Month: October 2016

On the Path

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I’m in this study at church called Disciples Path. I signed up because our pastor asked for full congregational participation and I like him, believe in him, trust his requests. Having joined many of these kinds of groups in the past, I didn’t have grand expectations for new knowledge. I am not so arrogant as to assume I knew it all, just figured it would be more of a refresher, which I can always use. Plus I knew it would be enriching to meet together with the wider group each week for a meal and fellowship. I am accepting accountability on two fronts: I was wrong about the material and I am discovering what it truly means to be on this path.

Gaining a true understanding of the Methodist movement has been an eye-opener. I joined this denomination after traveling through Catholicism and a stint in Episcopal churches and then wandering away from regular attendance. Many years ago, on my daily hour commute I listened to Christian radio, I tried to be a good person but didn’t spend Sunday mornings with my butt in any pew. One particular program, just a quick blurb really, always caught my attention. A local female pastor who led an alternate worship at the local theater house spoke directly to me each week. I listened to her faithfully for a year but still wasn’t motivated to attend her gathering, until 9/11. Like much of the country, I needed a place to safely mourn with others, seek understanding, find peace. I went to her church, drug my family along.  Thus began our choice of Methodism. It wasn’t about the principles of the religion, it was about how the group worshiped, accepted, welcomed. We found a church home. As the kids grew, we moved from the aging congregation to one with more programing geared to youth, across town. We have been members for years now, without really looking at what that means. Fifteen years later, I can admit that I am finally grasping the basis of the practice I chose, the place I am sure God led me. Thankfully, what I am discovering still fits me and my values, my faith grows deeper each week in mining the rich history of the disciple John Wesley began in the 18th century.  I was wrong, I had much to learn.

I am really comfortable in my faith, my beliefs are rock solid. I thought that was enough. This class, the material and discussions, is challenging me to act out those ideas in a deeper more intentional manner, one that is requiring more of my emotional energy and inner peace than I anticipated.  Fully aware that I am not Mother Teresa, I knew I had more to give but didn’t consider how far off I was. While I am wrestling with how to get on the path, it occurs to me that my resistance is that the path is littered with others who are just as bad off as me. It would be infinitely more fun to travel with Mother Teresa or Ghandi or Mister Rogers. The people in my life are not so selfless, wise or sweet. They don’t wear cardigans and invite me in, they often are actually quite hurtful in their rejection. Rather than share great knowledge after thoughtful meditation, I get text after text of utter nonsense in the midst of emotional upheaval. Instead of living a minimalist existence to care for others, I am surrounded by people who want more and more of what I have for their own gain. How can I be a disciple outside of Wednesday night class, Sunday morning church?  I would have more confidence in my abilities if I could just stay in close proximity to my fellow congregants.

Trying to maintain and/or establish healthy boundaries to protect my well being seems at times to be in direct conflict with the call to rub elbows with the needy when those very same people are family. If only we were all walking the path, how much easier it would be. Yet I know all about that plank in my eye, I am certain others wonder about traveling the path with me. Realizing that boundaries are not walls, that emotional distance doesn’t mean exile, I am exploring what that means from a Jesus based perspective rather than the psychology fueled concepts I am more attuned to.  In a culture that is rife with labeling people as toxic and assuring us we have every right to banish people who don’t agree with us, I believe the intent of self-preservation in the face of danger has been hijacked into selfishness and self-centeredness at any cost.  A culture of reconciliation, room for healthy disagreement and respect for differences, has no room in this “my feelings are paramount, me-first” society. Where does that leave me and my desire for s smooth path? Out of luck.

I am being called to pray more, give more, act more, attend more, all with intention. I can’t find acceptance of knee jerk reactions and comfort zones anywhere in the material. Being a disciple is life encompassing, it wants all of me. Wednesday night and Sunday morning aren’t going to be enough anymore. I am being called to pray even for those who are building the bumps in my path, those who throw obstacles in the way. I know I can’t get anywhere unless I am willing to take a few souls with me, especially the ones who God just keeps putting alongside me. I hear you God, I am seeing what you want. I commit to trying harder to walk the path with the difficult ones and not just those who feel more like saints. I wonder if He is telling them the same thing, “Please child, just give Lisa a chance. I know she drives you crazy but there is something really special hidden inside. Take her hand, I will walk with you both.”

The class is almost over, I admit to being completely wrong about it. I can honestly say that I will also be bit more wary the next time my pastor asks something of me. He is not just after my time, he wants my soul.

Bringing Back our Colors

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

Plum and I struggled to add color to our weekend, he was in black and white mode. If he didn’t color his apple homework pages immediately (bedtime on Friday evening) he would never remember to do it. If I didn’t let him play this game, I was never going to let him. I always tell him no about downloading more apps. If we made a list about games he wanted, I would lose the list. My bright sweet grandson was taken over by the all or nothing monster, it wasn’t pretty.  On one reprieve from the war, with a moment to reflect, I was able to determine that we were both fighting his anxiety. While this knowledge set off alarms I at least had a new strategy. I would not feed the anxiety monster. We would get back our colors.

This precious child has some very complicated genes. Addiction and mental illness could be lurking behind the blue eyes, height and crooked smile. Those ugly traits don’t need to be nurtured, rather I must give him the skills every day to confront them and let his intelligence and sweet soul overcome them. This is not to say that should depression and anxiety win out some where down the road that he has failed, that we have failed, but creating habits now of life choices of finding hope and seeing color surely will help. Please God let it help. A friend of mine posted an article about 4 traits that put kids at risk for addiction. I devour reads like this like my evening cookies. I want to know what I am up against and use every minute with him to overcome those damn genes. This article listed specifically anxiety sensitively.  This weekend we worked on that devil.

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chips, cookies, water bottle and a blanket filled our bag as we walked down the gravel road, along the woods. We immersed ourselves in nature, got away from screens and dishes and homework. He loosened up, I waited for my opening. Finally as we sat on the blanket, our picnic down to crumbs, I asked him if he knew the difference between a rocking chair and a bicycle. We explored the benefits of each, one great for resting the other for racing ahead. Paraphrasing Erma Bombeck, I explained worry to this child. “Worry is like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do but never gets you anywhere.”  This was an image he could grab onto, this child who likes speed. He decided he wants to be a bike, go somewhere. We looked at the battles we had been having in the light of the rocking chair/bike choice, he was able to spot how he had been worrying and going nowhere.

We continued to use this language for the rest of the weekend, our battles diminished. Sunday morning brought a small squeamish, I asked if he was being a bike or a rocking chair. He paused and winked at  me. He labeled his anxiety quickly and chose to stop worrying. It won’t always be this easy, I am confident we will need to revisit this issue again and again. This weekend though we found the leaves were turning, we discovered caterpillars, we ate lunch under the autumn sun. Colors reemerged into the black and white.

 

We Gotcha

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I want to speak straight to my Trump supporting sisters , all of you out there. I am no longer striving to convince you that your vote for Trump is dangerous. At this point, if you cannot see it, nothing I say or post or promote will sway you. His own words don’t push you away, scare you, mobilize you. So I want to assure you that the rest of us have your back. We will protect your children, we will stand up for your neighbors, we will respect religions other than ours and we will salute vets with PTSD. I understand you aren’t able yet, maybe you never will be ready, to stand up to a powerful man. Maybe your views are colored by the bullying men in your life. Or maybe, somehow you are in that small percentage of women who have not been exposed to sexual violence. I celebrate you, I am jealous of you. You were able to watch the debate last night and avoid the visceral response I had, my body clenching, silent screaming for someone to make Trump back away, stop looming over Clinton’s back. I felt afraid for her, I wanted her to run, to move away from him, to find safety. This man who has admitted to attempted sexual assault stood too closely, out of her eyesight, surely she was aware of his presence. But you were watching and it didn’t bother you that he was trying to physically intimidate a woman, another presidential candidate, before our very eyes. Lucky you, your eyes are free to see what you want.

No worries, just as some women sat out of the fight for equality that now ensures you get to vote for this man, just as some women sat of the fight for reproductive rights that allowed you to use birth control in college, you can sit out this fight. Your sisters will ensure this man never holds power over any of us, your brothers are joining us too. They know the stakes as well. They have sisters and daughters and mothers and have actually been molested themselves. They have been discriminated against, they have fought in wars they cannot defend and come home damaged and been mocked by your candidate for their psychological response. Go ahead and vote for him, we gotcha.

It calls to mind Michael Jackson, we all loved his music, grew up on his videos. Yet the rumors and charges of his molestation of young boys were pervasive. Most were free to believe or not with little consequence to themselves, they never would be faced with dropping their own child off for an over-night at Neverland.  I wonder, my sisters,  would you leave your beautiful daughters alone with this man?  But don’t worry, most of you will never have to face that test. You may though someday have to tell those same daughters how you chose not to support their safety. I can’t help you with that.

Putting on a Baggy Sweater today

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

My earliest memories are of sexual abuse by my father. I grew up in a town that had a thriving pedophile culture, my father’s actions were supported by his friends. He shared me with other men, they shared their daughters. I learned not only that I was made for the enjoyment of others but that men would hurt me. It took over 40 years to regain a sense of my own body, to allow men into my world. Only recently, at the age of 52, have I begun wearing bright colors, clothes that actually fit my shape, no longer so afraid to draw attention to myself. Years of hiding underneath baggy sweatshirts, black sweaters, trying to fade away literally through an eating disorder have been slowly put to rest as I finally, finally heal. Avoiding triggers, those places, movies, events that would send me reeling back into my victimization, I have emerged bit by bit from my cocoon. I never expected a presidential election to awaken that sick feeling, to create a terror I can barely express.

I have learned to listen to my gut, to understand where the real threats are. Alarms go off, I have learned to flee, find a safe place, tell other adults, just like I teach my Plum. These are important lessons we all teach our children. When something doesn’t feel right, that is enough. I was adamant with my children that they never ever had to give hugs, sit on laps, accept kisses even, maybe especially with relatives. Shaking hands, being polite is perfectly acceptable. Boundaries, learning from early on to establish and hold those, teaching them to protect themselves for all the times I wouldn’t be next to them to ward off danger. We teach our children to avoid creepy men, we listen to them when they tell us some adult makes them feel uncomfortable. We rush in now to dig deeper, to remove our child from impending peril, allegations are enough. What message are we sending to these same children when we refuse to listen to our brothers and our sisters when they say Donald Trump is dangerous to women, how much more evidence do we need?

This election is no longer about which party should win, I don’t think that has been the case for a long time. Personally I wish Elizabeth Warren had been our first female president, I could really get behind her ethically. What I cannot understand is why we still even have a race. The second debate is tonight, I don’t know if I can even watch. The flood on my news feed regarding the video that surfaced in which Donald Trump brags about his attempted sexual assault has sent me into a tailspin this weekend. Feeling an obligation to promote education about his behavior, I retweet and share, then curl up into a ball and hide.  He is literally making me sick. How am I going to survive the next month, how can I maintain my status as survivor when my very country is threatened by a man who wants to lead all women back to victimhood? I grew up in a town that supported this thinking, what if our entire country allowed women to be objects?

I read posts where men say they have daughters, wives, mothers so they feel they must condemn his remarks. That’s a start. What about condemnation just because it is wrong? He is wrong?  How about a revolution, a rising together in which we all agree that when danger lurks we listen to our gut and flee, right to the voting booth.  God help us otherwise. God help me, I truly don’t know how to survive a country led by this scary man. I don’t have enough baggy clothes to fit around us all.

Intruder

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Drama wanted to come for a visit yesterday. I know this drama, once allowed in, it takes over my home, steals all of my emotional energy, takes my money, separates me from my husband, keeps me from sleeping. This drama knocks on the door, if I don’t answer, it tries to barge right in, uninvited, when my back is turned. I lock the doors, try to reinforce the boundaries, drama can be heard imploring for entrance through the cracks under the door. I call in help, ask for support. I need reminders that I am bigger than this, I don’t have to play host to this intruder.

Disengaging from the choices others make is ultimately a matter of survival for me. I know that I am a rescuer, my instinct is to always give my lifejacket away and then I risk drowning. In the past I have given my preserver to those not even in the water, those taunting from the shore. I was confused, I thought if I just gave more, ever more, we would have reconciliation. We would all swim together. I know differently now. Some people will just never stay in the water with me, not for long anyway. Maybe only long enough for me to think we are all comfortable, we are delighting in the same pool. Drama joins our swim party, the cycle begins again. Except I am just too tired to keep swimming, keep recsuing, keep interacting with drama. I am choosing to try new strategies. I don’t want to risk drowning anymore.

Challenging old patterns, making new choices of how to respond is not without consequences as well. Drama insists on being heard, taking the spotlight. The more I liberate myself, the stronger the pushback. Patterns want to remain. Every next step requires extreme care, considered maneuvering, much as a child’s first steps. I hold onto the wise words of friends, I tread slowly. I stop and ponder how to get back to safety. Yesterday my soul was screaming, “I want to go back to the mountains.” I gave my soul some attention, listened to the voice that was telling me danger lurked ahead. I can’t get on a motorcycle and escape my current situation, how can I regain the lessons from the mountains while still here with drama trying to create unrest?

When I looked at the valleys, the canyons of Colorado, I remembered how small I was and big God is. I was reminded of my little place in the huge picture, flowers grew without me. Water trickled from snow capped mountains to find rivers below. God has a plan that doesn’t require my lifejacket, my involvement in ensuring that all his seeds sprout, that all the snows melt and find their way home. Yes, the mountains, my soul whispered, remember what we learned there. We are a seed also, God showed us how to bloom.

Drama is going to keep knocking, this drama is going to grow. Protecting my fragile heart is my priority, rather than rescuing others from the choices they have made.  I can only pray they someday take their own trip to the mountains. Maybe then we will all swim and truly relish the water together.  For now, I’m focusing on all the pictures of my trip, listening to my soul and keeping my door locked.  Drama, you are not welcome here.

Happy Birthday Chef

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Almost 20 years ago I walked into the same restaurant I had worked at through college, seeking a job to restart my life. The first place I applied, the first time to check that horrible box on the application that put me in a category, changed who I was, I sought a relatively safe place to begin again. I needed an income fast, two children to support, housing and transportation to secure. I started back where I had been before things had gone so wrong.  Maybe I was looking for a do-over, a chance to make new choices based on the new me. What I found was that second chance, the hiring manager looked carefully over my application and asked about that box. He was clearly puzzled, I didn’t look like the usual applicant for the position and certainly not one who presented with a felony conviction. I told him my story, he checked with HR. He gave me a job, he gave me a lifeline.

I worked my lunch shift as a server then washed dishes in the back for a free lunch, came back for the evening shift on the days the kids were with their father. The manager gave me every extra shift available, I took any chance to make money. Soon he moved me up to an hourly management spot, a shift meal came with that as well. I couldn’t afford to eat otherwise. The business was slow, we had much time to begin knowing each other. His work ethic was exceeded only by his sense of fun, he had such a ready laugh. He attracted people, all ages and genders. I watched him while I worked, wondering how someone could be so light, so easy to be with, seeming not to carry burdens as he lifted those of others. One evening after a shift he asked me if I wanted to go for a drink. Thus began the end of that job and the beginning of the rest of my life.

We are opposites politically, he likes red wine, I only drink white. He backs the state school to the South, I will never abandon my Boilers. A smile is his most natural facial expression, mine is resting bitch face. He craves social time, I don’t think I ever have. A proud carnivore, he knows I prefer veggies. He doesn’t eat fruit, my mainstay. His entertainment is visual, I hate watching movies and need books like I need air, he doesn’t read. Ice cream is his favorite treat, I am lactose intolerant. How could we possibly be together? Married now for 16 years, we have weathered too many storms to recite. Low points take me back to that day when I walked into the restaurant and wonder if his life wouldn’t have been so much easier had I chosen the one down the street. Left wondering just what he could gain from a union with me, I know that God chose him as my partner.

Chef rounds me out, pulls me up from dark moods and too much introspection. He reminds of the playful world available, if only I choose to engage. He has modeled what a father can be, in the sometimes impossible position as step-father. His love never stopped, his generosity never quit, even as frustration boiled over. He carried the worries of troubled children, he insisted on respect for me when I was willing to allow unacceptable behavior, he made fun breakfasts. Through it all he kept working, working working 60, 70 plus hours each week, securing the future of our family which now includes our grandson. Demonstrating what God wants from men, not perfection but striving with integrity to be leaders in the church, home and community, he brings redemption to his brotherhood. He taught me to give other men a chance, to allow for friendships and small group interaction with that other gender who had before only meant danger. He opened the world to me.

My Chef has been pruned these last few months, a cutting so painful to watch I often can barely contain my rage.  He deserves much more, has sacrificed too deeply for this to be his daily reality. Yet this season is bringing him into his own rounding out, plumbing the depths to discover what else he truly wants, who else he is called to be. I see his more, all those around see it. Finally he has time to explore his own reflection. I know that the man God led me to is now truly leading him. Scary as it is to not see the road ahead, when you trust the One who paved it, the One who sends the Light, traveling only requires a next step and then a next until finally you realize you have arrived.

Today my Chef turns a year older, maybe a day he will reflect that he is not where he wants to be if measured by bank account statements or employment status. Yet I know he is right where God intends, on a new path, one I am so blessed to walk with him. Today I celebrate not just my Chef but a God who led me into a restaurant 20 years ago to rebuild my life, a life now restarting together with God at the center.  Faith, family friends and then work, balance restored. Through it all, I am so very proud to call this man my husband, to affirm those vows taken long ago. God knew our individual strengths would be called on to lift us rather than separate us, a strong union to face the future only He could see. Hand in hand we take this journey, following God, discovering the next adventure.  Happy birthday to my Chef, I contentedly stay in your shadow, remain your sous chef, allow your light to warm me. We are right where God wants us.

 

Who Taught Me To Pray?

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

We talked about prayer and how we pray in our small group last week. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. The reading content was okay but the discussion is where I really gained wisdom, where words spoken have refused to leave me. Who taught me to pray?  A week later I am still wondering about that. I know it wasn’t the Catholic catechism classes I attended spottily, as my parents wavered in and out of church attendance. I learned rituals  but not a deep spirituality, an ability to talk straight to God. I don’t think it was during my young adult years at the Episcopal church where I found comfort in those same traditions from childhood worship but less restriction concerning my social values. Maybe I taught myself when all the trappings of church were stripped away, when I was left alone to choose God without candles, incense, organs or even an anointed leader. Traditions that were meant to guide and ground me were gone. Stripped down, wearing only a jail uniform, I couldn’t hide my insides behind fancy Sunday clothes. No make up could mask my pain, I could no longer hide within the body of the church, any church. Without even a mirror to study my own reflection, even  I could see that my inside turmoil finally matched my outsides. I talked to God when there was no one else to talk to. I think I taught myself to pray, or let God teach me, private lessons from the Master.

During our class discussion I heard a friend say something so outrageous that it really could cause a revolution. Her story is not mine to tell but let me say I have witnessed her walk,  gained strength from our shared moments of success and grieved a piece of her harrowing, gut-wrenching defeat to the monster of addiction. She is real, she wears her battle of everything stripped away and newly chosen life in the very energy that surrounds her. She is someone that attracts people, her smile is warmth, her eyes shine as only eyes who have really seen God can. If you knew her story you would expect bitterness, anger, she has every right. She could easily be consumed with hatred, with grief that never ends. Her anger could be directed at our God, I am sure there are many days that has been true. Yet in our class she said she prays for her enemies. I know who she meant, she doesn’t have to do that. Let someone else pray for them, she has surely given enough at the altar. Her statement wasn’t self-aggrandizing, she wasn’t saying what our leader wanted to hear. None of the rest of us said such a crazy thing, those of us with less destructive enemies. She meant it, I believe her. That very act of prayer may be what has given her the glow of God.

I have another friend whose prayer looks like clay pots, broken and reassembled. It looks like  pastels on card stock preserved and delivered to church between a piece of folded cereal box. It smells like an extra pan of lasagna, a bowl of soup, fresh bread for hurting friends. Her prayer looks like listening, always hearing the call of God , and then acting. Quietly, no fanfare, in the shadows, she daily follows the direction God leads. I am amazed at the direct line she seems to have, the absolute connection to the Holy Spirit that is undeniable. Faithful in attendance at church but more faithful to the actual voice of our God, her prayers are born of the wisdom of prophets long ago. No need for acronyms to remind her how to pray, she has moved passed speaking into hearing. I trust her prayers, she means them, they are well considered and exude grace, reminds me of the centeredness that comes only when we are no longer our center.

I appreciate worship together, I need that time even if I try to avoid it when I am most hurting. Yet I truly believe that getting real with God may mean going away like Jesus to the garden, when no one can see, not following prescribed steps, being so broken you can only fall down and reach up. I gain such insight into the character of my God from fellow travelers, those who have crawled and now stumble, rarely run, tread carefully. The journey of their faith teaches me more than doctrine, more than guide books for praying. These women ARE my guides. They are have taught me to find my way to pray, a way that reaches the ear of my God. A God who doesn’t want a cookie cutter phrase repeated from memory, one that I can say without feeling anymore. God wants me to join in the conversation, however that appears, to have an authentic chat and then listen for the next step. I know He wants me to stay away from art supplies. He may want me to bake some lasagna. I am afraid He may be calling me to pray for my enemies. They are broken as well.

I go to church and worship with those who are on this journey, those who are seeking the path to our God. I cherish the music which speaks to my soul, breaks down the walls I try to erect. I learn from the sermons, I feel called to act, to change, to do. My real teachers though are the women in my life who write songs, hang out in the kitchen, nurture the children. These women know pain and know God. They know how to pray.  A week later and I finally have an answer to “Who taught me to pray?” My sisters did and do every day.

Dancing to the Rooster’s Call

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

I heard the rooster crow, a faint call blending with the morning crickets and dogs snorting and snuffling as they battle over a ball. Cawing crows, distant traffic, another call of the rooster. As the morning came alive, I sat in the darkness and waited to feel the same. My body matched my desolate mood, the stress caught up, I struggled to move. My pelvis was out of place, once easily corrected with a trip to the doctor or physical therapist, now  progressively more painful as each day passed without insurance, no safety net to fix my brokenness. Afraid to make it worse, I allowed my body to stiffen, muscles to tighten, I hobbled back inside to refill my coffee. The rooster crowed again.

Stepping carefully, slowly around boisterous beasts, watching for any obstacles, my usual 3 minute journey took at least ten. Listening once more to the far off roar of a motorcycle, the call of a coyote, I tried to focus on breathing through the pain, wondered how to correct this misalignment, how things could have gone so terribly wrong. Blaming a God who knew I had no access to those who could help, anger simmering, I remembered I had lifted the huge jugs of water that created the problem in the first place. I knew better but was rushing. “Still, seriously, God, it was for dinner at church! I was being your servant and this is what I get?”  Personal accountability was no match for self-pity, my pain was too great. That rooster crowed, that damn rooster again.

The days following my displacement had grown increasingly dark, ever more isolated. More time in bed, barely speaking, hardly eating. I wasn’t writing, all thoughts consumed with my pain. That rooter reminded me I had been there before, I needed to wake up. That insistent call demanded I rise, acknowledge what was really hurting and get moving. The bed was too tempting for me, I had already given up a year laying there. Finally I allowed myself to cry, to tell God that it hurts, so much it hurts, to be missing my daughter. This pelvis that moves out of place because I gave birth to her now begs for attention, reminding me that I am a mother without a child. “Why God, why can’t you heal this brokenness, NOW? Why must we be so out of alignment, grown rigid in positions that only bring more pain?”  Shallow breaths, barely living, rather than exulting in the deep glory of shared triumphs?  “When God, WHEN has it been long enough? ”

The release of tears brought hunger, a renewed energy.  Walking carefully around the house, noticing my neglected life from just a few days of exile, I attempted a few chores, made a light meal. I felt looser physically, more connected emotionally. That night, God visited during my slumber. No longer able to hold myself stiff, away, careful, I jolted awake from the first deep sleep in days.  The jolt caused me to jerk, to cry out in the night.  The jerk popped my pelvis back where it is supposed to be. Finally relaxing a body held so tightly, pain nurtured like as it were my cherished child itself, I had let go into a deep sleep. God finally was able to wrestle control from me, to give me what I was seeking  yet fighting Him for. I wanted to dance, filling my lungs with the air of hope, the victory of promises kept.  I considered that rooster, calling me, wondering if I truly believe or just say that when times are good. I rose to seek out my morning call, to praise that faithful creature who rises before me with promises for a new day.

The rooster knew there will always be other noises to distract me, there will always be pain. I can’t count on a middle of the night jerk every time I mess up, I have to choose to stop doing things I know are wrong. I have to focus on what heals me, let go of things that destroy my health. I know that if God can take the time to deal with my stubbornness, my tendency to turn back to my bed, He is actively involved with my Stella as well. We each have our own roosters calling, asking us to believe, to rise up and choose a life of trust in Him. Today I listen to the rooster and praise God for His insistent pursuit of this willful child, sometimes turning a deaf ear to His calling. I know the rooster is asking me to rise even when it hurts. Hitting the snooze on the wake up call God has sent means I am at risk of over-sleeping, missing my life, missing the chance to see His light as the sun comes up. Another day, a new chance to give it up to Him and do my chores. I’m not fully healed, I’m still leery of a wrong move, but focusing on His voice, I send a glorious “Good morning” to the rooster, I dance in the darkness of my porch as I move to refill my coffee.