Announcing Semi-Finalists in Tyndale Momentum Writing Contest « RE:WRITE

So excited!  Waiting to see where the Lord takes this book . . . . it's in his hands.

Announcing Semi-Finalists in Tyndale Momentum Writing Contest « RE:WRITE

Now I just have to breathe for the next few weeks!

Eleven years ago I walked away from talks with Tyndale; God redeems.

Dear Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Woolsey . . . From One of 'Those Girls'

The last few days have been all abuzz with a post from Mrs. Hall, a concerned mother upset about what her young teen boys were viewing on social media. Her approach is zero tolerance and censorship of any half-dressed girls.

Good for you. Your house, your children, your rules.

Then another mother, Mrs. Woolsey chimes in with a rebuttal, chastising the harsh penalty and making mention of the hypocritical semi-nude pictures of the Hall boys in the same post.

Good for you. You’re standing up for the young girls and encouraging second chances and grace.

I have a slightly different issue, but first let me say this; Mrs. Hall should be applauded for instilling communication and interaction between herself and her kids. Fostering an atmosphere of openness is key in addressing issues and she is clearly determined to do her job as a parent and protect her kids.

As for Mrs. Woolsey, she too loves her children but believes we need to pour grace on the young girls and is ready to offer forgiveness. She doesn’t say whether or not she would encourage or demand her young boys to ‘unfriend’ a young girl who continually posts inappropriate photos, but I do get the impression that common sense would come into play and that she would protect her sons as well.

But, as I read both of these opinions, I started to cry.

Yes, cry.

What about the hearts of these girls? The ones who pose and post sexually provocative photos on social media . . . who will address the big elephant in the room?

The why.

Ten years ago we blamed Britney Spears for leading our young girls down the sleazy fashion path, encouraging tweens to dress way beyond their years. Then it was toddler beauty pageants and Honey Boo-boo who was targeted for encouraging the sexualizing of children. Just last week, Miley Cyrus’s behavior had parents jumping up to cover the eyes of both their sons and their daughters. Yes, Hollywood does impact and influence our kids, but I don’t believe we can just blame T.V. and shut it off. (Although we did years ago and I highly recommend it).

So, what was it then that had me in tears this morning? I cried for the girls who Mrs. Hall accused of lacking modesty. Yes, to be sure, some girls are absolutely modeling pop culture examples, but a lot of these young girls are just acting out what they’ve lived.

Their selfies that are meant to capture attention and get ‘likes’ usually have their eyes looking right into the camera. Their eyes haunt me. I see myself as a teen:

Notice me, like me, use me . . . but ultimately rescue me. I will let you do whatever you want and give you whatever you demand as long as it will result in you ‘loving’ me for even just one more day. I know that you will probably leave—they all do, but for now, come see me. Something inside of me grows with each hungry look. Every rude, vulgar comment that I pretend to be disgusted with actually just validates and feeds the beast within. The lie that was planted in my heart so many years ago . . . the first time he touched me . . .

That I am worthless.

Used.

A throw away.

I want to be different, to stop feeling this way, but I am addicted and harassed to no end by these crazy, inexplicable desires. I crave this attention. I need to somehow heal the hurt that happened to me as a child. But this drug of touch that I hope will result in finding someone to protect me for life, only perpetuates my brokenness. On one hand my sexuality empowers me but at the same time I am a slave to it. It was awakened far too early and I don’t know how to put it to rest.

Birthed with the loss of my innocence, this cycle of dysfunction is spiraling out of control. Now by my own ‘choice’. But did I ever really have a choice?

Don’t judge me because I am a ‘floozy’ or a ‘hooch’ . . .  or the other hurtful names you call me. I don’t show any discretion or dignity because I was robbed of it before I could understand it was mine to defend and to cherish.

Find me. Love me. Help me. Kill this beast within.

Until I find true healing, I will continue on this self-depreciating and destructive path  . . . .

Studies show that somewhere between twenty-five to fifty percent of women have been sexually abused in their childhood. And those numbers reflect only those who report it. Many don’t.[i] My abuse started at such a young age, my first childhood recollection was one of shame. It continued for over a decade. Once the darkness was brought into the light, the abuse stopped but the damage and resulting behaviors and beliefs continued. Such was life in the seventies. Shhhhh. Don’t tell. Move on.

It wasn’t until adulthood that I finally got the proper counseling I needed and the beast of abuse was slayed.

So you see mothers, do stay involved in your children’s lives and shield them while you can, but please, please don’t put up walls of protection so high that you can’t see the hurting young children on the other side. Look beyond the skimpy outfits and behaviors of some of these half-dressed girls and instead of shunning them, love them. Accept them. Pray for them. Give them a chance to know a warm, loving healthy woman who can model the virtues they so lack.

And for those of you who like me were hurt and the beast still lurks within, I encourage you to check out Healing Hearts, an amazing online or small group study that will help you to find truth and healing. For teen girls there is a brand new study as well, First Love.

Check it out and reach out. It’s all well and good to protect our own children, but we can’t forget about the others out there who need us too.

---

[i] http://www.apa.org/pubs/info/brochures/sex-abuse.aspx?item=2#

Church Lady Connections . . . or Not

There is something going on.

And it’s not good.

In the past two weeks, I have had countless women bring up the topic of rejection from ‘church ladies’ until I seriously can no longer ignore it. Women from work, cashiers at stores, and—one crazy deal—a woman who remembered me from a retreat we both attended over ten years ago. She walked up in a crowded room and told me she hadn’t been back to a women’s retreat since. Why not? Because she finds being around Christian women taxing. (Um, no, don’t go there girlfriend, it wasn’t me that put her over the edge… at least I hope it wasn’t!)

And, there is no one denomination to blame; this is across the board.

In these encounters, I’ve met some amazing women and had some meaningful dialogues but to be quite honest, I’ve been left dumbfounded more than I have really been able to help.  The first few conversations were easy and I gave an example that I will share in a bit, but the last two in twenty-four hours completely tossed my brains out the window. Not that their stories were any more or less disturbing, but because my head was spinning with, ‘What? Another one?’

Anne Graham Lotz has a brand new book out and when I opened my email this week, I almost couldn’t believe it; ‘Wounded By God’s People’ is the title.  Need I say more?

God doesn’t do happenstance. He sets us up. And, I believe, He calls us to action.

First of all, in case you don’t read any further, please, please hear me. To all of you who have ever been hurt by one of God’s flawed women, I am truly sorry. I am sure there have been many times that I was busy ‘serving the Lord’ in the foyer and passed you by.  I am convinced that there have been times when in my introverted tired existence I have ignored you, or appeared to look right through you.

God forgive me, and I pray you will as well.

In the meantime, let me tell you a story.

My sister-in-law, Roxana, and her children were recently in a serious car accident. The financial and physical ramifications have affected her family greatly.  Doctors, medications and constant pain have filled her days and months since.

But here’s the thing.

Not once since the accident has Roxana blamed Toyota. Why shouldn’t she? It was a Toyota Corolla that hit her.

But, that would be silly, wouldn’t it? Because Toyota was only the creator of the vehicle; it was human error that caused the harm.

So before you toss out your relationship with God due to some insensitive women in His church, take a moment and realize that He is not to blame for any hurts inflicted on you by us. Don’t be angry at the Creator for what his creation does. It’s slightly crazy that He chooses to be represented by sinful humans, but that’s the deal. So we mess up. A lot.

God loves you—fiercely—and it pains me to hear from so many of you who have turned away from Him or refuse to open yourself up to any Christian fellowship due to old wounds and horrendous encounters. I’m not trying to play down anything that’s happened to you. Many of you have suffered straight out abuse at the hands of ‘God’s people’, but there are some amazing women out there who do love the Lord and want to get to know and love you too.

In order to dig further into stories and statistics, I would so appreciate if you could take a minute of your time and fill out an online ANONYMOUS five question survey, (4 are multiple choice – see how nice Christian women can be?)

As for this problem in our churches, the answer starts with the church lady in the mirror. Each of us need to address our own wounds, find healing, and then be brave enough to put ourselves out there. Once we get our own hearts fixed up, we can then effectively and sincerely reach out to others. Stay tuned, I think I will have a few more stories and tips to share on this timely topic.

Photo credit: Vojko Kalan

Exhausted Grace

It was one of those days where you wake up being more tired than when you went to bed. I will never understand what goes on in the night that makes me feel so exhausted the next day. If there was a party going on, I sure wish I could remember it.

I stumbled through my morning just dying to drop into bed; and it was only 10AM. Functioning in a fog, I dropped my brand new Samsung Note 2 instead, shattering the screen.

But, the day was not over yet. There was more to be done. Problem was, I was done. Kaput, wasted . . . way past my best before date.

By 5PM the couch had swallowed my face as I passed out before dinner. Woken up by the sweet smell of barbequed chicken and fresh corn on the cob, I begrudgingly agreed to keep my appointment to do some filming of my feet for a new promo video on the topic, ‘Walk a Mile in Her Shoes’.

I figured I could fake happy feet and my daughter and cinematographer promised to keep the camera low and not capture my grumpy scowl.

Three hours later I stood in the grocery store trying to read the scrawled list; my daughter had informed me just before bed that the milk had expired. A few aisles over an obviously tired toddler was whining and crying. The noise irritated my already shot nerves. Just as the nasty thoughts began to rise in my head--the critical tisk tisk voice of, ‘Why do people drag their tired children out’--I suddenly remembered the script for my video talk. About how we don’t know the journey others are on and to give Grace.

I threw a handful of ‘emotional eating’ colourful, sweet candy onto the top of the overflowing cart. Saying a quick prayer for the exasperated mother who was now dragging her child out of the store, I made a mental note to do an edit for the video and add a scene with a woman pushing a baby buggy. I had missed that whole season of life in our film.

We do take a lot of steps in our journey with the Lord and it can get just plain exhausting, but our friends, coworkers and other late night random shoppers are tired too. We need to plug into His Grace daily in order to pour out on others.

Thankfully His Grace doesn’t have an expiry date!

Pressing Into Jesus

I fondly remember how during my stay-at-home years, the girls would pull out their own mini-ironing boards and ‘iron’ with me. Beside stacks of warm, neatly folded t-shirts and their dad’s freshly pressed work uniforms they would arrange their own piles of miniature doll clothes. Kiddie cartoons would be playing in the background as we all worked diligently. It was my wonderful, albeit temporary era as a domestic diva. (Now that I work in an office full-time, my iron has not seen the light of day in over a decade; I figure the huge wrinkles in my clothes help to make the ones on my face appear smaller.)

But, back during our little house on the prairie days, impressionable eyes would study my every move . . . as I shook out a dress shirt; they would fastidiously dig in their water baby’s wardrobe and do the same. It was all serious business; it was Monday morning and this was what we did.

During their formative years we really did have a lot of structure to our days. In order to keep my sanity, I would rise before everyone and sit in the semi-dark living room with my Bible. If the girls snuck out of bed before I came to get them, they would peer around the corner, somehow thinking I could not see them. Depending on where my study was taking me, I sometimes ignored their presence but if I was being moved and wanted privacy, I would whisper, ‘I serve a jealous God,’ and they would take off down the hall back to their room.

One of our other precious rituals was our ‘Girls’ God time’. The three of us would read from a popular bible study and share. I looked so forward to hearing their take on the different topics. By the time they approached their tween years, we had worked our way through quite a few different books. One day, however, I caught them giving each other that sister look—you know, the one that silently says, ‘Are you going to tell her or am I?’

“Mom, can we both have our own devotions and journals to do our God time alone . . . like you do? It’s kind of personal.”

My heart broke—and grew—at their declaration of independence.

To have your children push away and establish their own walk of faith is wonderful—when they choose wisely—the hard part was respecting their wishes. Some would say I was wrong, that I should have forced family devotions, but I disagree. Our daily walk with the Lord should be personal, and intimate . . . if they desired time alone with Him, who was I to hoard in? After all, they chose to serve a jealous God!

As parents, along the way we have to let out the leash; letting our children make decisions according to their maturity. When they were preschoolers, I used to allow them do their own hair most days, and choose their outfits. More often than not they would combine prints with plaids, clash colours and break every fashion rule. They felt very grown up taking on this responsibility and I let them run with it . . . proud that at least their mismatched clothes were properly pressed.

Having made good choices—not counting the fashion ones—my now sixteen and twenty-year-old ironing princesses have earned fairly long ‘trust leashes’.

We are never done teaching however and God continues to give us fabulous opportunities to drill home the odd life lesson now and then. Like the other day, when I was heading out the door and they were both looking at old photos. Groaning, they asked what I was thinking, letting them dress themselves the way they did.

Pulling down on the wrinkles in my skirt, I absentminded replied as I rushed off to work, “I pray those pictures are a reminder to you both that the decisions you make will follow you. Ten years ago you chose cow print leggings with 100 Dalmatian tops; be sure that the choices you make today won’t make you cringe when you’re in your thirties.”

I guess it’s safe to say that if they choose to continue to follow my example, when they hit their forties, they will love the Lord, cherish their private time with Him . . . and be running out the door for work in matched but wrinkled outfits.

Why is He Doing This to Me Now?

Sitting on the bench in front of the nurses’ station, I was sandwiched between my twelve-year-old daughter, Mia and my seventy-four-year-old mother, Joy. Words did not come, but we sat, three generations silently holding hands. I glanced down, surprised at how closely my fingers resembled my mother’s; Mia’s were still those of a child, round and unmarred, lacking the imperfections that come from years of hard work. I held on just a little tighter to both of them . . . a love chain of over a hundred years of service to God.

Geriatrics shuffled by, lifeless eyes staring straight ahead; where they were going, I did not know. Moments later the same menagerie appeared again, completing I surmised, an endless circle around the ward.

Feeling Mia fidget, I knew it was time to bring our visit to an end. I glanced over to the woman who looked like my mom, but whose eyes were distant, no longer reflecting the life and vitality that once brought meaning to her name.

“Well, it’s time for us to get home.”

Her fingers twisted harder around mine, as her other hand clutched my arm. Meeting my gaze, with steely vision she looked deep into my eyes and--but for a moment--my mother reappeared.

“The Lord’s been good to me my whole life . . . why is He doing this to me now?” No sooner had she finished her heartbreaking question and she was gone again. Vague eyes looked past me, studying the empty hallway, but her hands still hung on.

I turned to my daughter, mortified that she heard this deep, painful cry. Squeezing her little hand to give some assurance, I let go of tiny fingers to turn and focus on my mother.

“I don’t know, Mom. I just don’t know,” Gently, I removed her hand from my arm and gave her an awkward, one-sided hug. My words were more for me than for her as she had retreated back into her own mysterious Alzheimer world; but the question still hung in the air . . .

Walking out of the lodge that day, I was not the same person. A shift had occurred between the
Lord and I. Anger began to grow, its roots burying deeper and deeper into my soul. Strangling tendrils tightened around my heart, choking my faith.

She had been so faithful to Him.

Why did He do this to her?

What kind of God did I serve?

As the months went by, I wrestled with what would be the last coherent, articulated sentence I would ever hear my mother say. A woman of strong faith her whole life, a godly example of trusting the Lord . . . and then she drops this bomb. Shrapnel ripped into my heart, internal bleeding seeping into every crevice of my being as I attempted to continue to stumble through life . . . a silent walking wounded.

Why God? Why?

The visits to the lodge got harder and harder for me as each time I saw her, the question echoed back in my mind again and again. I would stay up late at night, sending out random emails to any man of faith I could find online; Priests, Protestant pastors, Rabbis. I just kept searching for the answer to my Mother’s question. It was a crazy quest to fill the void before she passed away. My faith was waning as I ran farther and farther from God with each email response. No man of God could give an answer. No book on any shelf could either. I would spend hours in countless devotions and in the Word, but it was all white noise as nothing could be heard over the drum of the unanswered question.

Life was becoming empty and meaningless.

With each passing season, the root of anger burrowed down.

My mother’s last days were peaceful and she passed after her seventy-fifth birthday and just before my forty-fourth. Since I was the only girl, and a writer, my brothers asked me to give the eulogy. It would appear I had even fooled them; they had no idea the pain and resentment planted in my heart.

The night before the funeral, I sat in the dark with my laptop; a word count of zero.

What could I say? All I could think of--all I had thought of--was the monstrous unanswered question.
A dark shadow appeared at the top of the basement stairs; it was my brother who was staying with me from out of town.

“How’s it going?”

That was all he had to say. A flood gate opened as I confessed my anger and shared our mother’s last statement.

“Oh, wow,” he said without pause, filling his glass of water, “that’s easy.”

That’s easy?

“What do you mean, ‘That’s easy?’ It’s so not easy. I’ve asked everyone and so far not one answer.” He plopped down onto the couch next to me, rubbing his eyes.

“You never asked me.” With a crooked, pained grin he continued, “You know, it’s kind of like when parents drop off their kids for Sunday School; some of them can just pass their children over the gate, give them a kiss and then leave. But others have to come inside, sit next to their little ones and play until they are distracted; then they scoot out unnoticed. Well, God knew how much we needed Mom. How much we ran to her for advice and how she was so much a part of our walk of faith. If He had taken her in her sleep, or with a heart attack, we couldn't have handled the shock. We needed her so much.

Instead, out of grace, He allowed her to sit with us, and colour for a bit. He let her sneak out of our lives slowly so we could adjust and learn to walk with Him on our own. He loved Mom and all of us that much.” Patting my knee, he took his water and headed for the stairs. “I’m so sorry you’ve struggled with that. I’ve known it all along; it’s how I’ve had peace. I wish you would have asked me sooner.”

Watching his back disappear down the stairs, the bright light from the blank, stark Word document was burning my eyes. Or perhaps it was the tears.

Finally. I could write my goodbye; or rather my ‘see ya later, Mom’. I had found the answer we were looking for; the question that had made me doubt my own faith.

The Lord had been good to my mother her whole life . . . and with amazing love and grace continued to be good until the very end.  So faithful, He gave the answer to our burning question just in time for me to share it with passion and new-found faith to all those who came to celebrate my mother’s life—with JOY!

He is Near to the Broken Hearted

For those of you (all of us) who have ever sinned (all of us) and daily live with the pain of decisions and choices (all of us) . . . there is hope.

First of all, you are not alone, (see above).

Secondly, you are or can be forgiven.

I came across an amazing link that I will for sure save to read when I am feeling a bit beaten down. It gives different translations for Psalms 51:17 but even more than that, it also gives cross references and commentaries; many of which I needed to read, re-read and then read out loud today.  Here is a segment of one of my favorites by Matthew Henry:

"The good work wrought in every true penitent, is a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart, and sorrow for sin. It is a heart that is tender, and pliable to God's word. Oh that there were such a heart in every one of us! God is graciously pleased to accept this; it is instead of all burnt-offering and sacrifice. The broken heart is acceptable to God only through Jesus Christ; there is no true repentance without faith in him. Men despise that which is broken, but God will not. He will not overlook it, he will not refuse or reject it; though it makes God no satisfaction for the wrong done to him by sin. Those who have been in spiritual troubles, know how to pity and pray for others afflicted in like manner."

While God is not pleased that we have sinned against Him, He does not reject us. He, as a loving parent, can and will redeem His children's mistakes. BUT, we have to stop flogging ourselves, pick ourselves up and despite our pain go out and minister to others . . . even if it may be uncomfortable at times. Yes, some days it is easier than others.

I wish that the forgiveness of sins meant no more pain, but as Ernest Hengstenberg noted, "The joy on account of forgiveness and restoration to favour does not exclude continued pain on account of past sin." The consequences of our sin will follow us; it's up to us however to choose.  Will we walk around in despair and defeat, buried beneath the guilt? Or acknowledge our desperate need for a Saviour and dance in joyful victory with the applied truth from Luke 7:47-48:

"Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”
Then Jesus said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.”

That verse explains why I love my Lord . . . A LOT!

But, what about those of us who are convinced that we are just too marred or stained to be of any use to the Kingdom?

I just want to love on you and let you know that we are usable . . . maybe even more so! First however, we need to come to Him with a true repentant heart (one that hurts beyond what you think you can bare) . . . there and only there are forgiveness and peace found.

"The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise." Psalm 51:17 ESV

Lord, thank you for not despising my broken heart. Please bind it up, forgive me and let me see myself through your eyes of grace . . . and then by your power and love that so blows away all of my understanding, help me to dust myself off and reach out to others.

Because you are a God of Wonders . . . and you are not done with any of us yet!

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