Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

To the Mom Shaming Your Kid on Facebook

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I fell asleep last night with peace in my heart and a bit of pride for the fact that my son was smiling as he kissed me goodnight, even though he had been crying when we first laid down to say our bedtime prayers. I mean, I knew the Holy Spirit had a lot to do with his change in demeanor, especially following our heartfelt intercession, but yeah, a lot of me felt good for myself too. I felt like a good mom. Which was awesome, since I feel like I fail at it on the daily!

A large majority of the commentary you’ll see about parenting teens and preteens champions tough love. It states that kids today need to toughen up, that they need more discipline, and that they need to face the harsh realities of this world so they can be high-functioning, productive adults. I get it. I am a Gen-X’er, after all. A latch key kid. The generation that had zero hand-holding while we transversed the neighborhood or woods without supervision. I’m tough! I also thank God I’m alive when I think back at the stupid stuff I did that almost got me killed, that my parents were clueless about. But alas, this isn’t a blog about the pros and/or cons of helicopter parenting. It’s about being a good parent. So what is that exactly?

Yes, it’s disciple. It’s teaching your children to respect authority, to listen, and to learn from their mistakes. To work hard earn their reward. It’s provision and meeting their physical needs. Yet, it’s so much more. If I had to sum it up with one word it would be pretty easy. I’d base it upon the best role model father I know. God, My Father. So, who is God?

God is so many attributes rolled into one, but the one that stands out to me as His daughter is love. And that’s what I thought of last night after holding my twelve year old.

The Lord said, “it matters to you because it matters to him. That’s how I love you.”

My son had been working for days on a digital art project, and as he neared completion his program screamed for more storage capacity. In a rush to delete the unwanted stuff and make room, he accidentally deleted his project. He had not saved it. It was gone forever. Even The Cloud couldn’t help. He tried to put on a brave face, but I could tell he was disappointed to have lost all that time and effort because of a mistake.

I was at a crossroads. I could say, “I bet you learned your lesson about hitting save!”

I could state what was obvious to me. “It’s just a drawing. Get over it! Do another!”

Or, I could walk in the fruits of the Spirit, the model my Father in Heaven gave through His Son. Patience, kindness, gentleness, love. I could allow him to cry, to let it out. I could hold him, listen, offer advice, and love him through the disappointment that was a big deal to him at the time.

Or, I could post a picture of him crying and upload it to Facebook, I talking about how this generation needs to grow a backbone, learn responsibility, and work hard for the things they want!

Maybe I’m being a little over the top with my particular scenario, but sadly I see pretty similar stuff a bit too often for my taste. I see it over and over, these posts where a mom shames their child publicly on social media, toting the virtues of making your kid learn the hard way. I just don’t believe that’s the way.

A majority of the time it is parents who claim Christianity as a basis of their life that are the promoters of tough love, but I don’t see that Christ walked that way. God certainly isn’t up there punishing us for our missteps. He allows us to fall to the consequences of our own stupid actions, but He never puts us to shame. That’s the other guy. He’s the one who forgives us, the Dad who picks us up, kisses the booboo, and holds us tight, counting our tears. He’s the one who took all our mistakes on His own back, paying for them in blood, and certainly didn’t put ‘em up on a sign in the public square to get likes and shares from the angels.

When your child messes up, you can lovingly guide them to the truth, the consequences of their actions, and the way back to the goal at hand, or you can let them learn their lesson on their own. Sadly, years down the road, the lesson they may have learned is a skewed version of what a father/mother should be. They’ll carry that version into many aspects of their life, such as how they see the Father Heart of God, how they parent themselves, and how they deal with shame and self-doubt when they fail as an adult.

I want my children to learn grace! I want them to know loving kindness, compassion, mercy, and confidence that they can move forward in imperfection, growing as they go. They can learn from mistakes (because they will, without an “I told you so”), but not feel like those mistakes define them. But most of all, I want to model the love I see in Him. And I just don’t think social media shaming is it.

When a Haircut Is a Kick in the Sack

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I stood in the kitchen with my husband putting groceries away. My oldest child and I had just arrived home from a trip to town for some food essentials, plus a trip to the Barber Shop.

“I wasn’t prepared for that,” he whispered, while pointing into the other room. “It was like a kick in the sack.”

He looked down, at a loss for words, but none were needed for me. I knew exactly how he felt. I had felt the same emotions watching the first haircut nine months ago, and again today, as the barber took the hair down to the scalp, the shortest it had ever been. It was grief, plain and simple, yet not simple enough for others to understand what I mean.

I see the news stories, read the articles, gape at the vitriol on social media. I can’t say I understand the current political environment, but I do see it. And it frightens me. The commentary often centers on the parents of a transgender teen. Like, how dare they abuse their child in that way?! I can say this wasn’t my idea, nor my husband’s. It wasn’t society, the leftist’s agenda, or even TikTok to blame. It just happened. My beautiful, confident daughter started puberty and hated what her body was becoming. She didn’t know why. But she did know that death seemed better than existing in a body that she didn’t feel was her own. Fast-forward through months of therapy following suicidal ideation and self-harm, and you come to this place where you shop for clothes in the boy’s section for the first time. Something so simple, a request granted that brings that first smile in six months or more. Strange.

I guess people only see the end result, not the agony that brought you there. They see the proud, yet hesitant announcement, but don’t see the tears shed behind closed doors.

I love being a girl mom. My husband is amazing at being outnumbered, so gentle, loving, and strong. I love the pink, frilly dresses, and learning how to french braid all that long, blond hair. I can remember three Christmases ago begging my oldest to please wear the matching dresses I had picked out for photos, “for your mom, please.” Now, no dresses remain in the closet for him. Him. The child I now call son.

Fathers dream of walking their daughter down the aisle. Mothers dream of their daughter having children, so they might share that bond of parenthood that childbirth brings. My husband and I are grieving those things. We’re close to the year mark of when Chloe asked to be called Noah, but for us, it’s still like it’s yesterday that we laughed at little feet clopping around in pink, plastic heels. We no longer say the non-preferred name or pronoun, but we do still have ton of brick, kick to the sack moments. Those moments where, to no decision of our own, we have packed away the dreams for our daughter, replacing them with hopes for our son. It’s a surreal feeling, a loss of sorts. We chose to lose our daughter in gender, rather than to lose her all together physically. We cried for our daughter who wanted to die, and now we laugh with our son who made the brave decision to live.

To live in a world that hates him! I think that’s what worries us the most. I shared with him last night the recent stories and posts I had seen about Dylan Mulvaney and Bud Light backlash.

I said, “I hesitated telling you because I want to protect you from a cruel world that hates you, but I also knew that for your awareness and safety, we have to talk about these things. You have to be careful. There are people out there who will hurt you.”

And I didn’t just mean emotionally.

What parent allows their child to make a decision that could get them killed?

What child makes a monumental choice to become the most hated, most judged, most incorrectly labeled (eg, pedophile) people group of all times?!

We got hens recently. My husband was going to pick one up, and in her scurrying, frantic fear, that ole hen put her head through the fence hole and tried to break her own neck! That’s what I think of when I consider the past year (more than) of our life. Our child was frantic, confused, and fearful. Our baby would have rather died than live an identity that didn’t feel authentic to him. My husband had to gently calm that chicken, and we had to gently love our firstborn, whether he went by his birth name or not, whether he ever wore a dress again, whether he got haircuts at the barber that were severely masculine. That didn’t mean they weren’t still a kick in the sack.

I reckon folks forget that part. They’re so focused on blaming the parents for bad parenting, that they neglect the emotional toll that led to this place. They’re so busy making something a battle to fight, where one doesn’t exist, that they miss the war raging in the minds of suicidal, transgender kids. They forget that whether a boy wears a dress, or a girl gets a shaved head, that inside them that beautiful soul is the same. That is one thing that keeps us steady in the sea of the uncertainty and worry that is being a parent of a transgender child.

There are questions you ask yourself. Like, will they one day decide to be the assigned gender at birth again? But for now, the answer doesn’t matter. What matters is how we love them now. We love them through those inner thoughts of “my daughter is gone,” and we love them through all the kicks in the sack. I love him as I look at old photos, seeing a daughter that used to be. I love him because even though my daughter is gone, my son is here. He is happy, healthy, and smiling. For now, that is enough.

What Do I Have to Be Thankful For?!

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I baste the bird, liquid butter with bits of garlic poured out over the bulging breasts of our Thanksgiving turkey. My eyes burn as I go about the task, gritty from lack of sleep after sitting in the psych hold of the local ER all night, but more so still on fire after so many torrents of tears spent. Rivers of tears over driving to the hospital with my child, but leaving without them.

Thanksgiving, a time to reflect on the gifts we have been given. Opting to celebrate the holiday early since I’d spend the actual day at work, I had planned to put the turkey in the oven at 2am. But it turns out that at 2am I was tossing and turning in a rigid recliner pulled alongside my son’s stretcher, wrapping a blanket tighter around my ears to cushion the sound of nurses’ laughter or the cursing screams from the head-banging, combative neighbor next door.

How many times have I cried to the Lord, “am I doing the right thing? Give me wisdom!”

I slide the buttery bird back in its heated cave. We have to eat, right?! The planned dinner, with side dishes still sitting at the ready in the refrigerator, prepped the preceding night, before I knew what lay ahead. What were we actually celebrating, anyway?!

In the lone room of the child and adolescent inpatient wing, sitting in an abnormally large, yet childlike chair, I wept into my wrinkled sweatshirt while they searched my baby in another room for hidden objects that could cause self harm. I cried out to my inner thoughts, “please tell me I’m doing the right thing!”

Today could have started very differently, it occurred then to me. I wasn’t simply thinking about an appetizing spread ready on the dining room table by noon. I was thinking of trying to wake my son to eat, but instead of being greeted by his sleepy grumbles, being confronted with his cold, blue flesh. That is how today could have started.

Instead… instead, the Holy Spirit had prompted him to come to me.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, after sitting criss-cross, apple sauce on the bathroom floor, “but I’m afraid it will make you sad.”

“You can tell me anything!”

Thankfully, he did.

What a week it’s been. Last week brought frightening messages while I worked, of feeling disconnected and unreal, a stranger in another’s body. Walking out in the cold rain just to feel something, anything.

Two nights ago brought self-harm, six horizontal cuts on his left, inner calf, driven to “scratch a nagging itch” that refused to abate until the damage was done.

I’ve always considered us blessed that Noah feels so comfortable coming to us about everything, but even I was surprised by the extremely detailed plan of suicide he had concocted, and shared with me in the bright lights of our bathroom last night. He had planned on waiting until we were all asleep, ensuring we would be none the wiser until finding his body this morning.

I pull the browning bird out at determined intervals, coating its skin with flavorful moisture. What do I have to be thankful for?! As I prepare a meal of Thanksgiving, sans my firstborn present. He is not here, but he will be.

He is not at the table today, but he will be for all the tomorrows. My baby is alive, and after facing the plan to end Thanksgivings forever, and Christmases to boot, he decided to stay. To reach out for a lifeline, to feel better, to cling to that thread of hope that must still be there somewhere. I have a lot to be thankful for.

It didn’t feel that way as I left him at the hospital. He cried, “don’t leave me,” and I probably would not have had the staff not ushered me away. Gosh, y’all, this is hard. It’s hard to spend a year trying to pull your baby out of darkness, and finally realizing you cannot do it alone. It’s hard trying to do your best, to make the right decisions, to follow the advice of the many mental healthcare professionals invested in your child’s future, yet still feeling like a piece of your innermost being is lost in a dark forest of sadness and dismay. Can I leave breadcrumbs to bring him back? Is there a way back to the happy child I remember? Can I feel peace amidst so much turmoil? Maybe that’s the real breadcrumbs in the stuffing we will eat. Peace knowing that we are not alone.

In fact, that is the last thing I whispered to Noah before I had to leave, “you are not alone.”

Love the Sinner, Not the Sin? My Journey with Homosexuality.

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I recently received a comment on my most recent blog post, where I had detailed the experience of my transgender son. I must say, the comment was written so kindly and compassionately, which I truly appreciated. In fact, it reminded me of something I might have written five years ago; I’ve always been the loving kind. I realized I wanted to respond the best I could to this comment, but that I also had a lot to unpack to answer it thoroughly. Hence, I’ve decided to write about my journey as a Jesus-loving, charismatic, Evangelical Christian, who has come to support and affirm the LGBTQ community.

I could regurgitate things I’ve read from other authors who support the LGBTQ community, but that would not be genuine nor authentic. In fact, it would be no better than the people who reject LGBTQ, by spouting off the things they’ve learned, been taught, or read throughout the years. Instead I want to tell you my personal journey, my thoughts, and how I went from one place to another over time. I will share links to articles or sermons I’ve found helpful, but overall this is simply me putting my heart out there for you. Please try not to trample it too harshly, and provide me some grace as I try and explain.

Love the sinner, not the sin. This is a phrase I’ve always heard, and one I used to ascribe to as totally credible. But now, I’m not so sure how that works. I cannot seem to reconcile how you love someone completely and unconditionally, yet simultaneously tell them that their feelings, desires, and sense of self are wrong, and an abomination to their Father who loves them.

I think I first really started questioning the topic of homosexuality from a Christian point of view around three years ago. I can recall watching Grey’s Anatomy with my husband, and two men were kissing. He exclaimed, “ughh. Gross.”

I replied, “I don’t think you should say that sort of thing. If the children are in the room, especially. We don’t want the kids associating gay people with the idea of disgusting.”

He was convicted, and very quickly agreed with me it was wrong. I never heard him say anything like that going forward. See, we both knew that all human beings are created by God, and worthy of being ascribed as such. To label, name call, or use derogatory terms to an individual is not ascribing worth to them as a beloved child of God. Listen, my husband is a great guy, but looking back, I think responses like those were built into his character over time due to environmental factors. If you exist in an environment where homosexuality is seen as wrong, against God, and abnormal, it’s hard not to have bias. I’ll just say this… I believe my husband and I have both grown drastically in the past few years, and in a positive direction.

But back to my questioning. Noticing the negative behavior of others towards LGBTQ ran parallel to my soul searching for how exactly a Christian was to respond. I definitely loved the “sinner,” but I wasn’t sure how I could love someone and say, “what you’re doing is wrong. It is not of God. The way you feel is an abomination.”

Because, if the sexual and romantic attraction gay people felt wasn’t from God, then where did it come from? The devil? How did you go about explaining to someone their innermost desires were demonic? The whole thing just didn’t coincide for me. I couldn’t wrap my head around how the Jesus I was so close in relationship with would want such a large percentage of people feeling helpless, hopeless, and worthless.

First, I believe gay people are born that way. You can speak with them and discover their same-sex attraction came in childhood, and it’s a falsehood that some sort of abuse or trauma has always occurred to bring about these feelings. I have spent many hours reading peer-reviewed, scientific research from accredited sources that document the numerous hormonal functions occurring in utero that develop gender identity and sexual attraction. The body is far too complex to place it into the neat little boxes we did before anatomical and physiological knowledge advanced to the current degree. But even if you don’t want to read and learn about the processes at play in the womb to determine sexual orientation, a simple thought occurred to me. Why would anyone choose to be the target of judgment, hatred, bigotry, and violence? As a child growing up in a Christian home especially, why would said child make a decision that ostracized them from friends, family, and the faith they enjoy? They don’t.

So, let’s keep going. Let’s say a child discovers at a young age they have same-sex attraction. Let’s say they are raised in a Christian home, and they are raised and taught that same-sex attraction is a big, no-no sin. Where does this child go from here? How do they proceed going forward?

Many will keep their sexual orientation a secret, for fear of losing relationships. Many become depressed, anxious, suicidal, and actively self-harm. This was my child at the beginning of 2022.

My trans son had been raised that homosexuality was wrong. We have always tried to be very loving. Remember, love the sinner, right? Well, when my child was entering puberty and began to ask questions, we’d answer. When my child asked his dad about gay people, he said, “they’re wrong, but we love them anyway.” Or when asking about transgender people and their salvation, my husband answered, “I think they can go to heaven as believers, but their heavenly body will be the one God originally made it to be.” Again, as parents you answer your children’s questions the best way you know how, based on what you were taught, and often how you were raised. This year, my husband and I have been humbled enough to realize we don’t know all the answers, but we do know how to proceed with the love of Jesus as our plumbline .

But more to the point of my questioning, that began years before it hit my home personally, my concern was how you can raise healthy, emotionally intact humans if you are insisting their feelings of sexual orientation or gender identity are something to be ashamed of, something to hide, or something to strive to change? How do you love someone well, but simultaneously tell them that who they are at the core of their being is despicable? Again, it didn’t gel. It didn’t feel right in my spirit. And it certainly didn’t seem like behavior I would see in Jesus.

A few years ago I first read an article by Sarah Bessey, which I’ll link to here. It’s lengthy, but then again, so is my post here. This is simply too complex of an issue to shortchange, but if you’re in a place of questioning like I was, it’s a good place to start. Reading it didn’t flip a switch in my brain. I suppose like the article suggests, my penny was still in the air.

What I did know was that the mismatch between saying you love someone, and showing it through your actions, was enough of a difference that I couldn’t speak on the subject. I just didn’t know. My whole life, to be told something is bad, but then to experience such turmoil over how I could react to someone like Christ would, in light of it.

So, to catch-up where we’re at… I believed on a scientific level that same-sex attraction and gender identity were complex issues not just related to environmental factors, but also genetic and hormonal ones in utero. I had determined people were born that way. Secondly, I couldn’t understand how it was possible to tell someone born gay or transgender, “yeah, I get you can’t help it, but if you wanna get to heaven, you either gotta change, or deny yourself the very things I take for granted. Like, falling in love, getting married, and raising a family.” Forced celibacy or conversion therapy (which fyi, has proven more harmful than effective).

What about the Bible? God’s word! Well, let’s go there. First, I will link to an article/video sermon by a smart guy named Matthew Vines who is Christian and gay. He spent years studying scripture and breaking it down to write this book, titled God and the Gay Christian.

But forgetting one man’s interpretation, if you will, I would like to suggest that for many people who are against LGBTQ, they are basing this off a handful of scriptures they’ve been told about, and not necessarily basing it on their knowledge of the Bible in its entirety. When you can read the Bible from front to back, ruminating over scripture, allowing the Holy Spirit to speak to you in spirit and truth, and running your every action, thought, and decision through the filter of Christ-likeness, you might find you learn a lot of things. In fact, it changes your heart. I’m not suggesting that since I’ve done this that I know everything. I don’t! I mentioned earlier that my husband and I have admitted we don’t know all the answers. But we do have a beautiful, fundamental, dependent relationship with Jesus that steers everything we do. We allow Jesus to guide our future (where we live), our finances, our family, and most importantly to take our fear and anxieties.

Another important part of Biblical study is to understand the historical context in which many things were written. I absolutely believe the Bible is the living word of God. I also believe the books were written by men (that were definitely inspired by God), but also limited by their finite nature and societal norms. For example, Paul and Timothy have instruction for us about women not speaking in church, or slaves obeying their masters. Slavery has been abolished, and women’s rights have increased since this text was written. To be a scholar and study the word, you must understand context of situations and societal norms when they were written. This is why I don’t have to go live outside my house when I’m on my menstral cycle, or why I’m allowed to work while my husband stays at home with the children. It’s why people aren’t being stoned in the street still when they have an affair. We cannot cherry-pick one verse and use it as God’s command if we’re going to ignore other verses. We do not have the authority to pick which verses are most important based on our political stance. In fact, I believe Jesus told us the greatest command from the Father, and if you don’t know it, shoot me a message. But I’ll tell you, it’s what drives this blog.

So, yes, I place so much value in the word of God. It drives my life! I believe that Jesus loves us. I am supportive and affirming of the LGBTQ community. It’s my belief in Jesus and the word of God that has brought me to this place. This wasn’t happenstance, hasty, or without hours and hours of prayers, asking for God’s wisdom. This has been an evolution (or rather, love-induced growth) of my faith over the past few years, and it isn’t just about the LGBTQ community. The character and love of Jesus has changed my opinion on minorities, immigrants, and the marginalized. The least of these. The one out of the 99. Jesus spoke of justice, but not to defend the religious. He spoke of inviting those outside the gates to the wedding feast, and in a world that seems to be focusing on us versus them, it’s totally anti-kingdom to do otherwise. Following Christ isn’t a club membership, where we pick and choose who can come inside based on what they wear, who they love, or where they were born. It’s an open invitation, and God never asked us to be the bouncers at the door.

When you read the Bible as the beautiful love story it is intended to be, you’ll see how the law first came in the Old Testament to help us rid ourselves of sin and death. But no one, absolutely no one could keep it. Jesus came with a New Covenant. He came not just to save the people of Israel, but the Gentiles as well. When the apostles first suggested it wasn’t necessary to circumcise, people lost their gourds. When John said it was okay to eat meat from pigs, people scoffed. When Jesus refused to throw stones at an adulteress, or insisted on restoring the cut ear of the guard who came to arrest Him, His followers were shocked. God is good at bringing us back to Him, and that doesn’t always look like we think it should. But He said that He came to save all mankind, so who are we to cause people pain and in the process push them from His table?

Above anything, I want my children to know Jesus, and to understand the freedom from fear and death they have through Him. I couldn’t imagine how I could tell my child, Jesus loves you unconditionally, except you need to not be gay or transgender, because then you’ll probably burn in hell, I think. Like, wouldn’t that be conditional love?! Isn’t that how we humans end up loving? “I love this man, but if he doesn’t pick up his dirty socks or wash more dishes, I’m done.” We have to stop loving “sinners” like humans love, and start loving all mankind (as we’re all sinners) as Jesus loves. Without stipulation.

My husband said to me the other night, “I don’t know if what I’m doing is right, but I do know that when I stand before the Lord, if I’m wrong, my decisions were made in love. I just don’t see God holding that against me.”

What a wonderful thought. The Lord doesn’t tell us to decipher every sin possible, arrange them in order of importance, and then be the Gatekeepers of being good. But He does tell us to love our neighbor as ourself. If I have missed the mark on some verses, but I’ve loved completely, I don’t believe He will cast me away for trying.

This is My Son

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I recently shared a picture of my twelve year old on social media. I’ve always been so proud of all my children, in all their uniqueness and particular strengths, and this post was no different. My pre-teen has emerged as a very talented crafter and seamstress/tailor, and I wanted to share the latest creation. But as I looked back at the post, I realized I wasn’t being genuine. I deleted the photo because I realized I was purposely avoiding using the pronouns and the name my child had chosen. Until I could proudly share my child, I didn’t want to share at all. So, I deleted the post.

Don’t throw your pearls to swine. This is the words of Jesus, and it’s one reason I had not openly discussed my child. I knew that those who don’t know or see our hearts would judge, and judge us harshly, but there comes also a time to stand proudly for what you know God is doing, to dispel long-held traditions of men, and to elevate the love of God above all things.

My last blog post spoke honestly about the struggles through depression and anxiety my eldest child has experienced this year. If you missed it, I’ll include a link here. I basically eluded to the fact that my child was questioning who they were, but that most importantly, my husband and I knew only to love them through it.

A common saying among Christians at large is, “God doesn’t make mistakes.” As a general statement, yes, I would agree, but it misses the fact that we currently exist in a broken world. In this brokenness we see sickness and death. We hold tight to an eternity where these things will be no more, but until then we cling to our faith in a Savior who carries us through the complexities of a broken world.

When a child is born with their intestines on the outside of their body, do we say, “God doesn’t make mistakes?” No. Instead we fix the problem that occurred in utero. Why did this anomaly occur?! Because this world is broken. But God has given us the ability to right some of the wrongs, but more importantly, His Holy Spirit to guide and carry us through the rest.

As my child began to question their gender identity, as a wise woman of God, I prayed and I learned. I devoured articles (the scholarly, peer-reviewed ones, rather than YouTube “experts”) about the complexities of development in the womb. As a woman of science and faith, I could understand that while God knew my child as He formed them in the womb, we also existed in a plane of earth where mismatches happened as it all knit together. The development of sexual organs was only a small piece of the greater puzzle of hormones developing in utero to cause a sense of one’s being and self. The important part to me was, my loving child’s spirit was the same one God placed in my womb; secondary was the mismatch that happened as the human body developed.

After that, I began to seek the Lord about how I should respond now. My child who loved Jesus and us didn’t love themself. They didn’t love themself because they felt as if their body had betrayed them. On the outside my child was developing breasts and curvy hips, but on the inside he felt quite different. I will never be able to explain to you how it feels to watch your child fall into a pit of despair, feeling like they are abnormal, a mistake, and broken. But God doesn’t make mistakes. And we had to come to that realization as a family.

My child had stopped smiling, and it broke my heart to pieces. Yet I watched the glow return bit by bit as he opened his heart to us about who he felt himself to be in spirit. A boy. I watched the glint of his sweet spirit return as I took him to get a boy haircut, and even more as I replaced his female wardrobe with male clothing. I still hold dearly in my heart the first night I looked down at my feet, at my child wearing his first outfit bought from the boys’ section, and seeing his genuine smile that had been absent for so long. Up until that moment I had still been questioning if I was doing this parenting thing right, but as I saw that smile I thought had been lost forever, I knew in my heart, “you’re doing the right thing.”

I don’t expect most of you to understand, and that’s ok. You cannot begin to fathom the heartfelt, hard conversations my husband and I have had alone together. You will never understand the cries and laments I have spoken to The Father. You aren’t here. You cannot know my son’s beautiful heart, and how I watched it almost disappear, yet through God’s grace and wisdom given to us in how to parent him, we’ve been gifted to see him emerge stronger and more resilient. Authentically himself.

I don’t expect you to understand, but if you’re a part of our lives, I do expect your love and support. If my precious son is met with anything but that, I will cut you out for his sake. Just being honest. We have had so many conversations about this, me and him. After all, who would choose to embrace a lifestyle that would make them the target of judgment, hate, ridicule, or even violence? No one. But this is who he is. God doesn’t make mistakes, and I’m so glad He chose us to be the parents of this boy. We were made for this, and to give him the support and love he needs to survive, and also thrive.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was certain it was a son. Ben and I decided to call him Noah, and this is the name my child has now chosen. I think a common misconception in Christian circles is the influence of the world, The Left, or whatever you want to call it. We, as Christians, are taught to protect our children from this. In the past, Ben and I wouldn’t let the girls watch cartoons with same-sex partnerships, and we didn’t allow the girls on social media. We homeschooled, and ran in our Christian circles. But if your kid gets on a computer and questions things like, “why do I not feel like a girl” or “why do I want to die,” they will find the answers to why they feel so abnormal. I think they need to find the answers in these cases, and I’m grateful God gave us the wisdom to allow Noah to discover this for himself. We are seeing a therapist, a psychiatrist, an endocrinologist, and a whole slew of providers understanding of how my son was formed in the outward body of a female, but filled with the hormones inside his body that make him identify as male.

The psychiatrist told me last week, “I am honestly amazed at how well you and your husband are handling this. Noah will be years ahead of his trans peers emotionally because of your love and support.”

She went on to explain the emotionally and mentally broken adults she saw who had not received the love they needed from their family. It made me feel good to know I was loving my baby through the hardest experience imaginable, and that he would not have to go through such a difficult thing alone. He had our love.

This won’t be a surprise to some of you, and to those I trust to love us unconditionally, I’ve already shared it. But I realized that I’m a big-loving momma, and to love my baby the best, I have to be honest and genuine. Noah has also been wanting to come out to everyone. Can you imagine having to hide who you are for fear of ridicule?! We agreed that I could write this post letting you know, this is my son, Noah. He is exceptional, bright, and quirky. He’s autistic (which is common in gender identity children), and his heart is beautiful. I’ve seen the ugly-hearted things people on social media say about the transgender community, but know that your ignorance will not break him. His heart is strong, and his family is a barrier of God’s love around him. It is your choice whether to be a part of that love we share. Regardless, I am proud to say, this is my son. This is Noah. The same he has always been. Just a little different.

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.

I Cried in the Shower Today

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Have you ever cried so hard it hurts? I’m talking about that deep burn in your throat that reaches all the way to your heart and back, only finding escape from the flames via hot, molten tears. That was me, sitting in my shower, somehow enjoying the emotion, yet begging it to simmer down before I hyperventilated. The last thing I needed was my husband to run into the bathroom, following an echoing thump, and find me slumped naked in the billowing steam. So, I tried to qualm my cries, yet the overflow of emotion erupted again, a fresh cascade of tears across my already wet face.

We had recently gone to a child’s birthday party, and I guess that’s where the story of tears started. My daughters were excited to see an old friend, and even opted to miss dance and voice lessons for the occasion. We had shopped excitedly for a present, each child contributing to the basket before making a final selection. They had chosen the outfits they would wear, and had asked me each and every day leading up to the event, “how much longer until the party?”

So, what happened?!

We had arrived to the gathering a little after its commencement, and already swarms of girls and boys bolted along the sandy beachfront. The birthday girl came running towards my oldest, screeching her name with excitement, enveloping her in a hug.

And my girl stood there awkwardly stiff, having trouble accepting the embrace. I heard Stephanie Tanner in my head proclaim, “how rude!”

Our awkward entrance continued. I looked around at my girls standing on the periphery of the group, looking shy, uncertain, and uncomfortable.

I encouraged them to “go and play.”

Yet, they kept coming back, and sitting on the outskirts, as if unsure of exactly how to go play. It didn’t make sense. These were their friends, and sure there were lots of other children they didn’t know, but my childhood wallflower self silently screamed, “go, be a part of the group!”

Yep, I had been that awkward kid in school, unsure how to act in social settings, sitting on the outside looking in. I had always done better one on one, a single bestie, and that trend had followed me my whole life.

“It’s Covid,” I thought.

Over a year of telling your children to stay away from other kids had surely stunted their social growth I hypothesized, and while I’m sure that’s true, it didn’t explain the fact that my tween had refused to bring her swimsuit, refused to wear shorts, and I had to buy her a baseball cap just to keep her from wearing a winter boggin pulled down over her head. Was that just a phase? Y’all, parenting is hard.

She had headphones in her ears, so she wouldn’t have to listen to the voices of others, and sunglasses because the sun hurt her vampire eyes. I’m sure it had nothing to do with being holed up in her dark room most of the time (insert tired mommy sigh).

I texted my spouse, “our kids have no idea how to act in a large group.”

I was questioning my own parenting skills, imagining all the ways I was messing up my kiddos, and trying not to worry I might be creating an ax murderer. Just kidding. Kinda.

My husband quickly replied, “uhhh, neither do their parents.”

Oh Lord, my husband and I were closet introverts. We loved people, and even flourished in one on one relationships, but put us in a group setting, and our left eye started to twitch. We hated crowds and avoided going places on weekends like the plague. We were happy to sit at home, and neither of us had the desire to go out with friends to blow off steam. We liked the bed, dinner and a movie, quiet time, and no expectations. His words made sense.

But still, I worried about my babies.

And that’s what I talked to God about in the shower. I handed Him my worries and my babies, listening to the counsel of the Holy Spirit. At some point in our conversation He brought me a vision of a flower in a field. Like the sunflowers we had grown last year, this flower tilted its head towards the light, and the light shown on its face, giving it new life.

The sun set and darkness surrounded the solitary plant. From above came a thermal blanket, like the kind a gardener would use to protect his prize winning roses from a spring frost. I knew at that moment, that was how God covered me and my family.

Each flower in His garden was unique, each created and cultivated to be its own creation, for His glory and kingdom purposes. His light illuminated and fed each one as it turned its face to Him, and He protected them from dark and cold places.

I felt the Lord speak to me, “nothing is by accident. I created each of your children according to my giftings. Nothing can take away from that. Nor does it need to be.”

I recognized that perhaps my children were different than the average child. Each one had nuances, sensitivities, or gifts that made them unique. I had grown up feeling like a square peg, longing to fit into a world I couldn’t seem to become comfortable being a part of. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized God created me square, with a square hole in mind for me. After all, squares make the best block for building God’s Kingdom. I wanted my girls to feel alive and beautiful in their uniqueness, and I realized that started with me not expecting them to fit into standard social norms. They were created for more than that. I didn’t need to worry so much as trust. And while there was nothing wrong with noticing peculiarities, or even learning more about those particular social styles, making a diagnosis or treatment plan if necessary, the bottom line was they were beautiful flowers in God’s garden, perfect in their specific design. Even if that made group events a little cringe worthy.

So, why did I cry? Gratitude, I suppose. What the world calls wounded, God calls blessed. What society would view as imperfect, He sets apart. And best of all, His light and love never fail. His covering persists, through every season, even the ones of drought and doubt. I’m still growing. My girls are too. I suppose, sometimes it’s the tears of gratefulness and joy that water the soil best.

You Will Have a Judas

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I was reading John 13 this morning. It’s a chapter I’ve read dozens of times, but something new spoke to me this morning from the verses. Don’t you love that? I suppose that’s why it’s called the Living Word. The Holy Spirit speaks what we are ready to hear when we are ready to hear it. Makes me think of when Jesus gave instructions in parables. He said frequently, “those who have ears, let them hear.” We all have the feature of ears, but it’s not until our spirit is ready that we hear the deeper truths God has for us all.

Back to John 13. It’s the chapter on washing feet. I always liked that. Jesus humbling himself to serve others. Such a wonderful lesson. But this morning, a new lesson emerged.

Do you know what Jesus was doing right before He washed His disciples feet? Yes, they were all enjoying a meal together, the famous Last Supper, but John 13 gives us a peek into the thoughts of Jesus. As Jesus is sitting at the table, with the men who are supposed to be His followers, His brothers, dudes He can trust, He knows it isn’t so. He knows Peter will deny Him, He knows Thomas will doubt His resurrection, but He also knows Judas will betray Him.

He thinks on these things. Then He rises and prepares to wash the feet of His brothers. He washes the feet of the one who will deny Him. He washes the feet of the former tax collector who had previously sold his devotion to his country and people for a bigger paycheck. He washes the feet of the doubter. He even washes the feet of His enemy, the one who’d sell Him up the river for a bag of silver. I mean, this is an obvious lesson for us all. Sure, a hard act to follow, but definitely something to shoot for, right?

Yet, it’s the act just before washing the disciples feet that really got my attention this morning. He’s at the table. It says that He knows Judas is going to betray Him. That’s the thought running through His head while He eats His last meal before the death sentence. It’s like He’s on death row, waiting for the final walk down the long hall to torture, pain, and betrayal. People who He came to save are plotting against Him as He nibbles on bread dipped in oil. Talk about anxious thoughts!

I’m an over-thinker, personally. When someone does me wrong, I will replay the incident in my head repeatedly. I’ll ponder what I should have said, creating conversations that never happened. But could have! Lol. I’m also a sensitive soul. When people hurt me, I weep. When they wrong me, I get angry. I get offended. And in all my situations where people have hurt me, betrayed me, and plotted against me, I honestly can’t compare it to the situation of Jesus. But, perhaps I can learn from His example.

John 13:3 Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God

Jesus contemplates that Judas is sitting right there beside Him, and He’s about to betray Him, leading to a chain of events that will end in His crucifixion.

But then He fights the pain of the lies of this world with the truth of God. A friend, a brother is betraying Him, yet that doesn’t change the fact that His Father has control over EVERYTHING! And really, isn’t that the only thing we need to ponder, the last thought we need to have, that puts to bed all our anger, hurt, offense, and fear? Yessss.

Our lesson today is three parts. The first we already know. We learn it at a young age. My eleven year old just learned it a couple of weeks ago.

1. People in this world will hurt us. They will betray us, even plotting our demise. I wish this was not so, but in our broken world of sin, it’s true. We will have a Judas.

2. In our Judas moments we must remember the absolute truth from scripture. All things are under our Father’s power! He knows it’s gonna happen. We don’t have to fight our own battles. Our Father has control. We belong to Him, and we will return to Him. The Judases of this world can never take that away from us.

3. We still wash feet. Despite the knowledge of betrayal, the truth that God was in control propelled Jesus forward. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard. I recall the Garden in Gethsemane and how my Savior cried. No one is telling you not to cry. But the example of Jesus reminds us to keep moving forward in love.

This is a lesson I need desperately. So often I encounter trouble and my gut reaction is to fret. Yet God calls me to trust Him. But even more so, in the midst of trouble, I am reminded to keep going, and to do so in love, with a servant heart. I can still give to others, even when fear tries to tell me I won’t have enough. I can lower myself to my knees, even at the feet of my enemies, knowing that despite the plots against me, I belong to My Father, and His plans for me never fail. I pray we all can remember these lessons together and move forward like the example Christ has given.

Is Your Christianity a Slogan or a Lifestyle?

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This morning on the way to work a beautiful worship song came on. The lyrics were simple, yet the weight of the words on my heart was anything but. Tears came to my eyes, overcome, I prayed in the Spirit. As I prayed, I saw a vision.

A faceless person in a riverbed, the water rising and rushing past. The current raised above the person’s head, until they bobbled along, treading water, while lifting their mouth and nose to the sky to suck in much needed breath. Just when it seemed to be too much, the waters receded, and what was left was a person glimmering. Little sparkles of light emanating from their body.

I felt the Lord speak to my heart, “my Spirit is like a rushing river, flooding your soul. Much like my consuming fire, my living water engulfs those who thirst for it. The engulfing process isn’t easy; it feels like you will drown. But in the end, you can shine my glory to the world.”

I thought of my own life. Now, I’m certainly not gleaming! I don’t sparkle like a character from the Twilight series. But I do desire my life to shine the light of God’s love, for His glory to be evident in my life. And over the past few years, drawing closer to the Lord, asking for His Spirit and Truth, I had felt the distress of going under. When the thoughts you’ve always held are challenged, it’s kinda painful. I mean, it’s much easier to stay put on comfortable dry land, secure in the mindset you’ve always known. But is that what God has for us?

I’ll never presume to tell someone how their relationship with Jesus should go, but for myself, I wanted more! He says, “my thoughts are not your thoughts,” but I didn’t want to completely throw my hands up for knowing His heart. I dove into scripture, and I encountered a Savior who started to make me question the status quo. I looked at the behavior of Jesus, and then I held that up to the behavior of us all as followers of His way. It’s not to say I expected anyone (especially me) to reach this level Christ had, but I did recall Him saying “we could be perfect since He is perfect.” And right before these words, He had been speaking of His love. Therefore, I set out to emulate His teachings. Kinda like the old, WWJD, but a lifestyle rather than a marketed slogan.

Now, let me tell you, when you start questioning behavior of the church in relation to Christ’s teachings, you really piss people off. And nothing made the situation more convoluted than American politics. Did anyone ever wonder if the politicians were playing us?!

Your faith is called into question if you can’t actively support immoral behavior in leadership, a heretic for suggesting we separate our political leanings from our serving Jesus (since conservative candidates don’t automatically equal Christ-like), and a liberal for caring about the lives of immigrants or LGBTQIA. It hurts my heart that our Christianity is important enough to impact our political leanings, but not important enough that we demand moral behavior of our leaders. Or that we demand moral behaviors of those outside of the church, but not of ourselves. It’s as if suggesting God loves the sinner, the citizens of countries other than America, or justice and real equality for all is needed, it makes you a trader to Christianity.

The problem was, the disconnect between the average American Christian’s belief system versus the life of Jesus. I mean, we all agreed He was our Savior, but when it came to how we should treat other people, it grew more gray. Even though He tells us the most important commandment. To love the Lord your God with all your heart, and to love others as yourself. To even love our enemy!

You can hold a Bible in the air for a camera all you want, but if you’re going to put the name “Christ,” in your label of belief (Christian), shouldn’t you maybe try and do what He said? And didn’t Jesus say we’d know God by knowing Him? And didn’t He also say, by your fruit they will know you are mine? So, isn’t a huge part of our faith knowing His character and then displaying that for others so they can know it too?!

It’s like, shortly after the formation of the original church (set forth by Jesus), we started inserting our own ideas of how it should go. Many of the letters from Paul to the early church address this. This desire to keep following the law when Christ had abolished our chains to this harsh system we could never achieve. Yet even today, we expect certain boxes to be checked, certain sins to be avoided (while others are ignored), certain sides to stay firmly on in regards to particular platforms, and certain candidates to vote for cause they’re standing on that particular sideline. Whether they’re wearing sheep’s clothing doesn’t matter when you place more weight on culture than Christ.

To question these things isn’t looked upon well, but should we not always be evaluating our heart motives to God’s heart? If we want to claim a religion that follows Jesus, shouldn’t we love as He loves? Shouldn’t we walk in empathy for others? Should we not care for those who need us? There are so many scriptures on this, so why aren’t we giving up “our cloak as well?”

Why do we focus on things of this world, when the Lord calls us to focus on Heavenly things? Why do we worry about what we will eat, or put our surplus in stores for it to rust?

When did we forget salt and light means showing the love of Jesus, not placing ourselves on a pedestal?

When did we mistake the call of Christians to serve others as a decision to only look out for our own?

I could go on and on. Remember when I said I definitely don’t gleam? It’s true. I’m just a work in progress, much like we all are, but I desire to shine with His glory! Not because I must do it to gain His love, but I want to do it because of His love freely given. This love that He asks us to freely give also. It’s hard, y’all. It’s hard to lay down pride, to lay down judgment, and to lay down offense. It’s a daily surrender, but I would encourage anyone, who wants to be engulfed by His Spirit, to seek Him. Read the words in red, the words of Jesus, and ask yourself in all humility if your Christianity is simply a slogan, or is it a lifestyle.