Scars

As I was lying in bed last night, thoughts encircling my mind, I let out a silent chuckle as I recalled seeing the face of a toddler in the church nursery this past Sunday.

I was filled with happiness when I saw he and his daddy walking down the hallway, as they had been on my mind for the past few weeks. I hadn’t seen them in church, and when someone is absent I begin to worry and wonder if things are okay.

I wished his dad a Happy Father’s Day and mentioned how I had missed them. I glanced down at this little guy as he was standing tall, eyes as wide as lemons, stretching his neck out and turning his cute little head from side to side. Not realizing what this was all about, I bent down to his level and gave him my undivided attention.

His face was a little battered. Faded bruising around his deep brown eyes. Scars that were healing on his cute little nose and grazing the bottom of his chin. This little guy looked like he had been in a battle, and he wore his battle wounds so proudly that morning.

Apparently he had figured out how to unlatch the tailgate of his daddy’s truck. And as the tailgate slammed open, little Braiden tumbled onto the ground. Knowing better than to ask this question I sputtered it out anyway. “Was it moving?” His dad would never be so careless. He is one of the most loving fathers I have ever met. He’d shield his kids with his life. And being a parent myself, I already know the self-blame that occurs when your child gets hurt.

As a parent, your number one priority is to keep your baby safe. But unfortunately accidents happen.

They happened a lot to this little girl. If something seemed “accident-proof,” yours truly could find a way to prove otherwise. From running full speed into a log splitter that was parked behind a tractor in our driveway, to slicing both of my index fingers as we creatively placed a garden hose at the top of our METAL slide on a hot summer day. I have scalded myself by pouring a pan of boiling hot water down the front of my chest and seared my arm on the muffler of the lawn mower. Drove a 3-wheeler through a barbed wire fence and a dirt bike through our garage door. My name is included in the definitions of accident and injury. When Miss Congeniality made its way to the big screen, my boyfriend at the time laughed because she reminded him of me. And it wasn’t because I resembled the beauty of Sandra Bullock but rather the lack of grace her character displayed throughout the movie. I was born a klutz and I believe I will remain a klutz until my time on earth has passed.

Although self-inflicted wounds may appear to be my specialty, they certainly aren’t my preference.

While I still trip over my own feet and hit my head on an open cupboard door, I walk through my days with caution. However the older I get, the more I have realized that the battle scars from a few stitches and abrasions seem to heal a lot more quickly than the emotional scars that are found on my heart. A dab of Neosporin on a Band Aid speeds up the healing process for a scrape or a cut. There are aerosol spray cans to relieve the pain, and there’s Aloe Vera to cool the burn.

I am learning that my internal scars, the scars that can’t be seen by the naked eye or physically touched by the human hand are gradually being healed by the One who knitted my being. The scars that I’m shameful of are constant reminders to me of the life I once lived. They are healed, yet kept there to remind me of the hurts, the mistakes, and the careless choices I’ve made. Reminders that by the grace of God, prevent me from inflicting them on myself again.

Which is hard for me. Most of my scars are remnants of relationships. Results of wanting to be loved, and to desperately love another, while injuring myself in the process. If God created man to love…how can one stay guarded?

By staying grounded.

By having annual check-ups.

In the moments that my emotions seem to peak…I remember those scars. I remember the pain as they were being carved into my soul. And I retreat. To my safety. I turn back into the arms of my loving, faithful, and protective Parent. Because His greatest priority is to keep me safe.

My scars can strengthen me, or consume me. I choose strength.

Braiden’s dad explained to me that after the trauma sheltered the pain, his wife took him in to clean off his battered face. Prior to nursing the wounds, she asked little Braiden if he’d like to pray for God to take away the pain. And miraculously, as she scrubbed, he didn’t flinch.

After I heard this, I looked back down at “B-Man” who was still standing tall with his chest out, and I said, “You’re a very tough little man!” Once again he swayed his head back and forth, proud as all heck of those wounds.

I still have visible scars from my clumsiness on my chin, arms, fingers, and ankle. I can tell the stories of how each one got there. I can also share every story of my internal scars, too. Although there are plenty I’m not proud of, I am proud to say that the wounds have been kissed and healed by the world’s greatest Physician.

Sticking Thistles

When I was a little girl growing up on our farm, every summer my brothers and I would get handed a spade and receive our orders to head out into the pastures to stick thistles.

As I heard my dad beckoning us to get our work clothes on, I wondered why he would make us do something so tedious. Rouging the bean fields, for as much as I despised it, made sense. Sticking thistles? In the pastures? It’s not as though anyone is going to run barefoot across that grass… And who in their right mind gives tools with blades to young siblings and turns them loose in a field?

But who argues with my dad when he gives orders?

So the three of us would set off on our journey of never-ending-thistle-sticking.

If my memory serves me correctly, I don’t think we thoroughly covered the hundreds of acres. Then again, I’m not quite sure I presently believe that my dad set us out on this mission because the thistles were, “bad for the cows” either. If anything…it was busy-work for his kids. Something to keep us out of trouble, and maybe…just maybe some tactic to instill some kind of work ethic in us.

I don’t think I have ever worked so hard as when my dad would put us to work on the farm.

We would begin just on the other side of the fence. Still being within eyesight of our dad, we made a very conscious effort to look like we were working hard. We’d spread out, far enough to where we’d each have our own section of ground to cover, but close enough to talk…or argue.

As we made our way into the valley or over the hill, it would typically turn from work…to a game. Sticking thistles turned into sticking cow patties and occasionally picking them up (we’d have gloves on) and launching them like they were Frisbees. Or ammunition. I think I’ve had my fair share of getting pegged with cow patties.

…For those who have heard me claim to be a “Tom Boy” maybe now you can understand why.

Anyway…for whatever reason, this memory came over me today. Sticking thistles. And I really didn’t know where I was going to go with this blog and the correlation between sticking thistles until this very moment.

Sometimes God calls us to a task that seems anything but logical to us. And sometimes God creates circumstances and situations, devastating as they may be, to grab our attention and work out His plan if that’s the only way He can open our hearts and minds and turn us towards Him.

My morning prayer time with God lately has included a whirlwind of emotions. There are so many people in my life that are in desperate need of emotional, spiritual and physical healing. Pregnancies with complications, family members in need of relationships with Jesus, harbored bitterness, untimely deaths, terminal disease, shattered marriages, tragic car accidents, financial distress.

As I pray…God sends comfort. Knowing that there will be struggles in this world, He reassures me that He is in control. While I sit in heartache and confusion, He beckons me to continue to pray…and allow Him to do His work.

“How can I pray for one situation to turn out one way, and yet selfishly desire for another situation to be different?” I confess.

“Because you’re human…” He whispers. “It’s ok…I know the desires of your heart.”


I received news this past weekend that a friend of mine was in an unfortunate situation which led him to the hospital in the ICU. That was the first part of the news. The second part of it…is the miracle. A tragedy that has the potential to be turned into God’s triumph. A testimony in the making. So while our initial response is, “What more could happen to this man?” God is shaking His head and saying, “You keep praying and trust in Me. I’m working here…and you will be amazed.”

Like my dad…God calls me. He tells me to get my work clothes on, and hands me the spade. He orders me to remain faithful in prayer. He reassures me that if I am obedient in this, He will take care of the rest. And while often times my mind is confused, He sees through to my heart. When I may not understand, He does. While I stand in never-ending-fields of thistles, wondering why I’m being called to such a task, He sends messengers with news like that of my friend in ICU.

Pray. Honestly. Fervently. Obediently.

Who argues with my Dad when He gives orders?

Dad's Day

Here I sit, quietly in my room thinking about the day. Father's Day.

I love my dad. Sometimes I wonder if I would fall into the "Daddy's Girl" category. My dad has never spoiled me. My dad has never given me everything I have asked for, but what I have been given, he's made me work for. I respect that about him. I know he loves me...and his love usually comes with a lesson. Sometimes I grasp it immediately, but sometimes it takes several years to comprehend.

I was very fortunate to have the opportunity to spend my childhood years living next door to my grandparents. Not that this is my story to share, so I'll tread lightly...but my grandpa and my dad didn't have the best relationship during those years. It was a classic case of one never being able to do/be "good enough." As I look back at those years I can see images...flashes of two broken men. One wanting to be a loving father but not really sure how, and another of a son, desperately wanting to have a solid "father/son" relationship with his dad.

This atmosphere spilled over into our household. Growing up with two and a half brothers (I say that because my youngest came several years down the road) there were many moments under our roof when words were exchanged and physical and emotional blows were thrown around like a violent hurricane. Again, I see the images of broken men. One of a father wanting to avoid being a reflection of his father but not knowing how, and the other of two young boys, looking up to their dad with such great admiration, desperately wanting to be the sons their dad could be proud of, yet always feeling as though they "fell short."

Thankfully, the years have come and gone and that stage of life has been outgrown. It wasn't an easy transition. The good news is, it's not then. The bad news is, those years will be remembered forever.

Almost two years ago, I saw my dad broken yet again as he stood over his father's casket prior to being lowered into the ground. The few moments we stood at the cemetary I was flooded with memories from the past 35 years. Three generations. Years of frustrations, fatigue, and failures. One has to wonder. Were there more hurts than hugs? How much love actually poured over into their lives?

I know my dad loved his dad. And I know my brothers love our dad. Sadly though...those emotions...that affection doesn't come full circle until someone passes away.

As we sat at the dinner table today, my mom suggested we pray. At that moment, she began to sob as she thought of her dad not being here. And then my dad said, "Well my dad's not either." As we were giving thanks for fathers, I sat next to my little guy and wondered "What in the world goes through his little mind on a day like today?"

Most people who have lost their fathers, have lost them to death. My son has a "father"...but a father who has chosen not to take part in his life.

BUT... (I love it when there are "buts" to the story)

Nick has had an amazing man to look up to in his grandpa. He wants his grandpa to be proud of him, and he lives for those moments when he can grab whatever time he can with him.

I have three brothers, all who have contributed at some point in time and in some way or another to Nick's life. Each in their own way. Nick admires them, he respects them, and the two that are fathers, are incredible fathers. They are great role models for my son.

And then there are the men at church who have made a commitment to invest time in Nick's life. The Bible says to look after the widows and orphans and I never really considered my child to fall into this category, but he does. And the male influences that God has chosen to use in his life are amazing. And I am grateful.

So Happy Father's Day to all the men out there. Fathers, brothers, sons, and friends. And thank you...thank you for being such a blessing in our lives!

Seasons

Sunday afternoon Nick and I took a ride in the Jeep with my parents and we headed up to one of the local reservoirs to see what the water levels looked like. After we checked out the dam, my dad took us on a little detour to this cute little town called Dobbins, around a lake and through the Sierra Mountains to a section of the Yuba River.

It was a warm afternoon, and while I would have enjoyed taking the boat out on the water, I settled for catching some coolness as we drove through the mountain shade.

As we drove around a few bends in the road, we came upon this section of mountainside that was covered with charred trees and portions of dead grass. Shortly after we came upon this view, my mom recalled the fire that swept though this area last summer.

Wildfires are a pretty common thing during a California summer. Factor in some strong northern winds with the dry ground and it can quickly turn into a chaotic, smoky, sometimes devastating time of year.

Because I am such an outdoors kind of gal, I was absolutely mesmerized by what my eyes were seeing. Thousands of trees that looked like black twigs sticking out all over the land. It was so incredibly barren. I thought, how frightening for the residents in this area. Some houses looked abandoned, some houses were up for sale, and then there were driveways that led to nothing but a foundation with a camper sitting off to the side. Bricks were stacked up. Piles of metal gathered into heaps. I also thought about the wildlife that once roamed that portion of land. What a sight that would have been while flames engulfed hundreds of acres.

We drove to the base of the valley where the Yuba River runs. There is a very large water power plant nestled at the bottom. So I’m standing there, listening to the water pour out through these enormous tubes that run from the top of the mountain into the river. The river is raging, a man is fishing. The sky is a deep blue and the sun is blasting warmth. Then I looked up to see the brown, dead hillside. And I wondered to myself… How long will it be before it turns vibrantly green? How long will it be before new seeds are planted and the evergreen trees begin to sprout up? When will the wildflowers take over and spread like watercolor on an artist’s canvas? This is almost depressing to look at…

On our way back up the hill, I asked my dad to pull over so I could get out and walk for a bit. I touched what remained of a Manzanita tree. The bark on them is typically a deep, almost mahogany red and very smooth in appearance. This one was bare. No leaves, just black branches. On the side of the road was a tree that had been cut down.
I’m pretty sure this was all in my imagination, but it was almost as if you could still smell the ashes…

In a place where I would generally be snapping pictures like mad, I had my camera out, took a few shots and then looked for some indication of life. Newness.

And there was. Just off to the shoulder of the road, there were traces of green. A handful of wildflowers beginning to strengthen and take over. Nothing much…but it was a glimpse of what’s to come.

While enduring the winter season, it is typical to become anxious for the spring and summer seasons to arrive. The funny thing is that when they get here, we approach them with hesitation, not knowing what devastation it may bring. And we complain about the heat. The dryness. It’s like that old saying goes, “Sometimes good isn’t good enough.”

The seasons we go through in our lives are quite often the same. We wait with great expectation. Sometimes we may even try to rush through from one season to the next. …And like the mountainside in Yuba County, sometimes the season brings death and destruction.

I learned this past weekend of yet another broken marriage within our church. Someone of whom I worked beside as a youth leader. Her husband is going through this season. I stood and talked to a very dear man who has been battling a disease that will ultimately take his life. His wife will one day be walking through this season as well.

These times often come upon us unwarranted, unwanted, and undeserving. They approach us when we least expect them. They hurt, they can haunt, and it may feel like these seasons last for an eternity…

The good news is, that whenever we find ourselves in such a season, God is working behind the scenes to bring newness. He can work in hearts, He can work in health, and He always works in love. He is the One working beside us, helping us gather up the bricks, the pieces of metal and stacking them in a pile. He is continually planting new seeds in our lives that may take a while to sprout up, but in the meantime He is nurturing those seeds. He is caring for them as a gardener with the best fertilizer on the market. He is splattering watercolors all over our canvas and then, when He is finished with His work of art will we fully be able to see the beauty from our brokenness. Soon the wildflowers of our lives will begin to strengthen and take over. We will realize that only God can take a dry, barren, devastated land and create such a vibrantly colorful landscape of our life…

Keep the Candle Burning

I love candles. Period. Especially Yankee brand candles. But I have a problem with candles. No, I don’t forget to blow them out. I hoard them. I buy a few at a time and place them on a shelf in my room.

After running out of shelf room I decided that I should start bringing them to work with me. The air happens to get a little stuffy and stagnant and nothing smells as good as a Yankee candle!

Today as I sit at my desk I observed two things with my candle.

#1: It is burning in the middle and not melting the wax on the outside.
and
#2: It won’t stay lit.

History has shown that typically, when something irritates me or causes me to ask the question, “What’s up with that?” a revelation is birthed and sets my wheels a spinning…

When lit, a candle illuminates. When lit, a candle produces a beautiful, soothing aroma.

il·lu·mi·nate
1. to supply or brighten with light; light up.
2. to make lucid or clear; throw light on (a subject).
3. to decorate with lights, as in celebration.
4. to enlighten, as with knowledge.
5. to make resplendent or illustrious: A smile illuminated her face.
6. to decorate (a manuscript, book, etc.) with colors and gold or silver, as was often done in the Middle Ages.

Illuminate is a great word. It is a beautiful word.

We are called to be lights of the world. There are many, many days when I feel like the candle on my desk. The flame is burning, but barely. The wick sparks, but doesn’t catch hold entirely. What does burn, burns down and through the center but the outside wall shows no effect. I sense the flicker, the passion, the desire to illuminate…but lack the motivation to completely ignite. Herein lies the danger…the flame could be extinguished.

Candles typically carry an aroma that they release when the candle is lit.

a·ro·ma
1. an odor arising from spices, plants, cooking, etc., esp. an agreeable odor, fragrance. 
2. (of wines and spirits) the odor or bouquet.
3. a pervasive characteristic or quality.

An aroma is pleasant. It is soothing.

The candle at my desk, although barely burning, is still producing an aroma. Faint as it may be, it would pack a punch with a fully ignited wick. As it continues to flicker, but occasionally burn itself out, the aroma of spices is quickly overpowered by the odor of the smoke as it floats through the air.

The interesting word in the definition of aroma, is the word “pervasive” which comes from the word pervade and it means, “to become spread throughout all parts of.”

I want to illuminate. I desire to live my days on this earth in a manner that glorifies my Creator and blesses those I encounter. I want to maintain a passion for serving. I want to pour out encouragement into the lives of others. I want my light to shine brightly, my flame to be radiant, and my illumination to be soothing.

As I sit and think about intertwining the definitions, I come up with the perfect sentence that I want to be defined by and remembered for…

A smile always illuminated her face, and she was pervasive to all who knew her.

My Man

Within the past few weeks, I have felt as though I have been on a brand new journey. A journey in discovering more about myself in regards to the person God has created me to be. I have been trying to deal with my insecurities, some mistakes that I’ve made, as well as what I can do in order to turn some of those choices I’ve made around to become more aligned with God’s will for my life…

I’m not perfect. I have never claimed to be, and in all raw honesty I am so glad that I’m not. Because my failures and my faults, usually bring me to my knees and it is in that very moment that I feel closer to God than ever before. I think God knows that about me, and possibly even you that are reading this as well. I don’t believe that God’s intentions are for us to fall, but I do believe that if that’s the only way that He can grab our attention, He will allow us to. For no other reason than to be the first One that stretches out his arm to help us back to our feet. Most days I simply want what I want, not fully acknowledging the fact that God has other plans for me.

During this time, I sat down with my mom to watch a home video of my child. It was his graduation from pre-school, 8 years ago. There he was, dressed in his white gown, with his white cap sitting cock-eyed on his cute little head. As they finished one song after another, he stood as proud as he could be, applauding in between, grinning from ear to ear. I don’t know who held more pride. Nick, at 5 years of age, or myself as I watched the video that night…

A few weeks ago he was belting out a Mercy Me song while walking down the hallway. Little did he know he had changed a part of the lyrics to something that was insanely comical to everyone who was within earshot. For the past year he has proudly stood next to my mom, chest out just to show us he has reached the point of towering over her and has gradually been doing the same thing to me. I still have about an inch and a half on him, and have also reminded him that height doesn’t hold a candle next to strength!

I love my son. LOVE HIM! From him knowingly trying to crack me up, to unknowingly he is amazing. And one thing I don't ever want to fail at, is in raising my boy...

I was reading an article this week about Integrity, Conviction, and Courage written by someone named Kay Arthur. The article is in regards to being a man of those sorts. She quoted a letter that was written by General Douglas MacArthur as a legacy to his son.

"Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid. One who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat and humble and gentle in victory. Build me a son whose wishbone is not where his backbone should be, a son who will know Thee, and that to know himself is the foundation stone of knowledge. Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort, but under the stress and spur of difficulties and challenge. Here let him learn to stand up in the storm. Let him learn compassion for those who fail. Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goal will be high, a son who will master himself before he seeks to master other men. One who will learn to laugh, yet never forget how to weep. One who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past. And after all these things are his, add, I pray, enough of a sense of humor so that he may always be serious, yet never take himself too seriously. Give him humility, so that he will always remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom, the meekness of true strength. Then I, his father, will dare to whisper, ‘I have not lived in vain.’”

As a single woman, I can only hope that I will one day have the blessing of calling a man like this my husband. In the meantime I will do all that I can to make sure that I will raise my son to be this very example to others…