Pretty Bows and Ashes

"God, I put a real pretty bow on it."

Those are the words I prayed to the Lord this past Sunday. Like a little kid trying to express how I've made the best of a yucky situation. It's ugly God, but I put a real pretty bow on it. It wasn't my fault that I got this gift but I put a real pretty bow on it. And I wrapped it in lots and lots and lots of paper. 

But it's a real pretty bow.

I didn't want anyone to see the present I got from my childhood. I didn't want them to see how it still affects me. After all, I'm a grown up now. Those things should have been dealt with or forgotten by now, right? So if I wrap it up real pretty they won't be able to see the ugly. People won't see the hurt I'm ashamed to have born for so long.

The problem with that is that sometimes (oftentimes) the ugly creeps through the paper. And it messes with me. It messes with my emotions. It distorts my perception of my relationships. It distorts the way I see the ones I love the most. 

Instead of believing the best I become certain of the worst. Instead of trusting I'm suspicious. Instead of loving I guard myself from the people I need the most. Instead of being who I am purposed to be I behave like the very person I'm afraid of becoming.

All because of the present I got when I was a little girl. The people that ought to have been there weren't; the people who should have stood guard over me fell asleep; the ones who should have been diligent were lazy. And it absolutely positively stinks to admit that to anyone. To admit that it still bothers me. That one of my motivations in life is to not be like my parents.

So I put some more paper on it. And I put a real pretty bow on it. It's real pretty.

See? At least it's pretty, right?

Except it's not. It hurts to hold it. Yet I'm afraid to let it go. Afraid to let it be unwrapped.

If I let it go: then who am I? What do I have left of my parents? And who exactly can I trust with this thing I've treated as my inheritance? What if somehow I find out that I was mistreated because there is something wrong with me? What if I'm not worth what God says I am?

This is where the rubber meets the road and I go all out in my trust of the Lord. This is where all that leaning on Jesus turns into complete and utter trust that He won't leave me hanging. He won't leave me with abandonment and neglect as my inheritance. He will not forsake me. He will not be lazy concerning me. And Jesus says I'm worth every step He made on that walk to Calvary. 

So I trust that He will give me beauty for ashes. I trust that He's trustworthy. 

"... He will give a crown of beauty for ashes..." Isaiah 61:3

Until that day; until I see the beauty in the midst of the rubble wrapped in a pretty bow; I'm going to keep moving forward. Trusting. Praying. Hoping. And enjoying my life.

Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees.

Hebrews 12:12 NIV

My knees may be weak. My arms may be feeble. But they won't always be. The more I walk on my legs and use my arms the more strength and power I'll gain. I'll walk farther and love more than I could with a box of rubble holding me back. The more I become like Jesus the less I will be like the person I've been terrified of turning out to be. 

I choose to walk on. 

I'm not going to put any more bows on ashes. I won't wrap it up any longer. I'm not going to attempt to make a curse a blessing any longer. 

I refuse to keep holding myself captive.

But I'll keep the bows as I kick the ashes off my feet!

Is there anything you've been covering up, trying to make the best of a cruddy situation? Can I encourage you to be brave enough to stop covering up and start being real with yourself? Be real with God. Be real with your friends. And know that's you are more than enough. You don't have to be like anyone else and on the flip side you don't have to not be like them either. Just be you: beautiful, real, full of purpose, and worth so much more than you know.

In a Nutshell

I have so many ideas rattling around in my head.

One devotion on bed making. One about listening to foot steps. Another about little white crosses. Then there's the one where I bare my soul and tell my story.

This is me talking to y'all. About wishing I could talk about something.

And I can't write a thing. I want to be funny. I want to be deep. I want to be loved. I want to be smart. Or at least sound funny, deep, lovable, and smart. But I gots nothing. 

But I have ideas. And I do have a passion for people. I love them. Even the ones that are mean to me. Or the ones who poop on my floor. (I'm talking about you, little Larry!) I want them to feel loved and accepted. My heart aches for those who have been rejected.

And with that comes my post tonight; my confession if you will.

I was one of those that was mean. Still am sometimes. I'm sure I pooped on a floor back in the day. Hopefully I won't do that again anytime soon. And I've been rejected. By many people: peers, teachers, parents, family, and church folk.

Oh the feels. 

Y'all. So. Much. Hurt. So many feels as some of my much-funnier-than-I-am friends would say. So much hurt that I endured; so much hurt that I inflicted. And I'd do it on purpose. Boo.

I tell you, her sins-and they are many-have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.

Luke 7:47

I'm different now though. Maybe it's because I know I hurt others and still stand forgiven that I love a lot now. That's not a boast or encouragement to someone else to go hurting others so you can love them better later. But it's hope for those who hurt others out of their deep wounds. It's hope for those of us who have been rejected and wounded and demeaned.

That sign described a good 7 years of my Christian walk: I hadn't learned to walk in my freedom yet.

I gave a mini sermon last year and got a nick name of "Post It Note Girl." It started off with me holding a pad of Post Its and each time I'd pull off a note I'd stick it to myself along with a label. Like, when I was born I was called beautiful. Then on down the line all the way to my adult years and the names that were used to describe me. Pretty, lazy, smart, angry, liar, sweet, promiscuous, depressed, happy, ugly, fat, skinny, sleepy, manipulative, gossip, funny, and abortion patient. After less than two minutes I was covered in sticky notes. The best part was at the end when I ripped all those notes off of me: because the blood of Jesus makes me free. Free to just be Heidi. I don't have to be a goody two shoes or bad girl. I don't have to make excuses for me anymore: I can just be me.

I've got con-fidence...

That's a lot of freedom. Free to just live my life and enjoy it. Free to live my life well. Free to love on people and not judge them. I get to be Heidi. And I don't have to be God: just me.

You can be free, too. 

The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.

John 10:10

Jesus died for you to have life and to have that life more abundant. A richer and fuller life: one where you need not concern yourself with what people think of you because you know you are pleasing to God. You're accepted. You're loved. Your mess has been washed away. The meanness has been healed.

All you've gotta do is accept it and live it. That's as easy and as hard as it sounds. And it's worth it. 

And that's my story.. in a nutshell. 

Shoot me an email with any questions or comments: ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com

I look forward to hearing from you and maybe hearing your story.

My friend Laura took these pictures. She won't admit it but she is a genius! Love her.