Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

Can Christians Get Offended?

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I can remember when I first started travel nursing that the first thing people noticed about me was my thick, Southern drawl. Heck, even now it’s the way people will differentiate me from others. If I’m not known as the “singing nurse,” then I’m described as the one with a Southern accent. I’ve been called Reba, and if I had a dollar for every person that tried to do an impression of my country twang I could have retired last week.

Yeah, people are not as good at impersonations as they assume, but I’m sure many a Brit would raise an eyebrow at my Monty Python impressions, so I can’t say a word. The thing is, though, if I’m being totally honest, it’s not near as amusing as people assume. Repeating a word I’ve said in your own impression of my pronunciation as you laugh hysterically isn’t funny to me. In fact, it’s eye roll worthy as I fake laugh along. But even now, as I bristle at the harmless prodding at my expense, I don’t react like I used to.

I used to be terribly offended. See, I was born in San Diego, California by a world-traveling mom, and we only moved to Mississippi to settle down when I was about eight. I could have quickly adapted the accent of my local peers, but a part was always held back by my mother’s suggestion. She raised me to enunciate my words, to use a vast vocabulary, and to make a point to sound as educated as possible. She fought hard to ward off her own Southern drawl as it crept into everyday vernacular, as her experience had impressed one, huge thing upon her.

A Southern accent=stupidity

That was the majority assumption, anyway.

This was what she had experienced. It was what traveling the world had taught her. And as such, she raised me to understand the same. When I began my own world travels so many of the things I encountered nailed home her point. In Naval Bootcamp I achieved the highest scholastic scores among my peers, earning my parents a special seat next to the Chief Officer of the base during my graduation, and allowing me to march at that ceremony in a special company. As we practiced the drill we would execute at our graduation a senior enlisted gentleman commented on my upbringing.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Mississippi, Petty Officer,” I replied quickly.

“Well,” he commented in surprise and sarcasm, “I didn’t know they made smart people in Mississippi.”

While I served in the Navy in the Washington, D.C. area I was on the receiving end of reverse racism, with people assuming that since I was from the South, I was automatically a bigot. My mother had hated this aspect the most. She had told me once that people saw movies like Mississippi Burning, and they assumed everyone from that area wanted to wear white hoods and hang black people. In my experience, I even had someone report me to my boss. I had been singing a country love song that came into my head about a man who committed suicide when his girlfriend left him (hey, I didn’t say country songs were known for their great lyrics). The guy in the song hung himself in grief, and the secretary who heard me singing reported to our superior that she feared for her life when she was around me. Because of the accent, where I was from, she assumed my song was something about hanging black people, even though the lyrics never said something even close to that.

This is turning out to be a bit longer than I intended, but I guess I want you to understand why it offended me so much when people poked fun at my Southern accent. In a way, I felt discriminated against for my accent. In my experience, people assumed I was ignorant, racist, uneducated, and the like. My upbringing and my own negative experiences had caused me to be easily offended when my accent was brought to the forefront. I think we all have really good reasons we get offended about things.

As a nurse I’ve gotten offended when a patient is rude. I mean, do they know the responsibilities I handle with limited time and resources? Why are they being angry at me? It’s not my fault they’re sick! I’m just here to help! I don’t deserve such anger aimed at me like an arrow for trying to help!

As a customer I’ve gotten offended. They’re here to serve me. What’s with the attitude?! They must hate their job!

I get offended on the interstate when people cut me off in traffic. I’m going five miles above the speed limit here, buddy!

I can get offended when my husband doesn’t read my mind like a good spouse is supposed to. Doesn’t he know I don’t really mean I’m fine?!

I can especially get offended when people don’t agree with me. As a writer I put out a lot of opinion posts, and not everyone agrees. I’ve had people say some pretty heinous things to me via comments or email. I’ve had people tell me that they feel sorry for my children being raised by me, such an awful person. I’m leaving out the graphic language, mind you. Sometimes I’m so certain that what I’m speaking is truth; I’d bet my life on it! Yet people disagree, and they tell me so quite strongly.

I’ve had close friends and family say or do despicable things to me that have hurt me so badly. I mean, when someone cuts you to the bone, isn’t that a legitimate cause of offense?

See, I’m not saying I don’t have reason to be offended. I’m not saying you don’t. Can Christians be offended? Of course they can! I suppose the better question would be… should they get offended?

Matthew 5:38-40

38 “You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.’[a] 39 But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. 40 And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well.

An interesting thing happened as I began to dive deeper into my walk with Jesus. As I began to read God’s Word more and more, I found myself taking on the pages. I mean, I began to act more like scriptures said I should. It wasn’t like I was trying to follow some religious teaching or law. It’s just that the more time I spent reading about Jesus, the more I loved Him. And the more I loved Him, the more I wanted to be like Him. I wanted to see with His eyes and love with His heart. I wanted to be a servant, not selfish. I wanted to encourage people, and help them to see their worth in Christ.

When a patient was undeservingly rude to me, I laid down offense, and instead I asked myself to imagine how hard it must be to be the sick person in that bed. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t my fault, or even if it was theirs. It didn’t matter that I was trying to help, or that I didn’t deserve a cussing. Why would it?

See, we get offended a lot because of bad treatment we don’t deserve. Check. I get it. It’s offensive. Jesus didn’t deserve to be crucified. Remember what He said?

“They know not what they do.”

As a follower of Christ I realized the best way I could show His love (a commandment He gave me, by the way) was to love like Him.

When people hurt my feelings, I laid down offense. Instead of thinking of my own hurt, I wondered what hurt they must be under to make them act that way.

When someone cut me off in traffic or a cashier was rude, I offered grace. I smile really big at them!

When my husband doesn’t read my feelings I remind myself that we are different.

When people don’t agree with me, I remind myself that everyone won’t. That doesn’t change my eternity.

And speaking of eternity? Have you ever stopped and realized that 99% of the things that offend us actually have no eternal impact? But, how we respond to the people who offend us, well, that can have an eternal consequence. We may push people away when they offend us, but we shouldn’t push them away from Jesus. If someone stumbles because of me, well, I don’t even want to think about it.

I am who God says I am. Thirty-four years ago, in His great wisdom, God placed me and my mom in Mississippi. He orchestrated my mom meeting my adoptive dad, and my subsequent adoption, the one that would positively impact my opinion of fathers and my life. God placed me in the South, and God loves my Southern drawl. After I laid down my offense I realized that most people love my accent as well. They weren’t all making fun of me or judging my intellect. My offense told me that, but it wasn’t true. I’ve discovered that my patients love the soothing sound of my slow, Southern drawl. It puts their souls at ease in a harried, uncertain environment. It implies caring and it easily earns trust. I cherish my accent, and I’ve found lately that in difficult situations at the bedside, like when I must break bad news, I draw out my syllables a little longer, and I dredge them in sugar a bit more. The patients like that.

I’ve learned that although many times I have every right to be offended, and that God won’t love me any less because I am, I am better able to fulfill my calling when I let go of offense. When I can turn the other cheek I am actually showing the face of Jesus. When I take off the red rage that veils my eyes under my own offense, I am better able to see where and who needs love most.

Will every situation we encounter require us to lay down our offense? No. I’m not saying to let yourself be filleted open for the masses. But I am saying that when we can let go of ourselves and see other’s pain, Jesus smiles. When we can love someone despite their hurting our feelings, they’ll see Jesus in us. When He calls us to lay down our life for a brother, He even means the ones who disagree with us. We can lay down offense, and we can pick up love in its place.

The Four Men I Have Loved Before

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Some people say you only truly love one person in a lifetime. Like, that person is your person. The one. They say that anything before that special one was not really love, only something like it, but I’m not sure I agree. It doesn’t work out that way for everyone. I can think of four men in my almost forty-two years that I have loved. Really loved. To lessen that would cheapen it somehow. To regret it would take away the beauty it held. And even in the pain I think it can hold a place of value, a place of gratitude as you move forward. I believe that for some people love is like different seasons of life, each a path leading you to what you needed all along.

They say, “to have loved and lost is better to have never loved at all,” but I say, “to have loved and lost, then to find love again… that is the best of all.”

I look back on my past and I can pinpoint four men I have loved, each one in a different way, each one in a different season, each one leading me to where I am today.

First came First Love, aptly named. I can easily remember the first man I ever loved. Through this relationship I learned that I could love someone more than myself. I learned how to romantically love another. I was able to experience excitement, intrigue, passion, the butterflies.

Through First Love I discovered how to give of myself, a very noble characteristic. But I also learned when to stop. I learned how to stand up for myself, despite being in love.

Then I learned heartbreak. I learned that love hurts. I realized that men have faults, that love isn’t perfect. How could I realistically love in the present without my past lessons, my first foray of love learned, built, broken, and healed.

First Love taught me how to love, and how to let go of love when that’s what I need to do. I’ll never forget this kind of love.

Second, for me, came True Love. Wow. True Love blows you off your feet, doesn’t it? This was the man who showed me a deeper love than I had ever known. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I discovered this love at the same time I discovered the love of God. I just don’t think that was an accident.

Childhood rejection and a hundred other things in this world had shown me love didn’t work. That it couldn’t work. My parents were in love. So I wanted to believe it was real. But when I found it, that was when I really believed it in my heart.

True Love changed me. True Love mimicked God’s Love, and though nothing can compare to that, True Love gave me the best example I had ever know. The thing was that it came easy. We didn’t have to try for it. It just happened, like breathing.

True Love was the easiest love I had ever known. It taught me that love is what we’re meant for in this life.

In retrospect, I know that my first brush with True Love was overpowering. I’m not sure I knew how to process that in a healthy way.

But then it wasn’t. True Love slipped away from me. I suppose that happens to us sometimes.

I was broken. My heart was in a million pieces. I felt like there was no love for me beyond that I had found. If it wasn’t my True Love, I didn’t want it. I was dumbfounded, I was numb, I was hurt, and then I just wasn’t anything. I walked around in a haze, unfeeling, afraid, unsure. How could love hurt? How could something written in the stars and meant to be slide through my fingers like sand? Did it never have substance to start with?

My third love came out of nowhere. I wasn’t looking for him. I didn’t want him. He came in from stage left, and he slid in so easily and naturally that my heart opened to him unaware. He was a soothing balm for my broken heart. He was my Healing Love. Healing Love showed me that I could love again, that I could move past heartbreak, that it was okay to be brave and be loved again. Healing Love was like a second chance to feel, another opportunity to open myself up to another, to experience love instead of run from it.

This love taught me to trust despite past hurt.

I had Healing Love for a season, then I pushed it away. I hurt the one who helped me. We do that, don’t we?

After a time, a time of reckless roving, I found love a fourth time. I call this one Consuming Love. It was consuming. It came on strong, hard, and fast. It caused my head to spin, my heart to beat ninety to nothing, my life to change. Consuming Love made me fearless! I desired it beyond anything else! I made decision, big life decisions, based on this love. I followed this love wherever it wanted to take me. I wasn’t coerced or pulled against my will, mind you. I wanted it. I wanted it fiercely. I surrendered myself to this all Consuming Love. You know, I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.

I don’t hold him at fault. I don’t hate him. He didn’t make me do it. I think too many times, especially now-a-days, we blame the other person, as if they changed you, as if you had no say in the matter. And while, yes, Consuming Love is powerful, sometimes changing us without us ever realizing it, I believe we let go. It’s like we’re out on the ocean, in a storm, holding on to faith and who we are meant to be like a life-saving buoy. At some point we let go of who God has us to be. It’s too hard to fight the current, so we let go and the waves take us away. We become someone we don’t even recognize, but should never forget it starts with the decision to let go and let the wind take you where it will.

Consuming Love made me let go of myself. I absorbed the other person, becoming what I thought he wanted. Again, not his fault. I let go.

Even in the years of losing myself, bobbing along like this was what happiness was, I’m thankful for Consuming Love. It taught me how easily I can depend on man to make me feel worthwhile. It showed me that searching for my worth based on how another person loves me will never bear fruit in the end. I realized I must always stay true to what God has for me.

That is love. It never makes you become something you are not. It simply motivates you to grow in what you were always meant to be.

And it was upon my initial breaths of fresh air, pulling myself out of the waves and grabbing my buoy that I found it again.

True Love.

It came back to me. Oh my goodness, the old adage was true. I had let True Love go, and God brought it back. Did I let it go gracefully? Lord knows I didn’t. I let it go kicking and screaming. I let it go reluctantly, with a grudge, running off in the wrong direction, letting my feelings guide me. I let go of True Love, but also my true self. It took about ten years and ten hundred failed and futile, passing relationships to teach me how to love like it truly deserved to be done. Was it a painful process to find True Love once and for all? Very. But I know it happened the way it needed to happen. I made bad decisions, I learned from them, and God worked it all for my good. He does that, you know?

When I found my True Love a second time (the same man, for those of you who don’t know my personal love story), one thing had not changed. It was still easy. Loving him was so easy. Natural. Inhale. Exhale. Meant to be.

Does that mean it came painlessly? No. I came with baggage, and so did he. It was hard at the beginning. I had to take everything that God has shown me through life, and everything that the love of Jesus was proving to be false in that time, and I had to marry it with True Love. I don’t guess it would have worked if we didn’t do that. We couldn’t just learn from our past; we had to learn from God’s Word. We had to realize that our True Love didn’t make our marriage work. It was the True Love of Christ that bound us so perfectly together. That is what had been missing the first time around.

Some people say you only love one person in a lifetime. For me, that’s just not the case. I had to learn to love. I had it inside me all along. I was made to love. I just had to learn how to do it the right way. It took a few tries, and I don’t count them all as failures. I see them as seasons of growth, seasons to fall, seasons to bring me to where I am today.

To all the men I’ve loved before,

I’m sorry. Thank you for loving me, for helping me reach the place I am right at this very moment. For that, I am grateful.

How Not to Be a Christian Witness

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“I just don’t understand it,” she said. “I see all these people getting blessed, but not me.”

I listened to the conversation around me, but I didn’t speak. Do you ever do that? Hear someone say something, have the wisdom for the answer they need, but remain silent knowing they won’t receive it just then? This was my plight. It wasn’t that I was judging this lady; I just was a witness to her character.

She spoke of going to church every time the doors opened, and how she didn’t understand as she saw other people receive God’s blessing. Why not her?

I’m certainly not all-knowing like my Heavenly Father. I don’t understand why some things happen and other things do not. I can’t see from beginning to end, and I struggle through life like anyone. I don’t see the heart of man like God does. Instead I see what human eyes see. I see the outward appearance, I see the actions and life lived. That’s what everyone else around me sees.

The woman in question had a cruel demeanor. No judgment; just stating facts. She frequently spoke down to almost everyone she encountered, stranger or not. She used a condescending tone, and many of her comments let you know she was most concerned for herself. She was rigid, set in her ways, not open to change or the opinions and feelings of others. I wondered what made her that way, and it made me sad for her. How unhappy life must be to always walk around unhappy.

I wasn’t sure why God wasn’t blessing her. I could hypothesize, but it really wasn’t my place, nor did it matter. I didn’t focus on who God was or wasn’t blessing beyond myself. But here’s what I could see. I could see what anyone around me could see. You could see a woman who was quick to talk about being a Christian and going to church, but was just as quick to treat people in a hateful manner or add God’s name to angrily uttered curse words. It was wonderful to proclaim Christianity with your mouth, but if your actions didn’t convey the same, it was useless. Even more harm than good, in my opinion.

The greatest form of worship we can give is the light and love of the life we live.

God doesn’t save us because of our works. We don’t have a punch card to get into Heaven. Like, after ten church visits in a row, admission is free. Our ability to be a “good” Christian doesn’t save us. Only faith in Jesus does that. But our actions do imply our character to everyone around us. So if all a person encounters are bitter, angry, mean-spirited Christians then they will assume that most Christians are the same.

They may say, “what’s the point of that?”

How are Christians different?

Shouldn’t we be?

Set apart, for Him?

To set apart means to be chosen for something different. This world is full of anger, resentment, and grievance. The life of a Christian should be filled with love. So full that it overflows, changes you, sets you apart, and draws people in to know what it is exactly inside you that makes you shine so bright. I believe God blesses that. He blesses our ability to love, to show His love, and to draw people to Him.

Valentine’s Day is coming up. When you love someone you give them a token of your affection. You love them in your heart, but you show them in your actions. When you love the Lord the best way you can show your affection is through the life you lead and the way you treat others. Will you still go to Heaven if you’re intolerable to be around? Yeah. If you have received Jesus as your Savior you will. But if you’re wanting God to bless your life here on earth then you have to give it to Him. And that means a heart change. You take on His character, and it shows in the way you treat others.

As Christians, we are instructed to be His light, to become fishers of men, and to spread the word of His salvation to all nations. It’s The Great Commission, and it’s every Christian’s calling. You may not be called to a foreign mission field, but we all are missionaries in our own right.

You’re a missionary in your home. When your children hear the way you speak about the neighbors, people who have less than yourself, people who are different from you, and even your enemies. You’re witnessing to your children. What will they see? Will it be Jesus?

You’re a missionary at work. How do you treat customers? Or the difficult to deal with coworker? Do people notice something different about you, and do they want to know what it is?

How do you hold up under pressure, or when bad things happen in your life? Don’t feel guilty! We’re all a work in progress. Instead, feel convicted to worship God through your life poured out in love, a sacrifice to Him of giving compassion to others.

You’re a missionary on Facebook in a heated comment section, in a long line at the grocery store, and even in the drive-thru at McDonalds.

This whole world is a mission field, a pool of hurting people in need of God’s love. Let them see it in you. Be the Christian witness you are called to be, not just on Sunday morning, but on Monday morning too.

Do You Know Who’s Watching?

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If you were to take a poll of what’s important for fathers to emulate to their children you’d have quite a few answers. Up at the top would be things like hard worker or good provider, great attributes that my own dad certainly gave. Many would tote honesty and integrity, both of which are definitely characteristics to be modeled and held in high esteem. Heck, I’ve even written about the importance of husbands treating their wives with dignity, respect, and love since their children will base their accepted norms on their parent’s behavior. And while I think that’s a huge responsibility of utmost importance, I expect even more of my husband in regards to training his daughters up correctly. I mean, loving me is easy for him. Treating me well isn’t a stretch. Certainly not as hard as loving the rest of mankind. No, I think my girls aren’t just watching how dad treats mom. They’re watching everything.

“Daddy is kind,” my eight year old spoke softly across the table to me.

“Yes, he is,” I responded with a smile.

I looked over at my husband laughing, smiling, and having a full conversation with a stranger. The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners and radiated a glee to match his smile as he conversed with my spouse. His atrophied hands gestured animatedly as he spoke. His head turned to the side to watch my husband dispose of his lunch trash as he sat still in his weathered, electric wheelchair, pulled up to a lone table in the eatery of our local shopping mall.

I had noticed him sitting there all alone at a table near us, eating Chinese noodles as best he could with the plastic utensils provided. He didn’t have a drink to wash the salty meal down, and I watched as my husband offered him the new bottle of water he had just bought for himself. I watched as he held the bottle up to this stranger’s lips and slowly tilted it up so he could drink. I watched as he dug through the fella’s backpack, per the man’s request, retrieving a pack of gum. I watched as my spouse helped clear his table, and I watched as he held a conversation with him. But I wasn’t the only one watching.

My eight year old spoke again. “Daddy says you should be kind to everyone because you never know when your actions might just make their day. I’ll bet Daddy made his day!”

I smiled.

“Yes, perhaps he did,” I mused.

A little later my husband said his goodbyes, the stranger in the wheelchair drove away, and my spouse took his seat beside me.

“Do you know who was watching you?” I asked, nodding towards our eight year old.

He glanced at our eldest daughter.

“Good,” he said.

Then he started eating his own lunch.

It was easier for a man to love his children, even easy to love his wife. He could work hard for them, help a next door neighbor without a thought, or give his time without hesitation to the church. And these were wonderful, great things! But what of the strangers? What of the people that everyone else ignored? The ones that people diverted their eyes so as not to stare. The invisible strangers who needed a hand, but usually just got walked on by. What about the people we didn’t know, the ones we didn’t feel obligated to assist, the awkward, unknown people that walked in our periphery? The stranger on the side of the road, beaten by life, alone and silent. Did we often walk to the other side of the road, look away, push it from our mind, keep moving? Usually, yes. It was a bit harder to help someone outside our own circle, beyond our front porch, or different from us. Yet weren’t we called to shine light on all the world?

My girls were watching their father, and I was proud they were. He treated me like royalty and with love, but then again, he showed his love to everyone he encountered. That love opened his eyes to everyone he encountered, even the lone, disabled guy at an empty table that a hundred others had ignored. His love came out as kindness to his fellow man, and his children saw this as just normal behavior. They saw it as the way you were supposed to be. They saw his kind heart, the impact it made on others, and my hope is that they would model it, growing up to always be a helping hand to those in need, a loving friend to all, and a bright light in a too often dark world.

They were watching him, and I was glad.

She Was the Original Pinterest Mom

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I don’t even know what conversation brought it to my mind, but for some reason this week I was reminded of my mother dressing up like a peanut for me. The year was 1986, and I was in fourth grade. It was our class’s Field’s Day, where we competed in outdoor athletics with other kids in other grades. We were affectionately called Price’s Peanuts, after our teacher Mrs. Price, but I’m not sure where the peanuts came in.

I didn’t know she was going to do it, and I’m not sure how she managed to keep it a secret. One minute I was standing on the sidelines cheering on my friends, and the next I was marveling at the magnificent creature cresting the hill of our softball field. The sun shown through her arms that rested confidently on her hips, and then in a triumphant celebration of prowess she waved a tiny flag with the letter P emblazoned across its front. Never had I seen a giant peanut/person look so grand!

My mother had taken an egg crate mattress and spray painted it brown, but that was just the beginning of her phenomenal nut costume. Topped with a netted, trucker’s hat, and finished off with larger than life shoes, my Mom arrived to our Field’s Day as our marvelous mascot, spurring us on to victory. All the other kids thought my Maw was so cool, but no one was as proud as me. She was my hero.

My mother was the original Pinterest Mom. She was the creative mother who brought a sparkle to her children’s life with her fantastical ideas and all the little extras. She drew amazing cartoon characters on all my otherwise boring, brown-paper book covers, making me the envy of all my pals. She also decorated my brown sack lunches with a new caricature and comical story every day, creating something much more grand than the ordinary lunchboxes adorned with Smurfs and He-Man that everyone else carried.

My Halloween Party was the best around, and I felt proud as a peacock as my friends sat blindfolded and delightfully frightened while dipping their fingers into the witch’s bowl of eyeballs (peeled grapes), intestines (spaghetti noodles), and children’s bones (thanks KFC). She existed in a world before the internet, where she came up with these fantastical ideas all on her own, not scouring the web and mommy blogs for the perfect party games.

She taught me how to cook from big, Betty Crocker cookbooks, and we rolled out our own Christmas cookies before social media said this was the best way to make memories with your child during the Holiday season. She made reindeer tracks on the roof without the suggestion of Facebook, and left magical evidence of St. Nick’s presence before Elf on the Shelf was required to keep kids interested. She told stories, made up dances and songs, and created fun games without the suggestion of educational sites. But I suppose the most significant thing to me was that she did all these things, and hundreds others I haven’t mentioned, without the necessity to show off her work.

When my mother decorated my room in the most wonderful way for an eight year old, she snapped a photo with her 35mm camera, just one picture that she herself couldn’t see. We waited until the roll of film was full before waiting another three to five days for it to be processed and printed. It didn’t have a filter, and it went straight into her photo album. She didn’t even share it to Facebook! A thing that didn’t exist. She took the photo for her and for me, just like she painstakingly designed my room decor for me. She didn’t do it for the accolades, for the adoration of others, and she didn’t require “likes” to make it feel worthwhile.

My Mom was the original Pinterest Mom before life required pinning, sharing, and the opinion or approval of the masses. She did all the things she did not for her fans or followers, but simply for the pleasure of it. She did the things she did for her children. She did it for the joy of parenting, without the worries of what others thought, and without the binding of other’s opinions. She had the luxury of being able to enjoy the things she did for her children, without the distraction of documenting it for everyone else.

Now, listen, I’m probably the biggest sharer out there, and I love documenting the things my daughters get to experience and see. I love photos, filters, and posting to social media for friends and family far away to see. I’m not as creative as my mother, so I need the help of others on Pinterest and craft blogs. I’m grateful for it, and I don’t judge anyone for doing the very things I do as well. But what I do envy my mother for is a simpler time, a time when she could pour love into her children through her creative tendencies and gifting without worries of what others might think. Everything didn’t have to be picture perfect, and in that somehow everything was perfect. It was perfect to me, and in my cherished memories it is perfectly wonderful.

My Mom could take a photo for herself, just one, not compelled to capture the best one. Then she could simply enjoy the moment. She could bake us the birthday cake she envisioned, not one she thought would photograph well, or one from the baker all the other moms were using. It wasn’t a time that was all about brand names; it was a time all about enjoying your children. She didn’t purchase our clothes with concerns of fitting in or keeping up with The Joneses. She got the stuff she thought was cute. The delightful horrible styles of the eighties and nineties, complete with awful hats at Easter and hideous Christmas sweaters before they were a funny fad. I look back in her photo albums at these pictures with a smile and happy memories, a time when a Pinterest-like mom wasn’t worried about Pinterest Perfection or a Mommy Fail. She just enjoyed what she did, because she loved her children, and there was no pressure to try and be like anyone else.

I try to carry on her memory in style, continuing her legacy. And no, I’ll never be able to draw like her, make up jokes like her, or come up with costumes and ideas like she did. One year she made me a garbage bag for Halloween. It was amazing. But anyway… I don’t mean I carry on her legacy by being as creative and artistic as she was. That’s a level I just can’t obtain. But I do try my best to carry on her legacy by not giving a crap what other people do or think is cool! I strive to do the things I do for my girls because I love them, to do it for them, not because I think I should since Karen does. I try and not compare my mothering to that of anyone else, to not place importance on fads, or attempt the perfection of social media standards.

If I ever appear to be like a “Pinterest Mom,” it’s not for the benefit of anyone else, but simply for my girls. I want them one day to look back on their memories with me like I do with my own mother, smiling at the things we did in joy together, not at the things I forced to be a certain way. Many times I see stressed-out moms doing parties and activities because they feel guilted into it. They believe they must perform a certain way, do certain activities to make their child’s life memorable and grand. Yet in the end it’s the love that truly matters. I don’t smile at memories of my Mom because of the things she did, but rather the reason that she did them. She did all those things out of love, and I reckon as long as your mothering in love then it will always be perfect, whether it’s worth Pinning on a board or not. It will be Pinned in your child’s memory forever, and that’s the most important part.

The Only Thing That Needs to Be Said

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I once took care of a patient with what’s called a “difficult” family member. It was the kind of family member that when they arrived the staff would make themselves scarce. All the nurses would roll their eyes or sigh in exasperation, myself included. Because this family member was that bad. I would imagine this person encountered that type of reception wherever they went. But, I mean, wasn’t he kinda asking for it?

You see, this guy was a typical drunk, a longtime alcoholic, with yellow eyes and a sunken-in face. His clothes hung loosely on his malnourished frame, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with urine and body odor permeated from his dirty, wrinkled clothing. He’d been known to pass out at the hospital room bedside, after vomiting all over the floor. As if the staff didn’t have enough to do for their patients without caring for visitors too.

One day when I encountered him, his hair stood up on his head, and snot ran down his nose after he had taken a long public transportation ride through winter weather to come to the hospital to visit. His breath reeked of alcohol, and he struggled to keep his words from slurring as he questioned me about his spouse. He repeated the same questions he had asked the day before, and his eyes jumped back and forth as he stuttered and spoke.

I answered his questions the best I could, and as I left the room I thought of the fact that it could just as easily be me in his shoes. With a history of alcoholism in my family, and a history of my own, I knew had I not stopped drinking, it could be me there slurring my words. I couldn’t judge this man, but I figured I could feed him. So I gathered up a chicken salad sandwich and some juice. Then I took it to the room.

Of course, he was grateful, and he thanked me. I answered that it wasn’t a problem, but it was what he said after that really got me.

He spoke very clearly this,

My Momma always told me I talked too much. She said that a child of God didn’t have to speak a word, that their light would just shine whatever needed to be said. I’ve always remembered her saying that.

Well, I want you to know that your light says all that needs to be said.

His wise words, first spoken by his mother, stopped my heart for a moment. I was humbled and grateful that God could use me in such a small way to shine His light of love to one of His children.

I guess we all have a choice each and every day. It’s not always the easiest choice, given the circumstances, but it’s a choice nonetheless. Each day we are afforded the opportunity to love on folks. We can just love the ones that are easy to love, like our children, and that will still please the Lord. But we are also given the opportunity to love the ones who might be more difficult to love, for whatever reason. Subsequently, these are usually the ones who happen to need love the most. It’s our choice if we’ll see the chance, and then make the decision to step out in love and grab the opportunity by the horns to be the hands and feet of Jesus.

I’m quite certain I fall short of this opportunity often, sadly, but I was so blessed to be able to choose love and let it shine on this particular day.

May we all try and open our eyes a little wider, our hearts a bit bigger, and may we say to the world all that really needs to be said, simply by shining His light.

I Choose You

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When you make a decision to spend the rest of your life with someone you’re actually making a choice for them. You make a declaration to yourself that says, “this is the person. This is the one for me.” You look around your own little world, you find the person that makes your toes tingle, belly quiver, and heart flutter. You make the conscious choice to be with that person, and that person only. You say, “I choose you!”

But it’s what follows that really matters.

Have you ever been in that weird state between sleep and wakefulness? It’s that spell of time right before you drift off, but you’re still not quite there yet. You’re not asleep, yet not really awake. It’s like an in between time. Well, in my in between time my husband came to my rescue.

My eyes had fluttered shut, I’m sure. The room was darkened, but not completely without light. The glimmer of illumination shown from the television, the nearly muted sound of a familiar movie in the background. This was how my husband had always slept. With the TV on, turned down a bit, but still offering a kind of white noise and glimmer of light to the bedtime experience. It was in this dimness and dull roar that my heavy eyes flew open in surprised fear.

I jumped up from my pillow suddenly, sitting straight up in our bed, heart racing, a soft shriek of surprise escaping from me.

“What’s the matter?” My husband asked quickly.

I could hear the fog sticking to his words, saw the dullness in his somehow steady gaze, and knew by his posture, albeit at the ready, that he too had almost been asleep.

“It’s a spider,” I exclaimed. “On my window shade!”

I’d like to mention, at this point, that I’m not afraid of spiders. I’m just not. Having been raised by a mother who picked up bugs to place them outside rather than squashing them, a mother who brought me up with unusual pets like rats and snakes, I had no terror of slimy, slithering, or skittering things. Having been a woman who had picked up nonpoisonous spiders in my hand, and surprised my spouse by showing him a black widow I had captured, I wasn’t prone to hysterics over a loose arachnoid. But… I also didn’t want anything crawling around over my bed while I slept, spider or otherwise. So when I had spotted a spider crawling up the window shade right next to my pillow, I had come awake immediately to capture this furry foe.

“Where did you see it?!” He asked excitedly.

At this point I should mention something about my husband. While I might not fear spiders, the opposite could be said of him. He’s more aptly described as having a terror of spiders. Like, if you want to hear a forty year old, over six feet tall man scream like a little girl, then present him with a spider of any kind. He even checks his shoes every single time before putting them on, lest a spider be in the toe.

So I was a bit taken off guard when he leapt to my aid. I watched sleepily as my husband crouched on my side of the bed, listening and looking as I detailed my spider sighting. As we both sat there, still half asleep, and I recounted the blurry bug crawling across my window blind, I believe we both knew it was likely a trick of my eyes induced by a dream state approaching. We both were sleepy, we both were previously comfortable under the covers, and we both pretty much knew there wasn’t a spider afoot. Yet my husband, the one who was deathly fearful of spiders, had jumped out of bed, rather than rolling over in slumber, and had come to my side. He looked high and low to put my mind at ease, and as I watched him searching for my imaginary, eight-legged arachnid I smiled.

This guy really loves me, I thought.

And I’ve learned over the years that’s what choosing someone is all about. It’s all about love in action. It’s about not just saying the words, “I love you,” but showing it in the most ridiculous ways. Because life is ridiculous. It’s full of surprise accidents, unexpected illnesses, rude awakenings, and bombshells of all sorts. When you say, “I choose you,” you’re really saying that you’re in it together, 100%, through good times and bad, ups and downs, and all of the above. It’s saying that even when it’s scary, I’m with you. It’s saying that even when the situation sucks, I’ll stick by your side. It’s saying I choose it all, every part, because together we’ll conquer this thing called life. It’s saying I choose to make it through this world with you. Let’s do this!

So when I saw my spouse on all fours, looking under the bed for what we both knew to be a nonexistent, sleep-induced sighting, he still knelt down to search. He did it so I could rest. He did it despite the hour, despite the absurdity. He did it because he loved me. He did it because we had chosen one another. And sometimes most of the time choosing someone meant you chose to go through everything together. Even the stuff that personally scared you to bits.

In life and love you find that person. You find them, and you choose them! But then it’s what happens after that choice that matters the most.

I’ve Tried to Get Scared, But I Just Can’t

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Something very strange happened to me after my third child and as I entered my forties. My worry and anxiety skyrocketed! I mean, I’ve always been an over thinker, and I’ve also always had a propensity to angle for control of a situation. I like ducks in a row, I like knowing beginning to end, and I like smooth sailing seas. That’s always been my personality. But it has gotten worse over the past couple of years. If I had a conflict with another person I found myself agonizing over it for days, and the tendency to create problems out of thin air became ridiculous. In my mind I could concoct worst case scenario like nobody’s business. I became a professional worry wart.

Well, let me tell you something about that. It’s exhausting! I felt like I was going against the grain of who I am as a Christian. I would read all kinds of Bible verses talking about trusting the Lord, but then I’d keep myself up at night with legitimate concerns and made-up problems alike. I would pray without ceasing for God to help me with an issue, but I couldn’t cease worrying if He would. It was a vicious cycle of surrender and anxiety that left me feeling very deflated. I was tired of being afraid, and I told the Lord as much. Over the years I have spoken scriptures regarding fear over myself, and they’ve helped to dispel incapacitating worry from my life so that I could proceed day to day, but I still battled with it regularly. It was like a cross I had to bear and die to self about daily. I’m not exactly sure what shifted, but I do recall not too long ago when the Lord spoke His Word to me so strongly that I felt a change deep inside my heart.

There is no fear in love.

That’s what He spoke to my heart as I stood in the kitchen of my RV. I spoke the rest of the verse from 1 John to myself. Because perfect love drives out fear. It was at this moment that like a lightening bolt the truth of this statement took hold. His love resides in me. Therefore there could be no fear. It just wasn’t cohesive. I prayed about it long and hard. At the time we were located at an RV park near a patch of woods, and I just felt like I was supposed to leave my fear right there. I felt kinda silly, but I threw on some shoes, walked outside, stared at those woods, and I symbolically laid down my fear on the forest floor. The name of the park had “Cross City” in its name, and I told the Lord I was gonna leave my fear right there at the cross. And that’s what I did.

I’ve had a lot of issues come across the board of my life since that day, and I’m not going to lie and say some of them haven’t caused me concern. They have. Take for instance the recent hurricane that’s currently hitting the coast of the state I’m living in. Watching people evacuate the area, my hospital put into effect emergency policies, and of course, the very dramatic news reports would make anyone a little uneasy. We are, after all, living in a fifth wheel trailer. They’re not known for being the most stable abode, and this would be our first storm in one. Thoughts of leaks and so much more came to mind! Yet despite my legitimate concerns, I couldn’t stay worried. I realized I wasn’t afraid.

Friends and family began reaching out to me in large numbers. I realized my dear friends and family were more worried than I was. It wasn’t that I was being blasé or having Scarlet O’Hara syndrome. I was watching the weather. We even had a couple of evacuation and relocation plans in place if need be. It wasn’t like we were being irresponsible. It’s just that more than fear for a storm, I felt peace. I felt a very deep and very steady peace flooding my spirit. I couldn’t be afraid of this storm no matter how hard I tried. My husband felt the same way, and as he sent a photo of a double rainbow he took over our RV Park, I realized I only felt certainty that God would keep a hedge of protection around us.

For the record, we’re not on the coast, and if we were I would be on a higher alert with immediate evacuation in mind. But I still would not be afraid. And I’m not afraid now. I just can’t be, no matter how hard my human mind may try to be. We’re staying put unless the Lord gives us the wisdom to go elsewhere. I trust His ability to lead us to safety if need be, and I trust His protection over my family. Even if He took our lives in the storm, I would trust His will. I’m not afraid of death. If there’s anything that would make me afraid, it’s a life lived without His perfect love to drive out fear. I’m not naive. I know this imperfect world brings situations that will absolutely usher in things worthy of being scared of (like an intruder with a gun, a missing child, or a hurricane). But I also know I have the choice at that point to hold tightly to that love that exists within me. For there is no fear in love.

Here It Is, Folks. The Most Important Part.

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There’s a big world out there. We forget that part. Somewhere between back-to-school clothes shopping, Girl’s Night Out, and getting your tag renewed we forget that. We get so caught up in our own spacious lawn that we miss the stretch of hills and valleys beyond it. Our thoughts get convoluted, our schedule gets overloaded, and our list of priorities rearranges. We lose sight of simple pleasures, become more and more easily frustrated, and fall behind the eight ball of mounting demands upon us. Welcome to The American Dream.

Today I was driving to visit some family. I was driving ten miles per hour over the posted speed limit when a car came up closely on my rear. She persisted there as we drove over curvy, hilly roads, but eventually passed me on a double yellow line. As she passed she made angry gestures and pretty sure she almost made this ole sailor blush when I read her lips. This came on the tail end of a stranger’s rude comments in Walmart over the behavior of children in general and how I should keep mine out of his way as he hurried through the store. The day reminded me how so many people rushed along oblivious to the blessings of life, angry over assumed injustices, and how self-absorbed most of society could be. We miss what’s really important in life.

There’s a great big world out there. It so happens to be a place where not everyone is concerned with name brands, manicures, and a perfectly maintained flower bed. Somewhere on a park bench sits a young mother worrying how she will feed herself and her son, where they’ll stay for the night, and if her estranged husband will find them. Across town a lady turns the plate of her Hello Fresh, snaps a picture with the perfect filter, and shares to Instagram her supper for all her followers to see.

There’s a great big world out there. It’s a place where some people will curse in rage at the slow car ahead of them, delaying their pursuit of froyo with friends. They pass quickly and blindly by the homeless man holding a cardboard sign that says, “Jesus loves.”

We get frustrated at slow internet connections, our son’s birthday cake not being just right, or too much laundry that has to be done. We get mad at nuisances we create. Too many clothes to put away because we over-shop, too much yard work because we went into debt for the house with a larger lawn, and an overloaded schedule that we ourselves generated. We worry about where we’ll have our eleven year old’s party and if the decorations will be enough. Everything in life has a theme, an overinflated, trumpeting celebration for the everyday mundane, complete with perfect pictures to prove it happened.

Each moment becomes framed, worrying what others may think, striving to make a good impression, working hard for applause. Life becomes a modeling shoot, focus is aimed at self, vision becomes tunnel-like. Your eyes unintentionally see only you and yours, and that whole, big world out there falls away. A selfish generation, set on success, yet only judging success by the standards of the carnal world. Sounds harsh, right? But I’m talking to myself as well.

You find yourself in a rat race, living each day just like the one before. You go to work to pay the credit card bills, or to save up for a Disney vacation you’ll need another week off to recover from. You never see your friend in need, and you’re too busy rushing to your next appointment to see the family member who needs a hand. Why are suicide rates soaring? Because no one sees the pain of others anymore. How sad.

We get too busy doing the things that don’t matter to see the things that do. Our priorities get out of whack. Our second grader needs all A’s so they can get into a good college, but will they grow up knowing they’re loved even if they get a C or a D instead? Will they feel the freedom to not go to college at all? Will our sons play every sport out there, but miss the lesson of helping out the little guy? Will our daughters wear the most popular, boutique clothing, but never understand that the girl in Walmart duds is really cool to be around?

Will our children expect a truckload of toys on Christmas and Easter, and never know that wonderful feeling you have inside when you give someone your last dollar? Will they understand you’re more than what you do for a living, how much money you make, or even the car you drive? Will they understand it’s how you love others that really matters?

Will we raise children who follow our pursuits for earthly riches, but realize one day they have invested nothing in their eternal life? Haha, it’s all jokes and eye rolls when people talk about Heaven, but who will laugh when everything turns to dust? When you’re old and alone on your death bed will it be that imperfect birthday cake from forty years before that crosses your mind? When you are gone will they say things like, “she always took the best selfies?” Will you be remembered for the cupcakes you took to your daughter’s school? Perhaps your memorial will read “she had really great hair” or “she got everywhere on time.” I hope mine doesn’t say “she always got pissed in traffic,” or “she was excellent at ignoring the needs of others.”

There’s a whole, big world out there. It’s a world where materialistic possessions are few and far between rather than so abundant we gripe on social media about having to dust them all. It’s a world where loving on your family means more than the perfect family photo. It’s a world where a party can just be getting together with people and sharing a good time rather than struggling to pick the perfect, unique theme, stressing over getting enough party favors, and creating the most Pinterest-perfect photo booth ever! It’s a world where people are loved just because they’re people not because they wear Matilda Jane, Under Armour, or real Converse. It’s a world where we teach our children by our actions rather than expecting Sunday School and their teacher to do it. We show them how to love because we love. We teach them how to give grace, love the unlovable, judge not, lend a hand to those in need, and never, I mean never, take a single moment for granted.

We live in a world where each moment is rushed in anticipation of the next great moment. In this we miss it all.

God has great things in store for us all, mighty plans to change the world and the hearts of those around us. We simply allow ourselves to be distracted from His best by the busyness, the minuscule matters, and the window dressing of daily life. The daily grind depletes our passion for the Lord, and the cares of this world choke out our joy. There’s so much more if we can open our eyes to it. And in this realization of what’s really important we see that our focus should be on loving Jesus, loving others like He does, and making Him known to everyone we encounter. In essence, what really matters beyond that? It’s secondary.

Here’s my prayer today. Lord, I pray you give me eyes, humble eyes that see beyond myself. Vision to see my fellow man, an outlook that is pleasing to you, and one that values what you value. May I teach my children your love, may I savor the gifts you’ve given, and may I give abundantly to others. Let me not be distracted from your glory by the things of this world, may I not fall away in favor of that I cannot take with me to eternity. Give me eyes to see what you have for my life, and help me to see your will. May I always remember that loving you and freely giving your love is what sustains me in this life. Help me to remember what’s really important, and not be distracted by the things that are not.

A Father’s Biggest Responsibility, That He Might Not Know

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I am blessed to be able to raise my children with my partner, my husband. Parenting is hard, so having someone to share the responsibility with is huge. I have utmost respect for those women who do it alone for I cannot imagine raising my daughters on my own. There are so many things that my husband does with our children that I feel he is better suited for than me. For example, it’s easier for him to say no and lay down the law. I guess I’m a pushover for those sweet smiles. But his ability to set much needed limits isn’t the main reason I’m thankful for his presence. Not even close.

For many families the father may be the main disciplinarian. After all, who can raise their hand in agreement that waiting for Dad to pull into the driveway after doing something dumb was the worst punishment of all as a kid? “Just wait until your father gets home,” was a dreaded phrase many of us heard growing up, and I have to admit I’ve used it on my own girls a time or two. But Father Fear Factor isn’t the main reason I cherish my spouse’s involvement in child rearing. Nope, not it.

Traditionally the father had been the breadwinner for the household, bringing home the bacon while mom holds down the home-front. And although I happen to be the one working currently while my hubby homeschools the children, I’ve truly enjoyed being a homemaker in the past while he earned the majority income for us. He’s proven himself an excellent provider, and I’m blessed to have a hardworking husband to take care of me. But his ability to provide financially isn’t the most important thing he brings to the table in our family’s journey.

I’ve always enjoyed allowing my husband to lead our family, standing firm as the head of the household, guiding the decisions we make together as a team, and protecting us from harm, be it physical or spiritual in nature. His strong presence, stoic nature, and wisdom in life is an asset to us all. I place much value on his role in our family, but I’ve discovered something even more important that our daughters get to witness each day.

My husband is honest, fair, and kind to others. He always has a smile, friendly response, and love truly guides his actions. He works hard, does his fair share around the home, and watches his language around the children. He doesn’t drink alcohol or hang out, partying with his friends. He’s a great example to our daughters every day on how to live life, love people, and serve the Lord. Yes, I’m blessed. But something he did recently really highlighted to me the example he is setting for our girls. It stuck out as something very special.

I was laying in bed, about to doze off, since I had to work in the morning, when suddenly I caught snippets of conversation coming from the living room. I strained to hear whispered voices through the closed, bedroom door, and I began to smile at the words spoken by my spouse. He was reading from the Bible, and he explained the verses as they went along.

I heard him explain, “it’s my job to love your Mom like Jesus loves us all, and to treat her right.”

I could just imagine their bright eyes and eager faces as they soaked in every word he spoke, and it was at that moment I understood the importance he had in their lives. As a father of daughters he was their first example of how a man acted, or rather, should act. He was the plumb line by which they measured a man’s intentions as right and true. He was the model they would call upon when choosing a spouse of their own. His model he set forth would directly impact their future decisions on choosing a mate and on successful, healthy relationships, and that was paramount! He set the standard for how they should be respected as women, and he laid down the precedent for how a man should love and honor his wife. They watched his treatment of me, and that illustration of unconditional and selfless love would be the pattern they would likely follow years down the road. His impact on their future happiness in marriage was real, and I knew the biggest truth of parenthood:

They’re always watching!

So Dad, your daughters are watching how you treat their Mom. They will utilize your example as the norm for male behavior. Are you ok with that? If not, something needs to change.

Dad, your sons are watching how you love and honor their Mom. The model you display will mold their future behavior in their own marriages. Is that something you can be proud of impacting? If not, something needs to change.

Fathers have many responsibilities in their children’s lives, and other than leading them closer to Christ there is none so important as the model of behavior they set forth in marriage. Your actions impact their future actions, and it’s always wise to keep that in mind. So I leave you with a question. What legacy do you pass down to your children for a happy, healthy married life?