Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

Please Be My Strength

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I was driving down a picturesque stretch of scenic road, by myself, listening to music. The sun was shining, vast green pastureland stretched out to either side, and in the distance large mountains looked down upon me. The words from the car radio caught my attention.

“Please be my strength.”

I lifted my right hand into the air; a charismatic Christian, worship regular, signaling my agreement and reaching for my Jesus. Then it struck me. He wasn’t somewhere up above, beyond my extended hand. He was here. In my car. I looked over at the seemingly empty passenger seat, and I imagined my Savior riding shotgun (even though He always has the wheel). I stretched out my hand into the side seat, rather than the air, and I closed my hand around His, our fingers intertwining.

Please be my strength.

I can categorically and emphatically say that the past year of my life, basically 2022 in its entirety, has been the most difficult of my life. Harder than bootcamp, tougher than an unexpected divorce in my late twenties, and even more stressful than being an ICU nurse in the height of a pandemic.

I’ll stop here to warn you. If you don’t know me personally, understand and be aware that I’m going to share very personal things. If you think you will possibly read my outpouring with judgement, perhaps you should just stop right here. This post has been on my mind for a few weeks, but it’s been difficult for me to share my inner turmoil with not only trolls hiding behind anonymous computer screens, but also, and sadly for the most part, because of the people close to me who judge me the harshest. Maybe you should stop reading here.

You can always think you will know how to react to a situation, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I know little to nothing. As a young woman who only dreamed of children, I imagined how I would parent. Then I actually had children, and it all went out the window. Most of it, anyway. I got the epidural instead of a natural childbirth, and I co-slept rather than letting my baby cry it out in their crib. I never had the time for every night bedtime stories, and I’ve yet to start a single college fund. Sigh.

The enormity of what I don’t know about parenting, or life in general for that matter, crashed upon my head shortly after Christmas. My oldest, natural born child, my eleven year old started to change overnight. She gave her fidgets away, and she decided she hated the color pink. She started spending more time in her room, and stopped swimming in our pool, or even going outside to play with the neighborhood children. I had seen her height increase dramatically, her hips begin to take shape, while her waist thinned. Along came the budding breasts and hair in places they shouldn’t be for an eleven year old, in my humble, late-bloomer opinion. So, I blamed it all on hormones.

Sure enough, she started the dreaded red wave of womanhood shortly thereafter, and I thought, “maybe this will be a sweet release to the angst she has been feeling.” But that was only the beginning of the tsunami that was heading our way.

In the middle of pre-teen distress, our family, like most of yours, I’m sure, was experiencing a changing economy. It was getting harder to keep the pantry full for a family of five on a single income. I couldn’t help people like I had gotten used to doing, barely having enough extra to financially float my own family. I had taken a job away from bedside nursing to rest my Nightingale wings, but we decided as a family, I could get more bang for my buck by going back to the trenches. At the time, the best paying job was three hours away. No problem. It would only be for a short, three months, to get us back on our feet.

We all hated it! There is a big difference between coming home from your twelve hour shift to your family, and coming home to an empty, one bedroom tiny house. And while the quiet was blissful the first week, it quickly lost its shimmer. The driving back and forth on my off days was exhausting, and then there was the little issue of life upending hundreds of miles away.

We prayed and sought the Lord over the decision of that job, and despite the difficulty, I do believe it was God’s will for me to be alone in that little cabin. See, He was working on me too. I’m a fixer. That’s what I do. At work, and at home. But what do you do when you can’t fix it? I look back now understanding that the little rental house I stayed in three days a week, it was my green pasture. The place I had to lay in while I gave my lambs to the shepherd. If I would have been there, I know I’d have been trying to yield my rod and staff all over everything, forgetting where my strength came from.

Remember the pre-teen angst? Well, it was more than that. I knew it. There was new anxiety. I’m talking about hyperventilating, arms breaking out in hives, absolute panic in crowds, anxiety. Where did it come from?! Why was my formerly, social butterfly unable to walk in Aldi without having to stop and deep breathe?!

There was depression. Real depression. Sadness so deep that it was like a thick fog, and I could barely see my baby through the darkness of it. I recognized the mood. It was one I knew too well, on a personal level, but also a familial one.

This part of our journey was probably the most frustrating for me. When I reached out to trusted people I loved about my baby, I wasn’t met with the support I expected. I actually felt quite the opposite. It seems my child’s battle with anxiety and depression was simply a spiritual attack that I had the power to stop. All it took was some laying on hands. And don’t forget, the doorway to my daughter for Satan to harm her was my own doing. I was/must be allowing things into our home that opened the spiritual realm for my child to be attacked.

I love Jesus. I believe in forces of darkness and principalities of evil. I believe in prayer, I believe in deliverance, and I believe in healing. Truly. I also believe in science, a God-given knowledge of how our bodies work, sometimes against us, and how God gave mankind the tools both spiritually and physically to combat these issues. I was a suicide attempt survivor. I had a grandfather kill himself, and a mother who tried to end her life many times from my childhood up into my early thirties. That kind of family history will have you well versed on generational curses, but also heredity and chemical imbalances in the brain.

Had I not prayed countless hours every day for my child?! Had my husband and I not laid hands on our child, sought healing, but also wisdom for what (if anything) in our environment and home was causing a problem?! Of course we had. I had not stopped praying and crying daily in the shower for months. I thought of my own battle with anxiety and depression, and how I spent years trying to pray harder, read my Bible more, and call out the forces of darkness bringing me down. It was not until I sat in the bathtub on Christmas Eve, wishing I could go to sleep and never wake up, that I sought the help of a doctor. It shook me that a blessed woman, with an amazing husband and adored children would want to die on the happiest day of the year. It shook me to think that I had waited so long, and I vowed to do everything I could for my baby.

Against the advice of well-meaning guidance, I took my child to a therapist. Every week, out of pocket, since most insurances don’t consider mental health a needed health benefit, but that’s a topic for a whole other blog.

I’ll stop here to apologize, as this is getting longer than I anticipated, but I did tell you I haven’t shared in a while. So, let’s get to the message.

I get a message, at work, just before it was time to give report to the oncoming shift, and it was a message that rocked my world. I have been blessed with a relationship with my child where she tells me everything. So, it was killing her to keep her pain a secret, and that day she told me she had been hurting herself. She sent photos of cuts she had made into her arm. She asked me not to be mad! Mad?! I just wanted to hold her!

I drove 40 minutes to my little house, after my 3rd twelve hour shift, packed a quick bag and drove the three hours home. I cried to my sister on the phone (hands-free), while driving through a tropical storm, and later thanked God I didn’t mess up my car when I hit that median. The downpour had been so torrential, and the night so dark, but I had to get home.

I cried incredulous tears to my sister. Why was this happening to my baby?! Didn’t this sort of thing only happen to foster kids in a bad situation, or abused kids, or kids with bad relationships with their parents?! My child had not experienced any kind of trauma. I knew this to be true. Why was this happening?

As a side-note, I’ll add here, that I have since learned how common self harm is in teens. My child has even shared with me other girls, from good, “Christian,” happy homes, who have admitted to her they cut also. They had not told their mother, so I guess I had that going for me. Hey, you hang on to any little thing you can in these situations.

This wasn’t the end. More conversations revealed more issues. Suicidal ideation. We hid sharp objects, called doctors, had emergency sessions with the therapist. It had been spiraling to this out of control moment, but it wouldn’t stop spinning. It kept going.

There were bright moments. Her neurologist believing her puberty had changed how her seizure medicine affected her, causing the suicidal ideation and self harm. Us getting off the medicine, her brain scan being free of seizure activity (making a new medicine unnecessary), and the emergence out of that darkness that tried to take her. But still, there was more. I could see it.

When you are raised in an Evangelical Christian environment, you’re taught how to handle certain situations. You’re taught about sin, but there is also major focus on particular sins that are especially heinous. The ones that we stand on a firm foundation to fight for. Other sins can be pushed to the side. I mean, they’re still “bad,” but not worth making a social media post about. My husband and I are both divorced previously, but I cannot recall anyone telling me how disappointed God was in my actions not to reconcile with my ex. You think you know how to handle certain situations, that you have it all figured out, but then it gets personal, and that puts a wrench in everything.

One of my daughter’s disappointments in herself was that she didn’t feel like she belonged. She didn’t feel normal. All her friends and cousins spoke about dating and boys, but she wasn’t interested. “This is normal,” we said. “You’re just a kid.”

But to her it was more. It wasn’t just that she wasn’t interested at the present; the thought of ever being a woman romantically or sexually attracted to a man seemed inconceivable to her. It seemed off. It seemed “not her.” We had entered a period of her trying to understand why she felt so different, and honestly, this place of questioning and sharing is what brought my baby out of her dark place. I’d like to think my loving counsel was a help, and I’m sure the therapy and psychiatrist were a benefit, but I believe in my heart that her honest questions and seeking of her true self brought about the emergence.

In Christian circles you are taught how to approach the subject of LGBTQ. You “love the sinner but hate the sin!” But there’s a problem that surfaces when this happens to someone you love more than yourself.

You start to wonder, “how can I love them best? How can I say I love you in one breath, but tell them what they feel in their heart, mind, and soul is wrong, in the next breath? How can I show the love of Jesus best? How can I respond to this situation without crushing the spirit of this child I would literally die for?”

Tough questions. A tough year. In the end, you love the only way you know how. All in. In the middle, you question everything you’ve ever been told. You read scripture, study, pray, have long talks with your spouse, and come to a place of acceptance, of unconditional love for your child, no matter their gender identity or sexual preference.

I remember a conversation with my husband where we agreed we did not have all the answers. We didn’t know what was right or wrong. I’m gonna tell you… you can imagine you know how to handle issues, but after you’ve discovered your child is so confused and hurting that they would rather die, you start to rethink things. Everything turns upside down, inside out, and pouring from the seams. You question what’s of eternal significance. Is it being right about what is a sin and what is not? Or is it leaving some things to God and admitting your own failings instead? Is it focusing on the spirit nature of us all, regardless of slave, free, man, or woman, and understanding we are all one in Him? Yeah, we didn’t want to mess things up, but we knew our Father held it all in His hands. We knew our job was to love our child, to show them the heart of Jesus, and to leave what we didn’t understand to Him. I was back in that green pasture. And I am there still.

He is my strength. He is love. His love strengthens me, and His love pours out of me. That is good enough for me. To see your child on the edge of a cliff, and then watch them emerge bright, confident, and happy being themselves, is priceless. How could I not support that? I am so proud of my baby. Now and forever.

Where I’m At

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I oscillate between sharing my life and withdrawing into an underground storm shelter. Remember that movie with Brendan Fraser, Blast from the Past? Yes, that sounds nice sometimes. To just spirit away with my family and Jesus, playing board games and eating nonperishable goodies. But alas, that’s not what God calls us to. I wish the calling wasn’t always so painful.

I’ve gone back and forth between sharing my life, my insights, or Heaven forbid, my opinion, or simply remaining silent in my own comfortable mind. I have had so many people over the years email, comment on the blog, or message me on social media sharing how much my words have comforted them, helped them feel less alone, or heard the voice of the Holy Spirit speaking to them through my musings. That kind of feedback encourages me to keep going. But then…

Y’all, I have been really hurt. I say I don’t care what people think of me, but let’s be honest, it stings when friends and family judge you. I’m not talking about Facebook acquaintances. I mean friends. I have had women I have known for over twenty years, women in the church who I considered mentors, completely write me off. Women who kept up daily contact and encouragement with me, suddenly ghost me. And when I see those same women encouraging and communing with mutual friends, yeah, it hurts. It hurts to be brushed aside. It hurts that we have become a people, a society, a church, I dare say, that values platforms or something as inconsequential as the opinion on vaccinations over loving relationships. Didn’t vote Republican the last election?! Sorry, your cool kid, insider pass to the Women’s Bible Study clique has been revoked. Why does that still hurt me?

I have had family laugh at me, ignore me, lessen my feelings. I feel the judgment in an almost palatable way. Am I seeing things that are not there, like whispers at the lunch table, assuming the worst is being said behind my back? Perhaps. Perhaps I am, but it doesn’t change the feeling of brokenness inside.

I have spent the last two years discovering a side of humanity I wish I had never seen. On the other side, pre-Covid, pre-Trump, sat a naive woman, who felt certain that people who loved Jesus, loved people. Sure, there were hypocrites, but overall the Christian community was one built on love. I was sure of it. Now, on this side of a pandemic, after the loss of a presidential election on the Right, I see an abrasive, hardened heart of a community I’ve been a part of for over half my life. I cannot comprehend the actions of the majority. I cannot find the connection between the actions of Jesus and the actions I see on social media. The Sermon on the Mount and the rant on Facebook or Instagram are not parallel. The church I have always known and loved has let me down, and I’m still coming to terms with that.

Here’s what I don’t want. I don’t want my picture of my Savior, or my relationship with Jesus to suffer. The loving King who died for me, who died for the immigrant at the border, who died for the atheist at my workplace, who died for the two married men that live next door. This loving Jesus has never left my side. When I’ve felt the hurt and betrayal from friends and family, He has never let me go. So, I think He and I are good. I just keep clinging to His character, so often imagining myself sitting at His feet like Mary, listening to His truth.

The church, however, has fallen from me. I have not returned to corporate worship or any religious gathering in a group. I want to, but I’m afraid. The hurt I have experienced has broke me, and I’m not sure I could take anymore. I want my babies to be around the church. I want to return. I have just been unable to cross that divide. I listen to a church sermon every Sunday, I read the Bible for hours a day, and I spent countless hours in prayer and conversation with my Father, but I’m still licking my wounds. I’m just being honest. You guys know I’m a sensitive soul. My hurt still rears its ugly head almost daily, and I spend just as long laying it back down at the feet of Jesus.

Please pray for me, my friends. Pray that I will find healing, that I will be able to see that Jesus is the balm that covers my hurt. This I do know. I will never be the same. I will never again be the woman I was in 2019. And while that hurts, I am grateful that my eyes were opened to the insincerity of my fellow man.

It’s hard for me to even write this, as I know there are people who will judge me for it, assuming I’m “woke,” progressive, or even worse (LOL), liberal. They’ll pray for me that God open my eyes to the evil of this world, never seeing the evil in their own hearts and actions.

I do find solace (of this world) in the fact that I am not alone in my feelings. There are other Christian, lovers of Jesus, who want to love like Him, not just like the church club says. It helps to hear their hearts that mirror my own. Beth Moore, Skye Jethani, Greg Boyd, Phil Vischer, David French, Russell Moore. Organizations like Women of Welcome, Faith and Prejudice, The Lincoln Project. Personal friends (that I will leave unnamed) who I reach out to with my frustrations and hurt. Thank you. And most importantly, the amazing spouse the Lord has given me. I was raised initially in an atheist household. He was raised quite the opposite, not allowed to watch the (demonic) Smurfs or He-Man growing up. Together we have found this loving Jesus who healed our brokenness, forgave our sinfulness, carried us through addiction, and leads us even now. Because of Him, we are forever changed. Because of Him, we are encouraged to love like He does. Sadly, I’ve discovered that radical love like Jesus doesn’t always sit well with the religious. It didn’t in His day, and it doesn’t in ours either.

I’m not sure what this post is supposed to be about. It seems like I simply vomited my feelings into words, but trust me, you have no idea how much of my gorge I’m holding back and swallowing down. Perhaps for another day. Or, perhaps I will take my baby chicks under my wings and disappear from the grid of public opinion. I suppose only time will tell.

The Offense of Being Offended as a Christian

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Have you ever been forced to be around someone you don’t like? If you’re a responsible adult, in a work setting, then the answer is probably yes. You can break off an abusive, long term relationship, ignore your in-laws, or cut ties with a toxic friend, but leaving a great job because of an annoying coworker isn’t always economically feasible, and I’ve found myself in this situation lately.

Have you ever been so irked by an itchy personality that you imagine yourself throttling that person? I know, not very Christ-like, but let’s be honest; we’ve all been there once or twice. Some people can just be so different from us, and it’s like they know all the wrong buttons to push! This was what happened to me.

This lady was so prideful. I remember Southern ladies describing it as, “she thinks her sh*t don’t stink.” And that seemed like a pretty good description of this situation. The woman I’m referring to thought she was always right, everyone else was always wrong, and her way of doing things was the only way. It doesn’t make for a conducive workspace.

One morning, I had just sat down booting up my computer with another scheduled, early-arriving coworker, when she walked in. She wasn’t supposed to arrive for another hour! I thought I had time to drink my coffee and get my heart and mind in the right place for her abrasive personality, yet there she was.

“What are you doing here so early?” I asked, even as my mind wondered if she was just checking to make sure we came to work on time in an environment without a time clock to keep us honest.

And so it began. She started droning on about the changes she was instituting for the workplace (as the most senior person in our office), and about all the things we were all doing wrong that she could improve upon.

Y’all, it flew all over me. I had spent the past couple of days she’d been off cleaning up her messes and mistakes! My work-plate had been overflowing thanks to her missed steps, and it made my blood want to boil at her audacity to suggest anyone else was the problem!

The thing was, I wasn’t the only one! Everyone in the office felt the same as me. They were fed up with her constant slacking of job duties, but even more so with her attitude that suggested otherwise. Grrr. It made us all crazy. In fact, when she wasn’t around we talked about how insane she made us all feel. We laughed at her expense, and made jokes about her holier-than-though attitude. It somehow made me feel better, you know?

After a full day of hard work, also filled with plenty of gossip about my troublesome coworker, I drove home and started feeling conviction. I knew it wasn’t right. Not any of it. Not my anger, not my judgement. I shouldn’t be making jokes at her expense, ridiculing her behavior with others, or gossiping period. I confessed of my behavior and asked the Lord to change my heart. Man, it is so easy to fall into sin, and fall away from the heart of God! I asked Him to give me His heart towards this problematic coworker, to help me see her with His eyes. That’s a tough sale, guys, cause when you do that, you no longer want to dislike a person for their erroneous behavior; you want to embrace them in their brokenness. Have you ever realized we’re all the same in that we’re not yet whole?

The next time I worked with this person, it was great! I told my husband it had to be the Holy Spirit. I usually grew angry at her pride and easily offended when her comments suggested I was less of a good worker than she. Because really, isn’t that what these situations really come down to most of the time? Personal offense? But on this day, I took no offense, and we got along swimmingly. I left the office lighter, in a better mood, because instead of feeling angry, I felt peace.

Have you ever noticed how off your behavior is when you’re angry? It’s the opposite of the fruits of the spirit. Instead of peace, we feel unease. Instead of joy, we feel rage. Instead of patience, we feel frustration. Instead of kindness, we feel vengeance. And most importantly, instead of love, we feel the opposite! If God is love, what is the opposite of love? Well, I can tell you, it’s not of God.

The thing is, many times when we feel offended, it’s selfishness. Instead of service, like Jesus modeled, we have placed ourselves to be served. By assuming our desires, opinions, or even our life, are more important than a brother/sister, we are elevating ourselves, which never pans out well in the Kingdom of God. In the Kingdom way, we are asked by Jesus to lay down our lives, to take up His cross, and to put on His yoke. Cause, you see, any other yoke is one of slavery. Slavery to anger, pride, selfish action, and again, the opposite of God’s essence, love. It turns out, His yoke, His way, is easy. That’s why after being a slave to offense, we feel terrible, but after being a slave (servant) to love, we feel amazing. I don’t think we always realize why we’re feeling so bad. We think it’s because of other people’s actions, but I would suggest, perhaps it’s our own hearts causing us harm.

When that person passes you in traffic haphazardly or cuts you in line! Arghh!

Remember justice is His. He will lift you up. Ask yourself these heart questions. What makes our time more valuable than that of another? What ranking does this particular offense hold in light of eternity? Does our response negatively affect our heart, and does it display the light of the One we claim to love? Are we reflecting Jesus to a lost and hurting world? This is something I desire more than anything.

When someone disagrees with something that is very important to us, it’s hard. When someone maliciously hurts us, it’s even harder. It’s crazy hard to lay down the desire to be right, the desire to be vindicated, and the desire to be esteemed, but as a Christian, that is what we are called to. We are asked to humble ourselves, to lay down our swords, and to serve in love. I still find myself in this crazy world, getting offended, but I try to not let that offense rule me, define me, or steer my actions. I’ve found that the true offense to being offended isn’t against the one I perceive as the offender, but rather it ends up being an offense to my own heart and the spirit God has given me. And who wants that!

Did You Know This About Your Husband?!

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I was mopping the bedroom floor with our brand new mop. Man, it was so dusty in there! I’ll start by saying, I was the first one to use this mop. I bought it two weeks ago, and when I pulled it out this morning my husband exclaimed with surprise, “I forgot all about you getting that!”

That kinda sets the theme for this story, y’all.

Back to the bedroom, it was so dusty because my husband rarely did the floors in there. Important to mention, at this point, is the fact my husband sweeps the living room and kitchen floors every single day. We have three children under eleven in the home, all day every day. He homeschools them. They eat about a billion meals a day at the bar, dropping a tsunami of enough crumbs to feed the state of Rhode Island. He does plenty of housekeeping. Remembering this as I mopped our dusty bedroom tile helped me mop with a happy pace rather than the rage against the housework moms can get while they pick up after other people. I mean, seriously, no one executed tasks like a woman!

As I went about my mopping my mind zigzagged through an off-day to-do list as it usually does. You know what I’m talking about, ladies. You have this one day, and you have a list of things you want to complete. The only question is, what gets crossed off and what gets moved to the next day.

Toilet paper, my brain shouted, like a dog who sees a squirrel. We needed it. I’d have to go get it. Why hadn’t my husband offered to go get it?! He knew I worked tomorrow. He knew I hated running errands on my last day off!

Like I had shot a mental arrow, he appeared through the doorway. “Babe, stop. You gotta work tomorrow. You need to chill.”

“That reminds me,” I replied, “I was wondering if you could go get some toilet paper from the store for us? I have been to the store the past two days, and my goal is to not leave the house today.”

“You betcha,” he replied happily. “I forgot we needed some.”

As I finished the last section of tile, already looking forward to reading a book in my favorite corner, I laughed to myself about men and women. In case you haven’t figured it out, we are way different. The problem came when we, as women, assume our men should be like us.

I remember it took me some time being married to learn this truth. Men do not think like women. Not at all. I know there are exceptions to all rules, so to speak, but for the most part, women are better at task completion and multitasking. Sorry, fellas, who may have gotten this far, if you’re offended, but this is how we ladies see it. Lol. We remember the things. We lay in bed at night thinking about the things. Meanwhile, hubby is snoring softly. Know what I’m saying? Point is, women remember things like needing toilet paper, sweeping dust bunnies out of the corner, or calling the cable company about last month’s bill.

I’m not sure why our brain, for the most part, works so differently from our male counterparts, but knowing my Heavenly Father like I do, I know it’s with good reason. I think of my tendency to sweat the small stuff, and how my husband’s chill and nonchalant manner, while sometimes exasperating to me, also helps to keep me anchored towards a kingdom mindset. When my anxious thoughts of things of this world want to run rampant, my spouse is the steady buoy of my mental storm. He’s the steady truth to my sometimes cray-cray, so if he forgets to try out the new mop, he’s forgiven.

One key I’ve found to a happy marriage is not expecting my husband to be like me or to be who I think he should be. He is who God made him to be. In times past, when those differences have been bothersome, I either pray to the One who can change a man’s heart better than me, or I have responded to my husband with love, patience, and understanding. In turn, he responds to me in love and service. Plus, I try and remind myself what’s really important in the long term. Is it a healthy relationship with the man I love or a ball of dirty socks in the floor? Is it always being right, or being humble and happy?

Every day in a relationship we are faced with how we will respond to the action (or lack thereof) by our partner. Yes, there are big issues that warrant discussion! But there are hundreds of tiny, insignificant matters that must be recognized as such so they don’t build up and become big issues. Often when faced with a small nuisance, I can combat that by recognizing my own faults and remembering the many, beautiful sacrifices my partner makes in our relationship.

He’s not like me. He doesn’t think like me. But that’s ok. He loves me. He loves me more than I’ve ever been loved. He takes such good care of me! He protects me, and he would lay down his life for me. If I ask, he does it. He waits on me hand and foot. Y’all, I’m blessed with what I consider to be the best husband and father to my children in the world. If I need to remind him we’re out of toilet paper, so be it. Plus, would I really want to be married to the male version of me?!

Have You Accepted It?

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Grace. That’s what we’re going to talk about today. We’ve all heard of it, and if you’re a believer in Jesus, then you have accepted His grace over your life. Or rather, we should.

I wonder sometimes how much we have truly accepted His grace, His forgiveness, that covering that rescues us from death, while simultaneously giving us new life. That’s the kicker, you know. New life! His Kingdom, His will. On earth as it is in Heaven.

As I continue on my journey on earth, drawing closer to Christ, my “work in progress” as I call it, I continue to pick up knowledge and maturity for my walk. I’m discovering how I can live a new life, with a kingdom view, where I try and carry the fruits of His Spirit as I abide in Him.

Wow, that sounds like a lot. So, let’s try and make it simple. Dumb it down, if you will. I’ve always been a fan of the For Dummies books. Maybe we could call this Grace for Dummies, and I mean that in the most loving way possible. I’ll admit I’m the biggest Dummy when it comes to matters of infinite importance, but hopefully by humbling myself to the fact that I don’t know it all, I can grow a bit smarter, if you will, every day.

I started my journey by reading the Bible every day, and in following the teachings of Jesus, and the wisdom of New Testament authors, along with the Holy Spirit’s guidance, I have started to see some things more clearly. Like, grace, for example.

Grace is given freely. It’s a gift to the undeserving (us), and it’s not because of anything we’ve done, so no one can boast about earning it (Ephesians 2: 8-9).

How can you tell you’ve accepted a gift? Like, truly accepted it? I don’t mean like when a coworker gives you something at a work party you’ll never use, but you thank them kindly, and later put it in a box in your closet to forget about. I’m talking about the kind of gift that changes your life.

Y’all, we recently bought large, long shelves for our garage, and they are awesome. They allowed me to organize all the Christmas decor I bought, that I really didn’t need, and I was able to look at my newly neat garage without my left eye twitching. I could easily say those shelves are life-changing. At least in the world of my little garage. So, when I talk about grace, and how it changes you, I’m referring to what the recognition of grace in your life does to transform how you see others.

Accepting the gift of grace should change you.

It changes how you see yourself (hopefully, forgiven and worthy), how you see others (also worthy of the Father’s love), and how you see the world (as a temporal venue, with eternal souls walking around in need).

Think on that for a bit.

When someone hurts you, do you harbor a grudge? Hey, I get it! When someone hurts me or makes me mad, I stew about it for a while. But what I try to do is extend grace. It’s a daily thing, but when I find myself reliving my anger towards someone (and thereby giving it power to negatively affect me), I am quick to remember His great grace. I surrender my anger and offense to Jesus, and I remember the mistakes and sins He has died for on my behalf; then I extend grace.

Freely given. And now may we freely receive.

I look around at the world and the reactions of the humans around me. I wonder, do some react in rage and vitriol because they haven’t truly accepted grace for themselves? You can’t give what you don’t have, right?

How many of us say we believe in forgiveness of our sins, yet on a deeper level see ourselves unworthy of entering His presence with peace and joy? Maybe we think we’re not holy enough, that our prayers can’t go high enough, or we’re withheld the blessing of God because of our actions. In that case, we’re living by the law, and the fact we can never adhere to it fully. We will never achieve that level of righteousness on our own.

Through Jesus, we can, though. We can be perfect because He is perfect. That’s a hard concept to grasp. It’s not that we’re claiming perfection on our own merit, but rather through walking and abiding in His perfect presence and great grace. We become one with Him. Imagine if you held two fingers together and they fused into one piece of flesh. He in us, us in Him, together with the Father in Heaven. Yes, I know, this is cosmic stuff, but it’s also Biblical. Through Him and in Him we have our being, our new life, and the fruits of our life should reflect that.

We forgive because we are forgiven.

We are supposed to be the salt of the earth, but we have lost our saltiness when we give off a sour taste by our actions of anger, malice, and judgement. When we walk in peace, love, gentleness, and meekness, we are exercising grace.

We have one enemy, the evil one, and towards one another (regardless of political leaning, skin color, nationality, or status) we should be walking as one who has accepted grace. We have been freely given His grace, and now we should model that grace to others, thereby showing the light of His love.

So, today’s homework is this. Ask yourself, “am I forgiven?” Believe that you are. Think of the worst thing you’ve ever done. Accept that great grace covers that. Then, approach every person and situation with that in the back of your mind. Humble yourself. Remember that pointing out the shortcomings of someone else doesn’t make your own sin disappear. Only His bloody grace does that. And only His grace can do it for others! But the application of that grace begins with us. We are coworkers with Christ, given authority here on earth to lead the lost to the shepherd. We will never lead them by condemnation, but we will point them to forgiveness by grace through our love. But without it, we are just a clanging symbol.

The Look

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I laid out in my lounger float in the pool today reading a novel, and if what you do on NYE has any indication of what the year ahead holds, I’m good with it. But anyway, at one point I went inside to refill my water. My husband sat at his computer, and I went over to deposit a kiss on his lips. Afterwards, he looked up at me, and y’all. I wish I had photographic evidence of those eyes, but the best I can do is burn the image into my brain. I’m not sure what it is about this man, but his eyes talk. They always have.

His eyes are like a book, or a window into the soul. With a gaze he can proclaim strong words even though they aren’t verbally spoken. I mean, if his eyes were a movie screen, the title that flashed up at that moment would have stated, “I love you.”

See, though, that doesn’t even convey. His eyes said the three, simple words, but they somehow said more. They said it way better than a phrase could utter.

Then he said the words, a confirmation of what his beautiful brown eyes had already proclaimed so loudly. A confirmation I didn’t require, but some good cement anyhow. My heart smiled.

“I love you too,” I said out loud, wondering if my soul-windows carried even half the weight of his own.

I took the vision of “the look” back to my pool lounger (since I couldn’t stand there staring at him googly-eyed all afternoon), and I floated along in my pool of chlorinated water and love-soaked emotion. I might as well have been on a cloud.

I had been reading a novel about a woman unfulfilled. Married to the father of her children, and the daughters now off to college, she felt empty inside. It made me sad that love could fade with time, and even though the book was a work of fiction, I knew plenty of people who could call it their memoir.

As I floated along, book turned over on my bare belly, marking the page to which I’d return, I thought about how easy it could be to neglect the flame. I’d been working a lot more while orienting to a new job. The holidays had rushed by, preceded by the busy work of setting up a new house to call home. I knew it took intention to keep anything going, be it a hobby you enjoyed or a relationship you adored.

This morning I had read a verse in the Bible that said, “for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also (Matthew 6:21).

Jesus was talking about finances, mostly, but I think the wisdom could go for relationships also. Where we devote our time, we see our passions. We invest into what we hold dear, and the things we hold like treasure, are the things we love the most. The verses right after happen to talk about the eyes being the lamp to the body (fitting, I know), and it says if your eyes are generous, then your body is full of light. If not, they are full of darkness. I just knew that when Ben looked at me, he was generous with his love. I could see the light of that love. And I never wanted to not see that!

I prayed, and I also reminded myself to be intentional in my marriage. To continue to store up treasure in my marriage, so that my heart would always follow. To be generous with my love, so much that it shone out the lamp of my body, and my spouse would know what mattered to my heart. I wanted each passing year for my marriage to remain strong, for the fire to keep burning, and for my husband’s eyes to never stop proclaiming loudly the love he felt for me.

Happy New Years, guys!

Don’t Neglect the Little Things

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The other morning I was getting ready to leave for work when an unexpected find put a little pep in my previously, exhausted step. It was my third day at the hospital bedside in a string of 12 hour shifts as a critical care nurse, and you can bet your bottom dollar I was going to need all the caffeine my cup of coffee had to offer. I reached into the refrigerator in that early-morning kinda daze, grabbing for my favorite creamer, even as I knew the bottle was dang-near empty.

The morning before when I had made coffee to go, I really only had enough for that particular cup, but realizing I still had another shift left before I could make a grocery store trip, I tried to conserve a bit back for one more morning cup of joe. At the time I had considered leaving my husband a note, asking him to pick some up for me, but I had decided against it. I knew he would have his hands full with homeschooling three girls, doing laundry, making meals, and all the other tasks he performed at home. It wasn’t a big deal, after all. So, I had saved myself a swallow of French Vanilla for the following day, and it was this prize portion I reached for on the day in question.

I held the empty bottle of creamer in my hand, but before shutting the fridge I glimpsed a brand new bottle that I knew had not been there before. Despite the fact that I had decided against asking my spouse to take time out of his day to buy me creamer the previous morning, he had done it anyway. He had taken the time to notice my brand of creamer was low, even though he used another kind that was totally full, and then he had made the decision to pack up our three, young children and take them to the store for a single item that I enjoyed. I could do without the creamer. I could even use some of his. But he had made a small, insignificant-seeming decision to purchase me my favorite coffee add-in.

So, after I filled my coffee mug with a happy, healthy amount of cream, I did leave my hubby a note. I left a post-it thanking him for the creamer. Because, you see, it wasn’t just the creamer. It was the fact that he thought of me. He did something inconvenient for himself to benefit me in a small way. He took the time to notice my tiny needs, to consider my preferences, and to show his affection for me through that. Was a bottle of creamer the recipe for a happy marriage? Not in itself. But what it signified, now that was worth something.

Marriage can be hard. Heck, life is hard. There will be huge issues you have to work through and big obstacles to overcome, but in the midst of the enormous stuff, don’t neglect the little things. Cause it turns out, often times the little things add up to be big things. Small tokens of selfless affection over time build a large love between two people. Personally, I left for work that morning still sleepy, but somehow energized with the knowledge I’d be coming home to a man who adored me, and who showed his love for me in a million, tiny ways.

I Never Wanted the Pony

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“I bet you can’t dive all the way to the bottom and touch the grate,” he dared me.

I was five years old. A toe-headed, deeply tanned, tiny thing, but boy, could I swim. I wasn’t daunted by the Olympic-sized swimming pool sparkling before me.

“But I got my clothes on,” I answered, waiting to see if he’d take back the challenge.

“If you do it, I’ll buy you a pony,” he replied with a smirk.

And that was all it took. Like a bullet from a gun, I shot quickly into the water, sans swimsuit or not, pointed finger first to touch the drain at the bottom of the pool. Spoiler alert. I reached my goal easily, and broke through the surface of the water, just as quickly, sucking in air hungrily. Almost as hungrily as I ached for his response.

Here’s the thing about five year old me. I really wanted a pony. I asked if I could get one, more than once, not understanding the obstacles that stood in the way of my cowgirl princess dreams, such as living in an apartment, or being dirt poor. I just wanted one, and my father had agreed I could get one. Several times. The poolside promise wasn’t a new thing.

Here’s the next thing. I knew I wasn’t getting a pony. I may had only recently learned to tie my shoelaces, but I understood a thing or two about human behavior. The promise of a pony was like wishing upon a star. It worked in Disney cartoons, but not for little girls who changed schools a billion times a year, chasing dad across the country while he sowed his oats. I didn’t even want the pony. Not at that moment.

I was proud of myself, though. I tried to reel it in, but I couldn’t help it. Sure, touching the bottom of the deep end was nothing new for me, but it was for him. And mom knew I could do it, but he didn’t know. He’d been gone when I learned. Where did he go anyway? With just a backpack and the contents of our bank account, for months at a time?

Yessiree, I was proud. I was cheesing, big time, and I waited for his response with anticipation. Wouldn’t he be so proud?!

All I can remember is the chuckle. A half laugh, half “well, I’ll be damned.” He laughed at the sport of a smiling girl, and then he turned and walked away, probably afraid I’d get his smoldering, filterless Camel wet. I guess I remember something else. I remember my heart breaking. It didn’t ache for a pretty pony to keep in the nonexistent backyard, though. It ached for affection. I wanted him to be proud of me.

I can look back on the muddled years of my past, and I can see that same longing. Love me! See me! Make me feel worthwhile! I floated through friendships, relationships, and most facets of my life like a little girl kicking like crazy to reach the bottom. If I could just touch the grate, he’d be proud. Maybe he’d even stay around for a while. If I could just be skinny enough, pretty enough, smart enough. If I wore the right clothes, the other girls would accept me. If I slept with him on the first date, he’d have to like me. If I agreed to be agreeable, then my husband wouldn’t leave me. So many parts of myself I gave up or gave away, just hoping to finally feel the satisfaction of being worth something to someone. Anything to anybody.

I never got that pony, and I never found what I was looking for in the arms of mankind. Don’t get me wrong; I found love. I currently reside in the most fulfilling and joyous marriage I could fathom, but I had to come to a place in life where I realized my self-worth and personal happiness couldn’t be found in the acceptance, opinion, or affections of this world. As the years went by and I scoured the pages of my Bible, I finally understood my purpose and fullness were found therein. A Savior who called me precious, that was what mattered most. A God who became man, to give His life for me, that was what I had been longing for. An unconditional love that said, ‘you can have all of me, and you don’t have to give me a thing,’ that was what had been missing. I didn’t have to perform, fit into a box, or do anything other than just believe that love was there for me. And when I finally realized His great grace was enough, that His strength was sufficient, and that His love never failed, I stopped kicking. I stopped striving to reach the bottom, to obtain the love of the world, or to fill my cup with empty promises. Because, I never needed the promise of a pony. I only needed perfect love.

I Finally Found Where I Fit In!

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I can recall receiving a specific message tailored just for me from a visiting prophet when I was twenty-one years old. His words were like a soothing balm, the proclamation I had always wanted in life, whether I realized it or not. He didn’t know me personally, yet the accuracy of his comments struck a chord with my misfit heart, and I have remembered them always.

He had spoken, “you feel like an outcast, like you’ve never fit in. But God wants you to know He has a place for you. You’ve always felt like a square peg, and God is saying He has a square hole in mind just for you.”

These encouraging words were just what I needed. I had always felt like an outsider in life. I was the girl in school who tried to hang out at the “cool kids’” lunch table, but had somehow never been able to take a seat there. I didn’t feel welcome.

As a child I was the new kid, from out West, with the weird accent. Totally tubular.

Or I was the sick kid. Epilepsy. Not a well-known condition in small-town U.S.A.

I was the adopted kid, never really fitting in with all the cousins. Treated differently by the grandparents even if they didn’t mean it to be that way.

I was the little girl who was so ordinary that her biological father had left town, never looking back at the daughter he rejected.

I was the quiet girl in school. Pretty, but odd. Puberty didn’t hit until I was seventeen, and I was the last cheerleader who still admitted to playing with Barbies or frogs.

In all the Howard Hughes’ films of the eighties, the outcasts and misfits at least had their own clique. Even The Nerds got their revenge.

But I didn’t fit in anywhere. I couldn’t find my group, and went through most of my young life trying way too hard to find my niche. A loner. Maybe even a loser.

I was born again at the age of 19. I can remember feeling such acceptance into God’s family, but it seemed short-lived. I’ll never say this was anyone’s fault but my own. I know my own perceptions are often to blame. It was probably the devil at work in my feelings, and perhaps in the actions of others as well. Regardless, I never felt like I fit into the Church. Most of my Christian peers had been raised in a deep faith, and I was still learning to read the Bible. I didn’t understand all the rules, of what was good, or what was definitely bad. I was on a learning curve when it came to taboos of the Christian walk, and those who corrected me were not usually gentle. Sadly, I have way too many instances of harsh correction by my “sisters” in faith, and I know I have healing still left from those encounters.

I had a past, but one thing I learned about people was, ones outside the church didn’t care about that stuff. They didn’t give a hoot about what I wore, if I watched an R rated movie, or if I had saved myself for marriage. It was much easier to get along with the people who skipped Sundays all together, and so began a season of being apart from God.

It makes me wonder, is backsliding the result of sinful influence outside the church, or is it perhaps the realization one haves that they’ll never be good enough to have a place at the table of religion?

Oh, but Grace. Great, great grace.

I have finally found my place. I have finally found where I fit. For awhile I thought the place that prophet spoke of over twenty years ago was a certain space. For years I wondered where God would move me, or what group of friends He would put in my path. Still corrupted by the ways of this world, and still scarred by past rejection, I still tried to make myself fit. I attempted to insert myself in this women’s group or that ministry opportunity. I allowed my belief system to be that of the majority to which I wanted to conform, knowing that to sit at the table, there are certain standards you must uphold, and certain opinions you must keep inside. The thing is, no matter how much I tried to mold myself into the Godly women I admired, the more unqualified I felt. I wasn’t the trendy mom, the crafty homeschooler, or the first hand up to volunteer for watching the nursery on Sunday. I didn’t like being busy, spinning plates, or overwhelming my schedule. Then I had this habit of seeing the best in others, trying to walk in the shoes of the “sinners,” and remembering far too easily the past I had previously mentioned. I wanted to give money to a guy on the street without worrying if he was going to spend it wisely! I wanted to believe that each time a drug addict ended up in my hospital bed, that they would stop using, and change their life. When others whispered about a short skirt on Sunday, I remembered a “church lady” making me leave a meeting because my t-shirt said the word “suck” on it.

My weird ideas have often left people confused. My fair treatment of those different than myself has made me unpopular in certain circles. In fact, the last year has found me ousted from the table of many of my Christian friends, simply for speaking topics not allowed for discussion. I guess we could call them “square peg” topics in the circular world of religion.

I felt so hurt. I felt the rejection all over again. Kindness was met with anger, and I trudged away licking my wounds. I guess sometimes you think you’ve found the place where God has you to fit in, only to discover you’ll never fit! We aren’t meant to fit in the pretty, round spaces this world provides. It turns out the edges have hidden rough spots, and you can get a face full of splinters, even as others have planks in their eyes.

When I read the Bible, though, I felt like I fit. When I read, re-read, meditated, and prayed over the words of Jesus, I felt totally at home. In His warm embrace I found my place, and in His love I found me.

I’m not in any way trying to lessen the importance of gathering with fellow believers. I truly belief that finding a church home, surrounded with brothers and sisters in Christ is much needed. Relationships are beneficial! The support, counsel, and correction of other believers is required in this confusing walk of life. So, don’t get me wrong, here. I’m not saying to throw out the baby with the bath water. But I am saying that some dirt and grime can get in the way sometimes.

Some people in this world find their place like the perfect glove. For others, they always feel like an outcast. I think it’s good to understand that if you don’t feel like you fit, you’re in good company. Jesus never fit in with the religious leaders of His day, either. People will misunderstand you, they will hurt you, or they’ll unknowingly (perhaps, knowingly) push you out. But at the table of the Father, there’s always a seat saved for you. Right next to Christ. It’s in His love we find our perfect place. It’s in His love that we finally fit in.

In Love, the Little Things Are Really the Big Things

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I read aloud the back of a hot pink conditioning mask I had just bought. I was impressed with the catchy phrasing and perfectly placed alliteration, considering it was simply haircare. I briefly daydreamed about writing for the back of shampoo bottles as a career, while concluding the back-package blurb with my own signature flair of intonation.

As if he were getting paid, or a hidden camera recorded a conditioner commercial in our bedroom, my husband replied with glee, “wow, that sounds like the way to go, right there.”

I chuckled aloud, “that is why I love you. I know you have zero interest in me going to deep condition my hair, yet you respond like it’s important.”

“Hey,” he replied, “if it’s important to you, it’s important to me!”

Now, it wasn’t that I was under the illusion that he suddenly cared about the girly things that made me smile, but I did understand that this was simply another example of how much he loved me. It was a little thing, but I’ve discovered that in matters of love, the little things are actually the big things.

The little act of listening with interest at the things that interested me. This small token of respect spoke volumes.

The little signs that he cared, like buying my favorite coffee when I was almost out, or filling up my car with gas when I didn’t even ask. He didn’t have to do these small, insignificant things, but the fact that he did was huge. All the tiny, everyday acts added up to a lot. I never doubted his affections.

It’s nice to hear the words “I love you,” and it’s awesome to get flowers or chocolate. But for me, it’s the way he washes the supper dishes before I get a chance to do it, or how he takes my laundry straight out of the dryer, putting it on hangers to alleviate wrinkles.

Some women like diamonds, but do you want to know the best gift I received lately? In fact, it probably rivals most presents I’ve received!

A nap!

At least once a week, my husband will ensure the perfect environment for me to snooze. He’ll pull back the covers, turn on the sound machine, dim the lights, and corral the children while I sleep. They know to leave Momma alone when naptime comes, and he fields all the really “important” requests for juice or finding a particular show on TV.

This small token is a huge deal to a tired momma!

So, whether it’s sweeping the kitchen, or rapt attention over beauty product descriptions, I never doubt this man’s affections. He doesn’t have to stand outside the bedroom window with a boom box or some other grand, Hollywood gesture. In real love, it’s the little things that are really the big things.