Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

When I Realized I’d Never Be Enough

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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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking For Love in All the Wrong Places

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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

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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

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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.

The Most Important Thing Women Need to Know to Be Happy

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Consider this a public service announcement from the square peg.

If you’re one of those former homecoming queens who looks back on your high school existence with stars in your eyes then I’m happy for you, but that’s not me. Or rather it wasn’t me. I was probably the girl standing on the sidelines looking longingly at the crown, just wishing to touch the skirts of high school royalty. Just being honest. I wasn’t happy with me, and I looked to others to validate my feelings of worth. I never quite fit in. I didn’t have a clique. I was a cheerleader, but simply because I tried so hard to find my niche. I was smart, but didn’t really fit in with the brainy girls. I was in all the clubs, but never quite found myself in the realm of popularity. In actuality I was the outcast, the girl always trying really hard to fit in, but somehow always falling short. That was high school in a nutshell for me, and it was utterly exhausting. 

As I grew older I became more comfortable in my own skin. I started to see my peculiar character traits for what they were. They were me. Those crazy quirks were what made me, me, and I was totally cool with that. Yet sometimes that young, insecure girl still waited in the wings, longing for acceptance amongst her female peers. And though I saw her less and less since I had entered my thirties, occasionally when I found myself around a group of women I floundered along as I searched for my particular rhythm that made me who I was meant to be, not who I thought I should be. 

Recently I spent a week around women I work with, and though I’ve become way more comfortable in my own skin since I was a teenager, there’s something about spending time in the company of other females that leaves me feeling as if I’m lacking. I wouldn’t even say it’s due to any action on their part. It’s just my insecurities. It’s my longing to be well-liked. Am I the only woman like this? Am I the only woman who wishes she wasn’t quite so weird?!

Somehow when I hang out around a bunch of women for an extended period of time I always end up feeling like I’m back in high school. It’s like cheerleading camp all over again, and the cool, pretty girls have short-sheeted my bed again. One is telling me to put on some makeup already, and another is rolling her eyes behind my back while simultaneously trying to be nice to me since her mom is making her. In those moments of realization that, “yes, Brie, you’re still a square peg,” I have to talk myself off the ledge of insecurity and remind myself of what really matters. 

God made me exactly as I am. 

So while I do think a lot of my longing for acceptance is due to my upbringing, past rejections in life, and more nurture than nature, for the most part my personality is what it is because God made me to be me. I am a square peg, but then again, God designed me with the perfect square hole in mind. He created me overly sensitive so I might better empathize with my fellow man. He made me not quite like the rest so I could stand apart and better visualize the world around me. I may not fit into this world, but whoever said that’s a bad thing? The important part is this. 

I am made in His image. 

Genesis 1:27

So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.

Whenever I feel less, because sometimes I will, it’s best to remember in whose image I am created. 

Although I am more comfortable with myself, and I do love being me, I’m also human. And sometimes I’ll feel like I’m not enough. In those moments I am best reminded of my heritage. I am best reminded for whom and after whom I was designed. 

Whenever I feel like I’m not good enough, smart enough, successful enough, or even enough. 


Whenever I think I’m a failure as a mother, a failure as a wife, a failure as a nurse, a failure as a friend, or even a failure as a Christian. 

When I feel unworthy, unlovable, or even expendable. 

When I feel like I don’t fit in, I don’t measure up, and there’s no way I can even keep up. 

I am made in His image. 

And that is more than good enough for me. 

What Kids Can Teach Us About Beauty

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I was taking a walk through the neighborhood with my daughters yesterday. We progressed slowly down the winding road pausing by the water to dip our toes in its still crisp current as it lapped upon the shore. We gaggled with the geese and laughed at frolicking fish as they broke the surface of the pond in their tryst with the mayflies. We stared transfixed as the ducks danced with one another in their springtime affair, and we stopped every few feet to gather goodies from our trek such as feathers, pine cones, and bright spring flowers. 

At one turn of the trip a splash of bright yellow caught my six year old daughter’s eye, and after asking my permission she proceeded down a grassy hill to capture her new flower for her collection. I watched from the road’s edge, and I glimpsed the thick stalk of the plant which had garnered her favor. 

“That’s a weed, baby.” I called. 

She stood staring at the yellow weed, but quickly called up to me a simple truth that hit me deeper than she probably intended. 

She called back to me, “isn’t it cool how God makes even weeds beautiful?”

Wasn’t that true, and I thought about my life, how my feelings of beauty had changed through the years. I was a thirty-nine year old woman, but I felt happier and more secure with my physical self than I had ever been. It was kind of ironic how as my body began to sag and wrinkles became more stubborn that I could finally be content with me. If only I had seen it many years ago. 

As a young woman I never felt thin enough, I was certain my flat chest was the worst thing imaginable, and I critiqued anything from the shape of my nose to the peculiar appearance of my toes. I was never quite happy with who I appeared to be, and I know I spent far too much time basing my worth on what others thought of me. Rather than seeing myself as unique, one of a kind, and a work of art designed purposefully by God, I simply accepted the fact that I was a weed. Never understanding that God made all His creation with beauty, precision, and care. 

Instead of seeing the truth I based my worth on if I was accepted by those around me and what value they placed on me. I believed the commercials I saw on TV, the advertisements in my mom’s Harper’s Bazaar, or even worse, the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. I just wanted them to share with me that secret. I was 92 pounds, but still didn’t feel like I fit in with the perfection on those glossy pages. 

I didn’t embrace my difference, but instead saw them as curses. I took on the cruel words of bullies or the rejection handed to me by teenage boys. Even in my twenties I caught myself gazing at other women wishing I could be like them. I wanted to be a rose. But I was more like a dandelion, especially the way I let the wind of public opinion blow away my very essence of being. 

Psalm 139:14 ESV 

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.

If you’re a frequent reader of my blog you’ll notice my main image on my blog is that of a dandelion. I developed quite an affection for that lovely flower as the years went by, and likewise I have developed a love for myself that I never knew existed. By seeing myself made in God’s image, fearfully, wonderfully, and purposefully stitched together in a unique and lovely design, I have developed not only an acceptance of how God made me, but also an adoring affection of self. To love the design is to love the designer. He makes even what the world terms as weeds a thing of absolute beauty. 

Have You Ever Met That Child Who Needs a Hug, Big-Time?

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A while back I witnessed an interaction between a parent and child that bothered me so bad that I’m still thinking about it. In my mind’s eye I can still picture the look of defeat on this little boy’s downcast face, and it makes me want to reach into my memory, pull him out, and envelope his lanky body in a massive bear hug. 

Have you ever met a child like that? One who needed a hug like a fish needs water?

I’m no perfect parent, not by a long shot. I yell at my kids sometimes, and I know I do it way more than I should. I’ve been known to react irrationally when under stress, and although I’ve never physically or emotionally abused my children in my moments of anger, I’m quite certain I’ve raised my voice to a level that does them no good, but rather only serves to harm us both. So I understand. I get that parenting is tough, and that emotions can become frayed. 

What I cannot understand is screaming at your child for over 45 minutes straight and about something like not understanding their school work. I watched in horror once as a mom berated her child endlessly. At first I thought, “yep,we’ve all been there,” but when it didn’t de-escalate I began to feel uncomfortable. 

As time ticked on the woman’s anger grew, her tone became more harsh and jagged, and I felt increasingly helpless. I only could imagine how the young boy felt, but I thought I might have an inkling by the way his shoulders slumped forward in surrender and his eyes stared forlorn at his dirty sneakers. 

It wasn’t my first encounter with the young man. I had been privy before to tales from his parents of his many and varied accomplishments, and his laundry list of accolades would certainly impress Harvard. Perhaps his confusion over his Science homework threatened his folk’s dreams of Ivy League, but it didn’t seem to soften the blow of her demeaning words and jabbing finger in my opinion. 

Whatever the reason for her continued rage I just couldn’t get behind it as a parent, and I kept hoping at some point she would stop and give him a hug. 

This is how you create serial killers, I mused to myself, and I had a future vision of him standing in a bell tower with a semiautomatic weapon trained on his peers. Would they all mysteriously bear his mother’s face through the scope of his deadly rifle?

My thoughts might seem like a stretch to some, but that didn’t change the fact that in my opinion this young man needed something he wasn’t getting. No, he didn’t need more activities to busy his time, and he didn’t require a learning curriculum better suited to his specific needs. What he required was to feel loved.

He needed someone to say, “you’re doing good,” or perhaps, “you’re a special young man.” My interactions with him previously had given me the impression he was a little bit odd, an outcast if you will, and I wondered if perhaps more positive reinforcement might not could bring him out of his shell. 

As I looked at him afterwards I wondered how often he heard, “I’m proud of you,” or even, “I love you.” I prayed he heard those things enough, but the way he shuffled away when I saw him last made me wonder. 

I wanted to hug him, and if I could turn back time I would do just that. Perhaps he would have stood there stiff, awkward, and uncomfortable. But perhaps he would have hugged me right back.