tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69033815554600564142024-02-20T12:33:40.973-08:00Sunny Side UpAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005937953639666705noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6903381555460056414.post-58628160333649343902013-09-09T13:51:00.003-07:002013-09-09T13:51:44.895-07:00"For such a time as this"<div class="MsoNormal">
Time. What a concept. I seem to never possess an adequate amount of of it,
and what I do hold zips by at lightening speed. Buzzes right by. I blink and just
like that, it’s nothing but another memory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recall sitting in a desk tarnished with pencil markings
and Sharpie doodles, wishing every day away except for Friday-Sunday. My mind
would meander days ahead, craving for time to pass rapidly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just didn’t get it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So often, I recall a conversation with a treasured friend that took
place about six months ago. She and her husband slipped away for an impromptu date
night, while I spent time giggling and twirling the night away with their
girls. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After many out of key lullabies and smooches goodnight, the
princesses were each asleep, and I tiptoed back downstairs. Shortly after,
their mother snuck back in, joining me in the quiet. For a while, we chatted
candidly about their date- how sweet it was, how romantic her husband was at
the restaurant. She beamed. My heart filled as I felt myself hopeful for those
moments. Those future moments with whoever my sweet Father is preparing for me.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, tears filled her eyes, as she
turned her gaze towards me. She looked to me, as as she knew what I was dreaming
of. My mind will never be able to forget the weighty words she stated:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, Lauren, please enjoy this season for what it is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You
will never, ever get it back again. It will never be the same.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tears rolled down her face as she spoke truth to me. These
single days- they are the most special. These days without a husband, children, mortgage
payment, responsibility... they are distinct. Set apart. Marked with purpose
and scripted for God’s very own glory. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It will never be the same. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I continue to walk with Jesus, holding onto the very hem
of His garment, I must face the facts. How am I using my free time to advance
the Kingdom of God? These days-where my responsibility is focused completely on
myself- How am I using them for <b>Him</b>? Am I spending every single moment, every
single day, for the <i>expansion of the Kingdom</i>? Am I taking this season of singleness,
of solitude, for granted? <b>Or am I using it for what it’s meant for? </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart beats fast for women’s ministry. My very soul longs
to see women come to a better understanding of Jesus Christ. Everything in me
yearns to see women chasing the Lord in a real, radical, dangerous, precious kind
of way. Will I spend my free nights, mornings and weekends pouring out into
those younger, those older, those around me during this chapter? Or will I grasp
them selfishly for myself?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am reminded of Esther immediately... a woman whose story
is spelled out in scripture. A woman with her own book. A woman with her own
story. A woman that had to make critical decisions- problematic ones. No, not
just decisions about what tiara to wear with her evening gown- but decisions
that would, and did, affect an entire people group- her people. In Esther 4,
Mordeicai, her “Big Brother” figure, tells her, straight up, “Who knows? Maybe are
RIGHT here for such a time as THIS.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Such a time as this. <b>Single sisters</b>. Do not let impending
engagements, deep desires, or love life letdowns distract you from such a time
as this. May we not hoard our free hours for naps, Netflix marathons or laziness, but give them freely to Him- to do what He wants with them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your nights are not reserved for cooking a meal for a
husband, or calling out a child’s spelling words to them. You do not have
twelve loads of laundry ahead of you when you get off of work. You aren’t
hopping into a mini van to pick up 3 worn out children from soccer practice every afternoon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your days are free. Wide open. Special, in the sweetest kind
of way. Are we wishing them away, wasting them away, or committing them to
ministry? We choose, and we must choose wisely, for we will never get this
season back again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t listen to one thing I say, but this: spend single
days with the Prince of Peace. Chapters close. Chapters open. Use all your free
time with your Holy Husband. Bask in Him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005937953639666705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6903381555460056414.post-29425498467907564562013-09-02T11:20:00.002-07:002013-09-02T11:21:24.503-07:00I'd like the cake, please.She lets out a shriek.<br />
<br />
In a crowded supermarket, a yelp, no matter how stifled, rings out through aisles methodically lined with baked beans and canned cabbage. Decibels skim over the snow white polished floors and whiz speedily past carts full of cheese sticks and coffee grounds. Heads begin to turn and eyes begin to widen as deafening cries drown out the pleasant tune trickling out of the speakers.<br />
<br />
A pint sized gal with straw colored hair pulls out her polka dotted bow and hurls it to the floor below. Her father stands tall, trying to reason with his girl. She falls to the ground, knocking over a display of freshly baked cookies. With karate style kicks and ear-stinging screams, she flails about on the solid ground. She squirms. Her words become knife-sharp and her rosy cheeks become moist with hot, angry tears. People begin to stare.<br />
<br />
"Attention, temper tantrum on aisle 6. Temper tantrum on aisle 6. Thank you."<br />
<br />
She begs her father.. "PLEASE, PLEASE just LET ME HAVE THAT PIECE OF CAKE!!!!!<br />
Please.<br />
Please give that to me!!! It's all I want!!!!!! Please GIVE IT TO ME!"<br />
<br />
Her father looks down at his daughter, and calmly whispers, "No, honey. You just can't have that right now. It's delicious, and so filling, but you haven't had dinner yet. Just wait, and I'll give you cake afterwards. You have to wait."<br />
<br />
<br />
Her voice gets louder. "NO. <b>YOU DON'T GET IT</b>!! I WANT IT NOW. I WANT IT RIGHT. NOW."<br />
Still, the Father looks into her tear-flooded ocean blue eyes. "No, sweet girl. You cannot have it now. If I gave it to you now, you would miss the chance to eat this wonderful dinner I have laid out at home. You would be too full to enjoy it. Please, just wait."<br />
<br />
"BUT THAT CAKE IS SO GOOD!!! IT'S NOT EVEN BAD FOR ME!!! PLEASE.. PLEASE LET ME HAVE IT NOW. <b>DON'T YOU LOVE ME????" </b><br />
<br />
As customers begin to glare in their direction, her wails only heighten. Her discontent echos out until the entire store knows she is unhappy with her Father. Her complaints flood the the spaces in between check out lines and cake squares. Still, He reasons with her.<br />
<br />
"Oh, daughter. You don't understand!!! If I gave you what you craved right now, you'll miss out on what I have prepared for you. Why would you want to skip ahead to your dessert before you sit down before the feast I have made for you? Please, please wait. Please, please trust me."<br />
<br />
He reaches down, picks her up, and lays her head on His shoulder. His voice whispers, "Please, please just wait. I have immeasurably more for you than you could dream about.. just wait. Just wait."<br />
<br />
And in that moment, she stills. She rests her head on her daddy's shoulder. The crying ceases, the tantrum is quieted.<br />
<br />
That girl.. she and I have more in common than not. How often do I find myself at the feet of my Father, screaming out, crying out, for something I desire? Something that, in and of itself, is not bad for me? How many temper tantrums do I throw when my plans don't come to fruition? How loud are my cries of frustration to a God who is only good?<br />
<br />
I sit at His feet and flail about.. agitated, discontent and fed up. Why can't you give me what I am praying for? Haven't I waited long enough, Father? Haven't you promised me these things? WHY DO I HAVE TO KEEP WAITING?<br />
<br />
He knows this soul. He knows the anxiety that courses through it, the waves of comparison that pass over it and the series of doubts that compose it. He knows every ache, every cry, every tear. He stands tall before me as I kick and scream.. begging for me to simply WAIT.<br />
<br />
<b>And oh, do I want that piece of chocolate cake</b>.. but what a shame it would be to miss out on the feast set before me in these days. The hours of quietness in His word, the moments available to spend with girlfriends. The days wide-open to serve Him with. Why hurry along the next course and miss truly tasting the plate in front of me?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He works <u>EVERYTHING</u> for the good of those who love Him. </span><span style="font-size: large;">He withholds <b>NO GOOD THING</b> from those who love Him. </span><br />
<br />
So.. that piece of chocolate cake?<i> It's GOOD. It's TASTY. It's RICH.</i><br />
But it won't be filling and satisfying if it's not what I need right now.<br />
<br />
If it's good, He freely gives it. If it's not good RIGHT NOW, He holds it in His arms it's time.<br />
<br />
What a Father. He knows what's best for His girls. He is not phased by my begging and pleading. He simply cups my face into His hands and asks me to wait. To be still... and still I will be.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">For the LORD God is a sun and shield unto us; the LORD will give grace and glory; he will not withhold good from those that walk uprightly. Psalm 84:11.</span></blockquote>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005937953639666705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6903381555460056414.post-35571810026366707732013-08-29T09:39:00.001-07:002013-08-29T09:39:09.349-07:00Loud & clear.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">You could say that I’m a fan of messages. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Voice messages, text messages, iPhone prompts,
sticky notes.. You get the gist. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: small;">I’m an enthusiast of them <b>all</b>. Type-A. List maker. Organization </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">appreciator</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: small;">. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I am a girl who needs cues, to-do-lists and
alerts. Without these things, I mosey away from things that beg to be
remembered. I float out of pattern and get unfocused and preoccupied. Reminders
save most of my days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Thankfully, all this blonde-y blonde girl has to do to
remember something is simply ask her phone to call her and remind her. (Major
victory shout resonates. Twirling follows.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The best part of this whole smart, clever technology-fabulousness
is when I type my memo up, my phone ousts just that. It doesn’t change my memo
to confuse or befuddle me. What I type in is what I am reminded of. <b>What I put
in, it puts back out. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Each morning, I am forced to stand before a closet, full of garments that I have chosen as my own at one point or another. There comes an instant when I have to choose. A point in time where, each day, a
decision must be made. A critical, serious, fundamental decision. What am I
going to wear?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
Many a thought begins to cross my mind. Where am I going today? What is the climate
like? Should I wear heels or flats? Boots or wedges? Tights, or no tights?
Belt, or no belt? Scarf? Necklace?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I begin to work as a composer, comprising an ode to attire. I slip things on, fling them off. My flooring begins to look like the ground at
the NY Stock Exchange, except I have traded paper scribbled with figures and facts for frocks,
blouses and denim. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally, something works. But… is this a little
<b>too</b> skimpy? A little too short? Can I bend over in it and not fear for mortification?
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">What does this ensemble say about myself? Does
this tell the world that I am a daughter of <i>the most</i> High King? Does
this short skirt announce that I am a girl redeemed by a perfect
Father? Does this low-cut top honor the ransom Jesus paid for me on a cross? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-19" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-19" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-19" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-19" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-19" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-19" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-19" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><span class="text 1Cor-6-19" id="en-NIV-28487" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">1 Corinthians 6:19-20. Do you not know that your bodies are temples<span class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-28487AB" title="See cross-reference AB">AB</a>)"></span> of the Holy Spirit, who is <b>in you</b>, whom you have received from God? <b>You are not your own</b>;<span class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-28487AC" title="See cross-reference AC">AC</a>)"></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span class="text 1Cor-6-20" id="en-NIV-28488" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">you were bought at a price.<span class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-28488AD" title="See cross-reference AD">AD</a>)"></span> Therefore, honor God with your bodies.</span><span class="text 1Cor-6-20" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><span class="text 1Cor-6-20" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><span class="text 1Cor-6-20" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><span class="text 1Cor-6-20" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></blockquote>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-20" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-20" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-20" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Corbel, Verdana, sans-serif; margin-top: -1em;">
<span class="text 1Cor-6-20" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Will this amount of skin sidetrack my brother in
Jesus? Will he look at me and have to brawl around with his thoughts? Will my v-neck
shirt make him trip and fall into a big, muddy, battle against his flesh?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Whatever message we are shouting through our appearance WILL
be echoed loud and clear. Our short dresses, tight jeans and bare chest, no matter how innocent,
will eject a loud alert about who we are… and WILL have a weighty effect on the
men who stride through life with us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Our exterior will speak volumes… whether we wish
for it to, or not. It will blast a memo that will prompt your brothers in
Christ, in one way or the other. Will we encourage them to pursue holiness,
godliness and purity, or lust, sexual thoughts and sinful patterns?<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sisters, as we stand before a closet of clothes, we have a bullhorn in our hands. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">What message are we blasting?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">1 Timothy 2:9. I also want the women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, adorning themselves, not with elaborate hairstyles or gold or pearls or expensive clothes.</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005937953639666705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6903381555460056414.post-28398783257788990272013-08-28T08:46:00.001-07:002013-08-28T08:46:05.147-07:00Miley & Me.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I’m certainly heartbroken.<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">No, I’m not the kind of dejected that a pint of
Ben and Jerry’s & a tub of cookie dough can rectify. I’m also not the kind
of distraught that slips on a ratty pair of sweatpants, cranks up old Dashboard
Confessional harmonies and slinks beneath a down comforter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">It’s worse than that. So, so much worse than
that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">A few nights ago, my eyes watched a sister take
the stage before an profound amount of people. As she stripped her garments
off, she sauntered about as if she was starring in an X-Rated film. At first,
my eyes broadened. Then, I felt my jaw falling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Just like that, I was enveloped by a muddy, repugnant
feeling… a emotion that summoned me to sprint up onto that platform and look
her right in the eye. I wanted to raise my voice in such a way that my very words
could reach the room she was in, miles and miles away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Then, a bewildered feeling swept over me. As the
cameras panned across the stage, my heart began to crack. I found myself hoping
that someone, ANYONE, would just halt the music and escort her away. I longed for
someone to be so infuriated, so revolted that they would shift to commercial break
instantaneously. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">But… they didn’t. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">There was no halting of the music and no commercial
disruption. No one felt the need to censor the moment unfolding before America.
Everyone stood motionless and just…watched. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><b>Including me. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">After the fact, I sat out on an endeavor to
process what my eyes had just been saturated in. I speculated…did anyone else
see what I had just seen? Is she feeling liberated? Humiliated? Violated? Desecrated?
<i>Empowered</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Then…my heart began to break. My heart fractured
for the girl I had just seen parade her body on a stage in front of billions.
As my mind repeated the five minute escapade, my heart craved discernment. How
do I talk about what just happened? What will <b>my</b> reaction be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">First thing the next morning, I was bombarded by
people asking, “Did you SEE her last night? Did you SEE what she was doing?”
Right away, I found myself defensive. Protective. Why? Because I know that
girl, and <b>I know her all too well. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">My story of redemption is nothing but a narrative of
the grimiest, most nauseating sinner girl EVER being called out of obscurity by
a sweet, resilient Savior. I was once the girl looking for immediate gratification,
instantaneous pleasure, total attention, constant affirmation. I simply preferred
my sin over my Savior. I sought grace… but I craved sin more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">And there came a time where <i>I was her</i>. As
I tread through thick, murky mire on my own kind of stage, I felt trapped. I
was dazed. I was a girl wandering through a brawl, doubting if anyone was going
to notice or aid me. Then, as I was about to collapse flat on my face, Jesus dashed
in. A sinner girl was tugged out of the filth, bathed and dressed in a unsoiled,
snowy frock. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">As I overhear conversation whirling through the
air over this socialite, I am grieving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Yes, I am concerned that young girls will see
her and reason her behavior is “cool”. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Yes, I am nervous that little middle
school girls will admire tainted, belittling, immodest behavior. But more so, I’m
concerned about my sister.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">May we be slow to speak, swift to pray. May our cores
be searched and our mouths be closed. May our souls ache for our sisters who
are searching for worth, meaning and purpose apart from Jesus. May we be
PROPELLED to love our sisters so very hard that we don’t have to witness such
horror in their lives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><b>And, lastly, may we see ourselves for what we
are… sinful, dirty, vulgar girls, parading around in our flawed, marred and
tarnished state, in desperate need for a Savior.</b><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005937953639666705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6903381555460056414.post-71510889144276930832013-08-26T12:20:00.003-07:002013-08-26T12:20:46.604-07:00Enough is enough.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sometimes, something so vast, so bulky, SO weighty,
gets thumped down hard on my soul. It becomes a force that I cannot disregard,
a burden I cannot discount. <br />
<br />
In instants such as this, I must share. I must expel the truths that are
wearing away at the cords that comprise my heart. I must open my mouth, and I
must speak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">More often times than not, I am not armed with
eloquent language or sparkling words, but only the most core, concrete truth. As
I try and tie a ribbon around certain things, I realize that not all things are
meant to be knotted together with a bow. Some things are just not meant to be attractive,
pleasing or appealing. Some things are meant to be raw and uncooked- sentences,
fragments and resonances that lay hefty in thin air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Over the past few weeks, I have heard pleas for
prayer- calls in the middle of the night, anxious text messages in the middle
of the morning, frantic tears in the late afternoon. As hours pass, more
prayers are necessary. Sisters scream out, with souls throbbing over loneliness,
sorrow, discontent and self-perception. With every appeal for intercession, my
heart feels heavier. Oh, these sisters… sisters with stunning tresses, impeccable
skin, the ideal job, the most superb friends…they are the ones who are aching.
They cringe over their circumstances, their current season, their struggles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">There are no words of mine to ease the agony, no paragraphs composed that take
away the ache. So, I crawl on all fours to Jesus. I reach, and He reaches back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And as I sit and wallow and cry out and writhe
in front of my perfect Creator God, my Yahweh, my Eloheim, I am angered. I am TICKED.
I am livid. I am MAD. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Sisters, we have our ears tuned in to the
station dispelling all of the lies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 20.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We have funded our subscriptions to Cosmo and signed
up for the credit card at Nordstrom. We’ve scheduled the consultation with the
botox clinic, the breast implant meeting with the plastic surgeon and the session
with the personal shopper. We crack open books that encourage us to be
overpowering, independent women, while our eyes pour over television shows that
tell us to sleep with any man who walks by to find love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>We look out to a depraved world to find fullness.</i>
Somehow in our brokenness, we end up searching for more mess. Sisters, the
Father of Lies is wooing, and we are swooning right into his arms. He is
enticing, and we are being knocked off of our feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I do not have a self-help book that will solve
every problem moving in your situation. I don’t know a single psychologist or
mentor that can take your distress, your agony and your restlessness away from
you. But girls, I know Jesus, and I know His word. I know that He does not ever
want to sway you to believe lies. Lies that say <b>you aren’t good enough, that
your personality is too much or that you don’t deserve grace.</b> His heart just
cracks in half when He sees you falling under the weight of deception. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He created you. He knows you. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">He looks at you
with a twinkle in His eye because He sees redemption coursing through your
veins.</span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Redemption that He pumped into your dry bones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But, don't be fooled. I am not writing for the purpose of convincing
you that you are beautifully, wonderfully enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If you are convinced that you are not pretty enough,
good enough or skinny enough: <b>I CAN NOT CONVINCE YOU OF THAT ON MY OWN.</b> No one wrapped in human flesh and bone can. My
words are flawed. My encouragement has traces of human understanding and is
completely empty on its own. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But He, our redeemer, our rescuer, our beloved
Father… He murmurs truth. If you are called back to your brokenness, disheartened
over who you are, that is NOT the voice of the Lord God. <i>That is the voice of
His enemy. </i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh, sisters, I plead to you... <b>TURN TO JESUS</b>.
Turn to Him. Look Him in the eyes. If I could, I would yell it from every
rooftop around the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">No, we are not worthy on our own merit... there
was nothing good about us before Jesus. But, a sacrifice was made because He KNEW
that. A price was paid for our redemption and our rescue. Claim it, live it,
recognize it, and stop tuning in to a bunch of lies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Psalm 139:
I will offer You my grateful heart, </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">for I am Your unique creation, filled with
wonder and awe. </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">You have approached even the smallest details with excellence; </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Your
works are wonderful; I carry this knowledge deep within my soul<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005937953639666705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6903381555460056414.post-21797383656075768852013-08-15T09:44:00.002-07:002013-08-15T09:47:39.989-07:00Bursting Forth.<div class="MsoNormal">
Who doesn’t love a good mystery?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For as long as I can recall, I have been captivated and besotted
by mysteries. Fictitious or otherwise, I have always hankered for that one instant…
that very moment that a mystery is solved. I spent afternoons sitting beside my
grandfather, engrossed in mystery themed shows, when I was supposed to be
napping. Instead of sawing logs, I would think through what I was watching,
dreaming up how I, the dashing blonde in her Keds, would come to the rescue,
saving the day and bringing justice, with a bow in her hair and lunchbox in
hand.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a little miss who loves mysteries, the news was her
favorite network, while the newspaper was in her teeny-tiny hands all morning
during breakfast at her grandparent’s wooden table. I truly cannot remember a
single day in my childhood (or adulthood, for that matter) that I didn’t pick
up a copy of the news for my little blue eyes to peel over. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I open up the news each day, all of the years later, I
find myself frequently having moments of unquenchable, grueling heartache over it.
Each morning, my eyes scan over stories of loss, tragedy and heartache, and I
find my heart begins to weigh a little heavier in my chest with every syllable my mind soaks up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lately, I couldn’t help but notice an abduction taking the
nation by storm. The tragedy was laced with disastrous moments, demise and calamity,
and my heart split open for the father feeling the brunt of the agony. His spouse
and son had lost their lives, while his daughter was marked vanished. He plead,
day in and day out, for her captor to release her. He wailed, “PLEASE LET HER
GO! Just let her GO.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With every sentence
he uttered, my vision blurred, as tears welled up and spilled out of my eyes..
This daddy wanted his girl... and he wanted her<b> NOW.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After days of unyielding search operations, her captor was
found and defeated, and her father got to wrap his arms around his girl,
welcoming her back home. She was found. She was safe. The battle was over. The
evil one was overpowered, overcome and conquered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WHAT a story of redemption. A girl became TRAPPED in the
snares of fear, hoping that she would be spared by the one who had no problem
taking life. I imagine her prayers in the nightfall, asking her Father to
deliver her. Asking for His favor. Asking for His hand. Asking for rescue. And.. He did just that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>In
the hopeless shadows, He burst forth, and He got His girl. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, the common ground we share with that precious life. We
have been swept away by darkness, wooed away by an evil one. We were trapped,
ensnared by a force we couldn’t defeat with our own muscle strength. Without a
rescue operation being orchestrated on our behalf, we would be helpless to
escape. The enemy would have us. He would win. He would claim the victory.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But.. there He is. Our Father. Weeping. Pleading. BEGGING
for His girl to come home. Waiting patiently for her captor to release her. For
her to break free of her sin. He wants her back. He wants her home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Moments pass, and <b>He just cannot stand to wait any longer</b>.
So, the mission ensues. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Father rushes in to the darkness… calling out for His
daughter. <br />
He finds her in her mess, and lifts her up onto His shoulders. </b><br />
<br />
Before He takes her back home, He defeats her captor. He conquers evil. He
wins. HE is the victor. The battle has been won. Our lives have been spared. He
wins again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Colossians 1:13: For He has rescued us from the
dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither
angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither
height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us
from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
PRAISE be to our Father who pursues us, liberates us and submerges
us in a sweet embrace. He wins.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>In the end, He gets His girl.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005937953639666705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6903381555460056414.post-59888723737867576942013-08-12T13:21:00.002-07:002013-08-12T13:21:20.610-07:00I used to.<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to write.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The keywords there are “Used To”. The Lord used to lay thick
words weighty on my heart, and would compell me to expel them out of my fingers
and onto a blank computer screen. My heart seeped out in the form of nouns and
verbs, enunciating words that Jesus painted vividly into the crevices of my
soul. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Throughout high school, the Lord would ever-so-sweetly
burden my heart with passages and paragraphs of Truth, meant to seep out for
others to read. He permitted my words to be distributed as devotions for my
youth-group for years, incognito. He would escort my eyes to scripture and move
my heart to form rhythmic beats into words. The blood pumping through my veins
transformed quickly into pulsating syllables, taking up space in the atmosphere.
As my fingers skimmed across a clunky keyboard, the Lord spoke. He breathed
out. He sang. Then, all of a sudden, I just couldn’t bear to do it. I couldn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I entered a new season of walking with Him, words didn’t
drip out of my heart quite as easily. My time spent snuggled up in Jesus’ arms
was not meant for words to articulate or illuminate. Trying to pull fathomable
sentences out of those intimate moments with my King was nearly impossible.. It
was like trying to draw water from a well as dehydrated as the air in the desert.
Attempting to solicit words from a
weary, worn down heart was painful. Excruciating. Heart throbbing. Agonizing.
So, I stopped trying. Desperately disheartened, my hands ceased from forming
words. I ambled away, defeated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That season of darkness- oh. Much too grim to speak of. An episode
in my series soaked with salty, warm tears. In a matter of months, I became a
girl drifting around aimlessly in the snares of anxiety, trying to wipe my eyes
clean... eyes that were stinging and
blurry from nights crying out for my King. This age of my existence was marked
by tear tarnished pillowcases and leather bound journals occupied by shouts out
to my Father. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I knew it, I was standing upright with my two size-7
feet established in a shadowy place. My eyes were immersed in the dimness of my
season. Me, a sinful, selfish girl, had preferred
her sin over her sweet Jesus. She had chosen fear of man over fear of Him. She
had made a decision to worry, instead of a decision to believe. Turning my head
from left to right, no light could be found. Then… a spark. A little bit of a
glimmer is enough to see again. A little bit of light wrecks any darkness &
ruins it for what it was. When light rushes into darkness, it just isn't darkness anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He rushed in- like a doctor after a coding patient on the table, and he
brought life. My heart rate began to drop, and He wasn't going to watch me give up. With both hands on the paddles, He shocked my heart back to it’s
normal cadence.. He brought it back in synch with His. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reader, I can’t promise you eloquent words. And if your eyes are
searching for something special, you may want to go ahead and exit out there at
the top right hand side of your screen. I am just a redeemed sinner-girl.
Nothing more, nothing less. I am a girl hanging on to the very hem of His garment. I
am the girl healed from her nasty, sinful choices that have stained her for
years. I am marked by redemption and pursuit. I am nothing but a story of a rescue
operation conducted by the Creator Himself. I am a girl who has been freed,
that just can’t help but talk about it. <o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08005937953639666705noreply@blogger.com0