Tag Archives: Faith

Let go…or be dragged

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While you’re reading this sentence, I want you to ball your hands into the tightest fist you can make. Come on, squeeze until your nails dig into your skin and your knuckles turn white.

Now…open your hands. Stretch them as wide as they will go. Ahhhhhh. Release.

Do you see the fingernail marks in your palms? Run your finger over the shallow indention that will soon fade.

Are there things in your life showing evidence of a struggle by the indention’s that your fingernails left behind?

For me to think that there was any other way to believe that I could hold on to what was mine without digging my fingernails in, was going to take a complete transformation of the mind.

This is exactly what is happening. It has been a slow, but steady process.

Have you ever seen a child hold a piece of candy that they were afraid was going to be taken from them? Especially chocolate. The tighter they squeeze, the more misshapen it becomes. At times even melting under the force and heat of their little hand.

What’s left?

A mess.

When I have tried to pry open the little fingers of my child when they are locked onto something they want, not only does the mess get all over their hand, but it gets on mine as well. The worst place being under the nails where it is so difficult to remove.

Why am I telling you this?

Well, I hope you can relate.

I have had to physically open my palms to the Father many times this week while in conversation with certain people who are making decisions in my daughter’s life.

I have prayed, “Lord, if necessary, bring out your spiritual crowbar and release my grip on this situation. Father the harder I hold on, the worse the outcome. The more I squeeze, the greater intensity of pain. Help me, please. I don’t know how to hold my child with an outstretched arm and open palm.”

God has been so patient with me.

I should know by now that He doesn’t use a crowbar. He doesn’t use force. For if He did, I would be resentful. These are the times when He is very still and beckons my heart to meet Him in the quiet places (which are few and far between in my house).

He whispers to my heart, “Don’t you know she was Mine to begin with? Don’t you know that she is Mine still?”

“Yes, Father. But…What if…”

“What if, you trusted Me the way you tell others to trust Me? What if, you truly believed that I want the very best for your life and your child’s life. And though that doesn’t always mean comfort and happiness, you can rest in the assurance that you are greatly loved and adored by your Father in Heaven. What if, when you were afraid, you sought Me instead of relief through external methods? What if, every time you think of one of your children, you give them back to Me, once more, leaving the pen in My hand to write the chapters of their story? What if, you commit My words to memory so that when doubt floods in, it is absorbed by My truth and replaced with My peace that passes all understanding?”

This is how the Father speaks to my heart. This is the way he gently opens my fists tightly clenched in fear until my palms face the Heavens with fingers stretched as wide as they will go.

Then and only then, can He pour out His goodness, mercy and love. And there is enough that when it spills through my fingers, those around me benefit.

Bella, my Bella, belongs to God. Chris and I have worked tirelessly to lay the foundation and instill truth in her heart and mind. Our responsibility now, is to reiterate what she already knows. It is to combat lies with truth. It is to encourage, nurture and provide a safe place for daunting questions.

When I close my eyes and pray for my girl, I see the 5 year old explorer/princess/rock star. I see overalls and pig tails…I see somersaults on the grass and make believe castles in the trees.

I see more potential, beauty and promise than she will ever see. Isn’t that what we do as mothers though? We dream BIG for our girls and attempt to stifle the urge to project ourselves onto them while intercepting those who would cause them to believe that they are anything less than a child of The King.

Here’s the deal, I have to let go.

I must open my fingers and release the fist. I do not want my beautiful girl to have nail marks of any kind on her spirit, especially mine.

So when fear consumes my mind with thoughts of losing the control that I never had to begin with, my heart will respond with Ephesians 3:20-21“God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us.“

What is beneath your fingers tightly clenched into a fist? What or who are you holding on to so tightly that they can barely breathe? Let go. The longer you struggle, the messier it gets.

Let go. Or be dragged.

Drive Thru Witness

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I have never been very good at sharing my faith, especially with strangers.

That all changed about a year ago when Andy Stanley preached about being bold.

I feel sure the fact that I’m in my mid-thirties and no longer twenty-something, contributed to my response to his message. I like to refer to my twenties as the “wandering” or “prodigal” years.

Nonetheless, my entire view on witnessing was transformed after listening to Andy speak and then sliding this black rubber bracelet with the words “BE BOLD” on my wrist.

Here is what I know and want you to know as well;
~ You do not have to attend seminary to learn how to share your faith with others.
~ You do not have to be a “perfect christian” to be considered worthy of speaking the name of Christ to others. (What’s a perfect anything anyway?!)
~ You do not have to have the entire Bible memorized or be able to refer to a certain passage of scripture for every situation and circumstance.
~ You do not have to speak eloquently. (Look at Moses.)
~ You can have a past that speaks more about the faithfulness and love of Christ than a man in a robe, from a pulpit, ever could. (Look at Mary Magdalene.)
~ You can experience uncertainty and fear while ultimately choosing faith. (Look at Jonah.)
~ You can answer a question with, I don’t know.
~ You can rise above the circumstances that you feel disqualify you from being useful. (Look at Paul.)
~ You can share hope with anyone, at anytime. It’s free! And yet, once you truly grasp it’s meaning, it’s priceless.

Let me encourage you to look for small opportunities. You would be surprised what key words are said, in passing conversation, that can lead to someone knowing Christ. Everybody needs a Savior. Everybody.

Please don’t assume that someone else will come along who is well spoken, versed in all things “religious” and more comfortable with this sort of thing. Treat everyone you meet as if today is their last.

So tomorrow, when you are in the drive-thru waiting for your morning, afternoon and/or evening coffee, engage in conversation with the barista. Every now and then, pay for the person’s coffee behind you asking the cashier to relay a simple message like, “Happy Monday!” And as you drive off, pray for that person. That God would show himself in a tangible way that would draw them to Him.

He doesn’t need us. If you think He does, you’re mistaken. The reason we are to share with others is for our own faith and growth in Him.

We do not have to talk about church, have bumper stickers on our car that scream we are pro life and republican, or even say anything relating to scripture, to witness to others.

In fact, how much louder do our actions speak than our words?

As Mother Teresa would say, live as if you “see Jesus in every face.”

And when you fail, acknowledge it and move on. There is no time for wallowing in regret. We are of the most use to the Father when we are free of the bondage of shame and open to every opportunity throughout our day to live out the hope that only He can give.

You will be amazed! I promise!

Blessings to you as you begin your week. I will be praying for your journey and would ask that you pray for mine.

GUEST POST: "Churchspeak: A Field Guide"

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Today’s guest post comes from the beautiful and talented Tamara Lunardo. She’s the real deal folks and a big reason why I started a blog and have put myself out there even when it’s uncomfortable. Visit her blog and stay a while. You’ll be glad you did! ~ Joy
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I was fellowshipping with Suzy, when she really ministered to me by sharing her testimony about getting in the Word. I felt so convicted that I asked her to shepherd and disciple me, and right away she began to love on me. It was totally a God thing.

If you read that without gagging, congratulations– you are officially churched and need read on no further. If you trudged blindly through all that cheese and still stuck around to see where I was going, your patience is about to be rewarded. I present to you Churchspeak: A Field Guide. Because sometimes, what we say gets in the way of what we mean. And we really do want you to come join our flock. (Oh, oops.)

“A God thing”: Used to explain events almost exclusively when they end in our favor and often when they are frivolous beyond justification. E.g., the availability of a designer handbag may well be “a God thing,” but acquiring jock itch is undoubtedly not.

Convict, -ed, -ing, v., adj.: The churchy version of an “oh shit” moment, this Courtroom Christianity term lets us know we’ve been dead wrong deep in the depths of our souls. We often get unreasonably happy when this happens, sometimes because we’re gluttons for guilt (not gonna call out any denominations here– you know who you are), but usually because it means our sleepy little hearts are finally snapping to attention.

Disciple, v.: Just when you thought “disciple” was a guy in sandals catching fish (Or is that “apostle?” You can never be too sure with all these poly alias Jesus followers.), we go and verb it up. So let’s break it back down: If a “disciple” is one who learns, then his teacher “disciples” him. See that? You just got discipled.

Fellowship, n., v.: We like to hang out with our friends, too, but we like to make it sound holy. If you and your church pals want to knock back a few at your neighborhood pub, just call it “fellowshipping.” Ain’t no one gonna judge.

“In the Word”: We don’t just read the Bible, we get right on in there. You should probably be super impressed.

“Love on”: Don’t be alarmed by the extraneous preposition tacked on the end– no one is trying to get all up in your business. This phrase simply employs the same redundancy as “where it’s at” to emphasize the point. We just really, really love you.

Minister, v.: Not everyone can go to seminary, but we can wax pastoral anyway. We won’t just help you out– we’ll minister to you, even without the little white collar.

Testimony, n.: Another nugget of Courtroom Christianity. Sure, we could just “tell what happened,” but where’s the drama in that? Stories are much more attention-getting when they’re called “testimonies.” I will testify that this is a true fact.

Shepherd, v.: Nothing says mini-Christ (or Little Bo Peep) like a person who shepherds. We could guide you, but then you wouldn’t have the fun and frolic of feeling like a little lamb. You’re welcome.

Churchy folks– What terms of churchspeak did I miss? Non-churchy folks– Have you ever been weirded out by churchspeak?

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Tamara                   http://tamaraoutloud.com/

Tamara works out her thoughts on life and faith at the blog Tamara Out Loud, occasionally with adult language, frequently with attempted humor, and hopefully with God’s blessing.

Reprinted with permission from TamaraOutLoud.

The Maze of Ministry – Part 2

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In Part 1 of this post, I left you with a flashback from my childhood. (Sounds like a sentence from a shrinks couch, doesn’t it?)

These sentences are where we left off and where we will pick back up…
“And then it broke. Never to be put back the same way again. After all, with so much at stake, how could it be?”

When my parents decided to divorce, we, as a family, were suddenly and forcefully broken.
This is not a sob story about what happens to a girl from a “broken home.” So just hang with me here.

I was left questioning everything that had happened in my life.

I wanted to run.

So I did.

Without spending hours and thousands of words giving you details of the path I chose, I will sum it up this way;

~ I moved to another city and signed a modeling contract with an agency who immediately began bookings and photo shoots.

~ I discovered a drug that muted my mind and helped me stay thin.

~ I made a lot of money in a short period of time.

~ I was in breech of my contract for missing too many “Go Sees” and not returning my manager’s calls. They were able to use all of the pictures taken just days before without paying me a dime.

~ I began to spiral downward and burn through some serious cash.

~ I thought I was lost, but God still knew exactly where I was.

One night I woke up in an ER hospital bed, my wrists strapped to the rails while the nurses attempted to find a vain to start an IV for severe dehydration.

“Why am I strapped to the bed?!” I asked one of the nurses.

“You won’t keep your arms still enough for us to start a line, we may have to go in through your neck.” She responded.

“Wait. What?! No. How did I get here?! Why am I here?!” I said, confused and angry.

The doctor then walked into the room and said, “Why don’t you tell us? What have you ingested tonight?”

My designer dress had been cut right down the middle with surgical scissors. Apparently doctors don’t worry about preserving your clothes when they are trying to save your life.

It didn’t take long for my blood work to come back and show a list of things in my system that didn’t belong there.

When the doctor came in and read off the list, his next response was, “Damn druggies. As soon as that IV bag finishes, you’re gettin’ the hell outta here to make room for someone who really needs this bed.” I had od’d and come very close to loosing my life.

It’s interesting how differently you are treated when the medical professionals helping you, discover that the damage is self inflicted.

There are many examples of this type of chaos happening within a span of several years.

I chose to elaborate on this one story because this is a clear example where God rescued me from myself, in a way that I would not recognize until much later.

No one was in the waiting room to take me home. I didn’t even know how I got there. The person in registration said that several people had brought me in and said that they didn’t know what was wrong with me, but to save my life. They paid cash and left.

I knew then who it was.

I was shocked that these individuals would risk being caught to save my life. I was surprised they didn’t just let me die as I had heard stories of them doing with others who didn’t know when to stop.

(For those left wondering…the answer is yes, I had to take a taxi home in an ER gown and heals. Although I’m pretty sure I went barefoot, which totally grosses me out to think about!)

Do I blame my parents for this behavior? No.

It may have manifested itself in a different way were they still together, but I now know, with all certainty that I would not be who I am today without the hell I willing walked through years ago. I was fortunate, God always had His hand on me, protecting me, only allowing me to go so far.

The journey came to a crossroads when I sat down at a bar table with an undercover officer. I started talking to him and he asked what I was doing there. “What do you mean?” was my response.

“You don’t belong here. Get out while you still can.” He said, with a serious certainty on his face that I had never seen from anyone.

He drove me home that night. On the drive, I vividly remember staring at the yellow line in the center of the road. I thought about what my mom had told me when I needed to focus on something other than feeling carsick, “Focus on the yellow line and you’ll be fine.” She would say.

I had been traveling a road with no yellow line and it was time to refocus.

I called my dad the next day for the first time in months, told him I was alive, but scared and didn’t know what to do. He advised me to put everything I owned in garbage bags and come home that day.

I had a friend who helped me pack a u-haul and just as darkness fell, we began the six hour drive to my dad’s house.

I had not slept in more than 72 hours, so when I arrived, battered and bruised, I slept for a couple of days.

Three days after I had left, the house that I would frequent was raided and everyone inside was arrested (or so I was told). The amount of items confiscated had the potential for a hefty prison sentence.

You would think that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. There was much more to come, but that’s a story for a different day.

I was having coffee with a friend yesterday and we were talking about a different part of my story. She said, “That must have been when you hit your bottom?”

“No.” I said. “I had lots of bottoms.” I declared my bottom when I threw the shovel down and began climbing out of my self made burial ground.

I knew many who were not so fortunate.

I attended more funerals before age 20 than most people, other than a pastor will attend in their lifetime. Why I was not one of them, only God can tell. He has the final say and fortunately, He now holds the pen.

I like to read and listen to the writings of Jud Wilhite. He has said, “None of us were made to be made much of. We were made to make much of God.”

God was not surprised by anything that I did. He knew that more than a decade later I would have the irrefutable desire to work with women and girls, equipping them to make decisions that would lead them down a path much different from my own.

He knew that instead of gaping wounds, I would one day have beautiful scars that told my story and that there would be no shame.

In attempts to make much of myself, I failed miserably. I can see with clear eyes that it’s all about pointing to the Father and making much about Him.

Check out these incredible resources written by Jud Wilhite.

Also, explore the community he has created called People of the Second Chance Here you will find many stories that you can relate to and who knows, you may even decide that you want to tell your own story of second chances. You can follow on Twitter @POTSC

The Maze of Ministry

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Growing up a PK (preacher’s kid) I had a front row seat to all kinds of things done in the name of “ministry.”

I saw religion, spirituality, atheism, agnosticism. I saw searching. I saw people who were “worshipers of satan” and those who claimed to be their own god. I was never allowed to be in the presence of anyone who was supposedly possessed by demons. Though my dad would get calls at all hours for these types of things.

He only talked about it once. Said that it was the most frightening thing he has ever witnessed and hoped that he would never have to witness it again. It was a girl. A teenager. She was speaking in different voices and climbing the walls. Weird, huh?!

This can be very confusing for anyone, but especially a child.
I found that the easiest and most convenient path to take was to adopt the God of my parents understanding.

The only problem was that they had very different views of who God was and how He sees us, His children.

Flashback Time

During the Summer, my dad would meticulously pack up the Buick and we would all pile in and head off to where he was speaking for the week.

This usually entailed at least a 5-10 hour drive.

I am the youngest of 3 girls. We would all three be in the back seat with our one thing that we were allowed to bring along to entertain ourselves.

Keep in mind that these were the days of 55 mph speed limits on the highway.

I have always been prone to motion sickness. My mother would say multiple times during a road trip, “Focus on the center yellow line and you’ll be fine.”

This would be right about the time that my mouth would begin to water and the imaginary knot grew bigger and more uncomfortable in my throat. You know the feeling…right before you lose it.

“Oh God, please don’t let me vomit in this car!”

I could only imagine how awful the next few hours would be with the smell on the upholstery.

I stared at that yellow center line for more miles that I could count.

Though it sounds rather horrific, I loved those Summer travels. Even though it meant we were not with our friends, I met knew friends and before you knew it, we were running up and down the seemingly endless isles of a gigantic auditorium.

It was always great to come home too.

I can close my eyes, even now, and remember walking into our house on a hot summer day in the south. The turn of the key in the lock and stepping over the thresh hold. The air had been off for days, making it just bearable to be inside while waiting for dad to turn on the AC.

Upon the first breath through my nose, I knew I was home. The smell was familiar and comfortable. The sun streamed through the sliding glass doors, across the carpet and onto the tall stools at the kitchen counter where we ate breakfast every morning.

I remember as if it was yesterday, seeing the dust stir in the sunlight. I turned the corner, walked down the hall to my room and felt at ease. Collapsing on my bed and looking up at the popcorn ceiling, life was good. I didn’t know any different.

And then it broke. Never to be put back the same way again.
After all, with so much at stake, how could it be?

(This is where I will place the bookmark…for now. Let’s pick up where we left off in the story, tomorrow.)

Secrets are to Sickness as Openness is to Wholeness

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A follow up to Yesterday’s Post that my daughter wrote.

I have received enough mixed reviews about Bella’s post that I wanted to follow up with some clarity and insight about why I let her post on the blog.

First of all, Bella is doing great! She is happy, excelling in school, has several close friends and studies scripture more than I do.

From a very young age, Bella has been hungry for knowledge. Not necessarily the kind of knowledge that books can bring. More of a spiritual hunger that can only be fed by the Father.

She has been writing for years. She wants people to read what she has written in dark moments, in hopes that it will encourage them to bring their thoughts and fears into the light.

It’s one thing for me, at 35, to talk about what I went through years ago. Those things that were once wounds are now beautiful scars that serve as a reminder of God’s grace, unconditional love and faithfulness.

It’s quite another for my 13 year old to express with transparency, the road she has walked.

Here is what I know and what I have spoken into Bella’s heart since she was very little.

Secrets = Sickness
Openness = Wholeness

Does this mean that it is okay to verbally vomit to every passerby in hopes that it will be helpful? No! It’s about having self awareness and pure motives when sharing your journey.

If the post yesterday made you uncomfortable, good. The fact that one girl would share a page in a chapter of her story in hopes that thousands of others who suffer in silence would be encouraged, then it was well worth your discomfort.

Comfort does not bring about positive change. It never has.

When deciding which one of Bella’s writing’s to post, we agreed that this was the one.

She has written about crushes on boys, the beauty of nature and random thoughts that a girl thinks about. Those are well written, but she wants to make a difference in the world.

She wants to positively impact the lives of others. I will not hinder her quest or discourage what I believe to be a desire planted by God.

I am her biggest advocate. My prayer, as her mother, is to have all things point back to Christ (bad or good). That she will see the hand of the Father always on her and ever present in her circumstances.

I love that she knows that this earth is not her home because she is a child of The King. Treasured… sacred… born to be blessed.

She is the most amazing 13 year old I have ever met. I am honored that she lets me into her world. As I pray for guidance from the One who knows her best, I will not silence her voice.

Restless

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Here I am again…in the corner…head in hands…asking God, “What’s the point?”

This time it’s not physical crouching, with the seam of two walls against my back, it’s a mental corner.

I am no stranger to this restless place made up of questions, irrational emotions, irritability, and self pity.

There was a time when I would have walked into my closet, closed the door, sat on the floor, and in the dark, through my sobbing, begged God to help me feel something other than pain.

I don’t go there anymore. Not to that place.

I have seen and felt God move enough to trust that once invited in, His hand will be on me.

And yet, that doesn’t help the waiting or lessen the emotional toll that this season of the mind takes on the one enduring it.

What does one do in this place of unrest and discomfort?

For me, I must look back at the faithfulness of my Savior.

I must not forget all the times that He has rescued me from seemingly impossible circumstances.

I must rely on the promises He has made in His word.

I must cling to the hope that Christ has given in this tumultuous life.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

And… I must wait. Sometimes in silence, sometimes in stillness, sometimes in uncertainty.

Trusting that, though silent, God is here with me.

He goes before me, making a way in the wasteland.

He stands beside me, as my advocate.

He walks behind me, so that when I want to turn and run, His face is all I’ll see.

He leads me through a story that is all part of His plan.

And though the words don’t always make sense, when the chapter is complete, I know with great certainty that I will look back and see His sovereign grace.