tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48855534289023378472024-03-12T21:01:11.843-05:00We Will RiseA Ragamuffin's Musings About Hope, Home, and Holy CrapAlissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-80267152469585910722017-12-05T20:28:00.001-06:002017-12-05T20:48:36.378-06:00Confessions of an Atypical Fat Girl <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Since the awkward years of puberty, I have always been
overweight. It’s been a thing my whole life. I was that 13-year-old girl who
was called “fatty” by bullies at the public park. And I was the 20-year-old
girl called “fat ass” by a really cute boy in a room full of other really cute
boys. I have the sad stories. I have the stories of public humiliation. Social
equality fanatics would have a heyday with the body shaming I’ve endured for
30+ years. But despite all of the evidence society has stacked against me…the
opinions of literally millions of people and an entire industry devoted to
defining standards of beauty…even as a young girl, I couldn’t shake the deep
belief that my FAT had absolutely nothing to do with my VALUE. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yeah, you read that right. I’m a lifetime fat girl with
healthy self-esteem. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m not talking about the big girls who wear short skirts
and midi-shirts so the world can admire their rolls and cheer “you go
girl.” I’m not sure I would qualify that
as self-esteem, so much as giving the world the middle finger. Nah. I’ve never
claimed fat as the new “sexy.” I believe in dressing for the body you occupy.
Which means I live by the mantra: “Just because it buttons, doesn’t mean it
fits.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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You see, I’m pragmatic. Fat is just fat…connective tissue
used to store energy. And, yeah, some people have more of it than others. Maybe
from hormones. Maybe from over-eating. Maybe from unlucky genetics. Maybe from Lays
potato chips being a-hella-lot cheaper than wheat grass smoothies. But, yeah, regardless
of how it was acquired…fat is just a lifeless, biological function of the body.
Which is why…even in the midst of heart-breaking public shame…I could never
understand HOW IN THE HELL connective tissue had the power to define my worth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, at some undefined moment in life, with endless
encouragement from my parents…I decided that the world was stupid. And in order
to live my best life in the body I was given, I was going to have to cling to
the truth that my value and my body were completely and dramatically <u>UN</u>related.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t get me wrong. Being a lifetime fat girl with healthy
self-esteem doesn’t mean I’m STOKED about having cellulite and jiggly arms. Nope.
I avoid mirrors when I’m naked. I get my feelings hurt when people say “you
have a pretty face.” I wish I had one or two less chins in candid photos. And I’ve had my
fair share of scary moments wondering if I was going to exceed the weight limit
on amusement rides. I feel the feels of being overweight. I just don’t stay
there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t hide in over sized potato-sack clothing. I don’t lower
my dating standards because I think I don’t deserve an attractive, amazing man.
I don’t try to make myself invisible. I’ve never cried in a changing room while trying on swimsuits. I’m not ashamed to stuff my face with donuts in a public place. I don’t assume everyone in the room is
thinking about how fat I am. No, in fact, I just assume NO ONE is thinking
about my weight. Which gives me the freedom to simply offer the best parts of
myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have deep, meaningful friendships with people who love
every part of me. I have a great job where I have influence and am valued for
my contributions. I embrace adventures near and far. I love fashion and makeup and all things girly. People laugh at my jokes.
And there are many kids in this world who adore me and think I’m the coolest
thing since Legos. Yeah, I live a full, full life. Divorcing my value from my body
was a great decision. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But, you see, somewhere along the line…I over-corrected. I
wandered so far away from my physical self, that I completely abandoned the
temple that I was given stewardship over. I am Imago Dei…created in the image
of God. To separate myself completely from my body meant that I separated
myself from God’s holy creation. Which is why, over the last year, I have spent
many counseling sessions crying large crocodile tears over the broken relationship
I have with my body. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you want to hear that story…stay tuned…for more
confessions of an atypical fat girl. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-9042781056273179292017-07-30T19:06:00.000-05:002017-07-30T19:06:55.239-05:00A Love Story <div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure where to start. So, I’ll just jump in with the
most interesting bit: I am in love. Totally, completely in love. And my love
story starts with a vision…about a train. Intrigued? Keep reading. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Here’s the thing. I’m not a vision person. And I certainly
don’t think I have the gift of prophecy. I mean, yeah, I get it…visions are a
thing. They’re Biblical. I’ve just never had one. So, when I had it…I thought I
was either dreaming or…having a mental breakdown.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I think it’s important to pause the story here and give you
a little context. Some of you may have noticed I haven’t blogged anything in
quite some time. Since right after my dad died, actually. I know, it sounds totally
cliché. But the truth is, slogging through grief is freaking hard…and the last
thing I wanted to do was expose my grief to the world wide web. People say
really good-intentioned, yet stupid things to grieving people. And I didn’t
want to open myself up to more spiritual platitudes about my Dad being in a
better place. So, instead, I sought professional help. I needed a transactional
relationship…someone who was under no obligation to try to make me feel better.
So, for the last year and a half, I’ve been faithfully spilling my guts to a
licensed counselor. As these things go, the grief counseling eventually turned
into deconstructing 40 years of life down in this twisted, broken world. Heh. I
found that I had a lot to talk about. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For over a year, I’ve been feeling things that I had never
allowed myself to feel. Like the crippling fear of dying alone. Like the acute pain
of loneliness. Like the fear that I’m “too much” for people to handle. Like the
shame of living life in this body. Week after week, month after month, I’ve
been digging around in a cesspool of untouched emotion. And yet, I still felt
like I hadn’t broken through to THE thing…THE important thing. I mean, even
after all this good, eternal heart talk…I still wasn’t talking to God. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then I was lying awake in bed one day…and I had a
vision:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bnGDrFoOedrz4vmAV2G450GlXgneKHkn-Kb2fNjXycW7QOSXnhR4Hi0U4sndqMbrl0f7LbORun3pOq-LjyJ1kM158YuV9x_R6-cOFutkoB2yEwNRbe8SdgwgRRRaQyA7tiKc0DQ43VY/s1600/night+tracks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="237" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bnGDrFoOedrz4vmAV2G450GlXgneKHkn-Kb2fNjXycW7QOSXnhR4Hi0U4sndqMbrl0f7LbORun3pOq-LjyJ1kM158YuV9x_R6-cOFutkoB2yEwNRbe8SdgwgRRRaQyA7tiKc0DQ43VY/s320/night+tracks.jpg" width="198" /></a><b>It’s nighttime. I’m standing on a railroad
track. I can’t see anything but a single pin drop of light directly in front of
me. The sound of a train…rails shrieking as metal scrapes against metal. The
pin drop is getting bigger. The train is coming closer. At this point, I’m not
really afraid…I know I have plenty of time to get off the tracks. Until I hear
a voice. A man’s voice. He says simply, “don’t move.” Now at this point, I’m
aware that the voice is from God. I’m also aware that I now have a choice to
make. Obey God…or get off the tracks. That’s when the fear hits me. And that
damn train is getting closer. I heard the voice again, this time it’s right in
my ear…like He’s standing behind me. He says again, “don’t move.” The train
gets louder…I can hear it. But I don’t move. All the sudden, it’s upon me. I
close my eyes, waiting for impact. But it doesn’t hit me…it goes through me. In
the vision, I can FEEL it passing through me. I can hear people in the cars,
laughing, talking, yelling. I can hear the clinking of glasses and dishes as
the dining car passes through me. It didn’t hurt so much as overwhelm me…like
the pressure of a train was going to break me into a million pieces. I remember
thinking the train would be stuck in me forever and that I would be tortured
for eternity. Until…all of the sudden…it was over. The last car passed through
me…and once again I was standing alone on the tracks. I can hear the train behind
me getting further and further away. And standing on the tracks is a man. I can’t
see His face. I have no idea who he is. I only know that I feel a bone-deep
peace…and my life has somehow been altered by that train. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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It took me awhile to tell anyone about that damn train. But
then, I had it again. A shorter version, but the message was the same. I had to
let a train pass through me. I can’t express how annoyed I was by this vision. As
a classic overachiever, I HATE not knowing the answer to things…and this felt
like a big ‘ol mystery that I was too tired to solve.</div>
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But a week or so later, I got up the nerve to tell my
counselor. He asked me a somewhat typical counselor question, “How do you FEEL
about this vision?” Well, I have two feelings…how long is this effing train
going to pass through me and who the HELL is the man? He asked me who I hoped
the man was. I remember saying, “This is probably wrong to say…and I feel a bit
sacrilegious for saying it, but I really hope the man isn’t Jesus. I hope this
isn’t just a big spiritual lesson that ends up with Jesus being the only man I
end up with. I mean, to be honest, I hope the mystery man is my future husband.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Something I haven’t mentioned yet. The picture of a train is
actually pretty significant to me. You see, my childhood nickname was “Locomotive.”
It was a nickname I hated with every fiber of my being. It comes with extensive
levels of shame. And it’s why I developed a deep, deep fear of being “too much”
for people. If you want to read about it…I blogged about it once <a href="https://alissaowsley.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-flight-of-girl-child.html" target="_blank">HERE</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, the train was never in question. I knew what the train
represented. I had to let my deepest fears pass through me. I had to stop
stepping off the train tracks to avoid the pain. I had to stand still while the
fear and shame overwhelmed me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the weeks that followed, I had opportunity after
opportunity to stand on the tracks. Wave after wave of events tested my
fortitude. More crippling sickness on a European trip of a life time (for the
first instance, read<a href="https://alissaowsley.blogspot.com/2012/07/barf-bag-of-mercy.html" target="_blank"> HERE</a>). In and out of the doctor’s office for weeks battling
acute bronchitis. Laying in a hospital bed with the SAME heart symptoms that
eventually killed my dad. Watching another parent being wheeled to surgery through
those horrible double doors. And more lessons…too personal to share here.
Lessons that forced me to reckon with my deepest fears. Fears around being
alone. Fears around being broken. Fears around dying. All of them just came
crashing in on me in a matter of weeks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I guess, in a way, the vision itself was a great mercy. It
allowed me to find purpose in my misery. The pain wasn’t intended to break me…it
was intended to make me stronger. To lead me to peace. So, I stayed on the tracks.
And I chose to respond differently to the pain. I chose to talk about it. I
chose to ask for help over and over again. I chose to allow myself to rest. I
chose to open my eyes and observe the fear rather than clench my eyes closed
until it was over. And the darnest thing happened…I saw God’s mercy EVERYWHERE.
He was with me the whole time…standing right next to me on the tracks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Enter <b>Wednesday, July 19, 2017</b>. Just an average workday.
Nothing that morning indicated that I was about to realize my greatest desire.
I was about to find out who the man on the tracks was. There I was, just making
my morning commute. Thinking about the day ahead of me. Worship music playing
in the background. I can tell you exactly what part of the road it happened. It
started with goosebumps. Then the hair on my head started to tingle. Then I was
filled with the most blissful warmth…it filled every fiber of my body. I was on
the tracks again. The train had just passed through me and there was light
everywhere. I saw him standing on the tracks. It was Jesus. He was waiting for
me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t feel disappointed. I felt complete and utter
RELIEF. Of course it was Jesus…of course! He’s literally the only man that can
fill my heart with such peace. In that moment, just driving to work on a random
Wednesday…I knew Jesus was the only man who could destroy the loneliness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Later that day I had a counseling appointment scheduled.
Which I now know was a Divine appointment. Brian, my counselor, was the first
to hear the news. Which is fitting, as he is the one who helped me stay on the tracks.
One of his first questions was, “how did you feel about Jesus being the man on
the tracks.” I started to cry with pure
joy. “I feel precious. Like I’m part of one of the greatest love stories ever
told. My pronoun has changed from singular…to plural. My “I” has become a “we!”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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We celebrated in that little counseling room that day. We
both felt like we were on Holy Ground. The God of the Universe wooed me back to
His side with the very fear and pain that I thought would destroy me. He could
have removed the fear, the loneliness, the pain at any time. Instead…He used
it to reintroduce me to the Lover of my Soul and set me free. I'm the heroine in an epic love story. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And that’s a story I couldn’t keep to myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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P.S. God and I are talking again. 💗</div>
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Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-21679902110431973822016-01-19T13:35:00.000-06:002016-01-20T09:37:00.643-06:00The Owsley Kids - A Dad's Final Request <div class="MsoNormal">
As most of you know, my dad died of open heart surgery
complications on Thanksgiving Day, 2015. He had been sick for a very long time.
For almost a decade, we were told that the damage to his heart was extensive
and inoperable…and there was nothing we could do but wait. Dad’s heart was like
the crazy, great uncle that would sit silently in the corner at family
functions. Nobody wanted to talk about him, but we were all achingly aware that he was
there and…at any given moment…he was going to flip out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But then Dad had an appointment with a new heart surgeon. The doctor thought there was a chance he could fix his heart and give my dad at least another 10
years of good, quality life. We knew the surgery had potential risk, but were given
just enough hope, just enough confidence from a capable heart surgeon, that
when we held dad’s hand for the last time…we had convinced ourselves it was a
“see you later” and not a “goodbye until heaven.” I have relived that last moment in my mind
almost daily since he died. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But I have also relived countless conversations with dad in
the months leading up to his surgery. And I’m convinced that he knew…he knew it
was going to be “goodbye until heaven.” One of the last things he said to us as
he was being prepared for surgery was, “Hey, don’t forget there are two free
movie passes in my wallet. Someone needs to use those!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the months leading up to the surgery, Dad also wanted to
talk about his funeral. A lot. Which, as you can imagine, made for real fun
times. During one such conversation he said to me, “Liss, I don’t want you to
talk about me during my funeral.” I
laughed, “Ok, Dad…if we don’t talk about you, then who should we talk about?” His
answer? “My kids. I want you to talk
about my kids. You are the best parts of me…and I want everybody at my funeral
to know my kids. I want you to talk about each other.” I looked at him like he was the crazy, great
uncle in the corner…and then cracked a joke, as is my habit when I’m
uncomfortable. But that conversation has clung to my subconscious day and
night. It was essentially his dying wish…that the world know his children. That
alone is evidence of how much he loved us. We were literally his pride and joy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, today I’m going to honor one of my dad’s last requests,
I’m going to talk about his children. The Owsley kids. I’m going to share with
the world the best parts of my dad…that are still alive and well…in us. <o:p></o:p><br />
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But before I do, I think it’s wise to recall another
conversation I had with dad early last year. Once again, we were talking about
the fun topic of funerals (I’m telling you…it was one of his favorite
subjects). I said, “When I die, I sure hope I don’t get memorialized as a
perfect human. I feel like everyone who dies is eulogized as a saint.”
Jokingly, Dad said, “Yeah, Liss…that’s one of the perks of dying. Everyone
temporarily forgets your flaws.” We had a good chuckle about that. But I think this
memory perfectly illustrates a fundamental truth about my dad…he was far from a
perfect parent. Oh no. Dad passed down a fair share of his faults too. But
today I choose to honor the qualities in his children that made him a GREAT
dad. I’ll save the ugly stuff for when I reach the “anger” stage of grief.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">J<b>ASON (Nickname: Big Brother)</b></span></div>
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First up, my brother Jason. I will say right off the bat that one quality
that my big brother inherited from Dad was his lack of desire/need to be in the
spotlight (see: dad’s request not to talk about him at his own funeral). I’m
fairly certain that Jason is going to squirm through his entire section. He’s
wondering this very second why his little sister insists on talking about him
in such a public forum. Call it modesty. Call it a deep mistrust of social
media. Call it whatever you want, but it’s definitely a quality that my dad and
big brother both possess. They’re both intense spotlight dodgers. Sorry, Big
Brother, you’ve got to do your time…just like the rest of us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ll admit. Jason and I weren’t the closest of siblings
growing up. I was just a typical annoying little sister and he was that super
smart man-child that looked freakishly like our dad. But the older I’ve
gotten…and the closer we’ve gotten, I’ve come to have a deep, abiding respect
for Big Brother. He possesses one of Dad’s BEST qualities…a quality that has quite
literally sustained our family: <b>stability</b>.
Here’s what I always knew to be true about my dad. He was reliable. He would
always call me back. He would always follow through on promises. He was steady.
He was committed. He was the reason we got to enjoy a crazy, zany mother
without fear of her jumping out of a moving vehicle. Because Dad was
there…grounding us. Jason has these qualities deep in the marrow of his bones.
It was on full, glorious display in that hospital waiting room when our family
had to make the hardest decision we’ve ever made…to say “goodbye until heaven.”
Big Brother was there. He was our rock. Even in the midst of his own
devastation, he did the hard stuff without a moment’s hesitation. And in those
moments, we all benefited from an earthly father who taught his son how to be a
man. <o:p></o:p><br />
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I know, to a large degree, we have transferred many of the
patriarchal responsibilities on to Jason…especially in regards to taking care
of the logistics of life without dad. I imagine these responsibilities come
with a fair share of emotional weight. But I’m equally sure I’ll never hear a
word of complaint from Big Brother. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Before moving on to my next sibling, I also think it’s
important to note that Jason got his deep love of all things geekery from Dad.
Sure, it manifested differently in each of them, but at the very heart of it,
they’re both big, loveable nerds. And to that I say, live long and prosper, Big
Brother…may the Force be with you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">MEEGAN (Nickname: Sister Smeegs)</span></b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The next Owsley kid I’d like you to meet is my older, wiser
sister, Meegan. She was my dad’s first baby girl…and, oh man, Sister Smeegs was
the apple that fell closest to Dad’s personality tree. You see, even though Dad
was quiet and unassuming, he had this uncanny ability to make anyone feel
comfortable. I think people could sense that he accepted them exactly for who
they were. No condemnation. No judgment. (Dang, I sure wish we were talking
about me right now, but alas…this quality belongs solely to my sister.) Meegan
inherited my dad’s propensity for kindness. She’s just stinking lovely. She has
a way of making everyone feel at ease…even at the expense of her own comfort. I
have yet to meet anyone on this green earth that dislikes my sister. Well, I
disliked her when I was younger, but that’s only because she was SUPER
bossy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My dad was not an overly emotional man. He did get really
shmoopy later in life, but we think that was a combination of drugs and facing
his own mortality. As someone who expresses my emotions frequently, I always
thought this was a character deficit. But I’ve come to see this quality as an
essential <b>ying</b> to the world’s emotional
<b>yang</b>. If I’m feeling anxious, angry,
or sad…I depend on my sister’s (obnoxious) ability to state the obvious and cut
through emotional BS. This calm, steadying influence provides an emotional and
mental safe harbor…it’s one of many reasons that I’m madly in love with my
sister. And it’s the reason why she’ll always be my first call when there’s an emotional
emergency. Sorry, Sister Smeegs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But I think the quality that my sister has that is most like
dad…is her desire for peace. She’d be happy as a lark if the world would just
leave her alone indefinitely, so she could read a good book or binge watch TV
until her eyes bled. But, also just like
dad…her deep desire for personal space is outweighed only by a profound love
for her people. My sister loves her family deeply. The evidence is that she
frequently chooses our big, boisterous, LOUD presences over her innate need for
peace and quiet.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">ALISSA (Nickname: Lee Lee)</span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh man. I can’t describe for you how much I’ve been dreading
this part. I’m tempted to just joke my way through it, but my friends have
cautioned me against relying on self-deprecation and humor to coast through my
feelings. Funny that…as my habit of poking fun at myself comes directly from my
dad.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ll just start with the most shocking revelation. The
quality that I got from my dad that most surprises people is that I’m a
certified introvert. Yep, it’s true. My mom will corroborate this fact. A lot
of you know that the Owsley’s are kind of known for our social gatherings. And
Dad…a hardcore introvert…would often find a chair in the furthest corner of the
room and try to be invisible. I’m pretty comfortable in any social situation. I
make my living from talking to people. But what most people don’t know…is that
just like Dad, people take an extreme toll on my battery life. There is a huge
part of me that always longs to sit in a quiet corner with Dad. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But the thing I got from my dad that I most cherish…is my
humor. Dad had a razor sharp wit. He had
the Shakespearean ability to milk a phrase for its potential humor. It took me
awhile to realize how funny he was because he didn’t assert his humor just for
the sake of a good laugh. His humor wasn’t campy. No, he had the kind of wit that
made you laugh a minute later…when you finally realized the multiple layers of
his joke. I like to think I inherited a little of that ability from Dad. Don’t
get me wrong, I’ll go for the campy jokes with great abandon. But I think Dad
gave me his deep appreciation for words. He taught me that finding just the
right word can take something ordinary…and make it a little more meaningful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">BRYCE (Nickname: 'Lil Bubby)</span></b><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Lastly, meet the youngest and tallest Owsley, Bryce. He was
the “surprise” child that arrived a little over 10 years after the favorite
child (me). Dad got to spend a lot more time with Bryce as he grew from boy to
man (he was working and traveling a lot more with his first three kids), so I
think he got to pour a little bit more of his interests into Bubby. Dad was a
star athlete. It took him four kids, but he finally got another athlete…Bubby. Dad
was also a dog whisperer...he LOVED dogs and had the ability to charm even the
most crotchety of bitches (correct use of the word, people!). My man-hating
dog, Chickadee, practically throws herself at Bubby anytime he’s in a five foot
radius. Bubby and Dad also shared a deep love of “dinkering” around with
mechanics, electronics, and gadgetry. Don’t get me wrong, Bubby is MUCH more
successful at his dinkering. He once took apart an engine using Google and deductive
reasoning. Dad mostly had several unfortunate incidents involving duct tape and
bungee cords.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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But there are two qualities in Bubby, in particular, that remind
me mostly of Dad. Dad was a storyteller.
He was never content to just state the facts of an event. Oh no, he would
always set the scene and build up to the main event with lots of details and
context. Bubby too is a storyteller. And he’s taken it to a whole new level, as
a modern day troubadour. My little brother has figured out how to combine his
love of narratives with his love of music. He tells stories with his
songwriting. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I was growing up, I remember thinking my dad was one of
the last true gentlemen on earth. He opened doors. He refused to sit at the
dinner table until my mom was seated. He never entered a building before a
woman. And even in his last days, when standing was physically painful…he would
give up his chair to anyone without a seat. This is one of the things I miss
most about Dad’s passing. It feels like I lost one of the last men who treated
women like ladies. But then…I think about Bubby. And I remember the time he
sprinted across a parking lot to help push an elderly lady in a wheelchair. I
remember the countless times he’s opened my door or given up his seat…and I’m
reminded that chivalry didn’t die with Dad. It’s alive and well in my little
brother. And no doubt a deep influence
on why Bubby decided to become a firefighter.
Serving and protecting people is in his blood. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, there you have it. The four Owsley kids...our dad's living legacy. Just so you know, this was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever written. Not only are my siblings incredibly complex, multi-faceted humans (thus hard to squeeze into a paragraph or two), but it was also nearly impossible to make it through a sentence without grief clouding my
perspective. And,
for the record, I don’t think it’s possible to truly isolate individual
characteristics that we can credit solely to Dad. </div>
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You see, we were also parented by an incredible Mom…and she gets equal credit for imprinting us with the best parts of herself too (don’t worry…she
is already dropping hints on what she wants me to write about when she passes).
But, most importantly, both parents gave us something even more
precious…something that has impacted our character more than anything that
their mere humanity could have given us. With their words, actions, and very
lives…they pointed us to the heavenly Father and said, “Kids, keep your eyes on
Him…not us.”</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, by grace of God, and to my Dad’s great delight…that
lesson stuck in all four of his children. Which is why we can look with hope to
the future, with tears in our eyes, and say...</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <b>“Goodbye until heaven, Daddy. Thank
you for loving us.” </b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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If you want to see more pictures of Dad...and hear him sing love songs to our mom, click <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgmjHk_DQ8o" target="_blank">HERE</a> for a video that was made for his memorial service. </div>
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Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-82650167838175052112015-09-19T17:31:00.002-05:002015-09-19T17:31:50.161-05:00Kids & Rainbows <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the last couple of months, my life has been a series of
unfortunate events. No corner of my life
has remained untouched…family, work, friendships…everything has experienced its
own personal tsunami. If you’ve read any
of my previous blog posts, you’ll know that I believe that God uses our
suffering to unleash His goodness. I believe this, yes. But these days…I’m having a really, really
hard time remembering it. So, here I am
again…at my keyboard. Apparently, I’ve
become Pavlov’s dog…drooling at the sound of a bell. Anytime I can’t get a handle on my own
emotions…I return to the keyboard and write about it. <a href="http://alissaowsley.blogspot.com/2014_06_01_archive.html" target="_blank">Because it’s only when I read what I write…that I can figure out how the heck I feel. </a><o:p></o:p></div>
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So, here goes nothing…<o:p></o:p></div>
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My sister has figured out one fundamental truth about me…I
absolutely love her babies. She
frequently uses this information to bend me to her will. Instead of asking for something directly,
she’ll send one of her little blonde cherubs to ask instead. Occasionally, she’ll even go so far as to
text a video of them smiling and telling me they love me. This video is almost always accompanied by a
request. You would think this blatant
manipulation would annoy me…but, you see, that’s a part of my sister’s
genius. She knows that as soon as I hear
one of her cute minions telling me they love me, I completely forget to be
annoyed. This shameless behavior only
supports my theory that Sister Smeegs is secretly trying to take over the
world. Sadly, if she offered me a blonde
baby hug, I’d probably help her do it. <o:p></o:p><br />
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One of the things I absolutely love about her kids…or ANY
kid for that matter…is their eyes. I’m convinced that if we look at life
through the eyes of children, we’ll find our purpose for being down here. And if we watch them closely enough, we can
discover some our own hibernating longings…the ones that we buried years ago
when life got hard and the responsibilities of being a grown up forfeited the
very things that made life abundant. I
think kids know how to live life abundantly. They all know exactly where to find the treasure at the end of the
rainbow. Granted, they often drive their parents freaking crazy trying to get
to the treasure. But as grown-ups, we
try to convince ourselves (and kids) that there is no damn rainbow…there’s only
a long list of things we have to get done in order to survive the day. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not too long ago, I got a text from my sister…saying that
her babies wanted me to come over and sit by the pool. As usual, she included a video of cute
kids in swimming suits. And
as you’ve probably guessed, soon thereafter, I found myself sweating by an
over-sized kiddie pool as three little blondes tried to impress me with their
varied water tricks. No sooner had I sat down when I started to hear the words,
“Lee Lee watch me!” The first few times,
I obediently focused all of my undivided attention on whatever it is they
wanted to show me. But no matter how long or diligently I watched them…no
sooner would I blink then I would hear again, “Lee Lee watch me! Are you
watching?” Over and over and over
again…”Lee Lee watch me! Watch me!” I
finally looked at my sister with desperation, “Smeegs…I can’t take it anymore.
Make them stop.” She smiled with that
all-knowing look of an exhausted mother and said, “Why do you think I invited
you over? It was so I could have break from watching them.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I learned something important by the pool that day. No
matter their age, gender, or personality, kids want us to watch them. But I think it’s more than that. Kids don’t
just want your eyes on them…they want some kind of proof that you actually see
them. They want somebody to say, “I see
you. Here’s what I see. And I approve.”<br />
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So, here is my humdinger “ah-ha” moment…if that’s true about kids, it’s
also true about us grown-ups. Because
before we were all dragging ourselves through days of soul-sucking
responsibilities, we were little kids at parks and in pools, chanting, “Watch
me, watch me, watch me!” Sure, we can’t
chant that now…or other grown-ups would think we had lost our ever-loving
minds. But I think our hearts are still saying it…over and over again…even if
some of us have done a bang-up job of trying to ignore it.</div>
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Some of you may be wondering, “This is all good stuff,
Owsley…but what does it have to do with suffering?” Good question. I guess it comes down to one
thing: when everything is stripped away and you’re vulnerable, afraid, and in pain…who
is still watching you? Who hasn’t taken their eyes off of your life…even when
your life has gotten really hard to watch? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I think what I’ve learned through my emotional tsunamis’ is
that God never takes His eyes off of me…not even for a moment. And because He loves me beyond measure, He
has gifted me with people to sit next to me and say, “I see you. Here’s what I see. And I approve.” I am profoundly grateful for these people…their
eyes allow me to see God’s goodness, even when I can’t remember to look for
myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Friends, if you love someone…don’t close your eyes. Don’t
be silent. Give them proof that you’re watching their life…and you approve
of what you see. That kind of love is a
bullet train to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It points us straight to our longings…and our
longings point us straight to God. <o:p></o:p></div>
Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-70396007534296805372014-07-09T17:41:00.000-05:002014-07-09T17:41:22.299-05:00My Wait Problem: A Mexican Standoff <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Disclaimer: If you haven’t already done so...you may want to read Part 1 (</strong><a href="http://alissaowsley.blogspot.com/2014/06/my-wait-problem.html" target="_blank"><strong>My Wait Problem</strong></a><strong>) of this
blog series before you dive into reading Part 2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’ll probably make more sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or you could just be a rebel and read this one first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t care...suit yourself, you crazy nut
job.</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Do you know what I think of when I think about waiting?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Checkout lines...I think about checkout
lines.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A little fun fact about Alissa: I have a spiritual gift for
choosing the absolute slowest line in any given store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously...every time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve even tried to fool myself by picking the
line that I wasn’t going to initially pick...thinking that I could somehow psych
my line-picking-instinct out and end up in the faster line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never works. I have the uncanny ability to get
in the line with underage checkers (for adult beverage purchases), slow
checkers, checkers-in-training, broken checkers, chatty checkers...or, the piece
de resistance...getting behind the lady with a binder full of coupons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ohhhhh yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about a prime opportunity to learn about waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stand in line behind a binder full of coupons
as the “beep, beep, beep” slowly erodes your last remaining nerve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, invariably, the coupon lady glances at
me with a chagrined “sorry about this” look...and I just shrug as if to say,
“Not your fault, Coupon Lady...my line-picker is broken.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Think about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
days are marked by waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From standing in a checkout
line to standing next to a gravesite...<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything</i>
around us is filled with the tension of delayed fulfillment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if I’ve learned one thing from my own
broken-down story, it’s this: how we respond to this tension will define our
faith...whether we are aware of it or not. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I used to believe waiting was just a Divine test to see how
long I could hold my breath during a Mexican standoff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I’ve actually employed the
“breath-holding” technique when standing behind coupon lady in the checkout
line. It’s not recommended). Seriously...I
thought waiting was just a big, ‘ol dramatic deadlock between me and my
longings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whoever takes the first shot...loses.
And when my lungs started to burn and my trigger finger started to shake, I’d
call upon the promise found in Isaiah 40:31 “...they who wait for the Lord
shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall
run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This sweet Scripture would always fill my
lungs with just enough oxygen to continue holding my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For years, this belief system worked for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone knows I like a good challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, the tension of waiting felt less
powerful when I was holding a loaded gun to the forehead of my deepest
desires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That way if I began to feel them trying to claw their way to the surface again...I had the option of
pulling the trigger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the fundamental problem with this belief system...is if
you hold your breath for too long, you’ll eventually pass out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in a Mexican Standoff, if you pull the
trigger on your opponent, you’ll end up killing yourself too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For almost 20 years, I have been holding my breath for
marriage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, not just marriage...I have been holding my
breath for love (Eros).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Companionship.
Someone to bear witness to my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Someone to share the burden. Someone to hold my hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not easy for me to admit. Everybody knows I’m 37 and single, so it
should be a foregone conclusion that I want to get married, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I’m not talking about a “want.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m talking about a bone-deep, agonizing, life-altering longing that
clings to me day and night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I spend
almost all of my daily allotment of emotional energy trying to convince the
world (and myself) that this longing hasn’t ravaged my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard enough to wade through the constant
tension of an unfulfilled longing...it’s exhausting having to pretend I’m not
devastated about it. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know this will scandalize all the feminists reading this,
but I truly believe women are designed to be help-mates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re not created to be alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe we’re more than capable of living
independently from a “mate”...but, in doing so, it goes against our
purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, as a single woman who has
learned how to live independently very well, I have never been able to shake
the feeling that my “best” day of being a single woman can’t even compare to
bad day of being a help-mate in a committed marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know all the exhausted, disillusioned married
folks may disagree with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve seen
how some of you long for my single lifestyle. It probably looks like a
vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But perpetual vacation is a
mirage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being single is really, really
hard work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it feels like work that
has been inflicted on me...rather than something I have chosen for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, how does a woman survive a life where her very purpose
is denied her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where the tension of
waiting is so ingrained that she has weaved it into the very fabric of her
belief system?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How does a woman hold her
breath for over 20 years without causing extensive damage?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Short answer? She doesn't. Keep reading...</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our story is a series of life-altering events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of these events are huge and obnoxious. They
manifest as death, illness, divorce or EF5 tornadoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others are like pebbles in our
shoes...constant irritants that still have the power to alter our walk of
faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either way, our hearts are
ravaged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But life doesn’t stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bills still need to be paid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People still need us to function.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, inevitably, we begin to rebuild our defenses
brick-by-brick...belief-by-belief...decision-by-decision...until we figure out
how to live with the tension of surviving down here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think my diminishing faith in the God of the Universe is a
result of years of faulty brick-laying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At some point in my life, I decided to believe that if I stood in the
street long enough...and called upon God often enough (when my longings dared
to move or my lungs started to burn) then, eventually, He would reward my
“waiting” by giving me the desires of my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Brick-by-brick, decision-by-decision my faith eroded and my anger grew.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You see, I had a deadline on this whole waiting thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A girl can only be a badass for so long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually my arms got tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started feeling entitled to the desires of
my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when that happened...I began
living like a victim of my circumstances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I even use words like “inflicted” to describe my singleness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even worse? When I live my whole life
trying to be a badass, I impose the same standards on everybody else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, when they fail to win the standoff in
their own lives...I use it as self-righteous fuel to keep pointing my gun at my
own longings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The result is that I
become like the priest Asaph in Psalms 73, “when my soul was embittered, when I
was pricked in the heart, I was brutish and ignorant; I was like a beast toward
you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, come to find out, brutish and
ignorant beasts don’t deal well with the tension of waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the last few months, as my ambivalence has forced me to
take a long-hard look at myself, the Spirit has taught me that waiting isn’t a
Mexican standoff...it’s a bloody, dangerous shootout. And as it
turns out...the enemy is NOT my longings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Oh no, my longings are the good guys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
They're hungry and itchy, yes...but they're also a beacon of light...connecting me to the Lover of my Soul. The true </span>enemy is the Father of Lies. And he has heavy artillery pointed right
at my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I’ve deluded myself into
thinking I was a badass, a steady stream of flaming lies have been raining down
on me with deadly accuracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because
of those wounds, I lost my faith in the one thing that could save me...TRUTH.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">See, here’s the thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We are all waiting for something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every single person reading this blog feels the tension of delayed fulfillment.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes that feels like an annoying
pebble in our shoes...sometimes it feels like our skin is melting off our
body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the true heart-saving question
becomes...do we have enough faith to allow ourselves to just feel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feel the tension of unfulfilled longing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do we have enough faith to put down our bricks
and weapons and just...wait?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our story is more than just a series of life-altering
events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our story is a battlefield of
life-altering decisions. Over and over again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Day in and day out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moment by
moment. We decide who we’re going to believe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Imagine this: you're standing perfectly still as the enemy charges straight at
you...gun raised...screaming how much he hates you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes are wild.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> His hands are bloody. </span>His only goal is to maim and destroy you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s coming closer and closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you feel the tension?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is your trigger finger trembling?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are
you afraid?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now imagine the God of the Universe draws
near and whispers in your ear, “Wait.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Exodus 14:14)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Decision time. Do you hold your breath?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you draw your weapon? Do you pick up another brick? <strong> Or do you choose to wait...believing with every trembling nerve in your body that the God of the Universe has promised to intervene? <o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have learned that waiting and faith are two sides of the same
coin. The more I feed my faith...the more the tension ebbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I wait for the desire of my heart...to
be loved and chosen by a man (or to finally get in a fast-moving check out
line), I will be inundated with many opportunities to feel the tension of the bloody
battle for my heart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can choose to be
a brutish and ignorant beast who has relinquished her shield of faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or I can choose to be a Princess Badass,
dressed in the full armor of God...holding perfectly still.</span></div>
Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-19277755602374940532014-06-02T18:00:00.000-05:002014-06-02T19:32:23.513-05:00My Wait Problem<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Many years ago, a visiting pastor said from the pulpit, “I’m
convinced that every person who comes to me for counseling has an untreated weight
problem.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, of course, was offended. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had enough extra pounds to carry around
without this guy adding the extra burden of psychological instability. But then
he spelled it for me...W-A-I-T problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He went on to say that we can trace every addiction...every
act of disobedience...every sin...back to one fundamental problem: as humans,
we totally suck at waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuAu8dr3A7q6YS-uWpg-z1lTSlQKRX59sdoSQq1giEXKcdrlXXHyfKsWu-04FPTt3UGskcCQpZLhHGSbD5HIo6Tdqo5H00S_-jzTliA55rGptY1hzMYUTrVfEQP1UF2xAFsOf0WjDmhE/s1600/Longings+-+Feed+me+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuAu8dr3A7q6YS-uWpg-z1lTSlQKRX59sdoSQq1giEXKcdrlXXHyfKsWu-04FPTt3UGskcCQpZLhHGSbD5HIo6Tdqo5H00S_-jzTliA55rGptY1hzMYUTrVfEQP1UF2xAFsOf0WjDmhE/s1600/Longings+-+Feed+me+.jpg" height="320" width="281"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Audrey II with Chicken Pox = Our Longings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have never forgotten that sermon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is saying something...cause I’ve heard
a few.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His point was that we’re all born
with inherent longings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big ‘ol hungry,
itchy longings that, without constant supervision, have the power to drive us
quietly mad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I totally imagine Audrey
II from Little Shop of Horrors meets a really bad case of chicken pox).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These longings are demanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re insatiable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they’re absolutely inescapable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But here’s the kicker, we’re not supposed to
scratch or feed our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">own l</i>ongings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope. The Scripture is clear on this
point...only <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Way</b> can give us
abundant life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the blood of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The</b> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lamb</b> can truly satisfy our constant craving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wow. Did the God of the Universe really infect us with a
constant case of emotional chicken pox and then warn us not to use backscratchers
and calamine lotion? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
seems...cruel...and very un-Godlike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it gets worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re all stuck in a world that is peddling anti-itch creams on EVERY
street corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drink this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eat this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Try this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sniff this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Screw this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Read this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pin this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Post this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buy this. Oh yeah, the
World says waiting is for chumps and cowards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re supposed to seize the day and create our own happiness. Even
good-intentioned churches join the fray...offering spiritual solutions and
programs to try to stem the inflammation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">But despite our faithful waiting, the slow burn goes on for
months, years or even a lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So,
here’s the humdinger question: what if God chooses <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to alleviate that deep ache for romantic love... health...babies...reconciliation...touch...security...acceptance...companionship...or
for whatever it is that you ache for?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do
you just keep waiting?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or do you reach for
something – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i> – to alleviate
the pain?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been thinking about these questions a lot lately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On my way to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I go to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I wake up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the more I think about it, the more I
come to a paralyzing, unflattering conclusion: my diminishing faith in God
directly correlates with my festering wait problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my festering wait problem is being fed by
a deep pool of untreated anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">For those of you who have been kind enough to read my blog,
you may have noticed that I’ve been eerily quiet for almost a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not a coincidence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere along the line, slowly and without
conscious thought, I totally gave up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
stopped caring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I threw in the
proverbial towel. For 37 years I had tried to wait the way I was told to
wait...sometimes failing miserably, mind you...but I still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tried</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet the net effect
was that I was still waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People
were still suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bad stuff still happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People still hurt me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my blasted longings always managed to
claw their way back to the surface and demand more attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No way, God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve tried it your way for years and I’m still lonely, overweight, and
generally unfulfilled. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I’m the
only one left who is actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trying</i>
to wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s true...maybe I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> a chump and a coward. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, I dropped the microphone and walked off the stage. I no
longer wanted to write about something that in my dark, quiet places...I no
longer believed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God is good, yes...but is He good <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enough</i>? <o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can almost
hear some of you flipping through your mental Bible verse rolodexes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bless her heart; this girl needs the
Word!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may even feel like you should
stop reading and start praying for my eternal soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m totally ok with that. I’m a huge fan of
prayer and the Word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I hope you’ll
temporarily suspend your internal need to fix me...and just keep reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My story isn’t over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, whether you admit it or not...this
is your story too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A lot of really, really bad things have happened
lately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really, really bad things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me...and to those around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evil is on the move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I think the question of whether or not we
have an untreated wait problem has become a matter of life and death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because if I’ve learned one thing in the last
year...it’s that we never really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stop </i>believing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We always believe something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Always.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is through my story of ambivalence and resignation that I
have slowly and painfully realized that for 37 years, I have believed all the
wrong things about what it means to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wait</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s this twisted, toxic belief that has poured
lighter fuel on my anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The irony is that, like a petulant child, I kept <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">waiting</i> for the Spirit to show up and
fix it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean...He’s the Spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s supposed to tell me what to do about my
problems, right? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll just keep doing
what I’m doing until He intercedes on my behalf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet, despite my petulance...He did show up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no sunset or choir of angels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no magic moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was just a quiet, still voice that said, “Daughter,
you’re not waiting...you’re stalling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m the one waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pick up the
microphone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say what you really
think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can handle it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8tPiz4eOHyeW6D-9iNvXa4w67nxllmP4EMQGDBXwf9rzaS2cGx5nay3vR_a4KG8LVWQ0sDw43UQP58QGq7WOtixWhWoHvUc__Nidr_2lTXaYu_CQBvMwiW5P8m-iRnaSdKPm4TPDDKl4/s1600/mic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8tPiz4eOHyeW6D-9iNvXa4w67nxllmP4EMQGDBXwf9rzaS2cGx5nay3vR_a4KG8LVWQ0sDw43UQP58QGq7WOtixWhWoHvUc__Nidr_2lTXaYu_CQBvMwiW5P8m-iRnaSdKPm4TPDDKl4/s1600/mic.jpg" height="250" width="400"></a></div>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Touché, God...touché.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, I find myself here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At my keyboard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I could
say it was a selfless act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Flannery O’Conner once said, <strong>“I write
because I don't know what I think until I read what I say.”</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m hoping that by showing up here...I’ll
finally get some answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
maybe...just maybe...by watching a lonely, overweight and generally unfulfilled
woman struggle with what it <em>really </em>means to wait...you’ll get some answers
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then maybe life won’t itch so damn bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">To Be Continued...soon.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is a
true story of a lump and a total lack of faith: an autobiography.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was about
two months ago...on a Tuesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in
the shower doing my shower-thing...lathering and what-not...when all of the
sudden, there it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A pretty obvious one, at that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Where did that come from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was
that there yesterday?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind immediately took off in a million directions
as I became the Louis and Clark of lump exploration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every piece of rational thought exited my
brain at record breaking speeds as I stood paralyzed in a now lukewarm
shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait, what am I supposed to
do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, being the
reasonable woman that I am...I opted for the
shut-up-and-pretend-I-didn’t-notice method of emergency management.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But about 45
minutes later...after a rather harried “what the HECK” conversation with God, I
decided pretending wasn’t one of my spiritual gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, on the way to work, I called my doctor
and made an appointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the darned
thing was...I couldn’t get an appointment until the following Tuesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Do you know how much damage a girl can do with 7 days, WebMD, and an
overactive imagination?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And yet...I
still kept my mouth shut and didn’t tell a soul what I had found that
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not my usual method of coping. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for some reason, this particular medical
condition felt really personal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really
intimate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Probably because it had to do
with my boob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, I said it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I feel better. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Several days
passed...days spent mostly on half-hearted and comical attempts to distract
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure I did what any woman
would do under the circumstances...I tried to convince myself that I completely
imagined it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everybody knows I am pre-disposed to extreme
flights of fancy, right? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just the other day I was convinced that a
binder clip was a huge hairy spider.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes,
mental instability was a lovely alternative to the big “c” word...and, so... I
decided to ignore it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I made it to
Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Friday
morning...on the way to work...I decided to call the doctor’s office back and
use all my “wink and twinkle” to con my way into an appointment that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, I’m a wink and twinkle ninja...because
an hour later I was sitting in an empty examination room trying to appear calm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The nurse
came into the room to take my vitals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She instructed me to strip down and put on an oversized hospital
gown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does anyone else hate hospital
gowns?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, right? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They rob us of all dignity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all I can think about is how many other stranger’s
naked butts have touched it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked the
nurse if I could keep my pants on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
laughed like I had told a great joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of
course I could keep my pants on...it was a breast examination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laughed too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not because I thought it was funny...but
because keeping my pants on felt like a small victory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wink and twinkle ninja wins again!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (</span>See, I told you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Extreme flights of fancy.)<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, there I
sat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a cold examination room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Clutching the front of blue faded hospital gown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waiting...staring at the door....and waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think we
can learn a lot about ourselves in those moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The moments right before we are reminded,
once again, that very little is under our control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned a lot about myself in the waiting...and
very little of it was flattering.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually,
that door did open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in walked a
very, VERY young man wearing a white lab coat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was a medical student named Jake...the clean-shaven boy next
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a nervous, stammering voice he
asked if I minded if he examined me while I waited for the doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It soon became clear that I was Jake’s first
breast exam. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, “medical” breast
examine at least. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s how I knew I was truly a nervous
wreck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t even try to crack a
joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, man-oh-man, there were so
many possibilities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never once told
Jake he had to put a ring on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Opportunity
missed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, we just mutually agreed
to weather the awkwardness through silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually my
doctor came in and examined me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, she
confirmed...you have lump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed a mammogram.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And once again...I found myself in the
waiting. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My
appointment wasn’t until Monday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got to experience a whole
weekend of waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which means...of
course...I got to experience a whole weekend of ignoring the big-‘ol-possibly- cancerous-elephant in my left boob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">By this time,
I was smart enough to break my silence and tell a very small group of people about
the lump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that very small group of
people were smart enough to ask a much larger group of people to pray for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Monday
finally arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had meticulously
prepared by breaking out a brand new razor to shave my armpits...and by wearing
my “nice” bra. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grabbed a granola
bar...swung by and picked up my mom...and then drove across town to be felt up
by more strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the good
news?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I totally got to keep my pants on
the whole time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was shuffled
from room to room that morning...all by very nice, very happy women wearing
colorful scrubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned that if a
girl has to have her boob squeezed by a complete stranger...it actually helps
if the stranger is happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody wants
to be fondled by someone who’s not enjoying it, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also helped to know that at age 36...I
was the youngest woman in the waiting room by at least 20 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which means I totally had the perkiest
breasts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s probably why those
nurses were so happy. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After my
mammogram, they took me in to get an ultrasound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A very pregnant technician lubed me up and
then started looking for the infamous lump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had the monitor turned at an angle...so, I could see the screen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could totally see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dark
mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She spent several minutes taking
pictures at different angles...measuring it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Typing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Measuring it some
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All of the sudden, ignoring it no longer became an option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually
she happily excused herself...telling me that the Radiologist would take a few
minutes to look at the pictures and then he’d be in to talk to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was left alone again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In an oversized hospital gown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Staring at the door...waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Many of you
already know the ending to this story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
many of you are only reading this story to find out the ending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, you see...I didn’t write this story to
tell you about the ending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finally
picked up my “pen” to tell you about the 5 minutes I spent alone in that ultra-sound
room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Left alone with the realization
that I had a mass in my left breast...and I could no longer pretend otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I said
earlier that we could learn a lot about ourselves in the waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do we do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do we think?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do we feel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do we pray?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those moments when something is held in the
balance and we have no control over the outcome...those are very telling
moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Those five
minutes told me that I do not trust the God of the Universe to say “yes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I almost expect Him to say “no” or “not
yet.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so my prayers aren’t prayers for
miracles...they’re prayers for survival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When did that happen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When did I stop praying for a “yes” to the
desires of my heart?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I laid on
that ultrasound table and prayed that God would give me the strength to survive
a battle with cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if cancer was a
foregone conclusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could almost
hear the Father say, “Oh, Alissa...ye of little faith.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think my
journey of physical suffering has conditioned me to expect more suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even more twisted...I almost prefer
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, when I’m hanging on to my
last shred of sanity...dry heaving over and over again...faith seems easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all I have left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s no possible way to rely on myself
when I have absolutely nothing worth relying on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My body is broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind is numb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my heart is shattered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what if...what if I had a “yes” to good
health?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I had a “yes” to a loving
husband?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I had a “yes” to a
life of meaning?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would I know what to do
with that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, instead
of facing the profound possibility that the God of the Universe would say “yes”
to something that seems so out of my reach...I’ve started carefully crafting my
prayers, so that I won’t be devastated if the answer is “no.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The result of
this lack of faith...is that I began to live life where “yes” is the more
terrifying answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When did that happen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually,
my five minutes of reckoning came to an end...and the radiologist walked
through that infamous door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He quickly
and succinctly explained to me that my mass was most likely benign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that I have something called
Fibroadenoma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not uncommon in women my
age...and likely a 99% chance it’s not cancerous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll have to get an ultrasound every 6 months
for a couple of years...but he assured me, I probably had nothing to worry
about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, what do
you know...God said “yes” to good health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It has taken
me many weeks to realize the length and depth of Abba’s true gift to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He needed to get my attention...and He used a
lump in my left breast to do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Admittedly, sometimes I’m a bit slow to see God’s grace...even when I’m
carrying it around in my bra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My lump
taught me that in order to experience the crazy, wild, outrageous love of
Abba...I have to trust Him to say “yes” to the crazy, wild, outrageous desires
of my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Brothers and
sisters...if you’re reading this blog, it’s for a reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wants to remind us all to pray like crazy
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ask Him for things that feel scandalous
and presumptuous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t live a life in
fear of the “yes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because if I’ve learned
one thing in this wild, messy life down here...it’s that even when God says “no”
to something I want...He’s ALWAYS saying “yes” to what I need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today, I’m going
to pray for a healthy body, a hot husband, and life lived smack dab in the
middle of meaning and abundant joy...a life where wearing pants is optional and
cupcakes grow on trees. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What are you
going to pray for?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-1654016554615335862013-03-23T00:19:00.000-05:002013-03-23T10:04:30.202-05:00The Flight of a Girl-Child <span style="font-family: inherit;">Pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems like it’s on the menu a lot these
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s what’s for dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And afternoon snacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> You know the kind of pain that kind of just sits like a ten ton brick in your chest...and steals your appetite for joy and fellowship? Yeah, </span>I’ve been swallowing a crazy amount of that kind of
pain lately...and quite frankly; it’s giving me a case of chronic
indigestion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just want to shove my
plate away and politely excuse myself from the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In other
words, when the pain comes...I can feel myself going numb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My inner voice starts saying things like
“what’s the point?” and “I did it your way, God...and it’s not working.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or my personal favorite, “You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deserve</i> this entire bag of
chocolate.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are horrifying
thoughts...that cause sirens and flashing red lights to explode in my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because almost every stupid decision I’ve
made in life has been a result of avoiding pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, I know
what it’s like to live apart from Abba’s feast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite claiming Christ as my Lord, I denied myself a seat at His table
for years...because I believed the cost was too great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asked for transparency...and
intimacy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I was terrified of
both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, for years...I simply survived
on spiritual crumbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until one week in
2008, when a group of complete strangers boldly scaled the walls of my heart
and laid claim to my dignity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can
honestly say that was my first introduction to intense emotional pain...but,
then again, it was also the first time I felt truly alive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong>
</strong></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: orange; font-size: large;">Ezekiel 11:19 says “...I will remove from
them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh.”</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<o:p> </o:p></span></strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I feel
the numbness seeping into my heart, I hear a voice deep inside me...quietly asking
me to fight back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I’m going to do
what the Spirit has asked me to do...I’m going to shove my pain into the open
wide space of the internet...and let a bunch of strangers look at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today I’m
going to tell you story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A story of a
heart...and its journey from stone to flesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIdSdibTsEEluhtHEjhQOaDmy2y91h2zwgKgDj3U3c4J5V6p1e4w7kQd2jOR5YcuI6RsaDv-lGJ3bvfKokKbZ-s_G_N9eHOvsNDGJuQNrj6IG09kT7uCtKP6qKplaQ-ecZY8QcB6oj2g/s1600/lissy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIdSdibTsEEluhtHEjhQOaDmy2y91h2zwgKgDj3U3c4J5V6p1e4w7kQd2jOR5YcuI6RsaDv-lGJ3bvfKokKbZ-s_G_N9eHOvsNDGJuQNrj6IG09kT7uCtKP6qKplaQ-ecZY8QcB6oj2g/s1600/lissy.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her name was
Lissy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was joyful, fearless, and
blissfully unaware of life’s unrelenting brokenness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And although the years of adulthood have
slowly eroded my memory of her...when the pain comes, I can still hear this
blonde-headed girl-child whisper through the cracks of my defenses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Her first encounter with terror was at a petting zoo...with
vicious, man-eating billy goats (ok, not really...but in the mind of a
3-year-old, they were huge, scary monsters).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She boldly held out her hand to one of the beasts...inching
ever-so-slowly toward her doom. All of the sudden, one of them responded to her
offer of friendship and dared to take one little step forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moved by child-like terror, her response was
instantaneous...arms flew up in the universal "Pick me up!!!"
gesture. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as soon as the cry left her
mouth, she was scooped up into the strong arms of safety. I remember that part,
specifically...because her terror evaporated immediately. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lissy had a Daddy, you see, and he was bigger
and stronger than even the most ferocious goat.</span><br />
<o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgKPM-kzYmq-Obw5O4NVBbapQi4CYKDG1UUp47-L_nfQ9QjOkpsVoqGkqRpiEqQ-1tQMIagnh-8NpTf-0TgJ1aNSA-RtkTJzqSyGHPaQqwW7aD6L5tuejUvactp7gOdzFHHwRoOsJaYs/s1600/goats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgKPM-kzYmq-Obw5O4NVBbapQi4CYKDG1UUp47-L_nfQ9QjOkpsVoqGkqRpiEqQ-1tQMIagnh-8NpTf-0TgJ1aNSA-RtkTJzqSyGHPaQqwW7aD6L5tuejUvactp7gOdzFHHwRoOsJaYs/s1600/goats.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I consider her childlike trust in her Daddy...I get a little vaclempt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a ruthless,
uninhibited love of life...completely void of distrust, cynicism, or control.
Her faith was beautiful in its purity. She wasn't self-consumed with her
physical imperfections. She didn't try to self-medicate with worldly
distractions and addictions. She wasn't glib, jaded, or cynical. She wasn't
burdened with the stress and horror of disease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She didn’t know what betrayal felt like...much less how to spell
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn't try to reason with God.
She didn't try to solve her own problems...no, the little girl-child named
Lissy was confident that her Daddy would rescue her every...single...time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I still remember the day she met Jesus...in a backyard...at
a 5-day club. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>July 2, 1982. Every day after
the lesson, the teacher would ask all the kids to close their eyes and bow
their heads...and every day, she would peak around to see if her playmates were
raising their hands. On the last day, driven by the child-like panic of being
"left out"...Lissy quietly raised her hand. The teacher took her to
the front porch and talked to her about Jesus and how He wanted to live in her heart.
Well, that sounded like a fine idea to a five year old little girl-child. That
way, when her real Daddy wasn't there...she would have a Jesus to protect her
and love her. It was that simple. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
But as the years passed, Lissy began to learn about
struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She became an awkward tomboy
with broken glasses, ratty hair, and perpetually grass-stained clothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
grew a foot taller than all of her classmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She began to crave attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
discovered that humor was a great weapon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And most of all...she learned that there were some things that her real Daddy
just couldn’t fix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Over twenty years later, Alissa found herself sitting in a
circle of strangers at a weeklong retreat called </span><a href="https://www.ohmin.org/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Journey</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s signed up to go because she thought she
could help other people find freedom by telling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Funny
that...because, as it turns out, these 6 women wanted to know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i> story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She didn’t have a story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was
raised by Christian parents in a godly home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yeah...nothing to tell there, ladies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Then why are you afraid of intimacy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do you have to control everything and
everyone around you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why are you sooooo
angry all the time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do you feel like
performance is the only way to win approval?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why do you so rarely cry?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why
don’t you feel any passion?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Essentially,
these women were asking...where’s Lissy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What have you done with her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Question
after question...brick by brick...uncovering the lost little girl-child buried
under years of numbness.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But as these women looked into her childhood...Alissa
finally began to feel the pain she had so cleverly avoided for so many
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when it came...it came in
huge, unstoppable waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Which, looking back, was Abba’s mercy...because if Alissa
could have stopped it...she would have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As the layers of stone were peeled away...and a heart of
flesh began to appear, Alissa remembered a day that her little girl-child was
silenced by a beloved teacher who crushed her spirit...with the very best of
intentions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lissy was in third grade and Mrs. Olson was her absolute
favorite teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a living,
breathing angel...with long blonde hair, over-sized wool sweaters, and an easy
smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She invited her students into daily
adventures...making the simplest lessons into grand journeys of imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day, Mrs. Olson began to weave a story
with lots of talking animals, plants, and objects. But, as was her habit, she
wanted her class to all be part of this tale, so she began to assign them as
characters...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
“First we need someone to be the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bright...full of light...warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who will be the sun?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jennifer, will you be the sun? Next we need a
shiny red car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Colorful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who will be the
car?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Matthew, will you be the car?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lissy sat in wonder as Mrs. Olson slowly breathed life into
the story...she seemed to be carefully selecting each child for a role using the
qualities she saw in them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lissy waited...and
waited...with eager expectation...impatient to know what Mrs. Olson thought of
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
“Ok, now we need some flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pretty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Smell yummy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Delicate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who will be our flowers?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A flower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, that
would be nice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted to be
pretty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lissy held her breath...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
“Samantha.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jessica.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will you be our flowers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now we need a bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Petite.
Beautiful. Happy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lissy knew this just had to be her character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs. Olson <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">saw</i> her!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Who will be the
bird?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh please...oh please...oh please
pick me, pick me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Elizabeth...will you
be the bird?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
A little heart crushed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Now we need a locomotive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big and strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Leader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fearless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who will be the
locomotive?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh please...oh please don’t
let it be me...please don’t let it be me...”Lissy, will you be the locomotive?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s how Mrs.
Olson sees her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That moment sealed her fate on the playground and, in many
ways, life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the rest of the year,
Lissy endured relentless mocking as her classmates referred to her as
Locomotive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the crueler boys
even made “choo choo” sounds every time they saw her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even more crushing...was that her beloved
Mrs. Olson couldn’t see the little girl who so desperately wanted to be a
bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in an act of self-preservation
and because she didn’t know what to do with the pain...Lissy made an oath on
the playground that year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would
NEVER let them see her cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would
fight louder and harder than even the meanest boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would conquer whatever was in her path
and she would do it with a misplaced sense of strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Screw those kids on the playground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And screw Mrs. Olson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they saw her as “big”...then “big” she
would become.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
This wasn't Lissy's first or last encounter with pain. No, Mrs. Olson and the playground bullies don't get to take all the credit...or blame for her wounds. But it was the first time she willingly and intentionally surrendered to the numbness. </div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Years later, as Alissa retold this story to a group of women
for the first time in her life...she wept uncontrollably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wept for the little golden-haired girl
with a shy spirit whose little heart was broken by her childhood hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wept for a precious, fragile heart that
was buried beneath a mountain of lies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And as she wept, one of the women asked in a quiet, gentle voice...<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Alissa, if you could be a bird...which bird would you
be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Without thinking...as if she waited her whole life for
someone to ask...she said,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>”A
Chickadee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would be a Chickadee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re winter birds, like me...I was born in
a blizzard you know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re <em>small</em>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they’re survivors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you know they wash themselves with snow?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong><span style="color: orange;">“I will remove from
them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh”<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Who knew such a simple question would change the course of
my life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The moment I named my bird...I
felt my heart become flesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact,
when I got home from the retreat one of my dear friends looked at me funny and
said, “You look different?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something’s
changed...you look...softer?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew then that Lissy was back...<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wish I could say that the journey back to my heart has
been easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, in fact, the opposite is
true...I have lost many things in the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Important things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I have
failed on epic levels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs. Olson wasn’t
my first or only story of pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
there are still some left to be told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No,
I have learned that being numb is way, way easier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ve also learned through experience
that if I point my feet down the narrow path...and cling to the Word with a
death grip...walking through the pain is not only possible...it’s an act of
obedience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I can only partake of the
abundant feast, if I allow myself to actually feel pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlS57E8dU2M7YgfyKL1SCqLZUjjR5Rwg_bA4Bj-57bDs8qY-2-_bL1qhZz_1He93gLTSuVyXocl_6SFUf0NiazxKmeGG0k3fPC_555rWyqZGQe4Y7eNK0uUr4AHDjmhwcyyN1qM_pmguo/s1600/dancing+queen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlS57E8dU2M7YgfyKL1SCqLZUjjR5Rwg_bA4Bj-57bDs8qY-2-_bL1qhZz_1He93gLTSuVyXocl_6SFUf0NiazxKmeGG0k3fPC_555rWyqZGQe4Y7eNK0uUr4AHDjmhwcyyN1qM_pmguo/s320/dancing+queen.jpg" width="180" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Bleck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate even
typing that...because my bag of chocolate sounds way, way more appetizing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But walking with my God has given me way, way more freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I no longer fear the word, “Big.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I no longer cringe when people call me a
force of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see now that Abba
created that to be my dignity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I've learned that it's ok to be larger than life...as long as I never aspire to be larger than God.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, I cry
way more often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I delight in all
things...bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not afraid of boys
anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I found my passion. </span>But most of all...I delight in
the little girl who still sings “Jesus Loves Me” in the shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who still laughs too loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teases her friends and family
mercilessly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enjoys monkey noises and
innapropriate jokes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Dances silly jigs at work. This little girl is no longer blonde-headed, but she s</span>till loves stomping in
puddles, watching Disney movies, and teaching her nieces and nephew how to annoy their parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her heart is flesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She feels deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is Lissy. She is a Chickadee. She is...me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
It’s her voice that I hear calling me to fight the
numbness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s through her eyes that
I see the Kingdom of Heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when
the pain comes, it’s through her simple faith that I raise my arms and say, “Daddy...up.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, for those of you who are experiencing pain...(which is probably all of you), I pray that the God of the Universe will give you a heart of flesh...and that you will with find the courage to feel it...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love you, friends...thank you for reading my story. I like you. High five.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></o:p></div>
Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-1396674191310561922013-01-01T01:27:00.001-06:002013-01-01T20:16:04.302-06:00Confessions of a New Year's Curmudgeon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBC1Ct-mn0gaaaKdHD_VyidS8kH7iMIY6uBM7Bpj_91xGYtv4JhlOJzDwdPmjnZ0x3qYM9b7STjhxNHqFiQVKV6v4LYtXpX2AKMnp17U4u_dR7Cg_WyKmR6AqGB8iAFHjphyei4cvEil8/s1600/2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBC1Ct-mn0gaaaKdHD_VyidS8kH7iMIY6uBM7Bpj_91xGYtv4JhlOJzDwdPmjnZ0x3qYM9b7STjhxNHqFiQVKV6v4LYtXpX2AKMnp17U4u_dR7Cg_WyKmR6AqGB8iAFHjphyei4cvEil8/s320/2013.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s 10:30 pm on December 31<sup>st</sup>...only an hour and half until the new year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not gonna lie...when it comes to New Year’s Eve, I’m somewhat of a curmudgeon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only real joy that I derive from this holiday is saying “see you next year” to co-workers, friends, and family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Just said it to my mom, in fact...it just never gets old).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nah, most of my New Year’s Eve celebrations are often spent the same way I spend most of the other 364 nights of the year... alone and in bed WELL before midnight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t get me wrong...I had a brief and glorious run in the late 90’s early 2,000’s (thank you, Y2K) but...as a general rule, I don’t make resolutions (bah humbug).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you’ll rarely find me sipping champagne and reminiscing on the highlights (or low lights) of the previous year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weird, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cause I’m a reminiscer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s what I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I’ve never really believed in my heart-of-hearts that life hinges on one obligatory date on the calendar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I stand back and consider the landscape of my history...January 1<sup>st</sup> has never been a pivotal date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I find that most of the dates that have played a key role in my life’s story...usually sneak up on me and punch me in the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Take December 15<sup>th</sup>, 2012, for example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was the day I fell headfirst down four concrete steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I lay there on the cold garage floor, contemplating whether it was possible to break one’s butt...I learned a profound eternal truth about pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was a Saturday night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was home alone...puttering around in my ratty slippers and over sized red robe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My roommates and I like to play this awesome game called “stack-the-trash.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the result of all of us (passive aggressively) trying to avoid taking out the garbage by carefully stacking our trash Jenga-style. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The goal is to stack it carefully enough that the next roommate has to finally pony up and take the trash out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, I totally lost the round that night...because my single balled up Kleenex caused the whole thing to crumble like a house of cards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, after practically standing on top of the garbage can...trying to stuff it all back into the bag, I decided to just hurl the freaking bag down into the garage and deal with it in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only after a few hearty swings...I found myself airborne, tumbling head first toward my doom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">You know in the movies when they have body chalk outlines in crazy mangled poses...like the one leg over the head kinda thing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, that’s totally how I landed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this old body is NOT that flexible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first thought was...well, I can’t tell you my first thought because it’s not appropriate for this medium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suffice it to say that it hurt...a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My second thought was, “Dangit, I haven’t shaved my legs in like 4 days.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just knew that eventually someone would find my body and comment on my total lack of personal hygiene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">After about 5 minutes of “you-can-do-this, Owsley” self-talk, I eventually pulled myself back up the stairs and limped to my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t really tell what I had done to my body...because the pain kinda just started in my butt and radiated outward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made a quick phone call to my parents to let them know if they didn’t hear from me in a few days...they should probably be concerned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after swallowing some ibuprofen and putting a big ‘ol ice pack on my left cheek...I finally drifted off to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next morning was not pretty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially the part where I had to pee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you know that peeing is especially difficult to manage with only one working butt cheek?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be honest...I was really, really jealous of men in that moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the worst part was that I had this amazingly colorful bruise the size of a grapefruit...and because of its somewhat awkward location, I was the only one that got to witness its glory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">At this point, you’re probably wondering...what does this have to do with New Years, Owsley? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Heh. In my head, you all call me by my last name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like we’re on a team or something.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Well, it was really the 3<sup>rd</sup> thought I had while lying on the garage floor that eventually turned my heart toward an eternal truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because as my face was pressed up against the cold concrete...I thought to myself, “Yes, this hurts like a son of a biscuit...but at least I’m not dry heaving into a plastic bag.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">In fact, I found myself telling people that throughout the week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first few days were pretty brutal...I walked like a 90 year old woman and groaned like a dying bull moose every time I had to sit down or stand up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But all the while, I slapped a smile on my face and said...”Hey, I’ll take pain over nausea any day.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About a week later, as I sat on my bed puking my guts out...I actually thought, “Hey, at least I’m actually vomiting and not just dry heaving.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really? I mean, the "it could be worse" game is appropriate on some days...especially when I'm on the path toward self-pity. But where's the line between trying to keep a stiff upper lip and acknowledging that sometimes life isn't ok?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I think this a sad commentary on my heart’s predisposition to prefer one type of suffering over another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made me think of all the people who remain in pain...because they feel that on some twisted, cosmic measuring stick...their pain could be worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not talking about hang nail kind of pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m talking about the shame that we hold on to because we prefer it to the pain of revealing our shame to the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate that damn measuring stick, by the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to lead an angry mob of torch-bearing villagers to burn it to the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I know from personal experience that some people prefer to live with the suffering for years...or even a lifetime...because we somehow believe our story isn’t worth talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We just limp through life learning how to pee with one butt cheek rather than admit that we’re living with a bruise the size of Gibraltar on our heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">December 14<sup>th</sup>, 2012...the day before my glorious fall down those infamous steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After years of living with cancer...this was the day my friend Markelle Dumm finally got called Home to dance with the Lover of her soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few months ago, Markelle sent me a note saying she was proud of me for writing this blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said I was able to give a voice to suffering...when so many people who are suffering can’t find their voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes me cry even typing it...because anyone who knew Markelle...knew that her life was a story of dignity and glory in the midst of extreme suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tempted...oh so tempted...to disregard her words of encouragement because I feel like my story doesn’t measure up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that I don’t have even a sliver of the nobility that she carried through life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, I’ve had a couple of really crappy years...but do I even have the right to lament grapefruit sized bruises and debilitating nausea?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shouldn’t I just suck it up...slap a smile on my face...and exchange spiritual platitudes of “this too shall pass” with well-wishers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Throughout my years as a regular church attender, I have heard a lot of sermons on the story of Christ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But these days...when I read, “<span class="text">for unto <u>us</u> a child is born, to <u>us</u> a son is given...” do you know what I see?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I see the ridiculously awesome love of a </span>Father who knew that we needed more than salvation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I know, right? More than salvation? That's how much He loves us. </span>He knew we needed a Savior who would free us from sin and death, yes...but He also knew that we’d need a Savior to be born<em><strong> </strong></em>and to <strong><em>live</em></strong>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because He knew that living is sometimes the hardest part. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, He sent us a Son who was born in the darkness of night...pursued by evil while He was still in the womb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sent us a Son who felt pain...dusty feet...thirst...hunger and extreme suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had friends and family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew betrayal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew how to survive the wilderness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And by sending us a Messiah who lived out the greatest story ever told, He gave us permission to tell our own stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if we believe...then our stories will not end in death, but rather death...will just be a part of our story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Markelle knew that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her life was a breathtaking testimony of faith in the midst of suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her last note to me she said simply, “There is no good intellectual answer. I just know the inner certainty that I can trust God’s faithfulness and so must be faithful to receive from Him the path He has given me to go.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew that this path would include a painful death...and, yet, she was equally certain that her story wouldn’t end there...because her last words to me were: “I can’t wait to dance in heaven!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s 11:41 p.m. now...just a few short minutes until a new year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never cease to be amazed by the complexity and mystery of the good news found within the pages of the Gospels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tonight I will celebrate another year full of opportunities to learn something new about my Savior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will also celebrate the fact that most of those lessons will probably be in the midst of suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the bottom of a staircase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At a funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> W</span>ith my head over yet another trash can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Or by my dad's hospital bed...as He greets the new year with a tube down his throat. </span>But this year...this year...I will take with me a “knowing” that the greatest story ever told was written by the same Author of my story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that a Messiah...sent by my God...destroyed the power of that blasted measuring stick by claiming dominion over <strong><em>every</em></strong> part of my story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And being transparent with my own life...butt bruises and all...brings glory and honor to the Father who created me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, to all of those reading this post...I hope 2013 is the year you find your voice...and the resolve to use it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope that you are faithful to receive the path He has given you to go...and that you accept the profound grace of a God that my friend Markelle found faithful to her very last breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope that you daily rebuke the measuring stick...and give yourself permission to grieve or celebrate your story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I hope against hope, that in 2013, you get so tired of carrying the pain...that you find the courage to drop your drawers and show someone you trust what you’ve been hiding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because, man-oh-man, sometimes our bruises are so glorious...so beautiful...it’s a crime against the Kingdom to keep them to ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now I must go...midnight is upon me. And in order to maintain my reputation as a certified curmudgeon, I have to have the lights out, so I can huff and puff about those dang fireworks that are keeping me awake past my bedtime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">See you next year, friends!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sure do love you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Owsley <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span></o:p><br />Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-87704631639510897162012-11-10T17:58:00.000-06:002012-11-10T18:02:18.172-06:00Bone Marrow Gratitude<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhETRfJYI9Ro7aQB-F4uxgjq49w8LhwJ7T7BgxpjU4InYktc-MWhnM6hMkom8D_1IeWbYXkhSnJ-UyDLUcSqA60gkHGjXqe6wSbgBC90nCBczSytahmQzVk29pdeGDOvRuXTWSA_aseY/s1600/Thanksgiving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhETRfJYI9Ro7aQB-F4uxgjq49w8LhwJ7T7BgxpjU4InYktc-MWhnM6hMkom8D_1IeWbYXkhSnJ-UyDLUcSqA60gkHGjXqe6wSbgBC90nCBczSytahmQzVk29pdeGDOvRuXTWSA_aseY/s400/Thanksgiving.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Crazy Owsley Thanksgiving </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Welp, it’s November.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one month in the year where most of us
pause from the crazy, whirling ride of this-here life... and attempt to turn
our hearts toward being grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
always been one of my favorite times of year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pumpkin bread, blustery autumn sunsets, and a thanksgiving feast shared
with people I adore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this
year...well, this year I’ve had an untold amount of time to think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I’ve waited in this place of
contemplative solitude...I began to wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If my heart has to turn <em><strong>toward</strong></em> gratitude...what is my heart turning
<em><strong>from</strong></em>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I daily face a sad truth about my character...I far prefer
to be grateful when I’m actually<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <strong>feeling</strong></i>
grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I only really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>feel </strong></i>grateful when a blessing is
presented in a lovely gift wrapped package...with sunshine, rainbows and
puppies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and a choir of angels never
hurts either. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t laugh...I’m just
trying to keep it real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A $20 bill I
found in my coat pocket...BAM...gratefulness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Big strong men offering to do stuff around our
house...BAM...gratefulness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An unexpected hand written letter in the mail...BAM...thank
you, Father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when I’m sitting around a Thanksgiving Day
feast with friends and family...it’s easy to eat, laugh, hug, and tease my way
into a deep wellspring of appreciation for the community the Father has given
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had lots of HUGE opportunities to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>feel</strong> </i>grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in these moments, the eyes of my heart
are drawn to the heavens, and with a song of thanksgiving...I rejoice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yeah, I rejoice...until the sunshine and
puppies disappear and my gratitude dissolves back into the hardships of daily living.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, here’s my confession...I’m totally guilty of
circumstantial gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begin to suspect there’s something horribly
wrong with my memory...because even having experienced life-altering blessings
and Divine intervention beyond imagination, my spirit of gratitude is easily
abandoned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I wonder...how does a
girl go from only <strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>feeling</u></i> </strong>grateful to
truly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><strong>being</strong></u></i> grateful? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m no longer content to be a
fair-weather-feeler...no, I want gratitude to flow through the very marrow of
my bones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s why contemplating the question, “To turn my heart toward gratitude...what must I turn my heart from?”
has become an eternal question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s
why I truly believe that a Merciful Father is using my current illness to teach
me a thing or two about bone-marrow gratitude. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">In normal life...pre-chronic illness, my daily emotional
regime would usually consist of sporadic moments of joy, bouts of anger,
endless curiosity, occasional conviction, an unhealthy dose of
self-righteousness, a smidge of condescension, plenty of self-doubt and a
passel full of good-natured sarcasm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
considered it a pretty good day when I managed to hide the condescension and doubt
behind a merry cloud of good humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
I knew it was a bad day when the anger found its way to my face...and out of my
mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But now my range of emotions has been somewhat stunted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I usually just bounce back and forth between
misery and anxiety...with an occasional dusting of despondent expletives. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took me a really, really long time to see
the mercy in this new short list of emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And it took me even longer to be grateful for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as I begin my slow journey back to the
land of the living, I bring with me an invaluable “knowing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the last few months, many of you have shared really lovely
Scriptures with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scriptures about
comfort and peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About rejoicing,
healing, and victory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have considered
each one of those as a good, good gift from the Father...for the Words
themselves and because you cared enough to send them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the Scripture that has been clinging to
me for weeks is Philippians 4:4-6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Rejoice in the Lord always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
will say it again, Rejoice! ...Do not be anxious about anything, but in
everything, by prayer and petition, with THANKSGIVING, present your requests to
God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the peace of God, which
transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ
Jesus.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Several weeks ago, I was in the middle of a full-fledged panic
attack...brought on by what we’ve affectionately dubbed “a level 10” round of
nausea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sitting on my parent’s old
green leather couch...my head dangling over an empty WalMart bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because of the panic, the left side of my
body had started to go numb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t
feel my fingers or toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heaving was
so hard...that it felt like my ribs were cracking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all of this misery was peppered with
random bouts of sobbing and a deep conviction that this must be what it feels
like to die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During this particular
episode (as my mom sat next to me rubbing my back), I was trying to pray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In response, the Spirit
said...”Alissa...Rejoice.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re
kidding me, right? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about bad
timing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t you see how miserable I
am?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t you see the anxiety is eating
my last shred of rationality?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Alissa...I will say it again, Rejoice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Don’t be anxious about anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Be thankful.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think if I’d had
the emotional energy in that moment, the Spirit and I may have gotten into a
fist fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you kidding me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I get to even present my request to
God, I have to rejoice and be thankful?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Clearly the God of the Universe doesn’t understand anxiety attacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart is beating out of my chest...and I’m
at a level 10 of suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Spirit’s
request felt cruel...and backwards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
is an emergency, Father...give me the peace first...and then I’ll be in the
“place” to be grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in that
moment, I was desperate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, with a weary,
childlike effort ...I rejoiced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thanked Him for giving me a mom to rub my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I thanked Him for placing me in the comfort of my parent’s house while I
endured the attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then...I thanked Him
for making really, really good drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soon thereafter, I began to feel my arms and legs again...and the dry
heaving stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Since that day, the Spirit and I have and many similar
encounters...especially as I’ve battled through many bouts of anxiety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just
so you know, it’s quite an emotional blow to a control freak when she discovers
that very, very little is actually under her control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, there are drugs that help take the edge
off of the anxiety (and without shame, I sometimes take those drugs)...but,
I’ve found that the sometimes Herculean effort of turning my heart <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>from</strong> </i>fear...<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>toward</strong></i> gratitude has taught my heart to not trust circumstance, but
instead...trust the Rock of Ages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Ancient of Days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because...get this...I’ve figured out the magical, delicious
truth that God revealed to us in Philippians 4:4-6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave us the formula for bone marrow
gratitude!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says if you want to stop just
<em><strong>feeling</strong></em> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>grateful and start <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>being</strong> </i>grateful...then Rejoice when you LEAST
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>feel</u> </i>like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, the Father knows that our emotions of anxiety,
despair, confusion, frustration, and anger are all rooted entirely on “self.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
that intentionally being grateful in the hardest moments of life is the
anti-venom to the serpent’s lies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Father is asking us to detach ourselves from what we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i>...and proclaim what we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>know</strong>.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the “knowing” will settle His peace in
our bones...in ways that we can’t comprehend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Don’t get me wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is hard work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like...really,
really hard work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I could tell
you that one time does the trick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah...
not so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had many, many bouts
of nausea and anxiety since my first rumble with the Spirit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which means I’ve had many, many opportunities
to exercise my gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be
honest, it hasn’t necessarily gotten easier...and I’m not sure I even do it
that well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, as the weeks go by, I
find that a byproduct of exercise is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>being</strong></i>
genuinely grateful...even when I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>feel </strong></i>miserable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Funny that, eh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During some of the worst days of my life...in
a place where almost nothing is under my control...I’m finally more grateful
then I’ve ever been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In fact, so many of you are on my bone-deep gratitude list,
that I can’t help but let some of it spill over a little onto this blog post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you’ll indulge me as I share pieces of
the thanksgiving that has been bubbling in my heart in the last few weeks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which means (drum roll please)...another list!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man, I love me some lists...<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am overwhelmingly, ridiculously, and profoundly
grateful for my mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of you know
the craziness of this particular gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because, truth be told, prior to 2008...my mother was my number one
source of anger and resentment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in
the last few years, with a lot of hard work and several risky conversations, we
have been experiencing radical reconciliation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The idea that she is now one of my greatest sources of rest and comfort...well,
that means we both serve a God who is in the business of restoration (there’s a
great story here...one that I may tell someday).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I battle with a broken body...she has
been by my side every...single...day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t even have to ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s just
always there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talking through my
anxiety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeding me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doing my laundry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Driving me all over yonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or just sitting next to me all day because
she knows I don’t want to be alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
when I try to express my gratitude for being “my hero”...she says, “I’m not
your hero...I just get to be your mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is what good mom’s do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So,
that’s what I’m grateful for....a really, really good mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m thankful for a praying Bride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve said it in previous blogs...but I can’t
help but mention it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear
stories of people and congregations who don’t even KNOW me...who are constantly
praying for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve gotten cards and handwritten notes from
friends, family, and strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Random
texts from people I haven’t heard from in months...letting me know they’re
praying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my friends...oh Father...my
friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are the lifters of my
head, the physical manifestation of the Great Comforter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m more grateful to them than words can
express...and I know a lot of words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
want you to know that I pray for you too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You are constantly in my thoughts...and someday soon we will DANCE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is not a day that goes by that I don’t
audibly express my gratitude for my job. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I’m grateful for good insurance and the
ability to take medical leave (believe-you-me, I’m grateful)...but that pales
in comparison to the magnitude of what I feel for the PEOPLE that I work with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no doubt that God knew exactly what I
would need during this Season in my life...and He planned it right down to the
last detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this crazy job market,
He gave me a boss who is kind and compassionate....and who genuinely cares for
those she leads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has offered me untold grace and patience during
one of our busiest times of year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Father also gave me a “big” boss who has battled his own chronic illness for
years...so, he has a great storehouse of empathy and concern. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a week goes by without him sending me an
encouraging text.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Abba also gave me
godly co-workers who lift me up in prayer, drive me home at a moment’s notice...and
cover my butt when I’m not there to oversee a project.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have treated my tears with kindness (and
hugs).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And reassured me time and time
again that I’m still a valuable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These
people are more than co-workers...they are friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an honor to know them. (you too, Dave)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This may sound a little backwards, but I often find
myself thanking Abba for allowing me to be single and childless during this
season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can barely take care of
myself...trying to imagine having the responsibility of taking care of others
is a little overwhelming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, He
has gifted me with a 24/7 on-call family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A dad who will sit with me and watch a TLC show about Princes...just to
keep me company (sorry, Dad...I had to).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He drives me to doctor’s appointments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Takes care of my dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prints off
all my medical forms and gives me acupressure when I’ve got a horrible
headache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Abba also gave me a sister
who makes homemade chicken noodle soup and talks me through panic attacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She leaves her kids at home (thank you, Steve), so she can come watch
HGTV with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, when I’m going
through niece & nephew withdrawals, she’ll bring her babies over to give me
hugs and kisses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though they’re
long-distance, I was also blessed with two brothers and a sister-in-law who send me random texts or
emails telling me they’re praying and they love me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every year around the Thanksgiving Day table,
I’ve expressed that my family is one my greatest sources of gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This year...those sentiments will be coming
from my bones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s
amazing how the “little things” in life have now become an endless source for
thanksgiving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A co-dependent dog – who never leaves my side.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">A giant fuzzy robe.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Animal crackers</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Quick doctor’s appointments</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Cold weather</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">My bed</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Protein shakes that don’t make me hurl</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Good music</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">HGTV</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Survivor</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Wireless internet</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Really good drugs</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Yoga pants</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I really could go on and on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Believe me...once the gratitude hits your bones, you find there aren’t
really enough words in the English language to describe it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could go item by item...person by
person...and tell you all the reasons I’m grateful for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Heh...maybe you should do that someday,
Owsley).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most of all, I hope you see-hear-feel my deep gratitude for
a Father who loves me beyond reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
loves me enough to mercifully push me to do hard things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He loves me enough to provide for me in ways
that I’ll never understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not
enough for me just to get better...no, He wants to use every tear, every
misery, and every lament to forge me in the depths and strength of the
“knowing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So that when the world looks
at me...they won't see the Alissa I want them to see (which, for the record, is a
keen fashion sense and an epic sense of humor)...no, they'll see the Alissa He <em>created</em> me to be. And through her heart...they will see <strong><em>Him.</em></strong> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, for this Thanksgiving season...I’d like to challenge you
all to stop <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>feeling</strong></i> grateful and start <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>being</strong> </i>grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s easy, really...next time you’re angry,
resentful, lonely, miserable, or heart-broken...REJOICE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be
mindful of what your heart is turning <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>from</strong></i>...and
with prayer and petition...turn it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>toward</strong>
</i>Thanksgiving. I know, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Piece of cake. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ooooooo...cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Someday I'm going to eat cake again. And when I do, </span>I’m
adding it to the list right under “yoga pants.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-56012125917360126762012-10-19T13:51:00.000-05:002012-10-19T13:56:33.009-05:00Again.<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">You know those moments in life where you throw up your hands and say, “Are you freaking kidding me...I have to endure this again?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, I’ve had my fair share of those moments lately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, in the last few weeks, I’ve developed a distinct loathing for the word “again.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m on short-term medical leave...again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m living at my parent’s house...again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t drive myself anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spend most of my days in bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the cruelest form of deja vu...and I have to live through it all...again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it feels like my wellness is totally a house of cards...and that suffering is shaped like a boomerang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spend almost every day trying to find the perfect balance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drink just enough water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get just enough sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eat just enough protein.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My life now seems to be entirely focused on stacking my body back to health, card by fragile card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, like a boomerang, the misery swings back around in a great, vicious arc, and I watch in horror as my health begins to crumble...again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m not gonna lie...this type of existence totally blows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it almost feels like it’s happening to someone else...as if I’m looking at some strange woman passed out on my parent’s spare bed...with a dozen prescription bottles within reach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every morning I wake up hoping that today will be the day I feel better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And every day I’m reminded that I’m a prisoner of my broken body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one word question, “again?” has become my heart’s lament. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I now find myself in the brutal tension of wanting desperately to feel well...but living in constant fear that wellness is just a precursor to more misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last Tuesday I was having a surprisingly good day...and then, with no warning...I spent 45 minutes dry heaving into a plastic bag while I sobbed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s because of moments like this that I begin to fear hope...because I truly begin to doubt if I have enough strength for another “again.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like a boxer who has endured punch after brutal punch...lying on the floor of the boxing ring bloodied and exhausted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can hear the saints screaming for me to get up...but I know that if I stand up, I’ll just endure more suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I wonder...is it worth it? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s in these raw and horrible moments that every carefully placed pretense of “toughness” is blown away, and I glimpse the fear that holds me captive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am no Rocky Balboa, that’s for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Internally I’m crying, “NO!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t do it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please don’t ask me to do it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take it away, Father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heal me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please...no more agains.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwpBX2aCSBRryf4TC8CyTDcUyaSN6LWZdOMbtU2DqHuK7s8C-KwCi5hs_frpaoTa1iDM_8xPk0PX_tUASpGBotLQ5yttRS__VAJqdpQagllzSigvsQLnebigMkoejQVyy6SWBrXDCsL1s/s1600/rocky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwpBX2aCSBRryf4TC8CyTDcUyaSN6LWZdOMbtU2DqHuK7s8C-KwCi5hs_frpaoTa1iDM_8xPk0PX_tUASpGBotLQ5yttRS__VAJqdpQagllzSigvsQLnebigMkoejQVyy6SWBrXDCsL1s/s320/rocky.jpg" width="256" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">You know, in a crazy way...having a chronic illness almost gives me an advantage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes the “agains” of life pretty cut and dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a big ‘ol line drawn in the sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can either choose to push through the suffering and hope for what’s on the other side of it...or...be devoured by the fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, every day, with a breadth of hope and by the strength of a praying Body...I stand up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another one of the benefits of lying in one place for days is that it gives me the space and time to contemplate life outside of my parent’s house. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And do you know where my mind often wanders?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I know that I’m not the only one enduring repetitive suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I know that you don’t get to call a time-out on life as you watch 15 hours of HGTV and have your mom cook your food and do your laundry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, in that way...I have it way easier than you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Which is why I think about you facing the daily battle of raising your children alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about you enduring a bone-deep weariness of body, mind, and soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about how you’re struggling with the pain of terminal cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about you facing the pain of waiting for your baby girl’s diagnosis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about how you ripped out your heart and gave it to Abba...because He asked you to. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about how you’re struggling in your marriage or how you’re facing intense loneliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about how you’ve encountered yet another betrayal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about your broken heart...unmet longings, divided churches, abusive relationships, fractured family, and unimaginable grief. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can put a face and name to each one of these battles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of you have been here before...and now you find yourself here again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">And yet, even as you are confronting the agony of your own struggle...you’re praying unceasingly for a girl lying on her parent’s spare bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why...when I’m lying in bed, contemplating my “again”...my mind wanders to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a girl who has often found the Church wanting...lately I’ve been awed and humbled by the splendor of His Bride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">That’s why for the last few days, I’ve had a terrible sense of urgency to tell you something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something that Abba has revealed to me in slow, agonizing glimpses...over a year of extreme refining.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Even though it’s very, very hard to believe on some days...I’ve learned that suffering isn’t shaped liked a boomerang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would imply that we alone have the strength to remove it<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (w</span>hich is good news...because when we’re facing our “agains,” strength is often hard to come by).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, the shape of our suffering is just another lie from the enemy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wants us to believe that we should always be looking over our shoulder...so, that we’ll miss the flaming arrows headed straight toward us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">He also wants us to focus on our own misery and bitterness long enough...that we feel alone and hopeless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imprisoned by fear and facing our own impending doom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a total load of hooey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Believe me...this is not my chosen method of refinement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d rather drink mint juleps as I’m being fanned by a good-looking man reading me Song of Solomon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, alas, Abba has decided to use my broken body to show me some profound truths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the more times I stand up in the midst of my misery...the more I begin to see the big picture. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s kinda like Google maps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Accuser wants us to only see things at street level...but if we want to see what the God of Universe is up to...well, then...we have to zoom out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And...man oh man...what a view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out, I’m not standing alone in a boxing ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m standing in the shadow of my Father’s wings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see His strong right hand upholding me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He alone is my shield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The horn of my salvation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My strong tower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is surrounding me with songs of deliverance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has delivered my soul from death...and my eyes from tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No weapon forged against Him will stand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He will satisfy my needs and strengthen my frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He will bind up my broken heart and bestow me with a crown of Beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the more I’m forced to push through the “agains” of suffering...the more I am forged in the truth that the Lord my God is with me...and He is mighty to save.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Friends...we are not prisoners of suffering, fear, or our broken bodies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, we are prisoners of hope (Zechariah 9:12).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And through this Divine hope...we <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will </i></b>see the redemption of our “agains.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hold fast to the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keep standing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Push through the fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And remember...if you have a British accent...”again” is pronounced...a-gain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hallelujah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amen. (Z-snap)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-20166212081584437242012-09-19T16:19:00.000-05:002012-09-19T16:21:42.842-05:00My Crying Week<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">This has been a crying week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m not really a crier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m in the middle of one of the worst attacks that my body has endured in over a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m exhausted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My limbs feel like 50 pound weights hanging on my body. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can barely form a complete thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for the last 7 days I have been plagued with extreme and unrelenting bouts of nausea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I lay alone in bed, day-after-day, with my head hung over the side, dry heaving into an empty trash can…the enemy attacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over and over again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">He tries to convince me that I will never again feel well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says I will lose all of my friends because I keep canceling plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells me that I’ve become a liability. And because no one really knows what to say to sick people, they will all start slowly abandoning me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells me I’m a disappointment to everybody.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells me that I’ll lose my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He calls me a coward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A weakling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells me that no man will choose me now…because I’m broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He prowls day and night…whispering over and over again that I’m alone and trapped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, most of all, he tries to convince me that my God has forsaken me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that is when the weeping begins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">You know, I think I could actually handle the physical misery part pretty well…if it weren’t for the lies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a week or so of hanging on by a thread…I become a pretty easy target.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">One of the things I’ve learned most about enduring a chronic illness…is that I’ve taken a whole lot of things for granted over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trivial things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like getting ready for work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a good day, I barely think about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shower, lotion, brush my teeth, deodorant, makeup, hair, get dressed…bam…I’m out the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But on a bad day…each one of those simple tasks feels like climbing Mount Everest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On Monday, taking a shower was so exhausting, I had to sit on my bed for 10 minutes before I could move on to my next task.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just started thinking about all the small tasks I had left to do, not to mention the part where I actually had to get to work…and all the sudden I just started sobbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s when the enemy pounces…screeching lies about my uselessness and weakness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent out a desperate text to all of my praying friends…asking the saints to once again carry me on their shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within seconds, I could literally feel their prayers and eventually the weeping stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Last night was the first night of a Beth Moore Bible study at our house with my mom and a dear friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been looking forward to it for weeks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hoping against hope that I would finally hear from God. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About an hour before we were set to start…I knew my body was going to rebel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swallowed a cocktail of drugs and dragged myself to my bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon thereafter, I started dry heaving again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My door was cracked open…and I could hear them out in the kitchen enjoying a meal together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was overwhelmed by a profound sense of loss…because, once again, life was happening without me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The enemy started hissing in my ear that I was a coward and that I had no more strength left to fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then played his trump card: your God has abandoned you…and you are alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I sobbed quietly in my room…I finally started to believe him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know if someone heard me crying or if the Spirit brought them to my room…but the next thing I knew, my mom and friends were on the bed with me…laying hands on me...praying over me...fighting on my behalf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And soon my tears of loss turned into wracking sobs of gratefulness. Because in the moment when I needed Him most…after almost a year of deafening silence…I finally heard the voice of God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brothers and Sisters...this blog entry has become my spiritual act of worship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A medium to praise Abba with a scattered brain and a weak body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize today’s post is pretty raw…and outside of my normal humorous approach to life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as I lay in bed last night, I knew the best way to stick it to the enemy was to publically proclaim the glory of God right smack dab in the middle of my suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a little messy, I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just me typing my thoughts in real time...as an act of defiance against the accuser who has been ruthlessly tormenting me with lies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is as real as it gets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bloodied and battle weary daughter of the King...fists raised....shouting in the midst of battle, He will <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never </i></b>leave me, nor forsake me! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not alone!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get to keep my friends!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not a coward! I <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will </i></b>feel well again! And it’s by HIS strength alone that I can face another day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because He’s standing over me...stripped for battle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here's the thing...I didn’t start “We Will Rise” to talk about my chronic illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My original intent was actually quite the opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to tell other people’s stories of survival and faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t anticipate that it would be my story of survival that ended up on the pages of this blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Figures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But many of you have written me that you know someone in your life who is suffering from chronic illness...and that you have shared this blog with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is equal parts humbling and terrifying...but, I want you to know that I’m extremely grateful that you trust me enough to speak to your friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also want you to know that it’s for <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>all</u></b> survivors that I continue to write about my suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I figure if you live down here on earth...you’ve suffered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if you’ve suffered...you’ve survived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, before I swallow more pills this morning (I feel the nausea coming back)...I really want you all to know what I’ve learned in the midst of my suffering...during my crying week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes miracles aren’t the healing we’ve been begging for...or the just-in-time money that keeps our electric from being shut off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People we love die despite our unceasing prayers for life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is still crippling division in our churches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of us still get the worst case scenario diagnosis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of us face our days alone and heart broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our husbands or wives don’t miraculously start loving us well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our children still rebel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of us feel trapped in unfulfilling jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And many of us will never conceive a child that we want so desperately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be easy to wonder why the God who loves us so much...would deny us the miracles that we pray for unceasingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yeah, I totally get that. I don’t know why the God of the Universe has continued to allow my body to take such a beating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have prayed time and time again for a miraculous healing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But maybe the miracle has been staring me in the face this whole time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the miracle is...despite the enemy attacking me over and over again during some of the lowest points in my life, I still believe God is good. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And d</span>espite no miraculous healing and God’s excruciating silence...I still truly believe He loves me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My faith has been shaken, yes...but it has not been broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sisters and brothers...WE are the miracle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God’s army of Believers consists of flesh-eaten, sinful survivors who choose to believe the Word of God even as the accuser tries time and time again to destroy us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we stand in the midst of a battlefield overflowing with the bloody carcasses of our broken bodies, destroyed dreams, loveless marriages and unfulfilled longings...we <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still </i></b>cry out the name of our Savior. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days we may scream like banshees...other days we may only whisper through the pain...but despite our suffering, we still believe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If that’s not miraculous...then I don’t know what is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">That’s what my crying week has taught me...and that’s what I wanted to say to you today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, heck...it’s only Wednesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows what tomorrow will hold?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe more lies...and more crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as long as I keep claiming God’s glory in the midst of my suffering...I keep claiming victory over my broken body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Halleluiah and amen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Z-snap)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now I’m going to go take more drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you for all the saints out there who are praying for me...you make me cry too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in a good way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-34491748984100094612012-08-12T21:01:00.001-05:002012-08-13T10:05:21.854-05:00I am a Tree<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trees. I adore trees. My earliest memory of prayer was about a tree...a towering White Pine in the backyard of my childhood home, to be specific. To the mind of a five year old girl, it stood at least twenty stories high...with huge deadly branches and pine cone missiles. Every night for months (or perhaps years), I prayed that Jesus would keep that big scary tree from squishing my house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also prayed that skunks wouldn’t get under my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m happy to report, that both prayers were answered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After I recovered from the fear of impending squishedness, trees quickly became my good friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took to climbing them...any limb in jumping distance became a personal challenge. Of course, sometimes I lost the challenge; I still have a big lump under my upper lip that proves some trees are mightier than adolescent tomboys. Creation was ripe with adventure...and trees were my childhood playmates. Fallen trees provided passage over streams, strong branches became the infrastructure of elaborate forts, snow covered pine branches made perfect hiding places, and apple trees dropped piles of rotten grenades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though adulthood has dulled the edges of my adoration...trees have always remained high on my list of personal delights.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That’s why my absolute favorite characters in J.R.R Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings are the Ents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, allow me to let my inner geek show for a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ents were giant creatures created to guard the forests against destruction in Middle Earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They closely resembled the trees that they were protecting…tall, strong, bark-like skin, arms like branches and deep penetrating eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were considered very patient, very cautious “shepherds of the trees”, with a sense of time suited more for creation than mortality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my favorite lines from the oldest Ent, Treebeard, is “we never say anything unless it is worth taking a long time to say.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the second volume of LOTR (The Two Towers), the Ents got pissed off at a really bad guy and destroyed his tower, Isengard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They save the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I clap every time I watch the movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, there’s just something deep in my soul that totally loves the picture of trees as super heroes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why, to this day, when I find myself standing under a tall, grizzled oak tree…I’ll pat the bark and whisper, “I know you can hear me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which I’m pretty sure they can, by the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the Psalms trees sing for joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Isaiah they clap their hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in Romans…all of creation groans as it waits for the return of the King.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I don’t think it’s merely a flight of fancy from a girl with an over-active imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No way…one day I’m pretty sure I will have a conversation with Treebeard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m going to ride on his shoulder like a Hobbit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re going to be besties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the last few months, I have watched the trees in my yard struggling to survive a Missouri drought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Huge limbs are now brittle and dying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bushes are all turning a burnished orange color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And t</span>he Magnolia tree has shed hundreds of dead leaves that scatter across our brown lawn like little miniature carcasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the last few weeks, as I’ve stood outside for what feels like hours…waiting for my passive aggressive dog to go pee, I often find myself staring at the trees, feeling a strange kinship to their plight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I too feel the effects of my own personal drought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This morning the weather was actually tolerable, so I decided to attend the Church of the Back Porch in my mismatched pink snowflake pajamas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made it about 20 minutes of staring at the skeletal remains of a Redbud tree before I was outside…still in my pjs…inexplicably desperate to rid my yard of the corpses of my fallen childhood playmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After furiously raking and sweeping for about 20 minutes, I noticed a huge dying limb that looked like it was scraping the ground in agony. Because I couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore...I wrapped both hands around it and pulled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shouldn’t have had the strength to remove that limb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was huge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But with very little effort and a huge cracking sound…it fell to the earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood there for a while...wearing silly pink snowflakes…staring at that limb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The more I stared…the more it started to look like an arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling a strange sense of remorse, I looked up at the Redbud tree, patted the bark and said silently…”I’m sorry, old friend.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">These days…as a 35 year old single woman whose daily highlights include a can of soup, Wheel of Fortune, and an 8:30pm bedtime…I think a lot about abundant life, or the lack thereof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my quest for knowledge, I even Googled it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good news, people…abundant life has its own Wiki page.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you also know there are hundreds upon hundreds of churches that have “abundant life” in their names?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’d bet my left butt cheek that there are faithful parishioners who attend their Abundant Life Church every Sunday…and yet still don’t have a clue what it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh sure, they’d<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>probably be able to give a lovely explanation of what life looks like when it’s lived abundantly, but that would be like asking a scientist why the sky is blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, yes, it has to do with the reflection of light, but that answer leaves me a little disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A glorious canvas of blue should carry a bit more romance...physics just seems to tarnish the truth of its splendor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">John 10:10 says, “...I came that they may have life and live it abundantly.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think if I stood still long enough, passersbys may mistake me for one of the fragile, dying trees in my yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days, it even feels like a gentle tug could easily rip off one of my limbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to hear from God a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was daily in His word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His truth was far more real to me than my next breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now my life is surrounded by a great void of silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the Father sent His only Son to give me life…but, if I don’t hear from Him…how can I live it abundantly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">One of my absolute favorite quotes of all time is from Beth Moore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says, “sometimes we don't realize how real God is until we've experienced the awesomeness of His answerless presence. He knows that what we crave far more than explanations are the unshakeable conviction that He is utterly, supremely God." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That’s the thing…because I’ve stood at the foot of the Throne, the silence doesn’t throw me into fits of panic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, the quiet has come with a deep, wordless resolve that God is very near.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would I prefer to go back to the place where I hear His voice and feel His presence?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Absolutely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without a moment’s hesitation…yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s in this place that I’ve truly learned what life means when it’s lived in abundance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think the answer lies with my old friends…the trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /><b><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“But blessed is the woman who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out her roots by the stream. She does not fear when heat comes; her leaves are always green. She has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit." Jeremiah 17: 7-8<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t think abundant life is a sort of spiritual high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think the answer lies in the perfect combination of church attendance, service, Bible study, or prayer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, a tree that bears fruit is really just being a tree… doing what it was created to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether it’s a season of abundance or time of drought…a tree fulfills its divine purpose simply by living. For me, that means living without fear or anxiety in His answerless presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, despite a fragile body and an 8:30 bedtime, my roots are still planted in the River of Life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My limbs draw strength from the confidence of my Salvation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For I am a tree…living life abundantly. Because regardless of the silence, I still stand in the conviction that even in the face of drought, God is still utterly, supremely God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As the wise Treebeard once said…anything worth saying takes a long time to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My solitude has taught me, that like the Ents…Abba’s timing is more suited for His creation than my humanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess that means when I can’t hear Him, He’s only pausing between sentences…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-41530002215390440722012-07-03T17:30:00.000-05:002012-07-03T22:10:09.792-05:00The Barf Bag of Mercy<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A couple of months ago, I traveled to Europe with three of my favorite people…where we joined another one of my favorite people, Marcus, for an adventure of a lifetime. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some adventures were awesome…and some…not-so-awesome. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But today I want to talk about a day that was a whole LOT of not-so-awesome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wednesday, May 3<sup>rd</sup>, 2012.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the day I took a 2 and a half hour ferry ride across the Adriatic Sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the day I was almost broken by a green monster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was also the day I learned about my rage…and Abba’s mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By now…if you’ve been reading this blog…most of you know that I was recently diagnosed with a rare digestive disorder called Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome (CVS)…or as I like to call it, Cyclic Bite-Me-You-Mean-Stupid-Life-Stealing-Fun-Killing-Uglyhead Syndrome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(If you want some fun reading, I invite you to google it…of course, you should probably google <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/cyclic-vomiting-syndrome/DS00835/" target="_blank">CVS</a> and not CBMYMSLSFKUS. Cause I just made that one up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, whenever the Uglyhead comes calling…I morph into a barely-there human.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unrecognizable…as all of my joy, humor, and personality are sucked out of my body…replaced by extreme suffering, dark circles and green skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost like the Hulk…minus the bulging muscles. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The best way to explain CVS is to relate it to a migraine. Researchers think it manifests in the part of the brain where the nausea receptors live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It can strike at any time…with a whole range of triggers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the triggers can be mitigated, others cannot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the last year, as the list of triggers gets longer and longer…the list of things I can no longer do gets longer too. I hate this list with all of my being…but it has become my new reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here are some of things that turn me into a green monster: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, seriously. Be afraid. </td></tr>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eating too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or eating anything delicious and fun.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eating too little. This one gets me a lot…because eating and nausea are not friends. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes even just the normal not-getting-8-hours-of-sleep tired.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being overexcited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, really…have you met me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get excited about everything.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not necessarily big stress…but sometimes “oh, hey…I lost my keys” stress.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">6.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is hard to avoid in the Missouri summers. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">7.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Aunt Flow (Men, you may need to ask a girl about this one). </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">8.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Breathing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Standing on one leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walking across a room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">9.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And…my personal favorite…going to Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anna Banana Feagans and I had been dreaming and planning our European vacation for what seemed like years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two BFF’s with a dream and a money jar…longing for an adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We scraped and saved, forfeiting salon visits and new shoes in the pursuit of a trip of a lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after several generous donations and a RECORD breaking garage sale…we bought our plane tickets and reserved our hotels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then…BAM…I got crazy sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trip postponed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>$700 lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Curses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One day, as I was laying on my mother’s couch…40 pounds thinner and still no diagnosis…we passed the time by dreaming about Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bernie, my mom’s BFF, was there…she drove up from Dallas for a week to take care of my caretaker. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All four of us were hanging out in the living room, when all of the sudden…I had an idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if we ALL went to Europe together?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two generations of BFFs?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, once that idea took hold…we couldn’t shake it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After I started feeling better (thank you Dr. Schiller), we started round two of dreaming, planning, and fundraising.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell or high water…I was going to get my dream vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2C0_pMu4uucoUmWzKWvbPQgVt_WAQG4GA9E1jZpMqy3yVDhNZDTZ7FQJPu7RQy9CGlhnC0-T2mi_Cqv_78thGyHwWT-bTJ8G6gLnrnlBjzsLIKvb1fzvWmDolooD3BxRXmkKMOZlPp4/s1600/Iphone+Photos+47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2C0_pMu4uucoUmWzKWvbPQgVt_WAQG4GA9E1jZpMqy3yVDhNZDTZ7FQJPu7RQy9CGlhnC0-T2mi_Cqv_78thGyHwWT-bTJ8G6gLnrnlBjzsLIKvb1fzvWmDolooD3BxRXmkKMOZlPp4/s200/Iphone+Photos+47.jpg" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old BFFs</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwsfri8S68qvk9WFXB_gQeC6QB62fv-wA93rnWhntLmaZqydjmHevX_-6k5rAMI5sOY1c8aD224I47AE4iRqShl4UXcUieiyU86bOniOAAIu-JgkIA7bNz2Qrtr5NsZqtj6lcMHLfvOuY/s1600/Iphone+Photos+49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwsfri8S68qvk9WFXB_gQeC6QB62fv-wA93rnWhntLmaZqydjmHevX_-6k5rAMI5sOY1c8aD224I47AE4iRqShl4UXcUieiyU86bOniOAAIu-JgkIA7bNz2Qrtr5NsZqtj6lcMHLfvOuY/s200/Iphone+Photos+49.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
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Young BFFs</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Abba wanted us to go on this journey together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even more…all four of us had many Divine encounters that confirmed this. We had several anonymous cash donations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miraculous healing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seamless trip planning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beautiful weather. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like God was extending His hand to us saying, “Come, Girls…let’s go play together.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were prayed up and ready to party.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s why I was convinced…CONVINCED…that I was going to get a pass on my CVS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just knew…deep down, that I was going to have two weeks of blissful health and “the Hulk list” would be temporarily suspended, so I could delight in all of the things that I’ve been denied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean…why would Abba take my hand…fly me across an ocean with my favorite people…and NOT protect me from illness?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I knew Him to be sovereign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was going to protect me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than 5 tons of medication serving as a constant reminder, I planned to completely forget about my broken body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, when I got home, I was going to tell the world about His goodness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was going to be EPIC.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jMka2NkOqs7AMiqavtS2g9Ep_zNGCuAakw-JEIPiMHqsQgNA4WNIoxZSacINX-IaLauvPiJcYBaMUdhn0CEMSB_2NXMNKK4qoqah-GMAdOtcqALaE2R8xofy7ju2Yhit69Wv8LJ9LIA/s1600/airplane.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jMka2NkOqs7AMiqavtS2g9Ep_zNGCuAakw-JEIPiMHqsQgNA4WNIoxZSacINX-IaLauvPiJcYBaMUdhn0CEMSB_2NXMNKK4qoqah-GMAdOtcqALaE2R8xofy7ju2Yhit69Wv8LJ9LIA/s200/airplane.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We make plane rides look goooooood.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first week in Europe confirmed my unwavering faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had boundless energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite several long plane rides and crushing jet lag…I felt amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even a whiff of nausea (well other than the taxi rides in Rome…but even the stoutest of dispositions can’t survive a Roman taxi ride unscathed).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got to see and taste Italy…Rome, Ancona, and a day of Venice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We laughed, argued, ate, explored, drank wine…and then ate some more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, I was definitely one of Abba’s favorites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was confirmed by the mind-numbingly BEAUTIFUL Pietro…the Innkeeper who greeted us at the front desk of our Venice hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Siiiiiigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, why would God put Pietro in my path, if He didn’t want me to enjoy His creation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just sayin…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I woke up the second day in Venice, I knew this day was going to be different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something wasn’t right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as I got dressed and ready for a second day of exploring, I doggedly ignored the nausea chewing on my stomach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Absolutely not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was going to will it away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was only the enemy trying to scare me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Abba was going to protect me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was convinced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Less than an hour later…on the crowded streets of Venice…I knew I was wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Fade in…present time …</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Do you know what I hate the most about the life-stealing-fun-killing-uglyhead?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to take back every mean thought I’ve ever had about people with chronic illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This confession isn’t flattering, I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could I harbor mean thoughts about someone who is suffering?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pretty easily, actually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought that life is what you made of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All those sick people just needed to buck up and live life!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or better yet, get out of their heads…go sit in the sun…pray for healing…get out of the house…immerse themselves in something useful…DO something to feel better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, for pete’s sake, stop using it as an excuse to stop living!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The inside of my head was like a cheesy, motivational poster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have since stabbed that inner voice repeatedly in the heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Die motivational poster…DIE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Above all…I hate my illness because it has stolen my misguided sense of control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, I’ve always harbored the secret belief that everything in life is up to ME.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now I’ve been handed a chronic condition that proves just the opposite by ruthlessly morphing me into a woman I barely recognize. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Fade in…Day 2 of Venice, Italy…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was standing on a crowded cobblestone street when the first wave of nausea smacked me in the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a national holiday in Italy…so, there were droves of people everywhere. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chatting in rapid Italian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eating gelato. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BAM…another wave of nausea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember hurriedly cleaning out one of the shopping bags I was holding in preparation for potential yarfing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, this couldn’t be happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Hulk was back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Father…where are you?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had checked out of our cute little boutique hotel (Ciao beautiful Pietro!) and planned on spending the day shopping and site-seeing until catching a 5:00 pm ferry to Croatia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a Gustav Klimt (one of my favorite artists) exhibit in the Correr Museum on St. Mark’s square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I woke up giddy with anticipation…I couldn’t believe that I was going to be able to see some of my favorite paintings in freaking VENICE, Italy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as I stood in the middle of a crowded street…clutching a plastic bag …I knew that I wouldn’t get to see Klimt in Venice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew I wouldn’t enjoy any more site-seeing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I silently slipped into survival mode as my mom and friends led me back to the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGeIMv4Kaqk46gwQDdDpuO2ksUumTbUGemb9zGjlXSpl6g26R-4zQOBCug3O-1sal0T6ddJzUASZoDyb_AQIESDbJCI-uN5q4SEW83XxCH_eV9_tzqyTpeUCq-8CXkkSWjXBwcyynrt_U/s1600/DSCN1914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGeIMv4Kaqk46gwQDdDpuO2ksUumTbUGemb9zGjlXSpl6g26R-4zQOBCug3O-1sal0T6ddJzUASZoDyb_AQIESDbJCI-uN5q4SEW83XxCH_eV9_tzqyTpeUCq-8CXkkSWjXBwcyynrt_U/s320/DSCN1914.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goodbye Klimt exhibit. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To be honest, I don’t remember much from the rest of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was forced to take a pretty intense cocktail of drugs to try to keep the nausea at bay (hey, that rhymed).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hotel graciously let me crash in our vacated room for a couple of hours until they had to clean it for the next guests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I had to move to the now empty breakfast room where I spent hours sitting in a chair with my head on a table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was vaguely aware of occasional voices as Anna and my mom took turns watching over me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, Pietro was very concerned and came to check on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Anna was delighted to have the opportunity to chat with him…you’re welcome, friend.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, this was NOT how I imagined Venice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Father…where are you?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Fade in…present time…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I admit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the Uglyhead comes calling, I spend a lot of time feeling sorry for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m no Job…that’s for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On some days, when I’m lying in my bed…in a medicated stupor…it’s easy to believe that I’ve been handed a really raw deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes Abba feels very far away when extreme loneliness claws at my heart… as I’m forced time and time again to escape into the deep oblivion of survival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m not writing this story to invite you to join my pity party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, my intent is just the opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the Uglyhead is my new reality …but it is not my identity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I don’t have control over my life …but I still have a choice of how I’m going to live it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Fade in…the Port of San Basilio, Venice, Italy…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a short and EXPENSIVE private water taxi ride to the port, we stood at the ferry counter, staring in abject horror, as the ticket agent explained to us that the Ferry wouldn’t be running that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was to be a quick 2.5 hour trip across the Adriatic Sea to Rovinj, Croatia…would now be a 4 hour trip around the coast in a cramped minivan with strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given my state of misery, this felt like a worst case scenario.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swallowed more pills and my mom handed me an empty pretzel bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I escaped to the deepest recesses of my mind as I prepared, once again, to survive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The rest of the week is somewhat foggy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember thinking that Rovinj was an enchanted village right out of the pages of a fairy tale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t realize places like that still existed in the world today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Narrow cobblestone streets, fishing boats, an open air market, fresh bakeries at every corner, and the most majestic sunsets I’ve ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I only caught glimpses of these things as I faded in and out of misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent most of the week in bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWC5kZsWVAoXqF_bYk4_8Cjzs5qHYkqh-khVlP1fSq8yYZLiknfuGkNoJWptvw8EFrVZtvpXpsd9_ACWUoHwbeN055x8raJWoq8RDluZTOIWmn145s-lqoo3PKUT_GGDQxFmwFVtcG2sE/s1600/DSCN2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWC5kZsWVAoXqF_bYk4_8Cjzs5qHYkqh-khVlP1fSq8yYZLiknfuGkNoJWptvw8EFrVZtvpXpsd9_ACWUoHwbeN055x8raJWoq8RDluZTOIWmn145s-lqoo3PKUT_GGDQxFmwFVtcG2sE/s320/DSCN2014.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A beautiful Rovinj sunset</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkD6yymzLNPT4nJ-azD5gwsl2mP2EtAwWko1aJqCqPE-bZEXF572U2n7LYail5KbhqNQKvYFsDCd90kpVQA3H8ejAqOhStXYWULreUufVAkzFZxLRpdlWyuLUJTdfjw9r-4O6NxI1d4Jk/s1600/Iphone+Photos+388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkD6yymzLNPT4nJ-azD5gwsl2mP2EtAwWko1aJqCqPE-bZEXF572U2n7LYail5KbhqNQKvYFsDCd90kpVQA3H8ejAqOhStXYWULreUufVAkzFZxLRpdlWyuLUJTdfjw9r-4O6NxI1d4Jk/s320/Iphone+Photos+388.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This place really exists. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The open sea food market was my nemesis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smells and chatter of the restaurant below our apartment constantly tortured my fragile hold on sanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually, as the week went on, the charm of the beautiful fishing village wore thin…and I longed for home with every fiber of my being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was done with Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted my own bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I missed my dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drowning in nausea is never fun…but it’s especially cruel when it crushes your dream vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, May 3<sup>rd</sup> arrived…the day we were going to leave Rovinj and catch the ferry back to Venice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was running that day, thank the Lord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We dragged our ten tons of luggage to the porter…and climbed to the second floor VIP section of the boat where there was a picture of the Pope who had once sat in the very place we now found ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ahhhhhhh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re going home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Fade in…present time…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been a Christian for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually celebrated my 30<sup>th</sup> re-birthday this week…because on July 2, 1982, with the tender acceptance of a five year old …I invited Jesus to come live in my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You would think by now I would be able recognize God’s mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Granted, even as a five-year-old, I understood the profound mercy of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But until this year, I don’t think I’ve really understood how that looks in day to day living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Fade in…Wednesday, May 3<sup>rd</sup>…on a Ferry somewhere on the Adriatic Sea…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">About 15 minutes after we hit the open waters of the sea, I knew that even after a week of suffering…I had yet to reach the pinnacle of my misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t really put words to that Ferry ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than one day last year when my mom rushed me to the emergency room…I have never been that profoundly nauseated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About an hour and half into the trip, I remember contemplating jumping overboard. Anna handed me one of the barf bags stashed in the seats of the Ferry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swallowed more pills and literally begged God to take away the misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d been here before…and I knew if I started to vomit, I wouldn’t stop…for a very, very long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again, I closed out everything around me and chanted over and over in my head “Please, God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please, God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are you?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually, we landed at the port of San Basilio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, unfortunately, we found ourselves on a floating city…with the prospect of yet more water transportation ahead of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After we made our way through customs, Anna overheard a little Italian man asking if anyone needed a taxi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A real taxi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With tires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A minivan…big enough to fit our luggage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, after a short 15 minute ride to our mainland hotel, I crawled into bed and sank into a deep sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t vomited…the pills finally kicked in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That evening, on our last night in Europe, we all sat around in the living room of our hotel room talking about the Sabbath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom and Bernie had prepared some fun things to do to celebrate the Sabbath while in Rovinj, but because of illness…we never got around to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As mom talked about the faithfulness of God, I felt a deep rage boiling within me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been there for months…but this felt like the last straw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It felt like I had been betrayed by the God who I had trusted with my deepest desires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t keep it inside anymore…and as my mom and friends sat next to me, I wept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I wept some more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why would the God that I’ve served since I was five…deny me the ability to enjoy His creation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why would He tease me with a feast of Klimt exhibits and sunsets…if He knew I was going to get sick? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two weeks…that’s all I’d asked for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I had not gotten a pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t get to forget about my broken body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had not protected me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again, I was forced just to survive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was weary of surviving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart was broken.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Fade in…present time…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I have read the Psalms many times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be honest, I always thought David was a wee bit melodramatic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flood your bed with weeping?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your couch drenched in tears?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your tears are your food day and night?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come on, David…suck it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But today Psalm 42 resonates in a painfully familiar way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It reads almost word-for-word like the inner voice that has been on repeat in my head since I got my diagnosis: </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span class="text"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I say to God my Rock, "</span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text">Why have you forgotten me? </span><span class="text">Why must I go about mourning, </span><span class="text">oppressed by the enemy?” </span><span class="text">My bones suffer mortal agony</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text">as my foes taunt </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text">me, </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text">saying to me all day long, "</span><span class="text">Where is your God?”</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After a 24 hour day of mind-numbing airplane rides and layovers…I eventually made it back to my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since getting home, I’ve been visited by the stupid-uglyhead several times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There has been no magic cure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no storybook ending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as the days pass, and I get further and further away from the misery of my European dream vacation…something significant has floated to the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something life-altering, in fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On May 3<sup>rd</sup>, 2012…on the ferry ride from hell…I didn’t throw up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The barf bag…never got used.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t throw up.</span></span><br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">To some, this may seem like a small detail in a story rife with misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for me…it brings tears to my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t throw up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He heard my cries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite a petulant daughter’s heart full of rage…He faithfully carried me across the Adriatic Sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means even as I was accusing Him of betrayal, He didn’t abandon me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a small, significant moment in time that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt…that the God who feels so far away, was holding me through my suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">You know, I may never know why the Father didn’t give me a pass in Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may never know why He hasn’t cured me from a vicious chronic illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would be lying if I claimed that I wasn’t still a little bit angry about both of those things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I still struggle…almost every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now when I look back at the story of Europe…this is what I remember:</span></span><br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He gave me one week of unfettered health to explore a new country with some of my favorite people. He provided a kind innkeeper who let me rest away from the chaos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew I couldn’t handle a ferry ride across the sea on the first day of the Uglyhead, so He provided a minivan to drive me to Croatia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew I was going to be sick, so He held off the worst of the nausea until I could rest in a cozy little apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave me a little Italian man to drive me in a taxi…because He knew I couldn’t survive another boat ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave me my mom and best friends to watch over of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, most of all, He carried me across the Adriatic as I clutched a barf bag and cried out for mercy. </span></span><br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Why do I tell you this story?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh…I’ve asked myself that question many times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth is…it took me a really, really long time to work up the nerve to post this blog. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, I’ve spent most of my life cultivating a reputation of carefree independence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When people look at my life…I’d prefer they see an image of a spiritual Zena Princess Warrior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now the gig is up…as you can see, I’m just raging green monster who clings to faith with a gallon of desperation…and a thimble of hope.</span></span><br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">No, I finally got up the kahunas to write this blog because I know I don’t have exclusive rights to suffering. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine there are many of you out there who feel like you've been set adrift…buffeted by life…begging for mercy from a God who feels far away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hope is that by telling my story you’ll be able to catch glimpses of mercy in the midst of your struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Because the moral of my story is…even though my couch is often drenched in tears…even though I’m sometimes forced into a dark place of survival…even though I didn’t have the European vacation of my dreams…He hears my cry for mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite my unbelief…Abba is near.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Which is why that unused barf bag is one of my most treasured keepsakes. It is now displayed in a shadow box…hung on my wall…with a verse to remind me that I am not forgotten:</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrkJYunS-OGy38-qF8ciKLNTShAMN9RNO-KEycY6TYvpYyLgeRe0EbO3Tm1uOWz9x8O7rTjiNcECHSJXDlCyxKpS9miPelUS48Ou0pAYuqN2DwVWWh0uk2oI1tBy1bwNC36U2lj9GYY4/s1600/barf+bag.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrkJYunS-OGy38-qF8ciKLNTShAMN9RNO-KEycY6TYvpYyLgeRe0EbO3Tm1uOWz9x8O7rTjiNcECHSJXDlCyxKpS9miPelUS48Ou0pAYuqN2DwVWWh0uk2oI1tBy1bwNC36U2lj9GYY4/s320/barf+bag.JPG" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Barf Bag of Mercy</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span class="text"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I love the </span></span><span class="small-caps"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant: small-caps; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lord</span></span><span class="text"><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /><span class="text" style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Huh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do you know…I ended up telling the world about His goodness after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>High five, Rock of Ages…high five.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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</div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-92187658097834113292012-04-06T14:15:00.001-05:002012-04-06T14:23:12.448-05:00The Church of the Back Porch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTTChf57B1FtVFdIxlSkswXCl5F4D1UhoJv2VkCIIuz_qETK_WeKc1Eq-xYqqHiRu4Pbo3uuzLde49r27s9U7RymxK8znJbueLM2rVsSpNe1k-puz_dlYHw0zABkIHFVy7Xm-SHZ4zVw0/s1600/back+porch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTTChf57B1FtVFdIxlSkswXCl5F4D1UhoJv2VkCIIuz_qETK_WeKc1Eq-xYqqHiRu4Pbo3uuzLde49r27s9U7RymxK8znJbueLM2rVsSpNe1k-puz_dlYHw0zABkIHFVy7Xm-SHZ4zVw0/s320/back+porch.JPG" width="218" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today is Good Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in honor of this day of sacred remembrance, I woke up at about 9:30...peed…didn’t brush my teeth…refilled my water bottle…and attended the Church of the Back Porch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As usual, all the other church members had gotten out of bed way before me…and they were already steeped in worship. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, man…do they know how to worship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The big oak dances, the wrens studiously build their nest, the squirrels chatter, the black birds splash in the baptistery and the cardinals and blue jays just sit there in their Sunday best looking gorgeous. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today was a particularly lovely service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched a baby bird hopping in the grass…trying to take flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw a male finch put on quite a show for his lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And two graceful doves cooed a lovely duet for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It really was quite a spectacular display of God’s glory…and I got to witness it all without wearing a bra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hallelujah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I sat and watched Nature worship the God of the Universe simply by doing what it was created to do…I knew that was the best way to honor my Savior today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ok, so I admit it…my ardor for blogging has begun to wear off in recent weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m plagued with the constant lie that I really don’t have much to offer you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are smarter, savvier, funnier, and much wiser theologians clogging up the literary pipeline…what does a ragamuffin girl from Missouri have to offer the world?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">True story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, the other day I was driving to work…digging around in my mind for my next blog entry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After several minutes of absolute brain fart, I finally asked the Father what He’d like me to talk about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No joke…two seconds later, I saw a big semi-truck with the words “Feed My Children” on the side of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This must be what He wants me to talk about…He wants me to feed His children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea what that means.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What should I feed them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And who are “them?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent most of the day trying to figure out this deep semi-truck inspired spiritual riddle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On my home, I’m pondering how I’m going to use this blog to feed people…when all the sudden, a huge Daylight Donut semi-truck passes me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok, wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You want me to feed your children with donuts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok, ok…I can do this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can figure this out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ummm…donuts have holes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That must be it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wants me to talk about the God-shaped donut hole in your heart!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, Alissa?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Welcome to my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But as I watched the birds this morning…honoring the Creator just by doing their bird thing…I knew what He wanted me to tell you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew what He wanted you to hear on this Good Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait for it…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Throughout the years, I have recognized Good Friday in many different ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a child, it symbolized the countdown to the annual Owsley Family Easter Egg hunt…and as a teenager, it meant another day off of school (who are we kidding…I’m still stoked about both of those things).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as an adult, I somehow adopted the opinion that Good Friday should be honored with reverent sobriety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A day to mourn the death of my Savior by wearing my shame and wretchedness like metaphorical sackcloth and ashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often read all the passages in the Gospels about His crucifixion…just to put myself back in my place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who am I that He should die for me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But the older I’ve gotten…the more intimately acquainted I’ve gotten with my own humanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the more I have battled the flesh...the more I’ve realized the radical message of Grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the more I understand that message of Grace…the less I’m inclined to mourn on Good Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because…man oh man…I know how the story ends.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every time I imagine Jesus suffering on the cross…I tear up (Heh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, even typing that sentence makes me tear up). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, here’s the thing…the tears aren’t from shame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, to be honest, they really aren’t even out of gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although, I am grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No…I cry because for a moment…I can almost taste it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sweet…profound…all-consuming…radical…love of my Savior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That’s what He wants you to know today, by the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was sitting in the Church of the Back Porch…witnessing His glory displayed…I heard Him say (very clearly), “Alissa, today I want you to honor me by doing what you were created to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want you to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I want you to tell them how much I love them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh dang, here come the tears again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, here I am on this Good Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still sitting in the Church of the Back Porch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No bra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Greasy hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a ragamuffin girl wearing pj’s that are 3 sizes too big at 1:30 in the afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not as glorious as a red cardinal…or as melodious as a Dove. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not as deep as Donald Miller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’ll never be as profound as C.S. Lewis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But…holy donuts… I just got a personal message from Abba!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He wants you to know that He loves you…oh…how He loves you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, today…I’m going to honor that love by doing what I was created to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I’ll write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ll also call a good friend…who I miss dearly (Hi, Babecky). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then later, I’m going to go kiss a brand new baby who made his triumphant arrival yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then…I’m going to go celebrate the birth of a little girl who made her triumphant arrival seven years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll probably kiss her too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And her siblings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure there will be some laughing too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I was created to laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was created for a bunch of other stuff too…and I’m going to try to do some of that today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yes, today is a good, good Friday.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And we are loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-53750459048708080912012-02-12T20:46:00.000-06:002012-02-12T20:46:15.974-06:00Want Joy? Get Naked.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1X8FYtrNrfpbI-8bUYLxayxC37uHh7WrJFJJWCjzZhXXurlwwcv_2V4E1zdpVHTbDkW9I3vfj_xiWzxovt2k_o1HSHKnCTumQIqqj3F78fcauiEEY8pgfkXGcSzoh0qBG_SZ2QbZJcac/s1600/c74daa1608bf2104_Picture_5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1X8FYtrNrfpbI-8bUYLxayxC37uHh7WrJFJJWCjzZhXXurlwwcv_2V4E1zdpVHTbDkW9I3vfj_xiWzxovt2k_o1HSHKnCTumQIqqj3F78fcauiEEY8pgfkXGcSzoh0qBG_SZ2QbZJcac/s320/c74daa1608bf2104_Picture_5.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Have you ever been so bone cold that even warm socks, fuzzy pjs, and 10 pounds of blankets can’t warm you up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah me too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It happened just the other night, actually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My faithful hound and I took an arduous jog-walk in 33 degree temperatures. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first 10 minutes were miserable…but eventually the snot froze on my face…and my toes lost all feeling, so I kept trudging along merrily to Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After I got home…I stripped off my workout accoutrements, put my sweaty hair in a ponytail, made some scrambled eggs and flipped on Wheel of Fortune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a Wheel Watcher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No shame.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t notice it at first…the freakish cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without thinking about it, I just grabbed a blanket and got back to scolding one of the contestants for wasting money on a stupid vowel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the bonus round, I was shivering from head to toe…and by the time Melissa won a new Ford Explorer…I was frozen to the very marrow of my bones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite 15 pounds of clothing and blankets I just couldn’t get warm...and I was miserable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I did what everybody does to cure a deep, bone cold...I got naked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after a long…glorious…steaming…hot shower, my once catatonic bones wallowed in sweet, penetrating warmth. And I just couldn’t help it…I had to sing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That got me to thinking about joy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More specifically, it got me thinking about something I read recently by Dan Allender: “Joy is chosen, and one prepares for its arrival by rigorous suffering. Do you want joy? Then open your heart to suffer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Sabbath). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, why does a hot shower feel so much better when we’re bone-cold?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it’s the same reason that slippers feel so much better after wearing high heels all day…because of suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what’s more…sometimes to experience that sweet joy, we have to choose do something that feels counterintuitive. We have to get naked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I talk a lot about suffering in my blog posts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly because I see it everywhere I look…in my own life and the lives of people I love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I hope you understand that I only “open my heart to suffer” so that I can taste the sweet, penetrating warmth of JOY.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And…oh man…sometimes I just can’t help it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to sing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, if you’ll indulge me for a few minutes, I’ll like to “sing” out some of my best moments of joy…in a list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like lists almost as much as I like Wheel of Fortune. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My Joy Song:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy = my nieces and nephew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I’m having a particularly hard week, I find myself just craving the innocence of my nieces and nephew. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neck hugs, giggles, baby noises, and sloppy grins are my healing balm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On one particular day, when I was feeling overwhelmed and insecure, my doppelganger niece, Gillian, looked up at me and said very earnestly, “Aunt Alissa…I’m soooo glad you exist.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment, seven simple words canceled my suffering…and I felt joy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy = silent dancing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A very good friend of mine recently experienced freedom from something that has bound her in shame for many years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said that she was so overcome by joy…that she went to her room, closed the door…and danced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is soooo fridiculously hard sometimes…but, man, sometimes we dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy = the Sisterhood of the Sparkly Shorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are three women in this world who are so full of the love of Abba that joy seems to spill out of their very beings…and sometimes it even spills onto their clothing choices (i.e. Sparkly Shorts).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know suffering intimately…but they choose joy daily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m honored to know them…and in two months, the four of us are going to board a plane for Europe to celebrate life together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shorts will be coming with us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy = corporate worship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I’m sitting in a room full of broken humans…who are collectively focused on worshiping the God of the Universe…my heart feels like it stops beating, just so that it can hear the music better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a living, breathing thing…worship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the more I suffer…the deeper it penetrates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">5.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy = sloppy sighs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one may disenchant some of you…especially those of you who don’t love dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, thankfully…joy is unique to the person who chooses it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my favorite moments every day involves the night-time rituals of my dog, Chickadee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every night, without fail, she buries herself under the bed covers…snorts three times, smacks her lips once or twice…and then let’s out a very long, satisfying sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love that in a world of chaos and unpredictablilty...my dog does the same thing every night before she falls asleep. This constance is often a comfort in my worst moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And sometimes…I think joy can be that simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">6. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy = bald eagles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Earlier this week, I was driving down the highway…minding my own business…trying to psych myself up to survive another Monday…when I encountered the majesty and grace of a soaring bald eagle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It flew right above me…so close I felt like I could reach out and touch it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As far as I know, bald eagles aren’t very common in this part of the world…and, hot dang, if I didn’t count it as a personal gift from the Father!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I audibly exclaimed my gratefulness…as I tried to crane my neck to watch it without crashing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waterfalls, sunsets…and bald eagles…all make me want to stand up and clap.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy = Julie Andrews.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a total and complete sucker for all things musical (except the show Glee…bleck).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love me some singing and dancing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the moment in a musical when the actor or actress pauses…the music starts…and instead of talking, they start singing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is often a source of consternation and discussion with my friend, Anna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite loving music, she can’t wrap her mind around the random bursts of singing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think the reason I love it so much is because…even when the dogs bark and the bees sting, Julie Andrews is still singing about her favorite things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, there you have it…a list of some of my joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not an exhaustive list, by any means…and many of you who are reading this blog are often the source of my joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you for that, by the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I just wanted you to hear about some of the things that warm me up when the cold settles into my bones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For those of you out there who are bending with the weight of your suffering…take heart...joy is nearer than you think. Don’t settle for contentment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t long for mere happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stop piling on more blankets to ease your suffering…it won’t work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get naked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Choose joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clap for bald eagles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Burst into song. </span>Put on your sparkle shorts...and dance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-13306730638818947092012-01-12T21:53:00.004-06:002012-01-13T08:49:22.288-06:00My Life is Holy Crap<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyOMEYo7gOjvjgMphyphenhyphenL-mgyCV-i59818GOIqHVEM8HUQGZUg9f14sIZmMZWbC4O7Nxs-PzXK-kEpMrJ8Vpfl6sCedNBPIE-myHkYuGXYXACPxgWahVKs523hpDIoNtZIuhzoKlf4YXbrA/s1600/New+Image76.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyOMEYo7gOjvjgMphyphenhyphenL-mgyCV-i59818GOIqHVEM8HUQGZUg9f14sIZmMZWbC4O7Nxs-PzXK-kEpMrJ8Vpfl6sCedNBPIE-myHkYuGXYXACPxgWahVKs523hpDIoNtZIuhzoKlf4YXbrA/s320/New+Image76.JPG" width="262px" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, you read that right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My life is a steaming pile of Holy Crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, what’s more…I may have actually used the “s” word if I didn’t think half of you would be so distracted by the word “shit” that you couldn’t read this post in the spirit for which it is intended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait…oh rats…I just said it, didn’t I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dangit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, here’s hoping you keep reading anyways…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, I turned 35 this week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be honest with you…35 seems way older than 34.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About an hour ago, I found myself staring into the mirror contemplating wrinkles for the first time in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until today, my daily skin care regimen included slapping off-brand moisturizer on my face once a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I’m having internal conversations about anti-aging serum and exfoliation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been 35 for two whole days…and now I’m worried that the skin on my elbows has lost its elasticity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, do any of you Disney aficionados know if any fair maidens have won their Prince Charming with their shapely, taut elbows?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because if so, I’m totally hosed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think one of the reasons that this age feels like a kick in the pants is because nothing in my life has gone according to plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, I’m not supposed to be here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not supposed to be in Joplin, Missouri.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not supposed to be single.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not supposed to have a chronic illness. You may not know this about me, but I’m actually supposed to be raising beautiful babies…living in custom built home…on a beach…writing books…while my hot husband serves me pancakes in bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the opposite of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have stretch marks from burgers…not babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still renting…from my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I live in the Midwest…where people swim in creeks, not oceans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of watching the sunset in my pjs while I write the next best seller…I hit my snooze button 15 times before dragging my flabby elbows to work every morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the last time I had a hot guy serve me pancakes in bed was…well, never.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m as close to 40 as I am to 30…and, well, I’m not supposed to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">here</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you wanna hear something crazy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More of you responded to a blog about singleness than you did about an EF5 Tornado that killed over a hundred people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either this means you’re all cold-hearted robots…or…as humans, you can relate more to loneliness than devastating natural disasters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, that got me to thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe my love of writing wasn’t resuscitated because I’m supposed to report pretty-little-lessons-learned-after-the-fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe Abba wants more from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe He wants me to expose the dusty corners of my humanity…in real time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not gonna lie…this thought makes me want to immediately swallow a Xanex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prefer my dusty corners to remain…dusty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if letting a gaggle of friends and strangers smell-what-I’ve- been- stepping-in brings even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i> of you into the Light…well, then…Holy Crap.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I guess the first step in this new, terrifying expedition is to admit that I’ve recently begun to truly grieve the loss of my supposed-to-be life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may joke about my unfulfilled dreams…but, in reality, I’m just trying to distract you from my broken heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These days…I find myself in what I’ve affectionately dubbed “a place.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a place of contemplation and reflection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a place where I have more questions than answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a place where joy and laughter live alongside a deep sadness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a place of regret…and separation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place of broken relationships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place where I’m forced to look at how my own depravity has contributed to the ruins of those relationships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place of wistfulness…and weariness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place of joy, expectation…and glorious tension.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This place is hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tired of hearing about the pain of people I love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tired of evil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tired of unfulfilled longings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tired of watching friends settling for mere crumbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m really tired of people trying to blow spiritual sunshine into gaping wounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I looked up the word “holiness” a few minutes ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One spiritual essay said it means “set apart for a sacred purpose.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, my life is messy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my grief is covered in hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ruins give birth to purpose. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My depravity is overcome by dignity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pain revives me and the weariness refines me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I cling to the cross with my flabby elbows and broken dreams…His glory is revealed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a daughter of the King…my messy, often disgusting life has been set aside for a sacred purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 34 I would have waxed poetic about beauty from ashes…at 35, I’m willing to admit my life is steaming pile of Holy Crap. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Some of you reading this blog post may find yourself in a place you're not supposed to be. Yeah, I get that. And for what it's worth, I'm truly sorry. I too am <span style="font-family: inherit;">not supposed to be in this place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when I force myself to stop and smell the fragrant blessings that are growing out of my well fertilized life…I'm actually grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Through hard work and tears, </span></span>I've learned to trust and fear a good and omniscient God who is rewriting my supposed-to-be-life. I hope you can cling to that too. And get out your rubber boots...for Holy Crap is near. </div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-10045909099709122122011-12-09T22:17:00.000-06:002017-12-25T11:49:28.977-06:00An Idiots Guide to Dealing with Singles During the Holidays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The holidays are here.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That means a lot of things to many people…family traditions, gift-giving, high blood pressure, increased caloric intake, intensified Pinterest browsing, paid vacation, watching Elf (for the 14</span><sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> time) and glitter that sticks to every article of clothing you own.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But, for me, this blessed time of year also heralds in an annual period of holiday torture. You see, this is the time of year that the world conspires to constantly, doggedly, unendingly, relentlessly, incessantly, mercilessly and (worst of all) merrily remind me of one thing:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m single.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Heh, I totally just heard the collective groans, awwwws, and tsssks of almost all of you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait, before you judge me with your judgy sound effects, hear me out for a momento, por favor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promise this blog isn’t a pity party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There isn’t a whoa-is-me in sight…cross my heart. I also promise not to try to one-up your holiday angst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize we all have to shlep it out in one way or another…and I certainly have no desire to compete for the “most pathetic” award.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you’ll indulge me for a few minutes…I’d like to share some humorous and painfully transparent insights on being an almost- 35-year-old single woman during the Hap- Hap-piest time of year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I really do love the Holidays. I love that my whole family often converges in one place at one time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the tinsel, the glitter and the twinkling of Christmas lights. I love that I have more opportunities to spray paint things. I love the wacky and oh-so-much-fun family traditions that have survived since my childhood. I love that some of the world’s most godless musicians sing about the birth of Christ (and by “love” I mean “really?”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just love the breath, life, and meaning of the advent season. Baby Jesus steals my heart every year. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But you wanna know what I really hate?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mistletoe. I hate not having a “plus one” at Christmas parties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate that “baby” gets to roast chestnuts by an open fire with her fella because it’s cold outside. I hate watching all the cute families in matching sweaters at the Christmas Eve church service. I hate not having anyone to buy “naughty” boxers for. I hate climbing into bed alone on Christmas Eve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But most of all…I really, really hate waking up alone on Christmas morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, a true confession from this old maid…if I were to pick one day of the year to be married, it wouldn’t be New Year’s Eve. It wouldn’t be Valentine’s Day. It wouldn’t be the day I had a flat tire or leaky faucet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, it would be Christmas morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of us have a time of year that hurts the most…for me, it’s in the moments right after waking up on Christmas morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It hurts every year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Don’t get me wrong, there’s not a day that goes by that I’m not incredibly grateful for my life…I really, truly believe that I’m blessed beyond measure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if I tried to convince you that I never feel the pain of being single…well, then…that would be like blowing Christmas glitter up your butts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, friends…even though I rarely talk about specifics, sometimes, I’m incredibly weary of being single.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like some of you are weary of sleeping next to someone who snores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, this year I’m going to make a new Christmas wish list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a list of all the things I wish married people knew about singles during the Holidays…or any time, for that matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m about to say to you what I’ve wanted to say… for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consider this your “Idiots Guide to Dealing with Singles.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re welcome in advance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please don’t incessantly remind me how lucky I am that my life affords me the freedom to take naps and/or use the bathroom without being interrupted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok, I get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get to do stuff that you don’t get to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that some of you would give your left arm to have one week of alone time. But let me ask you this…would you give up your husband and children for 15 years of alone time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I get to do stuff you don’t get to do…and I promise to never take that for granted. But, all I ask is that you not equate your interrupted potty time and “napless” existence to my years of solitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard how “lucky” I am to take naps, I’d have enough money to just buy a dang husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I make jokes about being single.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s all you have to do…laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, unless the joke isn’t funny…then, as my friend, it’s your job to make the “wa-wa-wa” sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if I’m making a joke about being single it’s because I need/want to laugh about it…NOT because I want you to make me feel better. This should be an easy one….because I’m hysterical. Obviously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, if my jokes are dripping in self-deprecation…then it’s because I’m feeling insecure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please don’t let me get away with it…just remind me that I’m Chosen by the God of the Universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That usually does the trick. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read a completely ridiculous article last month on how to find a man within 30 days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One suggestion was to mass email all my friends and family to let you know that I’m single and looking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first thought was “really?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My second thought was “really?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, for those of you who have been sleeping through the first half of this blog, I guess I should officially announce that I am, in fact, single<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have a very important request.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you have a male friend that you think would be “perfect” for me…I’m certainly open to you recommendations…but please have more reasons for our compatibility than “he is also single.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m thinking that part should be a foregone conclusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">4. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please don’t suggest ways for me to find a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Invariably this conversation starts with “you need to put yourself out there more” and ends with “have you tried online dating?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had a dollar for every time I’ve had this conversation…I could buy a second husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I’ve tried online dating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found the whole process to be a giant, invasive microscope on the petri dish of my insecurities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also found it incredibly disheartening that 90% of online Christian men are… (for lack of a better word) BORING.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like…I’m-gonna-scrape-my-eyes-out-if-I-have-to-read-one-more-profile-of-a-man-who-says-he’s-looking-for-a-Proverbs-31-woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Lord and I have long conversations about this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells me to wait…He tells me to trust…He tells me to depend on Him alone…He tells me that He alone can satisfy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hasn’t yet suggested that I “put myself out there more.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, until I hear the Lover of my soul tell me to slap some paint on my face and attend a speed dating event…I’m not going to put anything, anywhere. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">5.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please don’t herd singles into Sunday school classes together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s all I really have to say about that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’re married, you forfeit the right to “relate” to being a 35-year-old single woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially if you got married before the age of 25.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sorry to be so blunt on this particular point…but it ain’t the same, darlin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t believe that I’ve been called to singleness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this because of the rampant, ever-constant longing for marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, telling me that you can relate to my unmet longing is a bit like telling an infertile woman that you can relate to her…while you’re bouncing your newborn baby in your arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few years ago, I stumbled across a statistic in a Christian publication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It said there are 4 single Christian women to every 1 single Christian male.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My response?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Duh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t help but feel sorry for that one guy being swarmed by 4 salivating women (all claiming to be the Proverbs 31 woman of his dreams).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does this statistic mean for you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means I need you to understand that this makes the “waiting” particularly difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As women, our hearts are created with an innate longing to be chosen…so, as the years pass, it’s easy to believe that I’ve got the word “deficient” stamped on my forehead. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I need you to remind me (constantly) to live in the glorious tension of unmet longings. I need you to remind me that seeking a relationship to kill the pain will end in disaster. </span>Believe me, I know that I am Beauty Beyond Compare...and I know that I'm chosen by the God of the Universe every, single day. But I also want you to know that sometimes I forget that. So, even though I appear to be a strong, confident, self-assured woman…some days I’m totally faking it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">8.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally…and most importantly…don’t assume that everything on my Christmas List applies to every unmarried person you know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I’ve learned one thing in my journey, it’s that we all have different stories and we all make different choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I encourage you to ask all of your single friends how THEY feel about being single.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may be surprised by their response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here’s the bottom line, folks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need you to let me hug and kiss your babies and send your husband to my house with power tools every once in awhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need you to remind me that unmet longings are what makes life beautiful…it’s what draws us closer to our True Love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in return…I’ll let you come to my house and take a nap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, Christmas is coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And once again I will wake up alone on Christmas morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will hurt…but the pain eventually eases when I hear the Lover of my soul whisper, “Beloved…I love you”…which He does every Christmas morning, without fail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is why “I am clothed with strength and dignity; and I can laugh at the days to come.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, to the widows…the divorced…the childless…the married…the separated…the empty nesters…the mothers…the fathers…and the singles…Merry, Merry Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May you all hear the sweet love song of our Savior this Christmas morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-18131872676727120042011-10-23T19:33:00.001-05:002011-10-23T19:34:40.316-05:00Playing Footsie...Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/70/204974659_0c005ae43d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211px" rda="true" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/70/204974659_0c005ae43d.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m in a strange place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess it’s the place between abject misery and complete recovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> F</span>or over two months, every ounce of my energy was focused on one thing: surviving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, all the sudden, I feel better than I have in years…and truthfully, I still don’t really know what to do with that. I guess I expected that God and I would pick up where we left off on the journey of discovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it feels more like we’re on a first date and I’m making awkward small talk and trying to make eye contact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I am being wooed. One way that I know this is that w</span>hen it comes contemplating heaven, I’m a complete watering pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wherever I am…whatever I’m doing (even in Walmart)…if I think about Home even for a moment, the tears flow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m doing it right now even as I type. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It reminded me of a blog post that I wrote years ago…when I had one of my first recorded bouts of undiagnosed CVS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a story about Home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it appropriate to share it again…</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Posted February 7, 2007</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I suppose the only silver lining of my physical misery (other than the silver lining the pockets of the medical industry) is the amount of brainless television inflicted upon me in the last 6 days. Granted, I've been known to indulge in an interesting PBS documentary now and again...but last week, I stooped to new lows. Anyone care to know the status of the Asian Rhino population? Sleep well, my friends, white rhinos are making a hearty come back. I know this because I watched the <span class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">docu</span></span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">mentalpoo</span></span> not once...but TWICE. There's just something uniquely fascinating about men in khaki extolling the wonder of Rhino dung. Anyway, one evening, another such show appeared...with men in ties exploring the underbelly of our homeless population. Apparently, we humans aren't doing nearly as well as the Rhinos...<br />
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As opening credits rolled, I prepared myself for public television's typical biased version of reality...girding my "informed citizen" loins for inflated statistics, political blame-games, and social agendas. And then a face appeared on my television screen...homeless for 19 years, toothless, alcoholic, mentally unstable, drug-addicted...Footsie (a name given for the miles he walks daily). There I sat in my warm blanket in my warm home...trying to find a way to blame Footsie for his circumstances...when the finger of God thumped me on the heart and said simply, "Listen."<br />
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The documentary was profiling a new radical, controversial program for our homeless population. Currently, our system is full of soup kitchens, half-way houses, food pantries, clothing donation sites, free medical clinics, job placement, temporary housing, social services, addiction rehabs, shelters...you name it, someone...somewhere has developed it with the very best of intentions. But all these things have one very obvious thing in common. The souls that patronize these places are still fundamentally...homeless. And when relief is offered...it always comes with conditions. The founder of this new program claims that as a country...we are putting the horse before the cart. He says offering shelter to an alcoholic on the condition of sobriety is the perpetual hamster in the wheel mentality. So, get this...he started a program that gives unconditional, permanent housing to anyone who applies.<br />
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WHAT?! Son of a…yep. That means they can still do crack and still get drunk with absolutely no fear of their cozy new apartment being revoked. In fact, in many cases...some of the applicants have trashed their apartments and/or gotten evicted...and guess what? They find them a new place to trash. It comes with no conditions and no time limits. Case workers and therapists are provided, but with absolutely no obligation to use their services. If you're like me, I imagine you may be nurturing the mental argument of personal responsibility and social enabling. Here we are, hard-working, drug-free Americans, struggling to keep ahead of our debt...PAYING for another person's comfort while they indulge in substance abuse. It's not fair!!<br />
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About that time, I felt another Divine thump, "Sound Familiar?"<br />
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Footsie was cute in a pathetic, poor-hygiene kind of way. He had a lop-sided, toothless grin and a stilted, child-like stammer. He's suffered from seizures for years...all the paramedics and ER staff in the area know him by name. The documentary crew follows him the day he learns he has been selected for non-conditional housing. With slow, deliberate care the program director explains that he can choose a nice, cozy home to live in with no strings attached. They go on to tell him that they will provide all new furnishings and apartment accoutrement's necessary to live comfortably. All he has to do is agree to live there. There was a slow, painful moment of silence as Footsie's child-like brain chews on this radical gift...he finally smiles and says, "Well, that sounds good to me." No tears, no jumping up and down, no wild-exclamation of gratitude...just a simple acceptance of goodness.<br />
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A permanent home. A promise of comfort...bought and paid for...with no conditions. Sigh. That does sound good. </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">This particular documentary exposes a beautiful parallel. God has promised us a home we don't deserve. Even despite our addictions, sins, ugliness, mental instability...or poor hygiene. It will be ours...no strings attached...if we only accept His offer. Sure, the world provides a plethora of topical solutions but they always prove to be temporary. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in that light, maybe we could disembark from our hamster wheels and learn something from this new radical program. We look to more church, more fellowship, more spiritual self-help books to numb the pain of our homelessness...when really all we <em><span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">need</span></em> is to truly surrender to God's goodness.<br />
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One of my favorite movie lines (and/or C.S. Lewis quotes) from all times is..."<span class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Aslan</span></span> is not safe...but He is good." An interesting addendum to Footsie's story is that after hearing the good news...he ran away, got famously drunk, and hid. *Chuckle* Sound familiar?</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span>I'm in a strange place. It's the place where my longing for Home is on the surface of my skin. I've never been here before, but I hope I stay here until I'm sitting at the foot of the throne. Oh dang...here come the tears... </span></span><br />
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</div></div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-58654382182298633862011-10-12T22:22:00.000-05:002011-10-12T22:22:50.897-05:00Honesty 101<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Can I be honest with you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You know…I’ve always considered that to be a really dumb question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Asking permission to be honest?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly we all prefer to be lied to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Duh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I recalled one of my early grammar lessons with one of my favorite teachers of all time…Mrs. Brumm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time I’d raise my hand and ask “Can I go to the bathroom?” she’d very patiently reply…”I don’t know…can you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d think after the first 50 times I would have given in and changed my question to “MAY I go to the bathroom?”…but, no, there was a secret part of me that really enjoyed the ritual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, I’m totally still that girl. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What’s my point?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, the word “can” denotes the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ability</i> to do something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in that light is “Can I be honest with you” still a dumb question?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know…can I, Alissa Kirsten Owsley…be truly honest with you, the faithful blog reader?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmmmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Read<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on, friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I admit that writing for the masses can be incredibly daunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, when I first started blogging in 2007…these were my very first words:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #006600; font-family: 'lucida grande','serif'; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, here I am. On the threshold of my very first blog...fingers poised over the keys, waiting for some cosmic sign that I should stop immediately and go about my daily business. *Listens* Hmmm. I feel like I'm dragging myself out onto the limb of public exposure...where my words and thoughts can easily fall victim to the unpredictable wind of interpretation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dear Lord...please grant me a stout branch and a gentle breeze.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Throwing my thoughts out into the great black hole that is the World Wide Web still isn’t my first choice of a good time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birth pains of blogging haven’t gotten any easier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I almost always drag my proverbial feet ...stalling…until the Spirit nudges me enough to move my petulant hide to the keyboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing has become a creative outlet for my rambling, chaotic thoughts to find a place to land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And since I SUCK (I just yelled ‘suck’ really loud in my head) at journaling, well…blogging has become almost therapeutic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, who am I kidding?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of us don’t leap with joy at the idea of therapy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, yeah…a blog is not always the easiest method of sharing my thoughts and (erroneous) opinions, but the truth is…it’s still pretty darn safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, I can rattle off my thoughts into the innocuous abyss without having to look any of you in the eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can shut down my computer and walk away…without having to face your questions, your disappointment or your condemnation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if you don’t immediately blow up the comment box with adoration…well then…I can obviously assume you just didn’t read it (heh…that made me chuckle).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what’s worse?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can massage my words and backspace the heck out of sentence until my prose sounds gloriously sage and clever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can rely on spell check and the thesaurus feature to make me appear smarter than I really am (dude, I totally just had to use spell check on the word “thesaurus”…no foolin).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, yeah… a blog is not really the best medium for fostering genuine honesty, eh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a place where I can present<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my preferred version of Alissa…the question remains….<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> I be honest with you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The answer is yes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Absolutely. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have the ability to be honest with you (I totally admitted that spell check thing remember?) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In my mind, honesty isn’t an ability…it’s a CHOICE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, for the record…I think “Can I be honest with you?" is still a dumb question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe a better question is…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should </i>I use this medium to practice being honest?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t that be like casting my pearls onto a craps table in Las Vegas?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does honesty lose its value if I just close my eyes and hurl it into the internet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are all good questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Questions that I don’t take lightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, as the Captain of this Thought Tank, I think it’s time for a good old fashioned pledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hereby proclaim my Solemn Oath of Blogger Authenticity (and by oath I mean I’m gonna try really, really hard).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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</tbody></table>Sol<span style="font-family: inherit;">emn Oath of Blogger Authenticity (SOOBA)</span> <div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span>I promise to only use words that are actually in my vocabulary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, yes, I know what “erroneous” and “innocuous” mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t spell them most of the time…but I can use them in a sentence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span>I promise to stick to my own vernacular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’d be awfully nice to write like C.S. Lewis…but, alas, there can only be one Clive Staples in the literary universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, at the same time, there’s only one Alissa Owsley…and I’ve got to represent. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Woot. Woot. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span>I promise to care more about the Spirit’s prompting and my own creative process…then your opinion of either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry, friends…I’m sincerely a HUGE fan of your opinions (good or not-so-good), but if they became my personal measuring stick…then I’d be writing for all the wrong reasons. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span>I promise to never stop overusing ellipses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs. Brumm would not approve, but …yeah…I just…really like…using…them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can something that feels so right be so wrong?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span>I promise to never say things in this space…that I couldn’t say to your face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you notice this point is sans witticisms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s how important it is to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span>I promise to never throw my pearls at the craps table in Las Vegas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a lousy gambler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Can I be honest with you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I can. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will I be honest with you? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, as flawed girl clinging to the limb of public exposure… I sure hope so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also hope that you will feel free to be honest right back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-27358876008812764362011-09-26T20:03:00.000-05:002011-09-26T20:03:21.026-05:00The Littles<span style="color: black;">(The blog entry below was written entirely by Jen Little. In case you missed my introduction in the previous post...the Littles were one of thousands of families who were personally effected by the tornado. Here are her thoughts...)</span> <div style="text-align: right;"></div> <div class="MsoNormal">Of the hundreds of stories my pal Alissa could have chosen to voice, I'm honored to make the list. Quite honestly, I'm not the writer she is. I've never before blogged, I'm nowhere near as witty, and I admittedly have a hard time letting people "in"... Especially in a "let's voice our thoughts via the most public forum possible" sort of way. Nonetheless, here’s my attempt to pen my thoughts on the events of May 22<sup>nd</sup>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">First, let's get one thing straight. I don't think my personal account of the day is any more special than the next guy's... Quite the contrary. I arrived "home" shortly before <span class="yshortcuts">8:00 pm</span> that night to find a remnant of the place my husband and I had painstakingly renovated destroyed... The place we suffered our family's lowest lows and most recently celebrated one of our highest highs in when we brought our now 10-month old home from the hospital. But the fact that we weren't home when it happened seems to put our devastation in a "lesser traumatic" category than many other accounts I've had the privilege of hearing since that day I lovingly now refer to as "the hangnail". You see, I was not home, my family is still intact, we still have transportation, and my hubs and I are both still gainfully employed at amazing workplaces that have graciously allowed us time and support to piece together life again. We also found ourselves well-insured and surrounded by tremendous networks of support. So when I talk about how life has changed, I do so through the filter of realization of just how blessed we truly are. <br />
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I’ve been overwhelmed with the outpouring of love and encouragement. As the one who's most often on the giving side of things, I have found it difficult to accept the compassion and support shown us over the last several months. Random cash being passed with a handshake, checks showing up in the mail from people we've never even heard of, offers upon offers for help, resources or moral support. One of the coolest examples we’ve experienced so far was in something as simple as a Christmas tree. Whatever your religious disposition, it seems nearly everyone these days does some sort of holiday decorating. Our family is a little quirky in the fact that our first Christmas together we got an aluminum Christmas tree. Not the new-fandango kind you can get at Walmart, but the eclectic, antique kind you normally only saw at Grandma’s house when you were a kid. And not just the tree, but this beaut was complete with its original electric color wheel. Naturally, the 11 year-old tradition blew away with the rest of the house and was added to the list of items we’d need to find a replacement for. Little did I know, though, that soon after the final demolition of our home, I’d have an even bigger and better (and yes, another antique) show up on the front porch of our rental home in a large cardboard box. That’s just an example of how detailed and caring my Father in Heaven is… He cares about the seemingly insignificant tidbits in life just as much as the big, “important” things like personal health and shelter.<br />
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In all this rambling, I hope you hear my heart. I’m not dismissing the fact that I have days when I feel new waves of grief and loss. I’ve learned as the days pass by and the "business" side of disaster are taken care of, the emotional side hurts more than ever. At times I feel ripped off and that my hand has been forced and I'm having to make major life decisions which would typically take weeks or months in a matter of days. But in all the loss there is peace and hope. There is abundance and I’m praying like mad I don't screw up the opportunity I've been given to exhibit the Lord's strength and grace in a time of major adversity. I desire wise counsel in decision making and to share the love and abundance I’ve been given with others. If you've got something precious you often want everyone around you to know about it… well, that’s where I’m at. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0K5HR_q8ex-ilVL0cEsnGlg0XQNagBo1_e754SPJ5hidpi5FhyX3ryk4aYZCZZFly_edBPvdBAqnmg99OnZ77CBktB6uPY1omKYBhgrIMrfm4RsN6m6hoXzVWlNv3PHt9X3YEFUDk-b8/s1600/Littles+1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0K5HR_q8ex-ilVL0cEsnGlg0XQNagBo1_e754SPJ5hidpi5FhyX3ryk4aYZCZZFly_edBPvdBAqnmg99OnZ77CBktB6uPY1omKYBhgrIMrfm4RsN6m6hoXzVWlNv3PHt9X3YEFUDk-b8/s320/Littles+1.bmp" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Littles</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmKjsSeyqjWlfSfbRcFi9rpSsnCrYj3pzmkMtpDf_EPohQ19nB3q2vrQB3yVwq43mENnjWUsFEgE3cMDCVi6SQvgtuXxpjecq55qzP01-g_jkROQ_Gkpa5a-7ft6uluYOrb-V-cqEcVU/s1600/littles+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmKjsSeyqjWlfSfbRcFi9rpSsnCrYj3pzmkMtpDf_EPohQ19nB3q2vrQB3yVwq43mENnjWUsFEgE3cMDCVi6SQvgtuXxpjecq55qzP01-g_jkROQ_Gkpa5a-7ft6uluYOrb-V-cqEcVU/s320/littles+2.JPG" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aaron & Jennifer</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZedauzXr_Pywuo7TRBqjnXzpqtaOUwZ86EDx-dVfPREFm7p61GQr8NpqkbD5AOrsCLVEkJtoVm9VFKc6cObTlnyLuewqkkc5Nq8fsgt8rthkgMjAcuur39K4c71TdPwJyF9sOQUO1DQ/s1600/littles+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZedauzXr_Pywuo7TRBqjnXzpqtaOUwZ86EDx-dVfPREFm7p61GQr8NpqkbD5AOrsCLVEkJtoVm9VFKc6cObTlnyLuewqkkc5Nq8fsgt8rthkgMjAcuur39K4c71TdPwJyF9sOQUO1DQ/s320/littles+3.JPG" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Demolition Day</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqqPpMCEeSMnVra2xJFCZgNbkZB152xsRTnR1aIVy-N2uKvuZqWr5LAyrp5KLbMQn0x_8x8v5MgJcxNmPshjLZOwGQHQxgUxe2LSUxQn8r73M8fABLQS47jlXAyk00e-xnFm1lcUOLzQ/s1600/littles+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqqPpMCEeSMnVra2xJFCZgNbkZB152xsRTnR1aIVy-N2uKvuZqWr5LAyrp5KLbMQn0x_8x8v5MgJcxNmPshjLZOwGQHQxgUxe2LSUxQn8r73M8fABLQS47jlXAyk00e-xnFm1lcUOLzQ/s320/littles+4.jpg" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday Celebrations</td></tr>
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</div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-37025757007859427412011-09-22T22:55:00.000-05:002011-09-22T22:55:55.391-05:00A Little Introduction<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>(I promised this blog entry months ago...but, unfortunately, I got sidetracked by the black plague. Heh.)</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Question: can a single woman experience love at first sight…with a happily married woman?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, I mean…a single woman who likes men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I mean, “like” as in…ok, never mind…you get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s my point: sometimes when you meet someone…you just know that this person is the real deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t often have that response to strangers, so I can say without a doubt…the woman that I’m referring to IS worth knowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, if you’re reading this blog…today is your lucky day. You get to meet the Little family.</span> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0WZfcdCQ2vz0P1Hb-lXYC7KmjzIYDlDEr7SlvqE3maqXO4mqCFVNh21zzJHJBR54SaEFQ_N05AdEqOMLpKscmcwIPfdWAfsHb5ZYmtlIQLK9u0K_rdEGDwppv4OdztcYXM0Maz4metoc/s1600/stick_figure_family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hca="true" height="200px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0WZfcdCQ2vz0P1Hb-lXYC7KmjzIYDlDEr7SlvqE3maqXO4mqCFVNh21zzJHJBR54SaEFQ_N05AdEqOMLpKscmcwIPfdWAfsHb5ZYmtlIQLK9u0K_rdEGDwppv4OdztcYXM0Maz4metoc/s200/stick_figure_family.jpg" width="175px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Little Family<br />
(Aaron, Jennifer & Jude)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Meet my friend, Jennifer Little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve known each other for about a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I met her several days after she started working a few doors down from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first thing I noticed was that I could look her in the eye...which at 5’9+ is a lovely surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I noticed that she had fabulous taste in clothing…and…she was uber preggo (that’s fancy talk for “very pregnant”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*Snort* Ok, I admit…I totally noticed her clothing first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> What? A</span>pparently, I appreciate a snappy dresser…especially one who is great with child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a few mutual job assignments, we fell into the comfortable rapport of long-acquainted friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loves Jesus too…and likes to talk about Him in personal, honest ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loves to laugh…and, even more wicked-awesome…she appreciates sarcasm (a friend-requirement, in my book).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is kind…very kind…always taking the time to remember people’s names.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like that about her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She also has this serene, mature intelligence that makes her stand out in a crowd…and not because she’s tall (insert joke drum beat here).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I think my favorite thing about Jennifer Little is her vulnerability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a walking, talking, breathing testimony to the fragility and strength of a pilgrim’s journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If someone made a Jennifer Little Fan Club t-shirt…I would totally wear it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually, Jen became un-preggo…when she delivered a very handsome little man-child named Jude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He and I reached a very important understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got Jude to understand that he shouldn’t cry when I hold him…and he finally got me to understand that I shouldn’t try to hold him when he’s due for a good cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After my much deserved schooling…we are now becoming bosom buddies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little Jude is charming and adorable…and has a grin that slays the hearts of all woman-kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope I get to cuddle him very soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when he gets older, I’m going to woo him with chocolate milk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Aaron Little…the hubs and dad…rounds out the precious Little family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is an associate minister at one of our local churches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often forget that he’s a “man of the cloth” because he’s so down-to-earth and approachable (in that way…he reminds me of Jesus).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew I was going to like Aaron when he showed up to my birthday dodge-ball party wearing full dork gear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, he won my friendship with a head band and tube socks…what can I say…I’m easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> birthday, I inexplicably referred to him as Jason almost the entire evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He, of course, took it with grace and the appropriate level of retributive sarcasm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sure do like that Jason…errrr…Aaron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d wear tube socks for him any day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think the Littles are worth knowing every day of the year…but I wanted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> to know them because of one day in particular: May 22, 2011.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, they are one of the <em>thousands</em> of families in Joplin, Missouri whose lives were dramatically altered by the random cruelty of an EF5 Tornado.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a story of loss and hope…a story of glorious ruins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through the Spirits prompting, I asked Jennifer to tell her story in my blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m STOKED to announce that she agreed to do it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get ready, people…a beautiful testimony is about to happen all up in here…mmmhmmm, yes, Jesus, and Amen! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I'll post Jen's story this weekend...wait for it...wait for it...wait for it...</span></span></div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-45200844929366627042011-09-08T23:19:00.000-05:002011-09-08T23:19:35.425-05:00Lessons in Suffering<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yesterday was a big day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drove myself home…put on real clothes (real clothes = no drawstring)…smeared a little make up on my face…and went back to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, yesterday was a big day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The plethora of drugs I swallow daily have stopped tormenting me…and started to heal me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m clearly getting better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dark circles are gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sarcasm and jolly sense of humor are back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m actually making plans for my return to “normal.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the biggest milestone to date is that I’ve been nausea-free for almost two weeks now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those of you who know my story…that is a miracle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve suffered from different levels of (undiagnosed) nausea every week since about 2006.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five years of suffering…appear to be at an end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to do a jig…but, admittedly, I’m afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Partly because I get worn out pretty easily…partly because I don’t have any pants that fit…and partly because I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nausea-free?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It almost seems too good to be true.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The last two months have been hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously…the worst, most excruciatingly miserable months of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember one day in particular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the day I found out something important about my faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was more than a month into my illness…despite a trip to the ER, a 4-day hospitalization, and multiple tests…I remained undiagnosed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weeks of constant, acute nausea…with little to no relief. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know all those things you learned in the church about what to do when you’re suffering?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pfffft…those lessons felt impossible on that particular day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to pray…but I couldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to remember Scripture…but…I couldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the things I had been taught to do in Sunday School…all the things I knew I was supposed to be doing…I just…couldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, that day as I sat on my parent’s couch…head between my knees…shaking…dry heaving…crying…I started to do the only thing I could think of…the only thing that made sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I silently began to beg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over and over again I chanted in my head the only thing I truly wanted…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begged the Father to let me come Home.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some of you may be scandalized by that statement. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m guessing that some of you may know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exactly</i> what I’m talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, here’s a fun fact about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My family would say that my love of words allows me to use really big words in the wrong context…but, I’m ok with that)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recently uploaded a dictionary app to my phone…and it’s my new favorite diversion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today’s word is “inculcate”…a great word…as a corporate trainer, I try to inculcate as often as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I’m planning on using the word “inculcate” repeatedly in this blog entry until you’re so overcome with curiosity that you look it up and thereby remember it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh…I digress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, as I prepared to write about my experience on the day I begged for death…I really, really wanted to find just the right word for you…to encapsulate how I felt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The word that kept coming to mind was ”despond.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whew…a heavy word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A verb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means to be depressed by loss of confidence, courage or hope. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, I asked myself…in that moment when I begged God to please, please let me come Home…was I really despondent?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmmmmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loss of confidence…check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loss of courage…admittedly, yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loss of hope?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Absolutely not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If anything, that was the purest moment of hope I’ve ever truly experienced. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here’s the thing, friends…I wasn’t despondent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I was being sucked into the black hole of pure, unfettered misery…but I still had hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could have been sitting naked in Time Square and I wouldn’t have registered even an iota of shame…because my heart was so distracted by hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was the day I fiercely rejected every comfort this world has to offer and with my last vestige of rational thought, I reached for my Father’s promise:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He will wipe every tear from my eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain (or nausea). All these things…all my suffering…will be gone forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As you’ve probably guessed by now, He didn’t acquiesce to my silent pleas for death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still here…and what’s more, I’m getting better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sure am glad He rejected that particular request because I sure do like a lot of things about life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm a broken, raggamuffin woman…but through my suffering, Abba is teaching me to like the RIGHT things about life. Apparently, He wants me to stick it out a little longer...and spread the good news. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, before I go, I want to share with you one of the important things I learned on that fateful day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Something that I almost missed. </span>You see, despite my begging, He didn’t call me Home…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i>…He didn’t take away the suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was tortured by nausea for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">weeks</i> after that day...and endured even worse digestive angst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> With</span> a quiet (and patient) tenderness, Abba taught me that sometimes the suffering isn’t fixed…and sometimes our bodies remain broken…but wherever there is hope…there is life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For everyone reading this blog who knows about suffering…you are uniquely equipped to inculcate the message of true hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(And because I know that you may be too miserable to be excited about that…heh…I want you to know that I understand…and I’ve got your back)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-63597724320578898442011-08-24T15:42:00.000-05:002011-08-24T15:42:15.132-05:00A Recovering Human<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve decided that one of the worst things about chronic illness is a complete loss of dignity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind the misery of nausea…and the pain and discomfort of a digestive system gone rogue…let’s talk about the fact that I have discussed my bowel movements in infinite detail with a multitude of complete strangers. Let’s talk about the fact that my bodily functions are now more newsworthy than earthquakes, hurricanes, and dictators. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, you think that’s bad enough…now let’s talk about what happens when I don’t wax my upper lip for over two months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been poked, stabbed, drugged, and interrogated by a legion of doctors and nurses…and I guess, eventually, the inevitable happened…I just started to feel less human.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, not inhuman like a zombie or reaver (Firefly fans?).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although, I’m sure given the right lighting…I could be mistaken for either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t really walk anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shuffle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have huge dark circles under my eyes and a pasty complexion from malnutrition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brain functions are shoddy at best…and my hair is a hot mess 24/7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok, so, yeah…I totally could be mistaken for the undead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Huh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Note to self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, I guess all this to say…when Dr. Schiller (the specialist in Dallas) spoke to me like an intelligent woman who was NOT losing her mind…I felt human again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was almost more grateful for that than I was to finally have a tentative diagnosis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He spent almost 2 hours with me…coming in and out of the room between examinations and his review of my huge stack of medical records.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he finally came in to tell me his conclusion the first thing he said was: “We doctors are trained to find the one thing that is causing all your symptoms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In your case, I think you have several things making you sick.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He used a chart to describe in detail how my biliary system was in full trauma (probably triggered by a stomach virus)…because of my lack of gallbladder; my bile acid was retracting into my stomach and playing hardball* with my stomach acid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because I wasn’t eating (eating=nausea) the bile acid most likely started to eat away at my stomach lining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition to the napalm in my stomach, the bile was running rampant through my intestines overnight, where instead of being recycled…it would instead pool in my colon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These two things alone are enough to cause constant, unrelenting nausea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of his diagnosis.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you remember, I said I’ve been experiencing off and on bouts of severe nausea for the last few years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Schiller also diagnosed me with a somewhat rare condition called Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome (CVS).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s common among children and pot smokers, but not that common with regular ‘ol gals like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Researchers have linked this syndrome to migraines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, that’s right…I have migraines that manifest in my stomach without an actual headache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, we all have two receptors in our brain that are a direct link to our stomachs…I know, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knew?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>CVS “episodes” have the same triggers as a migraine…stress, hormones, fatigue, or even something as simple as a sinus infection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It helps a lot to know what could trigger my CVS…but, ultimately, it’s a chronic condition with no cure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghy8d24jTqTffgKa5AS3GdXE7JAgCR84LhPooDEcGT5JPsPrjqgJJvXC9j_jlnFLcS88jceB-bQPNar9So0Cv4ZqfjPTkcAc7jqQ4GUc_rvJhZ_dMRwcc7B8n-DBwq7xCOsrwGgaWQGKo/s1600/photo8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghy8d24jTqTffgKa5AS3GdXE7JAgCR84LhPooDEcGT5JPsPrjqgJJvXC9j_jlnFLcS88jceB-bQPNar9So0Cv4ZqfjPTkcAc7jqQ4GUc_rvJhZ_dMRwcc7B8n-DBwq7xCOsrwGgaWQGKo/s400/photo8.JPG" width="300px" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr. Schiller prescribed me a huge cocktail of drugs designed to counter the bile acid and CVS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He mentioned that he would probably be able to wean me off of a few of them eventually…but that they could take up to a month to really balance my system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was optimistic that my new gold-studded drugs would work faster than that…and I would be back to normal in two winks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure by now you’ve noticed my use of a past tense verb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> optimistic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Turns out, taking a lot of new drugs comes with its own set of somewhat brutal side effects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One med makes me feel like I’m walking through pea soup for about 15 hours after I take it…and one med wreaks painful havoc on other aforementioned stuff (see: bodily functions).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say…it’s slow going. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to set alarms to take my medicine because they have to be swallowed in a well-orchestrated schedule designed to make me feel like a ninety year old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But despite all this…the nausea has loosened its grip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for that…I am excruciatingly grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And because the nausea has lost its intensity…I have seen small glimpses into the return of my humanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I registered the feeling of boredom the other day…that was awesome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I tweezed my eyebrows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom and dad are lovingly forcing me to walk around more…so, that I can regain strength to my atrophied muscles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the other day, I woke up with the need to shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Totally a good sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I have more recovery ahead of me…it’s going to be slow going (which is counter to my personality, by the way), but feeling human again gives me hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And where there is hope…there is healing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the truth is, I’m not writing this blog entry to torment you with the details of my recovery…but to offer you my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">profound</i> gratitude for your prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started this whole blog in order to expound on the glory and wonder of God at work in Joplin, Missouri in the days and months after a devastating tornado.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought that meant I would tell the stories of struggles and victory in the lives of those around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I totally got sidelined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess Abba wanted me to know how it felt to be carried on the shoulders of the saints…so that instead of witnessing His mercies…I could experience them personally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, to all my friends, family, and strangers who have been interceding on my behalf…thank you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr. Schiller diagnosed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The medicines will eventually heal me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But God is still good…I still have dignity...and you are all my personal heroes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*Note: all words used to describe my medical condition are here-to-with subject to my creative license.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885553428902337847.post-76429087287779070042011-08-10T20:36:00.000-05:002011-08-10T20:36:42.821-05:00Suffering Sucks<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For those of you who don’t already know…I am not well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have been suffering on and off from chronic nausea for the last couple of years, but on July 4<sup>th</sup>…on a fateful drive back from a fun weekend in Dallas…the acute, debilitating nausea took hold of my body and has not let go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This means a lot of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means I am not longer able to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means I had to temporarily relocate to my parents so that my mom can be my constant caretaker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means I rarely eat…and only when my mom puts it in my hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means my hair has started to fall out from malnutrition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means I no longer fit into my favorite polar bear pj bottoms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means I’m now taking copious amounts of drugs…some to help me sleep, some to help the nausea, and some to help me cope with being an invalid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means I watch WAY too much HGTV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means test…after test…designed to make me more miserable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means a four day stay in the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And most recently…it means a trip to Dallas (tomorrow)…to get what I hope will be a diagnosis with a sub-specialist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The question that I’ve gotten above all in the last month has been…”how are you doing/feeling?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have, for the most part, remained silent on this subject. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many lovely voice mails and text messages have gone unanswered…because I find “how are you doing/feeling?’ to be an exhausting question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I keenly feel the love and concern from my friends and family…so, I feel compelled to crawl outside of myself for a moment…and answer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is how I’m doing:</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am not a good invalid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve read books and watched movies of inspiring invalids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not one of those people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have emotionally and mentally crawled into a cocoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This isn’t a bad thing…it’s just humbling to realize no one’s going to write a book about my method of coping. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nausea has to be the single most miserable feeling in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know that feeling right before you throw up? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When your head starts to tingle?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel that every day with little relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days I just cry it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes the crying helps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I feel well…people are my absolute favorite thing in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I’m hanging on to my last shred of energy…people stress me the heck out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have read more books in the last month than I have in the last 3 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finally broke down and treated myself to a Kindle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s my “get well soon” gift to myself. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think a lot about the woman in the Bible who bled for twelve years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s my new hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously…12 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she had enough faith to reach for the corner of Jesus’ cloak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My prayers these days sound more like whimpers.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">6.</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My great sadness is that big events are happening all around me…and I’m good for nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Becky, Jen, Anna, my co-workers, and my SYTYCD club…someday I will once again join the land of the living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please save me a seat? </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">7.</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most days look like this: sleep, take drugs, read, lay on the couch, watch HGTV, take drugs, sleep. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">8.</span><span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I feel your prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please, please, don’t stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need them desperately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please pray for my trip to Dallas tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My appointment is on Friday, August 12 at 3:00.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please pray that the doctor is urgently aggressive about finding a diagnosis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And pray that I make it to Dallas without breaking into a million pieces…riding in cars is not my favorite thing to do these days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Suffering is an ugly beast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all those out there who are also suffering…it sucks, doesn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe someday I’ll be able to expound on all the lessons I’ve learned during my convalescence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when my body is wracking with dry heaving…and I’m sobbing from utter misery…all I think about is how wonderful it will be to no longer be in this body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please don’t misread that sentence…I’m certainly not suicidal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I do think a lot about paradise…and how my suffering is only temporary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m clinging to the hope that this season in my life will soon reveal God’s good and perfect plan for my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But until then…here’s what gets me through the day: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>When Jesus got the message, he said, "This sickness is not fatal. It will become an occasion to show God's glory by glorifying God's Son."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John 11:4 (The Message)</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank you for caring, friends...I had to "up" my text message package because of your concern. That makes my days less miserable...you rock. I like you. </span></div>Alissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01436246122471558204noreply@blogger.com6