Being Free

My soul gasps for breath,

Shovels full of dirt fill my lungs and eyes and ears and. . .

I try to scream, make noise. Anything to indicate that a living, breathing person is being buried alive.

To be seen and heard so they will let me out . . .

Of the box of who I used to be.

They don’t see me growing.

They don’t see me different.

They see the old mistakes and reactions and sins.

Somehow, I find the energy to place others in the same box.

I don’t see them growing.

I don’t see them different.

I imagine the shovels of dirt I am heaping onto their spirit.

People change. People grow.

Let’s pray for them and

just as we would with any other thing we pray for…

let’s EXPECT it.

Let’s set boundaries where they are needed but not build walls.

I lay down the burden of managing other people’s perceptions.

Their “truth” is just their perception,

given more weight.

Their “truth” doesn’t apply to me, If it’s THEIRS.

And just as I would never pick up someone else’s luggage at the airport,

I leave it where it sits.

So when they expect me to be the old me.

When they interact with me as though I am,

I remind myself that I’m not and feel no pressure to prove or clarify.

When I expect them to be the old them,

when I am tempted to interact with them as though they are,

I remind myself that they're not and feel no pressure to prove or clarify.

The truth doesn’t change because someone said it does.

At least not the kind that sets me free.

Don’t you want to be free?

Shootout at High Noon

It felt like

sitting at a table,

in the old Wild Wild West,

in a saloon.

with friends,

discussing the business of the day..

.making plans to build something.

All of the sudden the atmosphere changed.

It became toxic.

Out of the blue,

both of the other parties got up from the table,

walked ten paces in opposite directions

turned around and

shot their guns

I remained seated at the table between them

It felt like my soul and spirit were full of bullet holes and wounds gushing red

They ran for cover

While I lay there bleeding out.

But God was faithful.

He bound my wounds with His stripes.

Wounds are healed,

But questions fester

Spiritual agoraphobia threatens to envelop

If love keeps no record of wrongs, and believes the best,

Where did I go wrong?

Is life a Groundhog Day?

Am I relegated to reliving the saloon scenario over and over until my last breath?

A post mortem is in order.

Where did I go wrong?

I’ll tell you . . .

I didn’t speak up when the air turned toxic.

I talked more, laughed louder

to cover their silence

Instead of speaking the truth in love,

I filled the silence with noise

So . . . armed with this knowledge and the armor of God,

I let go of my spiritual agoraphobia

step out into the sun,

Walk over to the saloon

sit down at that table.

And when the air turns toxic,

I don’t talk more, or laugh to cover the silence.

I name the unnamed and

walk away if I need to.

Because yes, love doesn’t keep record of wrongs

but it also doesn’t shoot people.

Plucked

Over and over I trusted the God who had plucked me from the darkness.

He called me, He would equip me. 

But after months of practice, I stumbled. 

Panic. 

The girl not to be trusted.

Incapable. 

Forgetful.

Girl who got pregnant before she was married and who would always be a loser. 

Rejected.

Unapproved of. 

Lost. 

And just like that, I located the most reliable person who could take up the reins,

trusted her, instead of God. 

It happened fast.

Automatic. 

Covert. 

Until God woke me up from my spiritual daze. 

He chose me. 

Me.

The girl not to be trusted.

Incapable. 

Forgetful.

Who got pregnant before I was married and who would always be a loser. 

Rejected. 

Unapproved of. 

Lost. 

But He called me. 

I wrestled the reins back and trusted the God who chose me to direct my steps. 

And He did. 

Sunflowers & Roses

Sunflower hands catch falling Rose petals

Grunt. groan. sweat. tears. 

Laboring to attach fallen rose petals to my Sunflower face

Aching for love. Longing to be lovely. Wishing I were as beautiful as she. 

I must be her. 

She is loved. 

She is lovely. 

She is a vessel by which men convey their love. 

I must make her beauty stick to my plainness.

I labor to no avail.

It doesn’t work. 

They won’t stick.

Nobody is fooled. 

A sunflower will never be a rose. 

Falling rose petals perish on the floor.

Hands no longer grasp for their beauty.. 

They won’t love me. 

I’m a sunflower, not a rose. 

And then, 

He picked me. 

He chose my beauty to convey His love.

I don’t have to be red. Or smell like a rose. 

He made me just the way He wants me. 

Her place doesn’t overshadow or nullify mine.

We both bring joy. 

We both belong in the garden. 

I love my yellow petals, green leaves.

I stand tall, turn my face to the Son, 

And bask in the light of the one who 

Thought this world needed my sunflower beauty,

Even though it already contained hers. 

Consuming Belief

Consumed by

doing things to please other people. 

earning their favor. 

manipulating them into giving me what I need.

I misunderstood 

my relationship 

with God 

other people.

It's called codependency.

I believed that 

if I just did the right things, 

in the right order, 

at the right time 

with the right people...

if I could just get all of that right,

God would love and save me.

It doesn't work that way. 

I'm never going to

do all the right things 

in the right order 

at the right time 

with the right people 

all the time. 

Salvation is based on my faith and God's grace. 

Not 

how often I pray 

the things I do to earn His favor.

the opinions of other people.

I love my children based on our relationship.

Not how well they behave

Or what they accomplish

The things other people say about my children doesn’t affect my relationship with them. 

Compliments are nice

Criticism is an opportunity for improvement.

I know my children. I know who they are. Feedback from others doesn’t change what I know about them or who they are.

God's opinion of me doesn't change based on how others feel about me. 

He knows my heart. 

When someone complains about me, they are not giving Him new information. 

He knows my heart. 

He doesn’t believe falsehoods, or change His opinion based on theirs.

He knows my heart.

If God’s opinion and actions cannot be swayed by the compliments or criticisms of others, why should mine be? 

Manipulate

The knowledge to simply say what I felt, eluded me. 

Every word a manipulation to wrestle my needs from the clutches of what I believed were hands unwilling to relinquish them.

Fear drove my communication . . . 

of rejection.

of being unloved.

Fear that my unspoken beliefs would be confirmed as true. 

  of being weak. 

In denial of these fears. 

My life would be made up of a string of gossip, assumptions, judgment.

Sarcasm. 

Passive aggressiveness.

Shallowness.

Drama.

Relationships stale.

Fragile.

Painful.

Dysfunctional.

Confusing. 

And then . . . 

I learned that 

directness is a virtue. 

I can say what I feel.

How they respond is a reflection of them, not me. 

And . . . 

to say what I feel . . . I have to know what that is. 

So . . .  “think about what I am thinking about.” 

Honestly.

Deeply. 

“What is in a man’s heart flows from his lips”

Diseased communication comes from a diseased heart.

Change my heart, Lord. 

Pride to humility.

Fear to trust.

Approval seeking to God seeking.

Avoiding to peacemaking.

Until “the meditation of my heart and the words of my lips are pleasing in Your sight.”

How Does He Love Me?

How does He love me? 

Let me count the ways . . . 

highlighted clouds in gold,

rain while the sun shines,

Flowers regrown when sweet, eager boys pull “weeds”

Buys a home,

Sends me a friend,

Repairs what is broken.

Sweet freckle faces,

Laughter in the night,

Melodies and harmonies seeping through the walls when I think the fighting won’t end.

“Can I sit on your lap?”

Does my make up look okay?

Sweet words spoken when they think I don’t hear. 

Song of Solomon

Partners in life

Leah -  loved & chosen.

A place to grow,

Space to land

A village to raise our children. 

How does He love me? 

            I’m still counting the ways. 

In Bloom

He planted me here, designed every petal, leaf.

I measured myself against flowers,

didn't measure up.

Suffocated. Stamped out. Dead beneath the soil.

He dug me out, brushed me off and raised me back to life.

He's restoring every petal, reviving every

He rooted me here.

designed every petal,

predestined every leaf.

In love, he made me.

With purpose, intention.

But. . .

As I blossomed,

my blossom didn't seem as pretty as theirs.

So . . .,

consumed by comparison,

failing to measure up,

I began to wilt

Suffocated.

Stamped out.

Dead beneath the soil.

But. God.

Searched for me.

Found me.

Held me.

Spoke truth.

He rooted me here.

Designed every leaf.

Predestined every petal.

Would I trust Him?

Or trust MY OWN understanding?

I chose.

Him.

Every day.

One at a time.

He dug me out.

brushed me off.

raised me up.

And now,

I bask in the Son.

dance in the wind.

He rooted me here.

Designed Every leaf.

Predestined every petal.

Planted flowers close by to give me company, not a measuring stick.

Together. Not compared.

Shared.

Beauty compounded.

Grace magnified.

Life.

In bloom.