Hope In Times of Uncertainty

Have you ever struggled with self-doubt? Have you ever approached an ending or a beginning and wondered, “how did I get here?” Have you ever felt hopeless in changing the trajectory of your life? Have you ever taken inventory of your environment and thought, “this is not how I imagined it would be?” Do you ever lay awake at night asking, “Is this where I belong? Am I on the path that fulfills my purpose?” Have you ever struggled to give yourself grace in your circumstance? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you are not alone and there is hope my friend. A new day is coming.  

This past week I’ve been feeling stuck. Struggling with purpose. Searching for meaning. I’ve felt lost with an ache in my soul that fears it’s chasing something that doesn’t want to be chased. There’s a voice telling me I’ve run out of ideas, I have no more worthwhile thoughts to share, nothing left to say or write. This has me feeling dispirited and exasperated with myself for not being more thoughtful and creative, for not running deeper and longer. The voice is saying, “you have nothing to offer and quite frankly, you never did!”

I’m not sure where these feelings stem from. It could be that I turn 40 this year. It could be that we’re in the season of all the hard anniversaries that bring back the grief of losing my brother before his time. It could be that I truly need a shift in my life and quite a bit more therapy. It could be (and probably is) a combination of all these things. One thing I know for sure is that these are lies from an enemy that is doing his very best to tear me from the inside out with distortion and deceit. The truth is that we are all wonderful and beautiful creations with purpose and callings that we are uniquely equipped to fulfill.

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly. John 10:10 ESV

I heard a timely message on Easter Sunday that struck a chord in me. It was the simple reminder that His love brings resurrection. The love of Jesus brings life! When we are feeling lost, lonely, worthless, hopeless, small, insignificant, we can look to the promises of Jesus for light and life, hope and joy, restoration and resurrection. He breathes a new spirit into our tired hearts and worn out souls.

This message reminded me of my own Jesus-breathed renewal. I laid in chronic pain for months, depending on others to care for me and my newborn son, most days believing that my life as I knew it was over. And yet, there came a day when I rose from my bed and the pain fell away. There was a day that I woke up and with the arms of Jesus wrapped firmly around me I slowly re-entered life. Jesus carried me through the shadows of pain and defeat into the glow of victory. I walked hand in hand with Jesus into a new morning of hope and joy and I knew I had been given a second chance at life. I embraced a gratitude for life at a depth and width I had never experienced in all my 33 years. This was my new becoming. In that moment I celebrated the joy that comes with knowing my Father will never leave me, that he is always faithful, that he loves me unconditionally, and that his plans for me are always good. I was a new woman in Christ. I embraced life with a new fervor. I felt a peace and strength and confidence in him that I had never before experienced. He had resurrected my heart and spirit and nothing would ever be the same. 

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My hopeless place. My storm.
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My resurrected place. My new day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Easter message was a timely reminder that there is hope in each new day. A timely reminder that this broken place we may find ourselves in today is only a small moment in time on our journey with the God of love. A timely reminder that he is a God of new beginnings and he continues to lay a path before us, whether we see it or not. A timely reminder that we are all precious in his eyes, adored by our creator, and made for a great love and abundant life in him and him in us!

If you are hearing a voice that says, you’re not where you should be, a voice that doubts you have what it takes, a voice that says you’re not enough, a voice that says you’ll never find your path or purpose, a voice that calls you a failure and tells you that your circumstance is hopeless, I want you to know and believe that voice is a liar…The Liar. You are on a journey with peaks and valleys, midnights and mornings and it is the journey with Jesus that brings you wisdom and strength. It is the journey that equips you to shine love and light into the lives of those around you. It is the journey that brings you into a new morning and a new life. You were created for wholeness and he will make you whole. Have hope my friend, there is a new day dawning! 

You are enough! You are worthy! You are loved!

 

Thirty Minute Therapy

I’ve been in and out of therapy since high school and with the extensive internal work I’ve done, I recognize pretty quickly when it’s time to go back. I feel my irritability rising and my joy plummeting. I hear my self-talk turning against me. I see my days through a shadowed lense and I know it’s time. I identified these patterns a few months back, but had to put off making an appointment due to extensive work travel and financial shifts in our household.

I finally made an appointment two weeks ago with a brand new therapist and yesterday was the day. I woke up expectant. I felt energized knowing that I was about to pursue something that would lead to personal growth, self-reflection, forward progress, and overall evolvement. I love therapy!

The day had come and I was prepared for my appointment. As I ran out the door, I shoved a little yellow sticky note into my purse with a list of things I wanted to address while in therapy:

  • Grief and anxiety triggers
  • Career path and purpose for my life
  • Relationship with my son
  • Self-esteem and confidence
  • People pleasing

As a full-time working mom, I give myself enthusiastic mental hi-fives when I arrive anywhere on time. I was 2 minutes early! Yay me! I walked into the office at 10:28am feeling confident that I was about to begin a journey of self-discovery and healing. Just moments after I reached the front desk, the therapist came around the corner. I eagerly introduced myself, but immediately felt hesitation from her. She shook my hand, while studying me quizzically and said, “weeelllll, it’s going to be a veeerrry short session because your appointment was at 10am.” And that, ladies and gentleman, is when everything shifted.

The air was sucked out of the room, I instantly felt heat travel from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, color flooded my cheeks, and I began to sweat. I was frantically searching for words that would explain this mishap and convince her that I’m not irresponsible and undependable. I immediately convinced myself that I was being deservedly judged and that this woman disliked me before we even met. As we walked back to her office I was still stuttering through apologies and promises that it would never happen again. I even declared obvious untruths such as, “this never happens!” and “I never do this!” Obviously, it does happen! Obviously, I do this! My hope and excitement for transformation just minutes earlier were completely replaced with self-loathing and shame.

For the first 15 minutes of our session she explained Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy and what I could expect as we move through the process. I did not hear one word! As she was explaining how we would address my grief triggers, my inner dialogue was shouting loud and fast. The monologue inside my head was saying with disgust, “she already doesn’t respect you, you’re going to have to find another therapist, there’s no way this is going to work, she’s judging you and thinks you’re irresponsible, obviously you ARE irresponsible, how could you get this wrong?, what is wrong with you?, if you can’t even get a time right on your calendar she must think you’re an idiot, it’s your fault this isn’t going to work, now you’re going to have to find another therapist and start this entire process over, you are such a disappointment, you let others down, you let yourself down!!!!” and on and on and on. I could see her lips moving, and catch a few words here and there, but for the life of me I could not focus on what she was saying. Her voice had no chance of drowning out the self-shaming roar inside my head.

And then (thank the Good Lord), I had a moment of clarity!

From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my little yellow sticky note sitting in my purse, and I remembered that 2 of the items listed were to address my self-esteem/confidence and people pleasing.

That brief visual prompted me to consider: What if this is the beginning of my therapy? What if this is my opportunity to grow? What if I choose the hard thing and stay with this therapist instead of running away because my pride is injured and I’ve decided she hates me? What if I silence that lying voice set on repeat by breaking the script and deciding that I am allowed to make mistakes without beating myself up? That I am allowed to be human. Allowed to disappoint someone and still be respected. Allowed to confidently pursue friendships and professional relationships even with all my flaws fully in tact. Allowed to move forward after a failure without shame digging it’s nails in. Allowed to be imperfect. Allowed to be me even if it means I can’t please all people all the time. What if this veerrry short session ended in a verrry valuable lesson? What if I decided to lean into the idea that I am likable, I am loveable, I am worthy, and simultaneously, I am a flawed human!

I decided right then and there that I was not going to look for another therapist. I decided right then and there that this was simply an eye-opening example of how often I’m controlled by the intense desire to please other people. I decided right then and there that moving forward with this therapist would mean I would have to forgive myself and begin embracing the idea that relationships can and do move forward even after I’ve disappointed someone. 

After I made this decision I was instantly able to tune into what she was saying. I became present and engaged. Soon, I left the office feeling like I had quietly conquered something inside me that had attempted to sabotage my efforts to move towards health and healing, growth and transformation, hope and joy. I left feeling proud that I didn’t allow shame to chase me away from something I knew my heart and soul needed.

I want to encourage everyone reading this to join me in paying attention to what that critical voice is saying and how it may be holding you back. Let us acknowledge that this voice developed somewhere in our past as a way to protect us, therefore there is no need to criticize or judge ourselves for its existence. Next, let us make bold new choices based on the present moment to move forward with self-love, confidence, and freedom.

We are wonderfully and beautifully made. We are flawed, we are human, we are loved. 

A Daughter’s Response to an Ageless Father

My dad wrote the authentic and vulnerable poem below about his experience with aging and his hope in the Lord. I’m thankful that he gave me permission to share his poem on my blog. I’ve added a poem I wrote to him in response that he hasn’t yet seen. Dad, your influence reaches far and wide and my love for you is boundless. Thank you for allowing me to share your words with others…thank you for your courage in being open about how it feels to grow older. I learn so  much from you and mom every day!

Shrinking Man

Possibilities and dreams
the world was full of them it seemed.
Now my options fading fast,
life much smaller than my past,
Shrinking man.

Lovely wife and precious kids
Love my God for all he did,
Still feel his love as time flies past
But it remains a fact, alas
Shrinking man.

Influence fades as we get old,
Once sought for wisdom, now just told,
Powerlessness seems to creep in slow,
A mocking sense it brings of woe,
Shrinking man.

So on HIM I fix my gaze,
As my person fades away,
A day will come when I shall die,
And then I’ll see the reason why,
The process isn’t bad you see,
It’s just the path to victory.
With joy I’ll rest in His embrace,
Forever I’ll behold His face
Thanking Him eternally
That I will no longer be,
Shrinking man.

– Ron Little (my dad)


Larger Than Life – A Legacy of Love

My dad, my rock, my shield, my strength
grows bigger in my eyes, not weak
His heart expands, his wisdom grows
to soak it in, I draw close

In his eyes and in his deeds
God’s growing love is what I see
Each day, each year that passes by
his courage builds before my eyes

He shares his doubts, his fears, his pain
with an open heart he faces change
a vulnerable glimpse he offers us
a friend, a father, a man I trust

I’ve watched my dad grow in the Lord
evolve and change moving forward
a human life with sin and grace
reminding me I have a place

So, to my dad I want to say
as your “person fades away”
who you are to me remains
the many who taught me how to pray
A day will come when you will die
and I’ll always know the reason why
you loved the Lord with so much might
encouraged me to keep my sight
on the One of love and light
You will never be small to me
You will only be more free

– your daughter

Bad Luck, Beautiful Blessings

Before you read my blog about bad luck, you must know that when I originally posted it on Facebook, it was deleted by their algorithm because “it looked like spam.” Thank you Facebook for really driving the point home about my inherent lack of luck. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony! I responded to their “Support” Message indicating that my blog was not spam and they restored my post several days later. Naturally, I had to edit my blog to include these series of events. Life makes me laugh.

 

I have often wondered if my mother gave birth to me under a ladder, with a black cat resting on her belly, while the OBGYN spilled salt and held a cracked mirror to capture the visual of my beautiful birth. I am not the person you take to Vegas if you hope to win. I AM the person you take to Vegas if you need someone to laugh at. I’m the one who falls off the riser during a choir concert, breaks her arm in an alumni game, sleeps through a college final, gives the wrong date for the house party, gives the wrong address for the house party, suffers a computer crash and loses the 18-page term paper that’s due the next day, gets pulled over as a suspect for a car wash burglary, gets busted at a concert for taking a picture of the band while everyone else is consuming illegal drugs, has her blog post about bad luck deleted by Facebook’s algorithm (yes this just happened), and starts desensitization therapy for a life-limiting bug phobia while contracting lice the same week. I am that person!

As I grow older and reminisce on my last 37 (or so) years, and how I ended up where I am now, a mom of 2 precious children, with a husband I adore, and a job I enjoy more often than not, I can’t help but acknowledge that I’ve never been a lucky person, but I’ve always been blessed. I have travelled through many painful moments, life-altering circumstances, and dark seasons, yet in every one of them I have witnessed blessings that illustrate divine intervention in my life over and over again. I could write a book of these events, but let me start with one.

I was in graduate school for my Master’s in Social Work with a clear goal to work for Hospice of the Valley (HOV) and to eventually become independently licensed so that I could open up my own private practice. It was my second year and I was fortunate enough to have a connection at Hospice of the Valley. Generally, a master’s level student who interned for HOV was hired to work for them after graduation, so I was thrilled to have a colleague who put me in touch with the Director.

During this busy season I was also in the midst of a divorce and struggling to keep school, a full-time job, and my sanity on the up-swing. Naturally, this was the optimal time for a beastly toothache…the kind that can’t tolerate the cool air that comes with breathing in (AKA surviving). Like most “normal” people, I have a serious disdain for dentists and needles. I went weeks with a throbbing face before I finally gave in and made an appointment to see the sadistic and evil tooth monster. In the interim, I had gratefully run across an old prescription of Darvocet that my ex-husband left in our cabinet, and would take a pill every once in a while so that I could eat (AKA surviving). As I anxiously awaited the dental appointment, I attended school, went to work, and pursued my internship opportunity.

Amidst the daily chaos, I received a call from the Director of HOV to schedule an interview, and I was thrilled. The interview went well and she asked when I could start. I was ready to begin immediately, so she enrolled me in training and I went in for my fingerprinting and drug test as soon as possible. The following week I attended training and fell in love with everything about the company’s philosophy, vision, and mission. Then, the unthinkable (and I literally mean, this did NOT cross my mind for a second) happened.

I was driving home from work when I received a call from the lab. After brief introductions, the friendly man on the phone asked, “do you have a prescription for Darvocet?” I couldn’t see straight as I realized what I had done. My mind was screaming, “this cannot be happening!” I told the lab technician that I had taken my ex-husbands Darvocet a few times for a terrible toothache and that I even had a dentist appointment the following week for a suspected root canal. For a brief moment I actually thought I could talk him into bending the rules for me because it was, after all, an innocent mistake and I had been in a lot of pain and I’m a good person, and he should unquestionably know all of this without ever having met me! Certainly I can make him believe all my good intentions, because this couldn’t be happening to my dream…my career…my 5 year plan!! Let’s get real folks! I was applying for an internship where I would be working with exorbitant amounts of controlled substances every day, so of course my urinalysis was reported as “dirty” and my dreams to work for HOV disappeared with 1 phone call. I will never forget the crushing feeling. I pulled my car over as I was sobbing too hard to safely drive, and I called the friend who had put her reputation on the line to refer me. I slobbered on my phone. I blubbered. I ugly cried and hit my steering wheel and hated myself with fervor. “How could I be so stupid?! How did I not even THINK about this possibility. How was I getting a higher education and still capable of being such a complete and utter clueless moron!?” I truly believed I had destroyed my chances of being in the profession I had been called to and I was beside myself with grief. I had lost my dream.

But, God had a redemption story in mind. From this incredibly disappointing crossroads, I ended up searching for a profession outside my comfort zone. I began a job I NEVER would have considered before, and that job ended up uncovering gifts I didn’t know I had and a passion I thought had burned out long ago. From this unexpected turn of events I was set on a path I never could’ve found nor even looked for on my own, and I was challenged to grow in leaps and bounds and supported in ways that made me feel stronger and more capable than I had ever felt in my life. I can look back now and see that my strengths would not have been utilized in direct practice and my emotional health would’ve been at risk in a hospice environment. What I thought was one of my biggest failures, the most unlucky of events, the curse of my salty birth, turned out to be one of God’s biggest triumphs as he showed me that He always has a plan and His plan is always good. Divine intervention has brought me to where I am today in many ways. This is just one of countless moments where God has steered the ship of my life to a place I could never have navigated. God used the illegal (although innocent) use of controlled substances to change the course of my life for the better. Thanks God! You’re hilarious!

What I’ve observed over and over in my life is that a lack of luck is not a curse. A lack of luck opens the door wide open for God to step in and forge his will in my life. For every trial there is blessing. For every pile of ashes there is beauty.

Thank God I failed my drug test!

 

Grief Keeps Giving. Grace Keeps Saving.

Burt, it’s April and I miss you.

I love celebrating your life but I hate that I have to.

It’s hard to describe the shadows that creep in late at night, while I lay awake unguarded. The harrowing memories that plague my tired mind. It starts before I even consciously realize that we’ve slipped into April. It’s as if everything shifts. The air is thicker, the mood cloudier, the dreams lonelier, the heart heavier, the words insufficient. Like clockwork the grief creeps forward, relentlessly gaining intensity with each passing second. It’s difficult to explain the trembling in my voice that appears this time of year. I may have told a thousand stories that included your name, but in April I can’t even silently think of you without tears welling up in my worn out eyes. It’s as if the valiant effort my mind put forth all year to shrink that permanent hole in my life was all in vain…completely upended as the hole burrows deeper and wider overnight. I am flooded with the realness, the pain, the emptiness that comes with no longer having you here. It’s as if I’m flung back to that day 5 years ago and I have suddenly forgotten how to cope…forgotten the miles I’ve traveled in healing…forgotten how to live with the sorrow that visits always uninvited.

There are no words to adequately describe the aching I feel in my spirit to see you again…hear your laugh, hug your neck, listen to your stories, tell you mine, introduce you to your darling niece and nephews. There’s no stopping the flow of tears as I imagine how much you would love these precious little ones that have been born since you departed, and how much they would love you back. Just last night I read The Book With No Pictures to Isaac, the nephew you kissed on the knee as you passed in the stars. I couldn’t help but imagine the hilarious voices you would’ve invented while reading this book and how much he would’ve relished in your time together. I try to do it justice, to make you proud, to give Isaac a glimpse of the joy and silliness you brought into our lives. I give it my all even while fighting back the quiver in my voice.

I love that your legacy lives on in your family and friends, but I hate that you left a legacy so soon.

Your birthday is in April.

The last time I saw your smiling face and heard your voice was in April, on Easter Sunday, when we announced that I was pregnant.The last letter you wrote me arrived in April. It was red ink, with capital letters, in your beautiful architectural hand writing, clearly expressing your excitement that your baby sister was going to be a mom. You passionately described the unconditional love that comes with parenthood. This letter…the last letter you wrote to me still explodes with adoration for your beautiful girls.

Then there is May.

You left us in May. The last text message you sent the family was on May 11th, the same day you died. While we were celebrating dad’s 70th birthday, you were being greeted by Jesus. The call I will never forget came the morning of May 12th. It was Mother’s Day…it was a day of mere survival because the unthinkable had happened…you had not survived. We delivered your eulogy on the 21st day of May.

I hate these anniversaries.

Every year, for 2 months I feel myself receding into the shadows where words are meager and bitterness clings to the tip of my tongue. I’m tempted to numb the vivid memories of this trauma with hollow distractions and senseless behaviors. For 2 months a year I spend sleepless nights soaking my pillow with tears of regret, anxiety, anger, fear, heartbreak. For 2 months a year I can no longer fight off the visuals of your death, your viewing, your casket being lowered into the ground, your daughters faces as I drove them to the cemetery. For 2 months a year I’m reminded of the agony I felt completing menial daily tasks after you passed. I’m reminded of the first time I showered after your death and how I despised myself for any sense of relief I felt as the warm water poured over me. I couldn’t shake the guilt that came with knowing that you lost your life in a bitter cold river and now I was allowing this same hijacker of life…this water…rain over me as a source of comfort, washing away my tears. For 2 months a year I think back to that time I couldn’t bare to use punctuation because it felt too final. As if the energy it took to end a sentence was more than I could muster. For 2 months a year the dam breaks wide open and I can’t fight back the sobs or run from the gripping sadness.

Then, the strangest and most unexpected gift is given. Somewhere in the middle of those 2 months I find solace because you ALWAYS show up. You show up in a dream that someone shares with me. You show up in a Bob Marley song that’s playing in a random boutique I step foot in for the first time. You show up in a memory I had forgotten about. You show up in a picture I’ve never seen. You show up in a story I’ve never heard. You show up in a beautiful building that I instantly imagine you creating. You show up in a whisper reminding me that I must not take a moment for granted. I feel you standing beside me. You dare me to self-reflect on my attitude, my complaints, my propensity to take the blessings around me for granted. I picture your smiling face and imagine all I would give to prevent you from taking that hike by yourself…I imagine how many more breaths you could’ve had…should’ve had…and I’m convinced once again that I must use my time and the gift of life wisely and in honor of you. You show up during those 2 months to confirm once again that God’s grace is sufficient for me and His power is made perfect in my weakness.

It is during these wearisome months that it becomes crystal clear how God uses each heart wrenching moment to remind me of the preciousness of life. Every year, by His grace, I experience supernatural strength and peace to push through the months of tears and the nights laying awake thinking of you and what I would sacrifice to have you with us again. He comforts me in my most vulnerable time of need and assures me that one day we will meet again and it will be a reunion more beautiful than I could ever imagine. He joins me in my grief and assures me that my grief is not without hope. This year He gave me a song on Easter Sunday and it consumed my soul as I sang from the depths of my mourning heart, “death where is your sting?!” As I sang, with my arms reached high I imagined you with open arms ready to embrace me when it’s my time to journey home. He draws me into Him and I feel close to you again.

Burt, it’s April and I feel you near.

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Burton James Little

“And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.” – 1 Pete 5:10

 

Grace Y’all

I need grace y’all! (Nashville emphasis)

I was with my co-worker in Nashville for a conference and we were making the best of it. We were consuming All. The. Food. We were delighting in the music, the people, and the adorable boutiques.

My wallet was beginning to feel exploited as we wandered towards a stylish store named Hey Rooster. It was one of those stand-alone stores that is so cute and creative that my automatic assumption is, “there’s no way I’ll be able to afford a thing in here, but I’m going to enter with my head held high in the clouds while I dream of a day where I can purchase every precious item that catches my eye.” As we neared the entrance, my co-worker said, “you know we won’t be able to afford a thing in this place,” at which I carelessly replied, “anytime there’s only 3 things in a store I’m well aware that it’s out of my league.” It was an obvious exaggeration to make the point that this shop was too charming for me and my dilapidated wallet. It was a remark I would soon regret.

Once inside, the woman behind the counter asked, “what did you say? Something about only having 3 items in the store?” My first response was to laugh and explain how niche’ stores are typically too expensive for my blood, but how I still love to browse because they fill me with inspiration and help me aspire to a day where I won’t feel the need to joke about boutique shopping. I quickly realized that she did not find my wisecrack humorous and quite the opposite, she was deeply offended. I can’t recall all that was said, as I began to burn with shame and sadness realizing how my statement had hurt her. She commented that she wasn’t just an employee but the owner and that even the person behind the counter deserves to be treated with dignity. She pointed out that her peanut butter may be more expensive than the peanut butter at a chain store, but that her peanut butter was of a quality unsurpassed. I agreed whole-heartedly and quickly apologized for my insensitive sarcasm. I told her that her store was lovely and she continued to explain to me the quantity of blood, sweat, and tears that goes into building and running a small business. I repeated how sorry I was and that my intent was not to offend.

As I browsed her merchandise I internally hammered myself. How could I be so inconsiderate? How could I be so impolite? I have a sister-in-law who is a small business owner and I have the utmost respect for entrepreneurs. I know the struggle and the heart and the endless hard work it takes to do what this young passionate woman was doing. How could I make her feel like this? I was in pure self-disgust and disgrace mode as I brought an adorable book to the counter to purchase for my son. As she handed me the bag I said again, “I’m really sorry.”

She replied, “I can’t give you prices like you get at all those chain stores you’ve been shopping at (gesturing to the bags in my hand), but I can give quality and I deserve to be treated with respect too.”

The moment I was outside with my co-worker I began to cry. I was devastated that my words had caused someone to feel belittled. Never in a million years had I expected to make someone feel disrespected or unappreciated. I wanted this small business owner to understand that my comment was about my own financial insecurities and had nothing to do with her abilities or her store. I wanted her to know how much I respected and admired her skill. I wanted her to know me and assume the best. It was tearing my heart out that I had hurt a stranger and she would never know that I’m not the person she had decided I was.

My co-worker, being the lovely friend she is, assured me that I wasn’t in the wrong and that the store owner had been inappropriately accusatory. My response was to imagine that the store-owner’s friends would most likely console her in a similar way when she told the story from her side. Clearly, we were interpreting the exchange from a one-sided place and so was she. She did not know me, my heart, or my intentions and nor did we know hers. As much as I wanted her to believe the best about me and my intentions, I would need to do the same for her in order to break the cycle of shame. It was in that moment that I realized:

WE ALL NEED GRACE!

It’s true that my intentions were not mean-spirited and when I realized how my words had been translated I was quick to apologize. Anyone who knows me well would probably conclude that the store owner had been unfair. It’s also true that there was no benefit to me being angry with her. I have no idea what she was facing that day, what news about her business she may have just received, what review she may have just read, what negative voices she fights off, what insecurities she lives with each day. Anyone who knows her well might likely conclude that I am an unaware, tone-deaf and selfish woman who needed to learn a lesson. The truth is that in that moment we both needed grace. In that moment neither of us needed to be berated. In that moment we both required grace for each other and ourselves. In that moment “shame on you” and “shame on me” was an unhelpful dialogue and monologue.

Many times in my life I’ve chosen to point the finger at another person in order to avoid the pain of my own mistake OR I’ve carried my mistake like a cross that weighs me down with self-condemnation, but not this time. This time I felt the deep need to release the burden and embrace the truth that all people make mistakes and at the same time can be beautiful, kind, loving, forgiven, and SHAMELESS people!

There is no redemption in pointing fingers at others or chastising ourselves. There is no healing in blaming or taking blame. There is no honor in heaping shame on another or drowning in it ourselves.

GRACE Y’ALL…WE NEED IT!!!

I would like to bless the beautiful woman who owns the store Hey Rooster. Please consider ‘Paying Grace Forward’ and check out her delightful store at: https://www.heyrooster.com

“$h*!-hole!” The Day I Cussed at My Parents

The President said some bad words this week. I said some bad words once…

I was 11. I walked through our front door after school and there was no mistaking that something was about to go down. Both of my parents were sitting on the couch staring at me. They invited me to sit with them and I knew this was not a friendly offer, but rather the beginning of the end. I had no way of predicting that what was about to occur would change the way I spoke forever.

My parents explained that someone (who I will refer to as a tattle-tale) had shared with them the “choice” words I had learned and begun using at school. They claimed to know every obscene word I had spoken and their disappointment was palpable. Then, befell the most humiliating punishment I have ever received. They required that I say out loud every swear word I had ever uttered.

I thought I would throw up.

I had never heard anyone in my home swear. My dad was a pastor of a small home church with strict rules around taking the Lord’s name in vain and my mom is quite literally the most wholesome woman you’ve ever met. I think it’s possible that the only time my mother has used foul language is when she didn’t know it was foul language.  

I cried and cried.

They waited.

After what felt like an eternity I started with things like, “A-hole” and “the S-word.” My dad responded by asking me if I had only used the abbreviated versions or if I had said the whole word? He reminded me that the expectation was to say to them exactly what I had said outside our home. No cheating. They were not about to make this easy on me.

I don’t know how much time passed while I sobbed and choked on the ugly words I had so flippantly used on the 6th grade playground, but I know that in those moments I realized that the people I respected and admired most in my life deserved better than a daughter who resorted to 4-letter words just to fit in at school. I realized that to be true to myself I needed to speak in a way that represented my heart and who I was regardless of my surroundings. I realized there was a reason I could barely cough up these words in front of my parents…because this language was unlovely and they were the most loving people I knew….because this language was base and I held them in high regard…because this language was dishonorable and I wanted nothing more than to honor my parents…because this language brought no beauty, no peace, no joy and I wanted all of those things for my family, my friends, and myself.  

To this day I don’t know how, but I made it through the embarrassing list. My parents forgave me and then, my dad added a lesson that sticks with me today. He said, “If the only way you can describe something is by using profanity, then others might come to conclude that your vocabulary and intelligence are limited.” Such a big dose of truth for a pre-adolescent!

The lesson I learned that day changed the way I spoke.  An expletive didn’t escape my lips for years! At 11 years old I stopped using this language because it didn’t line up with my heart or my parent’s rules. Naturally, as I grew older I also began to see the importance of context and tone. It didn’t take long for me to realize that how I used my words was more important than the words themselves. The truth is that every now and then I break my parent’s rules (sorry mom and dad). In fact I burned my finger on a casserole dish this morning and was relieved that the kids were at school when the physical pain expressed itself through my mouth as an unfiltered exclamation point. However, that sour word I used to describe the pyrex dish is not a word I would use in a context that requires sensitivity and love. Because of that lesson 27 years ago, I strive to hold a standard of language that represents who I am, who I want to be, and what lives in my heart. I strive to use words that emphasize love and beauty. I strive to honor those around me and the Lord I serve. I strive to consider how my words affect those around me. I strive to use words that bring life and build relationship, give respect and bring value, lift up and include. And of course I strive to make my parents proud.    

If an 11 year-old was capable of learning this, certainly the President of the United States could as well?