Surrender...

***When I started writing this post a few days ago, I had no idea the direction it would take. Some of it might be... disturbing to you. I can only pray that you read to the end before judging me or I what I've said here.***

Surrender don' come natural to me. I'd rather fight You for somethin' I don't really want than take what You give that I need.....

I don't like giving in.

Giving in is weakness... those who can force you to give in, or ask you to give in, are cruel and want to see you suffer - because you're nothing. Insignificant. Worthless. Giving in means lying down and letting someone else take. Everyone who wants you to give in is trying to rape you in one way or another.

Even God.

That's right. That's how I saw God - as this all-powerful, all-present deity who wanted to pin me down and force something from me. And lest you think I was one of those poor, misguided "unchurched" souls who clearly didn't know any better...

I wasn't.

To paraphrase Paul: I was a Church Girl of church girls. (Philippians 3:4&5). I toed the line better than the best of them. I knew every answer, could memorize any verse and had the talk down perfect. I knew more about God than some pastors I know, and darn right I was proud of it.

I knew God loved me.

The boy who molested me for years in my baby-sitter's basement said he loved me too. Other people have loved and hurt me throughout the years. "Love" was meaningless. "Love" was pain and shame and a constant reminder of how pathetic I was.

Sure, God loved me. He wanted me to see how broken I was so that I would know how much I needed Him. He wanted me to hand myself over and let Him do whatever He wanted with me. All good things...

But not to me.

Somehow, in my desire to be in control and not give in - in my need to hold on to some part of myself that no one could take away - I warped who God is. I saw Him as a user and an abuser. When people would say, "God will use this," it wasn't a comfort. It wasn't something to rejoice in. It made me ache... made me bitter and angry and rebellious and defiant.

How dare God screw me over for His benefit!? How dare He try to break me? How dare He take anything from me? How dare He USE me!!??

Even after God met me on my dorm room floor and made me His, some small part of me felt as though I'd tried to fight Him off for as long as I could, but He was stronger. Again, a GOOD thing.

But not in the eyes of a victim. How insidious that lie is.

It has taken me years to work through the way I saw God... hard, broken, angry, lonely years. It has taken years to see God as He IS and not as Satan painted Him to be. I still have fleeting moments of panic when people say, "God will use this." I still have flashes of bitterness and defiance when someone says, "Surrender to Him."

I don't want to surrender. It don' come natural.

And maybe that's the point.

I had to come to a place of consent - a place where I could trust that I was yielding because I wanted to, not because it had been forced from me... and a place where I could trust that God wasn't looking to make me His victim. Maybe you think that road was easy, after all, He's a good God. I could tell you how painless and simple it was....

But I won't lie.
It's hard. It's scary. It's painful.

...and I've beat my head against so many walls, now I'm fallin' down, I'm fallin' on my knees...

And from this place of submission, I see a God who plans to prosper me, not to harm me... who plans to give me hope. And a future...

And peace.

So hold me, Jesus

'cause I'm shakin' like a leaf.

You have been King of my glory,

won't You be my Prince of peace?

(Rich Mullins)

1st & 15th ~ Hope and Gall

Lamentations 3:17-26

My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is;
so I say, "My endurance has perished; so has my hope from the LORD."
Remember my affliction and my wanderings, the wormwood and the gall!
My soul continually remembers it and is bowed down within me.
But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
His mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.
"The LORD is my portion," says my soul,
"Therefore I will hope in Him."
The LORD is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him.
It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the LORD.

If ever the story of my life was wrapped up in scripture, this would be it. Over the last two weeks I have thought long and hard about whether or not I was going to share this story with you.

Some people are going to wonder why I'm writing this. Some people are going to think it's foolish to be this real. Some people are going to think I'm attention-seeking. Some people are going to question my sanity. Some people are going to judge. That's ok.

There isn't a human being on this planet that can judge me more harshly than I judge myself. I can take it.

After church on February 1st I was driving down a winding stretch of highway with a cliff face on one side and a river on the other. For reasons I can't explain and have no words to express, I took off my seatbelt, floored the gas pedal until I was going over 100 mph and had every intention of driving myself straight into the cliff wall.

It was an impulse, in part brought on by a severe side-effect to an anti-depressant I started taking two weeks before. It was an impulse that took only seconds to act out, and only seconds to stop. Another car came around the bend and immediately I knew I didn't want to take someone else out with me. Microseconds after that, I remembered my children and knew I couldn't leave them this way.

Seconds. My life hinged on a few ticks of the clock.

The next day I called my therapist and we decided the safest place for me would be the hospital. I hate hospitals and the anxiety they trigger in me is nearly debilitating - I chose to have my fourth child at home, on purpose, because of it. In all the world, there is no place I'd rather NOT be.

But I went.

Because the next time... there might not have been another car on the road. The next time, I might not have remembered my children. That possibility was unacceptable.

Friends, I tell you, there are genuine Christians who experience genuine despair. There are children of the Most High who endure the life they have been given only by holding on to the hope of heaven. Even Christians sometimes want to die more than they want to live... and some will act on it.

I could be ashamed of what I did. I could be ashamed of the illness that led to the need for medication and the medication that brought me to the point of suicide. I could be - and I was. But not any more. What do I have to hide - the fact that I needed help? or the fact that I asked for it?

Whether it was strength or desperation that walked me through those hospital doors, I got the help I needed. I had 48 hours away from the stressors of life to think, to breathe and to pray. I have new medication and a plan to stay healthy and safe. More important than any of that, I have hope.

I have forgotten what happiness is, and in the weeks following my hospital stay I have begun to question whether or not I will ever fully remember. Sometimes it seems as though my life on this earth will continue to be one crisis after another until I die.

And maybe that's ok.

Because I have hope. Not hope that this life will get better, but hope that God has plans for me that will make every moment of my life a testimony to His goodness and faithfulness in the midst of suffering - hope that I can be joyful, even when I am not happy.

I'm reading an interesting and painful book called Shattered Dreams that is slowly changing my expectations of God's mercy. I've never taken this long to read anything, but I can't swallow more than a chapter at a time. It is often a very bitter pill and if the book belonged to me, I'd throw it across the room - only to run and pick it up again the next day.

Hope isn't always what we expect it to be, but it is always available to us if we are willing to accept that God's ways are not our own.

I Nearly Missed It...

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. If you've spent much time on my blog, chances are you know I left my husband because he was abusive.

I go through periods of talking about it and not talking about it. I go through seasons where it hits harder than others.

This is one of those seasons.

My husband attends my church and we have four children together. There is no avoiding him. I live in the house I was abused in. There's no avoiding it. Being at home all day, every day, certainly contributes to the problem. It was easier to feel strong when I wasn't utterly dependent on other people. (Yes, I know there's a spiritual lesson in this).

And yes, I'm dwelling. Grrr

Anyway.

When I started researching DV it surprised me how much I didn't know. I had been a victim, but I was still blind to the realities of abuse in the home. So in an attempt to educate, and in honor of the occasion, I'm reposting something from July '07:

Every year over one and a half million women face abuse at the hands of their domestic partner. One in five will experience domestic violence at some point in her life. A third of all women will experience verbal abuse. Maybe you're thinking "that's so sad, but it doesn't happen in my community and certainly not in my church."

Think again.

Take a moment and look around you in church next Sunday. Someone you know, love and consider a sister in Christ might go home with a man who hurts her. She may be cursed at, threatened, raped or beaten by someone who sits in the same pew, sings the same hymns and reads the same Bible as you do. Look around and see the faces of the abused, and the abusers.

I was one of those faces.

Not only did my church not help me, they condemned me for being a victim. Obviously I needed to submit more. Obviously I needed to pray harder. Obviously I needed to be a better housekeeper, wife, mother, etc. Obviously there was some kind of sin in my life that was leading God to punish me through my husband. Obviously... NOT.

If you're reading this right now and you're in a violent relationship, let me make this very clear:
There is NOTHING you did to cause this.
You do NOT deserve it.
It is NOT God's plan for marriage

Dear one, you are a precious and beloved Child of God and He weeps for you. Get help. Please.

If you are reading this right now and you think it could never happen in your church, among your friends, let me make this very clear:
Statistics say you're wrong.
Domestic violence is not confined to the poor, the addicted or the unchurched.
It is not confined to those who are not saved.

There are genuinely-Christian men who beat their wives.

Thankfully, God eventually led me to a church family that was willing to see my pain and do something about it. Not everyone is so blessed. There are more churches like my first than there are like my second and the Christian community should be ashamed.

We must call sin a sin and we must be willing to take a stand. We sit in our homes and our pews and pretend that domestic violence isn’t our problem. The reason Christian men continue to abuse and degrade their spouses is because we allow them to.

Unless we are willing to be a voice for the helpless within our own Body, it is impossible for us to be a voice for the helpless in the world.

Secrets and Healing

I don't usually do "giveaway entry" posts. I don't know why, really, I just feel awkward about it. But this is different. Not because of the giveaway, but because of the passion this particular subject stirs up in my heart. Melinda explains the study best in her post. I can't even begin to express how valuable and necessary something like this is for our lost and dying world.



Abortion is the secret that no one wants to talk about. So many Christians view it as an unforgivable sin. Chief among them are those who have had one.

It is time for the church to step up and offer the healing hand of God. Because who better to be a voice for the unborn than those who know intimately the cost of ignoring them? Because God redeems even the ashes of abortion and uses them for His glory.

I don't want to think about where I would be if He didn't.

I have a secret - one I don't talk about in polite Christian circles, one I don't talk about at all really. I may have mentioned it in passing on my blog, but in "real life" I can count the number of people I've told on one hand and have fingers left over.

And that doesn't give my God the glory He's due, does it?

I've shared before about the life God gave to my oldest son, and to me. And to God be the glory for what He prevented me from doing! It is easier to talk about the miracles isn't it? To talk about the times when God intervened on our behalf and stopped us from jumping off a cliff head-long into disaster.

It is harder to talk about those things God allowed us to do, as He gave us over to our sin and rebellion.

I had an abortion. I was very young and very dumb and more than one life ended with that "choice." The person I was, and all the potential I might have had, died that day with my child. It is no exaggeration to say that God didn't save a dying soul when He made me His four years later - He brought the dead back to life.

The timing of this giveaway could not be more appropriate. October is a month of many anniversaries for me... birth, abortion and re-birth. To God be the glory, truly great things He hath done!

I have three sons.

***Note: very long and emotional post***

This week I've enjoyed participating in one of my favorite childhood memories - Camp Meeting! For those of you who haven't a clue what that is, the church "movement" I grew up in holds a regional get-together every August to celebrate unity in the Church. It's HUGE!

Camp Meeting has something for everyone and I looked forward to this time every summer. Even when I was in college (which just happened to be affliliated with our church) I loved coming together with people from all over Oregon and Southwest Washington. For many of us, it was our last hurrah before classes started.

This year, aside from the preacher's messages (which I will share in a later post sometime this weekend), Camp Meeting has been about connections.

I may not attend the same kind of church anymore, and I may not agree with some of the theology, but this Church raised me and formed me and shaped my early understanding about God. It is an important part of the person I was before my life got so messy, and significant to who I am today.

I've gone once or twice with my mom since we moved back here from Maryland five years ago, but I avoided people. This year is different. This year I'm seeking people out and these people love me. They've loved me and cared for me and prayed for me through the years that I'd "forgotten" them.

Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Share with God’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. (Romans 12:10-15)

And yet again, you're probably looking at the post title and looking at what I've written so far and are wondering how the two are connected. I take a long time getting to the point when I'm putting my heart out there for the world to see. I promise, I'll get there. This is difficult for me to write so I'm meandering.

Anyhoo...

Last evening I ran into a woman I hadn't seen in over a decade. I baby-sat her children as a teenager and they're now in their 20s (can I feel old when I'm only 30?). We bumped into each other at the sinks in the bathroom (isn't that just like women?) and she recognized me immediately.

We hugged and I introduced her to my youngest who was with me and told her about my other kids. She gave me the typical line about "wow, you must have your hands full!" and then looked at me strangely for a moment.

Then she said, "Last I'd heard of you, you were expecting twins." Ten years ago. And, "I am so sorry."

The world roared to a stop and the blood pounded in my ears.

Ten years ago I was pregnant-and-not-yet-married with twins. And things were so rocky, I wasn't sure I was ever going to be married. My then-fiance was an ordained minister and worked with college-aged young adults and here I was carrying evidence of our sin. Things were a mess (just a foretaste I suppose).

Two little boys grew together under my heart. Only one of them stands with me today.

Let me tell you about my Joshua - my "YHWH saves."

When I found out I was pregnant I was terrified. I was essentially alone 3,000 miles away from everyone and everything I had ever known. And I could already see the path my upcoming marriage was about to take. He had already hit me.

In a gross violation of my conscience I walked into the office of an abortionist for the second time in my life. I can't even begin to tell you the blackness of that moment. I knew with every fiber of my being that I was about to commit murder and I still crossed that threshold.

Everything was ready and the "doctor" (I struggle to give that name to anyone who takes life) did a cursory exam. There weren't supposed to be any surprises.

I cannot thank God enough that He had other plans.

The doctor looked at me like I had deliberately lied to him and told me I was much farther along than I claimed to be. Impossible since there was 3,000 miles between my fiance and me on the date I supposedly "really" got pregnant. He didn't believe me. My uterus was twice the size it should have been, so obviously I was lying. He never considered twins.

The doctor told me it would cost nearly twice as much because I was "so far along." Thank you Jesus I didn't have the money! I walked away sobbing out my shame and my gratitude to the God who had rescued me and my child. I told no one.

Until this moment.

Fast forward a few months. Married only a month and 24 weeks pregnant, I was in a car accident. They did an ultrasound in the ER and everything looked perfect - which was a huge relief since a mix-up with the insurance meant I'd only had one prenatal visit at an armpit clinic and I hadn't even heard the heartbeat.

I saw that child moving in black and white and grey on the monitor and my heart leapt - and broke. The enormity of what I had almost done was devastating.

But the devastation lasted only for a moment when I saw something else, something like a foot that moved briefly in and out of the viewing area. The tech saw it too and moved the wand a bit. And there was Joshua.

Tucked high in my uterus, behind his brother, was the little life that saved both of them. The reason I couldn't go through with what I had planned. "YHWH saves." I laughed and cried and thanked God again for all He had done.

That was one of the last times I really talked with God. For seven years.

Four weeks later, after three prenatal visits with my new OB, I was ordered to the hospital. No one told me why, they just told me to go. Five hours of waiting ticked by and I knew nothing, until finally someone told me that Joshua was gone.

And David was dying.

I had to deliver NOW. And I never got to say good-bye. My boys were delivered and David was whisked off to the NICU. My doctor told someone to take Joshua away. He gave orders that I wasn't to see him or hold him. He said I was too sick to handle the stress.

I suppose I was since I had one of the most severe cases of HELLP syndrome my doctor had ever seen (I found this out months later after finally getting access to my records) and my blood pressure was so high I was a heart-beat away from seizure and stroke.

So he drugged me and I lost 36 hours. Thirty-six hours in which my living son could have died and I wouldn't have been lucid enough to know the difference. Thirty-six hours in which I was haunted by nightmares I couldn't wake up from and grief I couldn't understand.

By the time I was out of the drug-haze Joshua's body had already been delivered to the funeral home and I had NOTHING to remember him by. They didn't do his foot prints. They didn't give me a lock of his hair. They didn't take a picture. They said they were protecting me.

Why didn't they know that not seeing him or touching him was far worse? They should have known.

We buried Joshua eight days later, in more ways than one.

No one talked about him, and when I did, they looked away. Or changed the subject. "Focus on David" they said. "Be grateful you still have a baby to hold." Yeah. Grateful. Oh, and my favorite, "At least you only knew about him for a few weeks, you didn't have enough time to get really attached." I grieved in silence. Even my husband refused to share the burden with me.

For ten years, no one has spoken of Joshua unless I bring him up first.

Until last night.

Last night someone I hadn't seen since I was a teenager, someone who I had all but forgotten, looked me in the eye and acknowledged that I have three sons.

If that isn't love... tell me, what is?

Slicing up my life...

I am a cutter.


By that, I do not mean that I take people's place in line, nor do I mean I employ scissors or fancy gizmos in some crafting extravaganza.


I am a cutter. An addict.

I am addicted to what is otherwise known as Self-Injurious Behavior. When I am unable or unwilling to cope with emotional upheaval in my life, or when I've torn myself down to a place of complete self-loathing I pull out a utility knife, razor blade or some other sharp implement and carve my pain into my skin.

I've hidden this reality from nearly every person in my life for almost 20 years - not easy to do when you are covered in scars. My ex-husband was blissfully ignorant and never noticed. I can count the number of people who know on one hand and have fingers left over.

It has been months (it may not seem like much, but there was a time when a week between cutting was a major accomplishment) and I would like to believe that through God's grace I have finally been freed from this bloody addiction. I know that He can free me and I am confident in His changing power. I am not, however, confident in my trust in that power. The only limits on God's ability to change my life are those I put on Him.

I am praying for lasting healing... would you pray with me too?

What vs. Why

Most of us, when we experience some sort of tragedy, find ourselves asking God why. Why do we deserve this? Why now? Why ME?

What if we aren't meant to have an answer?...
What if the answer lies in a different question we should be asking God?...
What if we are intended to ask, "What can I learn from this?"...
What if the life lessons we gain from difficult experiences ARE the "why"?

I have to admit, it is a near-daily struggle for me to ask God what I can learn from any given situation. I want to wallow in the self-pity, I want to demand better treatment, I want to feel as though I somehow have the right to be immune from suffering. But we don't - and shouldn't - always get what we want.

I've heard it said that God does not call the equipped, He equips the called. What if being sexually abused as a child, making selfish choices, burying a child, delivering a baby 12 weeks early, losing my daddy to cancer, being abused by my husband and watching my marriage crumble into tiny little pieces are all a part of that equipping?

What if each heartache is 100 times more valuable than each counseling course, Bible study and theology class I ever take?

Is it enough that being a survivor of childhood trauma or domestic violence may give me a voice to speak to someone who might not listen to anyone else? Is it enough that standing beside my daddy as he stepped out of this world and into heaven may provide me with a compelling reason for the hope that I have? Is it enough that making the fatal choice of abortion as a teenager or burying a child I never got to hold or standing by as my 2 pound baby struggled for each and every breath may allow me to speak for the unborn with conviction and compassion?

Is it enough to know that my experiences may make me uniquely suited to walk along side someone as they answer the Holy Spirit's call and come to faith in Christ?

Is it enough?

Yes, Lord, yes!

I may not always feel it, but I know in my heart that being used by God makes everything worth it.

T-minus 162 Days & Counting!!!

After a decade-long hiatus from persuing my college dream,
I am graduating in 162 days
(give or take a few hours!!! =)

Eleven years ago I felt God's call to go into Christian ministry/counseling and for a couple years I went along with it... Then I walked away from it because I wanted to be married more than I wanted to follow God. Going into this field meant I would have to go to Nineveh (going through counseling and facing my past). I did NOT want to do this so I boarded the first ship to Tarshish (the East Coast and my husband) and wound up in the belly of the whale (trial after trial) until God finally had the whale spit me out as a disgusting blob of regurgitated whale lunch a year and a half ago.

Now I'm in an accelerated degree program for my B.S. in Human Development and I graduate in December. I've come full circle and ended up right back in Nineveh where God wanted me in the first place. In fact, the two seminaries I was looking at for my grad work in Christian counseling the first time around are the front-runners for me this time around as well.

I have so much character work to do to get ready to answer this call from God, and I am more of a mess than when I started 11 years ago (you know, regurgitated whale lunch and all). But I guess that's the cost of running away from God rather than toward Him.

Now I'm in the middle of a healthy dose of Holy scrubbing and it hurts like the dickens but I like the person who's appearing out from underneath all the gunk.

Dear Lord,
I've related so well to Jonah throughout my life, please let this moment be where the similarities end. Give me a grateful heart instead of a begrudging one and help me face Nineveh with joy and willingness. Thank you for being a God of second chances and giving me the opportunity to walk this road again even though I once ran from it. AMEN.