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.

I Got Peed On Again

But godliness with contentment is great gain.

1 Timothy 6:6

contented: happy and at ease

godly: reverence, respect

I got peed on again today. Little Larry peed the bed. My bed since his bed doesn't have my sheets to soak, right? So, I was up multiple times last night with a coughing mini diva and a restless boy who culminated his performance with warm morning urine. 

Like the phrase, "I got peed on again today."

Let me ask you: what in the world does that have with godliness and contentment? How does one clean a pee covered boy, bed, and then yourself in a godly fashion? And how in tarnation does one do that contentedly? Anyone? 

I'll venture an answer. 

You find the funny in it. You search out the good in it. You forgive the negligence of yourself or others. You actually look for a way to be content in that moment with a kind and gentle spirit. You choose to behave in a manner that is worthy of being called good and respectful.

Next time I want a kid I'm gonna get a chihuahua instead.

I was talking to my husband about the ordeal this morning. After I forgot to feed the minions breakfast he threw some cheerios at them and helped me change the linens. And we talked about how we might not miss that moment; but if we didn't have those babies we'd long for the stories we have.

We talked about how he does things that just irritate the fire out of me. He doesn't wash the dishes or fold the towels the way I am thoroughly convinced is the proper and only sane way possible. And I've grown to the point that if he washes the dishes I don't say a word. And praise Jesus if he folds the towels in any way he sees fit! I don't even refold them after him... anymore.

Because if God forbid anything were to ever happen to him: how I'd wish I would have just let him do things his way. How I'd miss the little things he does that drive me crazy. 

So I'll learn to be content with my choices and blessings thus far; and learn to use them as building blocks for the rest of my life. I'll be content with the car that no longer has a working air conditioner. (It's been the longest six days of my life.) I'll be content to clean poop out of the bathtub because soon enough the minions won't be little enough for me to bathe. I'll be content to clean up spills and messes. I'll find the joy in their drawings all over important documents and contracts. I'll find joy and contentment because I'll choose to look for joy and contentment.

No need to wait until you're old to be lovable.

And for the godliness: I'll choose to behave in a righteous and respectful way. Instead of berating the kid for peeing the bed for the tenth time this month I'll remember he's wet and did not do it on purpose. Instead of angrily changing clothes and casting dirty looks I'll give grace and remember those little eyes that are constantly looking for their mama's approval and acceptance. When the little miss mouths off and screams I'll choose to remember how tired she is after school. And I'll love on her instead of feeding into the tantrum. I'll choose to behave in a way that is fitting of a virtuous woman.

Can I get a wit-ness?

It's a choice. You get to choose how you respond to situations. You choose whether to gripe or rejoice. You choose how to look at your circumstances. What an awesome and terrifying responsibility. Can't someone just tell me what to do? Better yet, can't they just do it for me? Nope. That's the privilege that comes with free will: we get to decide how we act and what to do with our emotions. Choose well.

So when I forget to feed my children cheerios because I'm running on minimal sleep, no food, and no coffee I will choose to forgive myself. And be happy that I have a husband who sends me to bed with no questions asked. 

And I will be so grateful that I have a sense of humor that helps me find the funny in the midst of chocolate milk vomit spewing from my favorite boy and my mini diva telling me that I'm shaped like a loaf of bread.