When I was a Christian

I grew up in a loving home surrounded by “God-fearing” parents, grandparents, friends and neighbors. My mom says that I prayed to receive Christ at age two. Though she was unable to decipher my words, she’s certain that’s what I did.

I distinctly remember at age seven, sitting at the kitchen counter, across from my mom, when my dad called to say that my grandfather’s long and painful battle with cancer was over. And just like that I learned of mortality…

To continue reading this post, please visit Leanne Penny’s site here where she has started a unique series called, “Beautiful Scars.”

In the midst of the storm

I don’t know whether to cry or scream. Stay busy or sleep the day away. Restless is not an accurate description of the way I feel. I don’t know what would be?

My heart aches. Literally, my chest physically hurts. My understanding is so limited, so human.

My friend is in need of a miracle.

I believe in the God of miracles.

Yet, He is silent.

Lord, help my unbelief. Disprove my doubts. Show the doctors with human hands who the Ultimate Physician really is.

I look at the work of your hands. The way you have created life in seemingly lifeless places. I want to beg you to breathe life back into Elliot’s frail body. Knowing full well that your will is not my will and that Jesus taught us to approach the throne of grace with the words, “Thy will be done.” on our tongue.

But Father, I want to pound my fists in rage at the injustice as well as lifting my hands in praise for your faithfulness. I am in a strange place that is neither familiar nor foreign. Where fear meets faith…I suppose.

What am I supposed to do with this storm of emotion?! My fear tells me to sit with my back in the corner so that I feel surrounded by stability. How foolish of me for even thinking that walls capable of crumbling could provide me with security.

God, I know where my security lies and yet my faith is lacking. It’s not necessarily the realism of mortality that is so distressing. It is the little ones she would leave behind. It is the man of her dreams and the children they made together. It is those of us left…back here…on this earth of loss and tragedy. A place where understanding may never come.

These are the times we feel the gnawing in our gut and the longing in our soul. It is a homesickness of sorts. Not for this world. For Heaven.

“Help me. Please. Father. Abba. Please help me.”

* To follow Elliot’s story, visit her CaringBridge site. You can find her on facebook and post words of encouragement on her wall as well.

Breathing in Grace…Breathing out Praise

Never am I more present than when looking through the lens of my camera. Everything that has been heavily on my mind is somehow lifted. I think only of the subject in front of me.

Ever since I can remember, nature has fascinated me. As a child, we would take long road trips as a family and I would stare out the window for hours making shapes from the clouds.

I have been reminded of that childlike wonder through my first L glass macro lens. Chris knows what I need on such a deep level. A level that can be reached by no one but him. He has brought to life parts of my being that I know would have otherwise never surfaced. And because of that I live a richer, fuller, more meaningful life…with him.

The following pictures were taken at the Chattahoochee Nature Center. Several of the flowers had bloomed and were now coming to the end of their beauty, but they were no less exquisite. The splendor of my King was all around me. I love it when God shows off.

The dance of the bee
© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

Legs are absolutely coated in pollen
© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

I love the reflection on the water
© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

We always collect things along our journey that must be captured in the moment
© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

Your typical house fly
© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

The flower from outer space
© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

A little bee quarrel?
© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

© Joy Cannis and Even A Girl Like Me, 2012

When looking at all of the detail that went into making the flowers and bees it takes my breath away. God spent even more time on us. I love Psalm 139. It is a life verse for me and one that has kept me encouraged.

We are a masterpiece, you and I.

A work of sheer genius.

 

 

There’s nothin’ I hate more than nothin’

I have so much stirring in my heart…my mind…my gut. Yet, when I sit in front of this screen with a blank page of endless possibilities before me, just waiting for my words to create thoughts that explain something about this crazy journey I’m on…I got nothin’.

So I have avoided coming here…to this place where I bare my soul and reveal my idiosyncrasies. After reading this quote from Anais Nin, “If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.” I am back here…in this place…where I can breathe.

There are many things that have been brewing deep down in the parts of my being rarely visited. Things that have been around for a while that I push back down whenever they attempt to surface. The problem is, I’m tired of pushing against the inevitable. Those things needing to be dealt with will eventually burst through, leaving me with no choice but to sift through the wreckage.

Who enjoys that?! Certainly not I. In order to sift through my wreckage I need more than some disposable plastic gloves. I need waders at the very least, but preferably a hazmat suit. It’s ugly and it hurts. It’s like cleaning gravel from a fresh wound. Hurts like hell, but the only way to prevent infection is to destroy the threat.

So here I am…beginning the cleansing process…Of what, I’m not exactly sure…yet. But just as the past has proven, more will be revealed.

I have been looking through pictures as they usually calm my spirit and I came across these two that I love. I love them for many reasons. One being that the first one was taken only minutes after my son was born prematurely via c-section. Another is because his life represents so many wonderful things. Defying the odds. Proving wrong one scary diagnosis after another. This little boy and me, we are not only survivors, we are conquerors.

And there is one very obvious fact that I cannot deny.
It’s this…God is good.
He is faithful.

And because of that, when words fail me, even if in a whisper, I must speak the beautiful name of my Savior.

This is my prayer in the days to come.

“Help me lift your name higher… Jesus
You are my heart’s desire… Jesus
You set my soul on fire… Jesus
Your all consuming power… Jesus
I need you every hour… JesusSaviorMasterHealerRestorerRescuerRedeemerLover of my soul.”
                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Better than a Hallelujah

Better than a Hallelujah
By Amy Grant

God loves a lullaby
In a mother’s tears in the dead of night
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes

God loves the drunkard’s cry
The soldier’s plea not to let him die
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

The woman holding on for life
The dying man giving up the fight
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes

The tears of shame
for what’s been done
The silence when the words won’t come
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

Better than a church bell ringing
Better than a choir singing out,
singing out

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

Reflections

Look beyond the surface
Beyond the noise
Past first glance
There you will find
The reflection

‘Where’s my backpack ?’ is running a photo challenge as this week there has been none issued from the Daily Post.

Related posts:
Reflections – Chronicles of Illusion
Reflections – Where’s my backpack?

Love

While trying to come up with an incredibly deep and meaningful title for this post, that would be sure to grab the attention of anyone who glanced my way, the one word that kept coming to mind was, “Love.”

My mind will not slow down long enough for me to write something that expresses what is happening in my heart. As I think of my friend, her body being ravaged by cancer, I want to vomit. I don’t know what else to do, but come to this blank page and start thinking out loud.

At the same time, selfishly, I want to give you something that will leave you thinking that I’m brilliant. Something that will touch you so deeply that on your death bed you will think of this post and find peace. Crazy, right?! I know!

God forbid I just admit to the fact that everything I have written in the last 24 hours has sucked! I’m a work in progress. Egomaniac with an inferiority complex remember?! I want you to like me even if I don’t like you…and yahdee yahdah.

Funny (and not in a haha sorta way) thing is, I cannot put 5 words together to form anything worth your time it will take to read it.

As I sat upon my pitty pot of self-delusion, I did what anyone else would do in my situation…I checked my email. Forget actually trying to sleep. I may get an update on my friend’s condition and I cannot miss that…or wait until morning to read it!

There, in my email was a picture of a handwritten note from my daughter. Ironically enough, it was talking about love. Now, I realize that she is a lovestruck teenager who daydreams about her knight in shining armor, in other words, Justin Bieber, but I love what she wrote. Simple. To the point. True.

I love this kid! Her heart is so deep, her motives so pure and her faith so beautiful.

She doesn’t believe that. She thinks she is a nuisance. Now that may change tomorrow, but for tonight, she sees herself as something to be tolerated. What?! How is that possible?!

She told me between sobs what was troubling her. It made me ache. I want to fix it. I can’t.

“I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.” ~Mother Teresa

Sometimes it feels as if all I am doing in love is hurting, while other times it is pure bliss. As I try desperately to get to my vague point, here is what I have been thinking about love since speaking with my Bella;

How do you find it? Does it find you?
Once you find it, or it finds you, how do you keep it?
While keeping it, how do you explain it to others?

Simple, but not easy…You live it.
In every thought.
Every word.
Every deed.
Every action.
Every response.

Don’t see this as an impossible feat. See it as an inspiring challenge…to love without getting tired.
Take every thought captive.
Think before uttering a word.
Act from a place of kindness.

Love really is the root of it all…or it should be anyway.
It’s where the adventure begins.
Once the search has begun, it is a lifelong journey, there is no going back.
It’s going to hurt and
It’s gonna be messy

but

It will also be wonderful and filled with purpose.

I’m going to be okay…
Bella will be okay…
You…will be okay.

“Love to be real, it must cost—it must hurt—it must empty us of self.” ~Mother Teresa