Have you ever had a season of life that tries, hard as it may, to shake the core of your very foundation?

Pulled in every direction – not with busyness we create for ourselves and allow into our families’ schedules, rather life that takes its hardest swings at our most vulnerable places.

Sometimes we see the hits coming and we duck. Other times we are broad-sided and its strength and surprise steal our breath and all we can do is grab our gut, double over, eyes tightly shut, and wait for the pain to pass.

A season filled with thoughts that turn into toxic worry and torment the dark hours made for rest. With days ending at daybreak, going through the motions moment-by-moment like wading through quicksand.

Life passes in slow motion and stalls overhead, like a thunderstorm, letting its cold rain pelt and bruise all it pierces.

A season when you lie down knowing your best wasn’t good enough, feeling every ounce of your failures despite your entire being thrust into your efforts.

A season where you stand at the crossroads and wonder why it had to be this direction instead of that one. Time pushing its hand in your back, shoving you forward down the path no matter how much you struggle to go back. You can’t.

A season when spontaneous tears burst forth in the little things like at red lights, feeding the dog and taking a shower.

A season when you can scream all you want, but no one’s listening to hear it.

A season when your blood pressure pounds in your ears like a drum and your heart skips beats – you wonder if it’s checking to see if it’s still alive.

A season when you don’t have the right answers – or any answer. Life gets in your face, slams it fist and demands answers you don’t know how to give.

So many voices asking questions, needing something, demanding attention you spin and spin trying to figure out which one to listen to first until you’re so dizzy you fall down into a heap on the ground and lose the feelings in your legs to stand again.

So you sit and do nothing.

A season when all you want to do is help, but you know the problems are too big and you have no power to solve them. They threaten. Mock. Taunt. Bully. No amount of sleep or mindless media drowns them out.

A season when in a symphony of stress and depression and anxiety play their instruments insanely, deafeningly loud, and time laughs, and hearts break, and you run out of positive thoughts to lean on.

A season when you begin to wonder if it’s only a season. Maybe this is my new normal, you ask yourself.

Maybe this is all it’s ever going to be.

Shards of broken dreams cut deep.

Wandering through the dessert of dried up hope and expectations, blinded by the heat of lost opportunity.

No direction. Just endless wandering dragging one foot in front of the other and you don’t even know why.

A season when you don’t answer the phone, or you walk down a different aisle, or sit hiding in your car when you see a friend because you can’t fake one more smile or trivial conversation.

Because the thing is, you’re still waking up. Your love for your beloveds overrides all of this. Faith that whispers you’re not forgotten keeps your heart beating.

Knowing somewhere deep inside there must be purpose for your life with every inhale and exhale of your lungs who refuse to stop breathing.

There’s this push and pull of self-hate and caring for your body in spite of wanting to reject it. To show up when you know there’s no one else who can take your place. To offer encouragement to others as though it were your last piece of bread – you give it away hoping it will help them more than it helped you. To rise above your own thoughts and emotions and share your crumbs of inspiration as a tiny, flickering ember that could either ignite into a roaring fire or extinguish itself in an instant of hopelessness.

Love. It’s a funny thing. It believes the best in us even when we look in the mirror and see the worst. It has tenacity to heal the sick, raise the dead and mend a broken heart.

True love thinks of itself last and that is why we keep waking up. It’s not for ourselves, but for others. It’s why we stay up at night worrying about our beloveds, turning each anxiety-ridden thought into a prayer and casting it upward, heavenward like releasing a balloon into the big blue sky.

It’s why we fight for those we call ours. Because in a world where there is every temptation to pull back, love presses on.

It’s strength never fails. It’s authenticity never waivers.

It’s why time seems to stand still because true love is eternal.

When the big rocks of life are hurled at us and fill up our cracked jars we call our flesh, we choose love. We choose to receive it and share it. A gentle motion that dances in step with life no matter how hard or easy.

In the moments when we quote Isaiah 46:10, Ecclesiastes 3:11, Philippians 1:6, Isaiah 61:3, Psalm 27:13-14, 1 Corinthians 2:3, Joshua 1:9 and Jude 24-25 we remember this is a season.

A season that has already been traversed by the Creator of the universe who bends time in his favor. He’s lived each moment and knows how to prepare us and be with us having suffered every emotion we could possibly feel.

He’s walked the road of loneliness, abandonment and grief. He sees the broken, the innocent blood and in his anger does not sin.

Nor does he sit idly by.

He’s summoning the stars, the sun and moon; lightning bolts and hail. He’s preparing them for battle on our behalf. He inventories his storehouses of snow and speaks to the wild beasts who obey his commands.

He readies his angels for war. War over us. War because of us. A war he has already won, yet still he thrusts his force from the heavenlies into our atmosphere to intercept the curses, the hits, and the targets on our backs of which we aren’t even aware.

The angels, they march in force and ride their chariots of fire and wage a battle no eye can see or mind comprehend – all for our souls.

In hand-to-hand combat they war for us, over us, in front of us, behind us, beneath us and beside us.

We catch a glimpse of their presence and cold chills run down our arms as angry ants.

Like raging seas is God’s passion and compassion for us. He steps down onto the waves as if they were stones.

They hold his weight out of holy fear.

He lifts the hem of his robe, and with water splashing against his ankles his steps turn to a racing stride as if our life depends on it – and it does.

Fear and fury swirl in the tornado, storms screaming, our giants mocking, and all of hell has come to watch.

They climb over each other for a better view of our destruction. They bet on how long it takes until we fall.

All the while God is running, racing, with the wind and rain and thunder exploding around him.

The water holds his weight out of holy fear.

Black clouds part the way for him in humble obedience. Lightening bolts illuminate the path straight from his heart to ours.

The war rages. Hell watches and all of heaven races behind the Alpha and Omega on horses, on foot and in chariots only our spirits can see. All of heaven is coming.

All of heaven is coming for us.

We stand on the battlefield wishing we were more. Wishing we could do more. Wishing for rescue.

In the moment when hell has us by the throat, hair pulled and heel on our neck, while God races on the waves there is one word bubbling quietly in our hearts.

It multiplies in strength and size every time we think it in our heads. It rises up in our throat and with a gulp of air we speak the word. One name. JESUS.

And as though the eye of the storm shines the sun and stills the wind, we feel the embrace of the goodness of God.

We realize God wasn’t running to us because he is always with us. We see he is running ahead of us, into the heart of the battle for our hearts.

We stand on the water that holds us out of holy fear because we are his and he calls us by name.

Hail and lightning and thunder and angels and their horses and chariots rush past us and the wind of their forces nearly blows us away.

We stand with eyes shut and palms open as God’s army stampedes onward like wildebeests on the African plain. King of Glory leading the way.

When the last of the angels and shooting stars have flown past we whip our bodies around to see something we cannot explain.

The fight, the war over our souls!

God’s heavenlies doing his bidding. He speaks and the world shakes and splits. He commands and hell quivers. Hell’s minions clamor over each other to escape God’s wrath because they dared to harass one of his beloveds.

He drives them like wild pigs off the cliff back to the pit from where they came.

We stand and stare at this phenomenon. How can our carnal selves comprehend what we see?

We forget to breath, being raptured in the moment of watching the Yahweh fight for us, that we would be worthy?

We are loved. And love never fails.

We lie our weary heads on our pillows to rest before it all resets and starts again at the sound of the alarm.

We wonder if we can make it through another day. A day filled with a list too long, problems too big, people so broken, we who are ourselves are so broken – framed with feelings of inadequacies, weakness and sin.

As we close our eyes, the thunder of the mighty battle echoes in our heads reverberating the promises of God to never leave us. To never give up on us. And to always fight for us.

With that, we drift to sleep, placing our very souls in the hands of God and knowing that because Jesus lives so we also live.

We hear the whispers of Philippians 4:13 and Hebrews 12:1 and their peace seeps into the deepest parts of our thirsty souls like streams in the desert.

And we know that whatever happens tomorrow on this earth, there is a battle in heaven declared on our behalf. And we will win because Christ has already won.

Love had the first word and will have the last word. And when that last word is spoken, this season will end. And that will be just the beginning for us, his beloveds.


The Mammogram

Today was my yearly mammogram. However, the doctor was concerned about something and ordered a 3D diagnostic test plus an ultrasound.

I’ve had a mammogram every year since I was 26. Believe me when I say I’ve gone through every emotion possible over the years. But this time, I was full of angst. I had not seen a doctor’s concerned expression like that since my first test. And because she was concerned, so was I. I haven’t slept well for days and have had terrible dreams.

On the way there, a familiar song came on the radio. “I lift my hands to believe again. You are my refuge, You are my strength. As I pour out my heart, these things I remember, You are faithful, God, forever.” I often lift my hand in the van (safely) in worship. Today was no different and I gave Him this appointment all over again.

However, worry unlocks the gate in my mind and lets my imagination run wild! I thought about the worst-case scenario. So, what WOULD I change if I was told I hadn’t much time? Evidently a lot according to my rambling thoughts. Hmmm….

While waiting in the office, I caught a friend’s smile from across the room. She is a special friend to me; someone with whom conversation is always thoughtful and deep. She is a tender soul and is a compassionate and kind woman. She is Chinese and noticed my necklace that I often wear. She said, “Your necklace. It is the Chinese symbol for faith.” “Yes,” I told her. “I bought it in China and wear it almost every day.”

It began a conversation where we talked all about faith, her family in China and her home country’s lack of faith in God. She talked about faith and trust and how we are called to live it every day. I smiled and listened. She had no idea that I had this same exact conversation with God mere moments before walking through the heavy, wooden doors.

While she talked, I noticed a woman walk in with her husband. He was gentle with her and protective of her. He waited in line with her. He wrapped his arm around her tight while she filled out her forms on the couch. They sat close, folded into each other…and waited. When her name was called, she slowly stood up. He still held her hand. He held her hand until the steps she took toward the technician pulled their tender hands apart. His back was to me, but after the door closed behind her, I saw him wipe his eyes and nose.

I thought about their journey. Was she in the beginning, middle or post cancer? Was it cancer or just a horrific scare? Was this her first mammogram? Her tenth? Had she lost a loved one to cancer? What made this appointment so hard for them? I don’t know them, but I deeply cared about them because, without a spoken word, they told a beautiful love story.

Still listening to my friend, we talked about faith. I wondered if this man, who sat directly behind her, could hear – and if so, what did he think about our conversation?

My name was called. I hugged my sweet friend and we parted. I know exactly how this goes. No deodorant, no perfumes or powders. Use baby wipes just to make sure. Undress from the waist up and put on the disposable blue half robe with white snaps, open in the front. Then wait for the tech to come get me. Yep, got it. This was my twenty-first time.

It took a little while for the tech to come back, and Fixer Upper played on a small tv monitor in the tiny room with well-worn magazines and sugar cookies under a glass dome for patients. I thought, “I can worry or I can relax and watch tv. Either choice doesn’t affect the outcome of the test.” So I watched tv, ignoring the pit in my stomach and lump in my throat as I kept seeing the doctor’s concerned expression play in a loop in my mind.

Every year I forget to take Motrin first. Shoot. Mammograms hurt. They really do! Not gonna lie. But, it’s short. As the tech worked through the process, I gritted my teeth and held my breath, squeezing my eyes tight, she said, “Now place your hand here.” I had to raise my arm to the spot she wanted.

Just then, I sang to myself, “I lift my hands to believe again. You are my refuge, you are my strength. As I pour out my heart, these things I remember, You are faithful, God, forever.” It was not a coincidence that song played on the radio as I pulled into the office.

See here’s the thing. I believe God and I trust God. Period. Walking into the office I quoted Psalm 139 in my mind over and over. “Every one of my days were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Walking out I quoted the same verse.

I praise God that my results are normal. I felt my knees grow weak from relief on the way to my van and I shed happy tears in the parking garage. I was so ecstatic that after putting back on my bra I turned to leave the dressing room, topless! :O

But, I also carry love for my precious friends who are my age and are also mothers – one is suffering from spinal cancer and the other from lung cancer. So I don’t even want to quote the over-used phrase, “God is good” for me, lest someone think He is bad for my friends.

None of us know the number of our days. I can get a pass on this breast test, but then be killed in a car accident on the way home five minutes later.

The reality is that what we’ve all been given is today. Not tomorrow. Today. How are we going to spend the 86,400 seconds that make up this day?

Wiping the tears away, I recounted the list I had made about what I would change if the tests had rendered a different result. What do I do with that list now?

And on the matter of faith, I need not look farther than Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. They had a moment with King Nebuchadnezzar that I have used to define my life in words for the last three decades –

Daniel 3:16-18, “Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego replied to him, “King Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter. If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”

God can do anything. A.N.Y.T.H.I.N.G.

Why He does some things sometimes and not others other times I have no idea.  But I know He is sovereign. He sees. He knows. He cares. He fights for His children.

I think we get tangled up in our thinking that this life is our happily ever after. It’s not. This is a life where we were born into sin and live in a broken world controlled by the enemy of God. Does it have awesome highs? Yes! I can name many. But with the mountaintop comes the valley in this life.

For children of God, our perfect life still awaits. Our reward awaits. Hebrews 11:39-40 says it best, “These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised, since God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect.”

Unless Jesus comes back first, we are all going to die. My pastor said it well once, “We’re not afraid to die. We’re afraid to suffer.”

As a believer, I only have today to make it count for Christ. Do I want to stay on this earth longer for my husband, children, family and friends? Yes! Do I want to complete the work He has called me to (Phil. 1:6)? Yes! Do I have hopes, dreams and goals? Yes! Does it utterly break my heart to hear of people who don’t get that chance? Absolutely!!

I read a story of a married mom with young children. She was dying of cancer. The family photo in the article had all of them piled on Mom & Dad’s bed like a sleepy Saturday morning. They were smiling while playfully knotted in the sheets. She said she wasn’t afraid to die, but she “loved her life and wasn’t ready to leave the party yet.”

My heart BROKE for their sweet family.

Those us of who haven’t been told a time or date still have a time and a date, though we walk around in a hazy stupor as if that were the farthest thing from reality.

Maybe it’s my age that I am acutely aware of how short life is. Nah, it’s not my age. I learned that lesson when my mom died when I was only 16 from breast cancer that spread to her lungs in less than a year. Since June 13th, 1987 I have never lived a day in a euphoric state of ignorant bliss that life should be our Disney princess dream.

No, that life is coming. And because it is, even today I had a brief moment of sadness that I am going to have to wait a little longer to see God face-to-face. The overriding joy is that I get to see my family’s faces tonight, and Lord willing, tomorrow.

Lying on the table during the ultrasound, I stared at the ceiling, trying not to peak at the monitor because I have no idea what I’m looking at. But, every single time she paused the ultrasound gun and snapped a picture I thought, “Is this something? Did she find something?” And I peeked at the screen. With each time, I wrestled with what to do with my emotions. “Is this where I fall apart? Is there where I run to the roar? Is this where I stand strong or emotionally crumble and weep?” I only had one answer.

I said to God, “I did my part. Now you do yours.” Meaning, I came in for the mammogram. What you do with it is up to you.

It is a familiar, though not very eloquent, prayer because I’ve been praying this prayer since I was 14. Not about mammograms, but about our roles in our relationship, His and mine.

I am not a “saved by works” girl (I’d NEVER, ever be able to do enough to save my own soul!!), but we do own the first step. We have the choice to believe. When I made that choice when I was 14, I gave Him my life and I’ve never taken it back.

He’s had every second, minute, hour, day, month and year of mine in His hands. When I chose to follow Christ, I have never looked back. So I see life’s timeline in a continuum of sorts. This life is just a blip on the radar; a piece of a much larger puzzle. There is so much before and after it and so many parts to it.

I accepted the cost of following Christ no matter what back then and still do today. My only prayer is that the suffering I am called to experience (physical, emotional, spiritual or intellectual) for Him draws others to Him so they will know God as their One True God and Christ as their Savior.

So whether that is to succumb to an illness I cannot control; be killed while serving others for Him; or live a long, healthy life and quietly pass in my sleep – I just want my life AND death to bring others to life through His saving grace. Through medical tests, gunfire I recently heard while we were on mission, and dashing to my car in a massive thunder and lightening storm last night, I want every second to count for Christ.

The solar eclipse is coming and people are so excited about it. It makes me wonder how many rotations this ‘ol world has left. How many rotations does this ‘ol girl have left?

I am somberly grateful for my good report today. It makes me pray harder for my friends who are suffering from this wretched disease that I hate with a fiery passion. But I can tell you one thing, these women are running an amazing, magnificent race – one worthy to be called a child of the King.

Whatever may come my way, like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, whether God chooses to walk in the fire with me or deliver me from this life through it, either way I will follow Him. I will continue to lift my hands to Him – in the car, during a mammogram and in every moment in between.

I want my life to be seen as a symbol of faith, like the necklace that rests on my chest. I want people to look at me and say, “Your life, it’s a symbol of faith” like my friend said of my pendant.

Whatever has to happen to make this reality, come what may. Because I believe God and I trust Him. We are inseparable, like the couple in the waiting room. He is gentle with me and protective of me. He holds me tight. The difference is that He never lets go. He walked with me into the mammogram. He kept me company in that tiny room. He drove home with me in rush-hour traffic. He sits with me now. Why? Because I asked Him to. Will you?

Mission-heart lag


When people hear that we’re coming home from a mission trip to Guyana, their response is always the same, “So there’s no time change. That’s great! No jet lag!”

I wish that were true.

It would be far easier to feel the physical effects of jet lag versus the emotional, mental and spiritual effects of mission-heart lag.

This year in particular, I packed my bags with a quivering lip. My hands loaded luggage ready to go. My feet refused to move, longing to stay.

Three airplane rides home were heavy, weighted with quiet moments staring at the floor, out the window at the clouds, or lost in the darkness of my eye mask, trying to block out the world.

Logic says that it should get easier to go on mission trips. I’ve been blessed to be a part of several all over the world. But my heart disagrees. Sure, I’m much more able to handle the sights and smells from a traveler’s perspective, but the stories and circumstances behind those sights and smells haunt me long after the last load of laundry has been washed and put away.

The long-term effects of corrupt politics, poverty, a lack of resources and all forms of abuse grip my heart and won’t let go. Over the years and across continents, I’ve served the perpetrator and the victim; the ill and disabled; those voiceless and powerless; the hard-hearted; the tender and a kaleidoscope of backgrounds, ethnicities, colors, personalities and religions.  So why don’t I just tick the “do good” summer box and move on?

Because these are real people and our real God loves them. They are valuable and matter as much as anyone else in the world and it makes my heart ache to know that there is so much still to do in places where the world has turned a blind eye.  The hurt continues. Abuse continues. Poverty continues. Helpless and hopelessness continue long after luggage has been claimed and the pause button on our lives lifts as we re-enter what we know as normal.

Time change or not, there is definitely a mission-heart lag, as so there should be. If not, the trip was merely an adventure.

Coming home, there are things about here I can’t stand. But there are things about there I can’t stomach.  When I’m here, I want to be there. When I’m there, I know I need to here. With every mission, my heart splits farther in two.

Air-conditioning is wonderful. A hot shower is marvelous. My own pillow and puppy, they’re the best. But so is listening to exotic tree frogs serenade us in the evening on the porch of a home in the middle of a foreign country. Nothing compares to looking into the eyes of a soul who is amazed we went all the way there for them, and then to realize that this God we speak of did so much more by sending His Son for them.

Kr2Our home this evening is still as jazz plays faintly in the background. Everywhere I look there is travel clutter. The exhaustion from a twenty-two hour venture home has numbed the urgency to make all of the mess go away. So to forget it all I schlepped to the grocery store to fill an empty fridge. I found myself drawn to the aisle with some of the ethnic foods we just enjoyed there. I will look for guava in everything for a long time. I’ll make roti bread and cook-up rice with chicken to remember the flavors of mission. But it’s not the same as being there.

I think about those who denied accepting Christ when asked; precious babies sleeping on mamas’ shoulders; the reluctant, mischievous teens in the back row; the mothers (of a different religion) who looked on with both gratefulness that we came, and skepticism toward our motives; and those who were just passing by and stopped in to see what all the hullabaloo was about as we sang with the kids, washed their feet and gave them new shoes.

I can tell you countless awesome stories of those who asked Jesus to be their Savior; men and women, boys and girls who asked for prayer for their families and themselves; and those who traveled a long way just to be a part of the celebration. I thank God and rejoice over each one. But, for those whose story doesn’t include Christ, they are why I continue to go.

Leaving the grocery store this afternoon, the bagger began chatting with me. She asked how my day was going. I responded with a soft, “Fine, thanks,” hoping she’d leave it at that. Then she asked, “So what are your plans for the rest of the day?” Her question was like a tiny hole punctured in a balloon as I felt the last bit of energy deflate. I mustered up a smile and response, “I don’t have any plans. We just got back in town and I’m really tired.”

(Could that be the end of conversation for now, please?)

“Oh yeah, from where?”

(sigh) “Guyana.”

“Cool. Were you there for vacation?”

Wait for it….

“No, it was a mission trip.”

Any other day I’d be ecstatic to talk about all things mission. Today, I just needed milk, dinner and tissues to wipe the tears from my eyes. My response was the Pandora’s box for a delightful, but draining conversation. She was so sweet. It was me who crawled to the car playing all the social cards in my hand.

There’s a lot to unpack and put away strewn about the house, but there is much more to unpack in my heart. The problem is I don’t know where to put it all. The demands of daily life and international mission life have little overlap in this season, sans the insane, and very thankful, amount of fundraising we have to do to afford going. A few pictures on the wall and some local, handmade trinkets on a shelf help to be something my heart can focus on as I move through the day. All of our personal effects still smell like Guyana, just like they smelled of burnt wood when we returned from Africa. The same is true for smells unique to the other countries which now have pieces of our hearts.

At the end of the day, this mission was just a shift, if you will. Helping and encouraging those working in the mission field full-time. We took a shift to go and be salt and light to them and those they serve.

I gave it my all, but feel like it fell far short of what is needed. Jet lag is something that can be slept off. Mission-heart lag can’t be shaken off, nor should it be. I hope and pray the pains of mission never go away, lest I forget the needs and fall into a pleasure coma of the society in which I live.

I am haunted and humbled by what I’ve experienced. Come quickly, Lord. Until then, I’ll keep going wherever You lead.

It was her!

joy prom11

My friends and I gathered in a small room tucked away known as the Glitz & Glam room, what I affectionately call the Cinderella Room. We hugged and prayed over the night in a quiet moment away from the noise and bustling activities of Joy Prom.

Guests began to arrive not long after we prayed. They were awestruck at the sparkle, mirrors, and colors of the room. Here, a guest can have lip gloss applied and pick out earrings, a necklace, a bracelet, a dressy headband and a ring – all to keep.

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joy prom8The guests’ favorite item in the room? Blinky rings! 🙂

joy prom1

After they browse the selection, my job is to greet them at the table closest to the exit lined with an army of glitter hairspray. The guests LOVE it!

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A few hours into the night, it felt like a pound of aerosol and glitter was sitting in the bottom of my lungs, and my brain was a little foggy (LOL) but I wouldn’t trade this night for anything.

The room was full as crowds of guests and hosts had a ball getting ready for the ball that awaited them.

I turned around to greet the next guest and there she was.

I knew her!

She is the bagger at my local grocery store. She often greets me in the store’s uniform of khakis and a polo shirt. I’ve seen her donning the store’s bright neon, pedestrian vest to collect carts as well as sweeping the aisles with a huge broom in hand.

Tonight, this was her night. She was Cinderella at the ball.

Her beautiful blonde hair professionally done. Soft pink nails, too. On her wrist was a gorgeous corsage and her dress was fancy and formal. She looked like a princess.

This was her first year attending Joy Prom.

I smiled a HUGE smile and said, “HI! I know you!! Do you know me? We see each other at the grocery store!” My excitement was a little dorky, but I was so incredibly happy to see her I could not contain the joy.

She stared wide-eyed around the room, a little overstimulated from the people, noise and busyness of everything. I asked if she would like glitter hairspray in her hair.

Without a word, she nodded yes.

I guided her to the chair and asked if she would have a seat. Next, I gently placed my hand on her forehead to shield her from the spray and asked her close her eyes real tight as I began spraying the glitter hairspray.

In an instant, her beautiful blonde hair now shimmered with golden highlights.

She looked in the mirror and smiled. She never spoke, but I could tell she was amazed at the night’s magical feel. This night was about her. She seemed so humbled as though she’s never had so much fanfare on her behalf.

For me, I loved seeing same guests that I’ve come to recognize over the years. It was also a hugely fantastic moment to share a short conversation in sign language (something I don’t get to use much on a daily basis) with a guest who is deaf. I loved soaking in the laughter, squeals of delight and even some strutting from our special guests who knew that looked that good.

Serving with my family and girlfriends is deeply rewarding and fun. Watching my teens serve warms this mama’s heart that we are raising them in the way they should go when they are on their own. Being the hands and feet of Christ to our community is life-changing.

But the best moment of the night was having the opportunity to serve the young woman at Joy Prom who so faithfully serves me at the grocery store every week. It was a personal moment for me to say Thank you, by way of simple glitter hairspray. I choked back a lump in my throat as I had not anticipated getting to serve someone who works hard for me bagging my groceries while making pleasant conversation. I cherished our role reversal.

I am so grateful God connected our paths at Joy Prom. I had the privilege of watching her be blessed back and honored as our special guest, as well as see her as who she truly, beautifully is – the beloved daughter of our Good Father.

Take away our uniforms, hats of responsibility we wear, job titles, community titles, how others see us and how we see ourselves, and when God looks at us I believe He sees in us the masterpiece He created us to be – uniquely made by the Creator for the display of His splendor. ❤

Isaiah 61:3, They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.





Why I signed the pledge to boycott Target

Target's rainbow bullseye logo

What this post isn’t: It isn’t a political debate. It isn’t a religious debate. It isn’t a cultural debate. It isn’t a debate at all.

It’s not often I post something that is super-charged with emotion swinging from every side. Today solidified something for me on this issue and I am compelled to share it.

I’ve kept up with the news about the public restroom situation in this country. I’ve followed it on a national, state and local level. In the end, I am still confused, particularly with Target. I read their recent public statement, but wanted to hear their policy for myself so I went to Target in person hoping for some clarification.

I asked to speak to the store manager. They called for a woman I’ve seen in Target for years. As soon as I asked my question, “Would you please explain your restroom policy to me?” she completely, physically backed away and said I would need to speak to the store manager (that’s who I asked for in the first place, so not sure about the chain of command). She turned around and practically ran from me. Something I’ve never seen her do in all the years I’ve shopped there.

They called for the store manager and in a matter of moments we were shaking hands. I purposefully relaxed myself, leaning on the garbage can near customer service. I didn’t want her to think I was there to debate or make a scene (which I wasn’t). I repeated my question to her. Her response, “All I can do is refer you to a phone number from corporate to listen to their position on the matter.”

I asked the same question several different ways, hoping to receive more clarification than I need to call corporate. “If I need to go to the bathroom, you are saying I have to call a number first to help me decide if I want to go in the restroom?” “Is a man allowed in this store’s restroom?” The conversation was so difficult it was like we were speaking two different languages. We, in fact, were.

After struggling to get a clear answer, I smiled and said gently, “Please, just talk to me person-to-person.” Her whole demeanor relaxed except her facial expression. She pulled her long hair forward, stroked it nervously and said that she totally understood my concern, but that she isn’t able to discuss the matter. That’s interesting because at that point I had not told her my concern, just asking questions for clarification on their store’s policy. See, that’s the other language I didn’t understand.

I asked, “Have you changed the signs on the restrooms?” “No. Corporate hasn’t sent anything to us about that.”

My next question was with all sincerity because I don’t fully understand all of this…”Does Target’s policy usurp the law? I understand where states have put into place a law about gender-neutral restrooms, but in this city, which I can only speak for, we have a law that protects restrooms. This is what I don’t understand. Is Target’s policy as a private business now above the law on this issue?” She said she couldn’t answer this question or any of my questions. There’s the language barrier again.

Our conversation was painful of both of us. In the end, I replied, “I understand you are doing your job. However, I came here needing answers for an important issue for me. I’m still as confused as I was when I walked in. You can’t tell me anything. I get that. But it just seems so ridiculous that we can’t talk about using the bathroom without the conversation being censored by corporate. I’ve shopped in this store for almost 20 years. It’s my happy place. I like the environment. It gives me a department store feel for my everyday household needs. I like the clothes, the atmosphere. Everything. (She smiled.) But the truth is, after our conversation, based on what you cannot talk about, my unanswered questions and the fact that you are only allowed to say what has been told you may say (she said that earlier), I simply no longer feel safe in this store. I do not feel protected in any way. Corporate has such a stronghold, I doubt the power this store has to handle itself. There are so many unsettling things happening in this world, I am shocked Target has chosen to jump in the ring over this. I am saddened. I’d rather shop here than at other superstores, but the fact is I can get my laundry detergent anywhere. And so I will. After almost 20 years I will no longer shop at Target until they choose to value ALL of its customers’ personal safety.

She genuinely looked sad and apologized. I believe she felt torn over the issue.

I called the phone number the store gave me. 1-800-440-0680. Hmm. I was told it was the number to answer my questions so I asked my original question, “Can you please explain your restroom policy to me?”

Her response, “We welcome transgender men to enter the ladies’ restroom. So if a person was born one way, but now feels they are something different, they can choose the restroom they want to enter, whichever they identify with.” (I found it interesting she targeted men in her verbiage.)

“How are you going to oversee this policy so that other people aren’t abusing this policy with ill intentions?”

“We have no way of doing that at this time.”

“So, you’ve allowed anyone to enter any restroom without anyway of knowing if they are being honest or not?”

“No ma’am, I’m sorry.”

“So you made a blanket policy without having any way to enforce it for it’s original intent?”

“No ma’m. I have no other details I can offer at this time.”

“But, I was told to call this number for clarification?”

“I have no other details to offer at this time.”

“My next question, does Target enforce this policy in states where there are laws protecting us from it?”

“I have no other details at this time. You may want to call your state government.”

“I really need Target to answer, not my state government. Target has put a policy in place in states where it is against the law. Does Target feel it’s above the law?”

“I have no other details to offer at this time.”

“But I was told you could help clarify because I need these questions answered so I can decide where to shop.”

“I have no other details to offer at this time. We are simply taking down customers comments and sharing them with leadership.”

“Okay. Well, I am very disappointed you could not answer my questions, so here are my two comments I’d like you to record for leadership: One, I will no longer shop at Target because I no longer feel safe. This isn’t about politics, religion or culture. It’s about my personal safety, and nothing Target has said to me either in person or on this phone call has helped me feel any safer. Two, it seems Target made a huge, company-wide decision without any type of plan to oversee it. You have told me there is no way to enforce the honesty of transgender people with the dishonesty of others. How can I feel safe? Buying toilet paper at Target is not worth the risk of getting sexually assaulted – ever. Tell corporate that they’ve lost a loyal customer because they made a decision that they have no idea how to carry out for the benefit of everyone. I will not shop at ANY store where I feel my safety is at risk. I will no longer shop at Target until they reverse their policy.”

What amazes me is that they have one-stall restroom by the pharmacy that is open for anyone to use. Even on Black Friday there is never such a rush on restrooms where this one-stall restroom would not be sufficient.

Here are my three reasons why I will not shop at Target –

#1 – They put in place a nation-wide store policy, with disregard to the law, that they have no clue how to properly enforce – a policy which personally affects my physical safety every single time I visit Target.

#2 – They have neither equipped their store management nor corporate call centers to handle this properly. Both are under such a heavy gag-order by corporate they cannot answer simple questions about the policy. Simple, but important, questions such as how are they going to make sure people are not abusing their new policy?

They make sure other security measures are in place. There is a plan for shoplifting including security cameras and prosecuting offenders. There is a plan for emergency weather, emergency first aid, lost children and security threats to the store.

What is the plan for those who will abuse this policy and enter restrooms for the sole purpose of sexually assaulting women and children; videoing and photographing them using the bathroom (which both have already been done numerous times now with the new transgender restroom issue; protecting young eyes from those who wish to expose themselves to children; from ptsd situations for the 1 in 3 women who have already been sexually assaulted in our country; the sheer intimidation factor of having the opposite sex in the restroom; not to mention the privacy factor, especially for women who need to change out pads and tampons as well as a personal privacy for restroom issues without the embarrassment of having the opposite sex present?

Target has absolutely zero plan of action on enforcing their new policy, which leads me to my third and most important reason why I will not shop at Target anymore as long as they allow men in women’s bathrooms…

#3 – When (not if) a problem arises in a Target restroom, store management has NO authority or plan on how to handle it.

Clearly, Target is not looking out for the entire demographic of its customers.

After speaking to two managers and the corporate call center (the only option they could refer me to), the unbelievable truth is that they have no plan to protect women and children. Zero. We are on our own. So, when an incident occurs, what would management do? It’d be the woman’s word against the man’s. It is obvious Target would side with the man as soon as he cited “transgender” regardless if he is or not. This title is a free pass for any man, teenager or boy, to have free reign in a woman’s restroom.

Everyone from predators to boys on a dare can now do whatever they want in a women’s restroom and have been given full permission and protection by Target.

What happens when a transgender male is followed into the women’s restroom by a man who wants to do him harm? Transgender people aren’t protected either under Target’s store policy!

Where is my protection as a woman? Where is the protection for little girls AND little boys not old enough to enter the men’s restroom by themselves.

Target has miserably failed its customers. They reacted too quickly to an issue they have no plan on how to implement for the protection of all.

Because of their haphazard decision without a plan for protection of all of its customers, there is no way I am darkening their door. Why will I knowingly go somewhere I am not valued and my safety is not a concern? Target sells nothing I cannot buy anywhere else.

Wow. I really wanted a productive dialogue with Target. All three times I was left with the same response, “Corporate will not let me comment.” Again, WHEN incidents occur, they have not given local managers the authority to handle even a simple conversation about it, so why in the world would I have confidence that management would handle the incident more than referring me to another 800 number?

I will gladly give my business to stores that value the personal safety of all of its customers. That’s also why online shopping is so great. Avoid the whole issue altogether. However, Target’s online store has also lost my business for the sheer fact they’ve decided not to value me as a customer.

Why did Target pick a fight with me, an ordinary, yet loyal, customer? It’s a lose-lose for both of us.

Since Target refuses to protect the safety of all of its customers, I will gladly give my dollars and customer loyalty to its competitors. If you are so inclined. feel free to sign the pledge here.

As much as I will miss my Target runs, I value my physical safety, and the physical safety of my family WAY MORE. That’s a no-brainer. Hopefully Target will see that they had already accommodated all customers with their one-stall restroom that allows 100% privacy.

Until then, Target missed the target of what they were trying to accomplish. I hope Target rethinks its reckless policy, lack of a plan to carry it out, and the removal of physical safety for every customer who enters its store.

Picture frames, greeting cards, paper plates and fabric softener are not worth altering any future forever by becoming victims of sexual crimes, bullying or permanent emotional distress simply because we needed to go to the bathroom.

Making peace with Mother’s Day

mothers dya blog
Mother’s Day is coming soon. Since 1987 I have wrestled over this day. For years I just couldn’t even think about it. I wanted to erase it from the calendar – or at least from my mind. I loved celebrating my mom when she was alive. But losing her at sixteen changes every holiday – especially the one in honor of her.
I went through every stage of grief after she died. My body suffered from IBS for an agonizingly long time because it didn’t know how to process such tremendous loss. Migraines. Nervous ticks. Depression. Isolation. Losing the will to live. Hopelessness. So many pebbles in my shoes on this uphill journey.
Then, one year while shopping in Hallmark (I am a card junky), I passed by the Mother’s Day card section. It’s pink. It’s flowery. It’s all-things-mom. I so badly missed participating in this day for a mother I loved and longed to simply give a card to.
It is though God whispered in my ear that, even though she is not here to receive it, I could still buy her a card in hopes that it would somehow heal another piece of my heart. So I walked down that aisle slowly, unsure of what this experience might do to me and my journey.
I read dozens of cards, each one bringing back a memory of her – of us. I pulled several and spread them all over the carpet and sat down, in the middle of the aisle. I lost myself in this moment. Time stood still. The joy of her being my mom bubbled up in my heart for the first time in years. I had the BEST time reading, searching, pondering, remembering and finding the perfect card.
There it was. The. Perfect. Card.
A huge lump swelled in my throat as I proudly escorted the card to checkout. I wanted to share this journey with the clerk. Moreover, I wanted to keep it private just between Mom and me.
This experience was extremely healing. I felt like where I had been excommunicated from the beloved mothers and daughters club, I was brought back in, on my terms.
I still have this card. I never wrote in it.
Fast forward to this week. I’m in the store looking for a few needed household items and there it was. The pink, flowery and all-things-mom card section.
Because I braved my heart’s hurt all those years ago, I am able to shop for Mother’s Day cards again. I buy them for family and friends and my treasured mother-in-law.
But this day I just couldn’t. So much is swirling around in life right now that my heart is weary. Literally, they’ve put me on blood pressure meds. (If only they had such an easy fix for our emotional heart as they do our physical one.)
I stopped and looked at the cards. I looked at the other woman reading them. I reached for a card, but before I opened it I put it back.
Today was not the day to shop for Mother’s Day cards. There will be other days, but this one wasn’t it.
As I walked away from this card aisle, pangs of guilt seared my heart. But then, I stopped and told myself it was okay. Not shopping for them today out of spontaneous convenience doesn’t mean I don’t care about the moms in my life. It simply means I’ve traveled this path long enough, and felt every possible emotion of all of the pebbles in my shoes over living with loss, that I’m in a new pace now.
A place that is much more sure-footed. Solid ground. I am not persuaded by guilt nor am I running from emotions stronger than I can face. I’ve come to a place in this journey where her loss is a part of me that softens me. A part that reminds me to enjoy life and not take the simplest of blessings for granted. To appreciate not just the beautiful, but to seek the beauty in everything.
The momentum of strength that has built over time with each passing holiday or memory that comes to mind gives me passion to fully love, fully forgive, fully embrace life and those God has put in it.
Walking into the Mother’s Day card aisle all those years ago was the best thing I could’ve done for who I was then. Walking away from it the other day was the best thing I could’ve done for who I am now. It shows just how far my heart has come on this journey of living with loss.
I’ll be back. I look forward to card-shopping for the moms in my life to let them know what fabulous moms they are. But, it will be when I’m ready and it will be joyful. Until then, I’m going to stop and take a breath on this most difficult journey and thank God for how far He has brought this baby girl who misses her mom. ❤

The Photo Challenge

Years ago, I was asked by my friend, Robin, to be part of a challenge and post a photo of myself that I thought was beautiful. I literally cringed when I read the request and told her I hate having my photo taken. She said that’s WHY she wanted to include me in the challenge. She was curious as to my response.
Robin, I’ve never forgotten. It’s taken me these past years to decide how to respond. I’ve finally got my answer.
This is the photo I chose. I know. It misses the point of the challenge. I saw others’ photos and they were truly beautiful. I understand I was supposed to find a photo that I felt was flattering or that I simply feel represents me well. I may have missed the first goal, but the second hopefully one nails it.
* This photo is of my wrist. A wrist with a bone chip floating around in it from a fall 6 years ago that has had flare ups since the accident. It represents that I am broken.
* The sun damage represents I am scarred. My life hasn’t been easy, but it has never been forsaken by God and for that, the intangible scars I have are being used for His glory and my good.
* The bead bracelet is the one we made and wore in Guyana last year and I’ve never ever taken it off since. We wore them to communities, churches and prisons to share the Gospel story of Christ told in colors as we tied them on wrists to all we met. Black = our sin, life without Christ. Red = His blood shed for the atonement of my sins. White = my new life in Christ by accepting Him as my Savior. Yellow = the promise of heaven for all who have accepted Christ and Green = our growing relationship with Christ every day.
* My $10 watch because #1 – I don’t store up treasures on earth that we can’t take with us and #2 – time is short. This life is not my own. I surrendered it to Christ and it is for God’s glory however He wants to use it. Time is short and I don’t waste it.
* More than anything, I don’t need my face (or my body, oh please!) to be remembered. I want His features, the fruit of the Spirit, to be remembered in me.
I didn’t post a photo of “me” because beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and beauty is also fleeting. As I age (which I will fight to the death) I want to become more beautiful in ways that time, age and experience cannot damage or destroy. I want to be a woman that, no matter what I look like, will be remembered for being beautiful because the light of Christ shone through me. And every time I blow it (embarrassingly often :O), let it be a beacon of hope to others that His grace and forgiveness is bigger and can cover any sin.
There ya go. A photo of broken & beautiful. Of scared and sacred. Of hope for today and for a time still to come and a passion to share this hope with others. ❤