#reddirtjarjourney Explained


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rootsRed Dirt Jar Journey. I once heard a fellow poet from Alabama reading at an event here in Nashville. She read a poem about Bryce, the state mental hospital. The poem intrigued me because I had always been quite afraid of the institution myself. It was an amazing piece. However, it was something that she shared at the end of the reading that stuck with me. She talked about a rough season she’d walkedwhere she’d gone through a long period of creative drought. Someone advised her to go back to her roots. At some point, she got into her car and went on a journey alone back to where she grew up. While she was there, she filled a jar with red dirt – the same dirt her roots ran from. When she got back to her adult home, she put the jar on her desk. She began to write.

At times, living in Nashville, I’ve felt like I live in a jar. I get well and I make friends and jarthey see me in the jar, the top off. Then, I get sick again and have to stick at home and the lid is back on. I’ve made a few changes, I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone at times, but I’ve usually ended up feeling isolated, unsure of how to walk this decade of my life – even just today. Who am I now? Why am I always sick? How do I make a life for myself? Why is there physical resistance to everything that feeds life into me? Please tell me the 30s are for figuring out.

I got out of the jar that really isn’t a jar … it’s just stuck. It’s just a sense of waste. It’s a sense of time moving and life wasting. I seek to give up control because it’s exhausting. I try to stop putting pressure on myself but at times I feel like a teakettle that won’t allow itself to release the steam.

I went on a journey. My mom was in the hospital, I’d missed seeing everyone in Alabama for so long, and I’d had a difficult time leaving after my cousin passed away. Two weeks. I asked for two weeks of community, of stability, and to love on others while soaking up the presence of people who’d always spoken light into my life. I was going to get away and listen to God and write more. It was a two weeks. It didn’t cure everything. I wasn’t all that better physically but it was a beautiful journey.


The Drive

The drive to and from the red dirt jar journey destination were big victories for me. I hadn’t driven the three hour drive completely alone since probably, well, maybe a year or more. I made three CDs – songs with Alabama or Birmingham in them/folksy songs, girl power songs, and praise songs. The drive felt like knowing myself again. It felt like being brave with God. It felt freeing and hopeful. The drive home was good because I’d had some medicine changed and had been nervous of dizziness, heart palpitations, and feeling out of breath, but I did it and when I got home there was my beautiful husband and my doggies.

The Room

It’s never healthy to be dependent on your past for your current happiness, but being in my old room again showed me a few things. It reminded me at how much I need to be alone at times. Not isolated. Solace in solitude. It reminded me of the things that I need to feel relaxed and happy. It also reminded me of a place that wasn’t always perfect – I’d struggled in those four walls, I’d made mistakes, I’d triumphed, but I new it. It was there then and it was there now and I knew what it was like there. Sure, the walls are brown and not blue. Of course, I’m a different lady. However, I remembered how much I like to light candles. I diffused some essential oils every night. I felt like I could just work, watch a movie, read, or just be how I needed to be without thinking about how it effected someone else or without putting pressure on myself. It had taken me a long time to figure out how to do independent and I was happy there pursuing God and leaning on Him. Mistakes, mis-steps, learning how to do something you’ve never done before … it’s easier when there isn’t someone always watching even if they’re new to this season too and they’re not judging. I made a sanctuary for myself for those two weeks in my old room. I found places for my books, I changed the blankets, and I set up a computer at my old desk and watched the birds. There was so much quiet. I didn’t stay on edge wondering if I’d be interrupted. I lived. My jar was filling even without the dirt. The interesting thing was that my health was not perfect and the things I needed answers for in my life were not gone. I was able to see how to be me again. God helped me. I didn’t give up.


CommunityAs much as I love being alone, I love community. I know it doesn’t really make sense. I do enjoy the balance of being with myself until I need to go be with others. I love the benefits of it. I love the spiritual connections behind the idea of it. I love that community is how we were meant to live. I love people. I have missed community so much in the past three years. At times, I’ve had community and then I’ve had to retreat. Deep down I think that I’ve missed the community that knows me deep, deep, deep. The kind that you can just hug, sit with and say nothing, and just be where you are in that moment. I got a lot of beautiful community when I was in Birmingham.

Sometimes, it’s just nice to be around your parents. It’s nice to be able to go downstairs and have a conversation and act goofy without heaviness or to go hug my mom in her room. It’s nice to feel their presence. It’s also nice to have a vacation from the pressures of “shoulds.” Let’s not forget the great food.

Family! I love my family. I’m a family girl. I never fit completely in Birmingham and maybe I’m different than most of them but if I’m not with my family for extended periods of time, I tend to lose my footing. Best friends included. I was so excited to see my cousin and her kiddos. I’d missed them so much. I’d wanted to play and catch up. There is something about the kids of the person you were with the most, close to your age … you know, your first best friend – their babies. It doesn’t hurt that they’re awesome kids. I miss babysitting them and being in their everyday life. So, I enjoyed spending time talking about school, books, and eating Mexican with my favorite teenager. I enjoyed getting to see the little have his 2nd Birthday party and getting lots of hugs from him. To see the baseball player’s practice and how talented he is and sweet he is. Then there’s Charlie Brown who I love to just observe. Spend the nights at my cousin’s, turns out they’re still one of my “best” things.

I got to have another wonderful spend the night with one of my best friends since high school and it was just what I needed. “Life-giver.” It should be somewhere in her name or her resume. I felt joyful and happy the whole next two days visiting with my husband and I believe a big part of it was having some girl time with one of the people I’ve missed being around. She makes my life a better place. She make me a better me. She remembers me when I forget. She put some laughter in my jar.

I met new friends doing the freelance job I was doing, I got a hug I’d needed for maybe a year from a special friend who I hadn’t seen in awhile, and lots of love from the people who helped me step into adulthood at the paper I used to work for. I got to have a whole day with grandparents. When I married Heath, I received the great gift of having grandparents again … great talks and cooking lessons were a great part of the red dirt jar journey with them. I had a wonderful morning with my 2nd Mom and I treasure the quality time I get to have with her, I got to go get my haircut by my aunt with my Mudder, and I had the privilege of being able to pick up the phone, call my sister, and do things with her right then! I also had a wonderful night getting to know a new friend who loved words, too. I got to work two floors down from my best friend who made things better just by her mere presence. My community cup was full.

The Cemetery

black_wire_coat_hangerI got lost going to a friend’s house one day while I was on the red dirt jar journey. Howdo you get lost when you’re going somewhere you’ve been a million times before? Not sure. I think at times it’s more of a, “I thought I knew where I was going but God was really driving the car.” The car turned into the cemetery gate. I wasn’t planning on going. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could still make the turn. Maybe, I thought, my cousin is there visiting and she’s hurting and she needs me. Maybe that’s what the pull was. So, I drove. I drove past where my grandparents were buried to a new grave, to a grave where I knew there was red dirt. My muscle memory got me most of the way there. It was a cold, cold day the last day I was there. The day they’d lowered his body into the ground. It was summer now. I knew what the grave should look like from photos and there it was. No one was there. Just me. So, I spoke. I watched the pinwheel turn consistently when I would end a sentence and it was almost like a conversation. I told him how proud he would be of his family. I told him he shouldn’t be there. I asked him to help if he was watching over me, to help me stop being such a worrier and get on with life, to help me be a better wife, and to hangout with Lily and Jack until we got to have them here with us. I told him I felt it was unfair that my two favorite people to misbehave with were up in heaven now. As I went to leave, I tripped. I knew that I didn’t trip over me foot. I knew that the ground wasn’t unlevel. I looked down and a coathanger had wrapped around my foot. I stopped and looked at the gravestone. I laughed and sobbed at the same time. In my spirit I felt two words, “Be happy.”

The Jar

I’d had a plan. I was going to fill the jar up with dirt from my childhood home, from the playground of the church I grew up attending, maybe from my mom’s house, and possibly from my grandparents’ grave. On the way home, I had in my car an empty glass jar with a lid on it. As it is, God’s plans are always much larger, much better, and come in perfect timing. What I realized on the drive home is that I needed to start something new. Take the past and the present that I couldn’t quite grasp and begin. I had the journey. I am learning not to live between two states but to be whole. Let go. I think the jar will soon have some planter’s soil and a seed. The journey continues.


Photo by Skip Nall 


Classified Ad: Light-Giving Writer Wants a Job


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Thirty-three-year-old woman writer wants job. In her dreams, she wishes she could make enough to contribute to her family by serving soup to the homeless every day. She has an old soul, desiring a working world that was still run on apprenticeships. In which case, she would love learning floral arrangement, cake-decorating, and archaeology. She desires a job without a desk. However, if a desk is required, decorations will ensue and hopefully, the work environment will be life-giving. Because she will enjoy putting life into her work and in lighting-up those she is working with. This woman has worked in administration, book-selling, custom framing, web design, ecology, teaching, the barista field, the nonprofit sector, event planning, customer service, food, clothing retail, journalism, and in words. In fact, she loves words. First published at sixteen, she began writing as a little girl who missed her favorite TV show and received the gift of a desk in her room where she began her first novel. She speaks publicly, is a gifted storyteller, and thinks well on her feet. A gifted memoir writer, blogger, novice playwright, and a beautiful poet, she is now putting herself out there to be accepted as one who has leaped and wants to trust her God as well as the dreams she was taught her country was founded on. This strong, compassionate woman hopes to someday serve the homeless on a more prominent basis, encourage and give Truth to those who read her words, and someday open a nonprofit for girls to know their true worth and heal through creativity. She believes in stepping stones. Today she just wants a job. Contact via email beautifulinversion@gmail.com or by phone at 615-924-4203.

the american dreamWhen I was much younger, I began reading books by a specific author that wrote all about creativity. In the first book, I remember reading about a time when she had dreamed something and placed an ad for that thing in which she desired in her local newspaper. The request was not small. However, it was fulfilled.

Sometimes, I think that parents, bosses, or even just those of earlier generations see “Gen-Xers” and Millennials as lazy or believe that we think we are entitled before we’ve done anything to earn the things in which we desire. You can always find an exception, but on the whole, I don’t believe this is true. I can only personally speak for Generation – X and more specifically for myself. We wish to encourage, we wish to be allowed to have our own journies, and we wish to work to change the world. However, we didn’t graduate into the world that the Baby Boomers walked into when the were given a diploma and permission to move over their tassels.

illustration__1243534584_3772Today, unless you are very lucky, you come into the working world with so much debt already weighing you down. Many college graduates are forced to immediately move back in with their parents because of the immense amount of debt they carry on their shoulders. We are a group of well-meaning human beings, that were taught growing up to dream big, want something bad enough, work hard, and you could have it. Yet, we made great grades, scored amazing on standardized tests, and went to school on scholarships that didn’t cover tuition or we made honorable decisions and still graduated college with 30,000 or more in debt. This does a lot to your self-esteem when you’re looking for a job, this does a lot to make you feel ashamed when you go into a marriage and are the only one with college debt, and this is not the America we were taught about in grade school.

Also, at the time many of us graduated the economy was in such a rut that there were no jobs. Those with college degrees were having to take the jobs normally given to people with a high school education, those with masters degrees taking positions that normally would have gone to people with bachelor degrees, and almost everyone was hookajobstruggling. Maybe we were prideful, but we listened when we were told to finish college because it would help you get a better job and then we were let down when we had all this money to pay back and no job to reflect all the hard work we’d done for not just four years but from kindergarten through college. Most people you could survey today would still be found working in jobs that are unrelated to the things they went to school for and although we are able to find meaning in supporting our families or encouraging the staff we work with there is still that whisper in the back of our minds. Why did I work so hard? Was a college education as important as my parents believed it to be? Will I pay this debt off before I die? Life doesn’t look like we thought it would and although we adapt, it hurts. It doesn’t just hurt our professional lives either. It hurts our relationships and sometimes our spiritual walk.

Job hunt? While we’re being labeled as lazy or unmotivated or a generation without passion, I’d hope that those of earlier generations would remember this is not the same culture in which you searched for a job. We grew up in the internet age. Look in a newspaper for a job? Most newspapers are not even printed anymore. Apply in person? Even the large retail stores have you only apply online. Apply online? Most jobs on the internet are already filled by the time that you send in your resume or go through the tedious multi-screened application. Also, most of the jobs you’re applying for online have thousands of people applying for them at the same time. Thousands of people to apply at Books-A-Million, Walmart, or the grocery store. And we do it. We search and we try and we work at things that don’t bring more strife than life. It’s not complaining. It’s just a different world and we’re trying to adapt. We’re trying to dream in our personal lives and still in our professional without hearing we’re irresponsible from some of the same people that told us to dream as children.

So, in my case, I made all A’s in school, I was involved in clubs I enjoyed, I loved learning, and dream11891224_10155971925935258_3081643644963324039_ned big. In 5th grade, I sat beside a teacher on a yellow bus as we traveled to a field trip destination. I always sat by the grown-ups. They used bigger words, they had bigger ideas, and I could learn from them. I told this teacher that I wanted to go to Harvard. She didn’t doubt for a second that I would make it there. Dreams changed. Goals changed. Ideal colleges rotated. Life hugged me, kicked me, and challenged me. My road looked different than others. I chose to follow a gift that wasn’t as clear cut as getting an education degree and being a teacher or getting a degree in medicine and being a doctor. I’m glad. I’m happy at times to work in areas that have nothing to do with my creative gifts. I’ve learned so much, been blessed and have been honored to bless others, and I’ve grown in character and experience.

I’m 33 now. I just left a very good job, on very good terms, and with honorable intentions. My husband and I made a decision to seek God, volunteer more, and walk more in what we’d been gifted in. I needed to heal from two years of chronic illness. I need to heal from major life changes that happened so close together. I needed to grieve and restore. So, I am in the search again. I want a job. I am in the search again to rediscover my dreams and goals in my thirties. I am in a search where dreams come by faith alone but asking never hurt anyone. The writer I mentioned earlier had a print newspaper to place her desire and put it out into the world. Her dream was fulfilled. I have my own sphere of influence. If I grew up in an internet world, why not dream through the internet? If I want to walk in my giftedness, why not use an avenue in which I display my gift? My own classified ad.


Please share. Also, if you are searching, please never give up.


If Only Taking Down a Flag Could Erase History


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“You had the same argument they put in South Carolina, that this is part of their heritage,” Holmes said in a phone interview. “And I told them it was part of your heritage that your forefathers fought under the Confederate flag trying to keep my forefathers in slavery.” – Rep. Alvin Holmes (D) Alabama (1988)


Male workers took down the Confederate flag at the Alabama capitol building quietly and without fanfare at 8:20 AM the summer of 2015. The South Will Rise Again. These are words I saw on T-Shirts and as an acronym in yearbooks growing up in Birmingham, AL. A “privileged” few, but it was there. I was taught that I was no different than anyone else at a very young age. “Nigger” was a curse to me as hateful as “motherfucker” or the one we abbreviate with a “GD.” The confederate flag was something that hurt me, maybe, in the way I thought a swastika was a symbol from the devil and a Nazi flag something I didn’t want to take in with my eyes because I knew I couldn’t get the images back out of my mind.


Can you understand that? A flag. Whether you wave it or hang it outside your door, you do so with a sense of pride, it’s something you’re passionate about, it’s inspiring you to battle, and it moves through the air with all the images from the past painted into your memory.


There are many people that are angry that the confederate flag was taken down not just in Montgomery, AL but in South Carolina and Tennessee as well. “It’s sensationalism.” Something tragic and violent happened at the hands of someone waving the stars and bars once again and everyone jumps on the bandwagon to rip down the flags, a flag that should have been down long ago. “It’s a heart problem, not a flag issue.” Yes, but you do not remove the connotations from something that is symbolic, representational. Whose blood are we dipping the confederate flag this time to erase enough of its history so that it is only a history lesson, not a scroll that lists the names of the dead and words of hatred. dt.common.streams.StreamServer.clsAnd what about the problem of the hearts of we who hurt because it was up on government property at all. “It’s a southern thang, ya’ll wouldn’t understand.” Like sweet tea is southern. Like being southern means being kind. Like fried foods are southern. Like southerners are seen as slow talking drawl, people that live in a single wide trailer with tireless cars bricked up in their yard, bare feet and cutoff jeans, smoking Marlboros while talking and never losing the cig, unintelligent hillbillies, flying their confederate flag in a yard that needed mowed a month ago – understand?. “It’s our heritage.” It isn’t my heritage. It’s a generational curse I’d like to break in my family. A curse that started shattering years ago. In fact, it surprised me that these flags were still up to take down. Are we all walking around in civil war garb reenacting a historical event on a weekend with respect and pride to the pages of a history book? Marching in a Veteran’s Day Parade? Maybe a confederate flag might appear there, in a tableau of the past, where it should have stayed.

imagesSince, the flags shimmied down the flag post, the biggest shows of angry rebellion has come from big trucks with lifts, mud riding-jeeps, and strangely enough – some Christians. I’ve seen people driving that went and got extra-large flags and propped them up on both sides of the truck so they could drive around town and show them to everyone because they’re proud, respecting history, because they want to remember their heritage? There are questions I want to ask. What are they proud of? What are they fighting for? What does it mean to them when they put their hand over their hearts? Because I’m southern “ya’ll” and I don’t get a “thang” about it. Especially, when it’s a string bikini barely covering a women’s nipples and “hoo-ha” as she honors the rebel flag while being objectified by men. Try being a rebel by learning history. You cannot fly a flag and only remember one piece of its past, it represents all who stood under it throughout history. Dipping it in all the blood that was shed for it and in the name of it black and white will never erase the pain. You remember.

20000119edhan-aWhile you do, I wish I could forget. I wish I could forget black soldiers that were forced to fight in wars and kept segregated by whites. I wish that I could forget the KKK marching with the confederate flag held firmly in their hands. I wish I could forget the graphic of a rebel flag hung over a cross, a cross burned in the yard of a black family who could go nowhere for protection. I wish I could forget the sounds of whips from movies, photos of those scarred at the hands of their “masters.” I wish I could forget the day I learned that lynching used to be watched by white southerners who would bring a blanket, a picnic basket and watch a hanging, while their children ran and played like it was “dinner on the confederate-flag-klansman-noosegrounds” after church. I wish I forget Emmett Till’s body as it lay in a casket swollen, beaten, castrated, and without life circulated by his mother so no one would turn an eye away to what was happening in the south. It is not farfetched to think the men that drowned him and maimed him owned a rebel flag or two back at their house. I wish I could forget that slavery isn’t over. 35.8 million people estimated to still be enslaved in our modern day world.

imagesYou remember that flag. The one that is no longer flying over the capitol of the state I grew up in. In fact, I’ll try to forget that it was ever there in the first place while my heart sinks every time your horn whistles Dixie while we’re stuck in traffic, and I have to stare at the enormous confederate flag flying from your truck. Knowing that nothing ever truly forgotten still has its on flag. I will choose to remember the most important thing about the confederate flag. The battle flag so “treasured” in the south was the flag General Lee surrendered under. It stands for surrender. That day they rolled it up. appomattoxsurrenderDefeated. If anything should rise again in the south, it is pure love … it is the mending that began long ago, it is sacrificing your history to realize someone else died horribly under the same flag. Remember together, in handshakes, conversations, and reconciliations of the past. Rise in love.

It was love they were praying in and for. Love that welcomed a young white man into a predominately black church with a beautiful history of its own. They were praying. He that held the gun, held the flag.

What do you want to be remembered for?

I choose praying.

Only, the color of my skin doesn’t put me in danger when I bow my head … not to someone who clings to that flag.

The flag you’re fighting for.

The battle is over.

Keep your hand over your heart

put down the stars and bars.



Love must be sincere, hate what is evil; cling to what is good. – Romans 12:9

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. – Matthew 7:12

Surrender your heart to God, turn to him in prayer, and give up your sins — even those you do in secret. Then you won’t be ashamed; you will be confident and fearless. – Job 11:13-15


Happy Birthday,Granny! Happy Birthday to you!


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The anniversary of my grandmother’s birth was July 6th, 2015. I was thinking about her a lot yesterday afternoon (the 7th). She would have been 95 years old. I’ve heard that in Heaven you’re your most vital self … so who knows what that looks like or what age she actually is today. Since I couldn’t wish her a “Happy Birthday” face-to-face, here are 50 memories, thanks, or things I loved about my Granny.


  1. Skeeterbite (“Skeeter”)
  2. The best tuna fish salad with eggs and huge macaroni noodles. Something like this –http://www.food.com/recipe/tuna-macaroni-salad-238951?photo=93022.
  3. Valentine’s brunches at her church.
  4. Her snoring.
  5. The way she taught me that ladies say “restroom” and always wash their hands.
  6. Sitting in her lap when I was younger and pointing to all the colors on her “mother’s ring” and asking her to tell me the story of everyone’s birthday.
  7. Her blue car with the “Violet” tag.
  8. When people called her, “Vi.”
  9. Her showing me her scar from her open heart surgery. How bubbled up it was, how large it was, and how monumental a thing it was to me as a child.
  10. Peach pie/peach cobbler.
  11. The only bathing suit I ever remember seeing her wear in 22 years.
  12. The fact that she couldn’t swim but still went to the lake and to the beach.
  13. When we’d spend the night when we were younger and she’d have Nesquik in those tin boxes strawberry or chocolate for our milk.
  14. The many Christmas Holiday’s she spent the night with me on Christmas eve and it was her job to keep me in bed when I kept wanting to get up out of excitement that Santa came (or fear of the dark – never quite sure with me at that age)
  15. Her laugh.
  16. Making her laugh was my favorite thing, probably since I was tiny.
  17. That she was from Kansas when all I had ever known was Alabama.
  18. Grandparents’ Day in elementary school and being excited to see her outside the door when we lined up for lunch. She was there every year.
  19. Her middle name was Rosebud.
  20. Delivering flowers that were broken down from the Lord Supper’s Table and individually potted to take to nursing home bound members. I remember getting to go with her and her friends to do this one day when I stayed home from school and she watched me.
  21. Being impressed by how quickly she could count money and other things when I was little b/c I didn’t know yet about counting by 2’s and 10’s and such.
  22. No hats on in the house.
  23. When my mom and I got into a fight at dinner and she left, my granny opened up her arms and hugged me and let me cry on her.
  24. The way she picked up my Aunt Myrtle for all those years to take her to church or too her hair done b/c Aunt Myrtle never learned to drive.
  25. When Aunt Myrtle and Granny went to Hawaii and we got grass skirts and lays and had to get our picture taken in them at Olan Mills.
  26. When her 2nd husband died and we took her to get her nails done. I helped her pick out “Violet” for her color. It made her smile. And it made her smile to tell people.
  27. When she was getting worse with her Alzheimer’s and we lived at the apartment in Center Point. The tornado siren went off and she, my mom, and I got into the bathtub with pillows and blankets. After the storm, we couldn’t get her out of the tub because she always were nylons under her slacks and she kept slip sliding around.
  28. How pretty she looked at her wedding to my step-grandfather.
  29. That time when she bumped me with the car when she was taking me to school and she told my mom her foot “slipped” off the pedal. J
  30. That she and L.A. still had fun even at their ages after they married doing things like riding a camel or was it an elephant?
  31. When she was dating L.A. and she would come into my room at her house and ask me if what she was wearing was cute and act like a teenager.
  32. Rook parties.
  33. How much she loved her church.
  34. When she was in the nursing home and she spoke to me after she’d stopped talking for a while, naming people in old black and white photos and giving me her stuffed monkey which I later found out was her roommate’s monkey.
  35. Thankful that she let me hang out with her friends who were amazing. Ruth, Myrtle, Peggy, Marie … Like twenty year olds they were in their 70s, 80ss and 90s.
  36. The radio she had on her TV that had a record player and 8 track and the Johnny Mathis Christmas 8 track.
  37. Going on walks with her around her neighborhood when she had to walk every day after her heart surgery.
  38. When she lived by the lake in Center Point.
  39. The hat boxes she had with real hats some with veils from the 40s and 50s.
  40. When I was little we were in a car accident delivering food to someone who was sick, had surgery, or had lost a loved one. Green beans, I think. I was in the back and the windshield shattered all on top of me.
  41. Going to the chiropractor with her when I was younger and sitting in the waiting room.
  42. She went to church even after she was sick with Alzheimer’s and couldn’t drive herself and would have to find a ride home. She loved God and her church and for us to go to church with her.
  43. The first night at her house when my parents got divorced. She let us move in with her. My mom and I slept on the couch bed that night and watched Funny Lady.
  44. Her soaps. Young and the Restless and Bold and the Beautiful.
  45. Lipstick all over my face when she’d kiss me.
  46. When I was little and my Grandpa passed away. I told her that I hadn’t cried much at his funeral but I would make sure to cry a lot at hers. I guess I felt bad, but I guess at 5 you just don’t quite get it.
  47. Her hair was always the same.
  48. How much I like holding her hand.
  49. How I got to remember her words for her when she was sick.
  50. The last time I saw her at the nursing home when she pulled me down on her chest and patted my back and when I lifted up and was crying she looked at me in my eyes and pulled me back down.


Won’t You Be My Neighbor?


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I very much dislike what has happened to my attention span.

I don’t know if it’s that I can’t focus, per se. Mostly, I think that because of technology and social media my brain makes me think that I’m supposed to have something exciting popping up and be completely entertained by something every few seconds.

Think about it.

Have you every just wondered why you feel bored? You want to get home from work and then you get home from work and you don’t know what to do with yourself. I don’t know about you but it makes me feel yuck and also a bit guilty. I had a wonderful teacher that once told me, “Saying you’re bored says more about you than your circumstances.” I’ve never forgotten that.Friends-Hugging

And what is it about me? I’m entirely convinced I’m addicted to the internet. Let’s be honest. My name is Amanda and I have a problem with social media. I don’t even like it that much. I mean right this moment as I sat still to think, I had to resist the urge to type “Fa” at which time my internet title bar would automatically fill in the rest of the letters and take me directly to Facebook. Do I want to go to Facebook? Not really. I think I’ve reprogrammed my brain.

I’m not putting down technological accomplishments. The internet is good for research (it’s great for reading Star Trek: TNG and General Hospital Fanfiction). Social media can be good for promoting creative endeavors, keeping in touch with friends, and being tagged in photos where you have two chins. *smirk* It was amazing yesterday that I could Skype my Mom who lives three hours away on my phone while we were getting the kayak ready to put in the water at the lake. It made me feel like a lot of my trek dreams had come true. However, a man drove by while I was on the phone and stopped his car. “Can I ask you a question?” I agreed to listen. “Why are you up here on the street holding your life jacket instead of at the lake?” I answered that I was waiting on the boat to be ready, but as he left his look was one of bemused scrutiny. Why was I missing out on moments with my husband to Skype or in other times in our marriage, to scroll through Facebook or Instagram or whatever social media site that had posts that I hadn’t seen five times already in the last few hours?

I read on a site this statistic — People who use social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter will use 10% of their entire life time on these sites. (www.londoncitygirlmagazine.com) I also read somewhere recently that we receive in one day more news than some people do in a lifetime. We are overloaded. 10% of your entire life on social media? (I dare say it is more for people that feel isolated, are chronically ill, or maybe just nosy.) 10% might not seem like a lot but let’s think about it this way … What if you’re not meant to be here for a long time? What if your “forever” with a husband or partner is much shorter than you imagined? What if all a friend, grandparent, parent just has 10% of their life left? What if that 10 % was all you needed to put in the extra work to start that business, finish the book you’ve always wanted to write, begin an exercise program, read to your child instead of handing them a tablet to watch a movie? My big ones that come to me while I’m staring mindlessly at a screen for most hours of a day – Why am I looking at a device while I’m praying? If 10% of my income is to go back to God? Shouldn’t I also be giving Him at least this 10% in Bible study that I’m too tired to engage in for more than 30 minutes while I can lay in bed and scroll through social media past my bedtime.

We compare ourselves nonstop on social meMobile-variousdia and the internet to celebrities, other couples, other women/men. It is damaging to our marriages. It is damaging to our friendships. It is damaging to our relationships with God because really we’re measuring ourselves against social standards and other people. Not that we don’t do that at times but (Wham!) here’s an even easier way to do it on a larger scale. It’s easier to be mean to one another because we feel disconnected. It is also harming our families.

We think that social media creates community, but it is actually stealing it from us. Do we realize how many people feel isolated? How many people feel unsuccessful because they are gauging their lives against the photos and comments people choose to show the world (at their best!)? I have felt it being long distance to my family. Everyone sees what’s going on with you on Facebook so they think they know and so they never pick up the phone, hardly come visit, don’t write letters (oh, my goodness, what’s a letter?) There is no community engagement. Now if you talk to someone regularly and have coffee with them regularly without checking your phone every five seconds … then, maybe. Admit it though, what percentage of your information that you get about your friends and family is gathered from checking their Facebook page?


I miss nature. I miss phone calls. I am a lover of quality time and I feel ashamed of myself that I stare at a screen more hours a week than I would like to admit. Tally it up. Texting, internet on phone, taking photos of a moment you’re not really experiencing, working by looking at a computer screen, if you watch TV when you get home, reading on a tablet. How many hours do you spend looking at a screen? How many hours do you spend looking into the eyes of the one you love or talking to your child? It’s false community based on false truths and people are not feeling loved (some but not most).

As a community, we need to be taking care of one another. If everyone helped someone that was downtrodden, going without food, or needing encouragement … how much better would the world be? Community gardens, walks, talks on the back porch until the fireflies come out? Maybe it’s just me who is beginning to feel robbed, mechanical, and like I’ve developed a problem that I really never should’ve had. I’m a reader. I’m a writer. If I could take back all the hours I’ve spent without purpose on the internet because my mind is so used to being overly stimulated … how much writing could I have produced? As an introvert, it is no longer just talking and putting myself out there that wears me out. It’s being overstimulated daily on the internet. We have been taught that “multitasking” is something to be commended. However, it is a lie. Our brains were not meant to multitask. Something is losing out.

What is the answer? I’m not sure. I can change things in my own life. Be outside more, contact more people, stay away from devices when absolutely unnecessary to be on them, and engage in the life I’ve been given while I have to blessing to do so … but if everyone else remains the same. Who am I going to commune with? We are vulnerable when we become dependent on anything but let’s not crumble because we’re rebuilding community on quicksand instead of a strong foundation with a sturdy cornerstone.

Just think.

How many conversations have you started today that began, “Have you seen Facebook today?” “I saw on Facebook that so and so is having a baby.” “I saw on Facebook that so and so lost their father to cancer.” How many begin with how are you and then giving the gift or your fighting with all you have to give them your full listening attention?

I want to change — even just in baby steps.

If only Mr. Rogers were still here. Well, maybe I’m glad he doesn’t live in this virtual neighborhood.


“You rarely have time for everything you want in this life, so you need to make choices. And hopefully your choices can come from a deep sense of who you are.” – Mr. Rogers

“I’m proud of you for the times you came in second, or third, or fourth, but what you did was the best you had ever done.” – Mr. Rogers

“There’s a nurturing element to all human beings, whenever they themselves have been nurtured, and it’s going to be expressed one way or another.” – Mr. Rogers

Blurbs I Still Haven’t Used “Later”

Things in a Writer’s Notebook

I found some lines, paragraphs, ideas I wrote a few years ago in my tree notebook to use in stories I never finished, drop into a ten minute play form, or pen into an essay. They’re still waiting …

“I’m going to start standing on my hands so that my boobs don’t always feel so heavy.”

“It didn’t really mean anything.”

“You dove into the ocean in the middle of a thunderstorm.” He whispered, pushing a curl behind her ear.

“I can swim.”

— damsel story? (meant for the continuation of “Baptizing Obituaries” a novella that sits as is in short story form)

“My cooter’s burning because I used the wrong kind of soap on my arms. Does that make sense to you?”

“Things drip.”

“At times, I form a letter on a page and it looks like my sister’s handwriting. This is funny because I learned to write by copying letter after letter on the same page as my best friend in middle school. We write the same all these years later, my words from shadows after hers. Six feet, beautiful, brown skin. While I was 4’11, acne faced, and curled my hair every day to look like Counselor Troi from Star Trek: The Next Generation. The year before I lay in bed with my sister and told her I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. She was nineteen. How young that seems now — how grown up it seemed when I was ten.” (Essay about my sister)

Memorial Day


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Earlier in the week I spontaneously thought of going on my dream Tennessee trip to Carroll County — Huntingdon and McLemoresville, TN to be exact. Two hours and some change away from Nashville. If it is your dream trip why haven’t you jumped into the car and trekked that short distance to where no Alabama girl (without the aid of trivial knowledge has gone before)? Intimidation I suppose. Well, that and today it just wouldn’t have been right without the sunshine. At least, that’s the way I picture it. That kind of Summer warmth that is welcomed with all it’s luminescence. It’s like when you sit in an air conditioned office that feels like it’s giving you enough of a chill bump on your legs to make your freshly shaven skin grow its stubble back. Then, it is lunch and you jump into your car and feel as if you’re being wrapped into a security blanket. Your whole body just relaxes. I imagine the drive there to be beautiful. Greenery all around and back roads. The kind of road trip that allows you time to day dream and write lyrical fiction in your head where all the characters speak like Scarlett O’Hara. Well, in Gone With The Wind not the beautiful Vivien’s British accent. The small town scenery would inspire. Then there is the woman that went from booties to high heel shoes and that beautiful walk that left behind a saucy whisper. I figure that I would wear my easter dress, a thin brown strap or ribbon to form an empire waist, and new shoes. I think when you visit McLemoresville you should always have new shoes.

What do you think of when you walk the same path as someone that you admire only on a different day, of a different year, and surely not without the sunshine? I imagine pulling up to the cemetery, just standing next to the car, and breathing. Breathing in the warm sunshine, breathing in the monologues that weren’t quite her but, oh my goodness, were they her voice. That voice. I suppose growing up in the South that is the voice I wanted. I heard it on a gymnast from Selma that was competing in my session when I was in the sixth grade. She pretty like an American girl doll, with curls at the end of her mahogany hair, and I caught it like an eavesdrop from a BBQ picnic where the south didn’t win the war. This was not a failure. The only person I had ever heard pronounce the language with such romance was my second grade teacher. She was my favorite thing. She used that cadence with properness and propriety whether reading a word problem in Mathematics or teaching the class the Auburn fight song.

I imagine many people would’ve known her steps in a town that is the livelihood of less than 500. And what flowers would I be holding to set respectfully on her grave? Camellias, blush roses, or a handful of wild violets? In my expectation, he would be there. That southern gentlemen, not really born southern at all. The one she loved. The one that loved her. That handsome man you can’t glance at without seeing Mark Twain. I would excuse myself, explaining that I really had no place there. A trip from Nashville to Carroll County takes no place over family, the love of your life. Not on Memorial Day. I would step back silently, giving privacy as I would be a stranger on a site that doesn’t exactly house a guestbook.

Yet, if he passed me in leaving and stopped to say hello. I would thank him. Because I never got to meet her when all that life sang from her bones, from her spirit, from her being. Explaining that though my roots were in the South I’d not quite embraced them as much as I’d craved my New England wings. But if there was anyone that made me proud to be southern, to be Christian, and a strong woman that I’d seen growing up on a screen in my blue and white house on a circle that stood next to my family tree … Well, Mr. Holbrook, it was all the class and beauty that was your wife. Though I didn’t get to meet her when she was alive. I wanted to pay respect to her memory in the place that had made her. A portrait painted on a veranda that had stepped off a canvas and blazed a trail.

I guess she’s more at home now than she’s ever been. I imagine she’s singing, one of the loudest angels in Heaven. And if ever a spirit praised God while holding a handkerchief, knowing she would be overwhelmed by such a presence. It must be her. There, she would be gracefully wiping at her eyes and laughing.


I Had To Let Go Of The Sinner’s Prayer


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index *** Please know before reading this, this post is an account of what I am learning. I am a sojourner and a processor and a child of God that is constantly learning and hopefully constantly growing. I would never want anyone to stumble. Please never take someone at face value without checking them against the God’s Word and if questions arise please go to someone much more knowledgeable than me. This is for those who have ever been tormented by doubts, overanalyzing, or questions. I am learning and processing — I never have it all figured out. ***

“Have you given your life to Christ?”

“Have you accepted Jesus as your Savior?”

“Have you been saved?”

“Be not afraid, only believe.”

Many months ago, I asked God to show me how to love Him more than anyone has love Him before. Things got scary. I was living in a lot of fear that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I thought I was freed from walking in that kind of fearfulness. I was prayed over in our church growth group. My fears finally lifted. Less than a week later, my cousin died.

In a new way, the reality of my own mortality and the fragility of life hit like never before. In a way that I felt like I had not purposely welcomed, I began to question and doubt. The fears of not being a Christian and doubting tormented me daily. Even when God gave me an answer, reassurance through His word, or peace … even if I talked it out with someone and felt content. The thoughts came back every day.

Does God torment us? No. Does God seek to confuse us? No. In fact, God commands us to, “Fear not” … “Be strong and courageous.” Can God use what Satan meant to keep me feeling distant and separated from God in a lesson in maturing my faith, what a genuine relationship with Him looks like, and what salvation looks like over a lifetime? Yes! He’s God and He loves me more than I can imagine. (You too, by the way.)

Lesson one for me – stop thinking about what “you did,” “can do,” or “didn’t do good enough.” bd0599fe6fd7bd6bc74aef056753f835Ask yourself, “What did He do?” In most instances, I find, it hasn’t been often that I’ve doubted eternity, God’s realness, or Jesus (I fear that I do or that I will at times but that’s my head and not my spirit. It’s easy for me to worry that I’m going to worry or fear that I’m going to fear.) Most of my doubts are directed at me, “Did I pray a prayer just right?” “Do I believe enough?” “What if I question too much?” “People who know Christ seem to glow and be psyched a lot more than I am in this season of my life … Do I have a real relationship with Christ?”

Okay, let’s admit a few things. If you, as a human being, are being tormented by something or get incredibly worried about something until it barely leaves your head, obviously it’s important to you. If you are tormented, that you “might not,” obviously you love … As humans, it seems we don’t spend a lot of time fearing, worrying, or turning ourselves in and out over something that we don’t love, value, or isn’t important to us. If I am freaked out that I will be separated from Jesus when I die … doesn’t that express some kind of love for Him. A relationship? Are worry and fear always the healthiest reactions? No. Probably not. Can they draw us nearer to God? If we allow ourselves to let go. We doubt ourselves, don’t we? A lot of times, it isn’t that we doubt God, but our own abilities. Is it pride? Is it control? (I’ll come back to this.) Is it that we don’t grasp the concept of free? So I propose, instead of asking, “did I,” maybe in times of fear, doubt, or even spiritual attack we choose to ask different questions.

What did He do? Jesus died for my sins and reconciled me to God, so that I could have a relationship with God and NO SEPARATION from Him. Not ever! He defeated death so I could be unshackled from it! He bled so I didn’t have to! He rose again! He asked God to grant us oneness with Him just as He had oneness with the Father! He broke the veil! He blessed His disciples as He ascended into heave and greeted them by saying, “Peace be with you.” He promised that if He left He would prepare a place for me and that He would come back for me … He would! He came as God and man so that He could experience what I would go through and know how to best intercede for me to the Father. He did! He did this freely! No strings attached. Jesus didn’t force us to come to Him and He was born and died knowing not everyone would. He was tormented and tortured. He was also in a desert once, feeling alone, and Satan came after Him. Jesus was anxious over the details of a decision He made for us. Might He understand fear we have over a decision we made for Him? Questions we have when we focus on our own abilities. Jesus was abandoned by God when we just FEEL like we are sometimes.

Jesus said to believe. Believing is how you accept. FREE gift. Free. When I ask all the “I” questions I’m asking did I do something good enough to get the free gift or did I do it too badly to have the relationship. BELIEVE. Jesus sustains our salvation. He sustains our belief. This is how much He loves me, us. It cannot be about me. Do I follow Him? Yes. Do I seek Him? Yes, to the best of my ability and sometimes in spite of my ability to multi-task and multi-focus. Do I need Him? More than anything. He asked me to believe. Be not afraid only believe. Many days I can’t do the first part. I need Christ.

I say all this in such complexity to let you know that what I am learning is the simplicity of what God is asking of me. To enter into covenant with Him, I must believe. “God so loved the world, that He sent His only son, that whomsoever, shall believe in Him, shall not perish, but have eternal life.” Over and over in His word, God asks us to believe. It comes down to something simple (not necessarily easy) and we have complicated it. I know I have at least.

I don’t know if preachers sometimes realize the plight of natural worriers or even those of us made with an obsessive brain that struggle not to ruminate on things most people can easily discern as irrational and let it casually slip in and out of the mind. I came into a relationship with Jesus as a little girl. I was close to 6. So, the question of can you remember every detail down to the date and time and did you just walk an aisle and fill out a card tormented me for a long time. I cried every time we went to church at home I cried and asked my Mom to re-pray the sinners’ prayer with me many a Sunday. I sobbed in the floor of my bedroom in middle school. I listened to people when I got older say they walked an aisle as a child because their friends were or because they thought that’s what you were supposed to do. Those statements scared me so much. I was in the balcony during a revival service at the church where I also went to kindergarten. I told my mom that I wanted to ask Jesus into my heart. She says that I prissed down the aisle way in front of her and told our pastor that I wanted Jesus to come into my heart. I did go into the hallway and pray with my kindergarten teacher. I felt something special inside of me. I believe it was the spirit of God but I never would have understood that as a little girl. I just remember being so excited to tell my dad when I got home and later asking my mom if she thought my grandpa would know if heaven. As the feeling, began to fade I became fearful and my mom took me to speak to my pastor. He asked me to tell the Mickey Mouse statue on his desk how you accept Jesus as your Savior. This was done to see if I understood what I had believed in and what it meant.

I grew up in the Bible Belt. Actually, in an amazing Southern Baptist church. However, to be honest prayers have been a stumbling block for me. Intelligence and too much “head thinking” have tormented me. It really wasn’t until I was going through a hard time in college and a mentor asked me if I really knew if I had a relationship with Christ that I said that I believed I did but I had always doubted and feared because of the questions associated with pastors and THE prayer. So, she said to me, pray with your own words. That day at the table I prayed a prayer to God with my own words. I told Him that I wasn’t good at life and that I wanted Him to take control. That I never wanted to be in control again. Then, at Sunday School I bore witness to recommitting my life to Christ. Three years ago, I was baptized again because I’d never been baptized since I began to understand my true worth in Christ. By that time, I had learned to not just believe in God but that He could and would do what He said, and was walking in freedom because of who He said I was through Christ. In all my clothes, I was baptized in a step of faith that I didn’t overthink. I haven’t doubted until sobbing since the day at the kitchen table. Well not until being faced with unexpected death and constant pain in a my head that is marked by an unidentified light objected presented to me in the form of an MRI.

I have felt empty. I have felt lost. I have felt fruitless. I have felt scared. I have questioned things. I have been told it’s normal. I have learned that salvation is a lifelong journey. I am learning. I will learn. Hopefully, I will always choose to grow, stretch, and strain into all God wants me to know about my relationship with Him. In this season, here is what I am learning –

I have had to let go of the prayer.  If this is the thing that has caused me to doubt and stumble, I have to let go and trust God. In the Bible, (and please I have not searched out every word and I am not a seminary graduate, I’m just being open to what God speaks to me) over and over Jesus says to believe. He doesn’t say, Believe and say this Sinner’s prayer exactly down to the letter that I say and repeat after me. When I was a little girl, did my relationship with Jesus start because of a prayer or the moment I believed. Believe in your heart and proclaim with your voice Jesus is Lord. Believe.

I have had to be open to learning what it means to truly accept something. I can believe but sometimes it’s hard for me to accept love without walls. I hope during this season of my life my walls are crumbling and as I listen even in the silence I am learning what it means to accept this gift He’s given me.

For me, it can’t be based on a question that has any “you” in it. If it’s about a prayer … that’s something I’ve done. I even questioned that with the believing, but I realized that if I can doubt (even if that’s normal at times), I need Jesus to sustain my belief. It is a completely free gift that came at a high cost covered in blood and love I can’t even fully grasp.

I believe that I have had a hard time with this a lot of my life because my natural response to fear or uncertainty or change is to control. As a human that has had to fight that natural instinct, it is easy to think safety and comfort come in that control. The truth is the freedom comes in letting go and God never promised comfort. Am I scared of something I have no control over? You bet. I must trust. I’m not perfect at trusting.

If Satan can get me to doubt my salvation there is nothing protecting my mind. In the Bible we learn that God has given us armor and that our helmet is the helmet of salvation. I have learned that if the enemy can keep me from putting on that helmet, there is nothing protecting my mind from attack.

Perfectionism will not work where being a believer is concerned because I could n ever be perfect enough to have a genuine relationship with God. I always think, “I want to get it right,” but He is the one that got it right. His grace is enough for me forever. Just as I am at this moment, God will be pleased with me because I am covered in Christ. This is true even if I never get anything, “just right.”

Trust that belief in the answer to all the questions that scare. Did you pray the prayer right? I heard a pastor recently say that even the enemy can let us continue to believe we’re saved so we die and are separated from God. What? As if there wasn’t enough to worry about. Now I must question whether God is giving my peace or if Satan is deceiving me into going to Hell? I heard a pastor I also think rocks ask, “Did you just have an emotional experience?” “Did you just make a decision?” It’s enough to drive you nutso. Jesus died for me. I will let go of the heavy. It’s always been unconditional love. We’ve complicated the gift he paid for and gave us for free. What do I know? I know I am called to believe. Also, when seeking to obey I can trust this simplicity (not easy just not as complicated as we make it) Love God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength and love your neighbor as yourself.

For me, peace and freedom will be in that simplicity. Because it is a miraculous simplicity that saved, forgave, and sustains. He engraved my name on the palms of His hands. Nothing can separate. Nothing can tear me from His hands. He is faithful 154764_10150333112960258_466833_nwhen I am not. Salvation is a lifelong journey. I’m a student floating in his love, overcoming the fear of no control to experience the free in freedom.

I must not rely on anything that has to do with self. May always take the me out of the questions. It is so much not about me, that I cannot even sustain my own belief. However, I will always be thankful for the questions. Because even in the silence, I can learn by being available to listen.

Don’t trust your feelings. Trust what God says about you in His word. His truth. Feelings always change. May I mature as I learn to trust even in the silence. May I know He is near when I feel empty or lost or confused.

* * * * *

Doubts have hurt my heart because although I wouldn’t be ashamed to say after all this time God has showed me that I was being disingenuous and needed to know Him in a real way, I wouldn’t be scared to do that publicly. My sadness always comes because doubting makes me feel that to say I am not His, means that all those beautiful, hard, important things He and I have experienced. That He didn’t bring me into His family as a little girl because He knew how much and how early I would need Him. The times I’ve felt Him hug me when I felt alone, the nights I held my hand in the position of half of a handhold so that He could hold my hand as I lay in my own blood all those nights scared to be alone, the victories, the falling where He’s picked me up, the humbling, the love, the worship that no one say but He and I … that it would mean saying those things aren’t mine to keep, that I have to say all that wasn’t real, when I know that it was. He has been so special to me … I can’t even stop the tears when thinking I might not be marked as His.

* * * * *

Listen. Listen. Listen.

I circled it over and over in the passage of the bible I was reading. I have been learning to listen for months now. I have been meaning to listen more. I have heard some. I am listening at times to silence and what feels empty. I am listening.

“I will follow you until my lasts breath. Then, I will see Your face.” – sticky note I wrote and stuck to my “green room” window.

*** Please note, I am not knocking prayer as it pertains to salvation. I am simply speaking to what I am learning at this time and what has caused me to personally stumble. I do believe prayer is a way to express belief. Once again, never listen to someone and believe them completely without checking it for yourself against God’s word. ***

Today Is The Day Someone I Love Died — A Prose Poem


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It is Friday. The achy Friday that everyone calls good. I am supposed to be meditating on the Via Delarosa. It is a day to reflect on the nails, the ruggedness of the cross, the fact that someone I love so much was unrecognizable from abuse, beatings, and words that were hurled at Him. I am supposed to think of the scene. The time I walked out of a church because they started playing The Passion of the Cross during a praise song. “Don’t they understand?” I should be able to choose when I see the death and the pain of someone I love. “Don’t they understand it isn’t just anyone?” This is not even the anniversary of His death and you want to show me His pain? I have never seen The Passion of the Christ, except when churches cut into it during a song. I’m not ready. Because I love Him. Do you understand? It wasn’t a good day that I want to see over and over. I don’t want sensationalism. I want Him. I want Him here. Just like anyone else that left too soon. Only, I’ve never seen Him face-to-face. Not in my lifetime. I’ve only felt His hands hold mine when I wore napkins glued to my side with my own blood and I was too scared to be in the dark alone. He is real. I lost someone I love in a gruesome way. Why would I want to see without choosing? He’s alive. Did you know? He’s put his hand to my side. Kissed the scars on my wrist. A few weeks ago while I prayed, He had his hand on my shoulder. This Friday, I am want to think of Thursday. My favorite day of the week. I will choose to not be afraid of questions or be alone in any anxiety or fear. It is Spring and He was in a garden. Bleeding out of His pores. He was afraid. He was questioning. He was wrestling with His mortality. This year I am connected to Thursday. Thursday on His face before God. I’ve been there. I’ve been there recently. I’ve been there more than once. Agony has walked near me this year and there were many times I failed to see my Savior before and behind. On Thursday, He was on the ground. He knew everything He would feel, all He would suffer, He looked for another way. He ripped flowers from the ground and cried over the grass that someday I will be buried under. Moments later that must have felt like eternity, He chose to step into Friday without even the help of a good nights sleep because he knew that someday this is where I would be. No one should face a Thursday like that alone. He knew.

*** I did not paint this painting. I don’t know who did but the copyright belongs to them. I am just blessed to have witnessed it.

It’s Not About Loving Life, It’s Who We Praise While In Cocoon


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I should probably be taking my migraine medicine and lying down to sleep. This has been my life lately. Go to bed with a really bad headache and then wake up with one. I’m tired of taking medicine that makes my belly hurt to fix a pain in my head that never heals.

This afternoon I had a case of the “mean reds” (if you don’t understand this reference, please go watch “Breakfast At Tiffany’s) and I was too close to Facebook. This is a problem. I’m so sick of Facebook in my life but being chronically ill the past year, it’s easy access to company and sometimes just a distraction.

I’ve been having bad pressure and pain in my head every day for four months. In November an MRI showed a lesion on my brain. At the time, the doctor told us it looked like Multiple Sclerosis or a low-grade tumor. The radiologist thought it could possibly be scar tissue. I haven’t talked about it much on social media or my blog. I mean yes, I’ve “vague-booked” about the headaches but not about MS. I had a lot of peace after the first test. Whatever it was, I knew I would face it with God and He would be glorified through the story. Heath was amazingly supported and beautiful. I had two more MRI’s – one of my brain with contrast and one of my cervical spine as well as a lumbar puncture. They did not find the MS marker but an elevated protein that they also look for in MS and the lesion lit up a little so the doctor didn’t think it was scar tissue. MS doesn’t have a “yes or no” test, so I am middle grade “probable” and in six months they look to see if there is another lesion. We are hoping and praying for healing. We want this to be nothing. The doctor doesn’t treat with MS medicine until they find two lesions or the marker. So we wait. And in the mean time there are headaches that are not believed to be caused by the tumor. Every day — migraines and tension headaches together. It’s not my best thing. Some weeks I’m positive and pushing away the pain and trying to dance or learn violin. Then, there are weeks when I struggle through work and come home and take medicine or put an icepack on my head.

Being sick isn’t fun, but this week I am especially grateful for my life. To be sick and in pain is to remember I am breathing. For whatever reason, I still have a purpose. Although, often times, going to work and coming home to lay in bed doesn’t feel purposeful. Tonight, I would rather be loving on my homeless friends under the bridge or watching “Pitch Perfect” with my BFF in Birmingham. The medicine I suppose I needed was these clacking keys and a blank screen.

I guess I should explain why I wrote what I did on Facebook. Remember the “mean reds” and the closeness to social media? It went something like this, “Sometimes you grow up and are disappointed with who you’ve become.” Do you ever just write things that you cry while you’re writing them because you know they aren’t true. The enemy likes to use my words to hurt me because God loves me through words, I think. All the truth inside of me was screaming of how hard God and I worked (well, mostly Him but me too) so that I could learn to love myself how He loves me. Remember all that was overcome? Remember how much you love that lady on the street that draws paradise and is your consistency every day? Remember how you heartbreaks for those you love? Remember that you’re human? Remember loss, change, sickness, danger, death, fear … remember all the things that have been coming at me. I’m not claiming the pain of others right now who I love deeply and who are hurting much further down than I am. It’s only that – “just keep swimming” isn’t always the best motto. Because eventually you get exhausted, you body fails you, your muscles cramp, your eyes “rain” too often, and you exhaust those you love most.

I guess what I meant by the statement is that I miss being that lady that could make everyone laugh, encouraged everyone, looked for the beauty and positivity in all, and had the passion and projects and adventure. I’m a newlywed, did you know? We’re hurting as we grow together. It’s been two years of spiritual opposition since we came together to do more than we could ever do for God apart. It’s heavy. We saw the bullet holes that went through our first house and we lived in fear for awhile. Today I realized that the day my cousin died was the same exact day last year I watched a work friend collapse and go into cardiac arrest right before my eyes. Fears continued to grow as existing blood pressure problems in my own life were exasperated and my health continued to nose dive. It isn’t why I’m disappointed. I’m disappointed because I decided that when I got my life back, after that time I should have lost. I said I’d never be apathetic about God again. I know what it’s like to almost lose my life, so life is too short not to live to the full.

I’ve let myself down. I’ve felt that I’ve let God down at times. I’ve felt disappointed that I’ve felt isolated, too fearful, and unhappy. I felt sad that I’m not happy to do all the things I want to do with Heath – to cook, clean, giggle, and be there for him like I want to . I have my days and we have beautiful times … I just don’t love how things are in my life right now. I suppose it’s where God wants me to be, for those who love their life will lose it. It’s a struggle. Today, I hope my weakness will boast of Him because I love Him and because I won’t give up sharing this story. It doesn’t matter the pain in the head or the MRI results. He is faithful. And struggling helps burst from the cocoon.

I’m still growing. I’m still breathing. Today that is enough.


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