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.

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.