Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

To the Mom Shaming Your Kid on Facebook

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When a Haircut Is a Kick in the Sack

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I didn’t just mean emotionally.

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

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

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

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

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

Please Be My Strength

by

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

“Please be my strength.”

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

Please be my strength.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Finally Found Where I Fit In!

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, but Grace. Great, great grace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Things God Has Done for Me

by

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.

When I Realized I’d Never Be Enough

by

I’d like to think that after forty-two years of transversing this life, I wouldn’t give a hoot what people think of me. And for the most part, I typically don’t. I mean, I’m certainly not the young, flat-chested teen I used to be, trying my best to fit in with the kids at the cool table. Heck, I’m not even the harried woman I was in my thirties who replayed every single conversation, encounter, or confrontation for at least the next 48 hours, hoping I could change my reaction. Like that old cigarette ad used to say, I’ve come a long way, baby, but this week showed me I still had a ways to go.

I wonder, will I ever be enough? For others, or even, more importantly, for myself? I’m not sure.

The past year I felt I had finally entered into a more confident season of life. I counted myself as a seasoned professional, an asset to my coworkers, a dependable part of the team. Even though it still seemed shocking to me to have so many years under my belt, I finally felt like I could walk confidently in my role as a seasoned, experienced nurse. Yet as I’ve found myself waking into new roles and responsibilities this year, I’ve felt lacking. I’ve had moments where I thought, “I must look like a total moron!” And I’ve worried more in the past few weeks about my performance in one area than I have in two years of traveling to unknown and unfamiliar hospital settings across the country.

As I saw myself moving towards the specific ministry callings God was leading me into, I realized I was being distracted by the voices. You know the ones I’m talking about. The voices that always tell you what you are not.

You don’t know enough to do this.

You aren’t equipped for this.

You don’t have the ability to carry this out like it deserves.

The voices say, “you’re not enough.”

They tell little lies. That subsequently sound like they could be true.

They think you’re an idiot for what you said.

You sound so full of yourself!

You know they’re just humoring you, right?

I even found myself questioning my relationships with family. People that I am incredibly comfortable with, I suddenly began questioning my interactions with them. I didn’t think I was a good sister, or sensitive enough to the needs of others.

He hates you, probably.

Yeah, she’s not texting back because you made her mad.

It’s the same voices that make you feel like you don’t belong, like an outcast, like relationships aren’t for you.

The only place I felt like I was achieving my goals was in my own home, and the comfort of being a good wife and mother kept me steady. Yet I was struggling in my other life roles. I felt convicted of my over-the-top concerns, and I questioned if I was putting the desire to please man above the Lord. So, I told myself, “I am good enough for God.”

But y’all, that didn’t help much with the fact that I felt lacking in areas of life that deserved more of me. Or that I felt deserved more of me. Because we are all our own worst enemy, am I right?

This morning the Lord got honest with me, and you know how we all need that hard truth hammered home sometimes!

I felt like God said, “Brie, you are not enough. You’ll never be enough.”

Gosh, He was right. As good as I tried to be, I wasn’t Mary Poppins. I’d never be practically perfect in every way. I couldn’t measure up to my own expectations or even that of the world around me, and there was something freeing about admitting that. Saying to myself, “yep, you’ll never be enough.” You see, it was a relief because of what the Lord whispered next.

He said, “but Jesus. He is enough.”

I could not measure up, but through Him I could step up. I could step into all the things God has for me. Alone, I definitely wasn’t enough to fill the shoes He had laid down, but with Him I could still walk confidently, walk forward, walk in peace.

I’d never be enough, but Jesus? Well, He had already paid more than enough for me for all eternity.

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

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking For Love in All the Wrong Places

by

When my biological father gave me up, I wondered what it was about me that made it so easy to let me go.

When my high school boyfriend broke up with me for the other girl, I couldn’t help but wonder what she had that I lacked.

When the first man I ever loved broke my heart, I cried into my pillow, feeling like I would never again find that feeling I had when I was with him.

When I told the cute boyfriend in college, “I love you,” and he thereafter ghosted all my calls, I wondered what made me so easy not to love.

Broken girls become broken women, lacking love, yet seeking it desperately. I always put so much stock in how others felt about me. I was the new kid on the block who just wanted to be your friend, or the quiet girl pining for the cool guy, drawing secret doodles of his name in study hall. A people pleaser by nature, like a loyal pup longing to have its ears scratched while hearing, “yes, you’re a good girl.”

It sounds quite absurd putting it out there like that, but in hindsight I can see the desperation of my past. Like Pavlov’s dogs, I longed for a reward, and my ear was always tuned towards the ringing of the bell. I was eager in my relationships, yet skittish to reach out, if that makes sense. Having learned from an early age that the people you love will definitely leave you, I was hesitant to make new friends, but boy oh boy, did I long for them. I wanted to be wanted, while simultaneously fearing hurt.

I fit into the military like a missing puzzle piece. It was easy to excel when all you had to do was what someone else told you to do.

Yes, sir.

No, sir.

Right away, sir.

Of course, I was top of the class when it came to following commands. Being told exactly what to do is easy; having the courage to step out on your own volition, that’s a bit harder.

As a young woman I felt my body was a weapon, something I could use to my advantage. Like a carrot on a string, dangled to draw attention, but pulled away in hopes a chase would ensue. Sometimes often times not pulled away at all.

In my first marriage I was the doting wife. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se, but I know I would have done anything to please him. I would, and sometimes did, forgo the woman I was meant to be in order to become the woman I thought he wanted. My desire to be a good wife was probably crippling to us both. I think sometimes he longed for me to fight back, to argue when I was right, but instead I just said, “I’m sorry.”

I was always sorry. Sorry I wasn’t pretty enough, good enough, desirable enough. Through the long string of failed relationships prior to my first marriage, I had been the same. If I was desired, I felt like I was enough. But if I was rejected, I felt severely lacking. I based my worth on the measurement from others, honestly people who were just as broken as myself. Empty souls longing for something real, something to fill the void.

When my first husband told me he didn’t love me anymore, I felt a pain like no other. In hindsight, I think a wound that started long before was ripped open that night. A never truly-healed trauma that I only added to year after year. He was just fuel on the fire of an already broken heart. He didn’t do the breaking of my heart; he was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

After almost thirty years of seeking love and coming up empty I had hit the bottom of myself. And in that cellar place I sat in the tattered rags of my wrecked life.

I cried out to God. I’m not sure what gave me the courage. After all, I had run from His presence. Though He promised the heart of a Father I had not been shown initially, or the lover I longed for, I had in actuality rejected Him. I had turned my head at His nod of affection, I had ignored His calls time and time again. Why would He want me back? A scorned woman, broken forever, incapable of being loved. Yet…

He answered me. In the pit of my own making, He shined His light. In the desert place I had intentionally wandered into, He gave me living water. He gave me the thing I had always wanted. He loved me regardless. Despite my failures.

He wooed me over time. Sinful man causes a woman to hide within herself, building up a wall to keep the good away. A broken woman thinks she can only have pain. But He was patient with me, calling me softly, closer day by day.

You see, before God could bring me substantial love here on earth, in the arms of another, He had to teach me what love was, or rather what He intended it to be. He had to show me my real self, the one He created, the one He saw when He looked at me. This woman’s worth wasn’t dependent on how others felt about her, but on His opinion of her. This woman learned her worth in Jesus, that her life was worth dying for. Christ taught me how to love myself. And I realized that was independent of any man.

I was once a broken woman, born into poverty, immediately raised in rejection, stacked on top of a sinful world. I grew into a woman broken again and again, allowing the pain others piled on me to melt into my image of self. The cracks were many, at one point loosely held together by nicotine and alcohol, but that is a story for another day. Today, suffice to say, I reckon we’re all broken in one way or another, just some of us more often.

I was a broken woman, looking for love in all the wrong places, blind to the fact that true love had pursued me from day one. I was a broken woman, mended by acceptance, proven worthy by His sacrifice, and healed by His Holy affections.

I am a healed woman, strengthened by His truth, loved beyond measure, no more lacking. I am a woman filled, overflowing with joy, confident in His good grace, blessed by His mercy. I no longer look for love. I have found it. A lasting love that never leaves. And each day forward I strive to pour out that love to everyone I encounter. Because you never know who else you meet that might be broken too.

Raising Flat-Chested Daughters Who Eat Cake

by

I saw a magazine laying on the table of a hospital waiting room as I walked by, and I recognized it pretty quickly as one I used to read some thirty years ago. Before I knew it my own daughters would be old enough to pour through the pages of fashion magazines, and as I thought back to my own interactions with the likes of YM, Vogue, and Seventeen I hoped my daughters would have a stronger self-worth than I did back then.

I remember staring at the glossy pages of my favorite read and eyeing the glistening cleavage on the young model on the page, envying the slope of her breasts as they played peekaboo with the unbuttoned oxford tied lazily over cutoff denim shorts. I would look back at the mirror where my reflection held copycat attire, except for the perky bosom. My flat chest would stare back at me, and I would feel as deflated as it looked.

My mom bought me my first Miracle Bra. Remember those? Automatic boobies! I can also remember running around frantically in seventh grade, searching for my one, cherished, padded brassiere before my boyfriend came over and discovered I wasn’t the budding B cup my padded bra conveyed.

“Where did I take that thing off at?!!”

I can remember my mother taping my chest and drawing me a cleavage to match the padding in my formal dresses during pageant time. I can remember us girls in school comparing our weight at cheerleading practice. I was next to the skinniest one, and it felt good. I finally felt like maybe I measured up. By measuring down. Which is kinda weird, I know. I remember when I got chubby my mom let me know, and when I lost weight she was quick to compliment me. She was always so proud of my tiny figure, and she loved showing me off to her friends at work, which made me smile. It still does. She wasn’t trying to instill any negative thoughts in me, this I know, but that’s what happened. It just kinda worked right along with what the magazines said was pretty.

I drink Diet Coke nowadays, and I’ve always drank Diet Coke. It’s the only soda that existed in my home growing up. I can remember seeing a jar of Dexatrim on top of the refrigerator, and a cartoon drawing of a large woman in a bikini on a scale on the fridge door reminding anyone who opened it to watch what they ate. My mom was on a diet for as long as I can remember. Again, I don’t think she was trying to instill a negative mindset in me. It just happens to be a consequence of watching the person you love more than anything in the world be on a perpetual diet.

Yesterday was my eldest daughter’s ninth birthday party. I had already decided I would not be having cake. I’ve always been able to stay small, but a simple weight gain of seven pounds and I start to feel miserable about it. I can’t help it, and even as much as I’ve grown spiritually or matured with age, if I’m not in my comfort zone of weight, I feel horrible.

For the past 3-4 months I had been telling myself it was the birth control pills I started taking at the beginning of the year, or that it was the new normal, being in my forties and all. I told myself I was happy with who I was. And I was! I’ve never felt more self-confident and content in my life. But still, when you’ve lived forty-two years with the weight that makes you feel the best, nothing less more will do. So, after pushing it off since the holidays ended, I was finally on a diet. Sigh.

One thing I didn’t do, though. I didn’t talk about it around my daughters. If we were throwing out the processed food and going organic for the good of the family, then yes, we all had the conversation. But if Momma was counting carbs to fit better in her favorite denim capris, I kept that close to the cuff, or rather the waistband, I guess you could say. I didn’t want them even knowing what a diet was!

So back to cake. I had decided no cake! I was 8 days into Ketosis, and after my bread withdrawals I didn’t want to wreck my progress. I was an all or nothing kinda gal, and I was all in on shedding this middle age muffin on my midsection. No cake!

The party couldn’t have been more perfect. I mean, it wasn’t perfect. It was a Dollar Tree decorated jumble of pink and flowers, but the point was, she loved it. She freaking loved it! Her eyes wide, her smile even wider. She blushed with excitement and couldn’t stop saying, “this is awesome! It’s even better than I imagined it would be!”

She had beamed at the Baskin Robbins cake, the smallest they made, and certainly not the stuff Instagram promotes or Pinterest is made of. It was just a plain ole cake, but she couldn’t stop smiling. It had cost about twenty bucks, but she couldn’t stop smiling. She giggled with glee as her dad prepared to make the first cut, and she smiled even wider as he divvied out slices around the table. I knew it then. I knew I’d eat cake. I had to.

I didn’t want the carbohydrates, but even more I didn’t want the conversation. I didn’t want her asking why I wasn’t having cake. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but I guess it’s harder too. I didn’t want to tell my innocent, precious girl, “your mom doesn’t always like herself. So that’s why I’m not eating your birthday cake.”

The best days I have, the ones where I love myself, the ones where I feel beautiful and amazing, that’s what I want for my daughters. I want them to be healthy, sure, but I don’t want them judging themselves by society’s standards. I don’t want them to value their worth by their waist size. I don’t want them comparing themselves to anyone else. I don’t want them wishing they could be more. So many days I wish I could turn back time and erase the breast implants I got in my twenties, so I never have to tell them how bad I felt I needed a big bust to be beautiful.

I want my daughters to realize beauty is more than skin deep, that the skin doesn’t even matter. I want them to age gracefully, live life fully, and take the best parts of me into their future. I don’t want to raise them on scales or hearing me berate myself.

I want my daughters to focus on the things that really matter. I want to cultivate kindness, not self-absorption. More importantly, I want them to view others through the right lenses, not judging people by what they wear, how they appear. I want them to know they can’t judge a book by its cover, and they can only judge themselves by the standard set by their Heavenly Father.

My daughters need to understand they’re precious, set apart, made unique, and I sure don’t want them thinking they need to change for anybody. I don’t always get it right for myself, but I want better for my girls. I want them to experience a healthier view than the one I’ve always had, or even the one that tries to assault me now. I want them to see themselves like Jesus sees them, and to see others the same.

I want to raise daughters who can be proud of their flat chest, cause let’s face it, genetics ain’t in their favor for anything else. I want to raise daughters who are healthy, but can enjoy some cake and ice cream without counting the calories or beating themselves up. I want to raise daughters who know they’re worth more than what Hollywood tries to sell them or what a magazine may try to tell them. I want to raise daughters who know their worth.

When they’re older perhaps I can share my struggles with them, but while they are young and impressionable I will speak life. I’ll speak confidence, and I’ll model self-love for them to see. I won’t call myself fat or use words like diet. I won’t frown at the mirror or refuse to take a picture with them in my bathing suit. They can’t see me being unhappy with me because right now I’m the woman they look up to as how they want to be. And me… I want them to be happy with who God made them to be.

So, I’ll eat the cake, and I’ll play in the dirt. I’ll let them dress themselves in clothes that don’t match if it makes them feel pretty. We’ll laugh, play, act silly, dress comfy, and love life, ourselves, and others because when it comes right down to it, isn’t that what it’s all about?

You’re Not the Man (Or Father) Who Left You

by

By all accounts I grew up in a wonderful, loving home. My Daddy was the sort of protective guy who threatened the fella who took me on my first real date that he’d break his legs if he acted inappropriate, drank alcohol while driving, or brought me home past curfew. At the time I remember feeling kinda embarrassed, but honestly, and deep down, I recall feeling like I was floating out the door on a cloud. And it wasn’t because the star quarterback was taking me out to a movie. It was because I knew my Dad really loved me. Yet still…

As the years went by I would grow up always needing that feeling, that emotion that told me I was loved, I was worthy, that I was something special. I was always that clingy girlfriend that asked “whatcha thinking” in the hopes the guy would answer back he was thinking about me. I was the girl who ended up giving her body away, over and over, in an attempt to feel beautiful, desirable, and precious in some sorta way. I craved love like most craved water. Even though I’d grown up adored by my mother and adoptive father, it still wasn’t enough. For some crazy reason it’s the people that don’t love you that stick with you the most. I wish that wasn’t so.

My biological father had left numerous times, but the last being when I was seven. When my mother remarried, and later my Dad wanted to adopt me, it seemed that my biological dad had no problem relinquishing his parental rights. On the surface I was thrilled to have a present father who cared so much for me, and even in my heart I was glad. But deep down, in those dark, rooted places I was hurt. Rejection like a knife dug inside me, the blade turning cruelly back and forth.

Even as an adult woman, the little girl inside me would ask in the night, “why was I so easy to give up? What is it about me that made not loving me so easy?!”

I didn’t want to feel that way! I never wanted to play the victim, and during my brave times I would vehemently deny any hurt or feelings of abandonment and unworthiness. I would play strong, and I would play it well. But in retrospect I can see that the pain caused by the man who leaves you is like a scab that never really heals. It looks fine from a distance, but if you get up close and personal you can see it’s all red, soft, and missing pieces. For so long my heart was like that. Missing pieces.

It wasn’t like it healed properly either. It just set up a cycle. A cycle of me searching for love in all the wrong places, seeking acceptance and affection, creating my personality based on the people around me, people pleasing, never being true to myself, and erroneously basing my self worth on how someone else felt about me.

I recently was talking about divorce with my aunt, and I mentioned how it took years to get over the pain of a broken marriage. Even though my life had moved on, I can still recall one day, three years status post divorce, wondering what it was about me that made my ex-husband want to leave me. A happy second marriage with a great guy, an adorable daughter in my arms, and for some strange reason that little girl inside me would rear her head and ask again, “what was it about me that made not loving me so easy?”

I had spent over thirty years thinking I was the man (or men) who left me. That my identity was somehow built around that. The devil had spent years whispering in my ear that I was the girl who was easy to give up, that I was the awkward teen who got dumped the week of prom, that I was the one-night-stand, that I was the woman whose husband left her, that I was anything but who I really was. Somewhere between knowing about God and really getting to know Him I discovered something. I discovered that I wasn’t the man who left me; I was the creation that God made me to be. My identity wasn’t based on what man or the world said, but what the Lord said about me. His Word sang it over and over to my broken heart, and the more I listened to His song, the more I believed it, the more I healed, and the more able I was to see myself through His eyes.

God said I was His workmanship (Ephesians 2:10), That He knew me before He formed me (Jeremiah 1:5), that I was chosen (1 Peter 2:9), that He had a great future in mind for me (Jeremiah 29:11), that I was adopted (Romans 8:14-15), that I was redeemed and His (Isaiah 43:1), that I was wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14), that I was holy and beloved (Colossians 3:12), that I was created after the likeness of God (Ephesians 4:24), that I was the work of His hand (Isaiah 64:8), that I was precious in His eyes, honored, and He loved me (Isaiah 43:4), that He had numbered every tear I had ever shed (Psalm 56:8), that He rejoiced over me (Zephaniah 3:17), and that I was worth dying for (John 3:16)!

It was a long journey I took from rejection to redemption, but once I saw the truth of who I was in Christ, I never fell for the lie that I was who the world labeled me to be. My identity was in Jesus, I was righteous, totally and completely loved, despite my faults, and I realized that love would never fail me.