Chasing Boys, Losing Boys

Everything about loving him scared me senseless. He was a flight risk and I knew it. I asked God to reveal it to me, to show me and to guide me, and He did. Once again I felt that risky, head-over-heels love that wrecks you. The one that leaves you forever marked, memories swirl around me as I watch a little boy slurping down his chocolate milk with his mom at Starbucks. I stare at the boy three years older than the one I loved. I smile and hurt simultaneously at the same time. I never really understood the mother son relationship before. But, I do now. I only had four months to fall in love hard and walk away without my pint-size prince. I get it now.

They smell different. They love different. They destroy things and leave a trail letting you know exactly where they have been. And when the mess is gone, you miss it. I know it sounds strange, because I like things orderly and in place. But, I miss his mess. But I don't miss the chaos that came with the strings attached, court dates, and multiple people wanting to infringe on our safe-haven. All I wanted was him. Throw out all the dreams I had and my career finally starting to go somewhere without interruptions, nothing else compares to my deep desire to mother my children. Nothing else matters.

I used to stand him on my legs, his hands in mine and sing, "One Day My Prince will Come." At only eighteen months he said very little, but he knew the song and would smile and sway as we did our special waltz.

One day my prince will come and he did. And then he left.

We had found out about Taylor a couple weeks prior; his mom was at a crossroads so we met with her to discuss her options, adoption being one of them. His mother getting her life straight and becoming the mother he deserved was the best option but she wasn't ready to do that. I was in shock when she called on a Sunday afternoon asking us to take him. By Tuesday we were starting the process of adoption. It was unheard of, but the family found us and felt like we were Taylor's hope for having a different life. He was dropped on my doorstep with almost everything he owned fitting into two laundry baskets. With shaved head, only a shirt, and a diaper he was fourteen months old, beautiful, and broken.

Love fixed him and in the process it changed everything within my heart and my family. We echoed the heartbeat of Christ, fighting for the orphan and the widow. It was selfless, laying down our comforts to welcome a love with so many strings attached. We gave Taylor a voice and a safe harbor. We gave him our hearts, he became like our flesh and blood with no difference between him and the daughters I gave birth to.

My husband fell harder and faster, but I saw the writing on the walls. One of my strongest gifts is discernment and sensitivity to the Spirit’s leading. I ask and I seek and I knock. I listen, even when it's not what I want to hear. It was only a matter of time until heartbreak would happen. But, four months changes everything and eventually I started believing he might actually end up with us forever. My first month was a hurricane and I can only compare what I felt to post partum depression. 

I was never one to fall in love so easily, but sometimes love is like driving a car fast without any brakes. You brace yourself and hold your breath uncertain of the outcome. What once was invigorating and exciting hits the brick wall of change and you emerge different. The hope is that eventually the whiplash will fade to nothingness and your heart will be mended, even if it's never the same.

Sometimes we chase boys who are worth it and sometimes we catch them and want to throw them back. And sometimes we never want to let go; we never want to stop feeling a love so tangible and real. We never want it to stop for fear of what happens when life fades back to normal.

Loving the way Jesus does is risky, but with all my heart I believe it’s worth it. Jesus walked this earth with every intention of laying down His life for us, even for the ones who rejected and mocked Him. Laying it all down and living a life of putting others first is risky, but I want to love like that. My heart is full of gratitude for a cross, an empty tomb, and a risky, unending love.

Fire and Fulfillment

Can I tell you something? Slow down. Don't wish away the season that you are in; this is just another process of you becoming closer to the person God designed you to be.

Sometimes we pray for easy and uncomplicated. We pray for unfiltered joy and the happy tears that come with that. We are far too familiar with the tears that sting and battle scars. But, what if we missed out on hardships that build up the greatness of God in us? If we never find ourselves mid-center in the flames we might miss the finished product of refinement. I know my God is much more interested in our polished heart instead of our polished image. Yet, we spend so much time on the latter.

Winter is always a season of stillness for me, this writer runs out of words and things to say. So, I wait and I hold on knowing something will be learned. I will be better if I wait and stop wishing away this season where everything seems cracked and cold. If I press through in faith knowing that beauty is waiting to rise up from the ashes and barren places. 

We feel the need to produce and check things off our list, as if busyness is the symbol of our success. We become good at going through the motions gaining very little ground. We've forgotten how to be still, how to embrace the quiet, and allow our souls be searched and refined by the God that formed us. When the flames come we feel forgotten and that somehow God has taken His eyes off of us. He is right there within the flames; His eyes fixed on you His beloved creation.

During the process of refining silver, the silver is placed in the center of the flames, the hottest spot, so that the impurities can be melted away. As the heat from the fire melts away impurities, the silversmith waits. The silversmith knows that the silver is ready when he can see his reflection in the silver; his eyes are attentive to the precious substance in the hottest part of the flames.

"He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver; he will purify the Levites and refine them like gold and silver. Then the LORD will have men who will bring offerings in righteousness..." (Mal 3:3 NIV)

So many times I've handed God my offerings of busyness instead of righteousness. My sifting and fire moments come and instead of smelling like fire, I want to be a reflection of the image of God. Waiting for us on the other side of our furnace is rich fulfillment and a life with greater purpose knowing that every moment spent in the fire brings us closer to a polished heart that God is pleased with.

"Oh, bless our God, you peoples! And make the voice of His praise to be heard, Who keeps our soul among the living, And does not allow our feet to be moved. For You, O God, have tested us; You have refined us as silver is refined. You brought us into the net; You laid afflictions on our back. You have caused men to ride over our heads; We went through fire and through water, But You brought us to rich fulfillment." (Ps 66: 8-12)

Pain & Skunk Wrestlers

It's November 12th and I've missed an entire week of being thankful. (Thanks, Facebook, I feel like an ungrateful jerk.) I literally slept most of it away nursing a concussion inflicted by playfulness and my refusal to believe that I couldn't be Angelina Jolie. Not because she's gorgeous, never had adult acne like yours truly, and has the best lips I've ever seen. Nah, not for that. I find outer beauty nice to look at with a timer. But, I’m one of the weird ones who finds myself annoyed with vanity, even my own. And yet, what appeals to me when the director calls “Action” is the strength she exudes. Yes, I get that every move is scripted methodically. But, thanks to my over-active imagination, I think she could throw Brad Pitt and actually break his arm or his pretty face.

I've always felt stronger than my size and stature let on. Perhaps heartache and choosing laughter and grace over hatred and bitterness has helped. When I believe Gods word is true, all of it, I have to believe it's meant for me. It’s the layers of time, blank space mingled with marvelous grace that made me. The time and fiery darts from the enemy that tried to sift and cripple me. The times where I sinned so loud and grieved with heaving sounds alone with the God who never once left me. Never. His grace covered me making a way for me to attain something unattainable in my own strength.

I missed an entire week of being productive and being joyful in my home. My pain became my focus. Truth be told, my heart was hurting before I received the blow to my head and my pride. I couldn't be strong enough to make it not hurt. Four months of bad news and a failed adoption. Time has revealed all the red flags and honored our step of obedience to care selflessly for a child that came with unbelievable baggage. I would do it again in a heartbeat, just for him. That boy was my reason for wanting to adopt for ten years. That desire and calling faded when I knew he wasn’t mine for keeps. Wading through hurtful changes in our ministry and other red flags and road flares didn't stop a head-on collision.

The dust cleared and every heart is still beating, still loving Jesus and doing their best. It's just life and the status update you are NOT to post for entire world, that hasn't a clue, to see. Friday these words spilled out just four days after the ER trip and it was whiplash to my soul hearing this, out of my mouth, the joyful half full girl...

"Life is not all peaches and roses," I said, with a Southern, sassy tone that sounded bitter.

I felt it and I rejected it. Bitterness? No. Not this girl.

Who doesn't like peaches and roses? Someone has to clean the fruit and cut off the bruised parts if by chance it falls to the ground instead of being plucked and picked before bruising. Someone has to tend to the roses, right? Carefully knowing how to handle something so beautiful, yet with thorns that prick and draw blood.

I choose the fruit of the Spirit. I choose to be vines and branches, Christ as my gentle Gardener. I throw off those things that so easily entangle me, I run. (Hebrews 12:1) No, I limp. But, I take strides away from the ugly and the trap of the enemy.

What made the harsh tones spill out of woman who feels naturally sweet in disposition?

Pain did.

All I could do for a week was point to where it hurts, trying my best to wait it out and let things go back into its rightful place. I did everything I was supposed to do, everything the forms said to do from the ER. Aren't we all trying so hard to be "somebody"? This world is tired of fakers, they see straight through the polished image blinded by the words coming out of our mouths. Jesus, give us a polished heart over a polished image. Please, even if it hurts.

My head still hurts. And now I think that nice doctor's optimism of a shorter recovery was a little over the top. And when he said, "Be careful," with tender compassion and wrote me a prescription for something to help with the pain and the nausea while I healed. I felt hopeful and like he understood me. And then when he gave my husband a dirty look and said, "You too." I smirked on the inside and then I felt bad that he felt bad. But, he was not the one with the head injury.

In the southlands they say if you wrestle with a skunk you're going to wish you hadn't have.

I'm not going to lie to you, I'm the skunk and I got my tail kicked hypothetically speaking. OK. I lost that round. But, I'm pretty sure no one is going to try to wrestle with me again. Ever. Being the runt of the family I learned little tricks when my sisters and I fought. No one could wrestle and be tougher than my little sister. I could always tell that look on her face when playful became serious.

Those eyes told you so much. That pretty face, big brown eyes, and seriously the most gorgeous lips ever, said one thing..."You better stop now because I'm about to finish this."

I snicker when I see the "I'm serious" look when she's keeping her adorable children, whom I think are perfect, in check. I straighten up too, kind of, because now is a time when I respect her more than ever. I understand her so much more now and treasure her more than a thousand fair-weather friends. I would trade them all in just have her. She's my sister. I would fight for her, not with her. We've outgrown our wrestling matches and catfights. Thank the good Lord.

We are thirty-something’s who now joke that we've both had CT scans on our brains. I assumed I would have my scan first because clearly, I'm the oldest and I've always been the “crazy” sister. But together we are better than we are alone. We have more gifts to offer, more creative ideas that flow and things that make us laugh. Four hands to clean up and arms for hugs. Trust me, we were so shady as kids but as long as we weren't fighting or screaming our heads off we could try about anything. Today when my Sissy calls on a day off, I want to drop everything just to see her and be her kid’s favorite aunt.

Being forced to slow down this past week did me more good than it did harm. I threw out the list and schedule. I listened to my body and my head screaming at me to lay it all down and rest. And I did. I listened.

Dear Jacked-Up Me,
You're not sixteen and you could care less now about being Miss Popular and chasing boys and dreams. Remember when you cared so much about what people thought of you? How somehow you thought the whispers defined you?

Remember how you cried when the mean girls were mean and good at it...and you didn't realize that is what people do when they are confused and just as insecure as you?

That's what people do when they are hurting and they just want it to stop.

They are mean.

So, don't you be a mean girl. Ever. There is never a good excuse or reason for it. No amount of physical pain or emotional pain is a license to be a jerk-face.

So cry and pray and forgive and repeat as often as necessary until the hurt fades out and joy comes back. Because it always does, joy always comes in the morning.

I wasted a week complaining about my stupid concussion. This week I am fasting all complaining. Period. I found it unhelpful and it just annoyed the "skunk wrestlers". Wink. Wink.

It's weird how much I love you, even if I don't know you. I'm praying God's best for you today. Don't be a skunk wrestler. And to quote a famous skunk, Flower, "If you can't say nothing nice, don't say nothing at all." Profound, don't you think?

Much Love,

Jennifer

Leftovers and Hands to Hold

I have always been captivated by the story of Ruth and Naomi. I have watched tragedy turn wounded hearts sour changing them inside out. I've cried those bitter tears grasping to get it, to accept it, and grow deeper because of it. The question 'why' wrecks you. Yet we verbalize our questions as it echoes back at us mockingly.

"Who is going to rescue me now?"

God will. He always does.

In Ruth 1:19 the wounded widow returns home without sons, without her love, and without hope for provision. Naomi's pain left her almost recognizable, yet her people saw traces of the woman they used to know. She went out full and came home empty. (v. 21) But, she did not return alone. Clinging to her side and the God she served; stood the devoted daughter-in-law who refused to leave her stranded in her sorrow.

Ruth made a vow to the broken mother, "Where you die, I will die. And there I will be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if anything but death parts you and me." (Vs. 17)

Home was wherever they stood. Together. Broken. In need. Hungry. Clinging to a thread of hope and each other. You see, we were never meant to do this thing called life on our own. Love doesn't walk out on you when all of life gives way and crumbles; it stands with you even though you tell it to go away. You may feel like you have nothing to offer in a state of brokenness, but with all my heart I believe letting people love you and loving them back means a complete willingness to show them our "ugly" and our mess. We shouldn't have to jump through invisible hoops in hopes of earning unconditional love, but we do. We jump through hoops. We go through the motions. We fake it trying to mask the pain.

When Naomi spilled out her bitter complaint blaming the very God who gave her a determined daughter, I see no reply of reproach just a hand to hold as they return to a land at beginning of the harvest season. A quiet presence walking with her through the hurt, Ruth steps in to nurture her and work another mans land to provide for her. Ruth works hard, gleaning, sweating, and reaping a harvest as she finds herself content with leftovers. Proving herself a virtuous woman, the people take notice. The Kinsmen Redeemer takes notice of her, rewarding her. Her gleaning for leftovers turns into prosperity, wedding bells, sounds of babies crying, and second chances.

The God we serve does not give us leftovers. He goes all out with the full spread, He prepares a table for us in the presence of our enemies. He fills our cups until they overflow as goodness and mercy follows us. Not just on certain days, but all of our days. (Ps 23:5-6)

There are no sloppy seconds with our God. Baby, it's the full-course meal that satisfies and goes down easily. He is the hand we want to hold and the friend who walks with us through the mess. So work the land, cry your tears, but give God your today’s and tomorrows. Let the bitterness spill out in salty form, pray until it's emptied out. Bitterness is never a good option. It only taints what was meant to be an oasis of peace deep within, even in the mess. Never once have I felt disappointed with the God who rescues and redeems with His royal bloodline.

"Then the women said to Naomi, "Blessed be The Lord, who has not left you this day without a close relative; and may his name be famous in Israel! And may he be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age; for your daughter-in-law, who loves you, who is better to you than seven sons, has borne him." (Ruth 4:14-15)

I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the hands I get to hold along this journey, I feel like that devoted daughter that says till death do we part. I want to be better than seven sons, diligently working with these soft hands and soft heart while my God takes notice. To be soft is not a sign of weakness. It is strength wrapped up in gentleness and doing what we do best, nurture. We take turns nurturing the generations, loving them, tending to them, and listening when our Naomi's offers instructions on how to snag a man. (Ruth 3) Or better yet, they instruct us on how to live and grieve, returning back to a place of hopefulness and trust in God saying, "I used to feel so bitter, but because of you, I just feel blessed because you are here in my ugly and in my beauty. I'm with you, whatever this crazy ride looks like."

If I could hold your hand I would, but I offer this prayer over you as you read. May you find your heart satisfied when life feels like soggy leftovers and there is no friend on the other end of the line. May find yourself clinging to a God who restores, redeems, and rescues. May His name be famous!

Much love,
Jennifer

Wreckage

You know those train wrecks that cause you to turn your head and look? You know you shouldn't stare so you peek through covered eyes trying to turn away yet your eyes fixate on the wreckage.

Maybe you feel like you are the train wreck.

Accidents happen while the world keeps spinning. Life tries its best to move right along when all you want to do is scream "stop." I think we fix our eyes on the devastation because the hope is to see signs of life among the wreckage. We gasp holding our breath for a small glimmer of hope that says, "Yes, I'm broken and bruised...yet my heart is still beating."

Where there is breath there is hope because love doesn't leave you stranded. Love comes to you. It always does. Love refuses to leave you alone even when your heart needs a break and your attitude needs a spanking. We have a God who loves without limits and runs to us even when we are the train wreck. Truth be told, we've all been wrecked by something.

After surgery the doctor will often say, "You'll feel much worse before you get better." Yet after the pain medication fades to nothingness, you trace the scars that remain and remember his words wondering why he didn't use a few more descriptive words. Because "worse" just doesn't cut it.

You linger in a state infinitely greater than "worse" with scars that you feel will never fade.

I was one of those who tried to rush the healing process and often that landed me right back in the emergency room. My strength in spirit didn't always reflect the way I felt physically and my body took a beating until I learned the fine art of waiting during the process of healing. I've learned to do the same thing with my heart.

You can't rush the healing stages. The pain takes you back layer-by-layer to the scene where it all began. Your personal tragedy. The dust settles slowly and everything within fades out in slow motion. And God is the hand pulling you out of the wreckage placing you gently on the gurney. He straps you down, not to trap you but to protect you. For he knows exactly what you need and how to cushion you from further sustaining injuries.

Where there is breath hope remains because love doesn't leave you stranded so don't rush this thing called healing. Relax into it and put your feet up. Even if you've made a mess of everything and feel like you are not worthy of a life free from the wreckage. God has made a way for you to find Him and step into a place of blessing.

“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him." (Luke 15:20)

When God sees you He doesn't see a train wreck, or a prodigal. The Father sees His child coming home from the wreckage. All God really wants is you empty-handed. He runs to you so that your hands are no longer empty but wrapped up in the sweetest embrace that says, "You've made it home. Let's have a party."

You are not a mess; you are a masterpiece in the making!

Much love to you,

Jennifer

My Fishbowl and My Twirl

Do you ever have those moments where you say too much? Where you didn’t have to go there, but you felt safe and that your words wouldn’t be wasted or used against you? So you lay your heart out on the table and wonder if they will take a bite or try to do open heart surgery by telling you all the things that need to be extracted out. If they love you, allow them permission to sharpen you with the words of truth. You can cry later.

And so you speak, sometimes guarded carefully because you have to. You form your words carefully, and other times you resort to emotional barfing. One or two things may happen. They might actually help clean you up or they might go home never knowing what you’ve been through or where God is taking you…cause you barfed on them and now they feel like they need a preverbal shower.

I have been preparing for the ministry since I was eleven, in some shape or fashion, leading this event and learning to follow at others. I’m a dancer, I’ve always known when it was my time to take the lead or lift my arms at just the right moment where I partner with another. Girl, it’s your time to twirl. So they twirl. And then when its my turn to twirl, I’ve felt arms telling me not to. Sometimes jealously. In my twenties I almost asked for permission. Is it my turn yet?

My turn?

Oh, you want me to twirl like that?

Well, if you want to know my opinion…

Oh, so you don’t really want to know what I have to say…or how my vision of the dance could be interpreted?

I’m polite. I say nothing. I just fade out and twirl away as I exit stage left. The lights fade to black and I promise myself to let the generation coming behind me to shine, dang it.

Instead of a dance, we become a puppet on a string. Honestly, the people jerking on your strings aren’t really qualified.


It’s easy for me because I’m soft. Although I have had many opportunities to be striped bare of softness becoming calloused like those I’ve watched in leadership. I’ve felt the angry tears running down my face and felt God asking me to dance with Him and for Him instead.

I place my trembling hands in His. I make eye contact. The tears begin to dry and I find myself doing things that I never dreamt possible. I dance the confidence dance, for I know who orders my steps in such a way that takes my breath away. I get my giggle back as joy is released. Because He created me this way, to remain soft yet still be careful when I find myself partnered with question marks.

I’m such a loyal person. It’s a stinking big deal to me. I find it funny that I always know the ones to be careful with. They always tell on themselves, so I never worry about it. It always comes back around. And with women…and a few loose-lipped men it will come back around in many different ways, yet none of them resembling the real story.

True confessions. I’m almost embarrassed to say this, but I attended the class on being a minister’s wife at college. (I want my money back.) I think I would have remembered if I flunked it or not. In that class I watched the sweetest soul caution us to not let others in the church get too close to us. I took that message inside of me, chewed on it for a while, and then spit it out. She was trying to protect us from the personal pain we would encounter from dealing with sheep that bite back at times. She was right. But, then again, it’s a different day and age. God didn’t call me to live a safe life; He called me to the risky one. The fun one. The painful one. The one where “Pastor Appreciation Day” is a total joke. The one where a hug and heartfelt card were your lifeline. The one where no one applauds. The one where only your wife applauds. The one where you sit alone. The one where you stand with many. In the end, it’s just us against the world trying to take on hell with a water pistol.

It’s life in the fishbowl; I swim around with all eyes watching. But something happened to me over the years, over time and lessons learned I allowed other fish to jump into my fishbowl. Sometimes I scoop out the deadness that brings and flush it, if you know what I’m saying.

This one time approval addict has been delivered. I scoop out the poop y’all and keep my little fishbowl sparkling. Because at the end of the day, it’s my bowl and keeping my heart and mind unclouded from this world is what matters most to the Lover of my soul. (James 1:22-27)

Friends and Fans

“Her mom never taught her how to cook, but she did teach her how to risk.”- Erwin McManus, Unleashed.

Sitting with my best friend of seventeen years this weekend, soaking in different snapshots of time. How we were then and how we are now. I’m so stinking proud I could burst. We traveled in ministry together for nine weeks of sheer torture during our college years. Three boys, one who kept his meds in his dirty socks that could rock a human video to Carmen like nobody’s business. One who could play the piano and wow everyone, one who could play the bass and make all of us wish we weren’t so white…and two petite broads calling all the shots and figuring out how we fit while coveting each other’s giftings. I guess you could say we became friends and fans at the same exact time.

At nineteen you don’t really know who you are or why you feel like such a weirdo. We are soaking in all the images of lovelies on the magazines, air brushed and just as insecure as we are. A snapshot is taken. Here is what you look like with some things shaved off and edited. Our eyes surveyed the women in our life while the younger version of ourselves felt inadequate, instead of inspired.

If all we see is what is imperfect and flawed, then we will train our minds to focus on those minor things instead of all the things that take your breath away.

We place an idea of perfection, unattainable and lofty and lie to ourselves by saying it’s possible to be and achieve it all without an IV drip of caffeine and a body double. We are convinced she really exists. The perfect woman.

If “she” really did exist…would you want to pummel her or applaud her?

Would you be her biggest fan?

Or would you feel threatened and at risk?

I could wish away my insecure days that lingered for years, but I wouldn’t be me without all those years of striving to be someone else. I’m amazed at how much time we spend trying to blend in when we were made to stand out. Being who you truly are is risky, but being someone else is a trap.

Stand out, you beautiful thing!

By standing out, you give others the freedom to do the same.

And cheer on your sisters, both young and old, in this journey.

They need a friend and a fan.

Cheering loud for you,

Jennifer

"Summing it all up, friends, I'd say you'll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies." (Phil 4:8-9 MSG)

Unguarded

To say that my world has been turned upside down for the past three months would be the understatement of the century. (Cue the theatrical music.) I have sat across the table with friends trying to sip coffee like I’m okay, but have looked more like a deer in the headlights wondering if “my normal” will ever exist.

Tears stream down my face in gratitude as I welcome back my normal.

I have been given an opportunity to love with strings attached and by that I mean a little man has toddled into my life and ran away with my heart and I’m not sure that I will ever get it back. I have been kicking and screaming inwardly at the instability that has come into our lives from trying to give a young child stability. The truth is our adoption story is still a huge question mark. Bottom line, I don’t know if he’s mine forever. And because of that I have allowed myself to be guarded.

Over fourteen years ago a much taller man shuffled into my life. For days I have been whispering to myself, “I didn’t fall in love with him overnight.”

It was gradual.

There were no fireworks. Our eyes didn’t lock across the crowded room with “Dream Weaver” playing in background. No philharmonic symphony serenading us as his family questioned whether I was a suitable match and my dearest friends worried that my sensitive heart wouldn’t be able to stomach someone who wasn’t known for being “sensitive”. Our two weeks of entertaining the idea of dating ended up with tears and the parting of ways. That man of mine dropped me off at my best friend’s house, at my request.

The words shared as we parted ways left me feeling like I wasn’t good enough. It was something that cut me to the core. Sometimes brutal honesty stunts the growth of potential relationships, it certainly did for me. I walked into my best friends home welcomed like an adopted daughter. They assured me of my worth and value. They made the hurt sting a little less as they poured in love while he drove off.

Just like my son, I was dropped off needy on a doorstep. Needing a family. Needing someone to wipe my tears and tell me of my worth. Love took me in, baggage and all, unguarded.


Years ago, two very different hearts trying to find the will of God found each other. We had been given the opportunity to love with strings attached. I told him to run as I explained the family baggage he would be inheriting by marrying me. I tried to run when I felt unaccepted and misunderstood. But, love doesn’t run away. It runs to you, unguarded.

Three months ago, love took a little boy in. Wearing only a diaper and a button-down shirt with his head shaved, I took him in my arms scared to death.

What if he doesn’t love me?

Can I love him as we walk through attachment issues?

Can I give myself over to loving when it could end in heartache and disappointment just like the children that I had miscarried?

I could not love him guarded. Fear had to break in me.

Once again these words came to me, “You did not fall in love with him overnight.”

It was gradual.

As all the walls came down and the fear subsided, I realized that once again…a man had stolen my heart and I will never be the same.

I could quote you scripture and verse telling you that we are supposed to guard our hearts because it’s the wellspring of life. (Prov 4:23) And when our well has been tainted with bitter water, it spills out into the rest of our lives. So often we read this text and apply it to the toxic people and disappointments in our lives. But this is not talking about guarding our hearts from “people and pain” but from ourselves.

Clarkes Commentary of the Bible say it this way, “I know that the twenty-third verse is understood as principally referring to the evils which proceed from the heart, and which must be guarded against; and the good purposes that must be formed in it, from which life takes its colouring.”


By “guarding our heart” from others we mistakenly keep love out.
I’m reminded of a God who has loved me with a jealous and unguarded love even when I didn’t deserve it. Perfect love casts out fear.

But that is what love does.

It runs to you, not away from you.

It loves unguarded.

It loves even when it hurts.

Love takes you in making you sons and daughters, no longer orphans.

You are loved fiercely with an unguarded, unending love.

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear...” (1 John 4:18)

Much love to you,

Jennifer

I find myself in a season where everything is up in the air and nothing is certain. Trapped in the temporary, I find myself familiar with mascara stains and desperate prayers as I seek after the God that carries me. I want to know the end result after the rug has been jerked from underneath me. Even though the future looks like a question mark, He remains my constant source of stability. (Is 33:6 NET)

And yet here in this place I'm no longer the mother. I am the needy child with arms outstretched waiting to be picked up. I long to know the outcome to this waiting game and yet it's not for me to know right now. I simply have to wait, to rest, and allow myself to be carried. When I carry my children they never seem to worry that my footing will be unsure. They simply rest in my arms secure for the journey. With their legs wrapped around me and sweet head on my shoulder, their gaze remains on what is behind us as we move towards where we are headed. One day our yesterday will be a blur and only the faithfulness of the One who carried us will remain.

"Indeed I am composed and quiet, like a young child carried by its mother; I am content like the young child I carry. O Israel, hope in the Lord now and forever more." (Psalm 131: 2-3 NET)

I'm not sure where you are on your journey, but this much I do know. God desires to give you a composed confidence as He carries you. Your arms are probably tired from the load you are carrying. But, place your hope in the Lord, sweet child of God, and allow yourself to be carried.

"And she will have no more fear of change, being full of salvation, wisdom, and knowledge: the fear of the Lord is her wealth." (Is 33:6 BBE)

Much love,

Jennifer

When The Words Run Dry

When the words run dry and there is nothing left to say, grasping for words that never come. The tears fall freely and He hears our hearts in the silence. Sometimes words aren't needed to the God that formed our hearts. He never changes and His goodness never runs dry. His mercy is never ceasing and His love unfailing.

He spoke the worlds into existence, so I pray tonight that He will speak to the wounded heart in you and hold you close.

Framed and fashioned by God, Dear One, you are not hidden from Him. You are hidden in Him, gathered up and protected. Wonderfully and fearfully made, a wonder He delights in. You are not a mistake. Every dreaded misstep and battle wound that lingers serves to remind you...yet, He came to free you. Taking the stripes on His back so that you may be free.

If all you can whisper or mutter before the Lord is, "I surrender." I promise that is enough.

We don't have to fake it and act like we have it all together. We don't have to know what the next step is, we just have to trust in the unseen.

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (Hebrews 11:1)

Maybe you can't see how God is working all things out for your good. Maybe your faith is shaken and you feel all alone. Here is a promise you can hold onto and recite until it changes the way you see things.

"Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful." (Hebrews 10:23)

Much Love,

Jennifer

Love Always Hopes

It was a girl. I knew it. I sat in my boss’s office and began to cry. She told me I needed to name her, that naming the baby would help the grieving process. Floods of emotions and names entered my head, but only one name I refused to part with. I wiped the tears and said, “It wasn’t Whitley. She is supposed to be with me.” Here on earth, not when we meet in heaven. Whitley was the promise that I would hold onto for three years and countless doctors visit later.

Whitley: White field

Jane: God’s grace

I shake my head and still can’t believe she is turning nine tomorrow. I kiss her head and tuck her into her “big girl” bed that used to swallow her. She tells me that soon she will be taller than me. And I say, ‘not yet’ pretending to be offended. I wink and she grins.

Her hot pink lamp is on, I see her squinting to read the tiny print in her Bible. I lie down next to her, take the Bible out of her tiny hands, and ask her if I can read to her as we snuggle.

“Can you read the one about love?”

“Corinthians?”

“Yeah, that one.”

I begin to read 1 Corinthians 13. By verse four I soak her in my tears, yet continue reading.

“It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails…”

It doesn’t fail, it cannot. For God is love, the kind that doesn’t empty out or run dry when life gets too hard. He is there with us, wrapping us up in Him. That protecting, perfect, limitless love that I’ve known since I was a little girl...countless tears and whispered prayers learning to love and trust a God I couldn’t see, but felt. And in her room, I feel it still…limitless love protecting, trusting, hoping, persevering, and unfailing. And I can’t help but cry grateful tears remembering the happiest and scariest day of my life, Groundhog Day 2003. Her dad joked during the long, hard labor that he hoped Whitley didn’t see her shadow and decide to stay in there longer…I still don’t think that was very funny. Seventeen hours of pure torture (sorry honey) and an emergency cesarean later only to hear silence, no sound of cries coming from her tiny, perfect body.

But, I knew she would cry. I knew she was meant for me and that she would be okay because love always perseveres. Always hopes. You were worth the wait, baby girl. Happy Birthday Whitley Jane.

Tough Girl

I cannot tell you how many times I have heard this phrase: “You need to develop thicker skin.” But, I have yet to hear a Bible verse to back up that phrase. And so I look at them, most likely with a blank stare and nod knowing that every time to “try” to be tough I forfeit the sweetest part of me. My southern sweetness nods and then I shake it off and shake my head wondering what on earth these ladies have been through to put on such a tough-girl exterior.

The fact is, I am strong. I’ve had to be. I’m strong because I forgive even though I can’t always forget. I’m strong because I run to God and not away from Him. I’m strong because I’m not at all. I’m weak and His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

I’m not sure who told women that we needed to wear the pants in the family, serve it up hot in the kitchen (and the bedroom) and get over our natural, God-given, femininity by having thicker skin. But, I’m afraid for them and for their hearts.

We can be Proverbs 31 women in the making, consider the field (or minivan) and buy it. We can dress our children in fine clothing, or pick it up off the floor and hand it to them ten minutes before the school bus arrives and pray it doesn’t have stains on it. We can celebrate our respected husbands who provide for us well and come home to a somewhat clean house and happy wife who sometimes isn’t happy. We can paint the house, stain the cabinets, and use a staple gun to update the fabric on our chairs. No one loves a staple gun more than me and to be real honest, I would rather have a staple gun over a waffle iron any day.

We can do it all, or at least we try to. But, at the end of the day when we have worked like a man while trying to smell like a girl...you can bet your discount shoes that we are going to cry because we are tired. And calloused hands still hurt.

But what happens when you are unhappy and your soft skin feels tender, rubbed raw, and the ones around you are pouring lemon juice into your wounds instead of a healing salve?

You take in words straight from the heart of God telling you who you really are and what you are really worth.

You are far more precious than rubies, Proverbs 31 woman, but you do not have to be a cold, hard stone.

NLT says that the Proverbs 31 woman is energetic and strong, a hard worker. Her hands are busy (but, it doesn’t say anything about having a busy mouth. Hum, something to ponder.)

I wonder if she is energetic and strong because she knows when to rest, when to pull away, and regain her strength? Because if she is going to have anything worthwhile to offer her family, she must be well versed in saying no to everything else that distracts from her highest calling.

She is clothed in strength and dignity. But, I wonder if her skin was still soft and supple even though she had hands that are familiar with hard work? Heaven knows we all need some cream and lotions, and this girl is smart y'all...she probably whipped up her own batch of wonder under-eye cream!

She laughs, without fear of her future. Perhaps she cackles like me, from her gut with her head back, relentless because she’s taken a lifetime of fighting, crying, and putting on strength while remaining very much a woman. She makes a choice to be soft and strong all at the same time. Because after all, she knows what matters most and it’s not everyone else’s lousy advice and 10 Easy Steps to make your house, kids, and husband look fabulous while you smile and call Walgreens because your Zantac bottle is empty.

Can I tell you that being soft and sensitive is not a curse? It opens way to the gifts of helps and cheap and affordable therapy for your friends while giving you a shoulder for the toughest girl in the world to cry on.

Being tough is not the answer, realizing that you are not at all, nor do you have to be, is.

God didn’t make me to be tough; He made me to be soft. And everyone that tries to tell me otherwise doesn’t know me. At all. (And I mean that in the nicest possible way.) I’m not taking about being overly sensitive and so insecure that when the person next to me sneezes and makes a funny face…I assume it’s because of something I’ve done. I got over that after High School and I’m definitely not returning to those days. My ponytail and pom-pom days are over, so I can put on strength and not have to punch people in the face, or with my words, to do so.

A Not-So-Tough Girl,

Jennifer

Lessons from a Former Broken Girl & The Sweetest Gift

It doesn’t end. I wish that I could tell you that one day you will be over it. Whatever it is. Abuse. Neglect. Abandonment. Death. Loss. Scars that no one else sees. The heart doesn’t forget. But, a wise woman told me not too long ago…He removes the sting. She could see the sting all over me and she was right. It doesn’t sting anymore.

When the hurt runs deep there are layers upon layers that only Christ can break through. Broken pieces that look like you, words that cut, everything placed before you and you take it because you think you have to, but you don’t. Let it shatter, your yesterday, your broken life, and watch what God does with it. One day it will be a masterpiece, I pinkie promise. God doesn’t take our pain without offering something sweeter in return.

He takes your pain for you with a love that your mind cannot fathom because He is love. He bore your sorrows in the shape of cross and bloody stripes on His back that can heal the hurt that no man sees. He carries your pain. And just in case this hasn’t been modeled out before you, our Daddy God is the perfect gentleman. Perfect, no air of superiority or fist waved above you. God is not like that. He will not pry the hurt from your hand or order you to let it go. You have to give it to Him. It’s your gift of surrender as you rip off your victim label, resigning your unofficial title of the walking wounded. Hurt can make you bitter, or it can sweeten you to love Him like none other. Can I tell you? Can I beg you to choose the latter?

This is not a holly, jolly topic but there are those who can’t sing the choir songs or deck the halls because they are hurting. They grieve and go through the motions hoping that someone will take notice with something actually worthwhile to say. They are numb and distracted standing on shaky legs because they no longer walk in strength because they walk the walk of wannabe survivor trying to keep their heads above water. Can I beg you to choose your words carefully to the fragile, or say nothing at all?

“But no man can tame the tongue. It is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless our God and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in the similitude of God. Out of the same mouth proceed blessing and cursing. My brethren, these things ought not to be so. Does a spring send forth fresh water and bitter from the same opening? Can a fig tree, my brethren, bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Thus no spring yields both salt water and fresh.” (James 3:8-12)

To the mother that just gave her baby up for adoption with ache and longing running through her bones and empty arms… you gave life and you gave a gift that the barren woman rejoices over. It’s okay to hurt and dream of a day when you are ready to mother for good. You are still a mother, you will always be. But sweet girl, you gave life and you gave a gift. So I say thank you on behalf the child that will grow up happy because you gave life.

To the mother that buried her beloved; your tears do not go unnoticed. God sees you and holds the hand of the one you lost…but don’t’ forget He’s holding your hand too. Squeeze it. Close your eyes and remember the hope of heaven because it’s real and waiting for you.

To the woman abandoned and left behind. Breathe deeply and grieve deeply, joy will come again in the morning for the Lord is near to the brokenhearted. He pours in the oil and wine, bandages your gaping wounds, and whispers the sweetest love song that sounds like this, “I am your husband. I see your worth and your beauty so find your safety in me. My soul provision will blow your mind because I am not capable of failing you.”

The sweetest gift you may give someone this Christmas is persistent, liquid prayers.
The sweetest gift you can give yourself with clinched fists is the release that comes from knowing God fights the battles for you as you let go of your “right” to be angry. Shake your fist at the enemy of your soul, not at man, for God will grant you victory. Fight the good fight.

Hurting people hurt people. If you can see through that and their lies…it hurts a little less. But, it still hurts so let God take it. Today, right now, choose salty tears over a root of bitterness that grows deep. Choose a spring of life yielded to the heart of God…not salt water that stings.

Today I choose joy. Today I choose fresh water over salty. Today I choose a heart that doesn't sting. I embrace the sweetest gift, my Savior came wrapped in flesh...and that my friends, is real reason to be jolly.

Much love to you from a Former Broken Girl,
Jennifer

My Grownup Christmas List & Coveting

She must have known. The tears begin to fall softly and I'm grateful. Let them come, because I know the power of liquid prayers. As I sift through the emotions and glance at the time. I know I should be sleeping and bear-hugging a pillow instead of staring at my husbands dated laptop. I smile, it's the best of both worlds: the dated laptop and my iMac in the room where he sleeps peacefully. The state of gratitude that I feel and the war of frustration I feel when I think about want verses need. I don't want to get it, because she raised me better than that.

Sometimes Mother really does know best.

I can honestly say I don't know what it's like to be truly hungry, but I know for certain that in my childhood we had less, although dirt-poor could not be an accurate description. I didn't walk uphill in the snow both ways to school. I had nice things and clothes; clean long hair while my sister sported the girl mullet. (It was the 80's and apparently that was in.) Honestly, if we flipped through some old family photographs my sisters horribly wrong hair cut would be the only indicator that we were “poor.”

I had nice things because I had a mother that sacrificed so much. What she couldn't give me in material things, she taught me by telling me the classic one-liner. Money doesn't grown on trees. Heaven help me, I'll probably say the same thing to my daughters as I teach them not to covet and do my best to instill the fine art of being thankful for what they have.

I'm trying to make my grown-up Christmas list and I'm wrecked. This once impulsive buyer looks at things through different eyes and it clicks.

She knew.

God was faithful to speak to my mother's heart and whisper words that would help her let go of a little girl who was called to a different life. Mom told me when I was in Junior High that she knew I was called into ministry. I was ironing; I hate ironing. I was frustrated, trying to communicate what she already knew…that I was different. Somehow I hoped that my future wouldn’t include a domestic, tied to the kitchen life. I was trying to explain to her that I didn't want a normal life; I wanted to be in ministry full-time. No one enters ministry thinking that they are going to be rich, unless they are crazy. So, thanks Mom. Somehow I don't think either of us imaged the call of God would look quite like this.

What I didn't know then was that the call of God looks like so many things. It looks like a stay-at-home mom. It looks like a working single mom trying to juggle life and kids, wants verses need. It looks like a missionary in the heart of Africa with battle scars and a love that makes him release his grip on comforts for souls and empty eyes that light up when they hear the good news. The call of God takes on many shapes, chiseled by different seasons of life. We do the same things with callings, titles, and positions of authority. We covet, looking down our noses at the role that God has blessed us with, counting talents, burying them, wasting them.

Want verses need. Gratitude verses covetousness. My grownup Christmas list? I might give you a few hints later, maybe a teaser, but brace yourself…it’s not normal.

Much love,
Jennifer

Surrendered Soul, Abundant Harvest

For days my thoughts have turned to the farmer in Africa, here in the states, and abroad sowing seeds while his family suffers from hunger, sobbing from the nothingness that fills their bellies. They have nothing and so they cry.

I think of the single mom who measures out her children’s portions giving herself less so that they can have more. They have next to nothing and she feels the weight of it, crying herself to sleep at night.

I cannot understand or wrap my mind around suffering, yet I know their tears are not wasted and unnoticed. For God is there, with the broken and contrite heart as the tears run down their faces. He is the same Jesus moved in his gut with compassion while the widow grieves the passing of her only son.

He is moved deep within, churning with action as He raises her only hope for provision, the one she used to cradle and comfort. It seems so delayed, but it’s not. Not for one second is our God not thinking of His loved children.

A spirit of brokenness while sowing seeds brings about a harvest of results leaving them with joy uncontainable- but not for the present, no, it’s the gift and the promise of tomorrow. Today you will cry, fearful that you cannot provide. But your harvest is coming so you throw out what you would rather cling to. There is not another choice.

They wept and planted, in their diligence they pressed on longing to remember the taste of joy. Brokenness within personal famine leads us to a breakthrough like none other. Delayed gratification that lingers with empty ache while the Lord sees, deeming their diligence as pleasing.

“When, the Lord brought back the captivity of Zion, we were like those who dream.” (Ps 126:1)

The picture of Zion is symbolic of safety. Our sweetest dreams are best entertained when we feel certain of our provision, not with barren soul and soil. The dream drains out, salty tears and scattered seed on rocky soil. But, when freedom from captivity comes, freeing us from the things that hold us back, it releases chained humanity bringing with it our joy. The dream that refuses to die…the little girl who dreams loud as she twirls filling up her now grownup shoes as she gathers up her abundance, carrying in the sheaves. God never wastes our pain.

“He who continually goes forth weeping, bearing seed for sowing, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.” (Ps 127:6)

We sow seeds of surrender by releasing what we hold dear. We wait and watch as God waters the soil with our tears and when the tears no longer spill out, we feel the sunlight again. Bursting forth, our harvest comes in abundance.

We will never taste anything sweeter than the fruit of surrender.

Perhaps you are holding onto the seeds, something of value- a relationship, a friendship that you want to work out, a job, your children. Afraid to scatter in surrender, you hold it tight-fisted and red faced.

You feel like you are about to be swallowed up by your situation, but a seed cannot grow in a cupped hand.

Plant with the hope of an abundant harvest, surrendered souls; you will not taste anything sweeter than the fruit of surrender. Doubtless, your joy will return releasing something far greater than a scattered heart. Safety and surety awaits you, giving way to that dormant dream that God hasn’t forgotten.

Much love to you,
Jennifer

Beautiful Surrender

Have you ever noticed that the leaves on the trees are more breathtakingly beautiful right before they surrender? Their colors and hues make me weep as I stand in awe of a world that God set into motion through His spoken words. He breathes in and says, “Let it be” and it is. And it's glorious.

The weather affects the autumn colors. A succession of warm, sunny days and cool, crisp but not freezing nights seem to bring about the most amazing colors. The amount of moisture that seeps into the soil enhances the colors. The leaves are beginning to sprinkle the ground and yet some still remain on the tall branches in a display that is captivating. But, soon enough the wind will turn colder encouraging them to let go as they fall to the ground signaling another season passed.

I feel like the leaves ready to surrender, a new level and layer of letting go. Perhaps we surrender in layers just like we heal. Our Master Gardener peels back layer by layer, going deeper into a place that is familiar with pain. He shakes off the clumps of dirt and rearranges me so that I can flourish where He plants me come spring. I am no longer afraid of winter and things stripped bare.

Shake off the dust and soil. And graft me in, Master Gardener. I wither without You, fading without purpose.

Winter may come, but warmth still remains because I am hopeful, more respecting of even the seasons that chill me to the bone. In the past, my seasons of spiritual winter
left me wanting, feeling barren and cracked, and unproductive. But each season in our spiritual lives give way to something greater, a new level of letting go and deeper surrender.

So, I let go even if the color drains out of me.

I let go even though I would rather remain in higher places.

I let go of the familiar to step into the unknown that I know God is calling me to; beautiful surrender, more of Christ and less of messiness of me.

The leaves may fall to the ground much like our tears, but they are not wasted. They decompose and restock the soil with much needed nutrients. Our wintered soul cries the tears of surrender until what once was calloused and cracked runs smooth. The winter is coming bringing bare trees, but not barren trees. They will still be strong and tall without the decorations of color that I much prefer.

“In spiritual winters, our fullness is thinned out so that, undistracted by our giftings, we can focus upon our character. In the absence of anything to measure, we are left with nothing to stare at except for our foundation.” ~ Alicia Britt Chole (anonymous)

Prayer:

Let it be in me just as it is in the leaves right before they release their grip on the strong tree that fed them and held them in place for so long. Let me be a display of your splendor, a woman who lives in surrender. Seasons change, but You remain the same. A God of wonder, a God I seek after, a God who is still speaking me into motion and making something beautiful out of the mess of me. I’m not afraid to let go anymore! Amen

Who needs the colors of autumn when God longs to decorate us with a crown of beauty instead of ashes? Joy instead of mourning, a garment decked out in praise instead of a withering spirit of despair. We will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor. (Is 61)

It’s time to embrace beautiful surrender!

Much love to you,

Jennifer

I've Got You

A few days ago we met some new friends on a play date. As I got to know this adorable, new friend our daughters played and enjoyed the gorgeous sunshine. I guess you could say that I’m not really a country girl, but I love to enjoy every aspect that country life brings. I love the simplicity and the thought of working your land. I would like to think my girls could thrive in both worlds…the country life and the city life, the known and the unknown.

Lately I have been teaching my youngest that she can do all things through Christ who gives her strength. Not some things measured out with human limitations, but all things when God is in it.

Without hesitation I watched my little girl scale a tree for the first time. I was honestly nervous, but she climbed that tree like she had been climbing trees for years. There was something inside of her telling her to climb and go higher. She was so high that I just needed her to know I was there and that I approved. Yet, I was right there when she wanted to get down. I politely excused myself and made my way over to the tree.

“Be careful.”

“I will, Mom.”

“Not too high, alright?”

“Ok.”

I want my little girls to soar, to tackle their fears head-on. I smiled and waved, and stepped away so they could play. In a matter of minutes my oldest wanted up and now there were four adorable little girls in a tree having the time of their life. I remember tree houses and sunshine, and the smell of playing hard for hours. You can always tell just how much fun a child had by the sweaty-kid smell that lingers afterward.

When it was time to come down, I watched both of my girls panic while the other girls, being seasoned pros at tree climbing, looked at them with questions. Getting up there was easy, but coming down was a different story. The ground seemed smaller and the tree stories higher. I made my way to the base of the tree and looked them in the eye.

“Baby, you can do this.”

“I’m afraid of heights.”

I kept thinking, you’re not afraid of heights…you just climbed a tree! You used to be afraid of heights!

“It’s ok. I’m right here, I won’t let you fall.”

“I’m scared, I’m really scared.” She begins to cry.

“Look at me. Take my hand…I’ve got you.” She hesitates, fear swallows her, and I refuse to let it.

“Baby, I’ve got you.” Our eyes locked. She believed me.

As I removed my oldest child from the tree relief washed over both of us. I repeated the steps one through three and echoed these words as I reached for up for my baby who seems so far out of reach. A different fear reflected in her eyes, but it didn’t change her need to hear these words again as it sinks into her soul.

You can do this.

I’m right here.

I’ve got you.

I watched fear turn to trust in their little eyes. They each responded differently to their fear, my youngest was back to normal in a matter of minutes laughing and playing while my oldest wrapped her legs around me, held on, and cried.

I don’t know what fear you are facing right now or if you are stuck somewhere far out of reach from what you deemed safe, but I know that I need to tell you this:

You can do this.

He’s right there.

He’s got you.

As your mind races with questions and you wonder how you can conquer your own fears and model that out before you children, you need to be more certain that ever that you CAN do this. He is right there. We scale the wall of our dreams and life. It looks so daunting, an uphill battle. Sometimes we realize that we are in the wrong tree and we want down. We have a God that fashioned and formed us for greatness, but we have grown comfortable with our imprinted cushion from our backside. We’ve been sitting in the sidelines cheering for those hard in the game for too long…

You’ve forgotten how to climb.

You’ve forgotten how to play.

But, He’s got you.

“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man the things God has prepared for those who love Him.” (1 Cor 2:9)

Unpacking for the Weekend...

Hi Everyone!

We just posted our FIRST video blog on Broken Girl about unpacking our baggage. I would love for you to stop by and check out our website.

Much love,

Jennifer

From Baggage to Royalty

Years ago when my daughters were so much smaller I started this little game. We could hear my husband pull into the garage and the minute that garage door started to open we would make a mad-dash to find a place to hide. Most of the time the three of us ended up in the same dark places, with smiles so big you could hear them with little traces of giggles and hushes to be quiet. I’ll never forget their faces as I placed them into that very first hiding place behind an oversized chair. Excitement lingered in the air.

Come and find us. We want to be found by you.

It’s the game of hide and seek that we play as children and later in life we play it as adults without even knowing why.

We hide longing to be found and sometimes we hide longing to remain invisible out of fear. We hide behind a façade, a plastic smile; we hide out in the baggage that we have picked up over the years. Our baggage becomes our identity and safety net, it weighs us down and encumbers.

In 1 Samuel 10 we find an appointed king, appointed and set a part for God’s service.

“Samuel took a flask of olive oil and poured it over Saul’s head. He kissed him and said, I am doing this because the Lord has appointed you to be the ruler over Israel, his special possession.”

As the oil runs down his face he might have wondered why. “Why, among all the people, would the God of all creation choose me?” But, the oil runs down his face, not the person he deemed more suited for the job.

Samuel gives him instructions:

“At that time the Spirit of the Lord will come powerfully upon you and you will prophesy with them. You will be changed into a different person.” (1 Sam 10:6)

And it happened, just as Samuel had said. He did prophesy as the people watched in amazement.

“God gave him a new heart.” (Vs. 9)

God placed a new heart within him; time to turn the page on what once was to walk in a path of destiny. It was time for this to become public knowledge as God reveals to his people that Saul was His choice for king. And as Saul was chosen to be king, he disappeared. The one who had received a new heart, the one who had prophesied for the first time, and the one who could still feel the oil running down his head, hid.

“…But, when they looked for him, he had disappeared.” (Vs. 21)

“So they asked the Lord, “Where is he?” And the Lord replied, “He is hiding among the baggage.” (Vs. 22)

Why do we do that? Why do we run and hide when God is asking us to come out and lead His “special possession.”

Why do we pull the covers over our heads and hide in piles of baggage that should be thrown out?

It’s because we are afraid and we don’t have to be afraid. When we open our mouths, we pray first that God would fill it. We put on the full armor of God, not a plastic bag that easily falls apart.

With the many God given symbols of who God had created Saul to be, he still hid… among baggage. This tall man meant to tower, cowered. And I have to ask you this:

Are you doing the same thing?

Saul stood head and shoulders above everyone else. (Vs 23) He looked the part, but inside he didn’t feel like the rightful king. And even though he hid, scriptures record that, “This is the man the Lord has chosen as your king. No one in all Israel is like him!” (Vs. 24)

I have been guilty of hiding among the baggage when I’ve heard the voice of God clearly telling me that I was meant for more. You were meant for more. We don’t have to hide out in the beat up baggage claims any longer. The God that fashioned you is asking you to come out from hiding and assume the position that He assigned to you with a new heart and a new anointing. Your circumstances might look more like baggage, but the destiny God has in mind for you will blow your mind!

"Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man the things God has prepared for those who love Him." (1 Cor 2:9)

He is asking you to come out from among the baggage.

Do you want to be found by Him?

Baggage and Wildflowers

I travel much lighter these days. A decade ago, I was the girl with enormous baggage tattered and torn with insecurities too many to number. How could I have possibly known that my baggage would become the platform that I would stand tall on? I hid behind a mask that I thought I had to wear, a made-up display of having it all together instead of embracing the mess. God turned my battle scars into beauty and showed me the power of a testimony covered by grace.

It was all grace, hurt that made me cry out to a God that was always there. The perfect picture of a loving Daddy that I had never laid eyes on, invisible yet real. Grace that lovingly restored the mess of me, painting a picture in hues that heal as His word became the lamp lighting my path.

You see, we could continue to put on airs and do our best to fake normalcy. But, in my humble opinion, I find that normal is way overrated when daily I experience a God that delights in my abnormal. Piece by piece that beat-up baggage that used to weigh me down and hinder me from viewing myself as one that God formed had to go. I had carried it for far too long. His truth was to set me free, not somewhat free or partially free.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus the author and finisher of our faith.” (Hebrews 12:1-2)

We could continue to hold on to our baggage with a death-grip, but we won’t get very far. We could continue to let it define us, or we could kick it to the curb and let God give us something far greater, like wildflowers and a whirling dance.

“You did it: you changed wild lament into whirling dance, You ripped off my black mourning band and decked me with wildflowers. I’m about to burst with song; I can’t keep quiet about you. God my God, I can’t thank you enough.” (Ps 30:11-12 MSG)

May God take your baggage and turn it into a platform of grace. I pray that as you let some things go, God will give you a song and a whirling dance as He restores what was stolen.

Much love,

Jennifer