"What the hell am I doing?" I speculated as I strained my blonde locks into a tight, high pony tail long before the sun peeked through my bedroom blinds. The slumbering sounds of my husband resonated under the crack of the bathroom door as I slipped on my running shoes.
I looked into the mirror at the young woman staring at me, eyes half open, standing in her running tights. She looked ready for something.
Anxious, even.
I have been struggling up hills and wiping dirt from eyes long before I learned to run a mile.
I have been running all of my life.
From people, to people.
From who others said I was, to the woman I knew I was meant to be.
From the easy, comfortable life to the road less traveled, leading to the life most fulfilling.
When I started running, I ran to get away, to lose myself and lose so many others.
Today, I didn't see this girl running from anything, but running towards something, towards herself.
I stared down upon the asphalt, my eyes skimming the chalk writing.
50k start line.
I looked to my right, a woman with legs as long as my entire frame was adjusting her fancy running glasses and bouncing.
She seemed friendly enough as she talked of personal bests and a pace that made me and my partner's eyes widen at one another.
I was running.
There was no crowd support here.
I had wanted it that way.
I had chosen a small race intentionally with a small town course.
No bells, whistles, flimsy signs or faces yelling words of encouragement.
Just me.
Just a few straggling runners I didn't know and a hill long as hell.
Ten laps of 3.1 miles meant I would cover this hill, totaling 3/4 a mile long...ten. times.
My partner let out a groan as we approached it's base.
I trudged with my head down, trying my best not to focus on the struggling runners ahead.
I began to reflect on my training, my running career.
Almost four years ago I was training for my first race; a 10K.
Here I was, running 31 miles.
Running had taught me to push through all flavors of pain.
It taught me to keep moving when my dad had cancer.
It taught me to keep moving when I left my ex-husband.
It taught me to keep moving when I moved 200 miles from home.
It taught me to keep moving when I found myself alone in this new place, friendless.
It taught me to keep moving when the scale tried to tell me how valuable I was.
"You know what? This hill is for everyone who I needed most but didn't stick around. You're missing out on the best part of me now and I feel sorry for you."
"You know what? This hill is for the years of eating disorders and self hatred. I conquered you."
"You know what? This hill is for the substance that was more important than me. I left you behind."
"You know what? This hill is for cancer. You suck. We conquered you too.
"You know what? This hill is for every whisper spoken from a pew. I conquered you."
"You know what? This hill is for my three boys. I will endure any struggle to love you and protect you."
"You know what? This hill is for me. This run is for me. I'm not running away, I'm running towards."
My Ultra Marathon was a lover's quarrel.
It was intimate, painful, yet impossible to forget.
There is no denying the early mornings of quietly treading down the hallway before sunrise in my running shoes, attempting not to wake sleeping little ones.
There is no denying the declining of Friday night invitations to parties.
There is no denying the ache in your legs or the cold air burning your lungs.
There is no denying the taping, stretching, lifting, the dirty pile of sports bras looming in your bathroom floor.
Yet, it is a beautiful argument of who you are and who you are capable of being.
I believe when you push yourself past the limits of the average, you really do find parts about yourself to be quite extraordinary.
I find my stature to be small, but my soul is tall.
As tall as the bouncing woman at the start line. That tall.
My sorry attempts at starting "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" didn't get me through it.
The brand of my shoes didn't get me through it.
No running mantra, slap on the back or other person can get you through it.
Only you can.
Once I passed the regular marathon mark, I threw my hands up in the air, let out a squeal, possibly skipped and carried on.
Running and I have seen it, been through it and conquered it all.
Today was no different.
My husband clapped and counted down the laps as we shuffled on the gravel and eyed others crossing their finish lines.
The last few laps I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel.
Emotions were like fireflies in the summer night;
captivating, yet difficult to capture.
My eyes saw the grass slope I was to jump up to reach the green inflatable finish line.
Tears swelled.
I was a conquerer.
I had finally taken an emotion captive as I sprinted towards my husband attempting to capture unflattering photos.
What was that emotion?
That, you'll have to find out for yourself some day.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
PhotoShop
As many of you already know, I am a photographer. You can call me professional, but I just see myself as a girl that likes to take pictures. Something about capturing a moment right when it happens, a moment never to be seen again in that exact form in all it's beauty and rawness ...it gets me.
A mother's laughter.
A child's pouty lip.
A bride's blushing cheeks.
All of these moments fleeting through my lens, only to live the rest of it's life in a photograph.
You can not get those moments back.
I edit my photos for the majority of shoots, mainly photo effects, leaving airbrushing alone.
A few days ago, the weather was gorgeous.
The sun was reflecting off of my sunglasses and the Spring breeze was blowing my curls all about my porcelain face.
I decided to leave the makeup at home for the day and made my way down the winding back roads to meet the day's clients.
I pulled up to the abandoned buildings, a perfect mixture of orange rust and gray washed walls.
There waiting were three beautiful, strong women.
Their color schemes were perfectly coordinated and the droplets of sun kissed their freckled cheeks.
They were fun.
They were intelligent.
They were witty.
They were full of giggles.
They were full of life.
They were funny.
They were free, but not from everything.
As the shoot went on I learned their insecurities.
I learned the parts of themselves that they detested.
They insisted I edit their faces, legs, their bodies as much as possible.
They wanted me to airbrush their imperfections and shoot them from their "good" side.
They wanted me to...fix them.
My heart broke for them.
Why?
Why does it matter so much to me, you ask?
They were strangers.
Women I would probably never see again after that session in the sun.
So why did their thoughts and groans of self animosity hurt me?
Because they were beautiful.
Not only were their minds and hearts stunning to encounter, but that beauty illuminated so strongly it showed even through their skin.
I talk about body image and beauty a lot because I care about it a lot.
It is a burden I choose to carry for you, for the girl down the street, for the women I photographed that day and for myself.
It weighs on me.
Heavily.
When you maim your beautiful features with words of self destruction, I believe God weeps.
You might think that is an assumption too powerful to make.
I don't think so.
When one of my boys builds a colossal Lego monument, they are beaming with delight.
They want to show their dad, they want to show their brothers and they call me into the dining room to "ohhh" and "ahh" over what they have just created.
Want to know what happens when one of their brothers knocks into the table and dismantles a piece of it?
Want to know what happens when their brother says their masterpiece isn't all that great?
A melt down.
Possibly some boy tears collect into a pool on the table.
Why?
Because they made it with their own hands.
They put time into it.
They put effort into it.
To them, it's the greatest thing they have ever made.
To them, it is perfection.
When someone comes and threatens that creation, they become defensive and hurt.
I think God can be the same way.
We are it, ladies.
We are His workmanship.
He created the alluring galaxies, the grand waves that mold caves and mountains.
He formed every exquisite jewel and yet His work was not in its entirety until He saw you.
He saw you and knew that what He had contrived was "good" ( Genesis 1. It's there. And it's awesome).
When we waltz through art museums, we don't mock Picasso.
We don't question Van Gogh.
We revere and we accept them for what they are.
They are the artists and their pieces are respected pieces of art.
We effortlessly understand that concept, yet we question the Creator of the creators.
The Creator of every artist we admire is often the One we ignore.
We roll our eyes, we pick apart His work and we disrespect His best piece-
Us.
I will never attempt to better or to change a Da Vinci piece.
That would be ludicrous.
Yet, we as women try to tweak the Master's design every. single. day.
Now that, is true ludicrous.
Why airbrush a masterpiece?
Why carve away at an acclaimed sculpture?
God doesn't want to Photoshop you.
You shouldn't either.
A mother's laughter.
A child's pouty lip.
A bride's blushing cheeks.
All of these moments fleeting through my lens, only to live the rest of it's life in a photograph.
You can not get those moments back.
I edit my photos for the majority of shoots, mainly photo effects, leaving airbrushing alone.
A few days ago, the weather was gorgeous.
The sun was reflecting off of my sunglasses and the Spring breeze was blowing my curls all about my porcelain face.
I decided to leave the makeup at home for the day and made my way down the winding back roads to meet the day's clients.
I pulled up to the abandoned buildings, a perfect mixture of orange rust and gray washed walls.
There waiting were three beautiful, strong women.
Their color schemes were perfectly coordinated and the droplets of sun kissed their freckled cheeks.
They were fun.
They were intelligent.
They were witty.
They were full of giggles.
They were full of life.
They were funny.
They were free, but not from everything.
As the shoot went on I learned their insecurities.
I learned the parts of themselves that they detested.
They insisted I edit their faces, legs, their bodies as much as possible.
They wanted me to airbrush their imperfections and shoot them from their "good" side.
They wanted me to...fix them.
My heart broke for them.
Why?
Why does it matter so much to me, you ask?
They were strangers.
Women I would probably never see again after that session in the sun.
So why did their thoughts and groans of self animosity hurt me?
Because they were beautiful.
Not only were their minds and hearts stunning to encounter, but that beauty illuminated so strongly it showed even through their skin.
I talk about body image and beauty a lot because I care about it a lot.
It is a burden I choose to carry for you, for the girl down the street, for the women I photographed that day and for myself.
It weighs on me.
Heavily.
When you maim your beautiful features with words of self destruction, I believe God weeps.
You might think that is an assumption too powerful to make.
I don't think so.
When one of my boys builds a colossal Lego monument, they are beaming with delight.
They want to show their dad, they want to show their brothers and they call me into the dining room to "ohhh" and "ahh" over what they have just created.
Want to know what happens when one of their brothers knocks into the table and dismantles a piece of it?
Want to know what happens when their brother says their masterpiece isn't all that great?
A melt down.
Possibly some boy tears collect into a pool on the table.
Why?
Because they made it with their own hands.
They put time into it.
They put effort into it.
To them, it's the greatest thing they have ever made.
To them, it is perfection.
When someone comes and threatens that creation, they become defensive and hurt.
I think God can be the same way.
We are it, ladies.
We are His workmanship.
He created the alluring galaxies, the grand waves that mold caves and mountains.
He formed every exquisite jewel and yet His work was not in its entirety until He saw you.
He saw you and knew that what He had contrived was "good" ( Genesis 1. It's there. And it's awesome).
When we waltz through art museums, we don't mock Picasso.
We don't question Van Gogh.
We revere and we accept them for what they are.
They are the artists and their pieces are respected pieces of art.
We effortlessly understand that concept, yet we question the Creator of the creators.
The Creator of every artist we admire is often the One we ignore.
We roll our eyes, we pick apart His work and we disrespect His best piece-
Us.
I will never attempt to better or to change a Da Vinci piece.
That would be ludicrous.
Yet, we as women try to tweak the Master's design every. single. day.
Now that, is true ludicrous.
Why airbrush a masterpiece?
Why carve away at an acclaimed sculpture?
God doesn't want to Photoshop you.
You shouldn't either.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
A Letter To My Stepsons.
Caler, Corban and Cannon:
I love you.
I know you already know this, even though my love is typically shown in a non-traditional way.
Maybe I say it in a wink at the dinner table as macaroni falls down your chin or a ruffle of your beautiful hair as you pass me on the kitchen tile.
I know I don't squeal when you walk up to me or squeeze the breath out of you in a big momma bear hug.
I know I don't call you "honey, baby, sweetie", you know, all of those mommy names that mothers do as they squeeze their rose-cheeked children before sending them on their way.
I know I don't swoop you up when you trip over a toy in the living room, but instead I often laugh and try to ask if you're really okay through the giggling.
It still seems to make you smile, even through your serious "injury."
I am not your mother, nor do I want to be.
I am writing you this to tell you that I don't want to be any other little boys' mother either.
Because...you are enough.
Yes, sometimes as the three of you run around me and your daddy with swords made of wrapping paper tubes, hitting the furniture in your "ninja" masks, you are enough in a physical sense.
Being a bonus mom to you three boys is the ride of my freaking life some days.
Some nights I go to bed with half of my hair and half of my wits ( as do many mom's I'm sure).
Yet, you are more than enough.
There is no part of my heart that is not filled with absolute joy or contentedness.
There is no part of my soul that wrestles with any emptiness.
There is no part of my mind that wonders, "What if..."
There is no part of my life that bares a gap, waiting for another to fill it.
You three filled that gap long ago.
You three silenced every question, every lingering feeling of incompleteness.
I am often questioned as to why your daddy and I have no desire to bring a fourth child into our family.
I want you to know...that frankly, we don't need to.
Why?
We have you.
Caler, Corban and Cannon, you are everything I could have every wanted or needed in my world.
Honestly, I never saw myself as a mother, even as a small girl.
It was never in my cards, but then one day...God shuffled my deck and he gave me three of the most lively, beautiful, brilliant, wide-eyed boys.
And from that first day that we met for pizza and I left smelling of cheese and rusted game tokens, I knew that you were it for me.
You were the missing cards in my deck.
You were the reason that as the years of life piled on, the desire to conceive never came.
Even in the midst of me and your daddy's confusing beginning, the Creator of all things looked down and saw the five of us.
He saw that first meeting in a pizza parlor.
He saw the first time you would hug my neck and say you loved me.
He saw that any empty part of me would undoubtedly be filled the moment we met.
You three boys and your gorgeous daddy are the thread that has stitched so many pieces of my shredded heart back together.
The weeds (I mean, beautiful flowers) you pick for me in our backyard are enough.
The nights just the five of us cuddle up in the living room for a movie are enough.
The morning I walk into the kitchen to your three bedheads hunched over your daddy's delicious pancakes, are enough.
The summer afternoons that we walk hand in hand to the neighborhood park to watch you climb anything and everything, are enough.
The truth is, I fell in love with the three of you.
The truth is, I never knew I had a longing to be met until I met you.
The truth is, you are absolutely, undeniably, undoubtedly...enough for me.
So when people ask me, "Why?"
I will only have to smile and look over to the three of you.
Britney.
I love you.
I know you already know this, even though my love is typically shown in a non-traditional way.
Maybe I say it in a wink at the dinner table as macaroni falls down your chin or a ruffle of your beautiful hair as you pass me on the kitchen tile.
I know I don't squeal when you walk up to me or squeeze the breath out of you in a big momma bear hug.
I know I don't call you "honey, baby, sweetie", you know, all of those mommy names that mothers do as they squeeze their rose-cheeked children before sending them on their way.
I know I don't swoop you up when you trip over a toy in the living room, but instead I often laugh and try to ask if you're really okay through the giggling.
It still seems to make you smile, even through your serious "injury."
I am not your mother, nor do I want to be.
I am writing you this to tell you that I don't want to be any other little boys' mother either.
Because...you are enough.
Yes, sometimes as the three of you run around me and your daddy with swords made of wrapping paper tubes, hitting the furniture in your "ninja" masks, you are enough in a physical sense.
Being a bonus mom to you three boys is the ride of my freaking life some days.
Some nights I go to bed with half of my hair and half of my wits ( as do many mom's I'm sure).
Yet, you are more than enough.
There is no part of my heart that is not filled with absolute joy or contentedness.
There is no part of my soul that wrestles with any emptiness.
There is no part of my mind that wonders, "What if..."
There is no part of my life that bares a gap, waiting for another to fill it.
You three filled that gap long ago.
You three silenced every question, every lingering feeling of incompleteness.
I am often questioned as to why your daddy and I have no desire to bring a fourth child into our family.
I want you to know...that frankly, we don't need to.
Why?
We have you.
Caler, Corban and Cannon, you are everything I could have every wanted or needed in my world.
Honestly, I never saw myself as a mother, even as a small girl.
It was never in my cards, but then one day...God shuffled my deck and he gave me three of the most lively, beautiful, brilliant, wide-eyed boys.
And from that first day that we met for pizza and I left smelling of cheese and rusted game tokens, I knew that you were it for me.
You were the missing cards in my deck.
You were the reason that as the years of life piled on, the desire to conceive never came.
Even in the midst of me and your daddy's confusing beginning, the Creator of all things looked down and saw the five of us.
He saw that first meeting in a pizza parlor.
He saw the first time you would hug my neck and say you loved me.
He saw that any empty part of me would undoubtedly be filled the moment we met.
You three boys and your gorgeous daddy are the thread that has stitched so many pieces of my shredded heart back together.
The weeds (I mean, beautiful flowers) you pick for me in our backyard are enough.
The nights just the five of us cuddle up in the living room for a movie are enough.
The morning I walk into the kitchen to your three bedheads hunched over your daddy's delicious pancakes, are enough.
The summer afternoons that we walk hand in hand to the neighborhood park to watch you climb anything and everything, are enough.
The truth is, I fell in love with the three of you.
The truth is, I never knew I had a longing to be met until I met you.
The truth is, you are absolutely, undeniably, undoubtedly...enough for me.
So when people ask me, "Why?"
I will only have to smile and look over to the three of you.
Britney.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, February 9, 2015
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.
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."
Friday, February 6, 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
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?
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