Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

3 Steps to Experience the Miracles of Jesus in Your Life

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Don’t you love how you can read something in the Bible many different times, but it can suddenly speak something different to your heart than it ever has before? I used to think maybe I hadn’t paid as much attention to detail the first few times, but then I realized it was actually the Holy Spirit. You see, the Bible is a living word and Jesus speaks to us through it as he wills. I know this, but I still felt that feeling of awe when reading a familiar account recently. The feeding of the 5,000 in Luke is a Bible story taught to little children, but I felt like a youth when I read it yesterday. It spoke anew to me of the responsibility his disciples held in assisting Jesus to carry out the miracle. They had responsibilities, and it turns out, so do we.

If you aren’t interested in seeing Jesus work miracles in and through your life then stop reading now. Close out this link and continue on in your place of comfort, but if you’re eager for even just some crumbs from the Master’s table, then let’s break it down together.

1. Let go of your plan. You’ll notice that right away when the disciples saw a problem they started coming up with solutions. Practical solutions. Hey, I’ve discovered that miracles don’t typically appear practical, and it didn’t readily enter the minds of the disciples to ask for one. I’m sure we can relate.

Hungry crowd. Check. Can someone call Pizza Hut and see if they deliver out this far? But seriously, it says the twelve saw the crowd, went to Jesus and said, “hey, you probably better tell this mob to cut out and grab some grub” (ok, I’m paraphrasing, but you get me).

They saw the issue. Hungry crowd. They went for an obvious solution, albeit not the best. Sure, it may have been the easiest, but the crowd would miss the blessing if they left early to go find food. Turns out, the twelve would have missed their blessing as well.

See, for Jesus to do what he can do, we have to let go of our way. We have to forfeit our plans much of the time. We can’t go into prayer and say, “Jesus, I need you to do ______.” Instead we need to ask, “Lord, how should we solve this? What can you do in this hopeless, difficult situation? I know you have a plan.”

2. Obey. Ok, so when the disciples went to Jesus with the problem and solution (in their minds), he was quick to say, “you give them something to eat.”

You.

How many times has Jesus said “you” to one of us and we’ve answered back, “oh, not me, Lord. Someone else is far more qualified I’m sure.”

Do you remember the rich ruler who asked what he needed to do to follow Jesus? Christ gave him the answer, but it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He walked off disappointed, and Jesus wasn’t able to show him the miracles he could have worked in and through that rich man. He couldn’t obey. Jesus was asking too much.

If you’re wanting to see the Lord work in your life then you’re going to have to obey. Obedience isn’t a bad thing. It’s not God’s heavy-handed way of beating us down. It’s actually a practice in love. When my husband tells our daughters to stop when they’re about to run into a parking lot, he instructs them in love. He wants to keep them safe, he wants to bless them, and he wants them to live to see all the wonderful things this life has to offer. When he instructs, they obey. Their obedience to him is a service in love. They obey out of respect, but also because they know Dad has their best interests at heart. Much the same, if we’re wanting the best life has to offer, and especially if we want to see the Lord work mightily in our lives, we must learn to obey.

3. Step out.

Okay, I love this part of the story. Jesus says, “have them sit down in groups of about fifty each.”

Alright, so first off Jesus tells them this right after they had relayed they only had five loaves of bread and two fish. For five thousand men! And that’s just the men they were counting. What about the women and children?! I know my nine year old daughter could eat the two fish and at least a loaf and a half herself. Regardless of the huge number, Jesus pulls out of left field this rather odd picnic idea, with limited resources, and do you know what his gang of twelve do?

Now, they knew. Don’t forget, they knew he could do some stuff. They knew he worked miracles. The thing is, we as a church know Jesus can work miracles too, but somewhere between shouting hallelujah and stepping out personally we get cold feet. We say, “yeah, I believe Jesus still performs miracles,” yet we don’t believe he can work them through us. We assume he saves the miracle business for the truly pious, the preacher, maybe the neighbor who remembers to read their Bible every single day. But not us.

So, we miss the miracle. Maybe we’re afraid we’ll step out and it won’t work. It doesn’t say it in scripture, but I imagine one of those twelve, as they sheepishly instructed hungry, tired folks to sit in groups of fifty, like a kindergarten story time, I imagine one of them must have felt silly. Surely one of them wondered how their teacher was going to pull this one off. I’m sure there was some doubt, yet still they obeyed. Luke goes on to say they did it. They did as Jesus said. They sat everyone down. In groups of fifty at that. And do you know what happened?!

Everyone was fed. And they were satisfied.

So, I guess the question is, are you hungry? Are you craving to be filled with the healing, joy, fullness, and divine knowledge of Christ? If you are thinking “yes” then maybe it’s time to pop a squat and anticipate your share as Jesus breaks the bread of miraculous power in his hands, blesses it, and then passes it on to you. He’s got enough to go around. He just requires more people who will let go of their specific lunch plans, have a seat, and partake in the miracle provision he provides.

I Don’t Identify as a Woman

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I’ve heard this in the media a lot lately, and last night as I sat slightly uncomfortable in a huge gathering of women, I felt it.

I don’t identify as a woman.

As hard as I have tried over the years, especially in high school, and as much as I may want it to be different, I just don’t feel it. I don’t. I don’t guess I’ve ever identified as a woman.

A couple of weeks ago I sat in church and they announced an upcoming Women’s Conference. The video made it look very appealing, but there was that large part of me that was like, “nah. I’m good.”

See, I’m not really a joiner, especially where women are concerned. I don’t fit in, I never have, and many years ago I stopped trying. I just wasn’t like them. I couldn’t get into the whole “girls’ night out,” and I didn’t trust ladies any further than I could throw them. Which isn’t far. Because even if they’re little, I’m really weak. But I digress. The point is, well, I’m going to be very honest here. I don’t like females.

Ok, I love being a woman. I love having daughters. But somewhere between being the new kid in third grade and being the butt of a bully’s angst in high school, I decided I could take it or leave it where female friendships were concerned. Actually, leave it. Definitely leave it.

The thing is, God has really been dealing with me. He’s been teaching me new things over the past couple of years, stretching me, and taking me to new levels of trust with Him. Selling all my possessions and moving my family of five 800 miles away from all our extended family and friends? No problem. Taking on a job with zero insurance or paid time off? Easy peasy. That same travel position having no security of employment and income or knowledge of where the next job would come from? Bring it on! But stepping out of my turtle shell of introversion? I’m sure that wasn’t the voice of God.

So when I heard about the Women’s Conference I was of two minds. One said, go, but the other said hide.

“Oh, man. I work a shift at the hospital that day. Too bad,” I thought, with little upset.

But dang it. Still that feeling nagged me to go.

“Okay, God,” I prayed. “I’ll try and see if I can get off work. If you really want me to go, make it work.”

I challenged Him, and of course, He challenged me right back. I got the day off easily, no matter how much I told my boss, “I know this is last minute, so it’s ok if you can’t…”

Despite my dislike of most women, because let’s be honest, we’ve all lived through our own version of the Mean Girls movie, I do have a handful of trusted women in my life. It just so happened that most of them were my immediate family, and the rest were a thousand miles away. Undeterred, I went ahead to the conference alone, the Holy Spirit my plus one, and I asked God to use it for my growth.

Immediately upon arriving I realized there were women everywhere. I didn’t know any of them and I really didn’t like crowds, but I checked in with a smile and went to find a seat. I found a back row with a few open spots, settled into one, then was kindly asked to move over so a group of friends could sit next to their friends. I moved into the one empty seat, directly behind a large column blocking my view of the stage. I got up quickly and repeated this same sidestep seat swap another time before finally finding a vacant spot where a group of women were kind enough to let me linger.

At that moment I felt so alone in that big crowd. I watched women laughing and socializing with one another. I smiled brightly, watching, waiting, hoping for someone I could try and engage, but still I felt like an outsider. I had always felt that way. I had never fit in. I had always been the weirdo, the one other women talked about when I walked away. It had taken me years, decades even, to stop trying to fit in. I had finally, at forty, come to a place in my life where I was happy with how God made me, I wasn’t going to try and change for anyone, and I didn’t care what anyone thought! Ha. I felt peace with me. So why was God upsetting the balance?! Why push me to (I shudder) hang out with others.

The preacher was no better! He had said something six months or so ago that started this thorn in my side. It’s like he had been staring straight at me when he said God wanted us loving others, building relationships, and stepping out of our comfort zone. He deflated my balloon of intimate introversion, going so far as to say it wasn’t of God. Well, crap.

Next thing I knew God kept building on that, putting desires in me to join Outreach teams and small groups. All things that were outside of my wheelhouse. My safety net, my equally shy and shut-in spouse, he was no help. In an out of character for him fashion, he readily agreed to my suggestions of “getting involved.”

As I sat in that church last night, my wounded flesh wanted to scream, “I don’t belong here!” That bullied, flat-chested, anorexic teenager in me wanted to dwell on having no one to sit by or being ignored and pushed aside.

Instead I spoke in a whisper, “not today, satan.”

Y’all, I’ve never identified as a woman in that, I’m not like most. I have been hurt, and I’ve been pushed into my warm cocoon. I’ve made my circle so small that it no longer has room for God to work in my life the things He needs to work. So, He’s been calling me out of my circle of safety. He’s been calling me to step out and (gulp) make friends. Female ones! I’ve never identified as a woman in that I haven’t been able to enjoy or relate to the value of female friendships that other women seem to revel in. I feel God calling me to different ministries, but it seems you have to actually be around other people for that to work. Sigh.

It’s comical sometimes the things God can do to bring you where He wants you to be. Especially when you ask Him for it. He can make a borderline hoarder (I’m talking about myself, by the way) sell all their stuff, and take a scared girl (in a forty-two year old body) out of her shell. So, I’m open to that.

I haven’t ever been able to identify as a woman (not like other women, anyway), and even now it’s hard for me. But I see God moving. I see Him changing my heart. I see Him chiseling away the walls I’ve built. So last night I may have sat on the sidewalk alone, eating my nachos, praying someone would come talk to me, but I also made my way over to a group of ladies I knew, carrying a dessert, and starting a conversation like a bonafide normal person. I even hugged a few women and signed up for a ladies group.

I haven’t always been able to identify as a woman, but I do know that I’m God’s girl. And I’m starting to see all the sisters before me that He’s placing in my path.

What God Would Say to the Woman Who’s Not Enough

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Most of us women, at one time or another, feel as if we’re not enough, like we’re lacking some fundamental trait that will magically transform us into the women we wish to be. Not a patient enough mother, or perhaps you’re a wife who suffers to serve. We desire to be that mighty woman of God, to get it right at least every now and again. A fight with our spouse, or a harsh, thoughtless word screamed in frustration at our children prove to us where we have fallen short once again. If only we could be the kind of friend our girlfriends need, or have the time and energy to volunteer at church. If only we could keep the kitchen clean, laundry basket empty, or keep up with our graying roots like other moms seem to do.

We see our Facebook friends dressing trendy, our Instagram idols redecorating their homes. The lady next door doesn’t have trash falling out of the backseat of her minivan, and the mom of four at church, her kids are always so well behaved! A condescending look at the grocery store, the well-intentioned yet hurtful advice from an older woman at church, and the thoughtless comment from your husband all cement the idea that you need to step it up. You need to change, improve, work on you!

Wash your face, wipe your eyes, and work on you! Make time for yourself, yet cherish time with your children, time that is fleeting, and that you’re constantly reminded passes too quickly. How does that work?!

You’ll miss this, they say, all while taking afternoon naps themselves that you can’t personally enjoy.

So you strive to do better. You endeavor to be a Proverbs 31 woman, even though you feel like a Prozac 24/7 kinda gal. If you feel depressed you must not be godly enough, so back to the drawing board for you. Watch your weight, exercise, pray, repeat. Count backwards from ten, take your vitamins, and drink more water. Go out with your girlfriends, read a book, take time for yourself. Stay attractive for your spouse, serve him in love, and give him the affection you yourself feel like you’re lacking. Be in the mood, even if you’re not. Meal prep, crockpot, freezer meals. Keto, Paleo, Weight Watchers, Hello Fresh. So much advice, yet so little time. I don’t know about you, but I just want to not be tired anymore, and to wake up without a sore neck and back. Also, why am I anxious about nothing at all?!

Being a woman is hard, but working to be the woman you think you should be is even harder. It’s not easy being everything for everyone, yet still feeling like you’re not enough. Not good enough, pretty enough, young enough, thin enough, strong enough, happy enough. You’re not everyone’s cup of tea, sure, but maybe you just want to be the cup you yourself could enjoy. You want to be the mother your children deserve, the wife your husband desires, and the woman God needs you to be. Why is it so hard?!

Well, take a breath and listen. This is what God would say to you today.

Stop! Don’t work on you. Work on knowing me better. Stop striving to be the “mighty woman of God” you think you should be, and instead simply rest in who I have created you to be.

I don’t want you to be like her. I created you to be you. The things you see as flaws, I put those there. I thoughtfully formed your crooked nose and short legs. And even the flaws that the world has harshly placed upon you, I can work with those too. Don’t doubt what I can do.

The world will say you are not enough. Even my other children will tell you that is so. Satan will whisper lies so stealthy you will think they are truth, but I promise you this. You can only find my truth in my Word. If it’s not in the Bible, then it’s not for you to believe.

Stop seeking self-improvement, and instead seek my face. Spend time with me. Pour over my truths in scripture, and let that truth flood your soul. Allow it to take over your thoughts so that when lies from the enemy come, because they will, you can overpower them with who I say you are.

Stop working on being better, and start being better in me. Remember that my strength is in your weakness, that you have been made perfect in me, that I am in you, and you are in me. Together, there is no lack. There is always enough.

You are what I say you are, and you are enough. You can rest in my perfect peace, knowing the plans I have for you, plans for a wonderful future.

Stop fighting battles I have already won. Stop waging war on yourself. I take it personally. I created the stars in the sky, ones you cannot even see, ones that shine so fiercely they are blinding up close, but you are still my most precious creation. Just as you are. Stop trying to alter my design.

Stop planning to do better, and simply follow my path I have laid out for you. You cannot see it for your own anxieties of becoming lost. When you feel lost, go back to my map. Read the words there in red. They tell you the way.

Stop working on being a better you, and focus on residing in me. I am your safe place. I can block out the whispers that say you’re not enough. There’s nothing wrong with desiring to be a better you, except when you begin to think you alone hold the key to change. Only I can change hearts, and only in me will you find the completeness you desire. Stop trying to be everything, and rest in the fact that I already am. In me you have fullness of life. In me, you are already enough.

Why Do Bad Things Happen to Good People?

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I suppose we have all wondered at one time or another. When a child dies in a freak accident, we question life. When a new mom passes away in childbirth, we throw up our hands, demanding answers, letting them fall back down limply in grief. When a family slips away from this earth as they sleep, a shocked community, and even the world wonder why them. We all want to know why only the good die young, or why in the world wonderful, kind people find themselves in tragedy, while the rotten, selfish folks continue on their merry way, skipping and whistling through their seemingly perfect life. I mean, seriously, why do bad things happen to good people?!

This is especially a difficult question for believers, and by that I mean people like myself, Christians, followers of Christ. We believe in a sovereign God who holds the world in the palm of His hand. We believe He controls our lives, controls the very ocean waves and violently strong wind when it blows. Why do people who love the Lord have their house burn down, lose a child, have to say goodbye to their marriage, suffer through sickness, or get laid off from work?

Why do bad things happen to good people?!

I think the first thing we have to do in these questioning moments is remember that questions are good. They’re not bad in themselves. I think God, especially as a Father, understands children who desire answers. So we shouldn’t feel guilt for angry, sorrowful questions thrown emotionally into the air, but we should also be open to the answers that will come. The thing about answers is they don’t always come until much later. So, we have to hold on to what we know.

I believe the first thing to keep in mind when bad things happen is God’s character. He is good. And since He’s good, bad doesn’t flow from Him. God doesn’t make bad things happen to us. He’s not mad at us. He doesn’t want to teach us a lesson like a stern school master, or purposefully injure us like a cruel kid pulling the wings off a fly. God is good. God is Love. Therefore, He wants love and good for His children.

His Word states He works all things for the good of those who love Him. That means that even the bad can be worked for our good.

We do live in a sin-filled world, a world ruled by sin, a world where sin creates bad things. God doesn’t create the bad, but He does work the bad for our eventual good. It’s hard to see that good in the thick of the bad, but as Christians who know God’s character, we can hold fast to that truth.

I can remember years ago, when my daughters were babies, continuously praying for their health. Sick babies are so scary. If you’ve ever held a tiny infant’s chest in your hand and felt their tiny ribcage rattle with the rough movement of mucous, you know what I mean. I can recall during one prayerful morning the Lord speaking something to me about their health. I had been praying for zero sickness. Perfect health, if you will. And the Lord reminded me of reality. They had to get sick!

As a nurse I knew the importance of them getting those little viruses. They needed to build their weak, immature immune systems. If they didn’t get a little sick with some common sniffles every once and a while then they wouldn’t be able to handle a bigger virus if it ever came. Sometimes you needed a little sickness to make you stronger.

I know you’ve heard people say jokingly, “let them play in the dirt. It builds their immunity.”

Well, sometimes life gets dirty to build us stronger.

Even as my children are young now, when they fall I know it’s for a reason. They’d never learn to be careful if they didn’t trip and fall first. They’d never understand accidents hurt if they never felt pain.

It’s the pain that matures us.

It’s the sickness that builds us.

It’s the fire that refines us.

It’s the hurt that teaches us.

It’s the tests that create our testimony.

I don’t always know why bad things happen to good people! But I do know this. I know God works the bad for our good.

I know that through the struggle we grow closer to Him.

I know that in transversing through pain we become stronger.

I realize that in the bad we become better.

I get that in the fire I don’t walk alone.

He is with me.

I can see that even in the bad, He is good, and His purposes always prevail.

But sometimes you can’t see. You can’t see Him. You can’t see how all the bad can ever be good! You can’t see the purpose in the pain! You can’t see why bad things happen to good people. You can’t see.

You can’t see the steps that lie ahead for you. You’re too afraid to walk further. You can’t even see behind you, to remind you of His past provision. But do you know what?

He sees.

He sees you.

He knows your pain. And He knows the way past it. He knows the steps you take, and He knows how to lead you to higher ground. He sees. Even when we are blinded by the bad, He sees good.

I don’t always understand why bad things happen to good people, but I do understand this. I understand that nothing we have been through or are going through now, in fact, no trial we face in this world can compare to the glory that awaits us. We face a tough world in the current, but the current problems of this world are like a passing mist compared to an eternity with Jesus. If we can only put on Kingdom Eyes we can see! We can see that the bad we face here is nothing. Our victory is in Christ. Our victory brings only good things ahead.

So, come on, sickness, debt, disaster, and such. We can count it all as joy for it is building us stronger, wiser, more mature, and closer to Him.

Why do bad things happen to good people? So we can become good like Him, better than we are. So He can show His love and power to us by lifting us higher. So He can take us beyond the passing bad to a constant good. A forever good. That is a future I can handle.

Harmed by a Strawberry Seed, Saved by a Mustard One

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“Bailey is throwing up. She looks awful.”

I looked down at the text my husband had sent and my heart sank. My poor baby. My middle child was my special girl. She was sensitive like me, but also petite like me. She had always been tiny. I still remember as a baby her pediatrician requiring her to come in more routinely for weigh-ins because I breastfed and she was on the lower end of the growth curve. She drank my milk plentifully, every two hours, and was the brightest, happiest, most alert baby. I never worried she wasn’t getting enough. She was just small like me. After a few months the doctor realized that as well, and five years later never mentioned her weight at well visits. But being my tiny star, I knew she of all my children couldn’t stand to lose a pound.

“What about the other girls?” I questioned.

My husband quickly replied, “they’re fine.”

I already felt confident it wasn’t a virus. With my children being homeschooled and not in daycare, they escaped the typical bugs that ran through those areas. I had worked the previous Sunday, so I knew they hadn’t picked up something from children at church. In fact, the past few days had been very cold so they hadn’t left the house. So it had to be something they had eaten. But if the others were fine then it was something just my middle child had eaten.

“Some of these don’t taste right.”

My mind rewound to the night before, and that’s what my five year old had said. She held a container of strawberries in her lap, one I had just picked up that night after leaving work, one I had not even had time to wash before she scooped it up to taste it’s bounty.

“Like they’re too ripe?” I had asked the night before.

She had simply shrugged her shoulders, closed the lid, and taken the strawberries back into the kitchen.

It had to be the strawberries, I reasoned, and I texted my husband back as much. I shared with him that they were the only food that she alone had eaten, and to not let anyone else have any. Then began my mind a-reeling.

Strawberries could be the cause of some serious foodborne illnesses. E. coli, Salmonella, Hepatitis A! Sometimes being a nurse really was a bother. There was such a thing as knowing too much, but I also was grateful for the knowledge so that I could appropriately treat my child as needed.

As I considered the high likelihood that my daughter had acquired a terrible illness from the unsanitary fruit, I realized how bad it could be. I was at work, I had the only vehicle we possessed, we had zero family or friends in the area, and the insurance the girls were currently on would only cover in our home state, certainly not where we were currently located.

I considered how badly this could go. Dehydration. An ER visit. Antibiotics. IV fluids. Possible hospitalization.

“She just threw up again, and now she’s dry-heaving,” my husband’s text relayed.

I stood in the supply room at work, worried for my baby, but also worried for how we would deal with the repercussions of this illness. I knew I needed to consult the only physician who could help me in my particular circumstances.

“God, we really need you in this. We’re not in a place where the field of Medicine is what we need to heal her. We need you to heal her instead,” I prayed in earnest.

And I felt in my heart that He heard me. I felt that He was faithful to answer. I felt peace settle upon me.

I went about my work day, helping to heal others, but even as I went about my tasks my mind was on my child. I just kept thinking about how serious this could be. I thought about the reality of what I was facing. I felt extremely certain we were facing a serious foodborne illness, and the reality of what that could mean for my tiny, fragile girl weighed heavy on my mind.

I remember when she was around two years old she developed a stomach virus. Just before she had started vomiting she had toddled over to me and taken me aback. Her skin had become as white as snow, but her lips had turned a purplish, blue, like she was cyanotic. She had dark circles under her eyes, so hollow that she reminded me of a chronically ill child. What had happened to my baby?!

After she had vomited several times that day, a few years ago, I had taken her to an urgent care clinic since she was unable to keep anything down, especially the antiemetic medicine I had given. I’ll never forget the look on the face of the Nurse Practitioner when she entered the room. On the table sat my small baby, pale, blue lips, using accessory muscles to breathe. I could see her concern as she listened to her lungs and attached a monitor to check her oxygen levels. They had been fine, and I explained the vomiting. They administered a gel on her wrists, and thirty minutes later the limp baby who had entered had ran out of the office with a smile and happy laughter.

Illness hit her hard, and I imagined she looked the same right this minute. Worry and anxiety filled me, but suddenly I was struck with the conviction that I should not be feeling this way. I had prayed for God’s intervention, and now my job was to believe He would hear my answer. Then I thought of the verse in the Bible about the mustard seed.

Matthew 17:20

And He said to them, “Because of the littleness of your faith; for truly I say to you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible to you.

I cried out to the Lord, “I’m sorry, God. It’s hard for me not to worry about her, but your word says if we have even faith the size of a mustard seed that you’ll move mountains on our behalf. So, God, I’m asking that you’ll take my mustard seed of belief and move this mountain of sickness from my baby. I believe you will!”

And then I let it go. I released it to Him. I reached out to faithful women from my church, and I asked them to join me in prayer. I held onto my mustard seed, and I pushed away the things my mind knew. My mind knew of the serious illnesses she could get from strawberries. It knew the various complications that could occur with my small, fragile girl, and it knew the particular circumstances we were under were not ideal for such an illness. Yet my Spirit knew God was bigger than any of those things we currently faced.

My daughter ended up not throwing up again. Her dry heaves ceased. My husband later recalled that it was like a flip switched. At one point she was pale, lethargic, and violently ill. But then suddenly she was not. Suddenly she began talking so animatedly that she resembled someone on drugs. Ha. His words, not mine.

I think back on this now, with my giggling, petite, precious girl beside me, and I have no doubt in my mind, heart, or spirit that God was faithful to us and healed her. A strawberry seed tried to harm her, but a mustard one saved her. Funny how the small things can impact you in such big ways. Mountains can move from here to there, and God can use a small child who is sick no more to remind you how wonderful He is.

My Story of Epilepsy and Healing

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“Momma, Momma,” my eight year old self screamed, “Help!”

My mother rushed down the hall and into my room, asking me what was the matter. She took my cries seriously because I wasn’t an easily frightened child. I grew up watching horror movies with her, so I wasn’t one to spook easily, or to fear the boogie man. As she sat on the edge of my bed I pointed to my E.T. nightlight.

“It moved,” I explained.

The whole ceramic statue hadn’t moved, but rather the light from his fingertips. As I had laid in bed falling asleep, staring at the red light on his pointed, alien digit, the shining beam of color had started to move around in a weird way. Whether it was my eyes playing tricks on me, or what we would later describe as my brain playing tricks on me, my mom had known it wasn’t my usual behavior. She had taken me to bed with her.

That night as she lay in bed reading a book, I had experienced a grand mal seizure at her side. I would wake up in the hospital and have no memory of the ordeal. My last memory would be of a brown, fictional nightlight on my dresser, and a momma holding me tight to ease my fear. But the look on my mom’s face when I woke would let me know it was serious. She made a tight smile that reduced her lips to tiny lines when she was worried about something.

It was right before the holidays, my first seizure, and I’d spend this particular Christmas in a hospital bed. It wasn’t that bad, as I recall. Volunteers brought around festive coloring pages and candy canes. Plus my mom was there, and of course, the man she had recently married. I liked him a lot. He was good to me, honest, and more importantly, present. He made my mom smile. That Christmas we all spent in my hospital room trying to become accustomed to my new diagnosis.

Epilepsy.

They explained it to me that the electrical activity of my brain wasn’t right. They showed me squiggly lines on paper that represented my little brain’s activity, and they circled the places where it wasn’t quite right. They gave me brochures with cartoon depictions explaining how this made me different, but not less. Wish I had always felt that way. Wish it would have remained as easy as those pamphlets made it feel.

I would spend the next year going to an adult neurologist who medicated me like an adult. I’d get stuck by needles every week, get my medicine dosages changed, and end up being overdosed. I’d be the new kid at school with the weird disease that made you shake, my parents being called to the principal’s office over concerns that my participating in computer class might cause me to go into an uncontrolled, epileptic fit. I’d hallucinate, projectile vomit in the lunchroom, and scream out loud in class when the headaches wouldn’t stop.

It was a frightening time. I experienced migraines that made me curl into a ball, but also strange auras. I remember sitting in class in the fourth grade and suddenly my pencil became very loud. It was like my ears were full of air, like when you change altitude, and the rest of the surrounding noise was muffled. I could barely hear my teacher’s voice as she spoke at the blackboard, but the sound of my own pencil scraping across the paper was like an airplane taking off. What should be loud was soft, but what should have been near-silent was suddenly blaring.

Then the voices would start. That’s what I called them. They didn’t say anything I could understand. It reminded me of what it would sound like if you were standing on the edge of a dinner party, and the attending crowd were all speaking at once, but it was put in fast forward. Muffled voices, in unison, and talking too fast for me to understand. Like I said, it was frightening.

Eventually my parents took me to a pediatric neurologist out of state, and it was at that point things began to improve. I got on the right medicine at the right dosage. The headaches became less, but I still became afraid every time the voices would come. I was always afraid it meant a seizure. I would steal away somewhere quiet, holding my knees to my chest, and hoping it wouldn’t come.

I tried to get back to a normal life. As normal as life with epilepsy, trips to the doctor every six months, EEGs, and remembering to take your daily medicine can be. The hospital bills had helped convince my absent, biological father to give up custody so I could be adopted by my mom’s husband. I loved my new Dad, but the circumstances did sting. I suppose they still do.

I got so used to taking my medicine every day for so many years that I hardly noticed. I knew I had to have it or bad things could happen, and it never seemed cumbersome until about the age of twenty. It seems that college had introduced me to not just new people, but a new life. Through a college and work friend I had come to know Jesus. I had known of Jesus for many years, but it wasn’t until I was twenty that I really got to know Him, to realize that He wanted a relationship with me, that He could change my whole life, and heal me from all my emotional pain. What I would learn, though, is that He could heal me physically as well.

In my newfound Christianity I had decided I wanted to attend a Discipleship Training School overseas. As I planned my trip it quickly became apparent to me that my anti-seizure medication could be a problem. My dad’s insurance wasn’t willing to shell out all the medicine I would need in advance, whether I was doing mission work or not, and as I spoke my concern to my friend she answered the dilemma quite simply, as if it was the most obvious solution.

“We’ll pray for you,” she said, matter of fact.

It was time for my semiannual neurology visit. The appointment was for Monday, and I attended church that Sunday night prior. I would have to stay up all night, as was usual for my scheduled EEG. They recorded my electrical brain activity with the test, and they liked to do what they called a “stress EEG.” Hence, I stayed up all night before, as a requirement, so my brain would be good and wore out. They also used strobe lights to see if it could induce a seizure. As if all that sticky glue in my hair wasn’t bad enough.

At church that night I brought my need before the congregation. I didn’t expect what happened. I remember going up front, I closed my eyes, and my new church family covered me with their hands as they prayed for me. This was all still so new, the “laying on hands” business, but I wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt natural to me. But what occurred next felt nothing like natural.

Do you remember the joke buzzers as a kid? The handshake prank kind? It wasn’t enough to kill you or anything, but enough to make you jump, enough to make you notice. It was kinda like that. My healing.

I remember the hands on me, and I remember one suddenly resting on my head. I remember it felt so hot against my skull, and as it rested there I felt comforted by its warmth. But suddenly, without the hand moving in any way, as prayers of healing were spoken out loud, I felt an urgent, electrical shock come from the hand on my head. It surprised me so much that my eyes burst open to find the source. To my side stood my friend’s mother with a look of her own kind of shock on her face, her hand drawn tentatively back to her chest.

“Did you feel that?” She asked in surprise.

I had, and I thought about it a lot throughout the night as I stayed awake reading a book. I somehow felt like I had been healed. I never believed in prayers like the ones they prayed, but I guess those prayers somehow believed in me. And as we went to sit in my doctor’s office after my test I would see it concretely.

My neurologist was a great man. He used to thumb on my head like it was a melon, proclaiming, “yep, sounds good,” just to make me laugh. He had done it every appointment for well over a decade, but this time he did not. He just sat there at his desk flipping back and forth the printed pages. My EEG results. Before, even though with the thump he had said it sounded good, it was never good. My brain was never right. The medicines had continued and a follow up was scheduled. But this particular day he just kept flipping pages, a look of bewilderment on his face.

“It’s a miracle,” he said, looking at my electrical activity on paper. “Everything is normal.”

He went on to show us the tracings from before compared to now. He circled the abnormal parts of past tests, even one from six months prior. Before they had always been the same. But this day they were gone. There was nothing abnormal.

“You don’t need me anymore,” he said with a laugh.

And I never did. I never had another seizure. I never took another medication to prevent them. I never had another migraine. For a couple of years after, maybe once or twice a year, the fast voices would come. They’d assault my senses out of nowhere, and I would feel fear. I would find my quiet place, lay down on my bed, and I would pray. I still recall the last time it happened. I beseeched the Lord to make it go away for good. It’s been about sixteen years since that day.

When I look back on telling the church my neurologist appointment results I smile. I mean, they were joyful, but they didn’t seem that impressed as me. But perhaps it was more-so that I was surprised, and they were not. I wasn’t expecting complete healing, but I believe they were. They rejoiced with a very dumbfounded me, and I went on my mission trip without worry of prescriptions and deductibles.

Many times when I am seeking the Lord about something I think of how He healed me from Epilepsy. I know He did it so I could make that trip, and He did it so He could show me His power, but even more I think He did it so I could always remember. In times of trial in my life I could remember how He healed me, and how He would never stop healing me. For this, I am grateful.

Me Too

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I suppose this article has been sitting on a shelf in my mind for some time. Many months ago when I first read reports of women coming out and talking about their own battles with unwanted sexual advances and assault, this post came to my mind, but I pushed it away. My first, knee-jerk reaction to these stories was an eye-roll one. They just want attention! Check out this snowball effect! And then, of course, thoughts of blame. They asked for it. Did you see how she dresses?! I was embarrassed of my own mental reaction to these allegations, and I wondered why I responded that way. Was it because society had groomed me to think like that? Probably. But also, I realized I thought this about other women because I had thought it about myself.

It was my fault.

Again this morning when I saw a story of a woman speaking out I responded the same way. I began to play the blame game. My mind traveled back in time over twenty years, but then I shut it down quick. Easier to do that. I went about my day, taking a trip to the salon where I saw a magazine that brought the topic to my mind again. As much as I didn’t want to think about it, or write about it for that matter, there it was.

Me too.

It had happened to me too. I think it’s happened to more woman than you’d want to admit. Many of us have a story we keep in the back closet of our minds.

For me, I was 21 years old living in Florence, Alabama. Amusingly, I was working as a game room attendant at the local Chuck E. Cheese while I attended nursing school. Of note, it was the only job that would hire me when I was first looking and didn’t yet have a local address. I was a rare “adult” working there with a lot of high school students. You wouldn’t believe how many of them asked me to buy them beer. But anyway, as a legal-aged employee I was asked by my manager one day if I’d be interested in working a booth at the county fair. He told me it was a lot of fun, and they let loose while there, having a few drinks to make the work more bearable. They were paying me for the time in cash, and as a young woman struggling to make my rent, I said yes.

He was right. It was a good time, much more laid back than the arcade environment we normally worked where I occasionally wore the mouse costume and got haggled by pre-teens. There was good music playing and plenty of cold beer while we sold pizza by the slice to carnival goers. We laughed and had a blast, me, my manager, and the female assistant manager who was about a decade older than myself at the time.

Towards the end of the night the owner of the local franchise showed up to check on how things were going. He was an older gentleman, with balding, white hair, a friendly smile, and a jovial, southern drawl. He laughed along with us, and even had a couple of drinks himself. Towards the end of the night he offered to take me to my car on his four wheeler since it was dark and possibly dangerous in the parking lot setup outside a large field where they had erected the fair. He even showed me his handgun he had tucked in his belt that would keep us safe.

He was nice enough as we drove along, inquiring how I was liking the job, and laughing at my answers of how it felt to work kids’ birthday parties. As he stopped at my car and we sat alone in a dark, abandoned parking lot on his ATV he suddenly reached his hand down and placed it firmly on my crotch. He rubbed it there and asked in a gravelly voice, “does that feel good?”

It’s hard to explain my feelings at that time. What had moments before been a happy buzz suddenly became a strikingly sober fear. I looked around and realized we were all alone. I thought about the gun he had shown to make me feel safe. I didn’t feel very safe, though. I felt like I had fallen into a very treacherous situation that could take any turn it wanted, and I would have no choice in the matter.

My boss, a man my senior by thirty years or more, was touching me in places reserved for an intimacy we didn’t share. I could smell the whiskey on his hot breath as he whispered in my ear, and I felt out of control. We were all alone in a field, he was bigger and stronger than me, and with a firearm. In a moment of fight or flight I quickly pushed his hand away, uttered “no, it doesn’t,” and jumped quickly off the back of his four wheeler.

I ran to my car, got inside, locked the door, and I sat there for a while waiting for my racing heart to slow down. Nothing had happened. Not really. That’s what I told myself. So why did I feel so frightened and dirty?!

I didn’t know if it was because I was shocked by the audacity of this man to think he could touch me without my interest or consent, or if it was more the thoughts of what could have happened. In my confusion of what had occurred I relayed it the next day to a friend who worked there with me. He was aghast and suggested I go to the manager and let them know what happened.

I ended up going to the female assistant manager first. I felt comfortable with her, I guess because she was a woman too, and I felt she would understand my feelings better.

Her first words in response made my stomach do that drop thing.

“Brie,” she said, “we were all drinking a lot that night.”

As she continued my ears filled with blood, making her voice sound muffled, and I listened half-heartedly as she explained the situation away. It wasn’t really a big deal. He hadn’t raped me, after all, and with me being under the influence of alcohol, perhaps I was thinking more of this situation than it had probably been. In a he-said, she-said situation, a respected business man would have the upper hand. These were her summations. She reminded me he was married, that he held all our jobs in the palm of his hand, and that this was a minor incident that really didn’t need further pursuing in her opinion. It was best for me to just forget about it. She added cheerfully that he rarely came by this location, so it wasn’t like I would see him much at all.

But I saw him the next day, it turns out. He had come by our store, and he was waiting for me alone in my manager’s office. After being summoned I remember the long walk to that office, I recall how uncomfortable I felt when he asked me to close the door, and how despicable I felt as he smiled sickly at me and told me what a good job I was doing for their store. Then he held out his hand and gave me a folded bill.

“This is a bonus in addition to the cash payment they gave you for working the fair,” he said with a large smile, his false teeth beaming like a street sign.

Later I sat on the step in front of my apartment with my friend from work. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded money. I held out the hundred dollar bill to my pal, and I tried to smile like it didn’t matter that I had just been paid for my silence. The hundred dollars would go a long way to help pay my bills that month. My friend put his arm around me, and I leaned into his shoulder in surrender to the fact that this situation would be swept under the rug sufficiently. I never spoke of it again until now.

Over the years when I’ve thought about this incident I have played the part of that assistant manager.

I shouldn’t have been drinking so much.

What was I thinking putting myself in a situation like that? I should never have gone off alone with a man I didn’t really know.

Be grateful. It could have been worse.

Were my shorts too short?

Did I give him the wrong impression?

A lot worse things had happened in my life! This wasn’t that big of a deal. Just forget about it.

Besides, you took the money! You stayed silent for a hundred bucks. Cheap.

But I don’t guess I ever have, forgot about it, that is. I think this incident had only served over the years to further diminish my self-esteem and feed feelings of inadequacy. I wondered, as a mother of three girls, how I would feel about this had it happened to one of my daughters. So this morning as I was reminded about it I prayed, and I felt God bring to my mind the verse from the Bible where Jesus heals the crippled man.

Jesus had said, “get up! Pick up your mat and walk.”

I think there’s a lot of women out there where a part of them is paralyzed. They’re paralyzed by fear of what others will think, crippled by lies of this world that say, “it’s your fault this happened. You’re the one to blame.” I look back on my own life and I know I could have made wiser decisions, but I also know I am worthy. I am worth something, and I never deserve to be treated like I don’t have a say in what happens to me. Whether my shorts were too short or I had too much to drink, I didn’t deserve to be put in a situation where I was afraid.

Picking up your mat and walking can mean something different for each person. For some it may mean finally telling your story. Or perhaps it means standing up to the lies of this world that you caused whatever unspeakable things happened to you. It might mean that even if it wasn’t the worst case scenario, it was still terrible for you, and it’s worth acknowledging that it happened. Maybe picking up your mat and walking means you can open up, hold your head up high, and walk tall knowing that you didn’t deserve the bad things that happened in your life, that you’re not going to let them hold you down to suffer in silence anymore. That from now on you can feel free from the past, free from feelings of inadequacy and failure to stand up for yourself at the time. The crippled man at that pool had laid there for 38 years before Jesus convinced him that he could be healed! If anything, I suppose that teaches us it’s never too late to be healed from the things that have paralyzed you.

And then it also reminds us of this. You may ask, why wait thirty years to speak out about abuse? I’d answer back that sometimes it takes a lifetime to realize it’s okay to pick up your mat and walk forward bravely and in confidence to find the healing your heart needs.

I’m humbly reminded that I can never assume how someone should feel about something that happened to them nor how it has been affecting them through the years. Sometimes picking up your mat, for some of us, may actually mean laying down your presumptions of what another person has been through, and how they should respond to it, so we can all walk forward in humanity together.

Got a haircut today and feel lighter already (in more ways than one)

What God Would Say to Nurses

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Recently I was thinking about eternity. You know, Heaven. I often think about what it will be like, and I anticipate a place described as having no more tears or pain. I mean, who doesn’t? But then I’m reminded of my job. My vocation, my skill, my calling, that thing that I’m good at will no longer be a thing. If there will no longer be sickness, disease, or pain then that kind of makes my job as a nurse obsolete in the hereafter. While I look forward to a time where illness doesn’t exist it did make me wonder about my choosing of a career that won’t be required in a perfect world. The thing is, even in an imperfect world I have days where I question my career!

Don’t get me wrong; I love Nursing, but it’s hard. And it’s hard not to question your career choice when it’s so challenging, when it’s so exhausting, when it’s so difficult to keep doing something in the face of ever-changing medicine and an overgrowing patient population. You love it, but some days you wonder if you’re really making a difference, if you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing in life, and if you’re still where God wants you to be. Just being honest.

Well, since I work as a nurse at the bedside full time, and I’m starting back to work tomorrow after an extended vacation, I was overjoyed when the Lord spoke to my heart this morning during my quiet time in His still small voice.

This is what I felt like He spoke to my heart, and if you’re a nurse then perhaps it will speak to yours as well.

You’ve been thinking a lot lately how your job will exist in Heaven. And it won’t. But I want you to understand it’s important now.

The healing, it is a portal, a symbol of my ultimate healing. What you do opens the gateway to what I’ve already done. I have restored health and life for eternity. In this life you bring my healing, a foretaste of the divine, a prelude of the eternal healing that exists for all.

Take privilege and honor that I chose you for this task. It isn’t for the weak! You hold the key, and the key is light.

You are the light of the world. Believe it.

One day all will be healed. Until that day I have you.

When they see you, they see me.

Nursing can be a difficult and taxing calling, but it is just that; a calling. Nurses are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus, but even more so we are called to show the light of the Lord. We are afforded the opportunity to offer healing on this side of Heaven, until ultimate healing is available. The days can be long and hard, but to know I have been handpicked for such a task as this by My Father gives me renewed purpose and joy. I pray you receive it also.

Did You Hear Me, God?

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The other night I lay down exhausted, and before I fell asleep I began to pray. In fact, I’m pretty sure I fell asleep praying, but I guess there’s really no better way to drift off. I do recall distinctly, though, before succumbing to the sandman asking God for two things. 

As I lay down on my comfy, new mattress I still winced before turning on my side. Is this what forty is like, I wondered; before asking for healing, that is. That morning I had been making my bed, and as I briskly pulled the quilt upward I felt a sharp twinge of pain in my lower back. Ouch! How embarrassing to injure oneself in such a manner, and all day I had assumed the ache would go away, yet as I lay in bed it seemed to be all I could feel and think about. Hence my first bedtime prayer. 

“Please heal my back, Lord,” I prayed. “Let the pain be completely gone when I wake up! In Jesus name.”

I boldly believed, and as I felt myself drifting away I thanked God for the things in my life, my husband, my children, His provision, and salvation, but I also prayed for a problem I had on occasion. Bad dreams. 

“Lord, I pray for good dreams. Let my dreams be from you,” I petitioned. Then I took it a step further. “May they be prophetic dreams.”

I fell asleep with a contented grin, but when I woke some seven hours later it wasn’t a smile upon my face. My eyes blinked groggily on the tale end of a nighttime picture-show, the strange, unwarranted dream still fresh in my brain, and it could only be described with one word. Bad. I had dreamed a bad dream. 

I sat up quickly and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Immediately I noticed the surge of pain present in my back. It was worse than yesterday. Way worse! It hadn’t healed overnight at all. In that moment I almost wanted to ask, “did you hear me, God,” but even in my downtrodden thoughts I only spoke one thing. Faith. 

“I still trust you, God,” I silently prayed. “No matter what, I trust you.”

Then I got up out of bed, pushing the back pain to the recesses of my mind, as much as I physically could anyway. I did mention it to my husband as we stood together at the coffee maker, but more to hear his thoughts than to complain. 

“It will be healed,” he said, as if it had already been done, and I readily agreed. 

“I know,” I said, kissing his cheek, and that was the last I thought of my back until later in the evening. 

It was a Tuesday, and Tuesdays were our busy days. Homeschool group, a softball double-header, and all the other things I was responsible for in a given day. We rushed about, doing our thing, and it wasn’t until later that night, fixing my dinner plate, that something unusual occurred to me. 

My back doesn’t hurt, I thought in surprise, and then I realized it had not bothered me since I told God that I trusted Him, no matter what. When I woke up the pain had been excruciating, and how it had gone from a solid eight to a zero was pretty darn cool. Plus there’s only been good dreams the past two night. I guess He heard me after all. 

What God Does After Divorce

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I often encounter women in a very broken time in their lives, after divorce has occurred and they are left shell-shocked, picking up the pieces from their previous life. That’s the thing about divorce; suddenly you find yourself in a very different existence, and maneuvering through your new normal can be uttering exhausting and most times devastating. If you’re a Christian you may also find yourself trying to not only crawl out of the pit of despair a broken relationship has caused, but also the hole of guilt you’ve buried yourself in. 

So where does God come in to all of this? We know from His word that the big ‘D’ is not His cup of tea. He doesn’t want divorce for us; so can you find His forgiveness and favor after a failed marriage?
I can recall the period of time following my own divorce. I was a shell of a woman, wondering who I was and how I was supposed to be. I had spent the better part of a decade living with a man who was now a thousand miles away, and the person I had been prior to being his wife seemed even more distant. Learning to stand on your own two feet after standing beside a spouse is challenging, heartbreaking, and eye-opening. You realize ways you have changed that perhaps were not for the best, and you’re left wondering if you’ll ever get back to who you once were before your broken marriage. 

If you walk in Christian circles among other followers of the Lord you might feel out of place, like you have fallen so far that you no longer belong. You’ll imagine women in church whispering behind your back, and in all honesty they might just be. After all, it’s easy to point fingers when you haven’t walked through the pain of divorce. Just being honest. 

For me, I didn’t think I’d ever get divorced. I certainly didn’t want to be “the divorced woman,” and finding myself in that exact spot felt as foreign in reality as thoughts of it had been before. I didn’t believe in divorce! But there I was with one sitting in my lap. I had to come to a place where I understood that I couldn’t change another human being; I could only change me. And so began my long journey. 

Do you know what I adore about God? Well, there’s a lot of things, actually, but number one I suppose is how He never stops loving me. Never. So even when I step outside His will, or in my case run full-speed across the country, He never stops caring for me. He never doesn’t have His arms open to welcome me home, to wipe away my tears, and to replace my mourning with gladness. 

God is a God of restoration, and He is a maker of all things new, so when we fall, fail, and yes, when we sin, whatever that sin may be, He is there with an open ear, loving heart, and forgiving hand. When we ask, He. Makes. All. Things. New. 

For me this wasn’t magic. I had a lot of baggage to hand over, a lot of confessing to do, and tons of changes to make in my life. I handed over the parts of me that weren’t pleasing in His sight, and He handed me back healing. A broken woman with a broken relationship became a new creation with a new heart. This led to a new relationship and new blessings. It took some time, but I came out the other side wiser and with a new appreciation for what a quality relationship looked like. 

Do I believe in divorce? No. But that didn’t stop it from happening to me. The good news is that God can work with that. He can work with anything. He can work with you. 

If you find yourself stumbling through the aftermath of divorce know that God is the only one who can fix what you’re feeling. He’s the only one who can lead you through the healing you’ll require, and He’s the only one who can mend the broken heart you’re feeling. He’s the one who can make all things new.