Pearls

pearl /pərl/ noun

1. a hard, lustrous spherical mass, typically white or bluish-gray, formed within the shell of a pearl oyster or other bivalve mollusk and highly prized as a gem.

2.a precious thing; the finest example of something

Here we go now...

I love Fiona Apple. Especially her early years. Lyrics and music that mirrored my sense of deep ache and passion; that gave voice to my emotions. One particular song has a line that's been playing in my mental soundtrack for the past few months is from her album Tidal:

But he washed me shore

And he took my pearl

And left an empty

Shell of me.

Sullen Girl, Fiona Apple

This image is breathtaking and terrifying to me.

I wrote out that song from memory today and when I double checked the lyrics I was amazed at how well I remembered each line. I can't seem to remember my husband's favorite pizza rolls but I recall song lyrics. 

After I wrote out the lyrics I followed with my own line:

Oh precious girl. Don't you know your worth is not found in the pearl?

Oysters can make multiple pearls. Pearls cannot make oysters. Oysters are brilliant and fascinating creatures. Pearls are not creatures but things created.

Lovely and still terrifying.

While organizing my kids' play room to make space for the presents they will surely acquire during Christmas I cried. So sad and confused, lonely and afraid. Afraid of being rejected, abandoned, and judged.

And those fears are valid. I have been rejected by my father. Abandoned by my mother. And judged by ones who had the opportunity to shelter me. As much as I hate to admit it... I'm grieving that. In years past I've tried to push the emotions under the rug or shove them down or worse: deny that they were valid and real.

My pearls. You can't have them.

I would look at the pearls that were created by the hardships and pretend that those were good enough. Because aren't they pretty? If I can just make those outside of me see pretty then I am pretty, right? If I can make the illusion that I am heidiva and full of laughter then they won't see the pain, right? If I show them the pearl they won't bother to look at the wounded oyster, right?

Right. 

Now that is my safe zone. Not as pretty and not so terrifying.

Sadly and truthfully: I've been living my life with my oyster shell half open, mostly shut. I'll let you in far enough to see the pretty pearls, but not so much that you will see the whole shebang. You may give me more grit and then I will have to make yet another pearl... And I don't have anymore room for more pearls, you understand? 

What I'm deeply afraid of and resist: being forced open.

And the pearls are not enough for me. It's not enough to have the pearls: I want life and the living that comes with it. I need to breathe in the open in order to be able to live. And be unafraid to just be whether or not I have any pearls. Brave enough to just let go of the pearls and be an oyster. Brazen enough to live the life I am purposed to live whether or not I get any other pearls. Secure enough to let people see the real me, oyster and all, audibly, and out loud.

You see, an oyster will be an oyster, with or without pearls.

The grit will come. And I am learning to live the life of an oyster with her shell open; filtering out the grit and choosing which grains are worth the pearl. Bit by bit, painstakingly, slow to the point that I don't think I can go any slower, I'm learning. Maybe no one including myself sees the progress quite yet: that doesn't negate that I am doing the work in learning to trust that I am safe, sound, and enough.

Beautiful, inside and out, without judgment.

Exposed

 I dreamt tomorrow will have a prettier face. I dreamt tomorrow would have better things to say. . . 'Cos that day, never should have taken place. . .

Poe, "That Day"

Y'all. My chest feels split open wide. Exposed. Vulnerable. And I cried so hard last night that I nearly vomited. The grief, the injustice, the unadulterated pain, the earth shattering agony: it broke me. 

My glass tower broke. And here I am, unsure of how I will face tomorrow. I don't know how I can or will. I'm broken and it feels like I'm sitting in the middle of it all, picking up the pieces knowing I can't put it back together. 

I'm broken yet not missing any pieces. Broken and whole, simultaneously.

And I'm scared. Scared of being poked or prodded. Scared I will be further broken. Scared that someone will take a piece of me and not give it back.

I want to hide.

Instead I stand, exposed, vulnerable. Instead I stubbornly live with what feels like gaping wounds. I cry and I no longer hide the tears.

 

Oh, God. Are people going to know me, see inside me now?

My prayer used to be for God to hide me. That no longer fits me, who I am becoming. Hiding is not me living authentically as me.

I want to hide. But I need to run, free. Not underground, not running for cover, but running to live.

I'm finding my voice. 

And my memories are reappearing. Things I had forgotten so long ago I am now remembering more clearly. Things my mother told me didn't happen that way... they did happen that way.  

Light will still shine in forgotten places.

And I meekly tell my husband what I theorize to be the reasons I stopped speaking, stopped remembering, feebly giving voice to my emotions and experiences. He patiently listens.

Still everything in me screams to run for cover. To go lay in bed. To give up. To crumple and die (figuratively).

Instead I stay. I get out of bed. I give more than what I think I have to give. I stand up and live.

Through the gaping hole, not inside it, is where I belong.

Turn you to the strong hold, ye prisoners of hope. . .

Zechariah 9:12 KJV

In the midst of the pain and torment: God is good. In the midst of my questions, my angry interrogations of Him, He is good. He was good then, He is good now. 

My strong hold, my safe place: it's not in hiding any longer. It is living unashamed in the great wide open.

And I cling to that. Somehow, someway, in this broken world filled with broken people, God is good. I'm allowed to be me. And that gives me hope.

I live.

And I am alive. Alive to go through the motions if that's all I've got right now. And this is better than not living, not feeling, and not experiencing.

Living is not easy. I wish it were. But it is worth the work, worth the effort, worth the pain and tears. 

It's worth it for the days with prettier faces.

And if you are still hiding: it's okay. Keep hiding until you are safe to come out. You are brave to still be living and I am so proud of you. You are so strong and I so admire you.

Feel free to reach out to me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or in the comment section on this blog. I hope to hear from you.

Everyday

I die daily.

1 Corinthians 15:31

The Apostle Paul said this in his letter to the Corinth church. In other versions it reads, "I face death daily." 

Me too, Paul. Me too.

I die daily to the desire to quit. I die daily to the nagging feeling in my gut telling me to stay in bed. I die daily to pushing everyone I know and need away. I die daily to going back into my clam shell. I die daily to the tapes in my head that replay arguments I've won and lost. I die daily to self talk that tells me I'm lazy and stupid and ugly. I die daily to the voice that tells me my life is not worth living. I die to what I am inclined to think and do and desire in the depression.

That's a lot of dying there. A lot of death. 

And with it comes my choice to live. To not just breathe and do but to just be and in that being to be me. I get to live. And see the sun and sea and grass and trees and clouds and... breathe.

For real. This is what I get to breathe and drink in.

I live and I run and I dance and I write. I read and I talk and I eat and I sleep and I dream. I raise babies and love my husband and deepen relationships.

And in that being I'm creating who I want to be. 

I want to be the mom who volunteers and lets the church's toddler class play (too) loudly. I want to be the wife who remembers her husband's favorite foods. I want to be the mom who lets her boy be wild and her girl be mild. I want to be the woman who is creative and engaging. I want to be the friend who washes the feet of those she loves. 

And in all fairness: I am that woman.

And everyday I choose. I either dwell and die in the past and the hurts and the depression or I die to the past and the hurts and the depression. Yes, they are still there: I don't deny their existence. That's why I face death daily (sometimes minute by minute). And I choose who and what dies within me. And I choose who and what lives within me.

And it's a fight to the death and a victory to the living. 

I fight death by living now. I choose it: intentionally, thoughtfully, willfully, thankfully, and prayerfully albeit not perfectly. And it feels like a fight to the death and then to the life.

I die (proverbially) so that I can live (in actuality). 

I live. 

And it's worth the fight to live.

Questions, comments, or feedback? Feel free to communicate via email at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or right here on the blog.

Alive to Live

I'm feeling brave enough to write again for the first time in two months. Well, blog writing. I've been writing absolutely awful short stories and abysmal poetry. Like, so bad even I don't want to read them. Even melodramatic pre-teeny boppers would find it too painful to read. 

Now that that's out of the way. On to the real stuff. The painful stuff. The living stuff. 

There is an old Creed song that begs the question of what is this life for and maybe it's the depression talking but I've related more to that song than I have in like.. months. (I know I'm not being funny but work with me here. I'm trying.) And the answer I come up with is this:

I'm alive to live.

Too simple? Maybe. But it brings me back to reality. To the living. The reason I am alive and breathing and here on this planet is to live and breathe and be. 

I live. Little and fierce and frightened and alive.

But I'm alive to live. I know that much. I'm alive to be here. To look and see and inhale and exhale and dream and wake and taste and touch. To love and be loved. To talk and listen. To enjoy life and creation. To be passionate in and for and with life.

And I am passionate about writing. And loving people: I mean really loving them. When I hate what they do and how they destroy themselves: I love them even when they don't love themselves. I want them to be and feel accepted when everything around them screams judgment and condemnation. I want to be the safe place. Because I understand and have breathed the opposite.

Honestly: I am so scared. And feel so unsafe. And broken. Oh God, the brokenness. I feel like I'm dying yet I'm still alive. Always dying and never really living. I spent Sunday morning crying on the floor of my church's bathroom. Crying in near hysterics, because of a disagreement that crippled the control I had over my emotions. Then I cried on the way to our small group meeting. Just streams of tears. Refusing to tell our pastor (y'know, the man we asked to mentor and help guide us) what the issue was, is. And I just couldn't pull it together. 

It feels like there is a glass city of emotion in my gut that goes up to my chest. And when I'm in conflict each word that the other person speaks just cracks the glass. Until I'm nothing but shards in there and so scared that if I move I will completely break and just disintegrate into nothing. 

That's inside my chest. Pretty but bound to crack.

And why am I this way? What happened to me to make me so scared and rule driven? Am I wrong? Does it even matter? I'm afraid that no one would love me, accept me, if they really knew me. If they knew the things I've done (and y'all, I'm as open of a book there as I know how to be) they couldn't bear to be around me. If they only knew how tainted and jaded and imperfect I am. 

Like when I'm mad, I think cuss words. And sometimes, I even say them. Or when I feel particularly vulnerable and don't think I can protect myself I imagine the unspeakable. Or that my dad doesn't want me and my mom only cares on her own terms. When my paternal grandparents died no one told me. Or that I don't read to my kids every day or even every week. I procrastinate and forget birthdays. I over promise and under deliver. And I am so afraid of failure. So afraid to be rejected yet again, by yet another friend or family member. And I take rejection as failure; make it my own fault even when it isn't. I berate myself for every misstep and don't see what others see in me.

I don't see the favorable comments my friends posted: I see the baggy under eyes and misshapen lips. I cried reading each comment that said how beautiful and loved I am.

So afraid of the good times because that it just means that the bad times are on their way. Afraid of the bad times because good times aren't always on the immediate horizon. Terrified that God can save me but He won't. That I've made too many mistakes. That I didn't believe enough. If I only had more faith, then my proverbial prison door would open. That His love and grace are conditional on me getting "it" right, if only I could figure out what that "it" is. For the record I hate that "it." It hinders and binds and shames and isn't real and I know it but I can't seem to shake it.

And yet I'm alive and I have a stubborn hope living inside of me. In my glass case of emotions that is slowly but surely shattering I am alive. Maybe that's where the living is? When the case surrounding my insides is shattered and gone. During one of my runs (this is when I pound away at the hard stuff I can't bear to think of when I'm not physically consumed) I thought of how the seasons are turning and soon enough winter will be here. Death. Winter is the dying away of summer and green and the purples and pinks I adore; and the sun just doesn't shine as well in the gray and bleak winter death.

I know there is life here. And yet I ache and grieve as though it's all death.

". . . old things are passed away. . ." 

2 Corinthians 5:17

I know there is more to the verse. I know that there is a "Behold! All things are new!" before and after the passing away of the old. But before we get to the new things there is a death. Death to the old. And no matter how awful that thing that passes away was death still has a bitterness to it. There's a sadness there. Ecclesiastes says there is a time to live and a time to die. And it feels like a great big chunk of me is dying now. And it hurts. Hurts to know that my early life was just as bad, if not worse, then what I had chalked it up to be. Hurts to know I've been hurting others. Hurts to move forward because I'm not sure I know how.

It should be noted that I picked my nose on purpose for this photo. It's my fave. I couldn't leave you with all sadness.

Y'all. I'm Heidi. And I'm a mess. A mess who takes pictures with her finger up her nose. And I'm still here. Living, breathing, being. It feels like dying but really it's living. It's painful and I'm alive to feel it. Yes, I want a pill to take to numb the pain. Yes, I want a band aid to hide the wound. Yes, I want to quit and act like this period of life has never really happened. And I don't take the pill, refuse the useless band aid, and keep persisting despite the pain.**

So this is the least heart warming post I've ever written and I hope it's the last miserable one I ever write. But it's real. It's where I'm at. And it is NOT where I am staying. There is a light. There is the dawning of a new day. There is life after death. I am alive and I will thrive. Join me, won't you? I invite your feedback either at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or right here in the comment section.

**I am not an expert on mental illness or mood disorders. I am only speaking for me and not any other person on this planet-if you and your medical professional have decided on a pharmaceutical treatment plan I applaud you! And am so proud of you for choosing life and the path to wholeness. You are great and I love you. For reals.

Halted but Hopeful

And I will make her that halted a remnant, and her that was cast far off a strong nation: and the LORD shall reign over them in mount Zion from henceforth, even for ever.

Micah 4:7 KJV

I know, I know. What the hey, diva? What does this verse have to do with anything at all? Well.. allow me to not clarify. Kidding! But I will warn you: this is not a funny or terribly heart warming post. 

Two weeks ago I had a very difficult conversation with my husband. I admitted that I'm depressed and have been getting worse over the past two months. And not your run of the mill mind over matter feeling sad. 

That's the feeling that was evoked. Failed. Fatal. Halted.

Not enjoying life. Poor eating habits. Decline in sleep. And you know.. the other negative symptoms that one doesn't want to say. 

The day after our conversation he scheduled an appointment with a counselor and our pastor. 

It wasn't real until I saw the counselor and he confirmed that yes, you have depression. You are not weak or faithless. Full blown depression. You will have to work to fight this. You are not broken. You have a chemical imbalance. You are not depression. You are not the pit in your chest. You are not the fog in your brain. And yes, the depression is ruling the roost right now. 

This is what the fog in my head feels like: I do my best to focus and it is exhausting to think.

So. That was fun. If by fun you mean gut wrenching. Because I've been here before. I've been in a hospital room for three days fighting for my life after a massive overdose when I was just nineteen years old. I've been in mental institutions on numerous occasions. I've been on anti-depressants, and anti-anxiety pills, and sleeping pills. I've seen counselors for most of my childhood. 

And I've been free from the stigma of it for over thirteen years. Almost my entire adult life. And here I go again. 

I thought my depression was environmental. I thought it was my unwell mother. I thought it was abuse I witnessed and endured. I thought it was a label tacked on me. I thought it was because I wasn't a Christian. I thought it was...

And here I am. Admitting to all ten of my readers that it was more than just a bad childhood. It was more than me not knowing Jesus. It was more than just a stigma. And there has been so. much. shame. that has accompanied it.

It is here. Like a big angry ball of yarn splitting at the seams of my chest. And I feel "halted" as the KJV describes it in Micah 4:7. I feel broken. I feel picked on. I feel stunted. Confused and blind sided by what I could have seen coming had I only paid attention.

Somehow this is what I imagine it looks like. Heavy and scratching and confusing and there's something beneath it that you can't see.

But it won't be forever. It won't be forever that I feel this way and am affected so greatly. It won't be forever. And whether it is quelled by lifestyle or free will or prescriptions or Jesus: it will be quelled. And I will come forth better suited for my purpose.

I confess it's already brought some good with it.  

Yes. That's me in the palm of God's hands.

With all of that said: I've been halted. But I'm hopeful. Because I'm alive and just like the Lord promised to the remnant of Israel that she would be a strong nation: I believe him when he says that my latter will be greater. I believe that this will be my finest hour. I believe that somehow this works to perfect that which concerns me. I believe that this works at purifying my heart. I believe that this pruning and these deeper waters will result in me flourishing. I'll know a greater freedom than I ever have before.

And somehow, at the time of this writing, I am free. I'm alive. 

I will not die; instead, I will live

to tell what the LORD has done.

Psalm 118:17 NLT

I will be Heidi, without walls.

This is not Jeopardy

"I'll take Famous Last Words for $200, Alex." 

"This self proclaimed lady and scholar declared 'I'm starting to feel myself again' before becoming violently ill."

"Who is Heidiva?"

"Correct. The infamous diva went on to repeat the cycle of saying she felt herself again then being knocked down by illness at least a half a dozen times before she finally learned to stop using the phrase."


Y'all. I can't. The love for this sketch just overwhelms my heart. 

Story of my life this past month and a half. As soon as I feel normal and say that I feel like myself again BAM! stomach virus or an awful phone call strikes. And I get knocked down; forced to just rest my body and mind.

I keep saying that "I'm finally feeling like myself" after I work out whatever illness or family crisis passes and then something happens again. I finally start feeling like the lady who has it all together again and then.. I'm proven wrong. I don't have it all together. I can't keep myself from getting sick. Or getting a phone call saying someone has died. Or being told that I'm not the person I say I am, by someone who barely knows me. I can't even keep myself from sending an email with grammatical errors. 

I. Am. So. Human.


The Whiiiiiiinnnerrrrss...

And it bugs me. I want to have control over something. I want to have it all. I want to be disciplined and beautiful and crafty and thin and funny and smart and the best mother ever. I want to be a great cook and housekeeper. I want to be able to function on four hours sleep without coffee. I want to be mild mannered but a bold conversationalist. I. Demand. Perfection.


Perfection=More Cowbell

And I suck at perfection. I just do. I am not perfect. I offend people when I think I'm being hilarious or helpful. I get defriended on Facebook. And I get mad and hurt that I'm defriended by people. I eat so much candy that my teeth hurt. I'm grumpy past ten. Okay, eight. A.M.

I miss my brother. I miss when life was easy (when was that again?). I'm nostalgic for when life was so filled with wonder and void of disappointments. I'm nostalgic for eighties music, blue eye shadow, and my BFF's that used to pass me notes in the hall. I so miss mix tapes. And SNL. 

It's so obvious I don't have it all together.


You wish you could be this cool. I wish I were that cool.

The all together girls don't get nostalgic for time periods that never existed. They don't miss people or things they can't have. They don't get bothered by being defriended on social media. They vacuum and wash their dishes daily. Their hair is washed and styled. They wear make up though they don't really need it. They wake up early to exercise and do their Bible studies before the butt crack of dawn. And they don't say things like "the butt crack of dawn." They're funny and charming; but classier and more likable in their humor. They don't promise their kids the most popular toys since the stinkin' Furby that is NEVER in stock. They also don't give their kids candy after they've brushed their teeth, four minutes before bed. They probably don't let their kids drink soda, either. They definitely don't make fun of ugly babies or their ugly parents. (Everybody ain't pretty y'all.)

All together girls... well, they aren't my kind of girls. Mainly because they're not real. Those girls you see on Facebook or Instagram with their perfect kids, jobs, husbands, history, make up, bodies? Don't exist. Oh, they're lovely, and I'm sure that's for real. But don't compare your grass to theirs; you don't know the compost heap they've had to develop to keep every hair in place. You don't see their Monday mornings. You don't see them forgetting dry cleaning and milk spoiling in their carpet (someone tell me I'm not alone on that one). You don't see them desperately dry shampooing their hair. You don't see the fights, the tears, and their perfectly imperfect lives. You don't know their whole story. And they don't know yours. They might wish they could be as natural or confident or funny or whatever-makes-you-you as you are. Or maybe they don't.

Maybe they're just trying to make it in this life as hard as you are. Maybe they are trying to attain perfection in an imperfect world.. to get a piece of heaven here and now. Maybe we all just need to, want to, yearn to, stop the madness of competition and comparison. None of us have it all together.

And that's more than okay: we weren't made to have it or be it "all."


Except Greg and Ariana. They're the total package.

***********I started this post a few months ago. And its message is relevant to me today still. I want it all and can't have it all. I think the lesson here is to learn contentment while still preparing for that proverbial harvest. It's loving what you have more than you lament what you don't. It's being transparent when your heart seems to be broken in a million pieces around you and carrion birds are circling over head waiting to devour. It's knowing that even though you don't feel okay it will be okay. Even though you feel like a mess: *you* aren't a mess. Maybe you're beautiful just the way you are. Maybe you are perfect just the way you were made. Maybe it's okay to be you. Maybe I say maybe when I mean to say this: you are perfect just the way you are. Beloved, there is no flaw in you.(Song of Solomon 4:7) Were there cracks and mars and dents inflicted on you by yourself or others? Absolutely. But in you, who you are, how you were designed, who you were created to be; there is no flaw. That's how I believe God sees us through Jesus. There is no flaw in you. Rest in that. God sees you through eyes of love. There is no flaw in you. I keep typing it because I have to repeat it to myself. There is nothing fundamentally wrong with you: there is no flaw in you. This is not all to say that we don't have a sin nature that needs to be surrendered and sins of which we need to repent.. But you.. You as a person? No flaw. You as God sees you through Jesus? No flaw.***************

Mothers, Daughters, and Sour Grapes

So.. I should be getting ready to go to a ladies retreat. 

I've packed already.

But my face is naked and my hair is wild.

And I want to write more than I want to look pretty.

For as long as I can remember I've been told how much I look like my mother. It's a two sided coin. Sometimes I take it as a compliment.. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see her face. 

And sometimes I see a picture of myself and groan because I see a classic facial expression she makes that I am now making. 

That right there: the tongue slightly protruding. That is my mother. And her mother.

I love the picture above. It looks like me. It reminds me of the mini diva since she used to always stick her tongue out. And I simultaneously hate it since that is my mother.

My mom is a beautiful lady. I have her nose and mouth and cheekbones. I'm pretty sure everything else is from my dad's side. The fact that I hate how much I favor her is ridiculous since I find her so beautiful. (Am I overusing that word? Probably. But it fits her.)

I remember when I was in my adolescent years I hated looking like my mom. She and I fought so much that when I saw her in the mirror I hated me. Even now I don't love that I look like her; but that's got nothing to do with what she actually looks like. Why do I do that? Why throw out the proverbial baby with the bath water? And I do it with more people than just my mother.

Things get hard and I get hardened. Someone says something offensive and I never want to talk to them again for as long as I live. I believe that the offender meant to hurt me and damage me. I know I'm not alone.

I was recently "unfriended" on Facebook by a lady. It's happened before and I'm sure it will happen again. I've been trying this new thing where I actually communicate with the people I have either offended or have offended me and try to reconcile the relationship. Or at least bring some kind of resolution.

Her reason for unfriending me? She was embarrassed by something she did. And I made too big of a deal of it by being hurt or asking her about it. That she often gets taken the wrong way. Then she asked what I wanted her to do about it. I'm not sure what I wanted: but I wanted a different response from what I got. The conversation ended with me just telling her to know that her actions affect other people because she is important to them.

I'm glad for the communication with her but it was like we were speaking two different languages. Entirely different languages. Opposite languages. The words just wouldn't mesh. And that's okay. It has to be since I can't change it. ;)

That's how I know I'm not alone: other people want to just erase all evidence of their hurts too. But that doesn't mean you act on it: it doesn't make it right to just rub people with an unfriend eraser like they never mattered to you at all.


My face is my mom to a T. Mini diva is her own and perfect and wonderful in every way. Little Larry was still baking in this picture.

... every man that eateth the sour grape, his teeth shall be set on edge.
Jeremiah 31:30

I'm afraid that my teeth will be set on edge because of someone else's mistakes. I take their foolishness as my own and instead of recognizing that that's not God's plan for me.. I eat the grapes. And I do my best to erase the memories by deleting the pictures that remind me of the person's grapes I choked down. By hiding the pictures that show how much I favor my mom and her mannerisms. By scolding myself when I sing the songs she used to sing to me to my kids. (I'm pretty sure they were all made up by her. I make songs up for my kids too.)

I fight that urge. And I've grown immensely in this area. I take risks like asking if my perceptions are true. I see that people are... people. People I can learn from and people that I can learn to love beyond their folly or bitterness. And it's okay to not write them off, it's a good thing to love them, and sometimes it's a good thing to love them with boundaries in place.


That's my mom and me at one of my bridal parties. I couldn't find one with her tongue stuck out.

My mom is funny. She is creative. She is smart. And yes, she is beautiful. I like to think that we can glean the good from our parents and leave the weeds. I like to think my kids will do that with me: take the good stuff, leave the waste. I like to think that's the way my mom believes. That she wants me to hold on to the good she had to offer and to feel okay with leaving the sour grapes.

I can do that with my unfriends, too. (Yes, I've been unfriended more than once. By people I loved a whole lot.) Take the good from it and leave the yuck.

... but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead.
Philippians 3:13 NLT

The yuck stuff; the stuff that weighs you down? Forget it and look towards what lies ahead. Those unfriendships and those offenses? Take the good from it and move ahead to what's next for you. Keep moving forward. It's okay to look like your family: you aren't them. You are your own self; free to make your own mistakes, free to achieve your own successes. Even if you stick your tongue out while doing it.


I'm pretty sure this is all me.

If the Shoe Fits...

Just because the shoe fits don't mean you gotta wear it.

Let me show the picture I was tagged in by one of my most discerning and wise friends:

This is the script that came with the picture: 

"Sometimes she made life more difficult for herself than it was. She decided she didn’t want to live that way anymore. She had the power to choose happiness and so she did. – Queenisms™"

And she tagged me because she thought of me when she posted it. The shoe fits. Boo to making life difficult; yea for having the power to choose better.

Y'all, I've had a really trying month. Year. Life. I'm not unique in that and I know it. But the past month has definitely been difficult. Be prepared to read a few heavy lines coming up in the next paragraph.

My stepdad was found dead in the apartment he shared with my mom. My mom was in a psychiatric hospital for a month undergoing treatment. There was an implication by multiple sources including my mother that I was expected to find (read: fund) a place for her to live, to get her car out of the impound lot, and to deal with her legal issues. Yeaaahhh... 

Add to this a trip to the ER for Little Larry, stomach flu for each member of the family (in rounds-yea!), another strange sickness that skipped my husband, and the fact that being a work at home mom and wife is not a walk in the park (that's not a complaint; just reality).

In the midst of my weariness I found myself wearing old shoes. The old, worn, comfy boots of depression and anxiety. They fit: but only because I lived them so long. I don't like them. They don't suit me or the person I've become anymore. 

Can't move in these. Can't do anything in them.

Sadly they fit me from the time I was ten until I was nineteen. I was nineteen when I broke free from the bondage of suicide and depression. That was three years before I met Jesus and He saved me. A lot of that is contributed to the therapist I had the honor of being treated by: he invested in me and taught me more than I was able to grasp in the moment. It's hard work to stay alive when you have lived trying to die for half your life.

It would be an untruth to say I haven't struggled with my status as an over comer the past thirteen years. But I didn't put the shoes back on. I struggled, I wrestled, I battled, I cried. But I won. I kept the shoes off.

These are what I think I have to wear: protect my feet from the old familiar.

Then this past month with all of the blows I took... instead of keeping my combat boots on I started going bare foot. And in my weariness I hardly noticed that the old shoes went back on. And the laces were knotted. And tied together. Every time I started to get up I tripped on the laces and fell back down. 

Granted, I needed to rest. I needed to stop saying yes to so much and volunteering to take on more. But that doesn't mean I wear old stinky shoes. It means that I rest: in prayer, in worship, in peace. It means I rest physically, emotionally, and mentally. It means that if I volunteer for anything it is to life. It means if I say yes to anyone it is Jesus. It means if I am to put anything on my feet it will be peace.

Instead I put on the other shoes. I made life hard when it was an opportune time for me to learn to rest. That's been a pattern for me: I look so hard for the learning and those things that are difficult that I miss just enjoying life. I miss the roses. Because I taught myself that smelling the flowers and feeling the sun on my face is me being lazy. Me sleeping is me going back to depression and suicide. Me resting = old shoes. 

They're old and musty and heavy.

Y'all. That's not true. Peace doesn't look like anguish. And it doesn't look like constantly looking for the trial or test in the midst of enjoying life. It doesn't look like every unknown phone number being a dreaded telephone call.  And it certainly doesn't look like laying down and dying.

So how do you change shoes that are knotted and laced together once they're on your feet? 

But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

Isaiah 53:5

I love the prophets. Major prophets, minor prophets: they are some of my favorite contributors to the Bible. How raw and real they were and still are. How they just broke open their lives and hearts in obedience to God. It's beautiful. 

For me. And you.

But their sacrifices do not compare to how Jesus was broken and wounded so that I would have life. And have it more abundantly. Freely. The onus is on me to receive it. I get to receive peace daily, hourly, 

minutely because He paid for it on the cross. My sins and wrongdoings: He paid for them with His body. The hurts and shame inflicted on me by others: He bought those too. Those stripe marks that covered the front and back of His body bought my healing. 

Before I was born He paid the way for me to live and enjoy my life. 

That's how the shoes go back to the pit of hell where they came from. That's how I put up the heavy combat boots and trade them for walking in the gospel of peace. I choose to let Him save me. I choose to simply obey Him. To take my rest in Him. I choose to be happy and content. It's as easy and hard as it sounds. 

And it's worth it.

P.S. He's not on the cross anymore.