It's been a while since my last blog post. I can think of a million and one explanations. However, I must admit none of my reasons can sum up the main cause, one which I can barely whisper ... I am afraid.
I am afraid of sitting down to write only to find there is nothing left to say.
I am afraid I will never write anything else touching or compelling.
I am afraid God will ask me to write something hard.
I am afraid people I love with disagree with me or not like my writing.
I am afraid my words will go unread for no one will find reason to enjoy what I've written.
I am afraid others will like what I've written and expect me to write more.
I am afraid of future success.
Fear is a terrible thing. One thing I know is fear is not of God. Long ago, someone told me the words "do not be afraid" or "do not fear" appear 365 times in the Bible, or once for each day of the year. If it is important enough for God to mention 365 times, then I suppose it is a truth He wants me to embrace.
And yet I still find myself needing frequent reminders to let go of my fear for it is a huge stumbling block, sneaking in when I least expect it. Usually I bump into fear while I am still on my mountaintops, tripping and then falling to the valley of despair far below.
Three weeks ago, I spent a lovely weekend at a writer's retreat. It was a God-ordained trip from beginning to end. Fingerprints of God's orchestration were over each piece. I came home encouraged, with a plan to write and an eagerness to match. Within 48 hours of returning, I had written a devotional newsletter which I emailed to over 300 friends. The response was overwhelming. Emails upon emails of encouraging words. For a few days, I was high on cloud nine, beaming from the brightness of success and ready to see where God would take me.
As the intense joy of first success floated away and the hard work of moving forward crept in, a dark cloud of fear swept in over me. Now I am afraid.
What if I cannot reproduce another devotional, especially now that I've committed to writing one each month?
What if I manage to write the next one but no one enjoys it?
What if this grows to be a thing that is too big for me to handle?
What if I am not ready to write for the purpose of sharing God's love with others?
What if I don't know what I am talking about and I lead people the wrong way?
What if ... what if ... what if...
There is only one source for all that fear and for each of those questions: Satan. He sneaks in to steal joy, to sow seeds of fear, to uproot God-given desires, to rob us of the pleasure of doing what we love for the glory of our Savior.
Tonight I pondered being afraid. I considered my fear of success as well as my fear of failure. This much I know is true ... I'd rather succeed at failing by giving it my best shot than fail at succeeding because I wouldn't even try.
The best way I know to succeed is to seek the Lord, for in Him resides my only hope. In 2 Chronicles 26:5, it is said of King Uzziah, "He sought God during the days of Zechariah, who instructed him in the fear of God. As long as he sought the LORD, God gave him success." Later on, Uzziah becomes prideful, believing his success is due to his own great abilities. It is said in the Proverbs, "Pride goes before a fall." Pride brings Uzziah to his downfall as king, and pride is what prevents me from writing.
My fear of not being able to write anymore is not based on facts nor do they have any validity. It is simply the direct result of my own personal pride. I think that I've done a great job writing and I give all the accolades to myself, therefore I now worry I will not again produce something of a similar quality.
The truth is that I can't reproduce another devotional. In fact, I can't do much of anything on my own, except for mess up. But praise God I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. (Philippians 4:13)
Tonight I am on my knees, praying for forgiveness of giving into fear, allowing it grow in my heart. I am giving the act of writing words (which I love so much) back to God. He gave the gift of writing to me and allows me to enjoy putting words on paper. Like Hannah who gave her longed-for baby boy back to God, I will give all of that which was given to me back to the One who is known as the Giver of All Good Gifts.
This is my prayer: Whatever measure of success that I have through writing, whether is is big or small, whether it is published or never even makes it to my personal blog, may each word that comes from me be for the glory of God. To God be the glory for great things He has done.
All the Pages of Paige's Pages
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
A Morning Dilemma
It was a dark and stormy morning ...
At the writer's retreat I recently attended, I learned that this is not a good way to start off a best selling novel. It's probably not the best way to start off this blog post either, however, it is true.
It's dark, thanks to a combination of heavy cloud cover and daylight savings time. It's storming, complete with heavy rain, bright flashes of lightening, rumbling thunder and gusts of wind. Perfect laying in the bed and sleeping in weather.
And I have someplace to go ... with all five kids ... all the way across town.
It's a dark and stormy morning, and I just feel like staying in the bed. I won't. I'm going to be responsible and get my attitude together and do what a good mom should do, but for right now I'm wishing I could just crawl back under the blankets and sleep to the sound of rain falling.
At the writer's retreat I recently attended, I learned that this is not a good way to start off a best selling novel. It's probably not the best way to start off this blog post either, however, it is true.
It's dark, thanks to a combination of heavy cloud cover and daylight savings time. It's storming, complete with heavy rain, bright flashes of lightening, rumbling thunder and gusts of wind. Perfect laying in the bed and sleeping in weather.
And I have someplace to go ... with all five kids ... all the way across town.
It's a dark and stormy morning, and I just feel like staying in the bed. I won't. I'm going to be responsible and get my attitude together and do what a good mom should do, but for right now I'm wishing I could just crawl back under the blankets and sleep to the sound of rain falling.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Free At Last
Yesterday was a comedy of errors ... well, at least the afternoon and evening turned out to be that way. I suppose it was because we had too many important things to do in a very short time, and somehow when a day like that shows up on the calendar, Murphy's Law kicks in and time actually begins to work against you.
At 3:15 pm, all seven of us, along with the kid's luggage, piled into the van and headed out. We should have enough time to take care of all our business and still easily make it to meet my children's father at 6 pm. But even the best laid plans don't always work out like we anticipate.
Traffic was insane.
The process to turn in 4-H record books was not nearly as speedy as anticipated..
Jon's ex was later than expected to pick up the girls.
We had to turn around and go back home.
Traffic was insane.
Jon's work called ... three times.
We needed gas.
Traffic was insane.
When it first became apparent at 4:30 that we wouldn't be at our meeting spot by 6 pm, I sent Matt a text to alert him of our delay. I called him at 5 pm and gave him an update on our situation, offered to feed the children supper (which he refused), and gave him our expected time of arrival, which was 6:45 pm.
When we pulled into the parking lot to safely deliver the children to their father, the clock in the car read 6:47 pm and I could immediately tell that Matt was peeved. Actually, he was more than peeved. He was angry with me, put out by my delay in his schedule. As I opened the door, he didn't greet me or respond to my pleasantries. In fact, during the entire 2 minute exchange of children, he refused to talk to me or make eye contact, even though I needed to show him a medication that one of the kids needed to take. More than just a cold shoulder, I was being punished with the dreaded iceberg shoulder.
I have to say that this behavior was much more effective when I was married to him. In those years, this sort of response (which was a weekly, and often daily, occurrence) would have made my blood run cold. I feared this punishment. I crave communication and as a people pleaser I have this deep-seated need to know that people are okay with me. As the years of our marriage passed, I learned that there was no way to ever predict when something would set him off. By the end of our marriage, I constantly walked around on egg shells in fear of doing or saying something that would result in my punishment.
After our divorce, I went to counseling. It wasn't easy, but somehow I learned not to walk on egg shells in fear of Matt, to not tremble in his presence, to accept that my behaviors may not please him and yet that didn't mean I was necessarily misbehaving. Yet still that reaction of his would still make my blood run cold. Try as I might, whenever I did or said something that set him off, it still caused me to second guess myself and my own intentions. I desperately wanted to learn to let go of the fear of his reactions, but I never got to the point of being able to fully be in that frame of mind. The closest I came was learning to quickly let go of that initial feeling of fear so that his reaction didn't control me anymore, and learning that lesson was terrifically hard.
So last night, it took me by surprise when I felt absolutely no fear of this rather childish man and his very immature reaction to a situation that was mostly out of my control. It seemed so juvenile and petty, similar to something a moody teen would do to a parent. He looked so pouty standing there with his bottom lip stuck out that I wanted to laugh. Somehow, I held it inside until I was back in the van with Jon ... and then I couldn't hold that laugh inside me any longer.
All the way through dinner and even on the ride back home, I randomly burst out into giggles. I was practically giddy with myself, chuckling not so much at Matt's response but rather with my own personal growth.
No longer am I training myself to push past those first gripping thoughts of "Oh, no! He's upset!"
No longer am I breathing deeply and reminding myself that I didn't misbehave to cause him emotional distress.
No longer am I fearful of what he might say (or not say).
No longer.
Wow! What a feeling! The chains that bound me for so long are gone. I couldn't help but think of the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., words from an old spiritual song that he shared in his famous speech:
Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!
“I sought the LORD, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.” Psalm 34:4
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
King Cakes, Parades and Beads ... Oh, My!
Today is Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras, my first one in the heart of Louisiana's Cajun country. I can honestly say that I've never seen anything quite like this before in my life.
The past month the carnival-type atmosphere has been ever so slowly building to this huge peak of crazed excitement. Newspapers are filled with pictures of grown women decked out in gaudy garments ... feathers and sequins galore. They give themselves titles ... queen, lady-in-waiting, ambassador and the like. They claim to hail from foreign, often mystical, lands and bring with them bizarre gifts. They band together in Krewes, hosting magnificent parties on a scale like none I've ever known before.
Everyone eats King cake, a scrumptious cinnamon-roll type dessert which can be filled with an astounding number of puddings, creams, fruits and other such fillings. We ate them in north Louisiana, but not in the same manner as our southern Louisiana brothers and sisters. All I can say is that these people are serious about their King cake.
Sweet Meg wanted to buy us all King cake for Mardi Gras. Her precious little arms flung around me in a giant hug and she said, "GiGi, how can we have Mardi Gras without a King cake?" I didn't bother to tell her that we don't celebrate Mardi Gras. Instead, we took her $15 and headed out to fight the holiday traffic. Meche's Donut King is the local bakery that is the home of Lafayette's best King cake. As we neared the shop, we could see that the business was crowded. Cars crawled in and out of the street to get into the minuscule parking lot which was teeming like a knocked-down anthill with people making a steady stream in and out of the store.
(Forgive me, but I must make a quick side note. Why is it that popular, local places must always have tiny parking areas and be located in the most out of the way places? For business success, I would suggest that one find a small, dark, hole-in-the-wall sort of building with no parking area to speak of and set up shop there!)
Back at Meche's Donut King, the kids and I had no problem finding the section of King cakes. In fact, there was absolutely no missing the gigantic tower of boxes. There must have been 50 varieties. Customers grabbed 3 and 4 boxes at a time, one of this flavor and another of that. They offered helps to each other ..."I've got a Bavarian creme over here!" and "Has anyone seen a blueberry cream cheese? That's my son's favorite and I promised him I'd bring one of those home." As we stood in the middle of that scene in a dazed sort of awe, Joel whispered in a shocked tone, "Look at the way these people are snatching up King cakes ... I guess they take the name Fat Tuesday literally!"
In the chaos, I searched in vain for a sign telling how much King cakes cost. Finally, I had no choice but to get into the long checkout line at the counter and talk to one of the clerks, who were checking out King cakes so fast that it made my head whirl. After several long minutes, I got my chance to ask ... $22 for one small King cake. Meg looked so sad, but we all quickly reassured her that just she couldn't afford the king of King cakes didn't mean that we couldn't find a more affordable option. True to our word, we somehow managed to find a cheaper version of this highly prized dessert. Perhaps it wasn't the king of King Cakes, but we all enjoyed the fact that at the Target bakery we could afford to bring home two different varieties and still have money to spare.
King cake by itself doesn't do a true Mardi Gras celebration justice. Parades are another huge part of the culture, and there has been no shortage of parades during the past week. Most days there are two or three parades, blocking off streets and piling up traffic for hours. Jon and I took the kids to the Queen's parade, which is supposed to be one of the biggest and nicest parades. Floats rolled by, filled with children and adults in elaborate costumes. Beads and cups flung everyone as people yelled, "Throw me something!"
As the kids rushed around madly collecting the loot, Jon leaned over and whispered, "This is a great place to come get cups! It's all free, and now we won't have to go out and buy any!" That's certainly a man's perspective. I wouldn't exactly call plastic Mardi Gras cups the sort of thing I want to store in my kitchen cabinets and pull out for our dinner guests to use.
The kids enjoyed the parade, but as we walked back they all lamented that their necks hurt from the weight of the beads. Joel, the only one who chose not to wear his beads and instead lugged them in a bulging plastic grocery sack, commented, "You get so many beads at these Mardi Gras parades that it practically makes you a hoarder!"
I couldn't help but sort of agree with him, not about the beads so much but about the over-the-top opulence and the excessive grandeur. I can't see how any of this makes my relationship with Christ stronger. In fact, it seems so directly opposed to the things that Christ commands us to do ... give to the needy and help those in need. I imagine that the amount of money spent on meaningless things (float decorations, beads and plastic cups, costumes laden with sequins and feathers) was staggering. This doesn't even include the money spent by families on carnival rides, cotton candy, purple and green and gold t-shirts or hats or wigs. I am quite certain that the amount of money spent in Lafayette alone would have fully funded the adoption of several of the special needs orphans (like these at Reese's Rainbow). That money could have feed the hungry, clothed the poor, purchased Bibles for those without.
Beginning tomorrow with Ash Wednesday, there will be much sacrifice for the 40 days of Lent and while I understand the importance of learning to fast (from food or entertainment or other pleasures) for a period of time in order to seek a deeper relationship with God. Certainly, I do not doubt the sincerity of those who give up something for Lent. I am sure it can be a meaningful part of preparing one's heart for the glory of Easter Sunday. And yet I struggle to find the meaning in the extravagant celebrations before the season of sacrifice.
On the way home last night, I felt sort of sick at my stomach, wondering how something that was probably in the beginning intended for spiritual good turned into something so lacking in the things of Christ. I'm still not sure how I feel about it all, but this is where I live and so I expect that I'll be learning to live with the feverish celebration of Mardi Gras for quite some time. I can't help but recall the words of King Solomon in Proverbs 21:3 ... "to do what is right and just is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice."
But last night God spoke in His ever quiet voice ... "Paige, remember that I am a Master at taking something and creating it new again, for beads can be redeemed and turned into something far better." My children and I will be collecting Mardi Gras beads for charity, giving back something meaningless that was thrown away in hopes that it can be turned jewels that we can thrown down before my Savior's feet.
...fall down before Him who sits on the throne and worship Him who lives forever and ever, and cast their crowns before the throne, saying:
“You are worthy, O Lord,
To receive glory and honor and power;
For You created all things,
And by Your will they exist and were created.”
(Revelation 4:10-11)
Then He who sat on the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new.” (Revelation 21:5)
The past month the carnival-type atmosphere has been ever so slowly building to this huge peak of crazed excitement. Newspapers are filled with pictures of grown women decked out in gaudy garments ... feathers and sequins galore. They give themselves titles ... queen, lady-in-waiting, ambassador and the like. They claim to hail from foreign, often mystical, lands and bring with them bizarre gifts. They band together in Krewes, hosting magnificent parties on a scale like none I've ever known before.
Everyone eats King cake, a scrumptious cinnamon-roll type dessert which can be filled with an astounding number of puddings, creams, fruits and other such fillings. We ate them in north Louisiana, but not in the same manner as our southern Louisiana brothers and sisters. All I can say is that these people are serious about their King cake.
Sweet Meg wanted to buy us all King cake for Mardi Gras. Her precious little arms flung around me in a giant hug and she said, "GiGi, how can we have Mardi Gras without a King cake?" I didn't bother to tell her that we don't celebrate Mardi Gras. Instead, we took her $15 and headed out to fight the holiday traffic. Meche's Donut King is the local bakery that is the home of Lafayette's best King cake. As we neared the shop, we could see that the business was crowded. Cars crawled in and out of the street to get into the minuscule parking lot which was teeming like a knocked-down anthill with people making a steady stream in and out of the store.
(Forgive me, but I must make a quick side note. Why is it that popular, local places must always have tiny parking areas and be located in the most out of the way places? For business success, I would suggest that one find a small, dark, hole-in-the-wall sort of building with no parking area to speak of and set up shop there!)
Back at Meche's Donut King, the kids and I had no problem finding the section of King cakes. In fact, there was absolutely no missing the gigantic tower of boxes. There must have been 50 varieties. Customers grabbed 3 and 4 boxes at a time, one of this flavor and another of that. They offered helps to each other ..."I've got a Bavarian creme over here!" and "Has anyone seen a blueberry cream cheese? That's my son's favorite and I promised him I'd bring one of those home." As we stood in the middle of that scene in a dazed sort of awe, Joel whispered in a shocked tone, "Look at the way these people are snatching up King cakes ... I guess they take the name Fat Tuesday literally!"
In the chaos, I searched in vain for a sign telling how much King cakes cost. Finally, I had no choice but to get into the long checkout line at the counter and talk to one of the clerks, who were checking out King cakes so fast that it made my head whirl. After several long minutes, I got my chance to ask ... $22 for one small King cake. Meg looked so sad, but we all quickly reassured her that just she couldn't afford the king of King cakes didn't mean that we couldn't find a more affordable option. True to our word, we somehow managed to find a cheaper version of this highly prized dessert. Perhaps it wasn't the king of King Cakes, but we all enjoyed the fact that at the Target bakery we could afford to bring home two different varieties and still have money to spare.
King cake by itself doesn't do a true Mardi Gras celebration justice. Parades are another huge part of the culture, and there has been no shortage of parades during the past week. Most days there are two or three parades, blocking off streets and piling up traffic for hours. Jon and I took the kids to the Queen's parade, which is supposed to be one of the biggest and nicest parades. Floats rolled by, filled with children and adults in elaborate costumes. Beads and cups flung everyone as people yelled, "Throw me something!"
As the kids rushed around madly collecting the loot, Jon leaned over and whispered, "This is a great place to come get cups! It's all free, and now we won't have to go out and buy any!" That's certainly a man's perspective. I wouldn't exactly call plastic Mardi Gras cups the sort of thing I want to store in my kitchen cabinets and pull out for our dinner guests to use.
The kids enjoyed the parade, but as we walked back they all lamented that their necks hurt from the weight of the beads. Joel, the only one who chose not to wear his beads and instead lugged them in a bulging plastic grocery sack, commented, "You get so many beads at these Mardi Gras parades that it practically makes you a hoarder!"
I couldn't help but sort of agree with him, not about the beads so much but about the over-the-top opulence and the excessive grandeur. I can't see how any of this makes my relationship with Christ stronger. In fact, it seems so directly opposed to the things that Christ commands us to do ... give to the needy and help those in need. I imagine that the amount of money spent on meaningless things (float decorations, beads and plastic cups, costumes laden with sequins and feathers) was staggering. This doesn't even include the money spent by families on carnival rides, cotton candy, purple and green and gold t-shirts or hats or wigs. I am quite certain that the amount of money spent in Lafayette alone would have fully funded the adoption of several of the special needs orphans (like these at Reese's Rainbow). That money could have feed the hungry, clothed the poor, purchased Bibles for those without.
Beginning tomorrow with Ash Wednesday, there will be much sacrifice for the 40 days of Lent and while I understand the importance of learning to fast (from food or entertainment or other pleasures) for a period of time in order to seek a deeper relationship with God. Certainly, I do not doubt the sincerity of those who give up something for Lent. I am sure it can be a meaningful part of preparing one's heart for the glory of Easter Sunday. And yet I struggle to find the meaning in the extravagant celebrations before the season of sacrifice.
On the way home last night, I felt sort of sick at my stomach, wondering how something that was probably in the beginning intended for spiritual good turned into something so lacking in the things of Christ. I'm still not sure how I feel about it all, but this is where I live and so I expect that I'll be learning to live with the feverish celebration of Mardi Gras for quite some time. I can't help but recall the words of King Solomon in Proverbs 21:3 ... "to do what is right and just is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice."
But last night God spoke in His ever quiet voice ... "Paige, remember that I am a Master at taking something and creating it new again, for beads can be redeemed and turned into something far better." My children and I will be collecting Mardi Gras beads for charity, giving back something meaningless that was thrown away in hopes that it can be turned jewels that we can thrown down before my Savior's feet.
...fall down before Him who sits on the throne and worship Him who lives forever and ever, and cast their crowns before the throne, saying:
“You are worthy, O Lord,
To receive glory and honor and power;
For You created all things,
And by Your will they exist and were created.”
(Revelation 4:10-11)
Then He who sat on the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new.” (Revelation 21:5)
Friday, February 17, 2012
The Unstoppable
I can't say that I ever wanted to be here. I wasn't exactly opposed to coming, but I couldn't find a reason to come. Of course, I never really asked God what He thought about it. I just sort of assumed He felt the same way I did ... going would be more of a hassle than a blessing.
Writing it down in black and white this way makes it glaringly negative. At the time, I just saw it as the way I felt. Even so, it was a negative attitude then and now I can see that.
I had my reasons, at least I thought of them as reasons. Truly, it was just a pile of excuses.
It cost too much money and I'd have to figure out a way to wiggle it into our already tight budget. There really isn't much room to wiggle there as it is!
Who would homeschool the five children?
What if Jon would have to be on a business trip during that time?
I don't sleep well away from home and so "camping" in a room with other ladies didn't sound like much of a restorative retreat to me. To me, retreat means I'll come home refreshed, not with bags under my eyes!
On and on and on the list of "reasons" grew. I never asked God what He thought about those reasons. I just assumed that all of my reasons were His reasons too.
Have you ever noticed that when God wants something to be it just sort of happens? It's like trying to stop a train steaming straight ahead and full speed. Nothing gets in His way. God is unstoppable. No one can control Him. We might as well not even try.
I tried hard not to come to this retreat. I ignored the announcements at church. When my husband mentioned it, I quickly told him that I wasn't going. When my pastor's wife encouraged me to come, I spouted off one of my many compelling reasons. I wouldn't even consider the idea.
Obviously, God felt differently. I am here now. One by one by one all of my reasons fell by the wayside. A friend paid for me to come and ensured I'd have a room to myself in order to truly rest. My husband promised to take off work and homeschool the five children.
Suddenly, without even trying, I was signed up to go. I wondered how it happened until I remembered that God is unstoppable and try as I might I could not stop what He had ordained. I resigned myself to going on the retreat with about as much enthusiasm as a 3 year old marching off to naptime.
The week of the retreat Satan tried hard to worm his way into the plans. I guess he forgot that part about God being unstoppable. My attitude was less than stellar. Hormones raging in me ... I felt like staying in bed instead of packing my bags. Joel had a nasty spider bite and I took him to the doctor who told me that he must be watched carefully because it was already infected and if it got worse he would have to be treated with IV antibiotics. Surely Jon couldn't monitor the health of Joel as well as I could ... I mean, don't you think God would rather me stay home and tend to my children? Jon reassured me that he had it all under control and I should just go on as planned.
Now I am here ... in the woods, alone with God. And God was right. I needed this retreat. Why am I surprised about this? Not only is God unstoppable, He also knows Every little thing. Not one minute detail escapes Him.
Later on, I hope to share something of what I've learned. But for now, it has been enough for me to remember that my plans are not God's plans. And when God has a plan for me (which He says He has good plans for me in Jeremiah 29:11), I cannot do anything to stop Him ... no matter how hard I might try.
Writing it down in black and white this way makes it glaringly negative. At the time, I just saw it as the way I felt. Even so, it was a negative attitude then and now I can see that.
I had my reasons, at least I thought of them as reasons. Truly, it was just a pile of excuses.
It cost too much money and I'd have to figure out a way to wiggle it into our already tight budget. There really isn't much room to wiggle there as it is!
Who would homeschool the five children?
What if Jon would have to be on a business trip during that time?
I don't sleep well away from home and so "camping" in a room with other ladies didn't sound like much of a restorative retreat to me. To me, retreat means I'll come home refreshed, not with bags under my eyes!
On and on and on the list of "reasons" grew. I never asked God what He thought about those reasons. I just assumed that all of my reasons were His reasons too.
Have you ever noticed that when God wants something to be it just sort of happens? It's like trying to stop a train steaming straight ahead and full speed. Nothing gets in His way. God is unstoppable. No one can control Him. We might as well not even try.
I tried hard not to come to this retreat. I ignored the announcements at church. When my husband mentioned it, I quickly told him that I wasn't going. When my pastor's wife encouraged me to come, I spouted off one of my many compelling reasons. I wouldn't even consider the idea.
Obviously, God felt differently. I am here now. One by one by one all of my reasons fell by the wayside. A friend paid for me to come and ensured I'd have a room to myself in order to truly rest. My husband promised to take off work and homeschool the five children.
Suddenly, without even trying, I was signed up to go. I wondered how it happened until I remembered that God is unstoppable and try as I might I could not stop what He had ordained. I resigned myself to going on the retreat with about as much enthusiasm as a 3 year old marching off to naptime.
The week of the retreat Satan tried hard to worm his way into the plans. I guess he forgot that part about God being unstoppable. My attitude was less than stellar. Hormones raging in me ... I felt like staying in bed instead of packing my bags. Joel had a nasty spider bite and I took him to the doctor who told me that he must be watched carefully because it was already infected and if it got worse he would have to be treated with IV antibiotics. Surely Jon couldn't monitor the health of Joel as well as I could ... I mean, don't you think God would rather me stay home and tend to my children? Jon reassured me that he had it all under control and I should just go on as planned.
Now I am here ... in the woods, alone with God. And God was right. I needed this retreat. Why am I surprised about this? Not only is God unstoppable, He also knows Every little thing. Not one minute detail escapes Him.
Later on, I hope to share something of what I've learned. But for now, it has been enough for me to remember that my plans are not God's plans. And when God has a plan for me (which He says He has good plans for me in Jeremiah 29:11), I cannot do anything to stop Him ... no matter how hard I might try.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Finding Beauty
Every morning I do the same routine, following the same little rituals in order to feel ready to start the day. Except for on mornings when I need a bit more self-confidence. One those mornings I tend to add an extra step ... I talk to myself.
I tell myself how lovely my hair looks or how my eyeshadow brings out the blue in my eyes. I comment on my sweet smelling perfume or my perfectly coordinating jewelry. It doesn't seem to matter that I'm the one doling out the compliments. I somehow respond internally to these words of affirmation and feel infinitely more beautiful.
This extra ritual works so well that I have often wondered why I don't do it every morning. What I've come to believe is that I am afraid it will stop working and then I will be lacking confidence when I need it most.
I cannot remember a morning when I've woken up feeling beautiful. In fact, I cannot say that I recall very many times in which I felt like I was pretty. I know that there are so many women who struggle with body image as well, but my body image has always been especially low.
As a relatively young girl of 9 or 10, I remember looking into the mirror and thinking that if someone saw a photo of just my eyes that they might think I was actually a beautiful girl. I also thought that if you then showed my entire face, that same person might not believe that such an unattractive girl could have such pretty blue eyes. As if to only pound in that idea, in high school there was a competition to find the girl with the most beautiful eyes. My classmates elected me to be one of the representatives of our class, and a photo was take of just my eyes and placed on a bulletin board along with all of the other girls in the competition. I quickly realized that I was perhaps the most unpopular girl in the contest and yet I came in 2nd place in the competition. I remember thinking afterwards that no one would have voted for my eye photo if they had realized that the rest of the face belonged to me.
Now I look at that sort of self-talk and see how crazy it is that I was incredibly vain about my eyes while being overly critical of the rest of my facial features. It was as if I couldn't find reassurance about my beauty even when I was given small successes and chances to feel attractive. Self-doubt and self-critism were dominate over my ability to accept who I was and feel confident of my own self-worth.
As a young woman, I was diagnosed with PCOS. It's an incurable, hormonal syndrome that affects many body systems. It wrecks a body and robs a woman of the very things that make her feminine as it slowly chips away at the self-esteem. Thinning scalp hair; unwanted body hair on the face, arms and back; weight gain; inability to lose weight despite diet and exercise; infertility; acne, skin tags, dark patches of skin on face ... the list goes on and on.
Over the past two decades, I've struggled to accept who I am as a woman, shedding floods of tears and weeping agonizing prayers to God asking Him to take it away. In the process, I take two or three steps forward only to take those same two or three steps back. It's the dance of my life as I battle my own body image and learn to love myself for who God created me to be.
We are six weeks into 2012, and I've been on an emotional roller coaster for most of that time. I'll be celebrating my 40th birthday in September and I'm struggling with that particular milestone. On top of that, I'm dealing with recovering from the severe anxiety and panic attacks of 2011. Somewhere in all of that, I began to battle with self-esteem and body image again. It's the same old song sung to the same old tune, just a different verse.
Two nights ago I was up at 3 am, praying as silent tears rolled down my cheeks. I typed words, begging God again to help me lay the burden of PCOS down before His throne, to find beauty in who I was not because of me but because of Him. As the rain fell outside and the clock on the wall ticked the night away, I wrote the words that follow:
Father God, I want to feel fully woman, to be able to lose weight, to not be ashamed or self conscious of my appearance. I want to have a body that works normally in honor of your temple, instead of feeling like my body is run down and junky. I want to live a healthy life so that I am honoring where you reside ... in me!
Yet I am ashamed of the way I look.
I am ashamed of my thinning hair.
I am ashamed of the hair on my body in places where it should not be.
Father, help me.
There is the silence of the quiet night house, I heard God’s response to me: I was born in a barn, among the animal stalls. A manger is not clean nor is it beautiful ... and yet, Paige, what more beautiful place could there have been? Do not forget. I bring beauty to all places, and I bring beauty to all people who trust in Me. Beauty is defined in Me.
Peace ... peace from the inner struggle, peace from the doubt, peace from the fear, peace for the night.
I still don't wake up feeling beautiful, but today I'm not so consumed with my own perceived lack of beauty. And I'm learning again to embrace the words of Psalm 45:11 ...
The King is enthralled by your beauty; honor Him, for He is your Lord.
I tell myself how lovely my hair looks or how my eyeshadow brings out the blue in my eyes. I comment on my sweet smelling perfume or my perfectly coordinating jewelry. It doesn't seem to matter that I'm the one doling out the compliments. I somehow respond internally to these words of affirmation and feel infinitely more beautiful.
This extra ritual works so well that I have often wondered why I don't do it every morning. What I've come to believe is that I am afraid it will stop working and then I will be lacking confidence when I need it most.
I cannot remember a morning when I've woken up feeling beautiful. In fact, I cannot say that I recall very many times in which I felt like I was pretty. I know that there are so many women who struggle with body image as well, but my body image has always been especially low.
As a relatively young girl of 9 or 10, I remember looking into the mirror and thinking that if someone saw a photo of just my eyes that they might think I was actually a beautiful girl. I also thought that if you then showed my entire face, that same person might not believe that such an unattractive girl could have such pretty blue eyes. As if to only pound in that idea, in high school there was a competition to find the girl with the most beautiful eyes. My classmates elected me to be one of the representatives of our class, and a photo was take of just my eyes and placed on a bulletin board along with all of the other girls in the competition. I quickly realized that I was perhaps the most unpopular girl in the contest and yet I came in 2nd place in the competition. I remember thinking afterwards that no one would have voted for my eye photo if they had realized that the rest of the face belonged to me.
Now I look at that sort of self-talk and see how crazy it is that I was incredibly vain about my eyes while being overly critical of the rest of my facial features. It was as if I couldn't find reassurance about my beauty even when I was given small successes and chances to feel attractive. Self-doubt and self-critism were dominate over my ability to accept who I was and feel confident of my own self-worth.
As a young woman, I was diagnosed with PCOS. It's an incurable, hormonal syndrome that affects many body systems. It wrecks a body and robs a woman of the very things that make her feminine as it slowly chips away at the self-esteem. Thinning scalp hair; unwanted body hair on the face, arms and back; weight gain; inability to lose weight despite diet and exercise; infertility; acne, skin tags, dark patches of skin on face ... the list goes on and on.
Over the past two decades, I've struggled to accept who I am as a woman, shedding floods of tears and weeping agonizing prayers to God asking Him to take it away. In the process, I take two or three steps forward only to take those same two or three steps back. It's the dance of my life as I battle my own body image and learn to love myself for who God created me to be.
We are six weeks into 2012, and I've been on an emotional roller coaster for most of that time. I'll be celebrating my 40th birthday in September and I'm struggling with that particular milestone. On top of that, I'm dealing with recovering from the severe anxiety and panic attacks of 2011. Somewhere in all of that, I began to battle with self-esteem and body image again. It's the same old song sung to the same old tune, just a different verse.
Two nights ago I was up at 3 am, praying as silent tears rolled down my cheeks. I typed words, begging God again to help me lay the burden of PCOS down before His throne, to find beauty in who I was not because of me but because of Him. As the rain fell outside and the clock on the wall ticked the night away, I wrote the words that follow:
Father God, I want to feel fully woman, to be able to lose weight, to not be ashamed or self conscious of my appearance. I want to have a body that works normally in honor of your temple, instead of feeling like my body is run down and junky. I want to live a healthy life so that I am honoring where you reside ... in me!
Yet I am ashamed of the way I look.
I am ashamed of my thinning hair.
I am ashamed of the hair on my body in places where it should not be.
Father, help me.
There is the silence of the quiet night house, I heard God’s response to me: I was born in a barn, among the animal stalls. A manger is not clean nor is it beautiful ... and yet, Paige, what more beautiful place could there have been? Do not forget. I bring beauty to all places, and I bring beauty to all people who trust in Me. Beauty is defined in Me.
Peace ... peace from the inner struggle, peace from the doubt, peace from the fear, peace for the night.
I still don't wake up feeling beautiful, but today I'm not so consumed with my own perceived lack of beauty. And I'm learning again to embrace the words of Psalm 45:11 ...
The King is enthralled by your beauty; honor Him, for He is your Lord.
For My Valentine
The picture was sweet ... an elderly couple holding hands and beaming at each other. The newspaper article said that they had been married for 71 years. Imagine that. Seven decades of love. Some might shake their heads and ponder that sort of commitment. Not me.
When Jon asked me to be his bride, I told him what he already knew. I wouldn't settle for less than a lifetime of love. And then I surprised him by saying that I expected him to live to be 101 years and 2 days old, just so we could celebrate our 60th anniversary. Jon laughed. I think he thought I was joking, but I wasn't. In fact, I remind him of my expectations often.
My marriage is young yet, just 13 1/2 months old. I suppose to some who have been married for decades it seems like such an incredibly short time. We still get comments about how the honeymoon must not have ended yet. I always respond with a smile and say that I hope it never does!
And yet ... there's this lingering fear that it might. After all, don't all marriages go through bad times, seasons where the love isn't as strong and the romance has faded and the honeymoon is obviously over? Jon expressed this thought to our pastor during lunch this past Sunday, and we were both surprised by his reply. He basically said that he didn't buy that idea that love in a marriage fades. He said that he had been married nearly 30 years and that he could honestly say that his marriage hasn't gone through periods like that. He admitted that romance looked differently now than it did in the beginning and that their love had matured as the years had passed. He also commented that the Bible gives us the tools to keeping the love alive in our marriages, such as not letting the sun go down on our anger.
Maturing love ... I like that. Furthermore, I want that in my marriage. I want a love that grows deeper and stronger, instead of one that wilts and fades like the dozen roses given to a valentine.
Our love may not be a mature love now, but I am committed to growing in that love for a lifetime.
When Jon asked me to be his bride, I told him what he already knew. I wouldn't settle for less than a lifetime of love. And then I surprised him by saying that I expected him to live to be 101 years and 2 days old, just so we could celebrate our 60th anniversary. Jon laughed. I think he thought I was joking, but I wasn't. In fact, I remind him of my expectations often.
My marriage is young yet, just 13 1/2 months old. I suppose to some who have been married for decades it seems like such an incredibly short time. We still get comments about how the honeymoon must not have ended yet. I always respond with a smile and say that I hope it never does!
And yet ... there's this lingering fear that it might. After all, don't all marriages go through bad times, seasons where the love isn't as strong and the romance has faded and the honeymoon is obviously over? Jon expressed this thought to our pastor during lunch this past Sunday, and we were both surprised by his reply. He basically said that he didn't buy that idea that love in a marriage fades. He said that he had been married nearly 30 years and that he could honestly say that his marriage hasn't gone through periods like that. He admitted that romance looked differently now than it did in the beginning and that their love had matured as the years had passed. He also commented that the Bible gives us the tools to keeping the love alive in our marriages, such as not letting the sun go down on our anger.
Maturing love ... I like that. Furthermore, I want that in my marriage. I want a love that grows deeper and stronger, instead of one that wilts and fades like the dozen roses given to a valentine.
Our love may not be a mature love now, but I am committed to growing in that love for a lifetime.
Audrey Assad - Ought To Be (Lyric Slideshow) from emimusic on GodTube.com.
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