tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90518188435584414712024-03-19T00:50:28.071-07:00Getting Real-Confessions From Behind the MaskBetsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.comBlogger226125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-42352183479079387422017-08-29T07:21:00.002-07:002017-08-29T07:23:29.977-07:00The Problem Isn't Your Neckline ~ A New Perspective on Modesty ~<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">You don’t have
to scroll very long on social media to come across an article on modesty. They tend
to range from one extreme of “Cover up! It’s all your fault if a man lusts!” to
the other extreme of “Girl power! Wear whatever you want, you’re not
responsible for a man’s thoughts!”.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Personally, I’ve
understood and related to both sides of the argument at various points in my
life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I remember the
“one piece or T-shirts” rule in youth group when it came to summer camp. I also
remember the insecurity I felt when I was a young newlywed driving past the
Hooters billboards with my husband. And I remember sharing a fitness progress
pic on social media and a church member asking me to take it down because it
wasn’t appropriate for a group leader. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">There’s so many opinions,
and I get them all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But I realized
something recently that gave me a brand new perspective—and it has to do with
tidal waves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">You know what I
mean. That feeling that comes when you’re standing in front of the mirror,
trying to squeeze into your skinny jeans. Or when you’re eating chips and
watching TV and a commercial comes on featuring models who probably haven’t eaten
a chip a day in their life. Or when that lady at church asks when your non-existent
baby is due. Or when your husband didn’t notice your new lingerie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">It hits hard—a
tidal wave of body shame, guilt, regret, and hopelessness. A seemingly
inescapable tsunami of the worst emotions possible, washing over you all at
once, drowning you in depression, anxiety and desperation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">The tidal wave
is bad enough, but the worst part is typically what we do when the wave
recedes. When the deep waters of insecurity and defeat retract, we’re left
standing coated in a lot of grit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">And as women,
there’s a variety of ways to wash it off. Sometimes that means stuffing our
hand back into the bag of chips. Sometimes that means torturing ourselves with
an hour of cardio. Or sometimes it means a shopping spree. When we feel
insecure and less-than, we will try to seek validation in any form within
reach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We’re wired that
way and we know it. So the best means of offense is to wash ourselves in pure
water. Instead of going to food or the mall as means of washing off the grime,
we must plan ahead of time to go to the Word. To worship music. To godly
friends who will build us up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Having a plan in
place serves as a guardrail from additional pain. Because with the other
methods, the consequences bring new waves. Like numbers inching up on the scale
or our savings account dwindling into the red or our hearts breaking from
seeking out misplaced affection. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I’ve known this
wisdom, but I often struggle to put it into practice. When my heart aches, I
want to shut it up. Sometimes that means chocolate, sometimes that means extra
hours at the gym, and sometimes that means new shoes. I’ve done it all—and so
have you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But let’s get
honest. More often than not, it means seeking out male affirmation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">When I was
single, especially post-divorce, this was my go-to. If I could get a
double-take or a wink, I’d be okay again. A little bit of that insecurity would
wash off with every flirty text from a guy friend. The lie of “you’re not
enough” would quiet with every “like” on social media. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Now that I’m re-married,
I see it differently. I see the way my husband makes effort to stay pure by setting
up guardrails so he’s protected emotionally and visually. That means everything
from setting filters on his phone to finding male accountability partners to completely
avoiding popular TV shows. He makes those efforts because it glorifies God, but
also because it honors me, his wife. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">When I was
struggling a while back with a particularly fresh tidal wave, I found myself seeking
out that second glance again. I wanted to feel attractive and validated because
of the lies and negative self-image attacking daily. I wanted a reprieve, and
in my pain, I was defaulting to my old methods instead of defaulting to the
Lord. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Until my husband
told me about a morning when he was at the gym and a suggestive woman walked
by. His reaction? He literally closed his eyes (while jogging on a moving
treadmill!) so he wouldn’t do a double take. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">It was an “aha”
moment for me, because I’d never considered it from that angle. When I strut
around, looking for affirmation for my wounds, I’m more often than not tempting
a married or committed man. While I’m trying to feel better by gaining a second
glance, I’m creating the exact feeling of insecurity that I’m trying to rid
myself of inside another woman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Ouch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">My husband works
hard to stay pure. I’d never want another woman to intentionally lead him
astray. What a betrayal against our fellow sisters when we do the same thing! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">You might feel
better after posting a sexy selfie on Instagram when you’re rejected or having
a “fat day” and watching those “likes” stack up. But at what cost? What are you
doing to your fellow woman and her marriage/relationship? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Next time you’re
in front of the mirror, debating whether your dress is too short or your
bathing suit too revealing or your neckline too low, don’t get caught up in the
unanswerable questions of deciding if modesty is fully your responsibility or
if a man’s lust is your fault or if girl power rules after all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Instead, get
specific. Ask yourself if you’d want another woman wearing that in front of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> husband or boyfriend. Look for the
motivation of your heart in wearing that particular outfit. Is it to fix an
ache, or are you wearing it because you feel pretty and like the colors? Is it
to look suggestive and get attention, or because it’s comfortable and
flattering? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Face it. Some men will
struggle with lust whether a woman is wearing a string bikini or is fully
covered in a pant-suit. The point isn’t taking responsibility for another
person’s sin—it’s in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not creating more sin
within your own. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Because when we
seek affirmation and validation from a source outside of the Lord, it’s empty,
pointless and yes—sinful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">The cultural
modesty debate will continue, and you’ll likely find yourself leaning toward
one side of the fence or the other at different times. Our responsibility as
women is to navigate this as purely as possible within ourselves, and that
means putting our sisters in Christ first. Philippians 2:3 (ESV) “</span><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman";">Do nothing from selfish ambition
or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than
yourselves.” </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">This doesn’t
mean we wear shapeless sweatshirts and never don a bathing suit or post a
selfie on a good hair day. It simply means we frequently self-check our heart,
stick close to the Lord, and learn to hear His whispers of truth and beauty
over the lies of the enemy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-11801974797800637542016-09-09T07:09:00.000-07:002016-09-09T07:09:54.159-07:00That Time You Got Dumped and Found Yourself in Jail...<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes you get dumped, and nine days later, find yourself
in jail. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Not in the way you think, though that probably happens too)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ties of a long-term relationship were suddenly severed,
and I found myself hanging by a thread. I desperately needed to get my mind,
emotions and focus off myself. So, at the suggestion of a friend, I signed up
for a jail outreach with a local ministry I’d participated in off and on the
past year. This was my first time to attend this particular outreach, and I had
no idea what to expect visiting women in jail who had been arrested for
prostitution. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only thing to do was don my “Sometimes Warriors Wear
Heels” T-shirt, and dive into the unknown. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just had no idea at the time how deep Jesus wanted me to
swim. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The air was stifling and heavy in the lobby—downright
oppressive. The spiritual veil thin, the silent battle around us nearly
audible. People waiting to see family members and friends, wrangling their
kids, listening for their number to be called, paying at the chipped blue booth
for their loved one to have spending money from behind bars. It was like
stepping into an entirely different world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I thought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
normal had been rocked of late. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hadn’t sensed defeat and discouragement in one place so
tangibly in a long time. I was anxious and jittery myself, and hadn’t eaten.
Yet despite my growling stomach and my uncertainty, I was so blown away by the
ministry opportunity that lingered right there in the lobby. So many people waiting
to visit inmates—I thought if this was a hospital, it’d be easy to ask if
someone wanted prayer. Religion is pretty popular in the waiting room of the
ER, where vulnerability and brokenness is expected. But there, at the jail,
everyone had on their game face. Hard, brittle, guarded masks that refused to
shatter or let anyone in. There would be no getting past those walls tonight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I silently prayed for the young woman behind me with the
blue streaks in her hair. And for the woman who hugged her significant other
tightly as he was released from his sentence. And for the family of the little
girl in the Princess T-shirt, who was handing out those free apartment brochures
from the magazine rack and charming my entire row, like this was a normal
Thursday night for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Normal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the inmate’s names were called for my group, the three
of us navigated our way through the metal detector (which I set off because of
the button on my jeans) and waited to be given our visitor passes. We assumed
we’d all be going to the same area because of the similar charges of our
assigned inmates, and I was more than grateful to stick with my ministry leader
and friend. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except my pass was green. And theirs was not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mental Ward. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Any sense of adjustment to this foreign world I’d found
myself in fled right quick, along with the blood from my head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes you get dumped, and you find yourself alone in a
never-ending corridor, light-headed and unsure. And your heels echo loud on the
shiny floor, and your heart shouts a protest with every step, but you move
anyway, almost as afraid to go back as you are to go forward. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had no idea what I was doing. My normal had been all sorts
of shaken upside down and inside out. What would I do? What would I say?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What did I even have to offer in my own brokenness?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked on, shaky with nerves and the fear of the unknown,
which is sort of how I’d felt for nine days now. And I prayed that somehow,
despite my fragile state, the Holy Spirit would use me. That hallway was long.
So long. And so was the next one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I kept going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because sometimes the only way <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out</i> is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">through</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finally found the green door that matched my visitor pass,
and had to talk myself into opening it. When I did, I was facing yet another
stairwell. By now I’d abandoned all hope of ever finding my way back to the
lobby, and followed a typed sign and hastily drawn arrow toward the female
mental health ward. (this door was open, thankfully, because otherwise I might
have still been standing there)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stepped through the frame into a tiny cubicle area, with
chairs and phones and heavy plated glass. The lights were dim, the shadows
long, the area deserted. Even the guard’s desk around the corner sat empty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood and waited, and prayed. Paced. Wondered if I was in
the right place. Looked up and glimpsed a shock of dark hair through one of the
windows of the cells. Cells that were rooms, with doors. Solitary, confining. I
didn’t see the face under the hair, but glimpsing those brunette waves told me
a real live soul was stuck in that room, fighting who knew how many demons, and
how ill-equipped was she to do so? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something broke off in my spirit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A guard finally saw me, mere minutes later that felt like
forever, and we proceeded to have an awkwardly shouted conversation through the
glass about who I was there to see. She went to find her, and I marveled anew
at how lifeless the entire area was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I thought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’d</i>
been battling discouragement the past week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something else broke off deep inside, and what was left
hissed and sparked to life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And as I stared through the glass, at that wave of dark hair
across the room in a solitary cell, at the two story rows of shut and locked
doors, clutching my green tag with the words MENTAL stamped across the front in
large print—because aren’t we all? The only thing I could think was: but for
the grace of God. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like the inmates arrested for prostitution, I too had once
sought healing for my brokenness post-divorce in all the wrong vices. Like the
inmates, I tried to fix my broken all on my own, and ended up with more shards
than I knew what to do with. I could relate to what it felt like to be
repeatedly betrayed, rejected and abandoned, to feel as if you had to
desperately strive to prove yourself and gain validation in the only ways you
knew how. Even if those ways gleefully imprisoned you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wouldn’t take much at all to be on the other side of that
glass. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But for the grace of God. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My hurt? Suddenly, it didn’t ache as much. My problems?
Diminished. My definition of lonely? A total joke. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t nervous and unsure anymore. No, I wanted to burst
through the glass. I wanted to run to each room, shouting truth against the
lies echoing all over that dark space. I wanted to unlock each door and
proclaim how I knew the Chain-breaker Himself, and that they could too. That I
was a writer, so I knew this didn’t have to be the end of their story—that
their Author was good and trustworthy and loved them no matter what had landed
them there. That it wasn’t too late—was never too late. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I almost choked on all the words caught in my throat, mixed
with unshed tears. I felt like I had the keys, but I just couldn’t make it to
their cells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesus, please go to their cells</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The guard returned, alone. The inmate didn’t want to see
anyone. It was time for me to leave. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Disappointment, along with a fiery determination, carried me
back to the lobby. I never got to talk to my assigned inmate—she has no idea
how much she taught me in such a short time. But the Holy Spirit was there, and
no door, lock or alarm can keep Him out. His ways and timing are never wasted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m praying for the young woman I didn’t get to see. I’ll
mail her a card and let her know that she has purpose that she can’t even
fathom right now. That she’s never too broken to be healed. That it’s possible
through Christ to experience freedom even in the midst of our darkest prisons. I’ll
go visit her again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Because sometimes, you get dumped and find yourself in jail—and
find liberty and hope you forgot even existed. <o:p></o:p></div>
Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-71186780338609539222015-10-30T19:28:00.003-07:002015-10-30T19:28:18.248-07:00Warrior Princess Training<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter was afraid to brush her teeth. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Afraid to make the short trek down the hall and to the left
to the bathroom, where in her seven-year-old mind, something lurked dark and
deep. A fear unnamed and yet not
unknown, a familiar fear that caught her in a cold-fisted grip too many times
to count. You never knew when it was going to grab and clutch, you just knew at
some point, it would again. </div>
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<br /></div>
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She wanted me. My company. My presence down the hall. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I knew she needed More. Needed <i>His</i> company, <i>His</i>
presence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only way to fight the dark is with light. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told her I’d be right there, in the kitchen, and she could
do it. But she couldn’t, and the tears came, hysterical and sure. I wiped her
cheeks and whispered reminders of who she was. Daughter of the most High King.
Child of God. Beloved. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She tried again. Failed. Feet frozen in fear right at the
start of the hall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This went on for a solid half hour. False starts and foiled
attempts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finally pulled her back in close. She begged me to come
with her. Bargained. Pleaded. Bribed. I said I couldn’t, that this was
important. She needed to remember who she was. I promised I’d come as soon as
she made it in there and turned on the water. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I leaned in tight and whispered a secret. “Remember—you
have a superpower.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She blinked, eyes hoping, wanting to believe but not quite
able. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A real superpower. Not like Elsa’s. Because of Jesus in
you, fear doesn’t control you.” I whispered softer. “<i>You</i> control the fear.” I
told her to rebuke it in Jesus name. That when she did, because of her
authority as a follower of Christ, it had to leave. It <i>had</i> to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She lined back up, shoulders back, staring down the hall.
She whispered something soft. Then whispered again. Teary eyed, panicked,
spun back to me. “It didn’t work, Mama!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you say in Jesus' name?”<br />
<br />
Her head dropped. “No.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s the most important part.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Red faced, puffy nosed, swollen eyed, she tried again. “I
rebuke fear in Jesus’ name.” She took a step. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She. Took. A. Step. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crying, speaking louder. “I rebuke fear in Jesus’ name!”
Another step. Tiny and slow. “I rebuke fear in Jesus name.” Stronger. Clearer. “I
rebuke fear in Jesus name.” Tears came fresh as she trod out of my sight and
around the corner, interrupted only by sporadic, tear-soaked and broken declarations of “I
want Mama!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart would burst. “Keep going baby! I’m right here.” I
wanted to go to her so badly. But victory was more important than comfort. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crying harder now, but speaking louder now. “I rebuke fear
in Jesus’ name.” Shuddering breath. “I rebuke fear in Jesus’ name!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The water turned on. And I ran to her side. We celebrated, with foamy toothpaste grins
and high fives and victory dance from her beloved stuffed giraffe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, my heart is seven, and I’m standing paralyzed in
the hall, afraid to go any further. Afraid of the door behind me shutting
forever and afraid of the one around the corner that I can’t see. Afraid that
maybe I’ll get there, and it’ll be locked too. Afraid that I’m truly alone and
on my own and the goal ahead of me is too large, too impossible, and too risky.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then my Wonderful Counselor, my Prince of Peace, my
Comforter, leans in close and reminds me who I am. Whispers that the same power
that resurrected Him resides in me, and I am never alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blink, eyes hoping, wanting to believe but not quite able.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I whisper His name.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I can take a step. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My foot weighs a thousand pounds and I realize that maybe I
don’t want the destination so badly after all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That it’s too much. Too
uncertain. It hurts too bad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But victory is more important than my comfort. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I walk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next week, she came to me from her bed in the nights,
tears flooding. “Mama, I’m scared something’s going to happen to you. I can’t
sleep.” Struggling breath. “I can’t make the bad thoughts stop.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walk her back to bed, my tired eyes desperate for sleep. I
knew she’d pass out hard and fast if I allowed her to sleep in my bed with
me—but no. There was another battle to fight. A bigger one than either of us
knew. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I tuck her back in her own room, the fear so strong now
she can barely breathe around it. I hug her close as she cries, praying for
peace, and remind her that the devil is a liar. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I remember how often I forget that. How often I let the
bad thoughts fly free. Let them circle and swoop like vultures, picking at the
remnants of my joy. Snatching hope with sharp beaks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell her that the fears she has were not true. That we
were safe. And that God had a big plan for her. That because of what she had been
through and conquered already, she was special. Her heart was sensitive for a
reason, and this was training. Warrior Princess training. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She pulled the covers up to her chin and half covered the
smile trying to peek through the tears. She liked that. “Mama? Have you
finished your training?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let out a half laugh, half cry. Finished? No. I still
fall. Still get up. Brush off the dirt and smear the sweat in my eyes and get
back into the ring, despite the blood stains. Stronger. But definitely not
finished. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I only shake my head. “No, baby. I’ve come a really long
way. But I’m not done yet.” I kiss her, tell her that I’m going to bed and she
had everything she needed to fight. She had Jesus. She had memorized Bible
verses. And she knew what to do with them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I prayed over her, anointed her forehead with oil, and
walked out of the room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because sometimes, the only way to teach the warrior to
fight is to give her a war. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stayed. She fought. She won. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I realized the power in being still. In pausing in the
thick of our individual battle fields, breathing deep and knowing who God is
and who we are in Him. Yet our instincts are to duck and dodge, to cower low,
not brave the front line. Never that. Our defaults shout to run to safety, to
Mama’s room, to pretend like it’s all a bad dream and bask in false security
instead of the real kind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are fully equipped. We only have to utilize the weapons
He already gave us. Victory is ours. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we stay. </div>
Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-69456870672876850192015-09-09T19:24:00.002-07:002015-09-09T19:24:18.007-07:00WordsWords.<br />
<br />
A myriad emotions compacted into tight, manageable packages.<br />
<br />
They're such a mystery. How some days we prattle long before an empty room or a lone mirror. So much to say and no one listening.<br />
<br />
How some nights we stand in a solo spotlight, hundreds of eyes riveted, and open our lips--yet nothing escapes.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, we have so much to say, the words get stuck. They clump and ball in the back of the throat like a wad of tears. Refusing to budge. Resisting release.<br />
<br />
So we pace. Back and forth, side-eyeing the pen or the keyboard like an enemy instead of an ally. Some nights, it's both simultaneously. Friend or foe, yet to be determined with every keystroke. The line between love and hate is fine, especially when self-drawn in the sand. Rejection and failure clamor for top billing over confidence and courage.<br />
<br />
Some nights, it wins.<br />
<br />
Some nights, you win.<br />
<br />
And some nights, you yank the cord from the wall.<br />
<br />
And that's not to speak of the words we didn't say.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the most dangerous kind of all, the words fully formed yet restrained. The words that tango in the gaping silence between two people, the words that twist and float and flutter right out of reach. The words seeking discernment in eye contact, the words begging for clarity in hugs. The words that ache to promise but burrow deep. Words that crave safety yet are too scared to come out of the dark.<br />
<br />
They say words are weapons, for words can never be taken back.<br />
<br />
I say words unspoken are far more lethal.<br />
<br />
Words.<br />
<br />
A myriad of emotions combusting out of tight, manageable packages.Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-76975648285919805752015-08-16T20:37:00.000-07:002015-08-16T20:37:24.460-07:00When the Monsters Come...Have you seen the movie The Village, starring Bryce Dallas Howard?<br />
<br />
It's an intense, somewhat creepy film about the power of suggestion, human nature, and the search for innocence. In the movie, a group of people start a colony to avoid crime. And yet, crime comes just the same. These families live in a secluded clearing surrounded by woods, in which they believe are inhabited by fearsome monsters who are attracted to the color red and repelled by yellow. The villagers and the monsters have an unofficial truce - the people don't go into the woods, the monsters don't come into the village.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the character played by Bryce is named Ivy, a big-hearted young woman who is blind, and is madly in love with Lucias, a simple man of few words but one who is fiercely loyal to Ivy. He's loved her for years, but would never let her know. Yet she draws it out of him as only she can do.<br />
<br />
There's a scene where the monster has violated the truce and is attacking the village. The people are frantic, scrambling into basements, dead-bolting doors, screaming. Ivy is waiting in her sister's cottage for Lucias, her entire family in the basement behind her. Her sister raises the trap door from the floor and demands Ivy get inside. But Ivy stubbornly stands in the open doorway of the house, determined to wait for Lucias. "He'll come for me," she proclaims in a shaky voice. "He always comes."<br />
<br />
She's blind, and can't see that the monster is drawing nearer and nearer to the open front door where she stands. Yet we know she senses the danger, because she's sweating and trembling and teary-eyed with fear. Yet she stands, regardless - arm outstretched, fingers waiting. Trusting. Believing he will come for her.<br />
<br />
The monster draws closer, Ivy trembles harder, and then, in a split second - Lucias. He appears in slow motion, grabs Ivy's outstretched hand, whirls her around into the safety of the house, and slams the door literally just in time.<br />
<br />
It might be the most romantic thing I've ever seen.<br />
<br />
It's what every female heart longs for - security. True love. Loyalty. Protection. It's every deep well inside a woman's heart bursting to life in one ten-second film clip. It's almost unbearable to watch. And yet you want to cheer, even while you're fighting back tears, because it's just so beautiful and perfect.<br />
<br />
Not that long ago, I opened the door to a bad situation that had me in over my head. I wanted out. I wanted safety. I wanted to slam the door, but was too afraid of the repercussions. I was frozen in fear. Fear of "what if". Fear of "it's too late". Fear of "this is inevitable."<br />
<br />
I was so burdened, I almost couldn't breathe. I went into the restroom at work, locked the door, and with my forehead pressed against the wall, I asked Jesus one desperate, honest, gut-wrenchingly heartfelt question.<br />
<br />
"What do you want me to do?"<br />
<br />
The answer, so swift and personal and intense that I got chills from head to toe, came immediately.<br />
<br />
"Hold out your hand."<br />
<br />
The scene from that movie I had viewed months before played through my mind, except it wasn't Lucias or a romantic interest twirling me to safety. It was Jesus. The danger was about to plow me over, and He was right there, watching. Ready. Waiting for my cue.<br />
<br />
Jesus doesn't force Himself. He longs to rescue us, but He doesn't impose. I had to make the decision to hold out my hand for rescue, or be devoured.<br />
<br />
Standing in that bathroom stall, sobbing, I literally shot my hand out. Arm fully outstretched, fingers reaching..<br />
<br />
And that was the end of it. That was all it took. It was over from there forward.<br />
<br />
Oh, I had to walk through the tangible steps of removing myself from the situation, yes. But that was the easy part. The hard, nearly impossible part, was that crucial moment of decision. That mental, emotional and spiritual shift that had to take place first. That moment where I realized I couldn't save myself, that I lacked the know-how and desire to carry it out. That only Jesus' strength could be made perfect in my weakness.<br />
<br />
Holding out my hand that afternoon changed everything.<br />
<br />
What will it change for you?Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-4717229208363720022015-07-11T20:54:00.000-07:002015-07-11T21:05:28.860-07:00The Door KeeperThere's a girl.<br />
<br />
A girl in a storm.<br />
<br />
Wind whipping her hair into tangles against her face. Swirling dark clouds gathering fierce. Rain and tears racing in rivulets down her cheeks.<br />
<br />
But this isn't a typical storm. This storm is indoors.<br />
<br />
And she's running. Down an endless hallway, futile attempt to outrun the tempest overhead. Feet slipping on the wooden floor, rain puddling at her feet. Soaked through, shivering. She can't escape.<br />
<br />
The hallway is lined with doors. Tall doors, short doors. Ornate doors framed in gold. Doors painted blue and doors painted red. Doors lined with ivy and doors with frosted glass.<br />
<br />
She tries one, desperate for escape. It's locked.<br />
<br />
She tries another, eager hands wrestling slippery knobs. It's locked too.<br />
<br />
All the doors are locked.<br />
<br />
The realization sinks in reluctantly, a scratchy wool blanket on wet skin. The storm is pressing in, and she has no where to go. Frantic, she beats her fist against one door, then throws her full weight against another. She yells, screams. Her voice echoes in the stillness as she bounces like a pin ball from door to door. No entry. No admittance.<br />
<br />
The doors are locked.<br />
<br />
Weary, she sinks to the floor, pulling her knees against her chest. Her breath comes in heaves, her body wracked with cold and fear. Panic grips, cutting colder than the rain clinging to her clothes. She has no where to go. She can't open the doors.<br />
<br />
She can't fix this.<br />
<br />
She can't control this.<br />
<br />
She's stuck in the hallway.<br />
<br />
Half numb, she vaguely remembers the last time she was there. The last time she knew the firmness of those doors, the hardness of that floor. It'd been so long. How had she gotten out that time?<br />
<br />
Muscle memory moves her fingers into her tangled hair. Finds a bobby pin wedged into a curl. She frees it, studies it between limp fingers. Then she remembered.<br />
<br />
Last time, she'd picked the lock.<br />
<br />
She'd forced her way in.<br />
<br />
She tightened her fist around her only hope. She could do it again. She held the key to her freedom.<br />
<br />
But had it been freedom? Somehow, she'd still ended up back in the same hallway. Back on the floor.<br />
<br />
Thunder cracks above. The clouds release a fresh torrent of rain. She huddles deeper into herself, the pin biting into her clenched palm. She had to get up. Pick a lock. Force it open.<br />
<br />
Force her path.<br />
<br />
If she didn't, who would?<br />
<br />
<i>He told you to wait</i>...<br />
<br />
The whisper came, a breath on the wind, so faint a reminder she'd almost missed it. Who had told her to wait? Oh, right. Him. The Door Keeper. He'd told her to wait in the hallway.<br />
<br />
But surely He hadn't known about the storm coming. Why would He tell her to wait in the storm?<br />
<br />
She slowly sat upright. Ready to stand. The bobby pin burned in her hand. It would do the trick. Then she wouldn't have to wait anymore.<br />
<br />
<i>Wait</i>...<br />
<br />
His voice came again, from inside her this time. Familiar and painful and too wonderful to contain. She swallowed against it. She was cold--so cold. She needed to get warm. Pick a door, and get warm. If The Door Keeper wasn't taking care of her, she'd have to take care of herself.<br />
<br />
<i>Please wait</i>.<br />
<br />
Thunder shook the hallway. She couldn't breathe, she was so cold. She had to fix this.<br />
<br />
<i>Trust me. And wait. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
She couldn't ignore Him. The pin dropped from her fist.<br />
<br />
She shifted her weight, rolling onto her knees. Lifting her face to the rain. The doors were still locked. She was still trapped. And it was still storming.<br />
<br />
Yet... <i>I trust you.</i><br />
<br />
Instant warmth flooded her body, coursing through her veins. Surrender wrapped a down-soft blanket over her shoulders, casting off the damp. The intruding rain couldn't seep in now. No, it flowed straight off, taking layers of self-sufficiency with it. Removing the outer grime of pride. Washing anxiety and doubt right clean until all that was left shone blood-red and white as snow.<br />
<br />
And at the end of the hallway, the simplest of doors flung wide open.<br />
<br />
The Door Keeper had come.Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-51109441329689887882015-06-22T18:02:00.003-07:002015-06-22T18:02:38.575-07:00Winner of LOVE ARRIVES IN PIECES is...Thanks to all who entered the giveaway! I sincerely loved reading your comments :)<br />
<br />
I randomly drew a winner for the autographed copy of LOVE ARRIVES IN PIECES and that winner is....<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="background-color: magenta; font-size: x-large;">CARRIE SCHMIDT!!</span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
CONGRATS! Please email me at betsystamant@yahoo.com and let me know your mailing address. I'll get this free autographed copy to you ASAP!<br />
<br />
Thanks again, guys, and check back for more posts and giveaways! :) Also, follow me at my author FB page for even more opportunities at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BetsySt.Amant">https://www.facebook.com/BetsySt.Amant</a><br />
<br />
<br />Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-87888348750799444912015-06-07T19:35:00.004-07:002015-06-08T19:29:30.002-07:00LOVE ARRIVES IN PIECES GIVEAWAY!<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Enter to win an autographed copy of my brand new release </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>LOVE ARRIVES IN PIECES </i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
It's simple :) </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Just leave a comment on this blog answering any (or all!) of the prompt questions below,<br />
and ta-da! You'll be all signed up. I'll draw a winner Monday, June 22nd!<br />
<br />
Prompt questions:<br />
<br />
Do you believe there is truth in fiction? (why or why not?)<br />
Was there ever a time when your life was significantly impacted by a novel? (if so, tell me how!)<br />
Why do you love to read?<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-67308815093434836802015-03-03T07:04:00.000-08:002015-03-03T07:04:15.372-08:00Confessions from an Over-Thinker Sometimes I take myself WAY too seriously.<br />
<br />
Please raise your hand. Tell me I'm not alone?<br />
<br />
Sometimes I over-think (okay, I <i>always </i>over-think) Everything can be FINE. Good, even. And then, somehow - I'm sucked in. Sucked down. Mood change sweeping in like a cloud cover. Dark gray, swirling mass, for no real reason at all. Fear of this, fear of that. Regret from this, ache for that. Worry over the future that crowds out the joy of <i>now</i>.<br />
<br />
It's so easy. That swirling dark mass of mood comes and hovers and lingers and casts long shadows of lies. Lies that don't even make sense when you really break them apart. What's wrong? NOTHING.<br />
<br />
Yet somehow, everything.<br />
<br />
And then I think about people that have "real problems" and guilt seeps in like rain soaking deep. It just makes the mass thicker. The sun is up there. Somewhere. But that mass refuses to let the light of Truth penetrate.<br />
<br />
Raise your hand?<br />
<br />
There is nothing on this earth that truly satisfies outside of God. It sounds so preachy, but cliche truth comes from truth anyway, and it's there none the less, and until we really grasp that fact, we'll be swinging aimlessly at clouds that refuse to surrender to our wispy-thin blows.<br />
<br />
No relationship, no friendship, no thing, no object, no item, no song, no feeling, no financial figure, no car, no routine, can satisfy for more than a short time. And those who believe that somehow they <i>can</i>, are constantly fighting to obtain that next thing. And then the things take over, and the swirling mass becomes thicker, darker, heavier...heavy with all the things. And we're swinging at clouds that won't dissipate, wondering what on earth is wrong with us, and it's just us, and we're alone in the gray madness.<br />
<br />
Raise your hand?<br />
<br />
See. We're never alone. All these struggles...they're not new to man, and they're not new to Jesus. (such grace there). The Bible says there is nothing new under the sun (Ecc. 1:9) No new struggle, no new mood swing or bad day or failure. We all fail, and fear, and regret, and ache, and long, and strive, and struggle, and carry things not meant for us. It's so easy to take it all on and instead of enjoying the beauty of now, we glimpse and then focus on that one potentially dark cloud on the horizon. Just the acknowledgment of that cloud makes it grow.<br />
<br />
What-if's develop so, so fast. And are far more dangerous than a hurricane.<br />
<br />
I'm reminded lately of James 1:17. "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows..."<br />
<br />
God gives us good gifts. Good relationships, good friendships, good music, good family, good feelings and food and provision. I can attest to this. These are gifts from Him. All is grace. But <i>He </i>is still the ultimate gift. He never changes. He never fails. He never lets go. He loves. He gives. He provides.<br />
<br />
The Father of the heavenly lights...<br />
<br />
The <i>only </i>Light that can break that swirling mass of mood-clouds, the only Light that can penetrate Truth through the dark places of fear. That can pierce the hovering what-if's.<br />
<br />
We don't have to keep swinging wild to break up the clouds. We can <i>rest</i>. And His light burns that fog right away, and we bask in His light. His love. It's the only permanent Thing, the only real Thing, that can help us to enjoy the beauty of the things He gives.<br />
<br />
Count your blessings <i>today</i>, count your gifts. Count the beauties of <i>now</i>, and get your eyes off the horizon clouds that might or might not even make it to you.<br />
<br />
And then watch the Light start shining through.Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-71490190202888736202015-01-06T20:43:00.001-08:002015-01-08T07:27:09.278-08:00It's Time To Wake Up<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
Someone asked me several months ago if I'd ever written or recorded a spoken word. I hadn't. Had never even thought about it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
Until this evening, when God put a phrase in my heart during worship time with my local ministry group that wouldn't go away. I started scribbling like a madwoman. He gave me another snippet on my way out the door, and another when I got home. I sat down at my computer, and the rest poured right out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
I can't even read it without crying. I hope the Holy Spirit uses it to urge your heart as well.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/jo59h371zl4a1ht/Voice%20023.m4a?dl=0" target="_blank">https://www.dropbox.com/s/jo59h371zl4a1ht/Voice%20023.m4a?dl=0</a><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A Wake Up Call<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As
a nation we’re overworked and overwhelmed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
overachievers, we’re overwrought because we’ve overlooked and overpaid<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
if we can’t be overcome by the presence of God <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
our nation will just be over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jesus
is coming in a cloud of glory, and we just have our heads in the clouds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
focused on what’s been and not what’s coming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
looking behind in the rearview <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
that picture is larger than it appears, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
it’s blocking our view<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Of
what’s ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
dragging around chains that Jesus already broke<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
holding parties in our jail cells instead of walking out our freedom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
not walking in faith, we’re walking with blinders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Blinded
to the poor and the hungry, the orphans and widows<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
so caught up in how we look to others we’re not looking at what’s in front of
our face<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
so blinded by social media and our latest clever status <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">That
we miss society dying before our eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dying
for a faith we won’t fully own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dying
for truth while we’re peddling lies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">All
in the name of religion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’ve
forgotten the name of Jesus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
name above all names, the name that is lifted high,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">the
name that will one day bring every knee low.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’ve
forgotten the authority we have in Christ,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Trading
in our blessings for bowls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Substituting
temporary pleasures and feasts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">While
our souls and the souls around us starve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
cast judgments on what we can’t control<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
afraid to be real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Afraid
to bleed in public, afraid of the mess<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">While
the walking wounded stumble around us <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Believing
they’re alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
a weary and broken generation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
holding the shards of our hearts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
He’s holding the glue<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
we won’t be still long enough<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">To
let it set. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’ve
got to wake up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’ve
got to stop hitting snooze and put our feet to our faith<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
have to be the hands and feet of Jesus<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
have to not just believe His word but obey it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Our
nation is in trouble. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This
isn’t a game<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Yet
we’ve rolled the dice too many times<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
get out of jail free cards have run out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
time to wake up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This
is real life with real people, real souls, a real heaven and a real hell<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> If we don’t put our feet to the fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
risk losing our family and friends to eternal flames. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If
we don’t stand up and step out<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’ll
just keep walking in circles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
time to risk it all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At
the sake of failure<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At
the sake of rejection<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At
the sake of poverty<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At
the sake of humiliation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
time to choose a side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
crossroads is before you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Life
or death?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Get
right or get left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">God
spits out the lukewarm. Get hot or grow cold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Let
your heart blaze with passion for the things of God<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or
let your heart freeze over right hard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
time to wake up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
clock is ticking minutes we don’t have to spare<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Passing
seconds by the hour and our days are numbered<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Numbered
like the hair on our heads, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Like
the stars and descendents God promised Abraham.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
numbered. And we matter. But if we don’t treat others like they matter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They’ll
never recognize their worth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">You
can’t save someone on your own but Christ in you might be the only Saviour
someone sees.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: start;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It'</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">s
time to wake up.</span></div>
</div>
Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-51858979670497531892014-12-27T13:49:00.002-08:002014-12-27T13:56:49.241-08:00A letter to SatanDear Satan,<br />
<br />
Well played.<br />
<br />
I have to admit, you manipulated that round well.<br />
<br />
You've successfully twisted the mind and thought processes of the majority of the human race. You manipulated and sold the lie to millions, if not billions, of searching teenagers and lonely adults. You've managed to use social media, peer pressure, school curriculum, Hollywood, and even Christian leaders to embed a lie so deep into the hearts of the human race, that the truth seems almost laughable.<br />
<br />
You've convinced mankind that your way is better than God's when it comes to sex.<br />
<br />
Somehow, despite God's Word, the Holy Bible, being exceptionally clear, obvious, and concise, you and your crew have managed to get millions, if not billions, of born-again believers to hide their sexuality away in a box and compartmentalize it away from the rest of their Christian walk. You've managed to convince them that God is an over-achieving, fun-hating, rule-stickler who wants nothing more than to control and make them miserable when it comes to their sex life. You've managed to convince them that your way is more fun, more fulfilling, and more obtainable than God's way.<br />
<br />
So, because of you, because of your lies, because of your manipulation, millions if not billions of people, yes even Christians, are tangled up in undefined, confusing sexual relationships. They're trapped in suffocating, heartbreaking, soul-aching webs. Webs that confine, bind, and torment. No one knows if they're together, dating, "talking" or just friends. No one knows if they are committed or casual.<br />
<br />
When all the time, both parties typically want the same things - security, love, friendship, commitment. Yet no one speaks up to set the boundaries. Men don't take the lead anymore because of their insecurity, because of their fears and doubts. So they follow the woman's lead, which is incredibly dangerous, because a woman caught up in this web is typically damaged, broken, searching and desperately longing for a man to be a man.<br />
<br />
So they follow each other in an unending circle, stumbling, bleeding, each seeking something from the other and trying to provide it until the well runs dry. Trying to provide water from a draining source that should have never been utilized in the first place. Not without a ring, not without a ceremony, not without a commitment of the heart and soul.<br />
<br />
Because of you, Satan, because of your sticky, long-reaching claws into Hollywood, media and entertainment, you've convinced millions, if not billions, that it is completely normal, even expected, for marriage to come way after sex. If even then. Well played, Satan. Well played.<br />
<br />
You've convinced the masses that marriage is simply extreme dating, that they can bail anytime they'd like for any reason they'd like. You've convinced them that once they've been divorced, that God's wisdom on sex is no longer applicable to them...that they can sleep around as they please to mask the pain of rejection. That they're adults and it's different now than when they were signing True Love Waits pledge cards in church. You've convinced them that God doesn't really mean what He says. You've convinced them that it's normal or amusing to sleep with someone on the first date, not shameful. That it's completely acceptable to cheat on their spouses, live in an open marriage, or become swingers to spice up their marriage. You've convinced even more still that adultery and pornography aren't one and the same.<br />
<br />
Well played.<br />
<br />
But personally, I'm tired of your lies. I'm tired of a romantic scene in a movie being displayed as the man proposing in bed after a raunchy night. I'm tired of tears from women who don't know if their boyfriend cheated on them or not because they aren't sure if they're even in a relationship in the first place. I'm tired of commitment being a 4 letter word. I'm tired of couples taking each other on a test drive before committing, as if sex defines a marriage or as if they don't believe God is capable of giving them the chemistry they need. I'm tired of the false image of God you've broad-casted that forbids sex and makes it dirty and something to be hidden. God created sex, Satan, and you distorted it. You can't create anything, you can only try to twist and maim what God made perfect. Every good and perfect gift is from above, Satan. What you've done is thrust your distorted views up from below.<br />
<br />
You've convinced believers to dance on the edge. You've convinced them that bending the rules isn't the same as breaking them. You've convinced them that because of the magic church-y word, "grace", they can do whatever they want with zero consequences.<br />
<br />
You're right. They sure can. Grace does cover all of a believer's sin. Every last one. But there are always consequences. And what you know that they don't, Satan, is what I'm starting to realize too. That God doesn't make rules for His children because He's a control freak. He makes rules to protect their fragile human hearts. To avoid the confusion, pain and heartache of an undefined sexual relationship. To spare them of the guilt, shame and other wretched morning-after feelings that come from playing in the web. To give them that commitment, security and love that they so badly desire from someone who is ready to give it, from someone who will treat their heart like a grand prize rather than a honorary achievement.<br />
<br />
You've convinced too many souls that being alone is worse than being with someone who treats them horribly. You've convinced those who <i>have </i>waited and are growing weary that their dream will never come to fruition, that God can't be trusted with their love story, and that they better hurry, pick up the pen and get busy writing their own.<br />
<br />
Well played.<br />
<br />
But even though you're a master of darkness, even though you're an expert at twisting God's Word and principles into lies - you can't smother the light. You can't snuff out the truth. And if everything I wrote above is a lie you've twisted, than the opposite is true. God's Word IS true. God's Word CAN be trusted. God IS good. His way IS worth it, even if it's temporarily hard or lonely. He knows what He's talking about, and He tells us these things for our own good. For our protection. For our joy.<br />
<br />
Your get rich quick mentality might work on some, Satan, but it's not going to work on me. And I pray that it won't work any longer on those reading this post, who are tired of the confusion, the heartache, the pain, and the tears. Tired of the exhausting undefined sexual relationships. Tired of giving permission to those taking advantage of their hearts, souls and bodies. Tired of never knowing where they stand with those they love the most. Tired of playing house with a bare ring finger. Tired of feeling as if there isn't anything more or better for them. <br />
<br />
I'm praying their eyes will be opened, and any ground you've gained here in this battlefield will be lost in Jesus' name.<br />
<br />
You've won a few battles. But the war isn't over. I've read the last page, and it doesn't go well for you.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
MeBetsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-39709015833833293112014-12-12T09:57:00.001-08:002014-12-12T09:59:00.091-08:00That Time You Were Miraculously Healed in Bass Pro...<div>
I didn't want to be That Mom.<br />
<br />
The one who avoided certain situations or places post-divorce because of the pain or the memories or the throat-grabbing fear of both.<br />
<br />
But when my daughter asked if we could go to Bass Pro, I was That Mom. I said no. I was afraid. Afraid that simply walking in the doors would set off a bomb in my heart. Terrified I would be mentally and emotionally sucked into a time warp, hurtled around a vortex of memories of past family outings and daddy-daughter dates and Christmas shopping and birthday-scheming for my husband and laughing over Sonic lunches and hide-in-seek in the camouflage jackets. Memories of some of our best times as a family, pre-divorce.<br />
<br />
Terrified I would go in and not be able to fully come back out. I didn't want to visit that vortex. That vortex hurts. It beats and rolls and tumbles your heart like an exotic super blender that could put anything on Bed Bath & Beyond's shelf to shame. <br />
<br />
How do you explain that to a six-year-old?<br />
<br />
Yeah. You don't.<br />
<br />
So you're just That Mom. That Mom with no explanations and zero reason they can comprehend. That Mom who hides behind "because I said so" when there really is no "so" other than the fact that you aren't brave enough.<br />
<br />
Sometimes the truth hurts, and sometimes the truth is inappropriate, and sometimes there is a middle ground between the two, and who can ever determine that when it comes to Divorce and six-year-olds and confessing your own fear, when all along you make her quote Bible verses every night after her own bad dreams?<br />
<br />
That Mom.<br />
<br />
Until last night.<br />
<br />
Last night, I wasn't even thinking. I told Little Miss to come on, we're going to Bass Pro. "Gotta get a gift card for your cousin." I was in Christmas mode, planning mode, checking-off-my-list-because-I've-checked-it-twice-and-there's-three-things-left-to-buy mode. We needed the gift card. Plain and simple. It was next. It was an item on my list begging to be crossed off.<br />
<br />
I wasn't even thinking.<br />
<br />
It was raining. We ran inside, dodging rain drops and laughing soggy. We warmed up by the cozy fire near the front door. Watched the fish swim laps in the giant tank. Took a photo with Santa and played all the Christmas toys and games set up in the back of the store. Target practice and video games and rubber bow and arrow shooting and remote control truck racing.<br />
<br />
I had just shouldered and squinted down the sight of a laser BB gun when it hit me.<br />
<br />
I was in Bass Pro.<br />
<br />
I waited. With increasing amounts of dread. Waited for the shock-wave of pain, waited for the whispering of a pity party, waited for the tsunami of memories to flood with waves of sadness and wash away my joy. Waited for the heart-wrenching twist of the knife. Waited for the inevitable rush of regrets and remorse and "what if's". Waited. Waited. Waited.<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
I shot the laser BB gun and took out a beaver.<br />
<br />
And it was a true Christmas miracle.<br />
<br />
I was <i>fine</i>. Not only fine, I was having FUN with my daughter. <i>At Bass Pro</i>. We were there, making our own memories, laughing, shooting suction-tipped arrows at ducks and missing by a mile and buying chocolate pretzels and Starbursts and playing with the stuffed version of Elf on a Shelf and oohing and ahhing over the decorative can of Snoopy hot cocoa.<br />
<br />
Now I'm That Mom. That Mom who isn't afraid. Who is brave enough to take the risk and face potential hurt head-on and give all the glory to God when that dreaded fear doesn't dare show it's face. That Mom who is learning to glance at the past and tip my hat in brief acknowledgment, all while laughing at the days to come. (Proverbs 31:25) That Mom who still can't shoot a rubber arrow to save her life but gave the remote control truck a run for it's money and scared the heck out of some laser-targeted deer and beavers.<br />
<br />
That's the Mom I want Little Miss to know. To trust and believe in and remember.<br />
<br />
One day I'll tell her the ugly truth - tell her how scared I was, <u>just so</u> I can tell her how God came through. How He healed her mama right there in the middle of Bass Pro with a toy rifle on her shoulder and instilled hope once believed impossible this side of Christmas. </div>
Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-65252118396441271762014-12-01T12:12:00.000-08:002014-12-01T12:13:18.070-08:00Comfort Zones & Other Things That Go Bump in the Night<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A very wise woman said something to me in church yesterday, something that keeps darting around the fridges of my mind, like a tiny caged bird with a secret. An important secret. </div>
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She was talking about her own experiences, yet revealed a principle that applies across the board to anyone who has ever been hurt in a relationship. (and who would <i>that </i>leave out?)</div>
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She said (not verbatim, but the gist) "I want to be healed from my divorce, so when I am ready to date, I am whole, and healthy, and can bring wholeness and health to my next relationship."</div>
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Basic advice. Good advice. You've heard that before.</div>
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But then she said:</div>
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"You know that feeling you get, when you're with someone, and you're so comfortable? So familiar? You might have just met or not known each other long, yet there's that part of you that meets this need in them and completes them and that part of them that helps you and fills the gaps in you..."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplnlI9RL8e5T8QVY8qEHrqPjq8O6K0x36totGTKHqlNyk01lN0ZopUx5IN3fehOk1VyeE1mYq2fBVNTMtwmoacUnrEAxniZQYaYqN4WdyVVp132XlIYr15C15ovh3Y47o7O5M8TzqKvM/s1600/stop_sign-copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I'm nodding. Yes! That was what I wanted! She got it! </div>
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No. </div>
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<i>I</i> didn't get it. </div>
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"That's not healthy. That's finding your worth and completion in each other instead of in Christ, and keeps you broken. That's your broken meeting their broken and there is no wholeness there for either of you."</div>
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<b>Mind. Blown.</b></div>
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Because that's exactly what I've been doing. </div>
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I've been searching for that element of familiar with someone, that level of comfort with someone because I thought that implied it was a good choice. A wise decision. A smart match. </div>
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Not realizing that my broken, like a magnet, was still simply attracting more broken.</div>
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Sometimes comfort can be a bad thing, familiar a dangerous thing. I've confessed my temptations and failures so many times to friends and counselors because of one truth - the fact that <i>to a broken heart, familiar--even bad familiar--is more appealing than the unknown or the fear of nothing. </i></div>
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Sometimes, comfort can be a monster under our bed, waiting to snatch and grab and claw. </div>
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There's good comfort, too, of course. The comfort that Jesus talks about in 2 Corinthians 1. "<i>Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.</i>"<br />
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Did you catch that? <b>It comes from God first</b>. Not another broken soul.<br />
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That sense of security and safety that our shattered hearts seek? That's not to be found in a person. Because they have their own cracks and their own issues seeping through, and the broken can't heal the broken.<br />
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At the end of the day, the end of the week, the end of the month, the end of the money, the end of the marriage, the end of the job, the end of the relationship, the end of the loved one's life, we all need comfort from God <u>first</u>.<br />
<br />
I believe one method God uses to comfort His children is through His other children - but this typically happens from someone who is healthy and able to minister <i>from the other side of the storm. </i><br />
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<br />
I'm re-evaluating my comfort system, my definition of familiar, and my idea of safety.<br />
<br />
It might just mean our comfort zones turn out to be one of the most dangerous places for healing hearts to be.Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-62849619652916829652014-11-17T12:36:00.001-08:002014-11-17T12:36:43.298-08:00The Worst Kind of Collision...I was almost in two different car accidents this weekend.<br />
<br />
The first was Saturday afternoon, returning home from errands and luncheons and all things post vacation-related. I was driving in the right lane, passing a Raceway gas station, thoughts drifting...and suddenly, the SUV in the lane next to me decided to come over. No warning. No blinker. No indication. Fast and hard. They were simply in the left lane, and then they were simply in my lane.<br />
<br />
I yelled. Yanked the wheel hard and propelled us onto the shoulder in front of the gas station, swerving, grateful for the driveway, grateful no cars were coming or going out of the station's driveway. Grateful the shoulder was there and was clear.<br />
<br />
By then the SUV had realized it's mistake and gotten back over, so I could get also back on the road where I belonged.<br />
<br />
I drove home, shaky, adrenaline laced, and alert.<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later, the entire incident was but a distant memory.<br />
<br />
Until it almost happened again - this morning, on the way to work, merging from one highway to another heading into downtown. I was driving, thoughts drifting, and suddenly, the cars in front of me that were merging suddenly were no longer merging. They were slamming on their brakes.<br />
<br />
Once again, I darted out of the way, yanking the wheel to the left this time to avoid ramming the car in front of me, who had somehow managed to avoid ramming the car in front of them, while somehow the car behind me managed not to ram me as well.<br />
<br />
I drove to work, shaky, adrenaline laced, and alert.<br />
<br />
And God opened my eyes to what that was all about.<br />
<br />
It wasn't about me not paying attention - I was, clearly, and my instincts were sharp, or else I'd have been in two wrecks this weekend if not for His grace. No, it wasn't a wake up call to drive more defensively or a reminder of how fragile life is, though there are always those lessons to consider.<br />
<br />
For me, it was 100 times more personal.<br />
<br />
Because God showed me the pattern. He gently reminded me where my thoughts had been BOTH times I was in those near collisions. They'd been drifting into a default pattern that He has repeatedly set me free from. I was defying my liberty and allowing myself to sink back into old habits that are no longer who I am or what I want. The thoughts were going to take me down a dusty-familiar trail I had no business and honestly, no desire, to trod again. It was a sneak attack, and it was my wake up call.<br />
<br />
Our thoughts come like that sometimes...like express trains on a one-way track. Waiting to collide with either acceptance or denial. We choose to embrace the crash of This Thought...or we choose to dodge This Thought and avoid the collision.<br />
<br />
Had those near tangible wrecks not woken me up and shaken me up and changed my course of thought, I'd have embraced the metaphorical wreck of old, destructive patterns.<br />
<br />
Both times.<br />
<br />
It's not a coincidence.<br />
<br />
So I'm choosing to dodge those thoughts, just like I dodged those two vehicles, and avoid the pain and expense of a collision.<br />
<br />
You have that freedom to choose, too - the freedom to take your thoughts captive to Christ and crush them with rejection, or open your arms wide to the collision of acceptance. The risk is you have no idea how hard the crash will be. What it will cost you to repair. What damage will be done.<br />
<br />
If you don't actively put a stop to that oncoming train, you might end up with a minor fender bender...or you might end up with a totaled heart.<br />
<br />
It's not worth the risk.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">"We...</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">take every thought captive to </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-28960B" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-28960B" title="See cross-reference B">B</a>)" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">obey Christ..." - 2 Corinthians 10:5</span></b></span>Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-61237836519519491232014-11-07T11:34:00.001-08:002014-11-07T11:38:41.195-08:00How much do you want?<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">"</span><i style="background-color: white;">All we want in Christ, we shall find in Christ. If we want little, we shall find little. If we want much, we shall find much; but if in utter helplessness we cast our all on Christ, He will be to us the whole treasury of God</i><span style="background-color: white;">.</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">” </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">―</span><span style="background-color: white;">Henry Benjamin Whippl</span><a href="http://izquotes.com/author/henry-benjamin-whipple" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">e</a></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I keep coming back there...</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I'm in church, covered in worship.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I'm sleeping, tucked in peace. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I'm driving, lost in regret.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I'm in my shower, drowned in prayer.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I'm remembering, distracted by shame.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Wherever I am, whatever the state of my heart, I return there. To those words. To the truth of them. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>We can have as much of God as we want. </b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">So how much do I want? Do you want?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">When I've messed up (again)? How much of Jesus do I desire? When I'm struggling with pride? How much of Him do I want? When I'm wrestling doubts? How much of God do I need? When I'm fighting fears? How much of Christ is there available?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">As much as I want. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">The offer is free to me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">But the result is somewhat dependent on me. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If Mr. Whipple's words are true, then we get what we put in. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm not referring to salvation here, which is grace. I'm talking basic principles that we overlook and overcomplicate and underestimate. The simple fact that we get what we look for. We find what we seek. If w e aren't looking/wanting/seeking...we miss it. It slips right past.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I believe there are exceptions, absolutely. I believe that Jesus comes for His sheep when they wander and aren't seeking much at all and are lost and bleeding, and caught and crying. He comes to them when they can't or won't come to Him, and He offers to carry them back to pasture. He did that for me. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But... He also knew deep down the cry of my heart. The cry I couldn't hear anymore because of my sin and stubbornness and the howl of the wind in my storm - but He heard loud and clear. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">So yes, of course there are exceptions and God <i>will not</i> and <i>can not </i>be bound to any formula we as mere humans can attempt to chain Him to. But I have to consider this truth...</span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">The Word promises us in Jeremiah 29 that when we seek God, we will find Him. But look - </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">"<i>You will seek me and find me when you seek me with <u>all your heart</u></i>." (NIV)</span><span class="p" style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 13px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's not a catch. It's not a formula. But it matters. It's there, black and white.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"All your heart</i>."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So how much do you want? How much are you willing to put in? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">How much am I?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A ridiculously wise friend told me a while back that there is a duality in me that needs to be resolved. And he's absolutely right. And it's in a lot of us, maybe all of us. The age-old flesh vs spirit struggle, sure. But more than that. It's that duality of desire. I want <i>this </i>and believe <i>this </i>for my life, yet a lot of the time, my actions and thoughts portray the exact opposite. My spirit is torn between what I truly desire and what I think I deserve, between what I believe God has for me and what I'm afraid is all that's left. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>A duality to be resolved. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Want little, find little. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Seek with all your heart. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to cast my all. Even in helplessness. Maybe <i>because </i>of helplessness. In spite of...even though...even so... I want to give it everything. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Give HIM everything. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Will you?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-57137529245554184352014-10-30T13:05:00.003-07:002014-10-30T13:05:26.132-07:00Dangerous prayersHave you ever held back from praying a Dangerous Prayer because you knew - soul-wrenching, gut-deep KNEW - that God would answer it with a resounding YES?<br />
<br />
I have.<br />
<br />
Twice, in the past 6 months.<br />
<br />
Once was this past summer. I was driving somewhere I didn't need to be going. Watched the interstate lines dart under the wheels of my car, flashes of white, my spirit begging me to ask God to intervene. To stop me.<br />
<br />
I couldn't pray it. Because I knew He would. And I wasn't ready to let go yet.<br />
<br />
But I wanted to. So badly, I wanted to.<br />
<br />
My soul prayed it anyway, the urgent plea not verbally crossing my lips or even coherently forming into syllables within my thoughts...but my heart cried out in desperation just as tangibly, vividly, as a spoken word. <br />
<br />
I halfway expected a flat tire.<br />
<br />
I made it to my destination. And God intervened in a different way. A way that had me wishing for a flat tire. Instead of air leaking out of rubber, there were words hissing through unprepared lips. Instead of metal rims scratching gravel, there were claws of panic scratching at my heart. He was freeing me from the very thing I needed to be freed from. But I fought.<br />
<br />
I started a game of tug-of-war with God that afternoon. Like Jacob, thinking I had a chance at changing my destiny. So, <i>so </i>mistakenly thinking I <i>wanted </i>to.<br />
<br />
Like Jacob, I left that fight with wounds. Scars. Some that are still healing. Rope burns on my palms. Forever-memories of how God intervenes even when we don't have the courage to outright ask Him to. <br />
<br />
But unlike Jacob - I wasn't struggling to receive my blessing. I was fighting against it. Terrified of getting it. Scared of how much it would hurt to take that free fall of faith.<br />
<br />
Despite all of that struggle - God came, prepared for battle. Not to fight me, but to fight <i>for </i>me, and that battle took the form of a tangible argument that wasn't actually between me and the other person at all.<br />
<br />
He answered that almost-prayer of my exhausted spirit that day in a way that yanked me off the path I'd been treading - that path constantly interrupted with flashes of white - and turned me around. Rope burns, scars, dirty fingernails, skinned knees and all. Turned me around, unlocked the chains from my wrists and told me to march. To walk in freedom.<br />
<br />
But those chains had been so heavy, I'd grown numb. And when they finally fell off, all those nerves that grown immune began to ache. Tingle. <i>Hurt</i>.<br />
<br />
There's always a price to freedom.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I prayed one of those dangerous, scary prayers again. The kind of prayer you are terrified to utter because you KNOW God will answer it.<br />
<br />
This time, though, I had learned. And I had enough courage to force the words off my lips verbally, intentionally, with a pounding heart and adrenaline laced pulse. Because I knew it was for the best, even though the guarantee of receiving this answered prayer made my heart hurt.<br />
<br />
And He's answering it. Just like I knew He would. With each passing day, He's answering it, and His way is so, so obvious. So obvious, it's halfway hilarious.<br />
<br />
You know you're in God's will when you pray things you don't want to pray and get immediate answers confirming exactly those things.<br />
<br />
It's easy to pray for blessings. To ask for favor and wealth and health. To ask for others in your life to receive the same. It's harder to pray the prayers of the trenches. The prayers that mean sacrificing your own heart, your own flesh, your own desires, as misplaced as they are...and yet that's why we do it. We KNOW they're misplaced. We know we need that sharp corner of ourselves softened and rounded and changed. Even if it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Even if it means letting go of things or people or dreams we've held tight to for a long time.<br />
<br />
To wounded hearts, a <i>bad </i>familiar is still more comfortable than the unknown.<br />
<br />
I opened my hands when I prayed this last Dangerous Prayer. Opened them up wide, to let go. Looked down, remembered the rope burns. Remembered His way is best. No more tug of war. No more wrestling.<br />
<br />
What is your Dangerous Prayer? The one you know you're called to pray, to ask for, to seek God about? The one that is lurking in your spirit right now as you read this post, the one that's making your heart race at these words and causing conviction to knock loud and crisp on your heart?<br />
<br />
Pray it. From one battle wounded warrior to another, I beg you - pray it.<br />
<br />
We might have the rope burns, but He has the nail-scarred hands, and the price of that Freedom was worth far more than any hurt you'll pay getting back into His will. The transition can sting. Badly. Trust me, I remember.<br />
<br />
But the only way to His kind of peace? Is to live dangerously.Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-44935319076185808422014-10-20T11:46:00.001-07:002014-10-20T11:51:27.629-07:00For the blood-stained and weary stained by the Blood...Grace.<br />
<br />
A five-letter word some unfortunately deem a four.<br />
<br />
Deemed by those who don't know the drip of red that stains as it washes clean. Those who haven't had reason to be coaxed from the shadows into the light and stand, not appalled and ashamed, but weary and welcome.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkO6AF9IPulUHhvanU88fs_3M3hNel65rjhk8Gorz0selpGMLOfLbMQz6AApFruMe-SHFRH2rkLYOxo6s-Zy1ZqRDr_KVEmmWX4svNb9fJagYB4UE1de2jpnrP1A_gCioQ16CldryzoRU/s1600/b30dd33a0442507ca0c1188a91a8286b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkO6AF9IPulUHhvanU88fs_3M3hNel65rjhk8Gorz0selpGMLOfLbMQz6AApFruMe-SHFRH2rkLYOxo6s-Zy1ZqRDr_KVEmmWX4svNb9fJagYB4UE1de2jpnrP1A_gCioQ16CldryzoRU/s1600/b30dd33a0442507ca0c1188a91a8286b.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>By grace. Through grace. Because of grace.<br />
<br />
Five letters.<br />
<br />
One for every finger on the hand.<br />
<br />
Every finger that instead of pointing outward, curls inward, one by one, into a fist. Pointing back at themselves.<br />
<br />
Everyone needs grace.<br />
<br />
Some just linger more aware of their need than others.<br />
<br />
And in those grace-needy moments, those moments where the stained cling to the crimson garment at the foot of the cross and look up at the battle that was fought on two boards... that's where joy is found. That's where circumstances fade away, worries are cast aside. That's where checkbooks disintegrate and broken hearts mend and disease dries up and prayers are answered not because of what we try to do and fail but because of Who already did it.<br />
<br />
And the account might still be in the red and the pain may tarry and the report linger grim...it might not be morning yet, you might still be mourning - but there is joy. Joy in the waiting. In the hoping. In the trusting.<br />
<br />
2 boards + 1 hero = all we ever really needed in the first place.<br />
<br />
A hero we can access because of one word. Five letters. <br />
<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/kY04xckWpuM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
It all comes down to, comes back to, comes full circle to, grace.<br />
<br />
<i>(hit play on the video to the right for a song I've had on repeat for the last year)</i>Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-627117749722054312014-10-08T07:18:00.000-07:002014-10-08T07:24:53.161-07:00The Day I Tried To Open a Bottle of Wine With a Hammer<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I needed communion. </span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It'd been on my heart for weeks, but I'd never done it by myself. Communion. At home? Alone? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
That was reserved for padded church pews. For elderly hands passing wobbly silver trays of plastic grape-juice-filled cups. For tiny fingers plucking snippets of tasteless crackers from a doily-lined dish. For grave-expressions on suit-clad pastors and ominous undertones of the seriousness of partaking with sin lingering in your life. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Never sat well with me. It'd been ten minutes since I'd prayed last. I'd probably sinned since then. Worry. Concern. Heaviness. How did anyone do this?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No, no. Not just sin in general. You know, just the living-in-sin stuff. The constant sin you choose to dwell in all the time. </span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Huh? How is that different?</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That was my typical growing up experience with communion. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Until I attended a Captivating Retreat through John and Stasi Eldredge and Ransomed Heart Ministries last year in Colorado. And I marched with a hundred or more other women to a candlelit stage, with a low table surrounded by pillows, a table laden with goblets of red wine and large loafs of bread, all crumbly, broken, flaking reminders of the cross.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then I got it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
Communion. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></i>
<i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">"the sharing or exchanging of intimate thoughts and feelings, especially when the exchange is on a mental or spiritual level."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></i>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">An exchange with Jesus. His body and blood for my sin. His atonement for my acceptance. His death for my life. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">Not a fair exchange. And that is forever sobering. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">But that's grace. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">I needed communion. And I needed it in my house, Alone. Not on a pew. Not with women on a stage. No band or instruments softly serenading the silence. Just me and God. I needed the symbolism and the memory and the experience. Needed a realignment. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">Needed to remember.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">So I dug out a single Saltine cracker from the box in the pantry, and grabbed a bottle of red wine that had been used as decoration on my counter ever since returning from a trip two years ago, where I'd snagged it from an artsy gift shop. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">There was just one complication. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">No corkscrew. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">As I'd never been particularly adept at working those anyway, I didn't worry. I'd figure it out. I tried a steak knife, at first, the idea being I could gouge a hole through the cork enough to pour out just a taste of the liquid. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">That didn't work. Flakes of cork went everywhere. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">So I tried a flat edged skinny knife, trying to wedge the flat edge between the cork and the glass, and pry it open. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">The very edge of the glass lip broke, chipped, shattered across the counter and the floor. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br />(I know. This is where I should have stopped, should have realized it wasn't going to happen, and moved on. But it'd become a personal mission. I <i>had </i>to open this bottle. I had to have this moment and experience)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">I cleaned up the glass. Went back to the steak knife. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">Then decided to Google alternatives to corkscrews. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">There were quite a few. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">I tried them all. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">Flaking cork. Frustrated words. Toolbox supplies scattered across the entire counter. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">I twisted in a picture hanging screw with a hook on one end into the cork. Tried to pry it out with pliers. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">I pounded three nails into the cork, tried to pry them out with a hammer. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">More broken glass from the lip of the bottle. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">And finally Jesus said STOP. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">(I think He was laughing) </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">And I realized, then, staring at my counter littered with screws, nails, cork fragments, and enough tools to build a dog house or at least a mailbox, that I was missing the forest for the trees. It wasn't about the wine, it was about my heart. And at the moment, my heart was far from ready to "</span></span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">share or exchange intimate thoughts and feelings" </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">with the Lord.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">I packed up my tools. Put the busted bottle back in its decorative place on the counter. Checked once more for glass dust. Lit a candle, sat at the table with my Bible, and had communion. With a stale Saltine and Raspberry Lemonade carbonated water from a bottle. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">Nothing could have been sweeter or richer or warmer.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 15.6000003814697px;">So often I miss the point for the specifics, the message for the minutiae, the theme for the details. I stare so hard at the speck on the horizon that I can't even see the glorious sunset around me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I almost missed it. I almost missed a holy experience because I spent an hour trying to open a wine bottle. <i>With a hammer</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What else have I missed, or almost missed?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What have you?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What else have I allowed to consume my thoughts, energy, time, emotion and creativity? What else have I struggled with needlessly, when the provision was already right there, waiting for me to acknowledge it? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe - maybe - search for ways to put away your toolbox today, your toolbox full of effort and willpower and determination and indignation and just open your fridge. Get the carbonated water. Accept the provision that's already there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus' provision. His blood. His sacrifice. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He turned water into wine once already, you know. </span></div>
Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-40398807067480974452014-09-18T08:41:00.002-07:002014-09-18T08:41:24.719-07:00For the tempted...<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Temptation knocks. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sometimes rather politely. <i>Tap, tap</i>. "Won't you let me in?" Sugar, spice, everything nice. Sweetness personified. The equivalent of offering homemade cookies. The big bad wolf, dressed as grandma. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Other times temptation doesn't bother knocking at all. Rather, it simply wafts, under and around and through the barred door, an enticing aroma promising comfort. Pleasure. Relief. Distraction. It doesn't have to knock or try to trick you into unlocking the barrier. It knows you'll willingly go to it, will remove the barrier yourself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then other times...temptation doesn't knock at all. It assaults. It doesn't just wave a hint of a red flag in your peripheral, rather, it tosses an entire crimson curtain over your head and attempts to smother. Accuse. Drown. The equivalent of a battering ram beating in a door and jarring lose the lock. Bashing in the frame. Determined to gain entrance. It doesn't whisper promises, no it shouts the lies in full volume.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh, at times, the enemy is very subtle. Floral kerchief covering pointy teeth and "what big ears you have", lying in bed waiting to snare. Other times, the enemy is enticing, putting on the disguise of light and goodness and drawing us to him, rather than coming after us. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then, there are nights...there are nights when he doesn't hold back, at all. Rather, he yanks and strains and snarls until the leash snaps and he rams against our barricades and guardrails until they're right dented in. Obvious. Full out invasion. No time for subtlety, he's going for the throat. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And we're in the fetal position, watching the door shake and quake and shudder, knowing our resolve is weakening, knowing its just a matter of time until it collapses and we're done for. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But God.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">BUT GOD.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What the enemy doesn't know is sometimes God's fiercest warriors come in semi-short packages, wrapped in friendship and toting weapons of Chex Mex. That sometimes, when our fingers ache to call darkness, we force them to call the light instead, and that light brings Coke in frosty cans and instruction and Truth. The enemy doesn't know that sometimes, when we can't pray for ourselves, we can depend on our fellow warriors to hold our arms, or even hold back our hair, and we are covered. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What the enemy <i>does </i>know, because it's Scripture, is that God's most effective weapons of warfare are not carnal at all, but rather, they wage war through the tears on our cheeks and the silent prayers we can't quite make verbal (2 Corinthians 2:10) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">AND, that God's strength is made perfect in our weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So its okay if that door bends and contorts and dents. It's okay if the guttural snarls on the other side are drowned out only by the whimpers inside our hearts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That door isn't opening, in Jesus name. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because the Bible tells us the Word is our Sword. Sharper than a two-edged blade, piercing even to the division of bone and marrow, soul and spirit, rightly discerning the thoughts and intents of the heart. We fight with God's word. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And God's word tells us we as believers are more than conquerors in Christ. </span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.godvine.com/bible/psalms/119-67" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline;">Psalms 119:67</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white;"> Before I was afflicted I went astray: but now have I kept your word.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.godvine.com/bible/matthew/26-41" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline;">Matthew 26:41</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white;"> Watch and pray, that you enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.godvine.com/bible/1-corinthians/10-13" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline;">1 Corinthians 10:13</span></span></a><span style="background-color: white;"> There has no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that you are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that you may be able to bear it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.godvine.com/bible/ephesians/6-11" style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline;">Ephesians 6:11</span></span></a><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.godvine.com/bible/hebrews/2-18" style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline;">Hebrews 2:18</span></span></a><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;"> For in that he himself has suffered being tempted, he is able to succor them that are tempted.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.godvine.com/bible/james/1-12" style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline;">James 1:12</span></span></a><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Blessed is the man that endures temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord has promised to them that love him.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.godvine.com/bible/james/4-7" style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;">James 4:7</a></span></span><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.godvine.com/bible/1-peter/5-8" style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;">1 Peter 5:8</a></span></span><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walks about, seeking whom he may devour.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.biblestudytools.com/ephesians/6-10.html" style="text-decoration: none;">Ephesians 6:10</a> </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;">Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power.</span></h4>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.biblestudytools.com/isaiah/40-31.html" style="text-decoration: none;">Isaiah 40:31</a> </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;">but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.</span></h4>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.biblestudytools.com/psalms/46-1.html" style="text-decoration: none;">Psalm 46:1</a> </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: normal;">God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.</span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So when you're tempted, when that door is bowing and the wolf is lurking and you know you're weak, speak Truth. That barrier WILL hold under the name of Jesus and the word of God. </span>Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-82787659583083446682014-09-10T07:41:00.001-07:002014-09-10T07:41:12.158-07:00Confessions of a First Time Salsa DancerThere's moments of being found.<br />
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Do you believe that?<br />
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When you come to, or become aware, of a situation or a circumstance or a progression forming before your eyes. An awakening, of sorts. A "moment".<br />
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I had a moment like that last night. I found myself at a beginner's salsa class. Me, the girl who has less natural rhythm than Elaine from Seinfeld. Me, the girl who struggles to just do Zumba every other Thursday for exercise without keeling over, found herself salsa-dancing with a talented instructor.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-95bkgwAEi8AXoj-kuG8AakhWr-yKKuRRifDF3ukBuqWsPyQwM63rFCHfaB672qXBmubcJSL89KBU59WtqoGuHmrlwFZpuvLKNq_Jlh02k-F-vRAQwICe8CZwJx4SoCV5SOj3nGMLkW8/s1600/elegant+notes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-95bkgwAEi8AXoj-kuG8AakhWr-yKKuRRifDF3ukBuqWsPyQwM63rFCHfaB672qXBmubcJSL89KBU59WtqoGuHmrlwFZpuvLKNq_Jlh02k-F-vRAQwICe8CZwJx4SoCV5SOj3nGMLkW8/s1600/elegant+notes.jpg" /></a>One two three. Five six seven.<br />
<br />
One two three. Five six seven.<br />
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Our small group learned the basic moves. Then there were more girls than men, so we paired off and rotated. The instructor kept calling a reminder to the other male dancer to help him remember to count. "Seven is the magic number!"<br />
<br />
Seven. The number of completion.<br />
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Well, there were definitely moments I was certain my humiliation was complete....<br />
<br />
We kept practicing. Kept dancing. One two three. Five six seven.<br />
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The instructor taught us to follow the man's signals as to what step was next based on the slight pressure applied to our joined hands.<br />
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Then we added a more advanced step. Then a turn.<br />
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The woman next to me panicked over the idea of adding anything more complicated to the mix. After she had tried a few times, the instructor told her with a smile, "But don't you see? You're not worried about the basic moves anymore. See how far you've come? Ten minutes ago you were still trying to count to three. You were worried about the basics. Now that's all muscle memory and you're only thinking about the turn. You'll get this too."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQwYYJ-vuwmsmf9WaX_7d68USYZGd7dkPWslLSIDDRDaNU_4oGUEQw7VDuAkLXesOB8dxO0066D1n-vnkL0h8PbmVny9O2ebgHqoHs-NwgwSylj6NhfL_P6kNaSuYmTiXKZcEY_I0AtE/s1600/salsa_dancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQwYYJ-vuwmsmf9WaX_7d68USYZGd7dkPWslLSIDDRDaNU_4oGUEQw7VDuAkLXesOB8dxO0066D1n-vnkL0h8PbmVny9O2ebgHqoHs-NwgwSylj6NhfL_P6kNaSuYmTiXKZcEY_I0AtE/s1600/salsa_dancing.jpg" height="115" width="320" /></a><br />
I think that truth blew her mind.<br />
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Because it was true. We <i>were </i>learning. What was hard a few minutes ago was now a non-issue. We were pressing ahead.<br />
<br />
We kept dancing.<br />
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Basic. Sideways. Basic. Sideways. Cuban Open. Cuban Open. Basic. Turn.<br />
<br />
I warned the instructor I might step on his toes.<br />
<br />
One two three. Five six seven.<br />
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I kept staring at my feet. Yet my instructor kept smiling, tapping my chin. Reminder. "Eyes up."<br />
I'd forget, and watch my feet again. Watch His feet. "Eyes up." Oops. Try again.<br />
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I stumbled. I faltered. I hesitated. Then I'd nail it perfectly. Stumble. Fail. Succeed.<br />
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We learned a new step, and this time he said the women had to close their eyes. Let the male lead do the leading and just feel it. Trust it.<br />
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One two three. Five six seven.<br />
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This morning, I was struggling in my heart. Why were some of the things I've died to still haunting me? Why was THIS still so hard and why was THAT still in the back of my mind and how come I couldn't shake free of THIS that I wanted to so badly? Why was the battle to be free so constant? What steps were I doing wrong? What was I missing?<br />
<br />
And Jesus said<i> eyes up.</i><br />
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He reminded me I've been watching my feet. Focusing on the steps. Trying to get it all down perfectly. Trying to force what should be natural and flowing. Trying to dictate a formula to freedom that didn't exist.<br />
<br />
Sometimes there aren't steps. There's just music.<br />
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I was so worried about stepping on Jesus' toes I'd forgotten that He simply wanted to dance with me. "You're going to stumble. You're going to falter. You're going to hesitate." And I sensed Him smiling. "But then you're going to get it."<br />
<br />
He's there, keeping rhythm. He's there, leading. When I'm weak and unsure, I can close my eyes and trust and feel it. And I can open my eyes and appreciate His nearness and the fact that He has me and lean into His signals. I can stumble and falter and hesitate or perform a flawless turn, and it's all the same to Him.<br />
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He just wants to dance with me.<br />
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<i>Eyes up</i>.<br />
<br />
One two three. Five six seven.<br />
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Completion.Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-43644573510214668392014-09-02T14:36:00.001-07:002014-09-02T14:39:08.352-07:00Learning to float...I'm not the best swimmer in the world.<br />
<br />
A fact which is possibly quite evident in the way my daughter (six-years-old) somehow managed to teach herself to swim underwater, yet panics and sinks when she attempts to swim above it.<br />
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The analogy there could drown my heart in equal measures of faith and doubt.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixr5nZtY1fJ7WeloY2qelFkK7XqKsD7EJZL4IL6j5prvTdZbzlS_KcW4ueVFyqQ_cZazm8QjzfhU8gkzKe_nJcEzjGYPOphmgYgzkZlZBPjn4TMnQP1rRzzjfUmXWRrmdr-pUWHqTF6pY/s1600/10584037_815371428494834_2444056791760928413_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixr5nZtY1fJ7WeloY2qelFkK7XqKsD7EJZL4IL6j5prvTdZbzlS_KcW4ueVFyqQ_cZazm8QjzfhU8gkzKe_nJcEzjGYPOphmgYgzkZlZBPjn4TMnQP1rRzzjfUmXWRrmdr-pUWHqTF6pY/s1600/10584037_815371428494834_2444056791760928413_n.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a><br />
I went to the lake last Monday.<br />
<br />
Labor Day.<br />
<br />
Time to rest.<br />
<br />
Spent several hours burning off deadline stress, work stress, single-mommy stress, emotional stress, creative stress.<br />
<br />
Just me on a boat, with good friends and good food, floating under a periwinkle sky littered with cotton <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4Qdf2jdlHcArHMrxT0x0-XAN5btbOPmkgX82xq-PrLN6FLENC3-b3pA35f0hY-iIqflB_EdvrsdV202O23XVQBhJfULwpAEkwICIvKcc51vYXvWJwq293L3Tqj1R13ZwVztM20h8cLQ/s1600/15759_815563641808946_7042617008326443363_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4Qdf2jdlHcArHMrxT0x0-XAN5btbOPmkgX82xq-PrLN6FLENC3-b3pA35f0hY-iIqflB_EdvrsdV202O23XVQBhJfULwpAEkwICIvKcc51vYXvWJwq293L3Tqj1R13ZwVztM20h8cLQ/s1600/15759_815563641808946_7042617008326443363_n.jpg" height="200" width="161" /></a>ball clouds--and a little lizard stowaway we dubbed Marcus.<br />
<br />
I realized something while swimming in that dirty lake water, the kind that splashes grit in your mouth and stains your toenail polish and squishes solid between your toes - I realized I am most at ease in the water when floating on my back.<br />
<br />
A little odd for a not-so-strong swimmer. I can hold my own in the water, but it takes effort and concentration. I'm not naturally good at swimming. I was never taught professionally through lessons. I tend to get cramps really easily. It's not that I'm regulated to doggie-paddling only, but I get tired easily, and don't like being in over my head without something nearby to grab onto.<br />
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But when I'm floating on my back, I can relax. Cease striving. I can let the water do the work, and carry me with ease. I don't get tired. I don't fight cramps. I'm not spitting water out of my mouth or feeling anything unwanted between my toes.<br />
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I can let the water embrace me. Hold me up.<br />
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And I can rest.<br />
<br />
When you float on your back, the most vulnerable part of a person - their belly - is face up. Exposed. Our stomachs hold life, our most important organs, the core of who we are as humans. It's considered the ultimate sign of trust when a dog rolls over and offers his belly for a good scratching.<br />
<br />
Again, the analogies here threaten to drown me with equal waves of faith and doubt.<br />
<br />
In the deep water of life - in those deep waters of deadline stress, work stress, single-mommy stress, emotional stress, creative stress - I can float.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSOLTDH0R899ofBRnRjwCI5-MjkIIYl0mpYCGVkNbpeSlvzT3mFpaCifo7FACxtT-L2HiKWr04AhVa0MhNcKN0f_SKYdL6zeSTO81l3Xp1ofCyggx5thjPcRHE88K1a_rpFjrzCuQX0c/s1600/10169175_10152294351406701_220940770033321294_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSOLTDH0R899ofBRnRjwCI5-MjkIIYl0mpYCGVkNbpeSlvzT3mFpaCifo7FACxtT-L2HiKWr04AhVa0MhNcKN0f_SKYdL6zeSTO81l3Xp1ofCyggx5thjPcRHE88K1a_rpFjrzCuQX0c/s1600/10169175_10152294351406701_220940770033321294_n.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a>If I stop fighting the tide...let it embrace me...carry me...<br />
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I can rest on top of it.<br />
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If I surrender my vulnerability and my exhaustion and my gifts to that overwhelming tide...<br />
<br />
I can rest right in it.<br />
<br />
Who controls the wind and waves?<br />
<br />
I know Who.<br />
<br />
Who controls the tide that laps and tugs and pulls?<br />
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I know Who.<br />
<br />
I've got to stop fighting the stress, fighting the current of obligation and responsibility and duties, and consider it my resting place. Everything I stress over is actually a gift. Because that list would include my daughter, my finances, my job, my source of income, my friendships, my relationships, my home, my ministry - all gifts.<br />
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What am I even fighting?<br />
<br />
It's time to stop fighting. And float.<br />
<br />
As I said - I'm not the best swimmer in the world. A fact which is possibly quite evident in the way my daughter somehow managed to teach herself to swim underwater, yet panics and sinks when she attempts to swim above it...<br />
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When I try to rise above my obligation and responsibility and duties, when I try to master them instead of going with the flow of them, I panic and I sink.<br />
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When all along, all I had to do was float.<br />
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Let go. Relax. Trust.<br />
<br />
The wind and waves still know His name.<br />
<br />
And so do I.Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-21494017025861592014-08-27T13:36:00.002-07:002014-08-27T13:39:19.442-07:00Alice in Wonderland, the voice of lies and telling your past where to go...There's moments when I think I'm past it all. When all of the hurt and ache and regrets fade long in the rearview mirror and it's just a glimpse into something from another time, a far removed glance at a memory. Memories that rear bittersweet and sometimes downright ugly heads and prompt me into submission. Prompt me to tears. Prompt me to condemnation.<br />
<br />
But they're just prompts I can choose not to respond to. Just invitations I can decline and keep moving forward.<br />
<br />
But the other moments...<br />
<br />
The other moments sneak and slither and don't even bother tapping me on the shoulder before stabbing me fully in the back. Don't even bother with the niceties of introduction, simply assault in full force, full color, full daylight, nothing held back. No fear, no shame, no limits. Brutal.<br />
<br />
And they come with lies. So many lies. Hoarse whispers of guilt and death and what-if's that churn and cycle like a full load of laundry. Dirty laundry. Laundry that will never wash clean.<br />
<br />
Those are the days I feel like a failure. Those are the days I think my progress is for naught, and that I haven't moved an inch on this dusty, curved road that God is still maneuvering straight. That I'm only inches from the crossroads where I finally screamed "<i>ENOUGH</i>" and chose life.<br />
<br />
Those are the days the whispers grow long like the shadows. "<i>What's the point</i>?"<i> "You're still here, see?" "You're still. right. here." "Still crying. Still affected. Still sad. Still trapped. You're always going to be right here. So stop trying."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
What the enemy of my soul forgets is that on this journey down this narrow road, I've learned the voice of my Saviour. I know my Shepherd's voice, and this sheep follows Him--often quite dumbly and blindly, but oh - she follows. I know with an intensity that consumes my heart in holy fire the voice of the Holy Spirit in my heart. That can't be taken away from me. The enemy can try to whisper the lies louder but that voice is ingrained so deep within, it can't be removed. We can not separate.<br />
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So I choose which voice I allow to hear loud and clear.<br />
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And I choose not to believe the lies being flaunted in my face.<br />
<br />
I've made a rookie mistake. I've let myself believe that my bad days define me. That my moments of weakness and sadness and tears define my journey, make me somehow less than, not enough, not far along.<br />
<br />
False.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtp2o0v6rcDUOro97fy08zHKNYPh1jtshQydSI5_brKVnb9pVzdE7xhu5EJMepxZXT0t1Wi83EYfDRhNgb0t18nSt05qMccmIf0cMJbBRZd6PUfTK7H6qseH9jjy7VDEsHHMROLxhGjUA/s1600/Kickboxing-Fitness-Chicago300x250dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtp2o0v6rcDUOro97fy08zHKNYPh1jtshQydSI5_brKVnb9pVzdE7xhu5EJMepxZXT0t1Wi83EYfDRhNgb0t18nSt05qMccmIf0cMJbBRZd6PUfTK7H6qseH9jjy7VDEsHHMROLxhGjUA/s1600/Kickboxing-Fitness-Chicago300x250dpi.jpg" /></a><b>I'm changing my perspective</b>. I'm going to view these moments not as failure or lack of progress, but as progress itself. Because when you exercise, you're growing stronger. Yet in that meantime, your muscles are tearing. They're straining to grow and enhance and increase and that is painful. You get sore after a hard workout. But in the next session, you're stronger. And you do it again. Work out, tear down, build up. Work out, tear down, build up.<br />
<br />
There's no building of the muscle without it first tearing.<br />
<br />
So the <i>tears </i>on my cheeks are officially the ripped <i>tears </i>of my heart growing stronger. Growing. Enhancing. Increasing. My tears and bad days are not an indication that I'm a failure or lagging behind on my journey forward. No. Rather, they're proof that I am progressing and becoming more.<br />
<br />
There's a quote in the book <i>Alice and Wonderland</i>, the Mad Hatter saying to Alice "You used to be much more...muchier. You've lost your muchness."<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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That's what the enemy wants me to believe. That I've lost my muchness. That I'm less than I was before this journey. But no. No more. I've gotten so much <i>more </i>muchier this past year and a half, and especially in these last 7 weeks of surrender, obedience, and change. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Liberated.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Stronger.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Muchier. </div>
Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-79799793949003765022014-08-25T11:04:00.001-07:002014-08-25T11:08:27.424-07:00A time to bleedBlood is startling. Unsettling. Makes stomachs roil and nerves turn weak and limbs shaky.<br />
<br />
Especially when it's drenching your daughter's pillow first thing on a Monday morning.<br />
<br />
Nosebleed, apparently, during the night. Didn't know that right away, just woke to my little's face smeared with dried blood, coating her hands, and soaking her pillow crimson red on snow white.<br />
<br />
"It's okay, Mama." She said as I scrubbed her down in the bath, washrag turning pink in my still trembling hands. "I got it all out. All that was clogging my nose inside? It's all gone now. That's good, right?"<br />
<br />
So many of us are so scared of blood. Yet, blood is literally life. It's beyond crucial for survival. We're just not accustomed to seeing it.<br />
<br />
And when we <i>do</i> see blood, it usually means something is wrong. Because our blood is supposed to be on the inside of us.<br />
<br />
When it's on the inside - of sight, out of mind - we take it for granted. We don't give a single passing thought to the pumping of life inside us as we go about our day and our work and our schedules and to-do lists. No, we only notice when that cycle has stopped, when the skin has broken through or the scab has pulled away and all that is life flows to the outside. Staining pillows right on through and drying fast on fingers and matting in hair.<br />
<br />
So we stifle it. We bandage it up and clot it up and pray for it to stop. Stop bleeding. Stop pouring. Stop oozing life. We need that life inside us, we desperately want it to stay right where it is. Within. Hidden. Safe.<br />
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Out of sight. Out of mind.<br />
<br />
But what if...<br />
<br />
What if we all bled a little more?<br />
<br />
What if the hope that is Christ, the joy that is Christ, the victory that is ours through Christ - <i>our very lif</i>e - bled through us and right on out and drenched everything we touched in a reminder of Calvary? What if we left behind permanent crimson stains that couldn't be ignored, that shouted LOOK HERE, that demanded to be acknowledged and dealt with?<br />
<br />
What if we stopped bandaging our bleeding souls and got real and real honest and said "I'm hurting! I want to make it stop! But look how Jesus is turning my crimson stains into pure white right before our very eyes?"<br />
<br />
What if today, we put away the Band-aids of denial, of distraction, of symptom-stopping inside of disease-curing, and bled? What if today, we just bled?<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"I got it all out. It's all gone now. That's good, right?"</i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>"So good, baby. So good."</i></div>
Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-72887661609395128112014-08-11T08:37:00.002-07:002014-08-11T09:15:53.037-07:00Only read this if you want freedom. <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There are days when the struggle is real. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So real, you don't even need to see the warfare around you with your physical eyes, because you feel it in your soul in a way much more tangible than sight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We don't have to see something to make it real. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In fact, the Bible teaches that what we don't see is actually much more real than what we do.</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2 Corinthians 4:18 <span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><i>So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The last few days, my battle was fierce - to the point of literal, physical exhaustion. The urge and temptation to pick back up something I'd (repeatedly) already laid at the altar of Christ was almost unbearable. I had no peace. No joy. No contentment. Determined to obey, yet not sure how much longer my flesh could resist.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was terrified of losing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My days were nonstop, constant battles. I would get away with God, regroup, and be steady for about 30 minutes. Then it would "wear off" and I'd have to do it all again. In my battle, I kept trying to justify the decision/action I so wanted to take, because I felt like that was the only answer to my unrest. I thought it the only cure for what ailed me, yet God wouldn't give me the freedom and permission to do it. It seemed lose-lose. I couldn't figure out why I had this desire to take an action so strongly if it wasn't the right thing to do. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was Jacob, wrestling, wrestling, wrestling. And I couldn't help but picture the unseen world around me - the battle, the angels holding their breath. What would I do?</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;">I believe that, by the way. Not because I'm so important. But because we all are. We're all a part of this story, this grander scheme, this larger stage, of life unfolding around us. Your part, my part, <u>matters</u>. And these battles matter more than we will ever be able to fully realize on this realm. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I wanted to obey, but that wasn't working either. I just needed something to hold onto. I felt like the proverbial butterfingers - my grasp slipping and sliding off everything I so eagerly, desperately, longed to hold tight. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;">I was Job, questioning, confused, begging - until God finally spoke, and when He did, everything else went silent. And I was left with one clear, vivid image. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;">Lot's wife. </span></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(If you aren't familiar with Genesis 9 and the story of Lot's wife, read it <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Genesis+19">here</a> before continuing)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">God made it clear to me that if I took this action, an action that on the surface seemed harmless enough, in an effort to give myself rest, to quiet the questions in my heart...if I took that step, it was the equivalent of me looking backward. Looking backward at the past, looking backward at sin, and it would do nothing but paralyze me into a pillar. My forward progress would be hindered, frozen, turned to stone. Rendered still. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I finally got it. I didn't want to lose momentum. If I am fleeing from a certain direction, why would I turn and look backward? That's when one trips, stumbles, and falls. Then when you do inevitably get up and keep going, you're limping. Bruised. Bleeding. It just makes the right path even harder to navigate. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So instead of giving me permission to take a backward action step that God knew would hinder me and paralyze me, He instead pressed it on my heart to take action in another way - a way that essentially served as a giant step forward. Only God. He took my urge to backtrack and transformed it into a way to get me even FURTHER along in the <i>right </i>direction. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But it was a step I've never been able to do before. A step of faith and surrender that before, when prompted to take, I couldn't even fathom. I justified my way out of it, made excuses to avoid it, and reasoned it not logical. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Until Sunday morning, God reminded me that partial obedience is still disobedience. And if I wanted freedom - true freedom, and peace - I had no other choice. The choice <i>was </i>mine. But I had to make it. Once again, He laid before me life and death, and asked me to choose life. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Despite knowing exactly what I needed to do, I asked for confirmation in church. Five seconds after praying that request, my pastor (who hadn't even started preaching yet) randomly said in his greeting "There's things today that need to be surrendered and laid down at the foot of the cross". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ha. <i>Okay, Lord. Loud and clear. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">During the sermon, which was mostly in Galatians 6, I looked down at my Bible and this verse in Galatians 5 leaped off the page at me. (I don't mean in expression or cliche, but literally, when I glanced down, it was as if this verge was raised above the others in black and white) </span><i><span class="text Gal-5-7" id="en-ESV-29153" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"> </span></span><span class="text Gal-5-7" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You were running well. Who hindered you from obeying <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29153P" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29153P" title="See cross-reference P">P</a>)"></span>the truth?</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="text Gal-5-8" id="en-ESV-29154" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">This persuasion is not from <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29154Q" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29154Q" title="See cross-reference Q">Q</a>)"></span>him who calls you.</span></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text Gal-5-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text Gal-5-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">Okay, Lord. Got it. </span></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text Gal-5-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text Gal-5-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">Nope. He wasn't done.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text Gal-5-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">For </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29147A" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29147A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)"></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">freedom Christ has </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29147B" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29147B" title="See cross-reference B">B</a>)"></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">set us free; </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29147C" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29147C" title="See cross-reference C">C</a>)"></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29147D" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29147D" title="See cross-reference D">D</a>)"></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">a yoke of </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29147E" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29147E" title="See cross-reference E">E</a>)"></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">slavery.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Apparently, the moral of the story is, be careful what you pray for! ::grin::)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">During the altar call, I prayed with a soul-sister of mine who knows my story, and she told me today I would march in victory. So that afternoon, I marched myself to another soul-sister's house and with her support, took the step I had to take for freedom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was pretty anti-climatic. There wasn't confetti. Or balloons. But there was a sigh of relief from my spirit. No more wrestling. No more questioning. Peace. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And there was this, bubbling from my heart. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>A wounded soul,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>A sinner worn</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Temptation's reach</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Weary and torn</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And all of heaven held it's breath</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Fighting despair</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Gasping hope</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Temptation's reach</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Fraying rope</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And all of heaven held it's breath</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Broken shards</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Shattered dreams</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Temptation's reach</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Nothing as it seems</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And all of heaven held it's breath</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Nail-scarred warrior</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Burning light</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Temptation's reach</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Out of sight</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And all of heaven held it's breath</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>One war fought</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>One victory won</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Temptation's reach</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Vanquished by the Son</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And all of heaven released it's breath</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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Betsy St. Amanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01326874709264159191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9051818843558441471.post-8930846739047144052014-08-08T07:56:00.002-07:002014-08-08T07:56:12.916-07:00Trading for wings<br />
In this exhausting and exhilarating season of change, transition, and letting go that I'm in right now, I keep coming back to this picture.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoDSPiIEfu1F9FME5tU0DXkO1bin6p_Ur6v-5xeAXLt8IR8aXn1yN2UZ0WR9wdXppwJ3HTwYj3820F15BQVrmweYtD-O_VqoUgwXNjCbvuHs7BLaXcXa5UGldQ6AhK6Cn7EJYK9aGPaQ/s1600/995552_10151672371976701_1272658460_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoDSPiIEfu1F9FME5tU0DXkO1bin6p_Ur6v-5xeAXLt8IR8aXn1yN2UZ0WR9wdXppwJ3HTwYj3820F15BQVrmweYtD-O_VqoUgwXNjCbvuHs7BLaXcXa5UGldQ6AhK6Cn7EJYK9aGPaQ/s1600/995552_10151672371976701_1272658460_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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That's me, top right, in the blue hoodie. I can honestly say I have NEVER been more terrified in all my life than I was right there. In that moment. </div>
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EVER. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSVA0sY3O_OXhSLk22tdLzyosYrkjJ2nEqPkQAVnc0KQM8AwyDwO9IPMkWnbBeHIbwb4WZA4iF8crJobfwjN89cO25wwXUZkuk0TF2lxCabkrUqwyeL8MKQhwUvt9XiRp-_uPHhV5zXpE/s1600/1390639_10151672373106701_399735261_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSVA0sY3O_OXhSLk22tdLzyosYrkjJ2nEqPkQAVnc0KQM8AwyDwO9IPMkWnbBeHIbwb4WZA4iF8crJobfwjN89cO25wwXUZkuk0TF2lxCabkrUqwyeL8MKQhwUvt9XiRp-_uPHhV5zXpE/s1600/1390639_10151672373106701_399735261_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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That's a rope swing I did in Colorado, at the Captivating Advanced retreat, last October. I committed to the swing before realizing exactly what it was, and the next thing I knew, I'm saddling up with these two dear sisters and hanging on for dear life. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaudyVFZCQVxI_ovgEySjk57kqcUbAliorSRHamzLDMjl522TgBnGhN29qPZuoC0iUzxPW4C9DPLT_2WQVHfDmuFu5SYtYMP6tU6zT84XQIEnr-8fEE5elC2yDcWFIJ-_2MdSQihVn9b8/s1600/1381372_10151672371816701_842625047_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaudyVFZCQVxI_ovgEySjk57kqcUbAliorSRHamzLDMjl522TgBnGhN29qPZuoC0iUzxPW4C9DPLT_2WQVHfDmuFu5SYtYMP6tU6zT84XQIEnr-8fEE5elC2yDcWFIJ-_2MdSQihVn9b8/s1600/1381372_10151672371816701_842625047_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was strapped into that rope swing, and as the minutes ticked by toward our big release, the more I wanted out. Pure panic, sheer terror. Wanted. Out.<br />
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This is <i>me</i>, the girl who hates roller coasters, hates the sensation of falling, hates adrenaline and the unknown...WHAT was I DOING? I was tied to a flimsy chair swing with ropes, wearing an ill-fitting helmet, that was going to DROP ME in a free fall and then PROPEL ME toward a mountain some ridiculous number of feet in the air.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTBS-E_iAdez2EPCrAXLceYATKXkuOiPqzWmv-7WnYTdK0MTADHL5VNFbOGlqcoaQXLMjcai64ccuvNntfK4_jYRcicAwndjyxklmtTZkwtrMXW9CCwmno5r5kJ0UDPZkPcfSuc9ZY28A/s1600/1377142_10151672371211701_402015519_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTBS-E_iAdez2EPCrAXLceYATKXkuOiPqzWmv-7WnYTdK0MTADHL5VNFbOGlqcoaQXLMjcai64ccuvNntfK4_jYRcicAwndjyxklmtTZkwtrMXW9CCwmno5r5kJ0UDPZkPcfSuc9ZY28A/s1600/1377142_10151672371211701_402015519_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
I actually invited the man you see in the top picture, the one getting us all set up, to my funeral. I was so convinced this was it, I was done for. The End. Peace out. He laughed. Then realized I was serious.<br />
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When we were all "secured", the man asked if we were ready, and all three of us shouted "NO!"<br />
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I was beyond terrified. I can still vividly remember the emotions, the rush of adrenaline, the sound of my pounding heart in my ears, the panicked choking in my throat. I wanted to do it because I want to prove to myself I could.<br />
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But in that moment, all I could think was NO NO NO. I had changed my mind. I wanted the safety of that platform, I wanted SOMETHING under my feet, I wanted security - even if it was security in the world. I wanted to be safe in the familiar and the known. I realized the fall and the swing would be probably one of the best things I could ever do.<br />
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But it seemed too scary and impossibly out of reach to ever get there.<br />
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I'm back in that rope swing these last few weeks. Terrified of the fall, fearful of the release, with everything in my flesh screaming for safety and security and the familiar. The known. Even a bad familiar and a bad known, in my weakness and limited perspective, can at times seem safer than the free fall.<br />
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There's a quote I keep seeing around the internet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjBZOfYbDr8r2M7m0O7vvCyvaQJTW97hcBbXpdNKB77a7nHg0GGybXOYliHJC0vH7XPPNuQ4DoNys0qhk674lb6ff0DvWfcbQB_dwhAxf-Afku_TUg-Kqftlmdr-MUfekb-FQqu64fppY/s1600/cc2de0ce2142674d97251d3905180506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjBZOfYbDr8r2M7m0O7vvCyvaQJTW97hcBbXpdNKB77a7nHg0GGybXOYliHJC0vH7XPPNuQ4DoNys0qhk674lb6ff0DvWfcbQB_dwhAxf-Afku_TUg-Kqftlmdr-MUfekb-FQqu64fppY/s1600/cc2de0ce2142674d97251d3905180506.jpg" /></a></div>
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That's me right now and it was me in October on top of that platform and it's most of us at some point in our lives.<br />
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I had to choose to stay in the swing.<br />
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And somehow, against everything me, I stayed put.<br />
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And I flew. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2CRFCaHGOstNephaRkpmZrdqZHwAVQxq85OlFD7BgzUhIa4OuOzMvmiabNZQ-8wHozqW0x48yeus5FWQN2ulUEzRAh3YIiBolXA5YFj4bfVM5VSed4vdmdrY-8ZG2qWUDamAtKF_ccI/s1600/10547670_10152180993671701_324975961836443308_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2CRFCaHGOstNephaRkpmZrdqZHwAVQxq85OlFD7BgzUhIa4OuOzMvmiabNZQ-8wHozqW0x48yeus5FWQN2ulUEzRAh3YIiBolXA5YFj4bfVM5VSed4vdmdrY-8ZG2qWUDamAtKF_ccI/s1600/10547670_10152180993671701_324975961836443308_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have a tattoo on my right rib cage. An anchor, with the word Yashab written in rope. Yashab is Hebrew for "stay" or "abide".<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YsJ3pEKccanL4oBZ277QxjvbGrE_4fUr17J00Ri2k56Q5Z1NbUSiingGVVnwuXOxW-6vB83EztXMKf70fb6_zY-2V3nF_MoZDkXQIT_MMqJgXWgC6h2rShSC8zmHOtPqLEMdWNFNDKM/s1600/20140125_020200-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YsJ3pEKccanL4oBZ277QxjvbGrE_4fUr17J00Ri2k56Q5Z1NbUSiingGVVnwuXOxW-6vB83EztXMKf70fb6_zY-2V3nF_MoZDkXQIT_MMqJgXWgC6h2rShSC8zmHOtPqLEMdWNFNDKM/s1600/20140125_020200-1.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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I never connected the symbolism before, of that rope, and how it connects back to that rope swing. How everything in my heart right now goes straight back to that swing. To that choice. To that fear, adrenaline, and pure terror.<br />
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And to the joy of flying.<br />
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Freedom.<br />
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Life.<br />
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Some days I still just want OUT of the swing. There are so many days I still have to consciously, intentionally, trade my fear and my flesh and my insecurity and my doubts for wings.<br />
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And on those days, when I choose correctly....<br />
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I fly.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD5El2vE-lc9S-eI2QqWS8XlWvr0CDIHE59eYIwyR8Sz7YPY3q2J6gvlVoUcld7Iy0_qifQkK9dp0c43J5XcyCwscTv_FUrXx34z2BsgvTbXDDQ-cRrMKz3CdUIEmjcikrMyrDDiGjSFA/s1600/580570_10151672402991701_607008059_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD5El2vE-lc9S-eI2QqWS8XlWvr0CDIHE59eYIwyR8Sz7YPY3q2J6gvlVoUcld7Iy0_qifQkK9dp0c43J5XcyCwscTv_FUrXx34z2BsgvTbXDDQ-cRrMKz3CdUIEmjcikrMyrDDiGjSFA/s1600/580570_10151672402991701_607008059_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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