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.

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.

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!

In the beginning

Today I'm reclaiming two very important parts of my identity: My faith and my word. I won't say I ever lost these two traits, but somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that I didn't have the credentials or the right to share these parts of me with the world. One day I stopped writing short stories and monologues. One day I stopped talking about how the Lord was working in my life. And now I find it difficult to share even the simplest thoughts or feelings.

It seems that when you don't uses the gifts the Lord gives you, he feels inclined to take them away.

So today, I'm going to try again as I've tried before. I'm going to write. I'm going to blog. I'm going to share and if it is God's will, I'm not going to stop.

Now the thing I've been battling with the most lately is trust in God.

Recently at church, we had a series on practical atheism which, as I understand it, is professing a belief in God without actually acting like you believe in God --sounds better coming from my preacher.

Anyway, during this series, there was a lesson on trust and the question was "Which do you trust more God or Money?"

And it's funny because normally in service, I'm listening to the service like "Oh that's my husband all day!" and "Um, hmm I was like that once" or "If only my friend could hear this one!" But on that day, that man was talking to me.

That day, I realized that I'm praying to God for the money I need to obtain the security I want when I should just be praying to God for the security. I should just be praying to God to ensure I have everything I need, but instead I'm praying for $10,000 more dollars a year.

That one really hit home. Because at the end of the day, I was depending on the dollars and cents, not God and I knew that there was a time in my life when I could ask the Lord to provide me with my needs and he did.

That realization made me really question a lot of my actions and struggles over the past few years.

In that one moment, I realized that I had received every blessing I ever asked for and was still unhappy. Every monetary goal I ever spoke was achieved, and still there was a sense of longing, a sense of failure. And in my darkest moments, my prayer was always if I had $5,000 more Lord, if I could just make this amount, I know my problems would be solved and I could do your will.

I was really ashamed of myself and of how far off track I had gotten that I could believe that any amount of money would fix my marital problems or make me a better person or instantly activate a better Christ follower within.

No amount of money is going to give me more time, effort or energy to write or to reach out or to become a contributing member of society.

But any amount of time that I put into reading the word, sharing my faith and listening to the Lord would help me come closer to the real goals I set for myself a long time ago.

Because I do want to eventually have a home big enough and wealthy enough to sustain any and all friends or family members who need a place to stay. I do want to create a charity. I do want to write a book and be heard and make a difference. But I don't want to wait on the world to make that happen.

So today, I'm stepping out on faith. I'm sharing my thoughts, my faith, my words.

And I''m claiming my blessings, not in dollars but in spiritually tangible goals that I am sure the Lord will move mountains to help me achieve right now without a dime to my name.

Pray for me, or at least think about me, as I embark on this journey to reclaim my gifts and share them with the world.