Feeling sad, depressed and overwhelmed....
Wondering how I, a woman of God, can have such emotions... and the best part is the cussing... Whew have some of those been flying out of my mouth? Well yes Mrs. Beukers, they have...

Someone recently told me that I am not the same as when they met me. When I asked her about the changes she said that I am not so happy go lucky anymore. That I am not a ball of sunshine ready to give to everyone I meet, but rather sad and tainted and half empty.  A huge sigh released from my lips as I realized that not only was that true, it was something I myself had been pondering.

Where did she go, this fun woman? How do I get her back? Its like trying to do sancranized swimming to beautiful music, but forgetting how to swim... I forgot what it is like. I have had so much loss and hardship that I am permenately disfigured from the trauma.

Yet, it is not as though I have never experienced trauma or pain or trial. My entire life as a child taught me how to be positive and happy in the midst of pain and trauma. I learned how to find something to focus on that was positive or funny and that is how I survived. Disney was my something for most of my life and still the songs and movies bring joy to my heart. Something is not right now, something is missing in me. I can not tell you what it is, but it is as if my brain patterns were somehow altered and I forgot who I was.

This RAW life I try to live is a lot harder when you are not the happy go luck person you once were. It is harder to be real and authentic and uncensored. The vulnerability does not help my cause, it weakens it, yet I am constantly encouraged to go there.

I feel as though people expect me to be a certain way and I am not meeting thier expectations, even though I am no longer the woman I once was. I am wounded and grieved and hurting. I feel exposed and abused and taken advantage of. I am nervouse and anxious and fearful. I feel angry and betrayed and lack trust.

Where did this woman come from?

I lay her stripped down to the rawest form of myself. Ugly, hateful, miserable. I am exposed! I cry to the Lord and ask him to cover me with His grace, with His mercy, so that I can hide beneath His goodness. I am tired and full of pain. I want to go back to the time where things made sense and were methodically planned out. I want to be the mom that spent hours doing nothing but playing games and puzzles and reading books. I want my kids to stop growing.

I do not know how to be a mom of a teenager. I treat them like they are still 5 and 3 and hold them as tight as I can... but the Lord is pulling my hands off of them and I have to trust Him with them. I have to believe He is who He says He is... and that is the core of it all... Is He?

Is He the God who saves, the God who delivers us and provides for us? I have all these expectations of God based on what I have read in Scripture and was recently told that I feel entitled. I had to think about that. Am I someone who feels entitled? Yes I am. I do feel entitled... I am the daughter of the King of kings afterall.... is that wrong?

I read Psalm 138 this morning and verse 8 hit me between the eyes..."The Lord will perfect that which concerns me..." That which concerns me? He will perfect or complete that which concerns me? Not what concerns him, but what concerns me... What concerns me? What things are about me or in regards to me? My family? Life, long life without disease or sickness; my kids protection and well being and dreams; my husband, being married to him until death parts us; and death, not wanting to die young, but living a long, prosperous, healthy life. He will complete those things? He will perfect those concerns? Wow...

Am I misinterpreting? Is my God sincerly concerned with fears and desires. The very things that have transfigured me? Maybe this transfiguring is a good thing. Maybe my heart was deformed and through all of this He is perfecting it by transfiguring the deformity to perfect... Maybe I just need to change my perspective.

What do you think?

Rice Krispies

I found this as I was cleaning out my files, a blog I never posted about my little miss....

My daughter cried as I tucked her into bed this cold night. Her words were mumbled and quiet. I caught the tear in the light as it glistened and sparkled. I couldn’t help but see the beauty in her tears. My mind had not yet comprehended what the wet face reflected in her heart. She slowly said, “I am sorry, mama. I don’t want to make you upset.” I was bewildered at how my child’s tears could upset me. “What is it Pita? Why are you so sad?” Her words came out with a sigh of relief, as if she had just confessed some sin, “I miss Nana,” she said.


My mind lectured my soul for being too emotional to give her freedom to grieve. I knew she was holding it in. I knew the moment she held me hand and wiped my tears that she was going to be my caretaker through the process of losing my mom. I did not want her to be. I wanted her to grieve and cry with me, but her tender heart tended to my shattered heart. I felt, all too often, as a failure. A mother, who could not console her child, but had her child tend to her, was not a place I wanted to be. I have always been the nurturer, the caretaker, the protector and educator of my children, yet had not been able to do so in the last year. I asked her many times if she was sad about Nana, and she eloquently explained that it was not her time to be sad. She would dance for me and sing and be silly to try and make me smile. Perhaps the sadness I carried was too much for her to see. So my little Nita Pita did not grieve her Nana’s death.

“I miss making cookies with her and going fishing in her backyard. I miss making Rice Krispy Treats and gingerbread houses. I am going to miss her taking me somewhere special on my birthday.” Her words were thick and filled with conviction. She had memories of my mom that were beginning to come to the surface. “Can we make Rice Krispy treats tomorrow?” My hand touched her face and pushed the stray hair out of her face. “Yes, honey we can.” Her face lit up and she continued to describe in detail how the treats were made. Her words danced off her tongue and twirled around me, coming to life in my head. I pictured my mom in her kitchen, making these treats with her granddaughter. I saw my mom put an apron on my daughter and whisk around the granite to fetch ingredients.

Silence hung in the air and I realized my daughter had stopped talking. She too must have been in memoryland. I desired to know more, and reached into the depths. “Why now, Carah? Why are you sad now? Did something happen or trigger you be sad?” Her thoughts seemed to take her somewhere other than her room. She was silent for a while and her eyes blinked slowly. “I didn’t process it before. I just didn’t think about it, because I wanted to help you. But now I am thinking about it. I am thinking about all the things we did and all the things she is going to miss.” Tears flooded her face and sobs echoed in the room.

He words hung in the air and I thought about my Elijah playing in the State game and how she missed it. I thought about Noah overcoming his dyslexia and how she would be so proud of him. I thought about Aurora, my new niece and how she was not there for her birth. My sister posted on Facebook that she missed mom. I knew she needed her to be there and do the things she always did for her kids when they have a new grandbaby for her. I thought about my brother’s kids and how they will not get to experience the very things my daughter was crying about. This little girl was speaking in a way that was mature and methodical. Her heart had treasured specific things about her Nana and it was now bubbling over.

I prayed with her and hugged her goodnight. She couldn’t sleep and wanted to squish me. I capitalized on the time and made it “girl time.” We watched Enchanted and squished on the couch. She fell asleep on my legs and I carried her to bed. My breath was heavy and deep. Sighs weighed on my lips. My brain was tired, my heart aching. My body weary from sorrow and grief, I laid down on the soft mattress. I try to comprehend the way of my Lord. I try to learn how to live in this broken world. I do not know how to. I have no clue what to do, where to go or how to get there. I lay in my bed, my love besides me. I snuggle close to him and listen to him breath. I am thankful; thankful that he is breathing, thankful that he loves me and thankful we are still married.

I am learning how to be content, yet I want more. I want a full life with gray hair and grandkids. I want to see my kids live to be old and gray too. I want all of my kids and grandkids to be blessed. I want them to experience a life on this earth that is protected and blessed. I do not want them to have to fight the way we have fought. I do not want them to be tormented the way I am tormented. I do not want them to be afraid or worry or doubt. I hope that in the learning, I am changing the course of history in my family line. I hope that in the learning, my contentment spills over into my children and grandchildren. I hope that in the learning, I grow and the things that have cursed me, no longer have a hold on me or my family. I am learning to be content in the learning, content in the pain, content in the sorrow. I am learning to be content in the discomfort, content in the not knowing, content in the waiting. Yet, I am not fully content. I am learning to be thankful for my trials and tribulations, because I have seen the glory of God in my flesh. I have seen the blood of Jesus alive and real in my life, as healing overtakes me. I am thankful that my burden is becoming lighter and my yoke is becoming easier.

The little mounds of sticky mass melt into a blob of white. The spoon mixes the sticky mess into a mountain of what looks like snow. Little hands measure the crackling rice and it textures the white mass. Memories flood. New ones are made. The book my mom made for her grandchildren, before she died, lies open on the counter. One of the recipes she added in her book was for this treat. Carah reads the directions. Conversation steeps as we debate regular or mini M&M’s to add. Hands are slippery with butter to press the mixture into the dish. Webs of marshmallow string between hand and dish.

There on my kitchen counter sits a simple American treat. The simplicity frames our memory as it has become part of our family legacy. Lips no longer quiver with sorrow, but turn upward in sweet bliss that will satisfy both body and soul. We all enjoy the gooey bar in our hands as we sit around the fire. The grief is captured by the legacy my mom left, which will now become part of my family’s heritage.

Thankful for Rice Krispies, marshmallows and butter. Content in all I have and don’t have… Thankful this life is but a glimpse and we have eternity without the sorrow and pain and loss and fear…. Content as I bite into my gooey memory.