Donna Summer, how I knew her

May 18, 2012 in community, death, the pretty with 2 Comments

"never ask a woman if she's pregnant, especially if she's Donna Summer"

It was the end of our morning in Sunday school. There were maybe five of us, seated around a white plastic table, nothin’ fancy.

“Well, what do you want us to pray for you this week?” Mrs. Brown sweetly asked.

We knew the routine.

I asked to pray for my mom, because she was pregnant a lot those days.

Amanda, one year younger than me, and Brooklyn, one year older, asked that we pray for them. They were nervous, with their mother’s upcoming music video. They were going to be in it, MTV and all, and had never done that before.

So we prayed for them.

For Donna Summer’s daughters and their upcoming music video.

I’m not sure why Donna Summer, Bruce Sudano and the three girls went to our little church, tucked away in the Santa Monica hills. Maybe they were drawn to the genuine community that we all sensed, lived. Maybe the anonymity of it all was a respite from the demands of fame. Maybe it was just close to their Hidden Valley home. Whatever the reason, they came for a while and we played, the two younger daughters and I, and I didn’t really know who Donna Summer was except that she had a big house on a lake and spoke of Jesus with a desperation, like he was a lover who’d rescued her from something big, and she loved him big right back.

My song-writing mom went to her house a few times, and once remarked how beautiful her family was, the older, wiser matriarchs among them.

“Ang,” she smiled, “it’s cause black don’t crack.”

Donna told a story of God meeting her at the lake behind her house, one early morning, giving her a sign, there was something about a boat spinning, and she just knew he was speaking.

She came back from some project, it was 1991, hair bleached white and funky, and I hugged her, nine year old head resting on her protruding belly and I almost asked if she was pregnant (she wasn’t). Mom said that was a good thing, a really good thing, that I kept that question up tight in my head. I’ve always checked with Mom since then, pregnancy suspicions held back till it’s painfully obvious.

One Sunday morning, I think it was after a prolonged absence, our pastor’s wife waved Donna down front and the band started and the back up ladies swayed their hands, and we all jumped up, joined in, sang our hearts out.

I anticipate

Donna belted,

the inevitable

supernatural

intervention

of God

I expect a miracle

I expect a miracle

(whoa ooh)

I expect

a

mir-

a-

cle.

It was worship, no diva performing, just one woman reflecting the glory of the Original Artist, and we were all pulled into the heavenly energy, faces lifted high, eyes on Jesus.

Tonight, I remember Donna Summer, the way I knew her.

And I expect heaven has a fresh infusion of soulful worship, one beautiful woman meeting her long-awaited Love.

———–

*Will you pray with me for Donna’s family?

Father, we pray for Bruce, Mimi, Amanda and Brooklyn and ask that you comfort them in their pain. God, be present in their grief, be their peace that passes understanding. Let them draw near to you, hold them tight. We pray that the next few days wouldn’t be filled with drama or craziness with plans and press, but that your peace would guard their hearts and that they’d be able to remember and mourn in healthy ways. Bless this family, God. Be with them. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

 

climbing mountains, near and far

May 15, 2012 in dreams, marriage, the pretty, worldview with 2 Comments

Neal and I went to St. Lucia last week, where I gladly welcomed the beginning of my thirtieth year.

It’s been fourteen years in the making, this dream to travel to the island of the Pitons, ever since we picked up my adventure-loving uncle in the Miami airport, he insisting I not carry that one piece of luggage for him, who knew how many Cubans were smuggled in that day. Pictures weren’t digital back then, so it was his words that infused my mind’s eye with the vibrant colors of the coral reefs, with the dramatic steeps of cliffs hanging precociously over blue-green waters, with the hotel rooms that were missing the wall facing the ocean, geckos and lizards and insects creeping up and down his mosquito net while he slept underneath. He found a wine bottle on one of his dives, smothered in coral the colors of the rainbow, nature triumphing man one more time in beauty, in creativity, in the rebirth of old things lost and forgotten. And like the genie that may have dwelt inside, the wonder of St. Lucia has haunted me, pursued me, and I finally answered back.

We did what any vacationing couple does–we ate too much, we slept in–till 7:00!!–we took naps and tried new food and read books that had nothing to do with ministry or leadership of self-betterment. We became scuba sort-of-certified and went on three dives, witnessing red sea horses, king crabs, trumpet fish, fluorescent coral, urchins and rare frog fish and while I didn’t see it, I certainly felt the jelly fish that swam by, tentacles brushing the fleshy inside of my arm.

One morning, we woke early and drove an hour and a half, winding around nausea-inducing mountain sides, to the base of the glorious Gros Piton, which helped put the little island on the map.

Gros Piton is the mountain on the left, kissed by a cloud

foolishly optimistic

 

The hike started out friendly enough. The trail was even, with enough leisure to look around, take in the sounds of the rushing waters below, appreciate the sour-sweet fragrance of fermenting, rotting mangoes, strewn across the ground.

la la la...this is nice...

 

The hike quickly transitioned to moderate to strenuous, moving at a pace that wouldn’t permit time enough for me to wipe the beads off my brow. The sweat ran, raced down the tip of my nose, and I appreciated my eyebrows and lashes for non-cosmetic reasons, probably for the first time ever.

We climbed rocks.

And only paused a few times.

Once, to behold our mountain’s twin, about half-way up.

After this point, it became about completing the hike– forget taking in the scenery, or thinking we’d catch our breaths sometime–we just needed to finish the journey. We’d rest later.

The rainy weather and cloud-filled altitude made the mossy rocks and vines too slippery to trust–inertia was your best friend in getting from one footing to the next. Too much hesitation, too much pause, and you’d find out just how unreliable was the earth undertread.

And, finally, we summitted.

The view was…underwhelming.

There would be a break in the clouds, for a few seconds only, and straining eyes could spot St. Vincent in the distance. It was laughable.

With a kiss, a pose, and a fresh mango harvested on the trail, we celebrated our feat, wondering whether Oprah really did make this hike herself, or if her researchers just composed her “top ten things to do in a lifetime” list.

And then it was time to scale down the mountain. With calves quivering, I conceded to Neal that he was the one in better shape. The subsequent three days of aching only confirmed that confession, while he didn’t hurt at all, and there may have been some smirking.

So, we did it.

We dedicated an entire day–6:30 a.m.-4 p.m.–  to hiking Gros Piton.

It was an accomplishment, something I’ll cherish for adventure’s and memory’s sake. And it makes for a good story.

Our hotel, located on the north end of the island, was situated on a peninsula. At the tip of the peninsula, there were a few hills, with a fort on top overlooking the waters. We could see at any time what remained of the stone structure, some 500 years old. The site was used by the infamous French pirate, Jaime de Bois (Wooden Leg), and then later by the British Navy to spy on the neighboring French-occupied Martinique. The fort became absorbed into our panoramic backdrop, observable on our three dives, and from the beach where we walked, the restaurant where we ate, and even from our patio.

It was not dramatic and intense like the Pitons, there weren’t even any postcards to buy of its images.

So, we put off the hike till the last morning, with only an hour to spare before we loaded bags into a car and headed to the airport.

The walk was leisurely, the incline forgiving and accommodating. From base to top, we made it in twenty minutes, without breaking a sweat.

And the view was breathtaking.

While taking it in, I thought about how hard we worked to summit Gros Piton and how little we saw in return. At the top of this fort, we had a 360 degree view of the ocean and the island, and we had barely labored for the reward.

I think it is that way in life–we dream and we fantasize about the big vacations, the major spiritual retreats, the well-planned excursions and adventures. And while we channel all of our anticipation towards the Gros Pitons of life, there are, in fact, smaller retreats, less obvious adventures, closer and more accessible, awaiting our exploration. God’s wonder is all around us, beckoning us to see and worship Him from the vantage point of a child in awe. But we become immune to the beauty we’re used to; we take for granted what we see every day, familiar nature’s calls to worship are drowned out by the busyness of life.

Were we situated on the south end of the island, a trip to Pigeon Island, where the fort was located, would have cost us half the day, a meal and gas money. We would have had eyes wide opened, hearts stretched further with the expectation of something spectacular to behold.

But familiarity stole the wonder and we received less for it.

Traveling to an exotic island was wonderful and I’m so glad to have had the adventure.

But it won’t happen every year, much less every ten years. So I have to find ways to worship my God, ways to connect with my family, right here, amidst everyday life.

It’s the heart of the spouse, bent towards the other, that makes for a romantic and connected experience.

It’s the heart of the worshiper, bent towards her God, that allows her to see, to really see, the expression of the Creator in nature.

It’s the heart of the mother, bent towards her children, that allows her to create meaningful learning experiences, hilarious games, and quiet, hushed moments apart from destinations and theme parks and half-day trips from home.

There is more life to be had and it’s nearer than we think. It costs less, requires less travel, and is up for grabs for anyone who will recognize its calling.

It’s just a matter of heart, of anticipation, of eyes wide open, of the soul, searching for the adventure next door.

 

Why Tampa Needs a House

May 2, 2012 in sex trafficking, worldview with Comments Off

I shifted my weight on the over-sized recliner, trying not to knock over the boxes of files stacked in Michelle Walker’s office. She was poised and calm and in spite of her crowded calendar. Michelle had generously carved out an hour to talk with us about the mission and future dreams of Miracles Outreach, Fresh Start Residential Program, a local non-profit comprised of group homes for teenagers within the foster care system.  A couple girls popped in and out of the office, a hot pink cell phone was needed by one, a few documents filed in a cabinet by another.

I wondered what the stories were behind the pretty smiles, underneath the seemingly innocent laughter that drifted into the office while we talked.

“We really need a house that’s just for girls who were in the life.” Michelle stated.

I knew that “in the life” meant what’s commonly called “prostitution,” but more accurately understood as “commercially sexually exploited.” At Miracles Outreach, they’re dealing with children, girls under the age of eighteen, who were removed from their homes for one reason or another and are now under the protection of the state.

“Some of the girls here were in the life.”

I tried not to gasp, just nod and pretend I wasn’t shocked.  I wanted to gawk, crane my neck to see out into the living room where the Justin Bieber fan sat with legs crossed on the couch next to the hot pink cell phone owner, texting away.

“Dominique? The girl who was just in here with the file? Her pimp was actually a woman. She would make her clean houses with her during the day and then would pimp her at night.”

“Why didn’t she run?” This is probably the most commonly asked question around this topic.

“She was afraid. Her pimp threatened her. Told her she’d kill her if she ever attempted it. She threatened her family as well.  She pimped her all up and down the Florida Panhandle before Dominique finally ran.”

Dominique eventually was placed in one of Michelle’s houses at Miracles Outreach, where she progressed well, got her GED and successfully “aged out” of the program. Now Dominique works in Miracles’ Leadership Academy, alongside other girls, mentoring, helping, and even accompanying Michelle to events to share her story at times.

Dominique is a success story.

But not all are.

“We just had a girl, like three months ago, who was in the life up in Jacksonville. Her pimp got arrested and is serving time up there. DCF transferred her down to us because she’s still trying to work for him, bail him out, send him money. They were trying to cut her ties with him, but she wouldn’t have it. She’d beg me for an hour of free time to leave the house.

‘Whatcha gonna do with just an hour, Melia?’ I’d ask her.

‘Ms. Walker? I can make more money in one hour than you make in a week!’”

We’re laughing now, an unintended response to the shock and audacity of it all.

“Some girls, they just stay bonded to their pimps. Can’t see that they’re abused, taken advantage of.  They’re still recruiting for him, still working for him in their heads.”

Michelle sobered up, lost the smile she had only moments before.

“When Melia ran, she took two girls from the house with her. That’s why we need a house for those girls.”

Michelle explained that a house that’s exclusively tailored for commercially sexually exploited children (CSEC) would be able to meet their unique needs—needs that the current model cannot.  When the girls in the house all share the common experience of having been exploited, there’s more openness, more vulnerability, less judgment. The group sessions can focus on healing and restoration, the facilitators can be more direct and specific with their therapy.

“There will be more resources available for these girls. We’re partnering with Crisis Center of Tampa Bay and other local agencies. These girls’ stories are more complicated and we need trained psychologists who understand how to work with girls with trauma bonds, girls who might still care for their pimps.”

Michelle also pointed out that a home for CSEC girls would protect girls who weren’t exploited and are  in the system for different reasons.

“When you have a girl like Melia who’s been in the life, but isn’t ready to leave, it puts other girls at risk for recruitment. A house exclusively tailored for CSEC girls eliminates that risk. They’ve all been there—there’s no illusion, no fantasy, of what the life might be like.”

Location is another important factor. Michelle’s current houses are scattered throughout urban Tampa Bay. A house for CSEC girls would be more removed from city life—nowhere near strip clubs or other hot spots for recruitment by pimps.

The good news is that a house for CSEC girls is finally becoming a reality. Michelle is working closely with Redefining Refuge, a non-profit in Tampa that’s working to raise awareness about domestic minor sex trafficking and is raising money for a house. Natasha Nascimento, founder of Redefining Refuge, has been working towards the goal of a house for over two years.

Would Melia have run if she had been in a home, in a program, designed just for her? We would hope not. The journey from victim to survivor is a long and arduous one and is not quite linear. Girls will run sometimes, but when they’re exposed to unconditional love and are connected with adults within a safe and caring community, the hope is that they’ll come back. Dominique and Melia are just two stories of girls exploited in our own backyard, each with a different ending, for now.

With a house on the horizon, it’s Michelle’s and Natasha’s hope that the tide will slowly turn, one success story at a time.

——————————————————————-

Want an easy and fun way to help with the housing project? Redefining Refuge is hosting their 2nd Annual Derby Day Do on Saturday, May 5th, at the Martini Republic in downtown Tampa, from 5-10:00 p.m. Tickets are $20 online; $25 at the door and all proceeds will benefit the 2012 housing project. Click here for more information and to buy your ticket.

 

everyday glorious

April 19, 2012 in homemaking, motherhood with 4 Comments

 

The tunnel-vision, it happens almost every day.

I wake and I see what’s before me, the very real needs of little ones and what to cook, of domestic demands that seem to have no long-term value. We cycle again, each day. The dishes, the crumbs, the baths, the kisses, the never-ending feeling that I just didn’t accomplish everything I’d hoped to.

It can seem so monotonous, can feel so draining, in this land of motherhood to little ones.

This season wears blinders on me–the immediate needs press against my face and I look only forward, not to the right or to the left, for fear of missing the next obvious step. And the blinders can be good–it’s good to be focused, to be intentional with this all-consuming motherhood. It’s good to find pacing and one’s footing right here, in the land you’re placed. I’m doing better now, I would say I’m trotting if I had more confidence; the hurdles are overcome without as many breakdowns and self-doubt. I recover more quickly than before.

Where I lose my footing is, most often, the place of wanderlust. I long for adventure, for the fantasy of something more. I read stories of great women advancing the causes of social justice, overcoming all odds, and I covet the rush of adrenaline. I look down and all I see is dish-stained hands.

And then I hear a whisper, first from His heart, then echoed by a thousand women concurring,

that everyday is glorious,

that service to one, or two little ones, is of equal value as service to hundreds,

that what’s born from one’s home can be explosive as what’s born from a pulpit,

that trajectory is what matters, and not distance,

that any good work is a hard work, a long work,

anything of lasting value takes real sweat-love, real focus, real perseverance.

This monotony, it is the stuff of adventures, it just takes longer than I think to unfold.

No hero of mine was born overnight.  

Joseph spent years in prison before becoming Egypt’s second-in-command. Rachel Lloyd rallied her girls together, all survivors of sex trafficking, and for five years in a row trekked to Albany, New York, presenting, pleading with congress before the Safe Harbor Act was finally passed. Muhummad Yunus spent years strategizing, fundraising, researching and planning before launching the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh which empowers women through micro-finance, becoming known as “banker to the poor.” Mary DeMuth started her writing career printing out domestic-tips newsletters on her own printer long before she considered writing her powerful memoir, long before birthing a ministry of healing and hope to thousands of abuse-survivors.

These boys I serve, it’ll take years, but they’ll grow and get awkward and smell and grow man-hair and will then tower over me as men, glorying in the fullness of manhood.

And the dishes, the crumbs, the baths, the kisses, they’ll all come full circle and instead of wondering late at night if I’ll ever get it all done (which I won’t), I’ll wonder how well I did. Not with the house, not with the domestic management, but with the souls God’s entrusted me with.

I will wonder how I’ve done with the souls.

It’ll be then, in those quiet moments, that my vision will be granted something I do not have right now–the scope to see long-term, the perspective to see how trajectory makes a difference, the revelation of how ridiculously adventure-filled these mundane, monotonous tasks are.

Everyday, glorious.

It just takes a bit longer, a bit further to see.

 

victim or not? the language of sex trafficking

March 29, 2012 in sex trafficking, worldview with Comments Off

"Gruesome," convicted pimp from Detroit, Michigan. Photo from michigan.gov/ag

On March 12, 2003, the world held its breath at the recovery of Elizabeth Smart. Her reunion with her family was celebrated and the media had a frenzy speculating the details of her confinement. As the facts emerged, Elizabeth’s story was received with compassion and widespread empathy. Very few questioned why she attempted to escape “just once,” or why she didn’t scream for help the time she heard someone from a search party call her name. Psychologists and the general public swarmed to her defense, citing the power of trauma bonds, or Stockholm syndrome, that would keep a girl from running and even enable her to feel affection for her captor. We all understood that her very young age hindered her capacity to reason as an adult, to make the decisions we might have, were we in her situation. Elizabeth Smart was accurately depicted as a victim, as she should have been.

 Fourteen year old’s all over the country are experiencing similar dynamics to Elizabeth’s confinement. The factors of how they arrived in their captivity are different, but the final situation is horrifically similar. Their captors, the pimps, brainwash them, cut their ties with outside family and friends, rape them repeatedly and use their sexuality at their disposal. Sexual and physical violence is used to reinforce the captor’s power, and the girls’ lives become about survival, left with no will or identity of their own. They’re suffering in anonymity, and by and large, we do not extend the same measure of compassion, for sheer lack of understanding.

One of the problems is that these girls look different than Elizabeth Smart. Most of them are not blonde, most of them don’t come from “respectable,” well-heeled families with camera-friendly faces, and almost all of them have troubled pasts.

There’s a double-standard here, and it starts with our language.

When a girl is taken from her bed in the middle of the night, we rightfully call it kidnapping and we come running to her rescue. When a girl is led by poverty, abuse or neglect into the arms of a manipulative and controlling man who pimps her out every night, we call it “her choice.”

When an adult man approaches a minor for a sex, we call it statutory rape. When an adult man pays for sex with that same minor, we call it prostitution.

When a forty year-old coerces a minor to perform a sex act, we label him as a sex offender. We make posters of him, complete a written description of his offense and his photo, and we post them on the cork boards of libraries and schools to warn our community. When that same forty year-old goes to a strip club and takes a minor back to the champagne room, we say he “has needs” and we might even level criminal charges against the girl.

 While she may dress the part, strapping on stilettos in favor of Ms. Smart’s burka, it’s all a facade, an extension of one man’s attempt to help justify another man’s delusion– that the girl with baby fat and adolescent acne standing before him really is a mature, empowered woman excited to fulfill his deviant fantasies. 

We rightfully saw Brian David Mitchell as the responsible and culpable adult in Elizabeth’s nightmare, but for the hundreds of minors who are commercially sexually exploited every night, we still cannot see past the puppet to the puppeteer while real men with names like “Gruesome” and “Dollars” skirt the stigma, the arrests, the jail time, the hospital visits, and the sometimes fatal results of working “in the life.”

We’ve become so accustomed to those clubs and those parts of town, to those girls walking the streets, to those reports of crime, that we’ve become blinded to the heinous truth. As a society, we’ve normalized what we call “teen prostitution” by accepting that it’s just part of our culture. While we won’t let high school girls go on field trips without their parent’s signature, we project a maturity and an expectation of adult reasoning onto girls in the sex industry that’s unwarranted.

They should know better, we say, they should run from their pimp if it’s that bad; they should make better choices.

And that’s exactly the point, with victims who’ve been traumatized.

It’s a matter of choice.

Whether from Salt Lake City, Detroit, or Tampa, fourteen year old girls who are repeatedly raped and forced to use sex for survival have long lost the concept of choice.

Let’s change our language, let’s change our attitudes, and then let’s work to give it back to her.

—

This posted on the Carrollwood Patch yesterday, as part of a series that seeks to raise awareness of the realities of sex trafficking.

why I love my husband, reason #29

March 23, 2012 in marriage with Comments Off

My head hit the pillow and in the stillness, muffled whimpers punctuated the dark air.

Instead of rolling over and holding me, knowing full well why I cried, you pulled yourself up from your comfortable night-time position, you and your gangly legs, and you sat right up, bristling with conviction.

I wish you wouldn’t cry, you said firmly.

It’s time you made your mistakes and didn’t question your identity, your ability to succeed, your worth as a person.

It’s time you stopped questioning everything fundamental when you stumble.

It’s time you ended this self-loathing and allowed yourself room for mistakes, without circling the guilt, the doubt, the insecurities.

You’re almost thirty, April.

It’s time to grow up.

The whimpering stopped, a few last cries eked out and then it ended.

—

You know when to comfort, Neal.

And you know when to challenge.

You know how to help me draw clear boundaries, to reach deep and find new confidence, to stand tall, even with knees knocking. You know how to help me silence the accusing voices, to discern when I’m grieving an imaginary wound.

Last night, you told me you loved me, but most clearly,

you told me to man up.

And that’s just another reason why I love you.

new-ish development in which I’m willingly censored

March 22, 2012 in dreams, sex trafficking, worldview with Comments Off

So, a couple weeks ago I posted about dreams and their deferment and how I thought, just maybe, God might be leading me into something new.

I’m ready to share the specifics now, even if I can’t tell you what I’ll be doing next, and what this may lead to. All I have is right now, and maybe my immediate next step. The big stuff? The down-the-road stuff? That’s not even for me to know.

Leading up to my trip to Haiti, I was fearful it would push me over the edge of contentment. I had fought God, for years, over his placement of me in middle-class suburbia, with my proverbial white picket fence and 2.5 kids (but I’m not pregnant, let’s not let that rumor start). God slowly broke me down, stripping away prejudices, growing within me a burden for people who have no physical need. He led me to the good land of contentment. I love my church and I love the opportunities Neal and I have to minister here, right here in the middle of Westchase.

But Haiti wrecked me and I knew it would.

I broke down on the roof during worship. I wept behind a palm tree, next to a humming generator,  while the cooks in the kitchen thought I was missing my husband. I suppressed sobs in a crowded van while good friends laughed and bantered. I watched a sunrise and fought for breath, overcome by a raging torrent of life and the call to something more. Deep calls to deep in the roar of his waterfalls and the dam had certainly broken. And I knew there was no going back.

You cannot feel that fully alive and then return to the mediocre concerns of what-to-wear-on-Sunday and my-grout-sure-needs-a-deep-cleaning.

I came back and experienced the inevitable emotional turbulence that the transition to Regular Life required. Neal helped me land well, with patience and a ton of grace and I’m happy to say I never yelled at him.

A week or so later, my friend Sarah called me and told me about a collaborative presentation on sex trafficking and would I want to go with her. I wasn’t sure if I could work out the childcare and it ended up that Sarah wasn’t able to go, but I found another friend, and a babysitter, and we went. My passions were stirred, but I was cautious.

I’ve been there before. On the brink of stepping into something huge, some social justice cause, and then it doesn’t work out, or the timing’s not right with my season of life, or God just flat-out closes the door.

So I waited, five days, before reaching out to Natasha, a woman who’s founded a non-profit that raises awareness and is working to open a home for rescued girls. I said I had some ideas to share with her. She shared that she might have some opportunities for me. So we scheduled a meeting, which got postponed. The day of the rescheduled meeting, I almost canceled. Doubts were creeping in like termites, eating away at any hope that there might be something I could do, with my demanding schedule as it was. I went anyway, fully prepared to have to decline the offer to do some time-consuming task, praying that, at the least, I could encourage her in her work.

We sat down at a Starbucks, ironically across the street from some “gentleman’s club,” and she tells me she got a call, the night before, from the editor of the Carrollwood Patch, a local online newspaper. She asks if I would want to come on as a blogger for them, specifically to raise awareness about human trafficking and local efforts to combat it.

Um, yeah?

I can do that.

I can write about something that stirs soul fervor, holy indignation rising.

I can attempt to help people understand the complexities of the issues, try to empower them to be part of the change.

I can even do that while my boys nap.

Yes. I would love to do that.

So, I’m at the Patch now, posting weekly about human trafficking, hoping to dismantle myths, hoping to inspire change.

My first post, I learned that hoes is a bad word and should have been spelled h***.

I didn’t know that. Not sure it would have changed things over here, at this writing place. Apparently, when you use bad words like pimps and hoes, spelled all the way out, people click on your link and read. I got over 150 hits for that post alone, and for little ol’ me, that’s some good traffic.

That’s some good awareness for the cause.

The editor was gracious, made the changes without berating me, even changing the title of the post to “Human Trafficking and Stay-at-home Moms.”

Definitely not as sexy.

But I’ll take it, censorship and all.

So, big picture? We’ll see what happens.

For right now, I’m thanking God for an outlet, for the confirmation that this fire in my belly is from him and that he has his ways and his timing– all for his purposes.

I share these details with you to encourage you to trust that he is a good God.

A God who is faithful and whose plans far exceed what we could conjure up independent of him.

When it’s right, when it’s him, you can almost feel him hovering, pulsing the very air around you with life and rhythm and purpose.

And you wonder why you ever wanted to venture out alone, without him, sacrificing his presence for what you think is your dream.

God is your dream.

At the least, join me in trusting this is true.

And then let him prove it to you.

he can wound, he can heal

March 13, 2012 in God with 4 Comments

I used to read Scripture with one eye open and the other covered, underlining phrases, skipping over others, utilizing imaginary ellipses whenever I came to a portion that didn’t fit with my theology.

Namely, I didn’t believe that God could be the author of pain, of something that would cause me harm.

But, now, life’s lens calls me up and above these fears, in spite of abiding apprehensions that I may not understand this God and his ways, that he may be different than first believed.

This frightening possibility echoes throughout the poetry of Moses and Isaiah and Jeremiah. I hear it the most clearly in Hosea’s words;

“Come, let us return to the LORD.

He has torn us into pieces but he will heal us;

he has injured us but he will bind up our wounds.

After two days, he will revive us; on the third day he will restore us that we may live in his presence.

Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge him. As surely as the sun rises, he will appear;

he will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.” Hosea 6:1-3

 

I wonder, in my life, which broken places have his fingerprints. I don’t see it in my abuse, although I’ve accepted that he allowed it for his purposes. However, I do see this intentional brokenness, this injury of God, with my dreams. They’ve risen and they’ve fallen and I’ve come so close to stepping into what I thought would be their fruition, only to find it wasn’t to be. The hope for their fulfillment would come crashing down and I would lie prostrate on the carpet, praying and asking God why he would place these desires in me, only to defer them time and again.

In those moments of humility my ugly sense of entitlement was exposed. I had honestly come to the place where I thought that my steadfast obedience and supposed righteous intentions had earned me the right to my dreams. God allowed the tension to strip away the layers of my belief system, one by one.

I had envisioned myself as this future so-and-so–would it be enough for me to remain in my current roles of wife and mother, and lover of God?

I had propped up my identity with the trappings of future adventures–could I not just rest on the sole foundation of who Christ has said I am; identity determined by his statements on the cross and in his Word, all action and inaction aside–nothing more and nothing less?

Could Christ alone be my reward, my satisfaction in this life, my adventure, my fellowship, my blessing?

We wrestled there, in those low places, and he struck my hip near the river. I saw my pride as his light dawned and declared he had won.

I would arise, draw myself up, tasting the sting of battle, wounds exposed, identity undone. For who can wrestle with God and remain unchanged?

I find myself now at the crossing of another river. I did not think I’d be here at this point. But I sense a new current, a swell, rising in my belly, and I wonder if he has brought me to the place I only once recognized in dreams, long surrendered. I think I hear him, across the waters, calling me to step in, to move forward. Things are happening all around me, and this time I am not forcing them; they seem to move, to pulse with their own rhythm and timing, without my doing anything.

I am hesitant.

I’ve misinterpreted the move of God before.

But it cannot hurt–at the least, I take part in one project, in a few meetings; at most…only God could tell.

So, now.

Now I can pray through, worship with, more scriptures in their entirety.

I believe that it was God, and not random circumstances, that broke me; that his own hand caused the injury. And I believe it was because of his mercy and his wisdom, as has a doctor who resets a poorly healed broken bone. It will be God’s own hand that does the healing, that binds up the wounds, that brings me to place of wholeness.

And it could be his hand that is directing the water, the current, of this movement I sense.

Who knows, I could be stepping into dreams fulfilled–this time, for his glory and not mine, with his unexplained ways, and not with my own.

why I love my husband, reason #183

February 25, 2012 in marriage with 2 Comments

Neal,

It was from across a room filled with twenty friends that your eyes caught mine and held them, longer than I thought they should, long enough to make me think,

“only a husband should look at me like that,”

and then we fell in love and married and gave each other our twenties.

And I stand there, this afternoon, over a pot of cinnamon apples, stirring, scraping, a hundred conversations running through my mind, the soul-child, trying to reconcile emotions with common sense. I have tried and tried, and yet I cannot seem to come to terms with the disappointment I hold over this one relationship. It’s not what I thought it would be. It’s not even what it was, for a short while. It is what it is, and it won’t be changed. I know that. So, why the outstanding hurt?

I go circles, there, in my mind, and you catch me.

The toddler is tugging at my leg and the young boy is distracted again from his assignment and the food is steaming and there’s much to be done, but you stop me short.

You’re sitting there, on the tiled floor, and you ask what bothers me. I’m almost embarrassed to tell you because you’ve heard it all before. There is no new development in the story and all the comfort and all the wisdom and all the “figuring out” has already been had. I tell you anyway, hesitantly, apologetically. I should be much stronger than this. And all you offer, after the words tumble down, spilling onto the floor along with the rest of the mess, is

I’m sorry, babe.

There’s no condescension, there’s no impatience with my grief and you won’t even let me go at it alone.

You excuse yourself and come back with an iPad playing Audrey Assad. You scoop me in your arms and you dance me in the air, you’re so much taller than me, my feet dangle. I’m lifted, in your arms, above my present demands. Little boy looks over and smiles, toddler waits in his high chair, the food cooks on and you circle me around.

You create space for me. You push back the walls of my roles and their incessant pleas for attention and you make room for my heart. You offer no fix, only the gift of your company, and if there is no time or space for the two of us to stop right here, you take your strong arms and you build a refuge out of thin air.

I bury my face in your neck and I think, “this is why I love you.”

You see me, through a crowded room of people, through crowded season of life, and you catch my eyes.

You catch my soul, Neal.

And I love you for it.

let’s talk about healing

February 21, 2012 in abuse, healing with 2 Comments

If you’ve been around here a while, you’ve heard me refer to my story of abuse–not the details of it, but certainly, its impact on my life.

I’m over at Mary DeMuth’s blog today, writing about the process of discerning the lies we believe about ourselves, especially in the light of abuse, and then overcoming them. But before you click on over there, I want to encourage you to think of someone this topic might encourage. Statistics say that 1 in 4 women and 1 in 6 men have been sexually abused, and although that statistic is staggering, most of us feel totally alone in our pain. I spoke about my healing journey here and I have an entire page on my blog dedicated to resources for those wanting to heal.

Who can you forward this to, with a note of care and encouragement?

There’s hope, there’s more life to be had–in Christ, all things can be redeemed. I’m living proof.

—–

I told myself that it wasn’t as I felt it was.

I self-coached and prayed and even brought my husband into the crazy realm of my mind, letting him know that

I was struggling,

that my current conflict reeked with the scent of my abuse,

that I just couldn’t shake it.

It was a regular, real-world conflict, the kind you can encounter any time you work with people, rubbing shoulders with good people, different people, and things just go wrong for you…

Click here to continue reading over at Mary DeMuth’s blog

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