Friday, August 23, 2013


"This is your last warning!" "This is the last time I am going to tell you to....."

Oh, how many times have I uttered this words to one of our five children? Too many to count, I am sure.

And I know when I have to remind them again, and again and again to pick up their shoes, or brush their teeth or do their homework or pray before they eat, I wonder when they are going to remember to do those things without my reminders or nagging to do them.

Then, I quietly hear my Father reminding me of His gentle, sometimes daily or even minute by minute reminders to remember His love for me, His sovereignty in my situation or circumstance, His grace, His mercy, His blessings, His discipline.

And the fact that He doesn't sigh heavily when I forget or wonder when I will remember those things, remember His faithfulness in all things.

No, He just lovingly reminds me again in His word, or a song or a message and allows me to take the time I need to embrace what He has desperately been trying to teach me. Sometimes it is the same lesson that I have seemed to struggle with for years, like not worrying about things, but taking my cares and concerns to Him. He never nags or says, "This is the last time I am going to say.... This is your last warning!"

No, He just patiently waits for me.

Oh, that I might do the same for my children.    

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Thursday, August 22, 2013


I carry it in the small pocket on the front of my Bible cover. Even through three moves and 1300 miles, it is still in that pocket as a reminder of what it takes.

A mustard seed.

I chose BOLD as my word for this year and I have been asking God to do BIG things in my life and the life of my family, but I need to remember that all it takes is faith as small as a mustard seed.

So small, yet necessary to see God move and things change and restoration come and redemption seen.

So small, yet so powerful, this life of living free of myself and in His will.

So small, yet believing.

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Wednesday, August 14, 2013


I don't ever remember feeling lonely until I sat in the cafeteria of my community college during the first semester.

I was an unwed, pregnant 18 year old and I didn't know one person at the school or in any of my classes.

I glanced around at the faces, seated at the tables and as I heard the chatter of conversation and the peals of laughter, for the first time in my life, I felt lonely.

I mean, I certainly wasn't alone. The cafeteria was full of co-eds. And I was carrying a brand new life inside of me. I wasn't ever really alone, yet I was so lonely. But, I had an hour to waste before my next class and the library was too quiet for me with my jumbled and overwhelming thoughts, so the cafeteria is where I ended up, ended up feeling lonely.

I recognized two people I went to elementary school with and knew they would never remember me. I had a huge crush on the boy 8 years ago and when he looked my way, probably from the hole I was staring into him, he smiled and nodded my way, assuming I had to be someone he once knew, but never came over to my table to find out how. It's hard to hide five months of pregnancy when you are 98 pounds.

I actually said hello to the girl who became a fast friend of mine when she started attending my middle school in 7th grade. I remembered spending the night at her house. But, she only smiled and said, "Oh, yeah, hi!" when I reminded her of my name and then she sat with another group of friends.


How blessed was I to not have ever felt lonely until I was 18 years old, in a new place, on a new journey, when I was so very not alone.

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It started in the basement office of my sister's Missouri home. I wanted to connect with my sisters and to have an audience for the voice I needed to be heard. A way to bridge the miles between the hearts and three different states and three very different sisters in very different stages of life.   

So, I started to write my story. Each day I would pour out the daily script of my life in a real and tangible way. I would hit publish and people who became like family, were family would comment and encourage and sometimes disdain and judge.

But, it was my story. 

So, I would write and I began to find my voice in those entries and it was good for a heart so far away from the only home she ever knew, in a place so foreign to anything she was ever before a part of and I started to remember I always loved to write


Each day since then God continues to write my story on the pages of history, that to some may seem mundane or ordinary or plain. And some who have become family, are family may comment and encourage and disdain or judge.

But, it is still my story.

And even if no one reads it I will continue to write, even if only for myself.     


I have a really difficult time being in the present because so much of my past still haunts and whispers to me....

You're not good enough

You can't do it

You've already messed one child's life up

It is hard to listen to the voice of Truth when the voice of lies is the voice you have been yielding to for so long. I try to choose the hard thing of living right and doing well, but it is too easy to be complacent and to give up trying to change things and to be different.

Wasn't I always different anyways?

I want to be present, I long to be present in the here and now, to enjoy my husband and my children, to daily choose the good and right and to make a difference, but.....

It's hard and I'm tired and it's just easier to listen to the voices of the past, of the failings, of the mistakes.

How I long to be able to be present.  

Thursday, August 01, 2013


There are some things that can not be fixed. No matter what you do or how hard you try, some things just remain broken.

And there are other things that can be fixed, but are never really the same, never like they were before they were broken.

And then there are other things that when broken, become better, whole even.

When my heart was broken as a single, unwed momma I was sure it could never be mended. And I couldn't mend it, no matter what I did or how hard I tried. I grew weary and felt so alone.

Then I realized that I had let bitterness and unmet expectations turn my heart callous to the things the Lord was trying to teach me through my brokenness.

Once I let Him apply the salve of His Word and my prayers, my broken heart began to heal. Although, I would never want to be in a place where my heart is so broken, I am thankful for a Father that heals the brokenhearted.



I am not sure how it started. I guess maybe it was a genuine illness at first. Then the teenager babysat a little late on a Saturday night. ...