a lot of things. Everyone’s full of crap. Eleven days I cry. Eleven days I don’t sleep. Eleven days feel like eleven years.

Each of these moments contributed, but I won’t know until it’s over, until years of my life have been eaten, until I’ve been a slave for so long that I’m more afraid of freedom than of the chains that keep me bound. I don’t know my personality is the breeding ground for dysfunction; I don’t realize my brain’s been subconsciously keeping track.

I’m a Type-A perfectionist, an all-or-nothing overachiever, a competitive rule keeper, an OCD ritual follower, a fanatical schedule monitor, a black or white categorizer, a score taker, a never-good-enough control seeker. And I don’t understand that this is the barn where the chains are kept, where the shackles are fitted, where the torture starts. All I’ve ever known of grace is that I must earn it; nothing is free.

I’m a perfect storm brewing just off the horizon. I don’t have a clue. All I know is that every failure I’ve ever had is sitting on my chest right now, trunk swinging, tusks jabbing. I can’t bear the weight of it all.

The Miracle of the Middle {And Some Big Changes}

It’s in the working through of it all, in the sameness and ordinary of every day, in the in-between, in the middle of the not-where-I-was and the not-where-I’m-going-to-be that I have found the greatest miracles. Not the big, flashy, instantaneous ones we all pray for at times, but the small, wrestling, limping ones no one acknowledges for what they are.

I read an article today about a girl who has suffered a long physical illness and has slowly become incapacitated. And God hasn’t healed her. So she suffers every day and deals with the pain of the illness, the loss of mobility, and the ache of her unanswered prayer. And although I don’t have a physical ailment myself and cannot fully appreciate the severity of her condition, I can relate to her story. Because I do know what it’s like to pray and pray and pray for an answer and never see it manifest in the way I ask; I understand what it is to be in pain and be kept from life.

Since the moment I sensed something was wrong I asked God to take it from me—over 12 years ago—but He hasn’t done it. I have banged my fists and asked why and screamed and cried and begged.  No answer. And it’s difficult sometimes. Because I don’t have a reason to feel the way I do.

Mine is a disease of the mind, something that cannot be seen by others, something that is often misunderstood. It’s invisible. But it is powerful. And just like any other illness, it seeks to debilitate, destroy. My first experience with it was a profound, post-partum episode that led to a mental breakdown. I have struggled with it since. Over the years its intensity has lessened and my episodes have spread further apart; I have been on and off medication; I have seen therapists and psychiatrists and counselors. I have learned to cope and manage and live in spite of its presence. I now embrace it as a part of me. It’s just who I am. And when the waves come I ride them out; I don’t choke and flail like I used to.

And I think that is my miracle.

Even though I should drown, I don’t. He keeps me; He helps me; He teaches me. I have a deep knowledge of God’s preserving power. I am a testament to His presence even in the darkest of places.

I don’t know why God heals some but not others. I don’t understand why some are called to endure when others are welcomed home.

Maybe endurance is the miracle. Maybe resolve and dependence and resignation to His sovereignty are the most phenomenal acts worked in us. Because it is through those we have a testimony; it is in those scars that our stories—His story—is told.

Be encouraged today. God is with you. Maybe you’re struggling, praying, begging. Maybe you’ll get your answer, maybe you won’t. But recognize the miracles of the middle—His protection and strength and grace—for it is by those wonders we remain; it is because of those wonders we continue on.

They triumphed over him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony. – Revelation 12:11 (NIV)

And now for some news:

I am in the midst of creating a new space for this blog. Work is in progress, and the results will be amazing. I’m truly looking forward to having a site that reflects more accurately my personality and purpose. BUT, this is also a bit scary. There is the possibility that some of you may get lost in the transfer to the new platform. I don’t want to this to happen, so please be watching for updates here, as well as on social media (Facebook, Twitter, Google+, Pinterest) or via email so that this transition will go as smoothly as possible.

Thank you all so much for your support!

On Little Birdies and Being Me

I was scrolling down my Twitter feed minding my own business when I saw it. The generalized statement grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go. I got so choked up over it I began having a mini panic attack. “Great, I’m doing it wrong. She’s a prominent blogger. She knows what she’s talking about. I should change my site. What other mistakes am I making that I don’t even realize? I’m a loser. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this—there are tons of great writers out there. I’ll never be able to compete.” In mere seconds, the little birdie fluttered in bringing accusation, doubt.  

Then, in the middle of my anxiety-fueled, neurotic tirade, I felt His presence, His peace. That’s her opinion not the standard, and even if it was, does it really matter? Don’t compare yourself to others. You have your own unique voice, your own style. I need you to be who you are. I need you as much as I need her, just in a different way—for a different purpose.

And He’s right. So what that I don’t do things the same way everyone else does? Why am I worried about fitting into a mold that wasn’t made for me? My specific calling hinges on the fact that I am me. If I try to be someone else my purpose is compromised.

Be encouraged today. No one else has your irreplaceable voice or distinctive story. No one else can do exactly what you can the way you can. No one else is specifically designed to reach the people He has prepared for you. He made YOU with others in mind, so be who you are—that’s who He needs you to be.

We have different gifts, according to the grace given each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy do it cheerfully. -  Romans 12:6-89 (NIV)

Let’s just go ahead and be what we were made to be, without enviously or pridefully comparing ourselves with each other, or trying to be something we aren’t. – Romans 12:6 (MSG)

Opposites Attract

I’m fighting some very strong feelings these days—worry and exhaustion and sadness and anger and anxiousness. My brain is being compressed by thoughts and feelings that seem out of control. A friend’s young daughter died unexpectedly. Another friend’s baby is in critical condition. Appliances are breaking. Our family is experiencing stress due to situations beyond our control. And I can’t handle it all.

I just want to stay in bed.

I want to be in the dark.

I want to be alone.

I want to shut down.

And as I was talking to Jesus about it this morning, I heard Him whisper:

Do the opposite of what you feel.

The opposite of darkness is light.

I am the light.

I am the opposite.

Come to Me.

Operate in My opposite and it will attract the healing you need.

And isn’t that true? What Jesus tells us in His word is often the exact opposite of how we feel. It is in direct opposition to our carnal nature. It is the complete antithesis of our human inclinations. But the opposite is the Way. Operating is Jesus’ system of opposites attracts His healing and forgiveness and peace and favor.

What are His opposites?

Forgiving when we want to blame.

Blessing when others curse.

Trusting when we don’t understand.

Following when we don’t see the way.

Dying to ourselves to have life in Him.

Giving what we have to get what we need.

Continuing to do good when we feel like giving up.

Letting His light shine into every area of life when it’s easier and more comfortable to hide in darkness.

Praying when we don’t know what to say.

Helping others when we need help ourselves.

Pressing on in spite of our fear.

Be encouraged today. Join me in living in the opposite today. Don’t live by your feelings; live in God’s facts. He knows, He sees, and He cares. He is with us. He will help us. He will make a way.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. – Proverbs 3:5-6

Balancing Act

It’s that time of year again—time for graduations and awards and making plans and finishing strong—and I hate it. Everyone is wound tight with purpose, hope, future, and I’m coming apart at the seams. For the life of me I can’t seem to keep things together. Perched high on a thin line stretched taut between routine, familiar and unscheduled, unknown, I carefully place one foot in front of the other. I try not to look down. I can’t look back. I don’t want to face what I’m heading into.

The stress sits in knots on my shoulders; the weight of potential rests elephant-gray on my chest. Anxiety flutters on wings dark, heavy; sad is a tear duct away. And I find myself not wanting to move. Right here, this moment I’m balanced, but with the next step I may fall. It’s hard to keep going under pressure like that. It’s difficult to focus, to balance, to breathe.

It’s no one’s fault, no circumstance’s doing—it’s all me. It’s how I’m wired. I wish I wasn’t, but I am. And since wishing doesn’t change reality, I have to deal with it. I have to trudge forward, move with the changes of time, practice steadiness, bend with the sway of the line. I must exercise balance, because if I don’t—if I go too far in one direction or the other, if I lose my footing because I failed to move with the shift of the line—I will fall. And then I won’t get up.

This balancing act has been a part of my life for the last thirteen years; I know what to do. I just have to decide to do it. I have to purpose to move forward in spite of the change and unknown and lack of firm; I must resolve to rest within the new rhythm and sway. And that doesn’t come easy for me; I don’t do freedom well. I need rigid and structured and mapped-out and fixed; I like knowing and seeing and boundaries and agendas. But that’s not life.

I read somewhere that rest is a form of trust. Isn’t it true? When I am not in my own bed or not at my house I don’t sleep well; when my husband isn’t home I don’t get good rest. I feel out of place and uneasy; I don’t feel protected. But when I am in my familiar, when I feel safe and secure, I sleep like a baby. There is comfort in the fact that I am in my proper place. There is complete relaxation where I feel safe, secure.

And I realize that’s how I can find rest even in the midst of emotional instability and strong feelings of anxiety. That’s how I can feel secure even when I’m balancing on life’s tightrope. I can trust in Jesus—the One who hides me under His feathers, the One who never lets me go, the One who never leaves me or forsakes me, the One who holds me in the palm of His hand. There’s nowhere I can go that He isn’t. There’s no place—physically, emotionally, spiritually—He is not. He is the shelter. He is the net. And if I fall, if I take a wrong step, if I don’t have the strength to keep going, if I’m too afraid to move, He is there. If I am with Him I am in my proper place; I can completely relax knowing I’m safe, secure.

So how do I exercise balance? How do I practice steadiness? How do I learn to bend with the sway of the line? I trust. I keep myself tethered to Jesus. I go to Him first. I acknowledge Him in every place. I talk to Him. I ask Him for help. I hide in Him. I rest beneath the shadow of His wings, knowing that He sees me, realizing that He holds me, understanding that He keeps me.

Do you feel like you’re unraveling today? Maybe you don’t battle anxiety and depression like I do. Maybe you have health issues. Maybe you have financial worries. Maybe you just feel insecure or unloved or not sure what to do. Be encouraged today. God knows, He sees, and He cares. Acknowledge His presence in your life. Ask Him for help. Take refuge in Him. Those who seek Him find Him. And those who trust Him find rest.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” – Matthew 11:28-30 (MSG)

Life in Dead Places

I do it all the time—look for life in dead places. I go back constantly, searching the tombs seeking help, hope. Somehow it must be there in the old ways, mazes of mist-shrouded graves. They mark the spots where life once was, these sepulchers, but nothing is left but memory, regret.

How can life be here—in places He is not? There is no life apart from Him. And I hear the angel asking, Why, Deidra, why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here.

I already know that, yet I go back, search anyway. Why? There is comfort in memory. There is relief in my ritual—a way to bring order to things I do not understand, over which I have no power. My going back is an attempt to find peace.

But when I go back, I forget about Him. He got up from the grave, the tombs I go back to, the places I search. He is not there—in the guilt, sadness, past mistakes, habits, covered dead places. He has risen, and in His ascension carried away those things I return to look for.

I will never find His new life in dead places. I can never attain peace or joy from visiting holes that hide the past.

Anything I engage in apart from Him will only bring death, whether it is a relationship, habit, or lifestyle. I need His resurrection power in every area of my life. I cannot keep returning to places He is not and expect to find Him.

What about you? Are you tempted to go back to old habits or behaviors or thinking patterns or routines or relationships or addictions when things get hard? Do you attempt to find peace in ways you used to when things don’t go how you planned?

Be encouraged today. Look for Him here, now. He is with you. He desires to help you. Don’t go looking for Him in places you know He is not, in places you know will only take you further away from Him. Sometimes life is hard and things don’t go our way. But He promised to be with us  always.

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!” – Luke 24:5b, 6a

Just a Mom {For When You Feel Unimportant}

I talked about my husband earlier this week—about how hard he works, about how he is always behind the scenes, about how his work makes it possible for others to do their work. He’s responsible for some computer servers, and by some, I don’t mean a few. I mean like 2,300. He’s a pretty busy guy.

And sometimes I feel the weight of it all. Not because of him—he never says anything—but because of me. Because when I sit back and think of the importance of what he does, I feel less important.

Because I don’t have a job.

Because I don’t feel productive.

Because sometimes it feels like what I do doesn’t matter.

Because people don’t depend on me.

I’m just a mom.

I pray about that a lot—my just a mom-ness—and I want to know why I get my identity so wrapped up in labels, in titles, in job descriptions. Not the ones I have, but the ones I don’t.

I guess it’s because I’m always looking, but can’t find me. I’m lost in routine, in the mundane, in the dirty socks, in the folding undies, in the emptying dishwashers, in the mowing grass, in the carpooling. Those things just don’t seem as important as 2,300 servers.

But then I read these:

I remember my mother's prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life. - Abraham Lincoln

My mother was the making of me. She was so true, so sure of me; and I felt I had something to live for, someone I must not disappoint. – Thomas Alva Edison

My doctors told me I would never walk again. My mother told me I would. I believed my mother. – Wilma Rudolph, wearer of leg braces, winner of three Olympic gold medals in 1960, named fastest woman in the world (at the time).

My mother said to me, ‘If you become a soldier you'll be a general; if you become a monk you'll end up as the pope.’ Instead, I became a painter and wound up as Picasso. - Pablo Picasso

Just a mom is no small thing.

Just a mom is huge.

Just a mom can change the world.

Be encouraged today. What you do matters. You are important. You are shaping the future. You are molding the artists and inventors and leaders and musicians and philosophers of tomorrow. What you do now—your influence, your prayers, your wisdom, your guidance—will impact the lives of not just your children, but of everyone they ever come in contact with for the rest of their lives. You are a world-changer. You’re just a mom.

Her children rise up and call her blessed (happy, fortunate, to be envied); and her husband boasts of and praises her. – Proverbs 31:28 (AMP)