Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

You Know Who Didn’t Use Their Past as an Excuse?

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I’ve taken care of the alcoholic patient who says, “I come by it naturally. Both of my parents drank.”

I’ve had the friend who said, “you don’t understand. My Dad left when I was a kid.”

Never realizing that I did understand. Can’t we all say in one way or another, me too.

I’ve had the women in my circle who feel powerless to life, as if what they’ve been dealt all along is all there is.

A young man born into poverty and gang-banging sees no way out of the hood.

A young girl from the trailer park doesn’t even try to do well in school. I mean, she’ll always be so-and-so’s kid, after all.

We believe in things like family tradition, genetics, predisposition, or karma, and while I believe something can “run in the family,” I’m also of the mind that my God is bigger.

We think our last name makes us who we are, or perhaps how we were raised. Yet anyone who has determined to become a different kind of parent than what raised them understands the power of change.

Things don’t have to be a certain way, just because that’s the way it’s always been. Anyone who has broken the chains of familial addiction, mental illness, and abuse can attest.

This morning my husband was reading the Old Testament (again), and as he’s prone to do, he spoke to me his observations as he read.

This morning he mused, “you know, it really doesn’t talk about Moses’s early life as an Egyptian.”

And he was right. It told the story of his sister placing him in the reed basket, how his mother was allowed to nurse him, and even how Pharaoh’s daughter named him. But then it skips to, “one day, after Moses had grown up…”

I answered my spouse, “that kinda proves that your past isn’t what defines you. It’s who God has you to become that matters.”

You see, Pharaoh’s daughter may have given Moses his name, but it was Mighty God who gave him a purpose. It was God who defined who he would be. He was to be the deliverer of his people from Egypt. It didn’t matter that he had been raised as an Egyptian. God had more for him.

I think what we forget in life is that God has more for us all, and even if we’re born as a Saul, Christ can meet us on a dusty road and make us a Paul. He can take an unwanted child and adopt them into His family. He can take a reject who has been called a loser and say, “no, you’re my beloved.”

We need to remember that in God’s story for us, perhaps some parts won’t be as noteworthy as we think. Our failures don’t have to follow us, and our mistakes don’t have to define us. Our family history doesn’t have to become our history, and the way things have always been can become no more.

A sinner can become a saint, an orphan, adopted, and the rejected redeemed. He can make all things new, and any thought that says otherwise is a flat out lie. Do you know who didn’t use their past as an excuse? Crack open the pages of your Bible and you’ll be overwhelmed by people who by the standards of the world would be all washed up, a lost cause, a regrettable faux pas. Joseph would have been an ex-con, or Peter a terrible friend. Rahab would have been labeled a dirty whore, or Mary, the mother of Jesus, an embarrassing teen mom. I’m certain that John the Baptist would have been at the weirdo table in the cafeteria, and David would never be able to hold his head up again in church on Sunday after that regrettable incident with Bathsheba.

I think it’s no coincidence that Moses’s high school yearbook it’s splashed throughout the beginning chapters of Exodus, or that a description of his name brand, Egyptian cotton duds aren’t dropped in the mix. It didn’t matter where he came from, but it did matter how God would use it for his good. In turn, it doesn’t matter what our unmentionable pages proclaim. It only matters what God is writing for our future, and how He can take us from an extra in Scene One, to a leading role in Act Three.

So, if your previous story is one you’d rather just forget, realize you’re in good company. God has a tendency to take the biggest misfits and make them masters, or to transform the cursed to blessed. He can raise the dead, so I’m certain He can pull any of us from the pit of our family story, whatever it may be. He says to the crippled, “walk,” and to the blind man, “see.” He can certainly edit our story for His glory. Just ask and see.

Three Things God Has Done for Me

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I was recently reading a devotional, and in it the author encouraged the reader to make a list of three things God has done in your life. Initially, I laughed to myself. Only three! I mean, God has done more in my life than I could possibly fit on paper. Even a whole notebook. He woke me up in the morning, gave me hot water to shower with, and who could forget about coffee?! Talk about the best invention ever! And that’s just the first hour of my day. How in the world I could just pick three, I didn’t know, but I felt led to try. As I quieted my mind, these three bullets came to me, and I thought I would share them with you.

1. He healed me. Ok, so I could start with how God miraculously healed me of epilepsy. How after a decade-long battle of neurologist visits, medications three times a day, abnormal EEG’s, and debilitating migraines, He took the disease completely, totally, and immediately from me. I could talk about that, but no, it’s more than just a seizure disorder.

I could tell you how He took the pain from my knees, the pain that had been there since my twenties, the messed up knees that a doctor had told me when I was twelve years old would eventually “go out on me.” I could tell you how I carried that curse and constant pain into my forties, but the day I asked for His healing, they never hurt me again. But this is about more than not needing a knee replacement after all.

I could testify to physical healing, of myself, and of my children. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that God isn’t limited to just one kind of healing. He certainly had healed my physical body, but He had also healed the rest of me. If I looked on the outside like I used to feel on the inside, I would resemble an old China doll. The lines of harsh reality had riddled my fragile shell like cracks in aged porcelain. One wrong move and I probably would have shattered to pieces. But God.

My life before the love of Christ was broken. Torn by the pain of rejection, I felt lacking. Twisted by the lies that I was only as good as the people who had left me in life, I felt worth little more than nothing. I felt empty. We’re not made to feel that way, and as such I wasted many years trying to fill myself with anything I could. Anything that would give me some substance, make me feel worthwhile. I sought the approval of man, and I numbed my pain with empty indulgence. I tried to be better, basing my worth on what I could achieve in life. It never felt like enough. It wasn’t until I found the love of Jesus that I could be healed from all the hurt this world had piled upon me.

He healed me from the pain of sin, and He gave me eternal life. He healed me from my past, and He gave me a future. He healed me from rejection, and He adopted me as His own. He healed me from the bondage of slavery, and He gave me real freedom to live life fully and joyfully.

2. He gave me a new identity. I have had several last names in my life. I had the one I was born with, and later, my adoptive dad’s last name. I had my first husband’s last name, and now I have my second husband’s name. I have held many titles in life, some of them I’d rather forget, but others that I’m proud to go by to this day. I love holding the role of wife, mother, nurse, and friend. I’m a writer, a Navy veteran, an encourager, and a singer at times. I’ve been known to be a goofball, a crybaby, and even an outcast. I have been labeled things that make me cringe, and I’ve been called names that made me cry. But do you know what all these things have in common?

They are meaningless.

They are meaningless when held alongside my identity in Christ. Often times in life we can falsely build our worth and self esteem on the titles we possess or roles we play. We think we’re what our last name is, what job we perform, or how well we perform it. We assume we’re what we do, the mistakes we’ve made, or even the things we’ve failed to achieve. We fall to lies that we’re held back by who our family is, genetics, our financial circumstances, where we live, the way it’s always been, or our lot in life. We never reach the potential God has for us because we believe in a false identity. The identity of this world.

When I came to know the Lord, I realized my true identity was in Him. I was His child. I was created in His image, with a destiny in mind. I was forethought, artfully designed, on purpose, with each detail precisely constructed in love. I was worth dying for, and I was worth pursuing. I was a child of the King, protected, holy, worthy, righteous, and redeemed. I was His. I was not alone. I was loved.

3. He gave me a purpose beyond myself. Once I found myself healed and whole, loved and set free, I felt an urgency to share this miraculous happening. It’s like, if you suddenly had the best cup of coffee in your life. It would be all you could talk about. You’d make sure your spouse, your best friend, and all your coworkers knew how to find this divine cup of joe. This is where I found myself.

Each day, as my spirit draws closer to the Lord, I become more certain of the plans He has for me. Knowing my identity in Him, I am able to throw off the minuscule concerns of this world that have no eternal perspective. I am able to shed the busyness, the ridiculous distractions that vie for my attention, and in essence, pull me further from His truth. I think that’s the first step to finding God’s purpose for your life. You have to be able to let go of all that entangles you, trying to take first chair over His kingdom.

As you can release the treasures of this world, and can begin building eternal equity instead, you can find true purpose. You can find true peace. True joy, even.

When you can let go of the things of this world, the titles and roles that you think complete you, and instead find real fulfillment through your heritage and the inheritance of your Heavenly Father, you will discover your true path in life. Consider this world a practice run. The real thing is what awaits us.

When I realized this profound, yet simple truth, I found purpose. I found a purpose beyond myself and my front yard. I found a way to be full, to the brim, and an understanding that because of Him, I am never lacking. And in this fullness of life, I make each day about pouring out that love on others. The more I give, the more I get. I never realized that before.

So, now I would encourage you. Sit down, clear your mind, and ask yourself, “what has God done for me?” You might just discover along the way, what you can do for Him.

We’re All Defective

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Once I cared for a young man who had survived an overdose attempt. He was young enough to be my son, and as I looked at his handsome face and deep, kind eyes, I did feel an almost motherly affection for him. In fact, after we had gotten comfortable with one another I jokingly addressed him as “son,” and he in turn called me “mom.” It was a good day, that day, and my time with him reminded me of something we can all forget.

We’re all broken. In one way or another.

He had just so happened to hit his rock bottom place. Do you remember yours? Maybe you haven’t hit it yet.

I can recall mine. I was around the same age as him. College. That time where you’re supposed to be grown, and it seems like everyone expects you to have it all figured out. It’s funny to me, an age where an individual has the ability to lay their life on the line for their country, is also an age where so much uncertainty can be. But I’ve found that it’s in those lonely, indeterminate times that God meets us. When our hands are thrown in the air, when we cannot find the answers, at the end of our rope; there He is.

This young man reminded me so much of myself. Sensitive, tearful, soft-spoken, kind. The tears in his eyes felt like my own, and if I could have placed my understanding of life at forty-two into his own fragile state of mind, I probably would have, but I also know that we must all get to that place in our own time. It took me a long time to get there. I still pray now that it won’t take him near as long.

During one of our many, heartfelt conversations he shared his broken spirit, in shaking, emotional words.

He cried, “I’m defective!”

And my heart broke for him. Empathetic, I felt his pain. I had known it myself. I wanted to run to his rescue, to console my son, to encourage him, to tell him how lovely he was.

I wanted to say, “no you’re not!” But something held me back.

How many times had others tried to make me see myself like Jesus saw me? Precious, loved, made new? Until I was ready to see myself like God intended, it was just words. And although it was all true, I was beautiful and made perfect, it wasn’t until I accepted my brokenness that I could allow Jesus to fix me.

So instead I answered him, “yes, you are defective! So am I! So is everyone. It’s called being human. And it’s ok.”

If God had a clubhouse with a sign above the door I am very certain what it wouldn’t say. It wouldn’t read,

No Sinners Allowed

It wouldn’t proclaim,

No Brokenness Can Enter Here

The Lord certainly isn’t the little boy on the school bus in Forest Gump saying, “you can’t sit here!”

No, I like to think that Jesus is more like Jenny, patting the empty seat beside her, a smile even though we’re a little weird, a little different, a little defective.

No, I think if God had a clubhouse, the uneven, wooden slab above the door would read in faded, red paint,

No Perfect People Allowed

It’s only once we’ve accepted His invitation inside that we are made perfect through Him. And even that is a journey.

We’re all broken, you see, in one way or another. Many of us experienced a horrible childhood, some worse than others. Some can move on from the ashes, and others not so much. I do know this; we all need a hand out of our mess. We’re all defective, like my young patient felt, and it’s in that mangled mess that God can save us. It’s in our weakness that His strength emerges, and it’s in our hopeless, helpless, unrecoverable life that He can make all things new.

You know what you can’t see when you’re at the bottom? The top. You know what you can’t see in the midst of misery? The way out. It’s ok. It’s ok because He is the light at the end of the tunnel. He is the hand that pulls us out of our mess.

God doesn’t expect our perfection to come to Him. He just wants our love. He takes care of all the rest. So, while the bad news is that yes, we’re all defective, the good news is that He in turn is our perfector.

Are White People Bad?

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Today I decided to take my children to a local Civil War Museum. We live in Mississippi, and although the museum is just down the street from my house I had never been. I grew up taking frequent trips to Shiloh Battlefied so I suppose I figured I had seen all the historical facts there were to see, but it occurred to me today that my children had not. They’re still young. I figured the almost two and almost five year old might have trouble understanding it all, but my bright, seven year old would gain some great pearls of history from the excursion. So we went. 

My seven year old knew about the Civil War from previous lessons, but I reiterated key points as we did our tour. In all honesty it probably wasn’t the best educational experience with the younger two running around, but I still tried to make sure she understood the seriousness of this particular piece of our history. As she sat on a bench next to a statue of an African American girl I asked her if she had any questions. I assumed she would, but I really didn’t expect what she said next. 


She asked hesitantly, “are we bad people, Momma? Are we bad cause we kept them as slaves?”

I was caught off guard by her question and also saddened that it was something that even needed to be pondered, but I was also proud of her empathy, conviction, and introspection at such a young age. I answered the best I could. 

In a way yes, and in a way, no. As humans ruled by sin we can do despicable things. Our ancestors did a very bad thing by treating people like property rather than living beings with a soul. We can be sad by what they did, we can learn from their mistakes, we can understand that black people today still hurt a whole bunch because of what happened, but we cannot change what happened. We can’t undo the bad things, but we can move forward in good.

We can make a point to live today and each day being kind, treating people equally and with love, and showing them the good in us. God in us. That’s the most important thing to know. We did bad, but we can still do good. We’re not bad, because of Jesus, and we’re only good by His grace. 

When I finished I looked at her solemnly and asked, “do you understand?”

“Yes, Momma.” She smiled. “I love you.”

Then I thought, I love you too, baby. I wish I could take all the bad away so it never touched you, but then I also know that there’s many bad things, such as this, that you absolutely must see so that you’ll be better able to understand God’s goodness at work in our lives, how much we absolutely need Him, and how you can be His hands and feet in a bad world. 

Are white people bad? We’re all bad; white, black, brown, yellow, and green. God is the only thing good in any of us. 

Something for the Bad Girls Who Don’t Deserve God’s Grace

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This is for all the people out there who don’t feel deserving of God’s saving grace. Or feel guilt. Or just feel less. 

I look back on my past with disdain and regret. You’ll hear a million people tell you that God can use your mistakes, and I know that’s true. But it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes when I think of the things I have done I want to cry. I want to weep because He saved me anyway, but also because I now love Jesus so much that I am ashamed for the things I did once upon a time. They say God forgives and forgets. I wish it were always that easy for me. 

If one incident of my past stuck out from the rest I think it would be a fall evening in the library at my local community college. The memory of this event is certainly not the worst thing I ever did. Far from it! I have stories that would make a sailor blush. Heck, I was the sailor. But no, I think this story sticks with me because it began my downward spiral. It sufficiently showcases my particular battle to make myself feel worthy and special. This was a Brie before Jesus. And it causes me to hold my head low at the thought of it. 

In junior college I had a great roommate. We had chosen to room together, and more than a roommate she was my best friend at the time. She always let me borrow her clothes. So even though I wore them to clubs and brought them back reeking of cigarettes, something that didn’t bode well with her asthma, she never complained. She had more economic resources than I did (aka, her parents had more money), and she was quick to buy my toiletries or pay for my meals. I didn’t have to ask, she just did it. She was a good friend. 

One evening she wasn’t feeling well and stayed back in our room with the lights dimmed, so I headed to the library to get a paper finished. While there I ran into her boyfriend. They were originally supposed to study together, but she had canceled because of her migraine. As we stood talking in the aisle I caught the whiff of cigarettes and alcohol on his breath, something my roommate abstained from, but a smell I knew rather well. I’m not sure what came over me at that moment, but realizing he was under the influence I made my move. 

I slid closer to him, and I began to flirt seductively. I made some sexually suggestive remarks, and with my body language nailed home the offer. 

My roommate was beautiful. She had an ample bosom where mine was flat, a gorgeous face where I felt mine was plain, and long, luxuourous hair where mine was short. An epic 90210 style gone wrong. What she had not done was sleep with him yet, and that’s where I knew I had the upper hand. I could be better at something than her. I could feel pretty. I could feel wanted. Even if just for the night. I think at the time I tried to tell myself I was doing it for her, to see if he would cheat. But I think deep down it was also to see if I could tempt him. 

College days


He ended up denying my advances. Ouch. I don’t know if he ever told her, but I left the dorms shortly after and we drifted our separate ways. The next decade of my life would follow a self-destructive pattern of me trying to be the better girl, but always falling short. It would be an empty decade filled with one mistake made after the other, and a ton of awful decisions not even worth mentioning. None of the things I chose to do ever made me feel better about myself, but they did leave me with a deep hole in my life that I felt unable to climb out of on my own. I got to a place of rock bottom, and that’s where Jesus found me. 

He showed me I was worth more than what mere man thought of me. I was worth more than all the rejection life had heaped upon me, much of it of my own making. He pulled me out of my pit of despair, and then He began showing me that none of the life I lived before reaching out for His hand mattered. None of it. 

I would say that I was the girl who tried to sleep with her roommate’s boyfriend. 

Jesus would say, you’re forgiven. 

I would say that I was the woman who treated relationships like a revolving door. 

Jesus would say, you are precious in my sight. 

I would say that I was the lady who drowned herself daily in too much booze. 

Jesus would say, you are now clean as snow. 

I would say that I was the person who lied, cheated, and stole. 

Jesus would say, none of that matters now. I took your sin on myself, and I paid the price to erase it from your life. You’re free of sin, you’re valuable to my kingdom, and you’re worthy of my sacrifice. If I had to die on the cross for you again, I would do it in a heartbeat. 

Redemption isn’t a thing that’s given and then taken away. Forgiveness is a gift, and once we ask we only have to receive it. Then it is ours, no matter what we did. His death paid the cost, and even though He knew I would do the horrible things I did, He died for me anyway. I had to realize that once I accepted His gift of forgiveness I was no longer bound by the chains of my sin, I was only bound by my inability to fully accept His redemptive power. 

So do I ever still look back on my past with regret? Honestly? Yes. But I don’t stay there. I know that I’m not stuck there. I know that my past is not who I am. I have been made new. I am a new creation. And that is all that matters. 

*If by chance my old roomie sees this, I’m sorry, my friend. I was trying to fill a void, and it happened to hurt more people than just myself. Please forgive me. 

I Should Have Been Cut Down…

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Do you ever look back on the life you’ve led and wonder how you’re still here? Do you think of mercy and grace, and want to absolutely crumple under the weight of your own regretful tears? I was reading in Luke this morning when I came across this. 

Luke 13:6-9New International Version (NIV)

6 Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any. 7 So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’
8 “‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it. 9 If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.’”

Immediately my mind flashed back in time, many years ago. The funny thing about time is how something can seem a lifetime away, but simultaneously the memory of it can be so fresh it’s as if it were yesterday. I can still easily recall the way my hands uselessly gripped the steering wheel as it ripped around and out of my grasp. My head slung backwards as I realized I was in a multitude of revolutions. Darkness was all around, and torrents of heavy rain pelted the windows of my tiny car. Even in my deep state of alcohol-induced inebriation I understood one thing very clearly. I had hydroplaned, lost control of my vehicle, and there was no way of gaining it back. Within city limits, with houses and buildings all around, yet surprisingly not another car, I caught flashes of street lamps muted by windows of blurred water while my car spun violent three-sixties off the road. I tried in vain to hold the runaway steering wheel, and my drunken, yet frightened mind wondered in slow motion if I was supposed to turn against the wet skid like you would if you hit ice. I didn’t know, but I knew this. 

I’m going to die. 

That was the main theme that ran below the steady current of adrenaline and drunken fear. My time had come, and surprisingly I felt calm as I careened to my imminent death. I believe it was the acceptance that I was getting what I rightfully deserved. I knew better than to drive drunk, and despite what I told myself when I grabbed the keys (you’re fine, silly), I knew at that moment, as my life flashed before my eyes, that I deserved to die by my own hand for my stupid actions. I even had the thought to whisper a thank you that no other innocent driver was in my path of destruction. 

I knew God. I even knew His love for me. He had planted His Holy Spirit in my heart, yet I had turned my back on Him. I had allowed the disappointments I faced in this world to hamper my relationship with Him. I had sought fulfillment and healing beyond His hand, and even though each day ended with me empty, and each new morning began with my conviction and regret, I still couldn’t believe I was good enough to return to His side. Heck, I think honestly the sinful part of my nature didn’t want to. 

I was producing zero fruit, and my King had every right to cut me down. I knew His glory, but I disregarded His will. I knew His sacrifice, but I walked in opposition of His gifts for my life. I had been saved by grace, yet I took it for granted. I deserved to be cut down. I should have been cut down! But He decided to give me another year. 

Spinning, spinning, spinning. The tiny car just kept spinning, but then suddenly it was not. 

Am I dead? I had wondered for a moment. 

I inhaled deeply, and then I exhaled just as much. I was alive. I got out of my vehicle, and the rain poured like evidence from Heaven that I could still feel the world around me. I don’t think I had truly felt it for some time. My car sat stationary in someone’s yard, between a large oak and a towering power pole. No ding or scratch was on my vehicle, and the only evidence anything was amiss was a sprig of pulled grass stuck in my hubcap. My body was whole, but my soul was shaken. I had deserved to be taken away in a body bag, but I stood in the pouring rain miraculously alive. 


A year later I was producing fruit. It might have been slim pickings, but it was something. I had turned an about face from the life of self-destruction that surrounded me the night I lost control of my car. It wasn’t just the vehicle’s trajectory that was outside of my power. Some would have labeled me a lost cause, but not my God. He saw the potential in me. He knew my heart. He called me back into His arms. I look back on my past life and I want to cry with shame. It’s not condemnation I feel. It’s simply sorrow over so much wasted time that I could have been living for Jesus, producing fruit. Although I do weep at times over the mistakes I made, I would say that mostly my tears are those of gladness and gratitude that the Lord never gave up on me. He should have, but He didn’t. It’s true that nothing in this world can take us from Him. It may blind us to His goodness, it may distance us from His glory, but it can never take us from His grasp. 

Romans 8:38

And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow–not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.

How I Feel About the Dreaded 4-0!

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As I sat last night on my couch on the eve of my fortieth birthday I realized I was in anticipation for the day. An age that twenty years ago I thought I might dread, I now find exhilarating. Every day, for the last seven or so years, has gotten better than the one before it. So it’s no wonder that when my baby brother tried to tease me about it at church on Sunday I answered like I did. 

“No problem, man,” I said smoothly. “Forty is the new thirty. Or maybe even the new twenty.”

I guess you could say I’m a late bloomer in life. It took me a little longer than some to figure out what was important. But then again, I may have figured it out sooner than others. I guess what’s abundantly important is that it’s never too late to discover what you want out of life, what matters the most, and to not let the burdens of this world keep you from them. 


I’ve learned this. 

Your past doesn’t define you. You define you. 

It doesn’t matter if you come from a long line of alcoholism. 

You can be sober. 

It doesn’t matter if you existed for too many years in an abusive, unhealthy relationship.

You can find happiness with someone who treats you with respect and dignity. 

It doesn’t matter if you were a Mary Magdeline (like, before Jesus came along) or the Samaritan woman at the well. 

Jesus makes all things new. 

You’re not your family history. You’re not your past mistakes. You’re not even your past reputation. Chains can be broken, the past can be forgotten and forgiven, and you can move forward. I, for one, am grateful of that. 

It’s easy in this life to make excuses. You can say, “I’ve always had the worst of luck,” or you can feel like your disappointing situation is simply your lot in life. You can say you’re the way you are because of how you were raised, what happened to you growing up, the people who hurt you, or even because of the people you have hurt. And though those circumstances do shape you into the person you have become, they do not define who you have to be. Believe me; been there, done that. 

The vibrant, joyful woman who turns 40 today is in stark contrast to the hopeless, frail woman who turned 30 a short decade ago. That woman was a broken vessel. Thankfully, we all can use some mending. 

The wonderful news is it’s never too late to start living life to its fullest potential. It’s never too late to change. It’s never too late to overcome addictions, remove obstacles that impede us, and cut out those things or people from our life that hamper us. It’s never too late to believe that it’s never too late. 

For me, I feel like my twenties were a blur, like I wasn’t even really living life at all. I was barely existing. So though my body turns forty today, my spirit feels young and new. I enter my forties with exuberant expectation for what this decade holds. 

Let each day be that. Let it be one where you wake up eager to see what’s in store, eager to move forward (not backwards), and eager to be the person you were designed to be. 

I Almost Died, but Instead I Was Reborn

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Perhaps I’m feeling sentimental today. After all, it’s my thirty-eighth birthday, but I realized it was more than a simple concern over fleeting time or growing wrinkles that caused the tears to collect in my eyes. No, I was grateful, and as I thought back on the past eight years I realized today represented more than the day I was born from my mother’s womb. It also represented the day I was given a second chance at life. The beginning of my rebirth. 

I found myself on my thirtieth year a thin, shell of a woman. Bags under my eyes, a weary body and mind, and a fake smile plastered on my face to hide the pain I felt inside. I wore a princess crown on my head, a birthday token from my mom, but I felt like anything but royalty. 

  
I was back home, which should have been a comforting thought, but instead I was shrouded by misery. Newly divorced, jobless, homeless, and relying on liquid courage to give me a second wind. I had spent the past decade running wild, living outside of my true character, and trying to be anyone but who I really was. I was searching, I suppose, but all I found was more baggage. And at the age of thirty I found myself back at square one feeling quite rejected and like very much of a failure at the life I tried so hard to control. 

Today I woke up earlier than I had to by a small voice saying, “Mom, I think I peed on myself a little,” and sure enough at the awakening I could both smell and feel urine. After cleaning her up and laying us both back down she quickly fell back asleep, but I could not. I lay in the silent room looking at the ceiling and thinking about my life. 

The growing baby in my womb twisted back and forth in her own happy birthday dance, and the barely audible breathing of my spouse accompanied her movement. Together the symphony comforted me, and I realized that a lot had changed in the past eight years. 

Eight years ago I had felt like I was dead, or dying at the very least. Like a wayward child I had run rebelliously beyond the confines of my Father’s yard. I had jumped the fence, and only briefly looked back. I had run haphazardly, and I had fallen hard. Yet when I came limping back sheepishly, licking my wounds, He had said, “Welcome home, my child.”

I was lost. But then I was found. I was blind. But then He opened my eyes so I could see. I was dead in sin. But then He gave me new life. I was shackled in chains of my own making. But He set me free. 

I almost died, but instead I was reborn. 

I think back to my thirtieth birthday, a time when I felt the worst, the lowest I ever have in my life, and I rejoice at that time. It was then, at my absolute emptiest, that God was able to fill me. He was able to renew me, and He was able to give me new life. It didn’t happen that day. The girl with the plastic crown still cried, but it was a start. 

It was the beginning of God calling me back into His arms. 

I woke this morning covered in pee. I got up, sore and tired, and I made breakfast for other people. I washed dishes, folded laundry, and put together curriculum for my daughter’s upcoming school year. There wasn’t a party, and I didn’t even get a crown. But I smiled all over. My body smiled from the inside out. 

He had freed me from the past, but also from my past regret. He had fashioned a new crown for me to wear. And the grandest birthday gift of all was the realization that He is jealous for me. He loves me. 

I spent my thirty-eighth birthday surrounded by love, not only from my family, but from the Holy Spirit in my life. I am happy, healthy, and whole. I’m back home, back in God’s will, and I’m alive. I wear an invisible crown now, and not just on my birthday. It rests there every day, like the peace that lives in my heart as I serve the Lord. It took me a while, but I finally found my way back into His arms.  

Happy 38th Birthday to me, and more importantly, Happy 8th Birthday, the day I returned back home.