Pursuit of a New Normal

I see the divine in their eyes, the precious innocence that keeps their wellspring pure,

And I am keenly aware of the pressure to get this right.

And by get it right,

The only possible thing I could refer to is grace,

Becoming a woman who embodies and extends grace,

As there is so very much I have received.

Their normal is one I have never known.

Even I am learning, perceiving, taking in, absorbing.

The baby slept as we prayed over a mad man in the den.

He was clothed in prayer, and then our own rags.

The eldest watched on, unphased by the happenings.

She knew it was time for the divine.

A life undisciplined will not bear the sweetness of vines tended.

But a life of routine risks ruts and roots lacking passion.

Teetering between the two, desperate to stay centered,

That their laughter is ever grounded in the security of the Father.

Steam rises, dances from the tea that sits before me now.

Like a worshipper, dancing around the fire

Lifting holy hands to God, offering whole self as living sacrifice.

The worshippers are gathering at the circle,

Acutely in tune, in sync, in rhythm with the community as it dances together,

And yet all eyes are focused on the Throne alone,

As if there is no one else in the room.

The gaze of the King embraces, warm and focused, yet gentle and cushioned.

Of all the worshippers in the room, the eyes of the Almighty see me.

Emotions balls at the throat, climbing higher.

Breath escapes me, stuttering, stammering

Unsure of whether it is tears or laughter that are soon to belt out,

The body explodes in praise.

And the dance grows wilder and the voice grows louder

Because love has set me free with eyes to see the divine.

Gratitude meets grace

And a new normal defines us all.

Today I am linking up to Imperfect Prose at In the hush of the moon. I'm excited and certainly humbled to join this community. Hop on over to take in some amazing prose and poetry.

You Capture: Everyday Things

Today's You Capture challenge is Everyday Things. Oh, this one was fun, because it caused me to take another look at little things that I might otherwise overlook, take for granted. Turns out, my everyday things are quite beautiful, bring many smiles, and hours of entertainment. I had taken some photos of our everyday tea, carafe, and the cooking utensils, since I feel like I spend quite a bit of time cooking here. But it turns out, my precious angels are so much more my everyday. Between the arts and crafts, funny faces, running and squealing, and lots of loves and hugs, they are a joy to me that I do not want to overlook or ever take for granted. I am a blessed mama.

Juju is wearing her craft for the morning. She was very proud of the hat that she made.

Toria with ever busy hands, creating, creating.

Run and squeal, run and squeal. Repeat.

She is quite the ham when the camera comes out. 

And I could just nibble on those cheeks all day. Oh wait. I do.

Endless funny faces. Endless life and vibrance in this gift of God. 

She just makes me laugh. All day. 

This would be her surprised look. 

Quiet, unassuming, and outrageously funny.

I mean seriously, I am totally, head over heels, in complete adoration of these girls. 

Everyday. Even the hard ones. 

Those are my everyday joys. Hop on over to I Should Be Folding Laundry to check out other shots of everyday things. Can't wait to see what others have captured.

What about you? What have you captured this week?

My Story: The Beginning of a Downward Spiral

**This is the next installment of His Story:My Life. To catch up on the first portions of the story, feel free to jump over here.**

I spent most of my childhood in Houston, rather a suburb of Houston. Houston is a good place to be from, and the suburb where we lived was a relatively great place to grow up as a kid. There were lots of other children in my neighborhood, where we filled our days with splashes and games at the neighborhood pool, and filled the evening hours with massive expeditions of Capture the Flag. We were an active family, with soccer games and swim meets keeping the family van moving.

Life after church was just, well, life. All things carried on in a status quo manner, and we were just good people just making our way. There was summer camp, and tents in the backyard, and surprise parties, and orchestra events, and all manner of busyness that goes with a growing a family. And I never knew the difference of the whole God-thing, and never thought to give it a thought.

That was up until my freshman year of high school, when my little world got it's first deep rocking. I was a member of the high school swim team and felt so privileged to be able to spend so much time with my fellow team members. It seemed I had finally found a niche where I felt I belonged, and all the deep insecurities from teasing and striving perfectionism settled into a tolerable rhythm.

But then just a few months into the year, tragedy struck our sheltered little suburb when we heard the news that one of our swim team members had been murdered, along with his older brother and his father. This person, this friend, this team member with whom we had spent many hours in training, was now gone.

Shock, confusion, and great despair spread throughout the community. Their church family was beside themselves. No one could understand how this great family, these upstanding Christians could have been caught up in such violence. They didn't understand where God was in the midst of it all, and for me, on the outside of that church family, it was one more confirmation that church held no lasting benefit for anyone at all.

In the mixed up emotions and angst of my teenage mind, I reasoned that a God who treated his followers like that was not a god to be followed. In the arrogance of my youthful invincibility, I reasoned that I was surely better off on my own, and that church was for the weak, the ignorant, the desperate. And I had already decided that was not to be me. As so I resolved that I was indeed better off on my own anyway. Decidedly, there was no reason to seek after God. He’ll only hang you out to dry and die in the end anyway.

Looking back on those years now, I can easily see how that period of time was like standing at the top of a downward spiral. I was on the edge of the widest circle, moving slowly down, around, and was slowly picking up speed. I just didn’t know it.

At the end of my sophomore year of high school, my family moved to Little Rock, Arkansas, a beautiful little city where no one knew anything about me. I could be whoever and whatever I wanted to be, because no one knew me.

There was a culture shock that was experienced in Little Rock that I did not expect. The racism that thrived in that town of the South ran so deep that both sides of the fence were tainted with ugly words and evil thoughts. I discovered a new kind of teasing at school, as racial slurs were thrown in our direction as my brother and I would walk down halls lined with much darker skin than our own. The tension was palpable and made school a painful thorn in my flesh.

This straight A teacher’s pet began skipping classes for the sake of avoiding the place altogether. I discovered a quiet park where other delinquents gathered and quickly became friends with my fellow ditchers. Truly, there is only so much that a bunch of teenagers can do while avoiding school, and alcohol and cigarettes were always a part of it. I spent many school afternoons out drinking and smoking for hours. I even showed up to my teenage job slightly tipsy one day. Very dumb.

Oh, if that were where my dumb choices stopped, I would rejoice greatly and write it all off. But with each afternoon where I was tipping back booze rather than sitting in typing class, for each day that I was lighting up smokes and kicking back with new friends, I was stepping further onto the downward spiral with the slippery slopes.

By the end of my junior year of high school in Little Rock, Arkansas, I rarely stayed at school for an entire day. My grades had begun to suffer, and my apathy was overwhelming. On a whim, I decided to apply to be a cultural exchange student. At that point, I was looking at anything to avoid having to return to school the following year. I wrote an essay to compete for a scholarship to send me to Ecuador for a year, and won. Crazy!

So the school year ended, I squeaked by to the finish line, and before I knew it, was packing my bags to spend the following year in a small town on the coast of Ecuador.

Oh boy, that downward spiral was beginning to get very slippery. 

Called By a New Name

There was a time in June when I met with a group of amazingly godly Maasai women. These women had been trained previously by other Kenyan women in biblical storytelling, and I was there to follow up with the women and hear their stories. I have written previously about the experience here. It was humbling and beautiful and inspiring and sad and challenging and so much more, all at the same time. These women toil, often in places where there are no other Christians. They alone are the pillars of the Church, carrying the torch of salvation to regions who have not yet seen the Light yet.

When our session came to a close, the ladies were milling around, chatting and gabbing as only women can, (that doesn’t change from culture to culture) when it was asked if I had been given a Maasai name. When I answered an honest, “No,” it was decided that today was the day that I would be called by a new name.

And so they stood and discussed for a moment, and then announced.

Nassirian, meaning “Woman of Peace.”

At first I was taken aback, humbled, embarrassed.

In my head, I heard this: “It’s only because they don’t know you. If they knew you better, they’d take it back. Your life is full of turmoil, strife. There is no peace in you about anything.”

And yet the name was spoken, and in all grace, I received it, holding back the welling up in my eyes for fear that they might be misunderstood. My heart swelled, suddenly blocking my throat, making it difficult to swallow, as it thumped louder and stronger there.

I smiled humbly. “Thank you for that name. I am greatly honored. I will treasure it for life.”

And the conversation quickly moved on to name others. But me, I was stuck there. My world paused. No one knew it but me. They will never know how that one moment in time will forever be memorialized in my heart. It will forever be a stone that I carry with me, just as the Israelites carried a stone up out of the Jordan River.

Thus far has the Lord brought me, and I have this stone to show for it. Nassirian.

One other name was given, and then the rain began to fall. Gently, softly, big cleansing drops pouring forth from Heaven.

He has heard the name. Nassirian. Woman of Peace.

He ordained the name, and though I am not yet who He has created me to be, He is doing a new thing, and new Name has been given, so that I too know where He is taking me.

The water of Heaven baptized my hair, running a stream down my cheeks, dripping off the end of my nose. It has been washed. I have been washed, and He is doing a new thing.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.

I have read it often. I have pondered what it would be like to be called a peacemaker, and not in the sense of pleasing man, but in the sense of embodying grace and mercy, letting gentleness be evident to all. I can see her, the woman who God is calling out. I can almost touch her, and on good days, I feel my heart consumed by her. She is gentle in tone. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. She demonstrates mercy to all other fellow sojourners, knowing that not one of us has yet reached our destination. Her hurts have been many, her bruises in various stages of healing. Because she knows the pain of mankind, and knows the comfort of the Comforter, she is able to offer comfort to all others in her path. A safe place to land.

I can see her.

And on quiet, dark mornings, when I beat the sun and children in rising, and I greet my Savior with crusty eyes, bare feet, opens hands, and moldable heart, He welcomes her to the day, this woman of peace.

He calls me by a new name. And I will ever praise Him.

Today I am linked up to ShoutLaughLove, as we journey to joy together.

On Change and Gratitude

The breaking of the habit of anger starts with two words:

Thank You.

When anger has taken up residence for so long, eyes for the divine, the appreciation for smiles, the ability to give and receive joy is quenched, closed, suppressed. Where others see hope and possibility, the angry heart sees only doors that have slammed shut and evil intentions. It is a strange phenomenon, oozing in slowly, quietly, until the fleshly heart is hard and cold, a stone void of feeling and responding in love. A heavy lump of nothing, taking up space in the chest, making it difficult to breathe.

But a simple thank you, primitive, basic, desperate.

Thank you for the day to try again. Thank you for the mercy for another chance.

Life-generating.

And suddenly there is a pulse; a small blip on an otherwise flat line. Deep red river flows to cold, hard darkness, and precious oxygen is sucked into the lungs that have forgotten how to breathe. The first inhalation in a very long time. That which was black and dead is being transformed, renewed, brought back to life.

Thank you for the smile.

Thank you for the deep, belly laughter of three beautiful little girls.

Thank you for the little girls.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Blood pumps and flows, less constricted. The strained breath of before relaxes, diaphragm rhythmically flowing up and down, up and down. Life giving. Life restoring. Life healing. Life generating. Breathe.

Eyes for the divine are opening, the Father’s love gracing His children. Every bit of joy, every smile, every giggle, every moment of contentment and peace is the grace of the Father, manifesting itself in everyday interactions. He reveals Himself. He shows His mercy, His beauty, His grace in all of creation, asking if His children are aware enough to see.

See Me, That I Am.

And in those moments of awareness, I say thank you. 

And so a new journey of healing and renewal has begun, with a simple acknowledgement of gratitude, and counting of blessings received.

#1. Thank you, Abba Father, for new life.




Today I am choosing to join a community of grace and gratitude, counting the blessings that God has given. Gratitude will be the new habit that replaces the dead chaff that is being blown away. In the counting of blessings, I must be intentional to look for them, asking God continually for eyes to see and ears to hear.

What about you? What you thankful for? Have you counted your blessings lately? Would you like to  join me in the journey of counting one thousand, and beyond, gifts? 


Take a look over at A Holy Experience, full of beautifully raw and humble writings of a journey to God,  to join the community.

Some Habits Must be Broken

There are words, themes, lessons of sorts that have been swirling around my head for quite some time. It has stumped me, unable to move forward in words and thoughts until this is sorted out. I know that God is teaching, transforming, so I search for a quiet moment on this precious Sabbath to process and decipher what it all is. By God's grace, now I sit alone, away from the tugs of little hands and demands of household chores, with people milling all around in laid back, African style, and a welcoming latte resting in front of me. The foam of the drink has been artfully shaped into a gentle heart, wispy and light, reminding of of what it is that God is after. Mine. My heart. The steam rises up as I struggle to offer up these thoughts and words.

Speak Lord. Your servant is listening. God of order and comfort, bring order to the tornado of thoughts. 

God, I hear you speaking.

He speaks healing.

He speaks comfort.

He speaks joy.

He speaks gratitude.

He speaks peace.

He speaks Life.

Anger is a habit, detrimental, devastating, destroying habit, but a habit nonetheless. Learned. Practiced. Mastered. It starts out small. Someone offends, betrays, wrongs in some way. I feel the offense and take it in. I welcome it in to unpack and make itself at home. It dwells, and welcomes its sisters, bitterness, resentment, and rage. They are messy houseguests, but stay for quite some time. They begin to call the shots. 

In a move of protection from further offense, I callously write the person off, shrugging of the hurt as no big deal. Doesn’t bother me. I don’t need that in my life.

So in the name of defending self, in response to a small hurt, a small corner of the heart hardens, blackens, and dies. I don’t feel it because it was small, an inconspicuous death numbed by the sense of justification and gall. It crept in unnoticed and now sits quietly, brewing, waiting to spread.

The first death took a small toll, though ire and disgust glazed the view. But by the third or fourth death, the response is a killer on autopilot, and the funeral is swift and emotionless. The mourners stand on the graves of previous victims, as the cemetery is becoming quite crowded. There is no thanks for things seen, or unseen. Nothing can be offered up, not even condolences for the tragic passing, as the true tragedy lies in the lack of vision for what is happening. The eyes are closed to the divine, and only hurt lingers. Gratitude is dead.

And so the cycle is formed, the habit established. Anger has moved in, as it alone can live in the blackness of a dead heart. Lifeblood cannot pump to those regions. Light cannot dwell with anger. Growth cannot compete with despair. A slow shut down has begun.

And yet He has spoken Life. The heart can only house one feeling at a time. It can only be filled with one spirit at a time. Life and Death will not cohabitate. Light and darkness with not reside side by side. Anger and peace will not live together. Mercy and disgust will not hold hands. Gratitude has no dwelling with such darkness ruling the land. So when He speaks Life, He speaks change, transformation.

He speaks a new thing, just as He is calling His children into a new creation, with a new name.

But then this habit must first be broken. 

You Capture: Summer

The You Capture theme for today is summer. 7 out of the last 10 summers for me have been spent somewhere in Africa, so my summers tend to look a bit different from the typical summer. This is a brief snapshot of my summer thus far. Enjoy!

Our local market, a few minutes walk from our house. 

The amazing African fabric.

Some of the most beautiful dresses in the world have come out of fabrics such as these.

Beautiful Maasai women, doing their dance.

And of course, my African princesses. Aren't they gorgeous?

Check out Beth's blog, I Should Be Folding Laundry, to find other amazing photographs of summer. 

What did you capture this week?

Creative Inspiration

So we have a little over a month left here in Africa, and I am already thinking ahead. We arrive back just as the events of fall are swinging into full gear, so we will hit the ground running when we arrive. We will get home on a Saturday night, and then Toria will jump into her preschool class on Monday. She will attending preschool 4 afternoons a week, Monday through Thursday. Weird.

I am still tossing the homeschool thing around, toying with it here and there, just haven't fully committed to it yet. There are many reasons why it is a yes to me, and just a few (quite honestly selfish) reasons that it is a no. Toria has a scholarship to do the preschool thing for one more year, though, so we will take them up on it and bless her to go. But truth be told, there are many things that she is ready to start doing and learning that they will not be covering in preschool. They are kindergarten types of things, but she misses the cut-off to start kindergarten by a couple of months, so has to sit it out another year.

Her little mind is like a sponge, though, anxious and eager to start reading and learning more. And so we are doing that at home and working through book after book after book. She has completed level one of Hooked on Phonics and is quite anxious to get back home to start level 2.

A precious friend of mine just started the homeschool journey using My Father's World curriculum and is really enjoying it thus far. I am excited to learn more for her and her experiences.

And so as I am looking forward to fall activities, there is much that I am tossing around in an attempt to be organized (which is a strong desire, yet not necessarily a strength in and of itself) and not take on too much. There are some personal desires that I am tossing around and really praying about, as I do not want to bite off more than I can chew simply because I got a little overly ambitious, which I tend to do.

I have been working on some menu plans, which is actually #64 on my 101 Goals. I tend to fail at keeping the lunch plan, as it is just so much fun to meet girlfriends out for lunch and hangout. But afternoon preschool in place, and a strong desire to tighten up the budget (once more) I need to have some sort of lunch in place that the girls will eat, even if we make it picnic style so we can still meet with friends briefly before preschool. So, I have found some great lunch ideas that seem like they will work great, so I am excited about that. Once I have them put together, I will share them on here.

Meal planning is such a hassle to me. I dread it. It seems like such a loooong process of having to pull out the cookbooks and thumb through, with the looming question of, not only "what will we eat this week?" but also, "what will I cook this week?"I love the crockpot and if I can get my act together in the morning to get food cooking, the crockpot is the way to go for me! So, the menu plans are coming together, and if I can get a rotation of about 4 weeks or so with different meals, then maybe meal planning, and the carrying out of the meal plans, wouldn't be such a big deal.

I love the idea of schedules and routines throughout the days of the week. In my mind, a schedule would ensure that all desired activities are covered, there is a time and a space slotted for each said activity, so nothing is forgotten. It turns out that I am pretty easily distracted and fairly forgetful, so there may be things that I want to do or get done in a week, and yet can't seem to stay focused enough to get it done. So the idea of a schedule to keep me on track seems ideal.

But it also turns out that I lack discipline, which is really disappointing to me. Did I mention that I am easily distracted? I tend to have great ideas, but the follow is sadly lacking. Or my perfectionism leads me to do all sorts of research on a topic so that I can get it just right, and then, again, the follow through is sadly lacking.

BUT, I do have some great ideas and am feeling very inspired these days. Sooooo, if I can work out a schedule where I can pockets of time here and there to teach my girls throughout the day AND get some of my great ideas done, then I will have a plan that excites me!

Some of my great ideas include, yet are not limited to:

I really want to start sewing again. I used to sew quite a bit before my married days, long before children occupied my every moment. But I have been looking at some AMAZING creative blogs lately, and am just really wondering if I couldn't get my skills back up again and start creating things for my family and friends (and myself!) and maybe even get to a point where I could sell a thing or two. Well, that's looking pretty far ahead, but it's ok to dream.

A few things that I would like to try sewing, just for starters, is an apron, and maybe some skirts for my girls. I have also seen some great projects using needle felting, crocheting, and knitting, and also this super cute princess crown and needle felted wand for my princesses.

I would also like to start doing journaling with my girls. I saw a great idea of doing a drawing journal with them before they can start writing, allowing them to draw out what they remember for the day and being able to talk with them about it. I love that and would love to be able to start that with them. I've never really considered myself to be a crafty person, so this is all new and interesting, but, like I said, I've been inspired.

I am looking forward to getting back to exercising. I have long held the goal of doing the Couch to 5K plan, to completion. Last year I started it, and my precious friend committed to doing it with me. Long story short, she completed it and ran a 5K. I did not. Sniffle. I think I mentioned something about my follow through lacking. And discipline.

Sooo, I am resolved to finish it this time, and am even now looking for a 5K race to sign up for, to keep myself committed and encouraged to finish. That will cross off one more goal on my list of 101 goals.

But we still have a month or so left here in Africa, so maybe I can just get some planning done here where I still have the time and space to plan things out. Hopefully that will help with the implementation and keeping me from taking on too much. These are my random thoughts of creative inspiration for today. Hopefully there will be more in the future, especially once we return to the states and I can actually do some of them!

The Ahhh of Life

So for the past two weeks, my husband has been traveling and training. I tend to not talk about him being away while he is away because I prefer not to broadcast that news, but currently he is back in Kenya with us. Now, when we are in the states and he travels, it is a challenge. Being home with 3 young girls is exhausting. But when we are in the states, there is a bit more of a support system in place, most of the time. I have a vehicle, most of the time, and am able to go places, be active, get out with the girls. I can go to the gym to burn off excess stress, or calories. I can meet girlfriends for lunch and have adult conversations. I have family and friends around to help me with the girls occasionally if I need a break, or need to run an errand alone. I have options.

But when he travels and we are here in Africa, that support system is not in place, and life is a bit more exhausting than normal, to say the least. So the past two weeks were certainly a challenge. There were days when all patience was gone, but snippy, kurt responses were just flowing. There were days that early bedtimes were just flat-out necessary for sanity's sake. There were days that I just could not come up with enough things for them to do to keep their hands busy and out of trouble. It was rough, and I was more than ready for my husband to come home.

Truth be told, though, those rough days are not only limited to my husband's travel days. Sometimes, it is just downright hard to be passionate about staying at home with the kids. I worked hard for my education and loved my career, though it certainly took a toll on my heart. But I loved being able to contribute to something bigger than myself, to be a part of the world and be passionate about giving of myself, and receiving gratitude, or any feedback at all, for the work that I did. Some days, it is really hard to get passionate about changing one more diaper whose stench could make your eyes water. It's hard to get excited about cleaning up yet another spill, or finding yet another pair of lost shoes, or washing the laundry again, not to mention the dishes. And the mouths to be fed, floors to be cleaned, beds to be made, etc. etc. etc. There are days when those sibling squabbles are just more than I can handle.

To hear that familiar wail of:

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM! Toria hit me!" 

or 

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! Juju pulled my hair!" 

or 

"MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM! Toria is looking at me!!" 

or 

"MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM! Juju won't leave me alone!" 

or 

any combination of the above, plus many, many more, 

for the umpteenth time in a day, 

it's enough to throw me over the edge.

Last night one of the girls came to with one of the above listed complaints, I think it was that her sister hit her. So I, in my pure apathy and lack of desire to play referee just one more time for the day, told her to go hit her sister back. She looked at me, puzzled for a moment, then quickly said, "OK" and turned to pursue the offender. There are those days when I just reach my absolute end, and would much rather throw the two girls into a ring and let them battle it out to see who will be standing at the end, declare the winner and send them all to bed. 

My husband looked at me in wonderment as he stopped the offended from going after her offender. It's OK. He hasn't been here. There are those days, though, when I just wonder what my contribution is, or if I have just faded into some invisible vacuum of mommyhood that has swallowed my identity whole.

But then there are other moments, when I am reminded of what I am building into. When one of my little girls looks at me and says with a genuine heart, "Mommy, I want to be just like you when I grow up." Or another will take my face in hands and say, "Mommy, you are the best mommy I know." There are those redeeming moments when I am reminded that I am building them, that I am contributing to the future by letting these girls know that they are worth everything, and more. 

There are things that I am doing for myself these days, healing journeys that I am on, issues that I am tackling that I was never willing to venture on before. There are things that I am doing now for myself, because of them. Because I don't want them to take the path that I did. I don't want them to struggle as I have. I don't want them to make the same mistakes that I did. I want them to know their worth, their dignity, their value. I didn't, and I paid dearly for it. Still do. But them, no...I'm building into them so that they know. 

Sunday night we picked my husband up at the Nairobi airport as he was arriving back from the Congo. Our nephew was driving, and as we drove home, my husband was sitting in front passenger seat, and I sat in the back seat with the girls. The baby was on my lap, sitting on my left thigh with her head resting on my chest. Her left hand had reached up to stroke my cheek (she loves to touch my face) and came to rest there. My middle daughter was sitting on my right side and had laid her head down on my right thigh, my right arm resting on her back. My oldest daughter was sitting beside her sister to my right, and she had taken my right hand in hers and was resting her head on my forearm with my hand in her lap. My girls were all over me, resting and loving, and I was at complete peace with them. And then as we drove, my husband reached his right hand back around his seat and wrapped his hand around my lower right leg, resting it there in love and consolation. 

It was in that moment as we drove home from the airport, when the weight of exhaustion and loneliness was at its heaviest from two weeks without my husband, it was in that very moment when all hands were on me, claiming a part of my body to lay theirs to rest, that the Ahhh of life settled in. It was an Ahhh of peace, an exhalation of relaxation to know that I am paying into something so much greater than myself. It was a settling confirmation that my mundane, often unnoticed contributions throughout a normal day, have, in fact, not gone unnoticed. Because they want to be like me someday. They see something, something that I have not yet even seen fully in myself. Something strong. Something of dignity. Something of worth and valor. They see it. And my Creator is giving me eyes to see it as well.

They see it. And they want to be like me. 

She is clothed with strength and dignity. 

I am praying for the perseverance and wisdom to continue to contribute to this cause. To their cause, which ultimately, is my cause. It gives me pause to exhale, and say Ahhhhh...

Check out Suzannah's blog to read about other pilgrims' journeys, that we may all shout, laugh, and love together. 

My Story: The Birth of a Perfectionist

I was an incredibly sensitive child. To a fault. I was condemned to glasses and acne at a very early age, which was only a set up for the schoolyard bullies to have a field day. On top of that, my fashion sense was, well about as unconventional as my family, and so I was teased on many fronts, from a very early age. Because I was such a sensitive, tender child, this teasing absolutely shredded any amount of self-esteem that a child could have.

I also came from a teasing family, only it wasn't the same kind of malicious schoolyard teasing that I received during the day. But to my sensitive heart, all teasing equalled insults, and so I began to live in constant fear of being teased for my faults and shortcomings. Somehow, I determined that if I could just be perfect, get things right, all things, then no one would have reason to tease me. If I could just blend into the back wall so no one would notice me, then they wouldn't tease me. In theory, that might sound good, but no one can really live like that. There is no perfection this side of heaven, and a child cannot go unnoticed for too long at all.

But I worked at it nonetheless. I strived to be the perfect student, quiet and smart, loved by teachers for not causing problems and not requiring extra attention. Unfortunately, though, the teasing at school did not stop, as I was called every name under the sun by bullies who had their own issues.

Four-eyes! Zit-face! Nerd! Hey dork, why don't you wash your face every now and then! What the hell are you wearing, dork? You freak!

I wish I had been stronger. I wish I could have fought back. I wish that those names didn't level me to tears, every time. But I refused to cry in front of the bullies. I would not give that to them. So I would hold it in, push it down, and allow the words spoken over me to ruminate, simmer, like a crockpot of hatred and bitterness that would swirl around my heart and mind, taking up residence in any crag available. In my pursuit of perfectionism, I neglected proper use of my own emotions and boundaries, and tried to hold things together, right up until I would explode, every couple of months it seemed. What a mess.

I just read recently from a Beth Moore book that "perfectionism is insecurity in art form." Precisely. And that was the aim. And when those habits go unchecked as a child, when that becomes the form of coping and dealing as a child, growing into adulthood becomes very interesting. Truly, it's difficult to really grow when perfection is the aim.

And yet that was the path that I chose, for better and worse.