Last night on my run God took me back to when He called me to missions.
I think to remind me that His calling still remains, even in the midst of the flood.
My feet were dangling above the rust-colored snagged carpet in my childhood children's church.
A beautiful woman with curly hair and stories of love and hope began to fill the room with words of excitement.
That woman was happy.
No, not happy.
Something more.
As a child I couldn't quite put my finger on what exactly she had, but I wanted it.
God wanted me to have it too.
As other kids giggled and let their minds be filled with thoughts of the soon approaching buffet at Western Sizzlin, God reached down from the heavens and wrapped his hand around small Britney's heart.
As a child the call to missions doesn't seem so serious.
Or real.
It's just like being told you're going to wear blue jeans tomorrow.
No big deal.
But I could see it was a big deal in my mothers eyes when I informed her I was going to be a missionary one day & maybe give my life for this man named Jesus in a way no mother would ever want for her child.
It was a mixed ocean of emotions in her eyes that day as I buckled my seat in the car next to her.
A gleam of pride in her baby girl and a teaspoon of fear.
The first time I went to Venezuela I was scared to DEATH.
If you know me well, you know I worry.
From the plane crashing to not measuring up once we arrived, my worries were at an all-time high.
The experience from 6 years ago is vivid.
I met my best friend Courtney there in a twin sized bunk bed with no air conditioning or hot water.
I saw things I didn't understand.
I saw girls with no mother to brush their face at night or to tell them they're beautiful.
I saw a thirteen year old girl scream my name when she broke her arm because I was that connection for her that week.
Someone was yelling MY name.
That was a moment.
At age 17, that was a moment I didn't yet understand.
Many of my dearest friends were prophesied over that week, including my beautiful Courtney.
I have never met a heart more innocent or open to receiving.
Courtney has yet to stay in one place, just as the man told her.
I was passed over that night for good reason.
I was in no place ready spiritually or emotionally to have someone say, "You're going to be a missionary. Got that?"
Uh...hold up.
No.
I'm just here because the other option was governor school and people told me I'd vote democrat or something if I went there.
My heart was not mature in the summer of 2007.
I was not in love with Jesus nor did I truly know Him.
I knew felt-board, prosperity, pulpit, "Jesus."
I knew the Jesus everyone else had told me about, but not the Jesus I know and love today.
Today I know Him.
On the last day many will claim to know Him, but He will say, "depart from Me I never knew you!"
The usage of "knew/know" that we see here is the same one used when Mary KNEW Joseph as man and wife.
Wow.
This changes everything.
A lot of people know ABOUT Jesus.
A lot of people can recite facts about Jesus.
But a lot of people do not KNOW Him or His heart.
I know Jesus intimately.
I know Jesus in a very raw way that sometimes is a little uncomfortable.
But being in love with Jesus will never give you a comfortable life.
I am a big mess.
When God opens doors for me to share His love I am still confused.
Of all people, I'm the last person I would give the job to.
But Jesus is cool like that.
He takes yesterday's left overs that nobody wants and makes a gourmet meal.
He's Jesus.
He can do that.
I have to trust that He has chosen me carefully, even if all I see is a broken and useless piece of clay.
July 1. 2013 I will board another plane to Caracas.
Again, why God opened the door and how He convinced so many people to support me to go is mind-boggling.
I'm not going with a group.
When I board that plane there won't be a familiar face in the seat next to me convincing me the plane won't burst into flames or that it's going to all be okay.
I think that was sort of Gods point.
"Britney, I am more than enough."
God asked me to lay down a lot of every day normalcies for me last night.
I have 18 days until I board that plane.
God wants all of me and my heart cleared of all the mess cluttered up.
The rap music (grimace).
The anxiety (me, anxious?).
The distorted self image.
The quick temper.
The impatience.
The sharp tongue.
The fingers so quick to point at everyone else.
The broken heart.
Will I be perfect when I step into that airport?
Of course not.
But Jesus wants my heart open and my mind focused for the mission.
The next 18 days I will be clearing out Britney's wants and making room for Jesus' wants.
My heart needs to be healed to be re-broken for Jesus.
July first, I'll be seeing you.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thunderstorms & Egg Sandwiches
In the south where I was raised, storm season is practically eleven months of the year.
It's rare to go more than two weeks without seeing your state stained with that red "severe" blob on the weather man's map.
When I was a child, I was fascinated with weather. I wanted to know every possible type of cloud that could produce harmful conditions.
When most kids my age were reading books about bunnies and rainbows, I was reading books about cumulonimbus clouds.
When a tornado was predicted to move in my family's direction, my father would toss canned goods from the pantry.
I had a few close calls with some cans of sweet corn.
We would huddle in the pantry or throw mattresses on top of us in a narrow hallway.
Then wait.
In silence.
For our inescapable impending doom.
Just kidding.
We're all still alive and kicking.
Regardless, I developed an obsession and fear of storms.
Not because I was so educated on them, or had even known someone affected by them.
I was afraid because I was out of control.
I was afraid because those around me were reacting in a way that made me afraid too.
I didn't even know what I was afraid of, I just was because it was instilled in me to be so.
I remember my mother would always start making breakfast when a storm would begin to brew.
Typically my stomach would be in all sorts of knots, but when my mother began to toast the bread and scramble eggs I felt better.
She just seemed so calm when there were so many reasons to be scrambling around for shelter;
Instead, my mother scrambled eggs.
She buttered toast.
She poured me a glass of milk and sat down at the kitchen table.
She talked about simple things.
The neighbors cat probably whipped past the kitchen window to its death, yet we laughed and ate our malt-o meal between lightening strikes.
Those scrambled egg sandwiches simply meant distraction to me as a kid from the storm, but as an adult they taught me life lessons.
I face many storms through the seasons of my life, mainly spiritual/emotional.
Life sometimes knocks me on my butt, in the middle of a summer storm.
I have two choices: run to the mattresses or make a scrambled egg sandwich.
I know what you're thinking:
"What in the...is she talking about?"
It's simple.
God is currently scrambling me some eggs and pouring me a glass of milk, asking me to come sit down and stop emptying my pantry in a fearful rage.
Someone recently pointed out to me that God wasn't making a friendly suggestion when He said "Do not worry," He was giving us a command.
Do not worry.
Do not fear.
Do not pass go or collect $100.
Just kidding, that wasn't in the bible.
Duh.
But really, do not worry.
Eat a scrambled egg sandwich.
Storms always pass, even if sometimes with a cost and some debris.
But they always pass.
If I'm going to wait out a storm, I'm going to take it with stride and a side of toast thank you.
We've all heard the cliche saying: "it's not about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning to the dance in the rain."
Don't do that.
That's stupid.
You'll get wet and look like an idiot.
You're probably a terrible dancer.
You can find shelter without hiding from reality.
You don't have to wallow in rain puddles to prove you've been through a storm, but you also don't have to find a fraidy-hole to duck into like a coward.
Go through your storms with dignity.
Seek protection from the elements.
Do not wallow in your despair.
Do not gloat in your battle scars.
Simply pop open your umbrella and move forward.
Then sit down and eat a scrambled egg sandwich.
Loving Your Body When the World Hates It
Even though this blog is directed towards the ladies, men may benefit from it too. I know many men who also feel the pressure to possess a specific physique.
I want to get something straight here and be real before I go any further.
I do not promote any woman to be unhealthy and proclaim she's happy how she is in a body that is slowly killing her.
We were made to be confident not complacent.
Obesity is not okay.
Obesity is a slow death.
There is a difference between being a healthy curvy woman and a woman who is feeding herself into her own grave and claiming "curves are sexy."
Harsh? Maybe.
I see two things consistently:
1. Promotion of an unhealthy, underweight image.
2. Promotion of an unhealthy, overweight image.
Both are wrong.
Both are deadly.
Both could destroy you as a woman and strip your life of happiness.
Our society began to push the "stick thin" image on women for so long that we revolted in an extreme way and actually began to push the image of a "curvy is sexy, bones are for dogs" mentality.
We just can't seem to get it right.
Each woman is her own.
Each woman will not look like the other.
Each woman's healthy will be different.
Skinny is not wrong.
Curvy is not wrong.
Only unhealthy is wrong.
I've been on both sides of the spectrum before finally finding my own balance.
When I was a preteen, I was a total butter ball.
All my friends were transforming into young women with their training bras and forming waist lines.
Then there was me.
I still wore over-alls, had baby weight and honestly didn't need a training bra until high school.
I hated that I didn't look like all my friends.
Developing my eating disorder, I became a scrawny version of my old self.
Looking back on photos all I can do is scrunch my nose at the pale, flimsy looking girl looking back at me.
I think each woman has a moment of finding herself along her own journey.
That moment is hers and hers alone.
Some women find it in a man telling her she's beautiful.
Some women find it in a woman's conference.
Some women find it in sports.
We may be 16 or 96 but at some point we find ourselves fully woman and we can embrace our bodies as they are even if the world hates it.
I'm a fair skinned, short girl with minimum cleavage and will always appear a good 5 years younger than I actually am.
I used to always want to be tan, tall, slender and trade my frizzy locks for long silky ones like my sister.
But I had my moment in my walk of life.
I'm Britney.
Nobody else can be Britney.
I am a beautiful woman.
My body is a precious rental that God Himself chose just for me.
So when you find yourself wondering why running is so close to my heart, it's because running was my moment.
Yours will look different than mine.
You might find yours in the weight room or a delivery room.
My moment was found in running shoes.
Am I what the magazines call "hott?"
Uh no.
Will I ever find jeans that don't drag the ground when I walk?
Probably not.
Will I ever get that cleavage?
Probably not.
Will I wake up tan tomorrow ?
Probably not.
Am I beautiful?
Of course.
And unique.
If you've found your moment, I celebrate with you.
If you're still on your quest to find your moment, try new things.
Pick up roller derby.
Or power walking.
Or parasailing.
Or weight lifting.
A body belonging to a mother of 3 is just as beautiful as the body of a 20 year old.
No beautiful will look like the other.
Get healthy;
Whether that means eating more than two carrot sticks a day or finally chomping down on your first veggie.
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139:13-16 NIV)
I want to get something straight here and be real before I go any further.
I do not promote any woman to be unhealthy and proclaim she's happy how she is in a body that is slowly killing her.
We were made to be confident not complacent.
Obesity is not okay.
Obesity is a slow death.
There is a difference between being a healthy curvy woman and a woman who is feeding herself into her own grave and claiming "curves are sexy."
Harsh? Maybe.
I see two things consistently:
1. Promotion of an unhealthy, underweight image.
2. Promotion of an unhealthy, overweight image.
Both are wrong.
Both are deadly.
Both could destroy you as a woman and strip your life of happiness.
Our society began to push the "stick thin" image on women for so long that we revolted in an extreme way and actually began to push the image of a "curvy is sexy, bones are for dogs" mentality.
We just can't seem to get it right.
Each woman is her own.
Each woman will not look like the other.
Each woman's healthy will be different.
Skinny is not wrong.
Curvy is not wrong.
Only unhealthy is wrong.
I've been on both sides of the spectrum before finally finding my own balance.
When I was a preteen, I was a total butter ball.
All my friends were transforming into young women with their training bras and forming waist lines.
Then there was me.
I still wore over-alls, had baby weight and honestly didn't need a training bra until high school.
I hated that I didn't look like all my friends.
Developing my eating disorder, I became a scrawny version of my old self.
Looking back on photos all I can do is scrunch my nose at the pale, flimsy looking girl looking back at me.
I think each woman has a moment of finding herself along her own journey.
That moment is hers and hers alone.
Some women find it in a man telling her she's beautiful.
Some women find it in a woman's conference.
Some women find it in sports.
We may be 16 or 96 but at some point we find ourselves fully woman and we can embrace our bodies as they are even if the world hates it.
I'm a fair skinned, short girl with minimum cleavage and will always appear a good 5 years younger than I actually am.
I used to always want to be tan, tall, slender and trade my frizzy locks for long silky ones like my sister.
But I had my moment in my walk of life.
I'm Britney.
Nobody else can be Britney.
I am a beautiful woman.
My body is a precious rental that God Himself chose just for me.
So when you find yourself wondering why running is so close to my heart, it's because running was my moment.
Yours will look different than mine.
You might find yours in the weight room or a delivery room.
My moment was found in running shoes.
Am I what the magazines call "hott?"
Uh no.
Will I ever find jeans that don't drag the ground when I walk?
Probably not.
Will I ever get that cleavage?
Probably not.
Will I wake up tan tomorrow ?
Probably not.
Am I beautiful?
Of course.
And unique.
If you've found your moment, I celebrate with you.
If you're still on your quest to find your moment, try new things.
Pick up roller derby.
Or power walking.
Or parasailing.
Or weight lifting.
A body belonging to a mother of 3 is just as beautiful as the body of a 20 year old.
No beautiful will look like the other.
Get healthy;
Whether that means eating more than two carrot sticks a day or finally chomping down on your first veggie.
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139:13-16 NIV)
Friday, April 26, 2013
The Shadow Proves the Sunshine
Have you ever had a rough patch?
Not like your dog died, but like things are so rocky you're crawling on all fours just to make it up the hill?
There is no safe footing or soft, manageable terrain.
You look back and your companions either turned back long ago or they pushed you aside and are already on their way to the top of the hill without you.
This kind of rough patch gives you two options, each setting the course for the remainder of your life.
You can either turn back in disappointment and follow your companions who abandoned you when you reached this rough patch, or you can dig your knees into the mud and trudge through it with heavy head and determined heart.
Both ways are hard.
Both ways will mean hurt.
Both ways will alter your world.
Both ways lead to a place you've yet to touch or see.
Both ways will require you to dedicate 100% of yourself to that path.
You look down at the steep slope you've covered so far and you see a crowd at the bottom, yelling directions for you to turn around.
"Hey! Hey! Come back down! It's dangerous, this hill you know! Look, you're slipping! What are you thinking? This is no hill suited to climb. You can't possible make it to the top without damaging yourself."
You bury your face stained with dirt from the struggle and tears from the fight to climb into your own shoulder.
You wipe off the sweat, blood and tears from your brow.
You manage to turn your gaze to the top of the hill. The climb is so steep.
It's so treacherous in your line of vision.
Your eyes wander up the rocks and mud, looking for a path to grab hold of.
Your peers shake their heads and some even laugh at you for thinking you could find a foot hold.
But there's a light up top that they can't see, because they've already turned their backs to you and made their way back down.
There's sunshine up there.
There's peace up there.
Your climb is confusing to those at the bottom.
Your climb is hard to understand even for yourself.
Your climb is over-casted by dark shadows.
That's how you know.
That's how you know that there is light at the end of that climb.
You swing your arm back and dig your nails as hard as you can into the clay dirt.
You scream and bite your lip so hard it bleeds as you try to pull yourself up the next stretch of your climb.
You face plant into the earth and your arm goes back to flop in failure when a soft touch snags your elbow and you feel your body being flung onto the back of this stranger.
The ride is still rugged and you can hazily feel your limbs being slung back and forth as the Stranger climbs and trudges through the muck of your climb.
You haven't reached the sunshine yet, but the load has lifted by a great amount.
Your weakness doesn't seem to weigh the Stranger down.
He scoots you on top of His shoulders.
This reminds you of your father, your chin bouncing on his head as you rode on his shoulders so long ago, running from that lightening storm after a baseball game.
You felt safe then,
Like you do now.
You're on the shoulders of Love.
And you can feel the warmth of the sunshine even though you can't see it yet.
That's how you know.
That's how you know that at the end of the climb, that somehow Love will be there and there will be sunshine.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
Not like your dog died, but like things are so rocky you're crawling on all fours just to make it up the hill?
There is no safe footing or soft, manageable terrain.
You look back and your companions either turned back long ago or they pushed you aside and are already on their way to the top of the hill without you.
This kind of rough patch gives you two options, each setting the course for the remainder of your life.
You can either turn back in disappointment and follow your companions who abandoned you when you reached this rough patch, or you can dig your knees into the mud and trudge through it with heavy head and determined heart.
Both ways are hard.
Both ways will mean hurt.
Both ways will alter your world.
Both ways lead to a place you've yet to touch or see.
Both ways will require you to dedicate 100% of yourself to that path.
You look down at the steep slope you've covered so far and you see a crowd at the bottom, yelling directions for you to turn around.
"Hey! Hey! Come back down! It's dangerous, this hill you know! Look, you're slipping! What are you thinking? This is no hill suited to climb. You can't possible make it to the top without damaging yourself."
You bury your face stained with dirt from the struggle and tears from the fight to climb into your own shoulder.
You wipe off the sweat, blood and tears from your brow.
You manage to turn your gaze to the top of the hill. The climb is so steep.
It's so treacherous in your line of vision.
Your eyes wander up the rocks and mud, looking for a path to grab hold of.
Your peers shake their heads and some even laugh at you for thinking you could find a foot hold.
But there's a light up top that they can't see, because they've already turned their backs to you and made their way back down.
There's sunshine up there.
There's peace up there.
Your climb is confusing to those at the bottom.
Your climb is hard to understand even for yourself.
Your climb is over-casted by dark shadows.
That's how you know.
That's how you know that there is light at the end of that climb.
You swing your arm back and dig your nails as hard as you can into the clay dirt.
You scream and bite your lip so hard it bleeds as you try to pull yourself up the next stretch of your climb.
You face plant into the earth and your arm goes back to flop in failure when a soft touch snags your elbow and you feel your body being flung onto the back of this stranger.
The ride is still rugged and you can hazily feel your limbs being slung back and forth as the Stranger climbs and trudges through the muck of your climb.
You haven't reached the sunshine yet, but the load has lifted by a great amount.
Your weakness doesn't seem to weigh the Stranger down.
He scoots you on top of His shoulders.
This reminds you of your father, your chin bouncing on his head as you rode on his shoulders so long ago, running from that lightening storm after a baseball game.
You felt safe then,
Like you do now.
You're on the shoulders of Love.
And you can feel the warmth of the sunshine even though you can't see it yet.
That's how you know.
That's how you know that at the end of the climb, that somehow Love will be there and there will be sunshine.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Windows Down
Today I was driving back home from a race.
The course was brutal.
I slept terribly.
Driving felt like I had been at an amusement park all day, standing in line for hours for a 5 second ride.
Sunburned and drowsy.
Head bobbling like it belonged on a business man's desk.
My fingers fumbled and cranked up the tunes I barely noticed for the last hour as I got lost in thoughts and the winding road.
"He loves us! Oh how He loves us! How He loves!"
My head rested back on the drivers seat as I whispered the lyrics to the familiar song.
Road winding.
Eyes glazed.
"Britney."
My eyes flickered.
"Love's like a hurricane I am a tree, bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy."
"Britney."
Fine. I'd sit up.
I was waiting like a child for his father to wave their finger and slap their hand.
"Yes? You wanted to speak to me? What? You're angry? Should I get a pen and paper to make a list of how I've handled things in all the ways they disapprove of? Bring it, God."
"Britney. Be silent."
"If Grace is an ocean, we're all sinking!"
"I love you. Britney, I love you."
"Oh yeah? I know a few people who 'love' me. I don't see them here, do You?"
"Them? They? Who? I am the Maker of all things. Do you not think I see you? Has my infinite love gone dry? Does a carpenter build his most prized piece and leave it unfinished? Does he forget the time and love he put into the piece? Does he let it collect dust and rot? No. The carpenter completes his work. The carpenter smooths his piece with time and sweat. Sometimes the piece doesn't take form like the blueprints say. Sometimes the piece is not understood. Sometimes the piece has to be taken apart and reassembled to the carpenters pleasure. You are my piece. You are my most prized possession. Why do you question Me? Am I not your provider? Am I not the Posessor of peace, understanding and possibilities? Do I not hold the Earth in place and yet still keep you tight in My grip? Tell me."
"You are all those things, but I am feeble and small. I lack. I possess the pieces but can't figure out how to place them. They say You won't use me now. They say You can't bless my ministry now. They say my call to missions is invalid. I've been slammed with curses and cut with unacceptance. What could You possibly do with a piece like me?"
"I AM. I AM. I AM. I am the beginning and the end. I am the author and perfector of your faith. I am your hope. I am your anchor. I am the Designer of callings and Writer of your dreams. I am the Alpha and Omega. I am the one Who used the dead, the sick, the lame, the leapor, the beat down, broken, no-good collector of taxes. I am the One Who tamed waves, lions, Satan Himself. I have seen and do see you then, now and on your death bed. I do not operate on the terms of 'they' or 'them'. I have no limits or boundaries to My ways. I create everything out of nothing. I heal when the doctors say no. I mend hearts torn apart by bitterness and hate. My ways are higher, further, deeper, better, stronger than 'they.' Who are 'they' to the Holder of the keys to Heaven and the strings to your soul? I take what 'they' label a set back and make it a stepping stone. Britney, I love you."
The spring wind whipped my blonde locks over my face.
My head leaned back into a resting position.
I let the windows disappear and my hand dance on the air outside my car.
Overwhelmed with grace.
Taken aback by love;
Not the love that waivers on my circumstances,
Not the love that flees and ducks when storms strike.
Not the love that is embarrassed of me.
Not the love that shakes its head and walks away.
Real, insurmountable love.
I am wrapped in it.
Engulfed in it.
Drowning in it.
Completely intoxicated with it.
"He loves us! He loves us! He loves us! Oh how He loves us!"
The course was brutal.
I slept terribly.
Driving felt like I had been at an amusement park all day, standing in line for hours for a 5 second ride.
Sunburned and drowsy.
Head bobbling like it belonged on a business man's desk.
My fingers fumbled and cranked up the tunes I barely noticed for the last hour as I got lost in thoughts and the winding road.
"He loves us! Oh how He loves us! How He loves!"
My head rested back on the drivers seat as I whispered the lyrics to the familiar song.
Road winding.
Eyes glazed.
"Britney."
My eyes flickered.
"Love's like a hurricane I am a tree, bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy."
"Britney."
Fine. I'd sit up.
I was waiting like a child for his father to wave their finger and slap their hand.
"Yes? You wanted to speak to me? What? You're angry? Should I get a pen and paper to make a list of how I've handled things in all the ways they disapprove of? Bring it, God."
"Britney. Be silent."
"If Grace is an ocean, we're all sinking!"
"I love you. Britney, I love you."
"Oh yeah? I know a few people who 'love' me. I don't see them here, do You?"
"Them? They? Who? I am the Maker of all things. Do you not think I see you? Has my infinite love gone dry? Does a carpenter build his most prized piece and leave it unfinished? Does he forget the time and love he put into the piece? Does he let it collect dust and rot? No. The carpenter completes his work. The carpenter smooths his piece with time and sweat. Sometimes the piece doesn't take form like the blueprints say. Sometimes the piece is not understood. Sometimes the piece has to be taken apart and reassembled to the carpenters pleasure. You are my piece. You are my most prized possession. Why do you question Me? Am I not your provider? Am I not the Posessor of peace, understanding and possibilities? Do I not hold the Earth in place and yet still keep you tight in My grip? Tell me."
"You are all those things, but I am feeble and small. I lack. I possess the pieces but can't figure out how to place them. They say You won't use me now. They say You can't bless my ministry now. They say my call to missions is invalid. I've been slammed with curses and cut with unacceptance. What could You possibly do with a piece like me?"
"I AM. I AM. I AM. I am the beginning and the end. I am the author and perfector of your faith. I am your hope. I am your anchor. I am the Designer of callings and Writer of your dreams. I am the Alpha and Omega. I am the one Who used the dead, the sick, the lame, the leapor, the beat down, broken, no-good collector of taxes. I am the One Who tamed waves, lions, Satan Himself. I have seen and do see you then, now and on your death bed. I do not operate on the terms of 'they' or 'them'. I have no limits or boundaries to My ways. I create everything out of nothing. I heal when the doctors say no. I mend hearts torn apart by bitterness and hate. My ways are higher, further, deeper, better, stronger than 'they.' Who are 'they' to the Holder of the keys to Heaven and the strings to your soul? I take what 'they' label a set back and make it a stepping stone. Britney, I love you."
The spring wind whipped my blonde locks over my face.
My head leaned back into a resting position.
I let the windows disappear and my hand dance on the air outside my car.
Overwhelmed with grace.
Taken aback by love;
Not the love that waivers on my circumstances,
Not the love that flees and ducks when storms strike.
Not the love that is embarrassed of me.
Not the love that shakes its head and walks away.
Real, insurmountable love.
I am wrapped in it.
Engulfed in it.
Drowning in it.
Completely intoxicated with it.
"He loves us! He loves us! He loves us! Oh how He loves us!"
Monday, April 8, 2013
Headwinds.
A few weeks ago I tagged along for a run with some friends for a good 13.5 mile long run. I was thrilled and anxious to get started that day and spend time with my good running buddies.
I woke that morning and packed all the things I'd need for my run along the country back roads.
Chunky water bottle, sexy fanny pack to hold beans and gels, you know, the essentials.
I swung open the door and jumped out in my church high heels with my running bag stuffed full.
Then the door swung back ferociously and smacked me in my face.
I stumbled and lost my balance on those ridiculously unnecessary 4 inch heels that I didn't even particularly like.
My carefully pinned back hair whipped and whirled and soon took on the character of a deserted squirrel nest.
I stumbled and fumbled and grasped my car door handle and threw my self inside.
I checked the rear view mirror and my mouth dropped at how 2 minutes in that wind had changed my appearance.
My stomach dropped.
The run.
The run.
This wind.
40+ mph winds on a long run was unthinkable.
I sat in church that morning, occasionally glancing out the side door only to find my hopes of seeing a still sunny day be swept away with the first Arkansan hurricane.
I tapped my foot ferociously as the minutes ran by me, reminding me I was about to trade my heels for a hat and my dress for dead legs.
But I'm no quitter.
But I'm no fear stricken child.
I always brave the run.
I always brave the consequences of going out on a run not knowing how nature or my own flesh will react.
That day the wind whipped my body back and forth on the road, so much it made me rethink skimping on food lately. Maybe that extra slice of pie would have made me less fragile and less moveable.
My hat flew off my head revealing my untamed pile of hair.
I groaned, grumbled and moaned with frustration.
It was cold, windy and I was running straight into winds that could move a car off the freeway.
I pushed myself up a good mile incline, wavering and rolling my ankle as I went.
My friends suggested turning back, the winds were too brutal that day.
We were at mile 8, there was no way I could do that.
If I had the bravery to dive into these conditions, I was not going to cut it short or take some detour.
This run was mine and I was going to fight for it, even if that meant the entire run was against headwinds determined to blow my tiny frame to Greenland.
Tears streamed down my face when I reached the point in the run where I was alone with myself and the wind.
It was too hard.
My arms were swinging 100 times per minute but I felt as if my legs had chains tied around them.
I was running in place, literally.
I was getting absolutely nowhere, so I decided to finally look up from the asphalt for the first time that day:
It was beautiful. The way the trees swayed to the beat of the wind and the waves of grass followed as a good dancing partner does.
Then I took a look at my body and felt myself moving to the same rhythm.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
I smiled and shook my head.
This entire time I was concerned with the headwinds that I hadn't taken the time to see what was actually happening!
I stopped swinging my arms like an Olympic track star, I threw my head back and looked at the sky above me, arms spread behind me like a toddler about to run down a hill for the very first time and flew.
Britney, ready for take off!
I soared and the sunshine danced on my freckled face.
The wind was now a song of love and I was the DJ.
When I saw my car creeping up a small shred of disappointment swept over me.
That run was over, but my run wasn't.
I was saddened that it had taken me until the end of the run to bask in its goodness.
I remember the looks that people gave me as they drove by me that day on the side of the road.
Looks of disbelief and shock.
They were gripping to the interior of the safety of their vehicles and here I was exposing myself to dangerous elements.
But which was more dangerous?
Clinging to the comfort of your leather interior or braving the run.
So as useless is a ship in safe harbors is a person who refuses to face the headwinds.
At the end of the run, I looked up and saw figures standing at the end of the road.
They were the ones who started that run with me, braved it with me and ended it with me.
They were the ones who finished the run when I said I didn't desire to turn back because it was difficult.
On that day, they were my family, and we must take care of our family no matter where we find them.
I woke that morning and packed all the things I'd need for my run along the country back roads.
Chunky water bottle, sexy fanny pack to hold beans and gels, you know, the essentials.
I swung open the door and jumped out in my church high heels with my running bag stuffed full.
Then the door swung back ferociously and smacked me in my face.
I stumbled and lost my balance on those ridiculously unnecessary 4 inch heels that I didn't even particularly like.
My carefully pinned back hair whipped and whirled and soon took on the character of a deserted squirrel nest.
I stumbled and fumbled and grasped my car door handle and threw my self inside.
I checked the rear view mirror and my mouth dropped at how 2 minutes in that wind had changed my appearance.
My stomach dropped.
The run.
The run.
This wind.
40+ mph winds on a long run was unthinkable.
I sat in church that morning, occasionally glancing out the side door only to find my hopes of seeing a still sunny day be swept away with the first Arkansan hurricane.
I tapped my foot ferociously as the minutes ran by me, reminding me I was about to trade my heels for a hat and my dress for dead legs.
But I'm no quitter.
But I'm no fear stricken child.
I always brave the run.
I always brave the consequences of going out on a run not knowing how nature or my own flesh will react.
That day the wind whipped my body back and forth on the road, so much it made me rethink skimping on food lately. Maybe that extra slice of pie would have made me less fragile and less moveable.
My hat flew off my head revealing my untamed pile of hair.
I groaned, grumbled and moaned with frustration.
It was cold, windy and I was running straight into winds that could move a car off the freeway.
I pushed myself up a good mile incline, wavering and rolling my ankle as I went.
My friends suggested turning back, the winds were too brutal that day.
We were at mile 8, there was no way I could do that.
If I had the bravery to dive into these conditions, I was not going to cut it short or take some detour.
This run was mine and I was going to fight for it, even if that meant the entire run was against headwinds determined to blow my tiny frame to Greenland.
Tears streamed down my face when I reached the point in the run where I was alone with myself and the wind.
It was too hard.
My arms were swinging 100 times per minute but I felt as if my legs had chains tied around them.
I was running in place, literally.
I was getting absolutely nowhere, so I decided to finally look up from the asphalt for the first time that day:
It was beautiful. The way the trees swayed to the beat of the wind and the waves of grass followed as a good dancing partner does.
Then I took a look at my body and felt myself moving to the same rhythm.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
I smiled and shook my head.
This entire time I was concerned with the headwinds that I hadn't taken the time to see what was actually happening!
I stopped swinging my arms like an Olympic track star, I threw my head back and looked at the sky above me, arms spread behind me like a toddler about to run down a hill for the very first time and flew.
Britney, ready for take off!
I soared and the sunshine danced on my freckled face.
The wind was now a song of love and I was the DJ.
When I saw my car creeping up a small shred of disappointment swept over me.
That run was over, but my run wasn't.
I was saddened that it had taken me until the end of the run to bask in its goodness.
I remember the looks that people gave me as they drove by me that day on the side of the road.
Looks of disbelief and shock.
They were gripping to the interior of the safety of their vehicles and here I was exposing myself to dangerous elements.
But which was more dangerous?
Clinging to the comfort of your leather interior or braving the run.
So as useless is a ship in safe harbors is a person who refuses to face the headwinds.
At the end of the run, I looked up and saw figures standing at the end of the road.
They were the ones who started that run with me, braved it with me and ended it with me.
They were the ones who finished the run when I said I didn't desire to turn back because it was difficult.
On that day, they were my family, and we must take care of our family no matter where we find them.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
The Spirit of the Marathon
Many want to.
Some try.
In actuality, few do.
It takes months of pain.
It takes hours of sweat.
It takes icing.
Taping.
Foam rolling.
Questioning yourself.
Injuries.
Tapering.
Hill runs.
Sprints.
Self-doubt.
Guts.
What is it?
The marathon.
26.2 miles.
Some think they're ready.
Some know they're ready.
Everyone deep down hopes they're ready.
To many this is just a distance to run.
To many this is just some crazy thing those crazy runners do.
For runners, it's spiritual.
In those months you are tried physically, mentally and emotionally.
You question your ability, your sanity, your confidence and hope in yourself.
You push your body to the limit and stretch your limitations to their brink.
One pain in your foot could devastate you and all your hard work.
One twist of the ankle on a training run makes your heart stop.
The months leading up to my marathon were rough physically and personally.
I had knee pain, heel pain, Achilles pain, whatever pain possible crept its way onto my body.
I had personal battles slap me in the face that many of you know already.
Yet there were many other deep spiritual and emotional battles being fought within myself and in my family before my run.
I ran through pain.
I ran when I felt like my world was crashing in on me.
I ran when all I wanted to do was scream, kick and cry on my bedroom floor because I was in so much spiritual turmoil.
I was questioning God and His promises.
His timing.
His love.
His mercy.
Where was my break, God?
Haven't I fought enough already?
Have You not broken me enough?
I ran when I didn't want to run.
I ran when I wanted to run away from the people who loved me most.
I ran when the doctor said, "you should probably chill out."
I ran when everything around me said to stand still.
I ran from my problems, my pain, my fears and myself.
I'd blare music in my ears on my runs to not think.
I'd cancel on my running friends and run alone so I could cry my eyes dry in solitude.
The marathon is different for every runner.
For me, it was the time in my life where I needed to prove to myself that I was strong.
That I was worthy of greatness.
That there was some sort of hope out there.
That Britney was not a victim of her life but a woman who is a victor in all she does.
That Britney is not fearful but fearless.
That Britney is courageous not a coward.
Through out the marathon I reflected back on every hill I've ever climbed, every storm I weathered and every person who had broken my spirit.
Why had I let life throw its huge stones and get away with it?
No more.
You're running 26.2 miles, Britney.
Victims can't do that.
The weak can't do that.
The hopeless can't do that.
This is your run.
This is your marathon.
Suck up the aches and pains.
Inhale the hard jagged breathing.
Embrace the wars you face and get up and fight back.
Oh, your eating disorder likes to come visit at your weakest moment?
Shut the door in its ugly no good face.
Oh, you feel like you don't fit in?
Make yourself known.
Oh, your dad is sick again?
Get your hope back and glue yourself back together.
Oh, you still sink back into that little girl that feels everyone is pointing fingers at her and whispering?
Tell those voices to shut the hell up. They're not welcome in your life.
Oh, you feel God turned His face from you?
Guess what? He's staring you straight in the eyes right in this moment.
He's applauding your every stride.
It's mile 25 and there's the biggest hill of the race. Will you walk it as a hopeless and broken spirited victim or will you run that damn hill as a fearless, hopeful, strong, full spirited grown woman?
I crossed the start line lost.
I found my spirit again in the marathon.
Some try.
In actuality, few do.
It takes months of pain.
It takes hours of sweat.
It takes icing.
Taping.
Foam rolling.
Questioning yourself.
Injuries.
Tapering.
Hill runs.
Sprints.
Self-doubt.
Guts.
What is it?
The marathon.
26.2 miles.
Some think they're ready.
Some know they're ready.
Everyone deep down hopes they're ready.
To many this is just a distance to run.
To many this is just some crazy thing those crazy runners do.
For runners, it's spiritual.
In those months you are tried physically, mentally and emotionally.
You question your ability, your sanity, your confidence and hope in yourself.
You push your body to the limit and stretch your limitations to their brink.
One pain in your foot could devastate you and all your hard work.
One twist of the ankle on a training run makes your heart stop.
The months leading up to my marathon were rough physically and personally.
I had knee pain, heel pain, Achilles pain, whatever pain possible crept its way onto my body.
I had personal battles slap me in the face that many of you know already.
Yet there were many other deep spiritual and emotional battles being fought within myself and in my family before my run.
I ran through pain.
I ran when I felt like my world was crashing in on me.
I ran when all I wanted to do was scream, kick and cry on my bedroom floor because I was in so much spiritual turmoil.
I was questioning God and His promises.
His timing.
His love.
His mercy.
Where was my break, God?
Haven't I fought enough already?
Have You not broken me enough?
I ran when I didn't want to run.
I ran when I wanted to run away from the people who loved me most.
I ran when the doctor said, "you should probably chill out."
I ran when everything around me said to stand still.
I ran from my problems, my pain, my fears and myself.
I'd blare music in my ears on my runs to not think.
I'd cancel on my running friends and run alone so I could cry my eyes dry in solitude.
The marathon is different for every runner.
For me, it was the time in my life where I needed to prove to myself that I was strong.
That I was worthy of greatness.
That there was some sort of hope out there.
That Britney was not a victim of her life but a woman who is a victor in all she does.
That Britney is not fearful but fearless.
That Britney is courageous not a coward.
Through out the marathon I reflected back on every hill I've ever climbed, every storm I weathered and every person who had broken my spirit.
Why had I let life throw its huge stones and get away with it?
No more.
You're running 26.2 miles, Britney.
Victims can't do that.
The weak can't do that.
The hopeless can't do that.
This is your run.
This is your marathon.
Suck up the aches and pains.
Inhale the hard jagged breathing.
Embrace the wars you face and get up and fight back.
Oh, your eating disorder likes to come visit at your weakest moment?
Shut the door in its ugly no good face.
Oh, you feel like you don't fit in?
Make yourself known.
Oh, your dad is sick again?
Get your hope back and glue yourself back together.
Oh, you still sink back into that little girl that feels everyone is pointing fingers at her and whispering?
Tell those voices to shut the hell up. They're not welcome in your life.
Oh, you feel God turned His face from you?
Guess what? He's staring you straight in the eyes right in this moment.
He's applauding your every stride.
It's mile 25 and there's the biggest hill of the race. Will you walk it as a hopeless and broken spirited victim or will you run that damn hill as a fearless, hopeful, strong, full spirited grown woman?
I crossed the start line lost.
I found my spirit again in the marathon.
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