For The Wounded.

I believe everyone has been wounded to some degree in this life.
We are not made for this world, so it is only natural that pain will come while we wait for the day when we are called home.

Pain was not in the original design.
The design was peace.
The design was to live in sunshine, in purity, in a place where we forever drank of the rivers of Christ's love for us.

The design was to dance with no fear in the garden of freedom, not the forest of guilt, shame and brokenness.

Yet, here we are.
In a world full of so much hurt and turmoil.
A world full of disease and hate.
A world full of trials and testing.

We screwed up the original design.
Why?

Because we are man.
Man screws things up.
Man sins.


Man wounds.

We wounded our Creator, we wound ourselves and we certainly wound one another.

Last night I sat on the bed with my best friend, my husband and exposed the wounds I had ignored for years.
Wounds I had slapped a band-aid on in hopes that if I didn't have to see them, I wouldn't have to deal with them. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to work.
You can't slap a band-aid on a bullet hole and expect it to do the job. 
If you don't eventually expose the wound and deal with it, you will bleed out.
It will be fatal.

I was wounded years ago and have mentioned that wound on multiple occasions here, because I want my writing to be real and raw and relevant.
You can't be relevant if you're afraid of people seeing your dark corners. 
Nobody wants to listen to someone who appears they have always rocked a #blessedlife and are constantly walking in a #highlyfavored manner.

I have a beautiful life, but it has not always been beautiful.
It has had it's dark days.
It has seen it's days of not getting out of bed because I no longer wanted to be awake.
I have been wounded.

I was shot in the chest and blamed myself for that wound for so long that I just covered it in embarrassment and chose to shove it off.
As a strong girl, I thought to be strong I had to bandage the wound and shrug it off, reassuring myself and Christ that I was okay-that I had it all under control.

The truth?
True strength is exposing those wounds.
True strength is letting your wounds breathe not only in the presence of Jesus, but those who love us most.


It all seems pretty hopeless really-
that is, until we turn to the One wounded first.

What does He say about the broken hearted?
What does He say about the wounded?

When Jesus came back after conquering death, after winning the ultimate battle, He didn't come back to Earth and show those He loved brand new, unscarred skin.
Jesus, the Creator of all things, the Alpha and the Omega, came back from the battle still showing and exposing His wounds.

He showed the disciples whom He loved the holes in His hands and His feet.
He exposed His wounds openly.

Not only did He boldly come and expose His wounds, He didn't place blame anywhere.
He didn't place blame on the Father or on the world ( even if we, the world, did deserve it ).
He simply exposed the wounds and healed us through those wounds.

Seems odd to say that wounds were what healed us, but God likes to shake things up.
I don't know what you were wounded by.
I don't know what about your wounds brings about shame or guilt or maybe even anger.

Maybe you were wounded by disease.
Maybe you were wounded by divorce.
Maybe you were wounded by deceit.

Maybe you played a hand in your own wounds, but maybe you didn't.

Jesus hung naked on a cross, alone.
He was mocked by the same people who had years prior clung to His garments.
He was denied by the same people who had shared meals with Him, who had promised to never wound Him in any way.

Yet, despite it all, Jesus came bearing His wounds not with anger, not with shame, not with fear...but with a bold, fierce, gentle, open love.
He healed us with the same wounds that we inflicted.

I think Christ desires for us to follow His example in every way we humanly can-including how we deal with our wounds.

That looks a little like this:

1. Don't hide your wounds.
2. Expose your wounds to those you love.
3. Don't place blame anywhere (that includes on yourself).

It would be easy for me to continue to slap band-aids on my bullet holes until I simply bled out.
It would be easy for me to tell my husband, "I'm okay. I'm a big girl. I got this handled. Don't worry about me"
It would be easy for me to blame the one who inflicted my wounds or even blame myself.

Following Jesus will not be easy, ever.
This won't be either.

The Cross was a necessity to save the world and sometimes our wounds are a necessity to launch us forward or even heal those around us.

When a young woman comes to me, hurt by the sex industry, I can show her my wounds.
When a young woman comes to me, hurt by her spouse, the one who was designed to protect her heart at all costs...
I can show her my wounds.

Being silent and hiding your wounds could be detrimental to not only you, but someone else that cries to you for help.

If a woman came to me wounded and showed her gaping bullet hole and I chose to hide my own, she would turn away, possibly more wounded before.

Show your wounds to those you love, but also to the other wounded.

I could live ashamed of the wound I have been given.
I could hide my wound in shame.
I could be silent about how pornography was the loaded gun that blew a hole into my world and my chest.
I could.

Or I could boldly expose that wound.

I could, with head up and chin up, speak up about my wound so that other women everywhere would know that it's okay to be wounded, because I myself am wounded too.

I don't know what wound you're trying to bandage up on your own in the dark, but it's time to let it see the Sun.

Psalm 147:3 "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds."

2 Corinthians 12:9 But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.


1 Peter 2:24 He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.

Who Are You Racing? #blessed

As many of you know, I'm a little obsessed with running. It saved and changed my life in many ways that are a part of my personal body image journey. It taught me a lot about myself, about life and about authentic beauty. 

During every race, I focus on one girl to pass by the time I reach the finish line. Typically she is my opposite, you know one of those girls that running should be a breeze for. She is tall, with legs as long as rain forest trees and broad shoulders. She is making huge bounds with her lean body, gracefully passing everyone around her. 

I look down at my legs the size of dull pencils and decide that I am going to show this girl that I too can run. I am going to pass her and leave her in the trail of my dust and determination. Who wants to get owned by a 5'1 (and 3/4) goldilocks in a race?

Nobody.

I don't look to my left or to my right, I only focus on her...on the finish, on the race at hand.

And yes, I do end up passing no name girl and smirking as I whiz to the finish line.
I just can't help myself.

Friendly competition with an absolute stranger in a  road race is all in good fun. It will motivate you to push yourself more than you would have just staring at your own feet.

But, how many times have we found ourselves racing another off road? 
In our hearts?
In our minds?
In our job?
In our marriage?
In our relationships with our children?
In our physical images?

Maybe I am talking to myself this time, which is perfectly fine.
I don't think I am. 

I think we as women have a natural tendency to compete with those around us, especially other women.

We see their perfect couple pictures in our newsfeed, see their children baking by their sides in photographs and not to mention they just completed 200 burpees with their newborn strapped to their back.

We see these highlights of another woman's life and we look to our shadow spots in comparison.
You just nagged at your husband before he left for work, your kids just gave each other haircuts, all you see of yourself is stretchmarks and cellulite..and honestly burpees don't sound appealing to you at all.

It is so easy to fall into the trap of racing someone else in life that we lose sight of the true race we should be running-the one against the woman we once were and the race that Christ has set before us. 

I don't know about you, but I would hate to get to the end of my race and realize I went off course along the way and missed the finish line, that I missed the mark I was meant to hit completely. 

And that girl you thought you were racing, is at the finish line because she never knew she was in a competition with you all along.
She's probably relaxing with some banana halves with a medal around her neck, because she was too focused on her own race to notice you panting feverishly behind her.

Heads up honey, she probably lives a life very similar to your own, she just does a good job of not broadcasting the negatives to the world like the rest of us.

We like to show the world all of our surface level goodness.

Hashtag blessed.
Hashtag favored.
Hashtag thebestmomever.

It's easier to do that than to admit we are all really just trying to make it to the finish line in one piece.

You know what?

Jesus can do a lot more with a woman hobbling towards Him than a woman sprinting, never admitting how much she really needs Him to carry her the rest of the way. 



Acts 20:24 ESV "But I do not account my life of any value nor as precious to myself, if only I may finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God."

Your "victory" is meaningless, worthless if you run a race never intended for you to run.
Don't you get it?
Passing her up means nothing. 
Nothing. 

You will end up with a life of no value and sadly missing every amazing opportunity and ministry Christ has for you because your focus is on something/someone other than the true Prize.

Philippians 3:14 ESV  "I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus."

I do not want to reach the end of the road and realize I missed the mark...

and that the person I was trying so hard to catch, was never even racing.

2 Timothy 4:7 ESV"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith."

 

50 Shades of Emotional Porn

Now before I really dive into this blog, let me be real here and admit I tried reading the first book in the  ever so popular 50 Shades of Grey series when it first erupted a few years back.
Not only was I constantly looking over my shoulder wondering if anyone could see what I was reading in my very own home, but I failed to make it half way through the book. 

First, I have to question why I was reading something I felt uncomfortable reading in the privacy of my own room in the first place.
Secondly, what was it about the book that made me squirm?
Why did I feel so guilty for reading it that I marked my place in the first book before the half way spot and never picked it up again. I had thought about giving it to anybody interested in not spending the money on buying it for themselves, but I felt so disturbed by it that I threw it into the trash, not wanting anyone to experience those pages on my watch.

I am a Christian, yes. But I don't think that is the root of the issue here, so I won't waste my time throwing scripture at you because I am sure you have already heard enough flack from conservative women (something I am not) as it is on pretty much anything you enjoy doing.

You shouldn't wear yoga pants out in public, you shouldn't have a glass of wine with your girlfriends, etc. etc. etc. 

Most likely I am writing this blog in my yoga pants and sipping on my wine as Netflix hums in the background.

I'm not here to preach, I'm here to pose a different perspective for you to consider.



The other day I was informed that some wives willingly buy their men magazines with half-dressed women in them (or nude, who knows). I won't really touch on that much, except what in the hell are you thinking? Even if you are not a Christian couple, why are you gladly handing your husband something that could ruin him and your marriage? You are there to partner with him and help protect him as much as you can from destruction. Guess what? Lust and porn is destruction. For more insight on the subject you can check out my blog on the ugly truth about porn here :

http://britkayandsuch.blogspot.com/2014/12/the-ugly-truth-about-porn.html

Aside from that, most women would feel betrayed and sickened to find their husbands crouched in a closet or locked in the bathroom with pages flooded of images of a sexual fantasy not of them, but a stranger. I know how it feels to witness the one that is meant to only have eyes for me blinded by the sex industry. It cost me years of self-loathing and trust issues for my wonderful husband to clean up after.

Now, why would you think your husband would feel any different seeing you fantasize over a sex life not your own? 
Women are not visual creatures for the most part, so the sex industry can snag us in a new way : emotional porn. 
Yeah yeah, sounds really silly.
But think about it, women all over (many of them married) are cuddled up reading pages filled with explicitly detailed erotica, all the while their husbands, though seemingly indifferent to their wives' new thrill, sit and watch the woman they married share a part of her heart only meant for him to fill.

Most men will not voice when they are hurting, but I guarantee there are husbands all over cringing at the thought that they are not enough for their wives in the marriage bed, so she is turning elsewhere to fill her needs- a book for crying out loud.

How hypocritical is it of ladies to elbow their husbands for even looking in the general direction of another woman, yet we are emotionally staring, gawking even, at the sexual object of Mr. Grey and the content of the books' pages?


It's interesting to me that the same women who 'Amen' my stand on men and pornography are the same ones who are gushing over their own sexual fantasies and snagging the first tickets to 50 Shades. It's sugar coated porn for women and that's the hard truth.

There are no 50 shades in lust, it is black and white...and will lead you straight to destruction.

Find another form of escapism or just learn to live in reality, with a real man and a sex life that isn't fabricated.

Next point: the book is filled with self-serving and self-seeking sex. I would call it intimacy, but that is not what is contained in it's pages. It is a domineering man, controlling his partner (if i can even use that word) in every way-emotionally and physically. Honestly, if you would take off your fantasy glasses, you would see it is a book about a male-chauvinist and his journey of abusing a vulnerable, weak woman. This is not the kind of love most little girls dream of as they play dress up and as a now grown woman such should still be the case.

As a feminist, or a woman period, why would you want to give one dollar of your money to such a cause? If we as women are now in support of a rich man enticing a woman into his lair of submission, feminism is dead. 
Huge statement, but seriously.

Everything about this poor girl is controlled. Mr. Grey even goes far enough to control what she eats and when. If this is okay with you, I am utterly lost.

All the feminists of the world sigh in unison and face palm in absolute despair. 

I will not be giving any part of me to this movement; the "grey area" of the sex industry.

Christian woman or not, you deserve a man of substance that will respect you, honor you, cherish you and love you not with domination, but with gentleness and honesty.

Stepmoms Chronicles: Stepping On Legos.

I had an amazing mother. 

She could do all of those must-know mommy things, like pull a three course meal from a can of corn. 

She could use that strange machine...what was it again? 

Oh um, I can't remember. 

You use it to sew stuff.

She was like the tear-wiping, bed time story-reading, lullaby singing goddess. 

Luckily my sister snagged that craft-loving, cooking, baking gene because this girl lost it along with all the other things like matching socks and how to tease your hair. 

Give me a puppy, I'm set for days. 

Hand me a crying child, I will look at you like I just saw my life flash before my eyes. 

So pretty much, I'm a "Pinterest fail," but in human form. 

Now now, I'm not downing myself. 

I think I'm pretty great, but...not a typical "mommy."

First: I'm a bonus momma; like those extra points you get that save your arse on a quiz. 

Kind of. 

I don't know nursery rhymes. 

I don't do spit up or snot. 

I have to consciously make myself laugh at a kids' joke so that I don't appear to think that was one of the dumbest things I've just heard. 

I'm really great at answering my stepsons' legitimate questions with sarcasm or blunt truth. 

Example A: 

"Britney, what happens to them bunji -jumping if that cord breaks?"

"Well kid, they die."

Not a very mommy answer, but I don't do well at the coddling bit. 

I could fluff this blog up and say being a step mom isn't hard and we all just know what we are doing all the time, but that would be a lie.

We're winging it, just like you probably are. 

But, I'm not just a step mom, I'm 24 and was also raised a lot like a dude. 

My father, now one of my best friends, bless his heart, had no idea what to do with two girls. 

Crying was stupid and unnecessary. 

I learned to suck it up real fast and I figured out things like sucking your own thumb wouldn't last in the real world. 

Now, I'm thankful my step kids are boys for this reason: I would break a girl. 

Either that or she would end up like me...which isn't all that awful. Okay she would be a boss. 

But anyway. 

I make this face when people start crying around me, like I've just seen their guts exposed. Literally. 

Before you go calling me heartless, hear me out. 

I'm not a typical mom figure and when I first stepped into this role I was hopping around injured like I was constantly stepping on Legos. 

Why? 

Because I had no idea what I was doing or how I was supposed to act. 

I spent the first six months thinking I was going to have to learn to say things like "aw, come here poor baby", spending my time buying mom jeans that make my butt look too long and chopping my hair into a bob. 

That was funny and you know it. Get a sense of humor. 

Finally, I asked myself: "what the hell are you thinking? That isn't you and it will never be you."

Not only were all these mom standards not imbedded in my personality, but that was OKAY. 

Not only was this okay, but the boys didn't NEED me to be anything but what I was and they didn't NEED me to try to scrounge up random garbage to offer to them. 

The boys needed me to be the classy, tacky, a little smart-assy girl I was to begin with. 

They have a mother that loves them, kisses their foreheads and can do all of that mommy stuff that I understand as much of as my spanish professor's lectures. 

So what did I have to offer? 

What do I have to offer? 

What do YOU have to offer, step momma? 

How about yourself? 

You might be the only parent with cut off tees and tattoos in the school orientation, but there is beauty in what you have to offer: DONT CHANGE. 

Your kiddos most likely already have a great mommy in their life-don't think you have to be mommy. 

For me, that's a huge load off. 

Am I saying you won't have to discipline, help with homework, feed (even if it is tater tots), hug, love, protect your step kids with everything you possess? 

Absolutely not, but you can do all those things as (fill in your name here). 

I can offer my boys things a biological parent can't, just like the biological parent can offer things to them I never will be able to. Also a good lesson to chug and swallow right now. 

I can offer my boys an "outside perspective," one not shadowed by rose colored glasses. I can tell them things I see in them that they might not want to admit is there and that mom and dad might not want to see. I can see those things and out of a desire to protect them from future destruction, point those things out without appearing to be a nagging parent (though I really am one). Trickery. 

I can offer my boys a more open, modern, real world side to life. This may not always be the case for all step mothers, but I am a young mother, still navigating my way through faith, knowledge, wisdom, politics, etc. and still seeking more and more from life. I have not yet settled into a way of thinking, part of me hopes I never do. (Who can't use some more knowledge?)

I can offer my boys a safe place to have a voice. It's not foreign to all of us that (typically) mom and dad are not the ones we want to go to when we have a struggle, an opposite view, a hurt. Though a parent figure, I am a safe haven to approach and to voice to whatever they might be fearful of projecting elsewhere. 

I can offer my boys a hell of a sense of humor. It might take some time for them to catch on to how great it is to chill out and know a good joke, but they will. Knock knock jokes just aren't funny. Stop lying to yourself. My mother may call me tacky, but that's really code for genius humor. Trust me. 

I can offer my boys a look into what a woman CAN look like. 

It can look like the kind that isn't afraid to speak her mind or enjoy a glass of wine with her dinner. 

The kind of woman that has a presence that speaks for itself-no entrance announcement needed. 

The kind of woman that knows that silence is powerful. 

The kind of woman that knows she can do anything a man can and isn't afraid to prove it to them by lapping their butts in a race. 

The kind of woman that works hard, works long. 

Step mom, you have unique things to offer your kids. Don't keep stepping on Legos and beating yourself up because playing mommy isn't your forte.

Strap on your motorcycle helmet, let down your hair, paint, write, work, don't work, do whatever it is you do that defines you. 

My boys will never see me trying to be what I'm not, that's a personal vow. 

They may not see me knitting and baking like a DIY Pinterest board, but they will see me come in from running 26 miles of hills, plopping on the couch next to their ruffled hair...

Cracking a joke and hugging their neck just as hard as any other mother could. 

Children don't know labels, only you do. 

So what do you have to offer? 

What are you going to STOP labeling yourself as and what are you going to START labeling yourself with?