Peer pressure made me blog this thought

It used to be the past that haunted me.
The hurtful things I'd done, the cruel things I'd said. The ugly blanks I couldn't remember, but instinctively knew were filled with evil and darkness. For a long time that's who I thought I was  — the M&M they don't have a commercial for: Smooth, dark, cruel and forever plotting the downfall of man on the inside, with a sweet, brightly painted shell on the outside.
But I wasn't really that person. And at some point I realized it, asked for forgiveness and moved on.
But now, after a few years of blaming my past for my present lack of blessings (stupid I know) and wallowing in guilt (pointless indeed) I've found that what keeps me up at night isn't what I've already done, but instead, all I have to do.
I bet you didn't see this coming, but this post is less about my personal demons and more about my growing anxiety about my daughter's first day of Kindergarten.
For so long, my success in raising her has been measured by her advanced comprehension and language skills and her striking looks and personality. But now, for the first time, all my hard work will be put to the test as she enters into a true social environment outside of our home.
So I guess this is about my inner demons — I mean it's certainly not about the crap-load of cash I've spent trying to look like a super prepared, all-American soccer mom. It's not about her awesome Old Navy wardrobe, or the Martha Stewart-type lunches I'm planning on making.
No, even through my crazy shopping haze, I do understand that all the money in the world won't make me a good mom. I know that her new backpack and Disney thermos and name-brand shoes won't cover any mistakes I've made over the past 5 years. And her annunciation and mature vocabulary — while awesome and inspiring — won't deflect from any emotional scars I may have inflicted on her.
Did I yell too much? Did she see me cry? Will she inherit my strength or my weakness? Did I work too much? Did we play enough? Am I a woman she'll be proud to call "Mom."
(Read: Did I break the most precious gift God has ever entrusted me with?)
In six  days I'll find out.
In six days, she'll march into a classroom full of dumb-as-dirt, snot-nosed, misfits. She'll march in without judgment (unless they're boys, she hates boys) with perfect hair, clothes and diction and the world will get to judge whether or not I did a good job.
That's what keeps me up at night.
Thankfully, I have a great kid and I'm pretty sure she's not going to grow up to be a serial killer. But more importantly I serve an awesome God, and once or twice a week, when I get a night off from work, He reminds me that her future is not in my hands, but in His.
It's in the rare moments that I actually get to do the nighttime ritual that I remind her to be quiet, be still and go to sleep or no more McDonald's forever and she reminds me to calm down, say my prayers and thank God for all the people we love and all the blessings we've received.
And though I'm freaking out now, it's a comfort to know that in 6 days the world may find out she's has a pair or so-so parents, but I'm sure she'll remind them that she serves an awesome Father.

Searching for answers

I searched the dark hallway that connected the room I shared with my cousin to my aunt's room. I hated that hallway. Even knowing that on the other side, there was a room full of stuffed animals and grown-up treasures didn't distract me from the fact that it was a creepy space that cased the creepy bathroom with the creepy rusted toilet, sink, tub and pipes that made a creepy hiss every time I ventured past it.
Sure the fear was irrational, and even knowing it was probably rooted in some ridiculous horror story my cousin Lizz spurted off the top of her head, I still couldn't shake it.
Regardless of my fear, or perhaps because of it, my eyes were drawn to the dark space between those rooms that night.
I'm not even sure why I was still awake, but then it seemed like my 5-year-old body never wanted to sleep. Every night something called me out of bed. A walk through the dark but familiar house, a quick dip in grandma's sugar cup, a late-night cry without the judgement of my entire extended family.
"You shouldn't cry; You have to be strong for your mother."
Sometimes I'd just sit in the big scratchy chair on the back porch and look up at  my mom's mug printed in an actual beer mug next to her twin hanging on the wall.
Sometimes I'd stare at Jesus, and his heart practically beating off the painting on the opposite wall -- Catholics.
But that night I was too sad to get out of bed, to sneak sugar, to look at my mom ... or Jesus. That night all I could do was stare into the darkness.
Who knew how long it would be before I saw my mom again. At that point I couldn't even remember the last time I saw her. And right down the hall, through that black hole of horror, was my cousin's mother, somebody's mother, somebody who might feel sorry enough to comfort a crying child with a warm hug -- even if that child wasn't  hers. Or someone who would be really pissed for being bothered at 0 dark thirty. Not that it mattered with that creepy hall between us.
That's probably when I started crying, or maybe I had been crying all along --who knows. It seemed like whenever I wasn't pretending to be smart, cunning, adorable and well-adjusted, I was hiding somewhere crying.
Anyway, I was at that point where my tears had blurred my vision to nothing but a swirl of colors, when I realized in the dark of that creepy hall, I probably shouldn't be seeing colors. And as curiosity stilled my stuttering sobs, I realized that I wasn't alone.
Of course, I knew I wasn't alone before, Lizz was snoring in the bunk bed above me (ok, ok, little miss perfect straight A-making, softball champion, piano playing Lizz didn't snore) but I also knew that she didn't emit a hazy blue glow (she wasn't that perfect).
Slowly my vision began to clear, and as it did I noticed the light wasn't in the hall but upon me. And looking up I saw the Virgin Mary in her full glory. Looking down on me just like she looked down at Jesus in every friggin rosary book I'd ever seen. She was that Mary. Blue veil, pale skin, serene face. The Mary. It wasn't like she was alive -- breathing, smiling, talking or anything. She was just there, the image, like someone was projecting her image right from a Sunday missalette. And she just looked at me and after awhile I just fell to sleep.

I know this isn't the first time I've mentioned my miraculous visit from Mary. It's one of those things, that even with it's lack of divine purpose or magic, has never been something I doubted.
Why am I writing about it now? Well, it's probably close to 5 am and I can't sleep. I'm so sad I can't sleep. I haven't been able to really sleep in months.
And as much as I pray and search for guidance, I can't seem to shake the overwhelming sense that I am losing at life.
I really have no idea where God is leading me. I feel like there are signs and they are everywhere, but I just can't tell the signs from everything else.
I can't seem to move with any purpose outside of survival.
I guess I should be glad that I want to survive. That I want to fight tooth and nail to make it through this dark time.
But more than anything, I want that warm glow that quieted my fear, my sadness and that damned hissing bathroom long enough to bring my 5-year-old self a little sleep and a lot of peace.
I want to be able to accept that even though I have no idea what's going to happen, the weight of the world is not on my shoulders and I will be alright.
I want to say 10 Hail Marys and call it a night ... Catholics.
But instead I was attracted to the warm glow of my desktop. Instead images from that night flooded my mind. Maybe she's trying to remind me that she's always with me -- that He's always with me.
Maybe they're trying to tell me that her warm glow is never more than a prayer away.
Maybe no one's trying to tell me anything and I just have to let this pass.
Whatever the maybe, the warm glow of this computer is starting to feel a little cold, my lids are starting to feel a little droopy and a Catholic little voice inside of me is telling me there's a rosary in my closet with my name on it.
No advice or biblical words of wisdom for this one ... well, let me get my Google on ...
OK
John 16:23-24 (NKJV)
23 "And in that day you will ask Me nothing. Most assuredly, I say to you, whatever you ask the Father in My name He will give you.

24 Until now you have asked nothing in My name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full.




... Lord, I'm asking ...

Pride and prayer

The cupboards are bare, my pockets are empty and the bills are neatly stacked and unopened on my dining room table.
It's a heavy load.
Every conversation with my husband is about where the money is going. How can I be using the money to pay bills when there are so many cut off notices? How is it that I seem to owe more money now that we've moved to a cheaper apartment? How am I already behind when I just got paid? And about that, why does there seem to be less money when I work overtime weekly?
I'd ask the same questions to God, but I'm a little afraid of the answer.
Then there are the conversations with my family. "No, everything is fine! Things are hard but not impossible; we'll get through this. God will find a way. He always does."

And then there's that question, the one I don't want to ask: "Why isn't he helping me?"
And then there's the answer, the one I don't want to hear: "Because you don't deserve it."

And that's when the blogging stopped.
Because how can you claim to be on a spiritual journey in which the destination is a place you're afraid to go?
How can sit here quoting scriptures to support dreams and ideals I don't believe I'm worthy of receiving?
And then there were the questions? Just because I decided to share this journey, this experiment in absolute faithfulness, people assumed I knew the answers to the 10 million what-ifs of existence. As if I were one of the scripture-quoting, judgmental, do-gooders who scared me away from organized religion.

And that's why the blogging stopped.

But yesterday, something snapped and amidst the perfect storm of emotions and circumstance I turned to the only one who has always been there for me: God.
 Don't get me wrong, I talk to God everyday. I ask for help, I ask for strength, for forgiveness.
But a lot of the time I talk to God like I talk to my mother, like a show of weakness is tantamount to a failed life and like admitting that I let them down would hurt them in ways they don't deserve.
So I keep it to myself. And even though I ask God for help, I walk away expecting no more than encouragement and positive energy and that's just not what faith is about.

My God can move mountains, part seas and raise the dead. And I know by comparison my debt and desperation is nothing compared to the circumstances surrounding those miracles, but He can fix this. He can deliver me from this condition.

I'm only sorry that I've continued to let my pride stand in the way of my blessings.
I'm sorry I haven't asked my Father to save me.



Psalm 10:4 (NIV) tells us: "In his pride the wicked does not seek him; in all his thoughts there is no room for God."
 So I'm through hiding .. or at least I'm working toward being through hiding. I want God to save me spiritually and  financially. I want to rest in my Father's arms, cry on my Father's shoulders and let him take away the weight of my burdens.

I don't really have much to share by way of a lesson I've learned, but I ask that anyone reading out there tonight pray for me. Pray that I ask for the help I know I can receive.

1-800-WAHHHHHHH

I'm a bit conflicted today. A big part of me feels like there is so much to complain about — so much wrong with the world, my life, my circumstances! And that part of me wants to spend every minute of my free time (all 30 of them) complaining about it. Then there's the little voice in my head, the angel on my shoulder, guilty remnants from my catholic upbringing, asking me "what do you really have to complain about?"
"OK, so the bills are late, they'll get paid and nothings been cut off yet, so count your blessings.
And so your husband has been short with you and insensitive, things could be worse – things have been worse. And so you deserve better than a lot of the hands you've been dealt lately, Jesus certainly deserved better than what he got."
(note, the voice in my mind sounds like Fran's aunt Frieda from The Nanny, don't ask me why)
Unfortunately, the voice in my head is not always reflected by what comes out of my mouth. And lately, even I am getting sick of my constant complaining.
I know how blessed I am to have all that I have and I feel ashamed that I've let myself go on and on about what I don't have.
So, for lent, I've given up complaining.
Even if you don't celebrate (or suffer through) Lent, I would advise anyone to take some time off from complaining. Especially in the wake of recent global disasters, like the earthquake in Japan, I feel like high-fiving my inner voice. What do I have to complain about?
A part of not complaining is taking time out of each day to reflect on the things I'm thankful for. This has been the best part of my fast. I can feel my heart filling with joy as I reflect the blessings and accomplishments the Lord has bestowed on me this year alone. And in place of my usual rants and curses, I am saying the rosary and the occasional "Praise  Jesus."
So for those of you who know me, help me out, by reminding me of all the things I have to be thankful for the next time you hear me whining about my many, many woes. Unless it's Sunday, because everyone knows it's cool to cheat on your Lenten promises on Sundays!

Confession

I've been unplugged for a while, but now I'm back and I can't say the net break did me much good.
Turns out I'm a bit of a naughty girl without the accountability of my blog, but then, those of you who know me probably aren't surprised.
I won't say I sinned more in my weeks without internet access, but I will admit to sinning more stubbornly and without abandon and for that I have asked the Lord to forgive me. ... now, I'll confess:

In my 18 years attending the Catholic Church, I always dreaded confession. I think going to Catholic school and attending Catechism and youth groups created a complicated relationship between my priests and myself that made me feel the need to impress them rather than seek their guidance. So when confession came around, I'd hold my breath and glaze over all the "real sins" and give them the G version.
"Bless me father, for I have sinned. Last week I got smart with my Mom and disobeyed her even though I knew it was wrong. ..."
leaving out
"and yesterday, I was so embarrassed that Sampson Simms gave me a love note in front of the whole class that I was purposely hurtful, tried to embarrass him and stole his notebook and threw it in the trash after school. I knew it was wrong and Sampson is my friend, but people make fun of him and I was so worried about them making fun of me that I did something cruel, and I'm very sorry about it."
(seriously, I still lose sleep off of that one)
It seems silly to fret over these faux confessions now, but the truth is I was building my character based on lies.
I know a lot of Christians take issue with Catholic confession, but when done correctly, it can really help with self-healing.
Despite what most people think, Catholics aren't confessing to the priest, they're confessing with the priest. He is there for them as they lay their hearts on the line for God to assess and forgive. Yes, the priest tells you to say so many Hail Mary's, but I was always left feeling that the penance was more to help us let go of our guilt, not to earn our forgiveness.
But I wasted those years of confessions and never let go of my guilt.
I wasted time thinking God was punishing me for the way I treated Sampson Simms, or my little cousins or my school-yard nemesis when I could have been focusing on how I would be blessed after letting go of my sins and moving on.
So today, since I probably won't make it into a confessional, I want to openly ask the Lord for forgiveness in my latest transgression.
My family has been tasked to help and to give. And though I have financially facilitated this gift, I have done so begrudgingly and that's not right.
The thing is, even though I know in my heart that I am doing a good thing by giving. My head is full of "Whys".
Why should I work hard to give to someone who doesn't appreciate it?
Why should I continue to take from my household to give to someone who will waste my gifts?
Why am I helping the same person do the same things every year?
Why should I risk my family's stability to help this person who has never helped me?
WHY?
I have no answers, but the Word says:

Deuteronomy 15:7-11  

“If among you, one of your brothers should become poor, in any of your towns within your land that the Lord your God is giving you, you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against your poor brother, but you shall open your hand to him and lend him sufficient for his need, whatever it may be. Take care lest there be an unworthy thought in your heart and you say, ‘The seventh year, the year of release is near,’ and your eye look grudgingly on your poor brother, and you give him nothing, and he cry to the Lord against you, and you be guilty of sin. You shall give to him freely, and your heart shall not be grudging when you give to him, because for this the Lord your God will bless you in all your work and in all that you undertake. For there will never cease to be poor in the land. Therefore I command you, ‘You shall open wide your hand to your brother, to the needy and to the poor, in your land.’ 

 

This is not the spirit I had in my giving and for that I am truly sorry. I pray that the Lord will help me to move past the "me and mine" syndrome I'm struggling with and bless me with an open and giving heart.

30 days of Praise

Over the holidays my church connect group leader suggested we re-gift or make homemade gifts for our secret Santa game. I chose to regift and recreate a blessing given to me a few years ago while attending Kingdom Vision International Church in Columbus, Miss. The pastor there blessed us with "90 days of ridiculous praise," in which he gave us a list of 90 scripture-based affirmations to meditate and pray on over a 3 month period.

This simple idea changed my life. I was able to learn about the Bible and use it as a guide and crutch through life simultaneously without feeling ignorant. 

So I shared this idea with my group.

Now I'm sharing it with you. So for the next 30 days,  I'm going to focus on specific scriptures that may be useful in dealing with or understanding everyday issues!

The first three are based on a study guide my husband found at Creflo Dollar Ministries. 

Worshiping through the blood of Jesus is something we are personally working on at home right now, as we explore and strengthen our faith at home.

Empowered by the Blood of Jesus: Five Points of Victory

When Jesus was beaten, tormented, scourged, and nailed to the cross, blood poured from His back, head, hands, and feet; and He was also pierced in His side. Each place from which His blood flowed is significant because it represents a unique aspect of our deliverance. It is through these five points of victory that we have complete redemption and victory over satanic oppression.

---

1. The Five Points of Victory from which Jesus’ blood flowed:     
1. His back, which endured the stripes needed to bring about our healing.  
1. Pilate had Jesus scourged (John 19:1).
2. A scourge is not a whip; it is a multi-headed torture device with a thick handle and 39 long branches.
3. Sharp objects such as small stones, bones, metal, and glass were fastened to the end of each branch.
4. When prisoners were scourged, they were stripped, bound, and forced to lie face down. Their bare flesh was then “scourged.” 
5. When the scourge made contact with a person’s flesh, the objects at the end of each branch tore the flesh off.  
6. Jesus’ body was so badly marred by the abuse He endured that He was unrecognizable.
2. His head, which bore the crown of thorns.
3. His hands, which were nailed to the cross.
4. His feet, which were nailed to the cross.
5. His side, which was pierced by the Roman soldier.
2. “He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him: and with his stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5).
1. The brutal scourging on Jesus’ back is the price He paid for our divine healing.
1. “Surely he hath born our griefs, and carried our sorrows” (Isaiah 53:4).
2. Jesus took on our grief and sorrows.
3. We can be completely free from pain, sickness, and infirmities when we activate our faith in the blood of Jesus Christ.
4. We activate our faith by proclaiming our complete deliverance from sickness and disease— because of His sacrifice.
2. During His ministry on Earth, Jesus went about doing good and healing all those who were oppressed by the devil (Acts 10:38).
1. Jesus cast out demons that were oppressing people and healed many people who were sick.
2. Some illnesses are the result of demonic oppression (Matthew 8:16).
3. If we believe and rely on Him we will see the glory of God (John 11:40, AMP).  
1. We do not have to beg God to heal us.
1. We can come to Him in confidence, knowing that Jesus paid for our healing with the stripes on His back.

Scripture References:

• John 19:1
• Isaiah 53:3-5
• Acts 10:38
• Matthew 8:16
• John 11:40, AMP

A woman on fire!

Working at a newspaper, I am rarely angered by opinion pieces. As a copy editor I've become numb to the ignorance, bigotry and gracelessness I often come across on the Opinion page. But recently the Lord lit a fire in my heart regarding the opinion of a man writing for a publication aimed at the black community in Southwest Missouri.
My husband (the neat freak)  has since thrown the paper out so I can't quote from it, but I'll paraphrase (as much as possible) without prejudice.
Basically the principle idea of the article was that in America a black man can't even pick cotton anymore. Opportunities are so limited, that "we" are left behind in the occupations that used to be the only things black people were permitted to do. He gave a slew of statistics about black men without diplomas, without degrees, locked away, selling drugs and lost to gang life. He blamed the demise of the black family, the black community and laid out everything black men needed to do to "save" the value of the black community.
So on to the fire.
Later that week, while reading a Walter Mosely novel where the central character argued before St. Peter that he didn't deserve hell because racism and classism made sinning his mode of survival,  the fire ignited again.
In the context of heaven vs. hell it became clear that discrimination of any kind was a tool of the devil. A tool to lead people away from their missions in life; a vessel for hate, an excuse for defeat. Hatred curses the hater and the hated.
So I became angry. I wasn't angry at racism, that's a hilarious fact of life; but I was angry that this educated man, was willing to dismiss me and my children as a lost cause because we can't pick cotton anymore!
What made me the angriest was that nowhere in this man's observations did he take into account the successes of the black woman. It was as if our high rate of graduation, our college degrees our six figure salaries somehow didn't count in the black community.
Let me just put this out there, as my grandmother told me a long time ago, we do not come from cotton picking people. As a black woman I was raised to succeed at school, at work, at home and in life -- not in the fields.
So what if the answer to any oppressed group was not to stop racism, not to find new crops to slave over, but to reject racism and classism, and sexism and accept God's gifts that come with being oppressed; resilience, faithfulness, creativity and hunger!
I am so hungry to receive God's Grace that I will push through any isms that might get in my way.
That was the fire I felt burning in me and I pray it continues to burn until the day I die.

Simply Cintia: Day 23: Encouragement

Simply Cintia: Day 23: Encouragement: "Day 22: Happy Reminders Archives: Week 1 | Week 2 | Week 3"

I was encouraged by this and I hope you are too. It's not every day in our culture that we are uplifted by our peers.
So much of our interactions are competitive and defensive, so when I watched this blogpost of my friend Cintia I literally felt a weight lifted off of my heart.
It's hard to walk around with worldly armor! Unlike God's armor, which defies the gravity of stress, fear, worry and doubt, worldly armor can take on a literal manifestation in your life. Think about it, if you were a knight of olde, your armor would weigh more than you, it would need to to protect you from a battle axe or sword. The mental and emotional armor we wear daily carries the same weight. All in preparation to do battle with the world! But the Lord tells us we don't need this armor, it's just weighing us down — it's just keeping us down! We need to trust in His supernatural armor and take down our natural defenses. So take down the back-breaking sarcasm, the back-biting, the name-calling, finger-pointing, reactive, angry, vengeful armor of the world and put on the light-as-a-feather, loving, forgiving, uplifting, rejoicing, ENCOURAGING armor of the Lord.
My heart was filled with this message, just watching Cintia speak.
I was looking into the eyes of a person who genuinely wanted me to succeed in life — a person asking me to encourage others to do the same.
This is not an unusual feeling when checking out Cintia's blog or talking to her in general; she has a healing spirit that makes it virtually impossible to feel anger or frustration in her presence! It's like the woman breathes peace, and I thank her for those moments when she helps me to do the same.
Watch the post, pay it forward and encourage the people around you to encourage the people they encounter!

I read a story shared on The Crunk Feminist Collective  about  a woman who meets her sister for the first time on Facebook. Reading this story, all I could think was, 'WOW, What a blessing!'
I've never met my father. Throughout my life I've been told the story of how he met my mother, why he didn't stay. I knew he had a 'real' family and a 'real' daughter out there in the world — probably right there with him. But all I ever had was his name. A super generic, million just like it, pointless to google, name.
I'm embarrassed to say how long I waited for him to show up. I'm ashamed of how many times I stood on stages for award ceremonies, graduations, spelling bees scanning the audience for an eerily familiar face and an instant connection.
I can't tell you how much not having a father has impacted my life, but I will confess it's a very sensitive subject. Despite how much I've always wanted to meet my father, there's one person I would have liked to meet more — his 'real' daughter.
As a young girl, I loved her instantly, from the moment my mother told me she existed. It was a passing comment for my mother — one small detail she could give her desperate for information daughter. But for me it was a revelation. Somewhere out there I had a big sister. One day we would meet, talk, laugh — create our own family. It was a beautiful dream.
As an adolescent, I envied her. I imagined she must be smart, beautiful and extremely successful, that my father could be satisfied enough to not come looking for me. Only a massive failure, or perhaps a failed organ would ever move him to look for me. Surely he saw the early signs of inferiority when he first laid eyes on me as an infant. Next to my perfect sister, I reasoned, he saw no use for me in his life.
And now as an adult, I still have my sister on a floating pedestal. She's now my phantom opponent. Instead of envying her, however, my efforts have been turned to out-doing her. I guess a part of me hopes that if he ever does track me down, my success will make him wish he'd thought better of abandoning me all those years ago.
So reading this story about a woman who knew her father, but had never met her half-sister, I felt extremely connected. There's something about knowing there's a person out there who might look a little like you, or be able to tell you things about your father that your mother can't — there's something truly beautiful about that. There's a connection I feel with her, that she may not even know about.
I pray that through the Blood of Jesus I will be blessed enough to find my blood-bonded lost ones someday and reading that account of it working out for one woman gave me a little hope that it could happen for me.
While I wait on my blessing, however, I'll pray that the pain and envy that have come with the rejection of not knowing my father be washed away with the same blood that will bring us together.
And in case you happen to stumble upon this blog Mr. Timothy Carter, you (or your daughter) can find me whenever you want. I'm just a click away.

Patiently waiting

It's strange that we associate the heart with feelings. In all my years, I've always found the stomach to be a much more clear indicator of how I'm feeling.
Butterflies of anxiety, excitement; the sudden empty rush of fear; and my least favorite, yet most frequent abdominal indicator, the deep, heavy burden of worry.
I worry a lot.
Though God tells us not to, I find it nearly impossible to navigate my feelings away from the strong worry magnate in my gut. So today, for accountability's sake, I'm putting it out there. I will not worry!
In making this proclamation I had to examine the root of my worry. I came across one reoccurring themes in my worrying heart stomach.
 Control:
Often times when I'm worried, I distort the whole "pray without ceasing" idea into, nagging God about my problems. God heard my prayer the first time, in fact he knew about it before I asked. But when "too much time" lapsed between the question and the answer, the worry set in. And what I found is that I wasn't worried God couldn't come through, I was more concerned that he wouldn't. That perhaps I was in the middle of a learning obstacle; Perhaps the Lord had put me in the middle of a situation I couldn't pray or act my way out of, but rather pray and act my way through it. What I realized at this point was that, if I had the presence of mind to analyze the issue like this, then I wasn't worried about the outcome, I was irritated by it and the lack of control I had over it. If I know in the end everything is going to be OK, why am I so worried about the journey the Lord takes me on? I can't control everything. In the future when I catch myself in these times I'll pray the prayer of serenity

God, grant me the Serenity to accept things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can, and the

Wisdom to know the difference

Patience for the things that take time

Appreciation for all that I have, and

Tolerance for those with different struggles

Freedom to live beyond the limitations of my past ways, the

Ability to feel your love for me and my love for man kind and the

Strength to get up and try again even when I feel it is hopeless.

From the Word:

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?26 Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27 Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life[e]?"  Matthew 6: 25-34 

 From my heart: 

Lord I know I am worthy of your blessing and I know I will receive them in Your time. Lord give me the strength and wisdom to utilize your light to eliminate even the shadow of a doubt out of my heart, mind and stomach!

Clean slate

Is it because I spend so much time online, that the devil uses it to trap me? Or is it because I'm so rooted in Christ that I can see the attacks coming?  I'm thinking it's both! Regardless of the messenger, I am once again, back on a Facebook rant.
Today's ramblings are brought to you by young women with too much time!
So, my story begins on New Year's Eve. I, sitting in front of my computer, waiting on a late story for the holiday paper, was perusing through Facebook statuses seeing how my peers were ringing in the new year.
Most were cherishing time spent with their family, friends, coworkers ... but there's always that one.
You know the one. The annoying, unknown acquaintance who you couldn't pick out in a line-up "friend" who went to school with you, or before you, or just happens to be friends with 80% of your friends. This is a person you don't really know, but thought 'whatever' when their friend request came across your profile. These people are a waste of your virtual time and space. They serve no purpose but to add numbers to your friend count. You should delete them. I should delete them.
This is the lesson I learned in the wee hours of the new year.
So, I'm scrolling through posts of blessings and "happy new year's " when I was assaulted with a slew of expletives wishing a very sarcastic blessing to no one in particular.
I was appalled.
When posting anything on my wall, I try to consider all eyes that may fall on my profile, that's just common courtesy. But why in the world would you start a new year off with a curse? It was really not what I needed to be reading as I sat at work counting down the hours  until I could be with my family.
I know I shouldn't judge, and I'm not, that just really turned me off.
So I deleted her. I then preceded to delete other little negative Nancys.
My advice to you, cut those with no value to your mission out of your life. I know it sounds harsh and judgemental, but it's really just common sense.
If your friend is going through something, let them know that you are there for them, but if they can't bring anything to the table but hatred and self-loathing, you are going to have to take a break.
I felt better, cutting loose the haters. I bet you will too.