A Child Again

And when all seems to be going well, after years of trials and tribulations...

The rug is pulled out from under us and we are on the floor, bruised and frustrated at the notion that “here we are again.”

There is this insatiable desire inside of me that wants to be heard. It started when I was young, surrounded by parents that were incredibly talented and intelligent. I was a dancer, a singer, and entertainer. I whisked around the room like a whirlwind of wonder, in my own world, my own dimension of a life that was filled with joy. I knew my God at a young age and believed anything was possible. So I dreamed impossible dreams that would fill my mind and become reality in the future.

As I got older and life got harder, that childlike whimsy slowly faded into the deep abyss of my soul that kept it safe from the abuses and torment I faced. The dreams diminished and I started to pull inward. Into a place where I spoke only for other, to advocate for their little child, the place that gets stolen and wounded far too often and way too young.

The passionate resolve to raise my children without the labels, the curses, the bullying, the abuse… created this outspoken women in me that had no tolerance for the neglect, abuse or bullying of children. I became fierce and intense, ready to fight anyone who stood against the innocence of the generation of children growing up with my own children.

As adulthood overtook me and my childhood became a distant memory I can hardly remember, the things that once shaped me, that once molded me started to show in my own children. I saw glimpses of myself in them and it gave me a subtle peace that there was still hope in this world.

But the darkness left a mark on me. On my husband. It disfigured our souls and fogged our vision. As we came out of the darkness and into the light, we started business as usual, working jobs, paying bills, being parents, doing the things that make us human.  But we have never been the same.

On the other side of the darkness, gray hair frolicked on my head, and framed my husband’s face. Deep crevices began to show up on our faces and our vision became skewed. Children becoming adults, husbands and parents, hit us with the reality that, although we survived and made it through the darkness, the years of holding on, had worn us out.

Then, a bright light, a spotlight beamed down on us. Redemption. A time to reclaim what was lost. We were presented with an opportunity to open another restaurant using our concept and recipes from Rhema, almost 11 years later, to the date. It was unreal, exciting, and adventurous. The embers of our visionary souls began to ignite and burn with a fury. Our chef and my husband were at it again, doing the very thing that they were created to do. We moved our entire family to Lancaster to open the restaurant.  Reviews were high, food and service was amazing and we could see the success of the restaurant ahead of us.

Then, as if in a movie, written to give the viewer a twist in the story, it all came crashing to a halt. The owners opened before they had their beer and wine license, and expected to make money the first month they opened. When they didn’t they began to point fingers and blame and falsely accuse. They became volatile and threatening, even though the issues were because of their bad choices and impatience. Five weeks after they opened, they finally received the beer and wine license and had the best financial weekend since they opened. Exactly what my husband told them would happen. But they were already convinced that the fault was with my husband and the chef and fired them.

They stole our concept, recipes, didn’t wanted to pay their salaries, because they were the highest paid employees and then left us out to dry. Just 5 weeks after we signed a one year housing lease, we are without a job.

So we sit here, on the floor, the rug pulled out from underneath us. Lifting our hands to God, trying to praise Him through another storm. Another storm, another storm. Another battle to fight. I know my God is faithful. I know He will provide. I know He will walk us through this. But my arms are weary. For 11 years, as we entered the darkness, through the darkness and coming out of the darkness… we have lifted our hands to praise our God in the storm. But I am tired, I am weak.

I see the patterns, the years of things being stolen from us, since we were first married. Things that were taken because of other people’s wickedness, other people’s lies and deceit. I see a pattern of us doing what is right, standing, going above and beyond, creating new ideas, developing systems and organizations, giving, helping and then someone else coming in and stealing the position or promotion or opportunity from us. People have accused of many things that have put us in these situations… but when you pursue God and righteousness, sometimes trials perfect our faith in a way that feels too much and too long. Sometimes it’s just God positioning His children for things we can’t even imagine. I hope, I believe that the last 25 years is what this has been.

I am sitting on the bare, cold floor, weeping, crying out to God. Wondering why Lord, why? At some point, all this has to account for something right? There has to be a time when the time of carrying a child is done and you give birth. There is a promised land that was inhabited by God’s people, and they eventually lived in that space. At what point does all the stolen things get returned?

I am not moving. I am not getting up to try and make something happen. I am not fretting, not worrying, not planning, and not dreaming. I am just sitting. Sitting and weeping. Sitting and praising. Sitting and praying.

Of course we are doing our due diligence, applying for jobs, taking whatever we can get. We still have to pay bills. But I am not standing, I am not walking or running for now. The darkness looms and I want to be held in my Saviors arms. I want rest in His presence. I just want to be near Him, so I don’t fall into a place that steals from us again.

 I want to be a child again, and whisk around the room in childlike wonder, believing that anything is possible and dreams come true, when God is your champion. So I sit in His arms until I can see that little girl inside me again. 

The Exclusion of Motherhood

I sat there, while a 20 year old college student defiled my entire existence as a mother. Her ignorance spewed out of her mouth, like beautiful drops of poison, disguised in equality and freedom. Her words floated through the air and landed on my daughter, and she could feel the pain of it.

Out loud she said, “Thank you for sacrificing your life, mama, so I could be the incredible woman I am today, without wounds and insecurities and trauma. Thank you for depending on daddy to take care of us and giving up your desires, so that we could obtain ours.” My loving, joyful daughter starred at the 20 year old college student, with steam coming out of her ears, and then excused herself to go to the restroom to escape the eruption that was rising within her.

The college student continued to tell the young women in the room that men, essentially were useless and that they are wasting their time being in relationship with them and depending on them.

It is amazing how skewed a person’s perspective can be. Her close mindedness was wrapped in the epidemic that your way is the only way and there is no room for other perspectives. She spewed her hate over all the students there, who were all negatively affected, in some way.

It would be easy for me to lash out words that would totally obliterate her mindset and have her in tears. It is easy for me to bring people to a place of reckoning, when they diminish my life and calling. But for the first time, I felt sorrow, I felt a deep sense of sadness for her and her future children, if she chose to have any.

All of my life, my choice to be a homeschool, stay at home mom, has been diminished by other women. I have been told that I am foolish and uneducated and stupid and close minded and not enlightened. I have been excluded, shamed, made fun of and even scolded for my choice to raise my own children.

Motherhood is a gift. An incredible, wonderful gift. It is a blessing to be in a marriage with a man who loves you so deeply, that he is willing to sacrifice, so that his wife can raise his children. When a husband and wife choose to live in a one income household, especially in California, it is extremely challenging. However the rewards of being the one who actually molds and shapes your children to be amazing humans is priceless.

I did not want other hands on my children, telling them who they are or are not. I did not want other voices speaking death or rejection over my children that would disfigure their souls. I did not want their peers to dictate their worth or their place in this world. I did not want teachers to tell my children they were not enough because they did not accept the indoctrination of government agendas, through the public education system. I did not want media and social media to tell my children they could never measure up to the false images that were projected daily on the screens.

These children of mine are treasures from the living God to nurture and cherish and raise up. They are not burdens or write offs or annoyances that I needed to get rid of. They are my life. An expression of my husband and me, in love and with purpose to raise up the next generation. And I chose to be a part of their every step, every joy, every sorrow, every hope, every rejection, every dream, and every hardship. Hand in hand I walked with them, I talked with them, I gave them life to hold onto and believe in.

If you choose to work, that is your choice.

But don’t diminish or belittle my choice to stay home with my children and raise them. If you are all about women’s rights, then why do you exclude the mother’s rights to stay home with her children, as if it had no value? Don’t shame me or tell me I am a weak woman for raising my children. On the contrary, it takes great strength to work 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, without breaks or vacations. It takes great strength to educate your children and teach them integrity and honesty and inclusion of all people.

Some of the most outspoken people I know about discrimination, stand for equality for all… except if you are a stay at home mom. Then there is no equality, because, woman who stay home are “weak and foolish.” It such an ignorant mindset to think that women, who exercise their right to raise their own children are not intelligent. In fact, women who choose to stay home with their children are some to the most intelligent women I know, for many reasons. The biggest reason is that they are investing into the future of our city, state, country and world. They understand the big picture and sow into the lives of others, so that we can change the epidemics in this world that destroy lives.

So, the next time you think about excluded or diminishing the life of a mother, who chose to stay home and raise their children… perhaps you should do some research on how different those children are from those who were raised by society. Perhaps you should take some time and learn how to value others, who aren’t like you, and learn the value of those of us who gave up our childhood dreams for a new dream that invests in the future.

Motherhood is the greatest gift a women can receive, and actively participating in that gift is an epic adventure that shifts the atmosphere to bring new ideas and discovers that were never indoctrinated into the minds of their children. It creates open mindedness and creative thinking in ways that could never have been acquired had they sat in rooms being force fed the same agenda as every other child next to them. Motherhood is the flame that lights the fuse and watches it slowly move to the inner most parts of their child, until it explodes into purpose and calling for their lives.

I am so grateful I had the opportunity and choice to stay home with my children and be called “Mama.”

My job is done, mostly. My children are adults, married and about to graduate high school. I will no longer have minor children in my home. My job, as an active participator in their lives is over. Now I sit on the sidelines, as a coach, watching them play the game of life, and yell from the sidelines advice I have still to give as they navigate adulthood.

I will always be an advocate for mothers to stay home, it is a dying profession, which is causing a major negative impact on our society. I hope to encourage and value women who are considering or are already staying home with their children. And I will always speak out against women who belittle and exclude the beautiful calling of motherhood.

Falling into the Father"s heart

The weight of my heart pushes my body down to the earth. Face down, drowning in the puddle of tears, spilling out from the grief, pressed down for years.

Its too much for one soul to bear. Too much to carry alone. It twists and turns like a raging river abd when it hits the rocks, anger rages, and white foam displays the commotion of life water hitting those shallow hard places that cannot be moved. The areas I have no control over.

The power of the emotion overtakes me and there I am laying in the dirt... The very elements that made my flesh. The essence of sin that devastates the soul. The battle rages inside my body, and I fight to keep from drowning.

The war pushes in around me, outside my body and tries to infect the soul, to disfigured my spirit. But I am a fighter, a warrior. I am a woman of great worth and power, because I am His. The King of Kings. The lover of my soul equips me to stand, to fight. To not be overtaken.

He stands me up and I lean back to rest. I am weary... It is not stable or solid. My body starts to sink. I am being enveloped into my Fathers heart. He is engulfing me into the deep places of His love for me and I don't resist. I fall, deep, deep into the bottomless abyss of his love. The never ending place that I often loose sight of in this war.

Breathe in and breathe out... Take it in.

(The picture of falling into Gods heart was given to me by Becky Moriarty... This is my vantage point from that word)

The Clock Is Ticking

The clock is ticking.

Can you hear it?

Can you hear the rhythm of the beat of time?

Its resounding pounding in my chest never leaves. It always hovers, it never ceases.

The clock is ticking.

Time is moving forward, leaving behind all the things that encumber us.

Never going backwards, always moving into the future.

Its persistence drags us along, whether we want it to or not.

Tick tock, tick tock

It sounds threatening at times, as if a bomb is about to blow.

Tick tock, tick tock

It sounds soothing, a distant white noise that lulls.

Tick tock, tick tock

It sounds like the thunder of our lives, loud and powerful.

I cannot stop it. I can’t control its motion. Yet it follows me like a lost puppy trying to find a home. I want to run from it, tell it to stop. It continually creeps up on me, yet it is always constant.

It devours children and turns them into adults. It consumes life and leaves you with gray hair and wrinkles. Slowly sipping at the dreams that sit hidden inside.

It is time. It is time to take time by the horns and subdue it. To ride the wild beast and tame it. It is time to turn the ticking into an anthem of life. To write lyrics to the rhythm of the beating drum that constantly follows us.

It is time. It is time to push the hands of time into submission. To engage it with force and purpose. To bend the reality that is given to us. Dancing to the melody of its tempo and moving harmoniously in conjunction with the music within us that makes this life of time beautiful.

It is time. It is time to move into action. To stop the time bomb that is ticking and turn it into notes on a page of purpose and calling. No more will the hands shove and push us to do what it wants. Rather we will be one step ahead, declaring the promises of time and seasons.

Tick tock, tick tock

Can you hear it?

It’s your anthem to move, to dance.

To proclaim freedom from the bonds of time and live in the freedom of knowing you are called to a purpose that is greater than the constraints time puts on us.

Tick tock, tick tock

Do you hear it?

Tick tock, tick

Are you dancing to its beat?

Tick tock

Are you moved by its poetic resound?

Tick

Are you comforted by its lullaby?

Breathe, in

Breathe, out

You are the author of your own story.

Believe it

Live it!

Flatulent Laughter

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   Raw

   Unraveling

   January 3, 2019

   This is the year of abundance, acceleration, new wine, restoration, unlocking, overflowing… or so my prophetic heart says. And so the school of prophets around the world concur.

   January 1, 2019

   I drive to Fresno to Bakersfield to work. I ask the Lord for a word for the year. He tells me exhilaration. I drive home that evening and ask the LORD, “That’s my word, right?” Then I hear the word extraordinary. I pray more and ask seriously, “So is my word exhilaration or extraordinary?” I want to be sure I get the right word.

   It is quiet in my car as I am conversing with my Father. The radio is off, highway 99 is dark and empty. I imagine God, sitting in the passenger seat, riding with me on the way home. I talk to him as if he is physically sitting there, out loud, mostly, because I am alone. And after I ask my question I hear the Lord say, “Flatulent, that is your word.” And the sound of laughter exuding out of the empty space in my car fills my mind and I realize that my God is cracking a joke.

   “I’m serious God, I want to know what my word is. Flatulent is not my word!” I am flustered, this is serious. I am trying to be sure I get the right word for this next season to have vision and something to hold onto. But it doesn’t stop. He keeps laughing, like a belly wrenching laugh and I am flabbergasted.

   “What? That can’t be my word!” passing gas with a sound coming out of my butt is not a spiritual word or vision. But it is. And so is exhilaration and so is extraordinary. God shared with me what it means and how it all pans out…

   This year will be exhilarating and I will encounter extraordinary people and I will learn to laugh at the stinky situations, like people do when they fart… flatulent.

   And so I ponder and absorb the words into my soul to prepare for the next season.

   January 2, 2019

   Coffee with my husband in the morning. We feel stagnant. We feel stuck. We had prepared for this new season for month, anticipating, expecting, praying, fasting, dreaming, talking, meetings, visions, prophetic words. The stench of stagnation overwhelms us and we are just done. So done. Get us out of this LORD. This is not exhilarating or extraordinary at all… it is stinky though. But I am not laughing.

   Years and years of waiting, trusting and believing God. Waiting for this moment in the earth. For the open heavens to release a flood of all those things we have labored for in prayer, in hope, in sorry…And we sit. Figuratively and literally. Sitting on the sidelines, in the pews. I am about to burst out of my skin, but it keeps the explosion neatly tucked away, allowing small bouts of frustration to seep out of my mouth to my husband.

   My husband says, “He’s done.” I am done. We were not created to sit and watch people play in the game. To sit and watch people play multiple positons while the rest of the team, sit and watch. People who are linebackers and receivers and tight ends, and D ends and running backs… But the quarterback tries to play all positions and then complains when a touchdown is never scored.

   Being unseen, but bursting with knowledge and wisdom and experience and giftings and talents and callings and vision. Expecting change but mundane persists. We are pushed aside again, asked to jump through hoops, and wait to be included by the quarterback. My heart is heavy and I sit in the pew, listening to old wine. Maintaining the old wine skins.  And so the lava of my pent up life begins to spill out in frustration and short temperedness and anxiety and fatigue.

   But wait there is more... Satan kicks us when we are down and trials and tribulations surround my grown children and I feel like I failed as a mother, I don’t know how to help, fear swirls around me like a reckless tornado. I am overwhelmed, but not by the grace of God. Not because I am exhilarated. I don’t know how to fix it, how to let go, how to embrace the present circumstances of married children dealing with their own struggles. With grown children dealing with their deep wounds. It is hard and stinky, but I am not laughing.

   I yell at my husband when he moves the clothes on the bed that I am folding, because the lava is seeping out. I tell him it is happening, but he does not understand the depth of the well that holds all that is within me.

   January 3, 2019

   11:20pm

   It is almost a new day. I am vulnerable and raw. I felt led to start up RAW ministries again, after being on sabbatical for almost 2 years, but I am stuck. I am about to blow… I am flatulenting… It is not pretty, it is stinky and loud. I cannot hide it. Anxiety rises and I try to push it down…

   It feels old, old wine in old wine skins. It feels the same, it smell stagnant. I am tired and have to go to work tomorrow, leaving me not enough time to do all the things I dream to do, all the visions God put into my heart. It makes me feel like a fraud.

   Perhaps I can laugh in the morning with His mercies falling on me. But as the day comes to end, I curl up into my bed, next to the man who carries the weight of this with me, who takes the brunt of my intensity, whose frustration pushes up against mine in conflict and we close our eyes in silent prayer, waiting for the new day.

   Hopefully, when I wake up, I will be laughing.
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The Gift of Christmas

The mist settles over me as the light from the moon illuminates tiny particles of water that glows around me. My body shakes, partly from the chill, partly from the Holy Spirit wrapping me in its presence.

I am not here. In the present. I am there. In the past.

I see a woman in pain, overcoming fear as she pushes the baby out. The baby, who is God. The child who came to the earth He created to hold us in His arms. But for now, He is the one being held. He is the helpless one. And the angels surround Him, holding back their intervention, yet praises are proclaimed around Him. Glory to God in the Highest, Peace on earth.

I am not here. In the present. I am there. In the past.

My father, who did not know Jesus, dances in the presence of what he calls the Christmas Spirit. The one and only time, besides his children’s births that he felt as if all the world was well in his soul. The Holy Spirit wraps my father in its presence and my father surrenders to it. To the peace, the joy, the hope that made my dad the best version of himself, every December, as he celebrated this feeling that he delighted in, Jesus, Immanuel. Even though he did not know Him.

I am not here. In the present. I am there. In the past.

My mom is extra. Given over to the overwhelming notion that she is saved by the child, who was born to deliver her from all that kept her in bondage. She does the most. She ensures that nothing is left undone to give us the best expression of herself and humanity. She fully embraces that best version of herself, delighting in the wonder her children experience, for a moment, a season, escaping the intense present sorrow of a failing marriage.

I am not here. In the present. I am there. In the past.

A home was given to us, homeless, without resources. Our only hope, Jesus. Our constant joy, Jesus. Our constant peace, Jesus. December 15^th, the day we moved into the home we dreamed of, that we prayed for. Everything we desires was framed in the house we were given by our God. A tree was put up, decorated and adorned at the reality that our God, our Jesus, who we were celebrating... remember us and lavished us with His love for us. That was the year we felt overwhelmed by his goodness, we had more gifts under the tree we could have ever imagined with no money to our name. It was the year we celebrated alone, just the 5 of us.

The fire warming us, the love surrounding us. The fog settling on the central valley farm land around us, the moon glowing and reflecting off the tiny water particles. Like a warm blanket and the rest of the world disappeared as we snuggled in the blankets given to us, the 5 of us, around the fire, thanking God for coming here to the broken world to know us. To empathize with who we, His creation, experience. 

And there, in the present and the past... the whole earth is engulfed in His presence and the world remembers the Saviour, who came to gave us the only gift that matters... LOVE

I am not here. In the present. I am there. In the past.

I see the angels rejoicing that God has come, Emmanuel. The Gift of Christmas.

Christmas is hitting me deeper

God.

Infinite being that created all of humanity. Perfect, omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent.

Separate from us, those He loves.

When I think about being a follower of Christ, the resurrection of my Savior, Jesus, would seem to be to ultimate celebration of my faith, as it is when He conquered death. When His sacrifice gave us the opportunity to touch heaven, with a simple prayer.

But Christmas is hitting me in a place that is deeper than the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross.

I know the history, that the time of celebrating the birth of Christ is not in December and was partnered with pagan rituals to appease the Roman gods. I know that it has become a marketing event that has been replaced with Santa Clause and Winter Solstice.

But Christmas is hitting me deeper.

My heart was broken open this year. I saw my God in a way that I have never seen Him before.

God, like us, is spirit, soul, flesh. We were created in His image, and we are spirit, soul and flesh. God, had no understanding of what it was like to be human on earth, because He was only human in its perfected form, that way we were intended to be. He never walked in the sin that we lived in. His flesh never touched the wickedness we encounter daily. And even in His love for us, God never experience the temptation and assault of sin.

As I play Christmas songs that tell of the story of my Savior’s birth, while I decorate the tree with memories of our life, my heart is heavy and Christmas is hitting me deeper. Tears begin to well up and my heart and I want to celebrate the reality that my God loved me so much that He left holiness to sit in wickedness, to understand, to empathize with me, with you, with all of humanity.

Jesus, Immanuel, God with us. God with us! He came to be with us, to walk among us. But He didn’t come in glory, with angels hailing his arrival. He didn’t come with power and might to show His majesty. No, He came in the womb of a child, a young girl, who loved her God. He came by way of a young man who was to marry this young girl. People like you and me, afraid, uncertain, needing supernatural intervention to affirm the reality of the calling to carry God incarnate in her womb.

And so the angels came to confirm and affirm this miracle. And the earth knew He had come. As Mary and Joseph traveled to Bethlehem to complete the census requirement, a star responded to the majestic King being born in the little city.

My God, my Savior, humbled himself, and was delivered the way we all are, a young girl pushing the baby out of her, water breaking, contractions overwhelming, and blood surrounding Him, as He made His way into the world, He created. His flesh, grown in the woman He created. His heart nurtured by the man He created. And this little family was established on this Holy Night and the whole earth celebrated the reality that HOPE had come. That PEACE responded to the cries of His people.

Christmas is hitting me deep this year.

As I begin to grasp more fully that love my God has for me. His arrival on this broken earth hailed a new beginning to time. He was the new wine that would establish a fulfillment of prophecy since the beginning of time. His arrival, was more than just God with us. It was God know us. It was God show us. God heal us. It was God deliver us. It was God loves us!

The Christmas carols echo in the background and my body responds in dance, with goosebumps, with tears as I fully immerse myself in the reality of my God, whose love is so deep He not only sacrificed His life as a remission of my sin, but he sacrificed His throne to touch us with tangible hands of flesh. To speak to us with audible words of life. To bring a shining light to a dark and weary world. 

Christmas is hitting me deeper.

The lights on my tree and the stockings hung, the presents under my tree, fade away in the shadow of the love of my Jesus. The nativities around my house give me a glimpse of that night. The night when the world rejoiced. When lowly shepherd and majestic wise men were equal. When woman and man were equal. When government and religion were overruled. And a baby changed the atmosphere of our existence. The baby, being nursed by a woman, He created. Fully human, yet embodied God. And yet He came, in the most helpless form, depending on broken humans to love and care for him, as He loves and cares for us.

It’s hitting me deep.

My Jesus, Immanuel.

Come let us adore Him...