Not The Savior

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​If the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it; if it is not, let your peace return to you.  If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your feet. Matt.10:13‭-‬14NIV

The hardest thing to walk away from was when the undeserving home was my family’s, and the peace effortlessly discarded, was by those I loved the most. There was no welcome. Still I stayed, until their words began to make me question everything God had taught me and saved me from. It was in my drowning that I understood why He would have me leave. Not for lack of love but for lack of power. I was never meant to be the Savior. 

Big Fat “F”

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There is someone who contaminates my self-worth, infecting it like HIV.

Tearing me apart, to her, is as easy as ripping a sheet of paper in two.

First, she pops like bubbles times in my memory where I felt pretty.

I dare not remember intimate moments with my husband.

I cringe at the thought that what she is showing me now, he saw.

I am bare and vulnerable, and she takes advantage.

She lectures me “You forgot again, didn’t you?”

Exposing me with her eyes, she marks each flaw wrong like an English teacher with a red pen,

Thighs that are bumpy…X,

two toned and hideous…XX,

A stomach that sags…XXX,

“Don’t bend”, she grunts, “it makes it worse”…

I am bullied to listen, as she scrutinizes my blemishes’ bad grammar…

Stretch marks, like shattered glass on pristine porcelain,

If it were a coffee cup or vase, it would surely be thrown out with the garbage,

But it can’t because it is stuck, a part of me.

Examining me from head to toe, she grades me a big fat “F”.

I hang my head, looking no longer into that mirror where she stands.

I take my marked up paper of a body and go back to the back of the class,

I take a solemn oath never to raise my hand again.

Some Things Just Are

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How can a bird expect not to fly,

Or a lion not to be feared?

How can a flower not expect to be plucked,

Or a dandelion, not be blown.

Cold is expected in the dead of winter,

And heat in the dead of summer.

A tear does not surprise a broken heart,

Nor does a smile a happy face.

And because of you,

Peace,

Forgiveness,

Love,

Do not surprise me.

For how can a child of God not expect to be blessed?

Search and Never Yield…until it is secure within you

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Contentment.

It can’t be explained because the understanding has to be earned.

Some things we have accepted as automatic, really aren’t. We must be grateful and never take God’s wisdom for granted.

Contentment belongs, and therefore, comes from God. The enemy tries to pawn it off as personality traits but it’s far more than that.

Contentment is a treasure we find while reading His word,
Searching for his guidance on bended knees,
Reverencing his presence in song.

It is as if foraging through an old treasure chest and coming upon the rarest of gems. It must not be belittled. Phil 4:11-12

I hope you find it, Oh do I ever.

Second Hand Shoes

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You filled empty shoes their biological father threw out like garbage. You slipped your feet in, one after another, tied them tight and declared them yours from then on. 

Like a super hero…You were to them.

Girls have fairy god mother’s, boys have plain old dads. They have no need for magic, just truth. The truth that they are safe and loved, and believed in by their very own Dad.

Eighteen years later that’s what you are to them, and have been for all these years.

Still. As we pack our son’s bag again. A son that has chosen a road we never meant for him, as the minutes pass, driving us closer to goodbyes…I can’t help but wonder, if it was you who seeded him, would you let him go so easily…
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My Mother, My Cross

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You have not loved until you have loved the unlovable, the ugly, the undeserving,
like a mother strung out on drugs and drunk all of the time.

Every ounce of her; you know, the part that held me at night, read to me, bathed and fed me, is absorbed in this addict that reeks of booze.

I know my mother is in there somewhere, because this addict calls me by name and expects me to love her like I love my mom.

This addict plays nice at first.
She laughs where my mother would’ve cried; she does where my mother would’ve slept.

But with every drink…and, taken in secret, a pill here and there, this addict loses her like-ability and fast.

She does not care about me or my children, or even the woman she overtook and is now portraying.

With hatred and selfishness, using my mother’s mouth and body…she destroys everything valuable my mother holds dear, with the words she spews out, the way she moves my mother to stumble and fall.

The daughters she bore, no longer responsive to her need for them, the son disgusted in the mother that allows this to happen.

My mother became just another woman to me. I learned to acknowledge the addict in her, and no longer the mother that gave birth to me, in order to lessen the pain.

If she didn’t care enough to stop, why should I care to be there for her, to respect her and love her?

It just became easier to accept the addict and forget the mother that’s hardly ever there anymore.

Until I grew in my faith, until my views were made to align to my makers, I knew love by what I got from it.

I loved my children. I loved my husband. I loved friends and family. I loved books and music. I loved afternoon naps. I loved them because they gave me something in return.

Until God opened my eyes to my sins and showed me how He loved me in spite of them, I would have gone on in my ignorance.

I thought love was supposed to be easy, but love is hard. Love is dying on the cross…

I have since learned each of us have our own cross to bear, and mine so happens to be to love my mother through her addiction.

When she smells of booze…when she can’t stand…when she is sick from pancreatitis…when she is lonely…

I will allow her to hug me and I will focus only on her touch and not the smell.

I will hold her up and not allow her to fall, and if she falls I will help her up with no condemnation.

I will not run the other way; I will not ignore her and act like I don’t know her.

I will talk with her even though I can’t understand what she is saying.

And in my quest to carry my cross, I will have loved the way He first loved me.

I will have done it and not just spoken of it.

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