I love my birthday. Always have. It drives me crazy to see people complain about their birthdays and how they’re getting older and blah, blah, blah.
I get to celebrate another year – the fact that I’m still here and alive. I shouldn’t be here and six years ago I had the desire to end my life. But God is bigger and that’s worth celebrating.
As I prepare to turn 25.. ahem.. 32.. I’d love for you to celebrate with me.
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I’m scared. Out. Of. My. Wits.
My phone rings and someone wants to know how they can make a donation to Esther’s House. It rings again and she asks me how she can volunteer. I answer it again and tell a woman struggling with the shame of her sexual abuse we’re not open yet. I spend a couple hours on the phone interviewing potential team members. I pray with a woman over the phone, inviting Jesus to set her free. Then a news reporter calls and wants to do a feature on the ministry.
Then I freak out and ask myself, What is happening? Why do these people want answers from me? What if I don’t know how to answer their questions. What if I totally fail at this leadership thing? What if God is making a huge mistake?
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A couple of weeks ago I was hanging out with some new friends. We’re still in the “getting to know each other” stage, so there are still those awkward pauses, stares, shifting in our chairs, etc.
Things were going well, until I heard these words come out of one of my new friends’ mouths.
“I’m the fat girl,” she said with a smile, as though bringing humor to it would lighten the impact of those words. They may have for her and the others around us, but not for me.
It made my blood boil. I was mad. I still am. Not at her. I’m mad she believes what the devil is telling her. Mad she truly thinks of herself as the “fat girl” when God thinks of her in such a different way.
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Have you ever been stung by a jellyfish? Me neither. Well, not a real one anyway. But I’ve been stung by plenty of metaphorical jellyfish and I can say I’m probably a better person for it.
Relationships are interesting. After we get hurt by a few people in our lifetime, it’s easy to become callous to letting others into the vulnerable places of our hearts. It’s easy to assume people are just out to get us.
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When I was a little girl, while most of my friends were dreaming about becoming brides and mothers, I was dreaming about becoming famous. I was going to be an actress, and author, and a songwriter.
Fourteen years ago I left my hometown, vowing to never return, unless they were naming a sign after me. Seriously.
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I hate books that convict me. Books requiring me to stop ignoring the change I need to make in my life. Yet I keep reading books, so it’s my own fault.
In July 2014 I bought Greg McKeown’s book, Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less to take on vacation with me. The first few pages in, as I sat in the sun by the pool, I decided I wasn’t in the mood to read a book about discipline. It went back into my suitcase, then back to the shelf, where it stayed until December.
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