Sleep

The other night, as I was falling victim to my kids' illness, my husband and I had a curious conversation that went something like this:

Him: “Why don’t you go to bed?” 

Me:   “It’s only 8:30”.

Him:  “Ya, but you’re sick, you need the sleep.”

Me:  “I know, but it’s only 8:30”.

Him:  “So what? You need the extra rest.”

Me:  “Probably . . . but it’s only 8:30.”

Him:  “Lisa, you’re sick.”

Me:    “I know I am, but it’s still only 8:30.”

No matter what he said, I couldn't bring myself to go to bed.  After all, it was only 8:30 -- who goes to bed at 8:30???  Even when they're sick, who goes to bed at 8:30??

Probably quite a few people do.  But I wasn't about to.

My refusal wasn't because I wasn't tired or because I didn't need the sleep.  In fact, I was completely exhausted, was rather useless in my tired state, and really could have benefited from the extra sleep. Nevertheless, there was something in my brain that resisted going to bed.  

Quite honestly, I have a bit of an issue with the whole "concept" of sleep.  I’m sure that sounds weird to some of you – it completely baffles my husband who ADORES sleeping.  But really, I generally view sleeping as a waste of time.  So much more could be accomplished if I didn’t have to spend SO much of my life in bed.

I think my real issue is that I don’t like that God designed me to need to stop and refuel with sleep.  I actually think it’s so silly that when it gets dark, I have to lay down in bed and close my eyes and slip into a state of unconsciousness for several hours on end. If seems like such an odd need -- especially when compared with the awesome, incredibly-powerful things the human body can do.  Think about it – I don’t even have to charge my cell phone battery every day.  Why should my body -- which is much more sophisticated than a cell phone -- require daily recharging?

This is pure speculation, but I think perhaps one of the very reasons for this need is that it keeps me aware of who I am, or maybe more precisely, who I am not. As it is, I already have far too independent a spirit.  If I were to operate in my full brokenness, I would need nobody and nothing.  I’d be like the two-year old who insists “I can do it myself.”  I would be completely self-sufficient, there'd be nothing I couldn't do, and I would be all I would ever need.

Sleep, however, is one of the things that teaches me that I have limits.  It continually reminds me that I have a very short operational life and need to recharge regularly.  It forces me to accept the fact that while I, as a human, may be a spectacular creation, I won't last for more than a couple days before I will completely fall apart if I don't rest and recharge.  So great is the body's need for sleep that it will shut down and die without it.  To me, that is so bizarre!

Yet, in His grace, I think God knew this would be difficult for some of us, which is why He inspired the psalmist to write: “He MAKES me lie down in green pastures.”  (Psalm 23:2).  “Makes me” because left to my own devices, I wouldn’t choose to do it myself.  "Makes me" because He knows my independent spirit drives me to think I don't need rest.  "Makes me" because I need to know that He is the creator, and I am the creation.  

So I reluctantly submit, every day, kicking and dragging my heels the whole way.  With a stubborn, resistant heart, I force myself to go to bed -- not because I want to, but simply because He "makes me" and ultimately, because I trust Him.

I just wish it wasn't so hard.

Patience

I’m not a patient person.  While I like to think I have moments where I can exhibit some measure of patience, by and large, this is not a word most people would use to describe my character.

And yet, patience is one of the traits I find I most need as a mom.  So many of my parenting issues are somehow related to my lack of patience:

The kids take longer than the time I have allotted to get dressed, and I find myself getting overly irritated simply because I want them to stay on my schedule.

My boys are telling me a super-long story with lots of details and I feel myself getting very antsy because I’m trying to get on to the next task.

I’m repeating myself for the 337^th time in a day and I’m getting angrier than the situation warrants because in my impatience, I want my children to understand, respond and conform their behavior all right now. 

Not surprisingly, one of the most frequently-uttered prayers in our house is for me to be patient:  “Jesus, I need you to help me to be patient with the boys and not to allow my impatience to lead to irritation or anger.”  Sounds like an okay prayer, though if I’m being completely honest, I’ve often found myself even getting irritated at God that He’s not answering this particular prayer fast enough.  “I want to be patient – and I want that yesterday, or at least right now.” 

Just this past week, though, God spoke something to me that hit me hard in the moment and has continued to convict me on this issue.  He showed me that I’ve been praying the wrong prayer.  Me, in my self-centered “it’s all about me” humanity, has been asking God to “help me” in my efforts.  I put the burden on me and have relegated God to being the helper. Even writing this now, I’m amazed at my own arrogance. But putting God in the passenger’s seat is not how God changes me.  I do not transform myself into the image of God.  Rather, it’s a work of the Spirit from the inside out.  (Romans 8).

Now before I go too far down that road, I know scripture calls the Holy Spirit our “parakletos”, a word often translated as “helper”.  (John 14:16).  And while I’m not disputing this function of the Holy Spirit, I’m simply saying in this particular situation, God showed me that I’m getting the ordering of things wrong.  Yes, the Holy Spirit is my Helper, but I can’t do the work of changing myself.  Real meaningful character change is a function of the Spirit working in me.  Indeed, for that reason, patience is identified as a “fruit” of the Spirit (Gal 5:22-23) not a “fruit” of my own good works or well-meaning efforts.

So the more I allow God to pour His love into me, the more He can transform me into the woman He wants me to be.  It’s not about my own efforts to “be more patient”, but is about allowing God to fill me so I can be changed more and more to conform to His image.  (Rom 8:29).  

Trust

He was an alcoholic.  I knew that. 

He had an insatiable porn addiction.  I had no clue.

Apparently, while I spent morning, noon and night at work, my ex-husband was on the internet, prowling from one obscene website to the next.   He spent countless hours everyday pandering to this addiction.  I eventually learned that he would even sneak out of our bed in the middle of the night to live in a virtual world feeding his lust and curiosity. 

I never thought to look through an internet search history.  I never stumbled upon a suspicious credit card charge.  Not once did I even sense his absence from our bed.  I really was clueless.  

It turns out there was a lot I didn’t know.  How could I have been so unaware?

Looking back, I know I lived with a belief that his experience was my experience and I trusted him implicitly.  Perhaps I should really say I trusted him naively.  I thought he was as fulfilled in our marriage as I was.  I thought his values were the same as mine.  I thought he was doing what he said he was doing.  I never even considered the possibility that he might be living a life completely unknown to me.  Seriously, it didn’t even occur to me that he wasn’t on the exact same page as me. 

So when I finally learned about what was really going on, I was devastated, not just because of the nature of his actions, but perhaps even more because I felt so stupid.  I felt stupid for trusting someone who was obviously so untrustworthy.  I felt stupid because so many other people knew what he was doing but I didn’t.  I felt stupid thinking I must have missed obvious signs.  I felt stupid for having been duped so readily, so easily, and so frequently. 

But is trusting someone stupid?  Would I rather trust and risk it being violated again, or choose to live a life where I never trust anyone ever? 

I had to wrestle with that issue for a long time.  Finally, though, I had to face the fact that I could go through the rest of my life having “trust” issues, or I could figure out how to move forward.  One of my favorite verses reminds me that “the enemy comes to steal, kill and destroy but that Jesus came to give me life, and life to the fullest.”  (John 10:10).  Those words empower me to face whatever challenge is before me since I’m unwilling to succumb to the alternative, namely, allowing Satan to have victory in my life. 

So to face this challenge, I had to come to terms with the fact that it was his behavior that was wrong and his behavior that needed to be changed.  He was not trustworthy.  He took advantage of my trust.  He betrayed my implicit confidence in him. The answer to his untrustworthiness was not for me to never trust again.  Certainly, I could be “wiser” in trusting people in the future, but making a vow that “I’ll never trust anyone again” simply could not be the answer. 

But we often make vows like this:  vows that are borne out of extreme hurt, pain, or disappointment; vows that can shape our entire future life course.  These vows have great power.  But I don’t want the rest of my life to be shaped by someone else’s actions, by somebody else’s brokenness, or by their wrongdoing.  Trust is necessary, in varying degrees, in all of my relationships.  It only makes sense that the enemy definitely wants to “steal, kill and destroy” those relationships by keeping me from ever trusting again.  But that’s not the life Jesus died to give me.  And it’s not the life I choose to live.

Correction

I think I overcorrect my children. 

Some of you reading this who know my kids may think their behavior could use MORE correction, not less.  :) But seriously, I struggle with this. 

Like most moms, my greatest influence on my mothering is my own mom.  I had a terrific mom – still do – but I also grew up in a very legalistic religion.  Rules and regulations with plenty of nicely worded ‘thou shalls and thou shall nots’ permeated the teaching.  Of course, it was all under the guise of being “biblical”. 

Though I’ve been away from that religion for decades, that legalism shaped me as I was growing up and still rears its head.  While I’ve long since discovered what it means to live in “grace” I sometimes find legalism permeating my mothering. 

You see, I’m not always certain what behavior needs to be corrected and what does not.  Shouldn’t every infraction be addressed?  What is simply immaturity, i.e. kids being kids?  Or is acknowledging that “they’re being boys” really just me giving an excuse for bad behavior?  When do I need to ignore something and when do I need to intervene?  If I extend grace or mercy towards my kids, is that really the best choice, or am I teaching them they don’t really need to obey or that the rules will only be enforced “sometimes”?  I don’t necessarily think these thoughts on a conscious level in the moment, but I know they undergird some of my in-the-moment choices – especially when I’m tired or emotional.  That is when these doubts run rampant.

The problem with legalism is that it is grounded in fear – fear that bad consequences will happen if all the rules are not obeyed perfectly.  When I’m being a legalistic mom, I’m really operating out of a fear that unless I’m on top of every single issue, every single time, my kids will grow up to be banshees.  That’s my fear-based thinking.

But my rational mind tells me that it simply cannot be that every single action needs correction.  Moreover, when I consider how God parents me, I don’t see Him attacking my every shortcoming.  Instead, God focuses on particular areas of my life and works on those.  He doesn’t nit-pick my every move.  Indeed, I couldn’t even imagine how overwhelmed I’d feel if He focused on my every infraction:

“Lisa, you didn’t do your devo this morning.  In fact, you haven’t prayed for your kids in the past two days.  No, you may not speak to your husband that way.  Was that anger I heard in your voice?  You need to sit in your room until your attitude improves.  Did you not do any laundry?  Was that another piece of chocolate you ate?  Did you really just lie to that person?” 

And on, and on He could go. 

But He doesn’t.  My God lets an awful lot of my behavior slide.  I know it’s not because He’s perfectly pleased with me, but rather that He knows what to focus on and what to leave for another day.  He “knows how I am formed, and that I am only dust.”  (Psalm 103:14).  Even when I know better, He doesn’t jump on my every action and seize every opportunity to correct me.

And yet, I still do that with my kids – not always, but often enough that it bothers me.  Unless I’m intentional and very diligent to do the opposite, my tendency to legalism will govern and overshadow everything else.   Unless I decide which behaviors need to be corrected and which can be saved for another day, I’ll spend my every moment correcting my kids.  Ultimately, it comes down to trust:  unless I trust that God’s way of parenting me is a model for me to parent my kids, I will simply engage in a pattern of behavior modification that does nothing to help me reach my children’s hearts.  And it is only in reaching their hearts that real and lasting life change can happen.

Support

Before my oldest son was even born, I knew that I was going to breastfeed him.  To me, there was no other viable option, so I was prepared to begin that process immediately upon his birth.  I remember thinking about how sweet that would be – just moments after birth, having my baby begin nursing as I looked down on him in awed amazement. 

Things, however, didn’t quite turn out like that.  My son needed to spend the first few days of his life in the NICU and his first nursing was postponed for a couple days.  When he finally was able to begin nursing, it didn’t go as well as I had hoped.  In fact, nursing did not go well at all for a very, very long time. 

Perhaps I was a little naïve, but I simply didn’t anticipate that breastfeeding would be so difficult.  I just presumed that such a “natural” function would require no special effort.  For some women, that’s true, but that was not my experience -- not at all. 

Within days of bringing my son home from the hospital, my excitement about nursing quickly turned to complete despair.  Each day brought new challenges and one problem seemed to beget another:  my son couldn’t latch, I became engorged and then had blocked ducts, I was in such pain from pumping and attempting to nurse that every session was marked with extreme pain.   Mommy & baby quickly grew completely frustrated, and trying to figure out how to nurse while frustrated & crying never works. The various contraptions given to us by the lactation consultant at the hospital didn’t help and I soon had no idea what to do.  I felt like a complete failure and seeing no other options, was ready to give up!

My poor husband felt so useless.  In desperation one day, though, he placed a call to a La Leche League.  (How he even knew of that resource or where to find a phone number for a contact is still beyond me).  He brought the phone into the bedroom where I was tearfully struggling through another unsuccessful nursing session.

Over the speakerphone, this woman I didn’t even know began asking me questions about what was happening.  But strangely, when she heard of the difficulties, she didn’t confirm my fear that I’d never succeed.  In fact, she wasn’t despairing at all; she was oddly optimistic.  Before long, I found that her optimism was contagious and I felt my feelings changing.  Talking to her calmed my crazy thoughts; I actually felt my negativity dissipate and I began to feel hopeful.  It was amazing!

When I eventually got off the phone, my son still couldn’t nurse, but I remember thinking I had found the solution.  It wasn’t in a technique, a position, or a device.  It was in having support.  This stranger I didn’t even know made me believe it would be possible to nurse; she understood the challenges I was facing, but had knowledge and experience to share with me and to encourage me.  For me, support was vital.

To this day, I find that to be true in all aspects of parenting. I can spend countless hours pursing various parenting techniques, theories, methodologies, strategies and philosophies, but in the end, motherhood is all about having support.   

There is just something really profound that happens inside me when I hear someone validate what I’m thinking or experiencing.  To know I’m not alone does more for me than even an immediate solution to the problem at hand could do.  I know this is not simply my experience; I’ve talked to countless women who crave support as much as I do. 

Sadly, though, we live in a feministic-driven society that encourages – if not mandates – that motherhood be an independent venture.  But I know God didn’t intend it to be that way.  He wanted young moms to learn from older moms – to bring their babies home to a family that included a mom and grandma and aunts and sisters, all of whom could help the new mom and provide her the necessary support. (Titus 2).

But just because God intended it to be this way doesn’t mean it’s easy.  I find myself having to be extremely intentional to find and maintain the support I need.  I’ve had to seek out mentor moms who are ahead of me who can give me input when I’m facing a new situation.  I’ve had to find other moms who can come alongside me because they are right there in the trenches with me.  And I’ve also had to pursue other moms who are behind me, looking to me to give them encouragement, advice and perspective.  I know they need support as much as I do.

While all of this takes a great deal of time and effort, I know it is worth it.  I can quickly get to the end of myself when I’m relying only on my own knowledge and experience.  Motherhood is far too difficult for me to try to navigate on my own.  I need support.  I can’t do it any other way.

Best Friends

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. Proverbs 17:17

My two boys are 16 months apart -- 16 ½ months actually -- to the day. I remember my husband and I coming to the decision that we wanted our children to be between 15 and 18 months apart. Apparently, God took us literally and split the difference. Our thinking was that our kids will have each other much longer than they will have the two of us (God willing) and, while we couldn’t force them to be best friends, we could certainly do everything we could to foster a close relationship.

As they’ve grown, it’s been such a joy to see how close they are and how much they truly love each other. Just the other day, we came upon a video of them when Ayden, our youngest, was still a baby. They were riding in their carseats and the video captured them reaching to each other to hold hands while riding in the car. Corbyn, our oldest, was talking away to Ayden and they sat there holding hands the whole time. Not a rare occurrence, we’ve captured several pictures of them over the years either falling asleep holding hands or laying with their arms around each other.

I think the most profound example of their closeness came during a trip to the emergency room a couple years ago. The boys were at the beach with their dad and the youngest injured his foot rather severely. I arrived at the hospital parking lot just as they were getting out of the car and Robert told me how Corbyn was comforting Ayden the entire time. Apparently, he repeatedly told him “You’ll be okay, Ayden” and kept speaking to him in soft, gentle tones. He distracted him by telling him stories and reassured him so much that Ayden even stopped crying – at least, until he saw his mommy.

Later that night, after Ayden’s surgery, I was at his bedside when he awoke. He started crying and as I tried to comfort him, he asked “Where’s my brother?” It was 3 a.m. and I had sent his brother and dad home for the night a few hours earlier. I tried to soothe Ayden, but through his tears, he cried out “I just need my brother. He’ll make me feel better.” My best efforts to substitute were ineffective and he repeated this same thing over and over again, growing more panic-stricken each time. It nearly broke my heart.

At the same time, though, it was the sweetest, most touching thing I heard. He was scared but trusted that his brother would help him through his ordeal. From his own experience, he already knew “a brother is born for adversity.” (Prov. 17:17)

I don’t know how their relationship will grow and change in the coming years, but I do know they have a solid foundation of genuinely caring for each other. In part, this is a result of us being very intentional about this.  Not that we always treat them exactly the same, but we certainly tend to do that more than we treat them individually.  They've always shared a room, regardless of the availability of another bedroom.  We've engaged them in the same activities at the same time and have tended towards giving them the same privileges and responsibilities. We've created time for the two of them together separate and apart from family time and/or time with mom and dad.

But I’ve not always walked that path with sure-footed confidence. Many times, I’ve questioned whether we should try to create greater independence in their relationship and in their identities. Should we give more privileges to the “older” one and be very distinctive in how we treat them, or is it okay to treat them the same more frequently then we treat them differently?

It seems whenever I doubt how we “should” be raising them, I see how kind and loving they are towards each other and I’m reminded that God has knit their hearts together in a way that surpasses anything Robert and I could ever have imagined. Certainly, while their relationship will likely go through various ups and downs as they grow, I pray they continue to not just be brothers, but to be best friends.

Stewardship

I was reading a blog the other day that asked whether we are good stewards of the stories in our life. That question captured my attention as I’d never thought of the issue in that way before. It also convicted me as I knew that for me, an honest answer to that question would probably be “no”.

Typically, when I think of stewardship, I think of those things with which God has blessed me – finances, resources, health – things of that nature. I actually never considered stewardship of my story. As I considered the question, though, it only made sense. Why would stewardship not apply to my unique story? I’m acutely aware that God has done amazing things in my life, and I also know that hasn’t been simply so I may have a “better” life. Rather, His working in my life brings glory to Him, points others eyes to Him, helps build faith in Him and prepares me to be used by Him. My stories become my ministry. But if I’m not a good steward of those stories – if I do not share them or pass them along in some way -- His purposes in this regard won’t be fulfilled, at least not through me.

As I read the blogger’s entire post, it confirmed what God spoke to me last month -- that my stories are worth sharing. It is still a fairly new idea for me and I still feel rather timid about the whole process. But obedience to God’s direction has always been a significant motivator to me. I want to be a good steward of all He has given me, including the stories of His working in my life.

Community

I sat in the doctor’s office crying. For some, that may not be an unusual event as a doctor’s visit could engender various emotional responses. For me, however, not being one to cry around others – especially strangers -- this was an unusual scene on so many levels. I suppose, though, that life’s events sometimes take us out of who we normally are.

Though this was many years ago, the memory of that day is indelibly impressed in my mind. I was there because I wanted something to make the pain go away, the physical pain from a flared-up back injury, but more importantly, the emotional pain. Just a few days earlier, my entire world came crashing down around me. My marriage ended abruptly, I was fired from my job, my family was unavailable to me and I had nowhere to turn. Betrayed by those closest to me, I was a mess.

I couldn’t even explain my circumstances to the intake nurse. How do you tell a complete stranger “I just found out my husband raped my sister while I was out of town”? How do you nonchalantly describe being fired from your job because your bosses wanted to distance themselves from your personal life? How do you unemotionally explain that everything you thought was running so well just one week earlier had imploded in your face?

I couldn’t; and so I cried.

It wasn’t the calm, sorrowful sobbing that elicits compassion and empathy from everyone else around you. Oh no, this was the ugly, convulsive cry: the one where you are intermittently retching and hyperventilating with fluid spewing from every orifice on your face. It wasn’t pretty, but I couldn’t stop myself. By that point in time, I didn’t really care.

A nurse practitioner was sent in to try to console me. While noble, her efforts in this regard were rather futile. She did, however, succeed in revealing a stark reality about my life that I was forced to accept – a reality that has shaped who I am and how I do life to this very day.

Acutely aware that I was in great distress, she asked if I had someone who could come be with me. I went through the extremely short list of potential prospects in my mind and shook my head no. So she began asking one by one:

. . . my husband? That was an obvious no.

. . . a family member? No. They all lived in a different country.

. . . a close friend? No. My one and only friend was my boss who just fired me.

. . . a co-worker? No. I had bosses over me and staff under me, but no one alongside me.

. . . a neighbor? Not likely. I didn’t even know their names.

. . . a pastor? Nope. I had no need for God in my life, much less a pastor.

As she went down the list, the reality of the life I had created hit me full force in the face. The “independence” I wore as a badge of honor was really “isolation” and I was imprisoned in a world of my own making.

Facing what was one of the most difficult seasons of my life, I felt so lost and completely alone. I knew I would have to walk that journey without any support, and even worse, I knew I was responsible for that lonely reality. I hated that feeling and that awareness, perhaps even more than I hated the circumstances that then defined my life.

From that deep valley, came two remarkably wonderful results. First, it was in that season of being completely alone that I finally found the One who would never abandon me, never leave me, nor forsake me. While I previously thought I had no use for God, I began to realize I needed Him more than I ever knew. I'm very aware that this complete isolation was necessary for my journey to faith because if there would have been anybody there who could possibly "rescue" me, I never would have turned to Him. I never would have seen that He was standing there, all along, just waiting for me to invite Him in to my life.

Second, I now know without a doubt I cannot live life without a community. I need others every day, and they need me. I need their opinions, experience and availability to shape and mold who I am.  They need my voice, my perspective and my time as they are walking their journey.

That I was designed for relationship with God and relationship with others is the driving force behind my life now. I believe we all were. It’s part of our DNA. It’s how God wired us. It’s who He wants us to be and how He wants us to live life. Jesus was not merely being pithy when he summed up the law as follows: “Love God and love your neighbors.” (Matt. 22:34-40). Absent relationship, these instructions are meaningless.

This awareness, however, does not mean I get it right every time. While I am significantly motivated by this core belief, I still struggle as this is not easy for me to do. The reality is I don’t make friends readily and quite frankly, I’m not always a very good friend myself. I don’t feel a need to talk to my friends on a daily basis and have even lost friends for this very reason. I don’t need girlfriends to shop with (I don't really like shopping) and I don’t always have a lot of natural activities that involve friends. But still, I know I need them and they need me, and I don’t want to wait until crisis comes along to try to meet those needs.

So I push myself beyond my comfort zone. I risk reaching out, even when it feels uncomfortable. I share my heart, though it may be the scariest thing in the world for me to do in that moment. I’ve had to learn how to be open and vulnerable and how to let others in. I’ve had to learn how to ask for help. With my extremely independent past, this is still really hard to do. Regardless of my fears, though, I remind myself that they are nothing compared to the devastating isolation I felt that day in the doctor’s office. I pray I will never go back there again.

Stories

"My Stories Are Worth Sharing."

I sensed the Lord whispering that message to me as I returned from a 4-day Leadership Training in Colorado. The conference included moms who are interested in writing, speaking and/or blogging for MomHeart Ministry. Sally Clarkson, who has been a mentor mom to me (even before I actually met her) directs this ministry with her husband Clay. Among other things, they seek to encourage, equip and support moms who are committed to restoring and pursuing godly biblical motherhood. I love their message and the fact that whether a mom works in- or outside the home, whether she educates her children at home or sends them somewhere else for school, whether she is a single mom, a mom with babies or a mom with grown kids, whether she even knows God or not, the message of the ministry is still relevant.

Quite honestly, I went to this training without any real sense as to why I was going. I mean, I have experience and gifts in speaking and writing and thought God may want me to use those skills in some way to further the goals of this ministry. When I prayed about it, I sensed I was supposed to go. If nothing else, I thought I would have an opportunity to hone my skills and perhaps see where God may direct my path.

Of the three focuses of the conference (writing, speaking and blogging), I was definitely interested in the first two, but had no interest, passion or direction regarding blogging. Outside of participating on a family blog designed to keep our geographically scattered family connected, I’ve never felt any sort of desire to put my life out there in such a manner. On any given day, the internet is inundated with bloggers who are busy espousing their opinions and beliefs, sharing their daily activities or struggles, boring us with the minutia of their lives, hawking their wares, advancing their own political, social, religious or economic agenda – you name it, I’m sure there’s a blog for it. I’ve never felt compelled to join those conversations. I tend to be more of the belief that unless you have something new to say, there’s no need repeating what’s already out there.

But then, in Colorado, I was forced to challenge that belief. A couple of the speakers -- well-known, published authors -- raised this very issue, suggesting that even if the topic is not new, the filter of one’s own life experience changes the message such that it is then worth communicating. I had to pause and think about that for a minute.

Later, one of the speakers noted that “if someone has a talent, skill or an opportunity to use words, in some measure she is called.” Reasoning from the Parable of the Talents in Matthew 25, she affirmed that God gives us talents and wants us to multiply them. That forced me to question myself: how do I do that if I’m limiting the way I will use these particular talents? I spent the rest of the day allowing that idea to ruminate in my head. Later, a comment Clay Clarkson made again brought this issue to the forefront of my mind: “God has put a special spiritual message in each of our hearts that only we can give and we need to determine how to work that message out to be able to deliver it.”

Right then, I started to pray about this. Wouldn’t it be just like God to take the one thing I’m not interested in and call me to pursue that? Of course, I already knew the answer to that question all-too-well!

As it turned out, I didn’t seem to need to pray very long, for as I walked through the airport to catch my flight back to San Diego, I sensed God telling me “Your stories are worth sharing and you need to start a blog.” I was so certain of His voice that I hurried to the boarding area, pulled out my computer, and secured the domain for the blog name He gave me. On the airplane, I started writing some ideas.

And so I'm choosing to walk in obedience and to share my stories -- even if it means talking about really difficult things. My story is not for me alone. And so, with this blog, I begin that journey.