Let’s Go to Church

In 2017, I wrote a book.

It’s not the book I thought I would write. I was on course to finish my third novel, In Terms of Liv by November. I was trucking along, I had over half of it written. The hashtag #metoo spread like wildfire, providing the perfect societal backdrop for a young adult novel about sexual assault. Then, I hit a brick wall. It was the most monumental case of writer’s block that I have ever experienced.

For a month, I sat with fingers poised to finish the book, but nothing came.

Then I met Emily Walker.

Emily’s a lot like me when I was seventeen. Quirky, sweet, a little angsty, a little disenchanted with church culture and everything it seems to say about her.

She also has a problem that still plagues me— one that I didn’t know I had until I started writing a book about her.

Emily doesn’t like to take up space.

She wears a lot of black. She wears headphones a lot. She stays out of people’s way, and doesn’t like to say how she feels— especially if it’s going to upset them.

Writing this book about Emily was like seeing myself in a mirror.

I’ve learned a lot from Emily. I’ve learned that making myself smaller is not admirable. It does not make me more lovable. It doesn’t enrich relationship.

I’ve also learned that taking up space looks different all the time. Sometimes, it’s speaking. Sometimes, it’s being comfortable with silence. Sometimes, it’s stretching out in all the space someone’s got roped off for you. Sometimes, it’s kicking out windows and letting the rubble fall where it may. It’s not always gently unfolding into love and security. Sometimes, in order to take up space, something has to give or break or be destroyed.

So, I wrote a book in 2017. It’s a book about kicking out windows and taking up space and stepping into the light.

Emily’s a pretty cool girl. I can’t wait for you to meet her.

“She was not unhappy. She knew nothing of the world except the tomb in which she dwelt, and had some pleasure in everything she did. But she desired, nevertheless, something more or different. She did not know what it was, and the nearest she could come to expressing it to herself was -- that she wanted more room.” - George MacDonald, “The Day Boy and the Night Girl”

On Superhero Capes

There once was a girl who wore a superhero cape.

It wasn't a fancy cape. A hodgepodge of florals and stripes, bold and tame. Fashioned from scraps found along her way, it gave her a super power.

Superhuman strength... but not the kind that can stop bullets or lift cars clear above her head.

The kind that can walk through fire.

The kind that can silence storms and tame the wild.

A few too many battles changed her mind. She didn't wield well this strength. She decided that the only way to survive was to use her superpower to protect herself.

Her heart turned to forged iron. It made her stand tall. Her cape changed from rags to shimmering light, and she thought she could fly. She used heavy stones to build a fortress. She flew to its highest turret and lived high above all of the people she knew. She was untouchable. She was unhurtable. 

She was strong.

But this power was never meant to protect her. It was never meant to draw battle lines in a circle around herself.

People came from far and wide to see this heroine. She wandered the halls of her fortress, watching the people from her spire. But she could not touch them. She could not help them or love them or live among them, for her cape was only beautiful and her heart was only safe inside the stone walls.

She grew dismayed, her iron heart rusting ever so slightly at the seams. She prayed each night that she would become strong again.

Her strength did not return. Rain began to fall each day. It eroded the mortar between the stones of her tower. She cursed the sky from which it came, and the God Who had seemingly not answered her prayers. Her cape turned slowly back to rags and her heart to flesh and blood.

Our heroine awoke one day to find a bright sky and the sun shining warm.

"Maybe, for one day, I could walk amongst the people. My fortress is no good anymore anyway."

So, she ventured out with her cape made of scraps. She tried to lift the heaviest stone she could find, but she wasn't able. She tried to fly above the treetops to see the glorious view of the sky, but her feet hardly left the ground.

"This old cape isn't worth anything," She said as she trudged back to her tower. She reached to untie the knot, just as a ragged stray dog stepped into the path before her. It limped and snarled all at once, warning her away. But, she knew it was badly hurt. 

"I just want to help you," she said, reaching out a cautious hand. "It's really no use trying to guard your wounds."

Slowly, the dog obliged. She wrapped it in her cape and cleaned it up. As she continued home, the dog followed, and she realized that even if she couldn't fly-- even if she didn't stand tall-- she could tame the wild again.

On Being Overdressed

Imagine a little girl, dark wispy hair, big gray eyes. She dances in a black velvet tutu across every part of her life. There is joy in the assuredness of knowing who she wants to be. More than anything, she wants to be a dancer-- a ballerina.

At age 5, she's handed a shirt. It's been so long since then, she can't remember what color it was, but she knows she slipped it on over her tutu and tried to keep dancing. The shirt is too big on her, and it turns her graceful movements into lumbering steps. The big, block lettering scrawled across the front distracts her at first.

"Big Boned" is all it says.

Over the next few years, she is handed more and more shirts. She doesn't think to remove the previous ones, just keeps layering them up.

"I don't want to be your friend."
"Cheeseburger."
"If you don't like it, change it."

Layer after layer, she just keeps dancing. But, to those around her, her dance looks more and more foolish as her movements are inhibited by her bulk.

At age 13, she stops trying to dance.

She receives more shirts. Gifts from people who admire her from afar, but can't handle her when they get close. Identities that she silently dresses herself in.

"Unstable."
"One emotional outcry after another."
"Why are you like this?"
"You're always having a bad day."
"Why can't you just extend compassion like a normal human being?"

For years, she buys clothes that are too big and too dark in hopes of appearing less. She wages war on her own body for its betrayal of her. She tries to see if wasting away will make her feel smaller.

Those who know her well can see this. They hand her more shirts, trying to encourage her and remind her of who she really is.

"You're perfect the way you are."
"You're beautiful."
"You could never scare me away."
"You're the smartest girl I know."

But they are shirts, nonetheless. No matter how well intentioned, the words are still something she has to either prove false or prove true. Layer upon layer on a body that is already far too large.

Things do change. They do get better. It's not the shirts those dear friends hand her that makes the difference. It's the fact that they believe what they're telling her, and they're still there. It's the new people she meets that can look past all of the layers to see that little girl with the big gray eyes who was made to dance. It's her Maker whispering in her ear...

"No one else gets to say who you are. You are Mine."

She doesn't know how many shirts she's put on over the years, but she knows that she has a choice to make. Sometimes, when she looks in the mirror, she sees grace and elegance flash across her reflection. She could spend her life peeling off and replacing layers of clothes and lies.

Or she could cut through it all and find that black velvet tutu again.
The one with the satin ribbons and tiny pink rosebuds.

On Barrenness

Only once have I outright written anything about infertility. A few years ago, a friend of mine asked me if my five-year experience with it would ever work its way into my writing. I told her yes, but I didn't know if it was the right time. Even now, as my 17 month-old son sleeps in the next room, I still feel an ache from all of the struggle it took to get him here. I still feel like I don't quite fit into all of the "mommy culture" that having a kid throws you into, and I still struggle to put into words exactly why. In a lot of ways, infertility puts things into perspective. It helps you zoom out and see that there are things that are equally important to giving birth. There are even things that are more important.

This past week was National Infertility Awareness Week. 1 in 8 families are affected by infertility, whether it is life-long, secondary infertility, or in my case, a rather short experience by comparison. I'm not an authority on it, but I do have a story to tell. That story can be summed up in lessons I learned. I'm not going to tell you about my reproductive system, or my doctors visits, or the panic attack I had one time when I had to dig through my box of saved-up baby stuff so I could lend out my unopened and unused baby-monitor that someone asked to borrow. Instead, I'm going to tell you about what I've learned over the past seven years.

Hope hurts, but it's what we were made to do.

This isn't just in the context of infertility. This is all day, everyday. There will never be a time in my life when I do not have to choose between hope and giving up. Hope is an engine. It's a propulsion system. It carries precious cargo. It's what pushes through the stuff that we think will bury us.

Sometimes, there's nothing to run from, because there's nowhere to go.

I couldn't escape infertility. I couldn't escape watching almost every woman around me having baby after baby. I had to face it. I had to let it shape me, and in doing so, I met God in ways I never thought I could. I met Him in dark places... sprawled on the ground, as low as I could get, because I knew there was no way out.

"I’ve been to the bottom, when everyone else has left and I was alone with my hurt in the silence. I’ve been at the place where I knew all the right theology but none of it reached me.
In this pit, I found a silence even deeper still. It was called honesty, and in that place, He was the only one there. I cried out, and to my surprise, so did He."
J. S. Park

There are more important things in life than having kids.

This is possibly one of the least popular beliefs that I hold. Maybe it's because I spent the "formative" years of my adult life childless and with no physical assurance that having children was even a possibility, but I do believe that there is life beyond parenting. I believe that I am an individual with gifts, skills, and abilities outside of motherhood. Having a baby is not the best thing that has ever happened to me. Only Jesus can take that cake. Being a mom is not the pinnacle of real love. There are so many ways to give and receive real, deep, fierce love outside of parenting a child. My kid is not my life. If I made my life entirely about him, I would be doing him a disservice. There's a big world out there with lots of hurting and broken people to care for.

Every time I thought I couldn't make it through, I did.

The sun always came the next day. I was so much stronger than I believed. Every time I had the thought, "I can't do this.", I managed to do it. Once I realized this, things got a lot easier. I did not die of grief. I did not lose all of my value as a human being because I didn't have kids. I didn't get stuck in the quicksand. I put my hand to the plow, and I did what I had to do. I let myself feel, but I didn't just sit in it.

There are things I will never say to a childless woman. Among them;

"Just relax, it will happen."

"God's trying to teach you something."

"You should just adopt."

"You should be glad you don't have kids, because ______________" (You get to sleep in. You get to do whatever you want. You don't have to deal with the responsibility. Fill in the blank-- none of it is actually helpful.) There are, however, some things I will gladly say to any woman battling infertility. In fact, I'd say them to anyone fighting anything that feels too big and too hard and too heavy to navigate.

Embrace the process.

Don't lie to yourself.

Find out who you are.

Know who you want to be.

Don't be afraid to ask for help.

Don't give up on your hardest day.

Hydrangea

My child collects silk flower petals
Carries them in his small chubby hands
Places them in my palms
And gasps as he watches me blow them away.

Frantically, he gathers and carries,
Watching for a chance
To use what he holds.

Today I saw him
Find a chip in the paint of a wounded wall
He pressed the petals to it with expectation

And I saw a world where
We carry hope
And press it into the cracks of damaged hearts
Until all we see
Is a home
Made of blooming life

On Living a Life of Protest

When I was in high school, I watched a Danny Glover movie called "Freedom Song." Set in Mississippi before the passing of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, it gave my 17 year-old self a powerful (if not slightly naive') look into the Civil Rights movement, planting the seed that would eventually grow into my flight toward my current life.

There is one scene in particular where the activists decided that they would forego their usual drugstore sit-in for a different kind of protest. Person after person, both black and white, knelt one at a time on the steps of City Hall, praying The Lord's Prayer. I remember weeping as I watched this and heard "Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven." I recited The Lord's Prayer every day at school when I was a kid, but this was the first time I had ever connected a fight against injustice as God's Kingdom coming to earth-- the first time I was emotionally affected by the fact that such injustice very much still exists today.

These sorts of protest have always tugged at me. This idea of taking a stand in order to scatter little shards that reflect the Kingdom coming. There is something about this beautiful, hard resistance toward unrighteousness that I can't tear my spirit away from.

I've been silently watching the world of protest over the last six months or so. People being labeled as rebellious, whiners, and criminals. People being brutalized and threatened and hated. Truly, that's the life of a protester. It's the life of a social disrupter. What really astounds me, though, is how often the people disparaging protesters are people who claim to follow Christ.

I don't feel like it should be necessary to remind anyone that Jesus was one of the greatest social disrupters in history, but here we are.

He touched the untouchable.
He crossed racial and cultural lines.
He healed on the sabbath.
He wasn't concerned with his social standing.
He opposed the ruling religious system.
He held His arms wide to the outcast, to women, to children, to the poor, to  the forgotten and judged.

 He might not have stood in any picket lines or chained himself to any wrecking balls. He might not have made clever signs or organized public protests. But He lived protest, and He died protest, and if we say we want to follow Him, not only is this the Jesus we come to... this is the life we sign up for.

To My "Token" Gay Friend

Dear friend, I want to apologize.

I'm new at this. I might be almost thirty years-old. It might have been a long time coming, but I'm new at this. My life has not been a reflection of welcome diversity. I haven't always practiced well the art of meeting people with grace.

The first time I found out one of my friends was gay, I was 13. Growing up in a Christian home, private school, and being homeschooled had done a really good job of dictating who I was friends with, and who I never even had the chance to befriend. So much so that I almost didn't believe it when I found out. It felt like the ground shifted under me.

Fast forward a couple of years to a Christian homeschool co-op where the moms in charge were banishing a family because their daughter had just come out as bisexual. I sat back silently while the other kids made fun of her and my heart tried to claw out of my chest screaming, "How is this supposed to help anything?!" The ground beneath me shifted again, but this time it felt like it was shifting in the opposite direction. Weren't we supposed to love people? Even if they were "living in sin," how would excluding them like this help us minister to them? How could these people make jokes out of this sort of thing?

Then there was college. I opted out of the Christian college track after my senior year had shaken my foundation a bit. I was becoming a bit disenchanted by the run-of-the-mill conservative Christian bubble I'd spent eighteen years in. I enrolled in the local community college hoping to branch out a little, and met so many different new people, each one of them tweaking how I viewed the world just a little. The members of the LGBTQ community that I met were some of the most influential-- from the Irish Literature professor who encouraged me to stick with writing  because I was "just too smart not to," to my creative writing classmate who, nearly in tears, told me I had to finish my first novel because it was "just so... important."

Two. I met two openly LGBTQ people in the first eighteen years of my life. In college, I had to really make peace with what I learned, and friendship after friendship since has taught me more and more what love really means. I say all of this, not to make excuses for myself, but to let you know why.

And, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for every time I referenced your legal spouse as your partner, because I was afraid of what people might think of me.

I'm sorry for every time I made you feel like a project instead of a person.

I'm sorry for every gay joke I walked past.

I'm sorry for every time I preserved my own reputation at the expense of yours.

For every time I ignored my own heart as it tried to voice what your heart needed to hear most-- that you're way more than my token gay friend.

You are my friend.

It's taken a long time for me to stop believing in the concept of "token" friends. I don't believe in contrived relationship. I believe in meeting people as they come to you. I believe in seeing people for who they are.

I believe in stretching my arms as wide as they'll open, and working on my muscles so they can open even more.

And I believe with all my heart that  the most gap-bridging, selfishness-challenging, wound-healing thing I can learn to say is "I love you."

I love you, I'm sorry, and I'm trying.

On Being Erased

I joke a lot about how I can't say certain things because I "have a reputation to uphold." The people who know me best know that I'm kind of like an iceberg-- what you see is usually only a small fraction of who I am. This isn't an egotistical statement. It's more of a confession. I've always been a quiet, private person. It takes a lot for me to warm up to new people, and if I sense that there are things about me that might offend, alienate, or hurt other people, I generally just won't express them around those people.

I feel uncomfortable talking about social issues with people who are conservative, because I know that what I have to say-- though seasoned with deep conviction and experiences in a very broken and desolate place-- will offend them and possibly make them write me off as just another "bleeding heart liberal."

I feel deep guilt every time I mention my son to friends who struggle with infertility, because I don't know why God gave me a child instead of them, and I've been on that side of the conversation where I had no control over my own grief-reaction to someone else's joy.

I so often hesitate to speak about my journey away from the traditional church structure, because I know so many people who are heavily invested in it, and I don't want them to think that I'm accusing them of being bad people or loving God less than I do.

I think a lot of things I don't say. I value the art of thinking before talking... to a fault. No one wins at this game, though. When I withhold important thoughts and values because I don't want to strain relationships or estrange people I care about, it doesn't keep peace. It doesn't spare feelings. It doesn't even really uphold my reputation. All it actually does is compartmentalize. It takes away my voice. It erases me. It erases me, and I've come to a point where I'm not really willing to be erased anymore.

The whole point of this, I guess, is to say that my writing might look a little different from now on. You'll be seeing a fuller picture of who I am and what I feel, and I'm sorry if it is different from what I've led you to believe. I hope you stick around.

White Noise

"Thank God my son is white."

Is not a phrase anyone wants to utter.

But, God forgive me, I have.

In the back of my mind

Under my breath

Sitting in front of the television

As I watch another black man killed

While the only right of his we defend

Is the right to remain silent.

Two nights ago, I dreamt of a black mother

Handing me photo after photo of her lost children

Pictures drawn in ragged crayon

Love letters written by innocent little hands

All I could do was weep

As she begged me

"Please, tell their stories."

But, God forgive me. 

I must confess, 

I'm afraid of what they'll say.

These children grow up

We give them school supplies

Food for Thanksgiving 

Coats for the winter

We convince ourselves that our benevolence carries them

That we are doing God's work

That we are building a better future for the poor

Until they no longer look innocent to us.

Until they're criminals for wanting simply to survive.

These men are full of grit

Mistaken for grime.

"Thug" "animal" "up to no good"

This rhetoric might as well be handfuls of dirt

Thrown on top of their caskets

Brothers and sisters, this place has seen far too many graves

Dug by our idle hands

And as the saying goes, Idle hands 

Are the handiwork of the devil.

Rescuer

In your blood, I found you

Your prayers carved into your skin

Like messages in ancient dwellings.

I carried you home.

I bound up your wounds.

Laughter sparked new the light in your eyes.

My heart was as healing salve.

I gave purpose to your scars

I showed you Mine,

But you did not believe Me.

Every kiss from Me singed memory alive.

My love, do not mark yourself for the dead.

My love, I make all things live.

You fled where you thought I could not see,

But I would go the whole earth to bring you home.

You found new lovers

You showed each one your scars,

And each of them fled as you did from Me.

My love, I would have fought them if you asked--

Bound up your wounds again,

Carried you home and healed you.

My love, I did not let you go.

In your blood, I found you

Your lips too parched for prayers

You were shivering and cold, leaning on the door post

As though I wouldn't let you in.

My love, do not be afraid.

My love, I make motion of the dead.

My love, I never locked the door.

11 Things I Want My Son to Know

I've read so many blog entries like this over the years. Most of them are much longer than 11, but I'm a woman of few words. 

It's been a long, hard journey getting to this point, and as I type this and the little wiggle worm is flopping around like crazy inside of me, I am sobered and brought low. So many years spent thinking that this would never happen-- that there was something very wrong with me. That I would spend my entire life in limbo, never being able to be what I truly believe I was made to be. All of that, only to be proven wrong. And it is so good.

I'll just cut to the chase now.

Dear Little Mister Josiah,

1) As a white American male, born to educated parents, with all of your needs met, you are one of the most privileged people in the world. Recognize it. Lay it down. Be the voice for the voiceless. You cannot both indulge in your privilege and help those who do not have it.

2) Your life will be filled with people who are vastly different from you. We're doing this on purpose. Someone looking, believing, acting, or living differently does not give you an excuse to not love. There is never an excuse for not loving-- for not engaging.

3) Chivalry is not sexism-- unless she says no. Being a gentleman can mean carrying heavy things and holding doors open, but it can also mean recognizing and empowering independence in the women around you.

4) Jesus is very real to me. Obviously, you are free to make your own decisions about this, but I feel like I should tell you because it's something I have a really hard time shutting up about. Your father is worse than I am. Just know that it isn't something we have come to by means of ignorance or indoctrination, but by means of true experience and real transformation. This is the only real way to "find religion."

5) Your father hates it when the sink is completely full of dishes, and your mother hates it when dishes aren't rinsed. I'm just warning you. Use the countertop. Rinse the stinkin' dishes after you're done.

6) Knowing who you are is one of the most powerful, intimidating, and irritating things you can do. Do it boldly.

7) Women do not owe you anything for being nice to them.

8) Wealth does not equal success, and it certainly doesn't equal integrity. Poverty does not equal laziness, nor does it determine someone's character.

9) Your name means something. It means something big. Own it.

10) No matter what you do or who you become, there is always a place for you in my heart and in my home. This is not cliche'. I mean this with everything that I am.

11) I waited for you for a very long time. I named you before I really, truly believed that you would come. I prayed for you everyday for years. I cannot put into words how fierce my love for you is. Never doubt this, even if I screw up. Even if I say the wrong thing or treat you the wrong way. Just know... You are my hallelujah. 

- Mama

Cookbook

My friend, please remember how I've loved you.

Not like art, not like a storm.

Not unrequited. Not exactly like that.

Like... our friendship is one of my favorite recipes.

It is full of metaphor.

It compounds flavors and creates something new.

Like... my giggles would draw shy smiles from you.

Like... your quiet kindness would reduce me till only I was left.

Open the cookbook

Find the page

Complete with color photograph and a short introduction

Of how perfect this is for just the right season.

Gather your ingredients

(Some of my favorites are as follows:)

You would sing to me

Love songs, weird songs,

Songs about heaven and your heart

You'd sing just to get a smile out of me

You were the hero in my scars

You were my best friend

The first to tell me I'm worth more

The first to make me feel as beautiful as you believed me to be

The first to fight for me

To cross battle lines that were actually a circle

I'd drawn tightly around myself.

When you were seventeen, you told me that I saved you from yourself

I never told you, angel,

You're the one who changed me

You're the one who unfolded me

You're the one who saved me or

Maybe, it's just love that transforms.

Daughter

I know there are days when you can't look in the mirror
For fear of the outside seeping in.
But, I need you to believe something.
I need you to believe that you are one of the most beautiful dancers I've ever seen.
You are not too much.
You are enough.
I need you to believe that you cannot dance well unless you can inspect your own form.
If you never look in that mirror, you'll never see what I see...

That dance is more than slender movement.
It is bearing pain in grace.
It is moving forward
Over and over and over
Until there is beauty.

I need you to believe that, because you dance.
Every day.
You are a masterpiece of strength
A movement, dynamic in its message.

Little ballerina, don't hate what I've created in you.
Dance like you did once
In a black velvet tutu.
I was your only audience.
Dance like that.
Look in the mirror.

It's one of My favorite memories of you.

The Depths of God

"When you can't touch bottom, you touch the depths of God" - Ann Voskamp

I've spent a lot of the last five years treading water. Who am I kidding? I feel like the majority of my life has been spent treading water. Whether it was trying to muddle my way through college into a life calling that seemed impossible to my deception-addled brain, or simply trying to stay afloat amidst barrenness, juxtaposed with an undeniable desire for children, or long seasons of hard work doing things I don't like to do, and that I'm not necessarily good at...

I can't quite say that my feet have touched bottom at all in the last five years. I can't say that there haven't been times where all I wanted to do was stop treading... stop moving... stop hoping.

In my perception, what happens when my feet don't touch bottom is that I am losing control. I am going to drown and die, and all this treading water will have been in vain, because I will never have reached my destination, or worse, I will die, when I know-- I know-- that God had the power to rescue me from drowning.

What's really going on in those moments, when I'm about ready to stop treading water. When my feet can't touch bottom, and I panic because I can't get them planted firmly on solid ground. When instead of swimming, I'm flailing and losing it. What's really going on is I'm learning the depths of God. I'm experiencing the part of His Spirit that takes over when I can't do anymore. I'm learning that in the absence of my ability, His is all consuming. I will not die before reaching my destination, because this process of treading and treading is exactly where I am meant to be. I will not die without rescue, because daily, I am rescued from my own panic and fear.

"Now God has revealed these things to us by the Spirit, for the Spirit searches everything, even the depths of God..." 1 Corinthians 2:10

If it is the Holy Spirit that searches the depths of God, then I have nothing to fear. When I panic, when I lose hope, when I run out of words to pray or even scream at the heart of God, I have nothing to fear, because it is this same Spirit that both searches the depths of God ans intercedes on my behalf with prayers that are too deep for words... prayers that are straight from-- and to-- the depths of God.

"And the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. For example, we don't know what God wants us to pray for. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words." - Romans 8:26

To Princess Ella

Dear Ella,

Oh, Princess... what can I say? You have been my Little Princess since before I ever even laid eyes on you. Nothing's changed. You still hold such a special place in my heart.

You are such a bright spot in my life, Ella. Your smile and laugh and absolutely dynamic spirit have changed me. You keep me young. You pull me out of myself. When I have needed a reminder that this world has good in it, you waltz in, talking absolute gibberish, shrugging your shoulders, smiling at everyone, and absolutely living up to your name-- Ella... Bright Torch. That is exactly what you are.

 I wanted to write you a special little message on your birthday today. I want to remind you that I love you so very much. I also want to tell you that my love for you will never change, and that you are a very strong, very special girl. I cannot wait to see who you grow up to be, my Princess Ella Jelly Bean.

Love always,
Aunt Kessi

 PS- Never ever feel left out because you don't have a "fancy" princess name like all of your cousins. It only seems that way because you were the original Princess. Princess Ella.

 

To My Slurpee Girl

Dear Madelyn (a.k.a.: Princess Slurpee Munchkin Head)

The day you were born began, for me, with enthusiasm, closely followed by the sound of metal bending into metal and the smell of airbag dust ingrained into my memory. Everything, it seemed, was trying to keep me from meeting you. But, we made it!

When I saw you, I knew it for sure, and I told you-- "We're going to be good friends."

And we have been, little one. Everyday, I see in you glimpses of the woman you will one day become. I see in you a sensitivity and compassion that far exceeds the kind I have seen even in mature adults. I see curiosity, and passion, and love, and intelligence. Slurpee, you are, indeed, so full of everything.

So today, as you turn the big number two-- even though you can't read this yet-- I want you to remember two things today, on your second birthday.

Number One: Never forget that you are a princess. You can be a sad princess, a happy princess, a serious princess, a goofy princess... whatever kind of princess you have to be, but never forget that you are royalty.

Number Two: Never forget that you are loved for who you are. You might grow up to do incredible things, you might decide to be a technological genius who designs smartphones (let's be real here... that's a good possibility.), you might become a pilot (it's not technically "holding" planes, but it's as close as you'll ever get), or a paleontologist (dinosaurs, 'nuff said)... but, whatever you decide to do, remember that I love you because you are Madelyn. Princess Slurpee Munchkin Head.

I will love you forever and ever,
Aunt Kessi

Today, He whispered in my ear
Cut through the crap
Untied all my knots:
Yesterday is over- unchangeable.
Tomorrow isn't even here yet.
Today.
I only have today.
Today, He loves me.
Today, He is good.

Timeline of a Prisoner

I was six years-old the first time I was called "fat" on the playground. Technically, it was "hamburger," but I've never really been one to mince words.

I was 7 years-old the first time I heard someone tell me, "I don't want to be your friend anymore." The first time my being a "hamburger" excluded me from being in their club, going to their party, being seen with them.

I was 9 years-old when I first thought that maybe... just maybe... food could be my enemy.

I was 11 years-old the first time I realized that I could decide to be happy.

12 years-old when I found out I could be strong if I needed.

I was 13 years-old when I had to tell my parents that my grandfather had molested my baby sister.

13 when I decided that "strong" was all I would allow myself to be.

13 the first day that I decided not to eat.

13 when God took me to Isaiah 51 and told me "The cowering prisoner will soon be set free. They will not die in their dungeon..." 13 when I just barely knew what that meant.

I was 14 when I had my first "love," and subsequently my first heart break.

I was 14 when I moved from my first real home.

I was 15 the first time I cut myself with a kitchen knife. 15 the first, second, third, fourth, fifth time I swore I would stop.

I was 16 the first time I told someone "I think I'm going crazy." 16 the first time they looked at me and said, "No... you're just fighting a battle, and you're going at it the wrong way."

I was 17 the last time my pain left a visible scar. 17 when I started killing myself slowly. 17 when I was "90 pounds down, only 25 to go." 17 when I couldn't possibly be good enough.

I was 18 years old when I decided I preferred caffeine and pain killers over sleep and food.

19 when all of my mental plans to marry that one guy fell through.

19 when I wept and cursed the number 14, because it was on all of my jeans again and if I could just be skin and bones then maybe I could finally disappear.

I was 20 years-old when I really met up with God again, this time in the conference room of a Days Inn.

20 when I finally forgave.
20 when I was healed... OCD, Depression, Eating Disorder, my broken and beaten and starved-for-love heart.
20 when this cowering prisoner was finally set free.

Medley

Before there were days, there were nights I could not see Your face. But the night couldn't keep me from grace.

I remember the moment , I remember the pain. I was only a girl, but I grew up that day. Tears were falling. I know You saw me hiding there in my bedroom, so alone. I was doing my best, trying to be strong.

You saw my mistakes, You watched my heart break... heard when I swore I would never love again. And when I was weak, unable to speak, still I could call You by name, and I said...

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists. I find it when
I am cut

How did I get locked up inside? What's this that renders me paralyzed? I lost myself in small pieces. It happened over time. I traded love for a heavy chain. Another link every other day.

There are ghosts from my past who own more of my soul than I thought I had given away. They linger on closets and under my bed and in pictures less proudly displayed. A great fool in my life I have been, have squandered till pallid and thin. Hung my head in shame and refused to take blame, for the darkness I know I've let win.

I wanna feel something sweeter than this sin. Cover me in leaves and roll me over again. I've been everybody else now I wanna be something closer to myself. Paint me in a different light, shed me yet another coat of skin, mark me with ash until I'm clean again. Cause I'm so sick and tired of being sick and tired. I know I can love you, I know that I can.

Oh, You call me Daughter and you take my blame. And, You run to meet me when I cry out Your name. So, I fall before You in all of my shame. Lord, I am willing to be changed.

Ever since that day, it's been clear to me that no matter what comes, You will never leave. I know You're for me, and You're restoring every heartache and failure, every broken dream... You're the God who sees, the God who rescued me.

This is my story.

This is my story:

All this time, from the first tear cried
'Till today's sunrise
And every single moment between
You were there, You were always there
It was You and I
You've been walking with me all this time.

[Lyrics from: "Before There was Time" - Caedmon's Call | "All This Time" - Britt Nicole | "I Am" - Nichole Nordeman | "Cut" - Plumb | "No More Chains" - Nichole Nordeman | "Martyrs and Thieves" - Jennifer Knapp | "Closer to Myself" - Kendall Payne | " Own Me" - Ginny Owens | "All This Time" - Britt Nicole]

Poem

D

[October 11, 2012]

I am not your judge.

Your name says it all.

I cannot move you

I cannot catch you when you fall.

I did not aim to change you,

I never wanted to dissuade you

Only to breathe to you...

You are more than your pain

You are more than any innocence your father ever took from you

You are more than the lies that boy spit at you,

Falling on your 16 year old lips like sleet that never melts

You are more than your mother's absence.

You are more than the girl's kisses that fill you, but drain out when you look away.

I only wanted you to consider,

You only wanted me to shut my mouth.

I am not your judge.

I cannot build a bridge that you would only be intent on burning

I cannot build a bridge between you and me

I can only be a bridge between you and the One who

Makes innocent and melts sleet and sticks around and plugs up all of our holes

I am not your judge.

Your name says it all.