Well, hello there Bravehearted Beauties! It’s been more than a hot minute since I’ve hung around these parts! Is anyone still out there in blogland?!?! If blogs could gather dust, this one would be covered in it! As I begin to type, I can almost hear my words ricocheting around the internet and echoing back in my own ears. Helloooooooo out there!

I can’t believe it’s been a year. One post in 2019 and only a few in 2018. Shew! 2018 was STRAIGHT FIRE…and not in the way cool kids use that term these days! Intentional recovery from divorce, trauma, abuse and codependency…that is some INTENSE HEAT, my friends. The kind that burns away so much that you don’t know what you’ll look like on the other side. It feels as if you won’t survive the scorching heat and searing pain…and some days you’re not even sure you want to survive. BUT GOD.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
 and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;

When you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.” ISAIAH 43:2

I’ve always loved those words. I sang the song for decades, as wholeheartedly as I could for a girl who worked so hard to make life comfortable, peaceful and perfect. The words of Isaiah 43 always moved me, but I never knew how to really, truly depend on them. How to live and breathe by them. This is when your faith gets tested for real: when the flames feel like they will consume you. This is when the promises of God are everything and the only thing you’ve got: when life as you wanted it to be is going up in flames.

Friends, I did NOT want to stay in that fire. Anything but the pain of staying in those hot-as-hell flames. I wanted God’s promise to mean He’d airlift me out. I wanted to lift my hands to the heavens, cry out for help, and see a dramatic rescue operation take place on the spot. And when they airlift didn’t come, and the flames got hotter, I wanted to crumple to the ground in a heap of ash. Anything but stay in the center of all that pain.

But you know what Jesus did instead of airlifting me out of that place? He taught me how to dance in the fire. Yes, DANCE! He stepped right into those flames, unfazed by the heat, took my hand, placed his other hand on my low back, pulled me in close and taught me to dance with Him in the center of the flames…the very hottest spot, yet where I would not be burned and overcome…where I would learn to live and grow and heal and rise.

I’ve always been captivated by the way flames dance. But I’ve never once wanted to be on the inside of that hot dance! And now, I know I can be. And I will not only survive it, but I will thrive. I will not only be rescued, but I will be restored. I will be forged into more of who God made me to be through the very flames that felt like they would consume me. The truth is, I feel more like myself today than I ever have. Playful parts have shown up that I haven’t seen for awhile! Friends who knew me in the past see the girl they knew. Friends who know me now see a different glow. And best of all, my daughters are discovering and witnessing the fullness of their very fiery mama! Oh, she’s always been in there…but today the outer layers of protection have burned away.

In these last two years, Jesus taught me that there are fire people. Fire people know the depths of pain and suffering and have been changed by it. Fire people are the truest versions of themselves because of what they’ve been through. And I’m now one of them. A fire girl. (Cue “This Girl Is On Fire” by Alicia Keys. I’ve been belting it out for the last year!) Becoming a fire girl comes at a cost, but I can already tell you it’s worth it, hot flames, heat scars and all!

I didn’t intend to go silent in the fire, but sometimes you can barely breathe in there. And you certainly can’t see beyond the flames. You know how they tell you on the airplane to put your own mask on first? I always thought that was craziness because what good mama wouldn’t put a mask on her children first?!?! I had to learn to put my own oxygen mask on first…in almost every area of my life. And as much as I wanted to gasp for air outside the fire and breathe some words of life outside those flames and into your world, I needed to be where I was. Going though it. Staying with it. Staying with Him. I’m pretty sure the only ones who got any life-giving words from me in that fire were my girls. So thankful for the grace of God to love and care for them so well.

I journaled pages and pages over the last few years, and shared snippets on Instagram here and there, but when you’re going THROUGH IT, sometimes you just have to put your head down, lift your hands up off the keyboard and let God have His way with you and your story until you can find the words to start telling it again.

So here I am, beginning to tell the story again…a year older (45 last week!) and several years truer, wiser and deeper. It won’t be a tell-all. My blog will never be that place. But it will be an honest place. A true place. A place of hope and encouragement for those of you going through it, whatever “it” is. (And we all go through it at some point in our lives.) I hope that as you linger here, you will find out in one post or another that YOU ARE NOT ALONE. And, that even when you can’t see the good in your story, God is doing something glorious, good and beautiful beyond what you can see. May my story be a testimony to that truth.

So WELCOME BACK, my friends. Welcome to the telling of a beautiful restoration story. One still unfolding with unknown twists and turns, loose ends and unknown outcomes. I don’t know how this story ends, but I do know this: the broken will be made beautiful. God is the master of a “beauty from ashes” narrative. And this fire girl is rising to tell it!

So much love to every single one of you reading these words. Humbled and grateful for your presence here.

P.S. My oldest daughter gets the credit for inspiring me to write today. She called me from college last night and said she needed some advice from a blog expert. Umm…you mean the one who hasn’t written in over a year? Well, that courageous fire girl just posted her very first blog post on her brand new blog, Living in the Grey. Go give her a read and leave her a little love. She’s as good and true as they come.

Photo credit: Thank you to my dear friend Paige for seeing radiant light in me, and capturing me in the midst of it. Paige, you have a gift of seeing with God’s eyes. I’m honored that you have been one of the witnesses of my story through our 10+ years of blog friendship (2009?) and now real life.

This is me.

It’s my birthday.

I am 44 years old and deeply loved…

Celebrating my worth as a daughter of the KING!

If only birthdays were that kind of straight up truth! How about you? How do you feel about birthdays? Maybe it’s easier to start with noticing others. Have you ever noticed how many different ways there are to feel about birthdays? Some can’t wait, some want to skip over it; some embrace their age, some won’t tell; some throw their own parties; some would rather disappear. Here’s what I’ve learned: there’s a story behind every single one of those approaches to birthdays. How we feel about our birthday runs deep in our stories…and often reveals something about what we believe about ourselves. This can be both breathtakingly beautiful and heartachingly broken.

For most of my life, I’ve approached my birthday with a mix of joyful anticipation and anxious uncertainty. Why the extremes? Well, on the joyful side of things, I believe birthdays are a BIG deal. It’s the day God chose to bring YOU –– his wonderful, marvelous, glorious creation –– into this world! He’s known you all along, but this is the day He introduced the world to how glorious, extraordinary, unique and spectacular you are. It’s the day He revealed yet another aspect of His very own image…through YOU! He’s so lavishly in love with you, wildly crazy about you, immeasuarbly proud of you. More than anything else, You are HIS! You are intimately known to Him. He has called YOU by name! [Isaiah 43:1]

And then there’s the flip side in my approach to birthdays: anxious uncertainty. Ever since I was young, I’ve feared that I’ll be forgotten and uncelebrated. Sometimes it’s faint; sometimes it roars. But it was always there. Of course, I had no conscious or cognitive idea that I feared these things as a child. But I can look back and see the signs. I was often sick on my birthday. I had parties but often felt detached and on the outside of my own celebration. Knowing what I know now about trauma and how the body keeps the score, I believe the sickness was an outward manifestation of my inner anxiety and fear. My immune system couldn’t fight the stress of winter weather on the outside and fear and anxiety on the inside. And the detachment or dissociation…it was the way I coped with the overwhelming sensations of anxiety in my little body. (This is why Trauma Sensitive Yoga is so healing; it’s a way of returning to your body and safety, gently reconnecting after years, or in my case decades, of leaving.)

So, yes. Sadly, I feared that I wasn’t worth celebrating on my own birthday. But it didn’t stop there. And it wasn’t limited to birthdays. My birthday just became the annual occasion to raise my fears and deepen my agreements with false beliefs. I had this underlying sense that I was unwanted, unlovable and deeply flawed. I wondered if others felt this way about me or if it was just me. When someone forgot my birthday or didn’t celebrate me as fully as I longed to be celebrated, it only reinforced the lies and made them all seem more true. Of course I had no idea these were lies…or that I was believing them. But I carried them inside, dispersing bits and pieces of my fear along the way, and picking up more of it each and every year.

Now where on earth did I pick up these fears? How on earth does a beautiful, radiant, uniquely made child of God believe the lies that she is unwanted, unlovable or unworthy?!?!

When you say it that way, it sounds inconceivable! But we have an enemy of our soul who’s opposed to the image of God in us and to the glory of God we reveal to this world. He’ll do anything to dull our radiant, sparkling, shimmering selves…to the point that we don’t even recognize the glory of God in us and start believing we have nothing to offer in this world. We start trying to become artificially shiny to prove ourselves worthy instead of resting in the authentic glory that already belongs to us just because of who God made us, not because of anything we do to create it.

The enemy of our soul hates our glory and shoots his arrows with messages attached…messages meant to destroy the truth of who we are. Usually there’s a core message delivered very early in life –– in the womb, on the day you were born, or in early childhood. And as your story unfolds, the arrows come again and again through various stories, experiences and people to validate the core messages until you believe they are true so deep down that you are living your life (and birthdays!) out of false beliefs without even realizing it.

It wasn’t until five or six years ago that I learned where my birthday fears were rooted. I discovered that beneath my birthday fears were core lies and agreements about who I am: not wanted, not lovable and not worthy of love as I am. I’d been operating out of these lies for a long time without even knowing it! (Which not only left me anxious and fearful, but also leads to self-sabotage.) I sought healing through counseling and inner healing prayer (with trained prayer warriors). As I invited Jesus to show me where these fears and false beliefs entered in and broke agreements with the lies, I began to experience tremendous healing. And as I grow stronger, God has allowed even more to surface.

Since that original season of healing, God has been redeeming my birthday. And what I believe is true of me. But then there was this year: the first birthday post divorce. And boy did the enemy want to use that story to resurrect and reinforce old lies! Unwanted and unlovable. Yep, if you were lovable, he wouldn’t have left. Unworthy of celebration. Yep, if you were worth celebrating, you wouldn’t be spending the day alone. Forgotten. Yep, you know how that goes…you notice who didn’t reach out instead of receiving all the love from those who did. (Gosh, I hate to admit that one. It sounds so silly when I write it out…which is exactly why we need to write the lies down. So we can see them for what they are and replace them with the truth! Life is so much richer when we’re living out of truth.)

I’ve written lots of little bits about spiritual warfare over the years. Whether you believe in it consciously or not, the arrows still fly and the messages get embedded. We don’t usually know we’re believing them or living our lives based on the lies until something or someone triggers the place where that arrow landed. And when that arrow gets jostled, the message that was attached to it is all of a sudden blaring. Sometimes it becomes all we can hear in our heads and dictates all that we see, interpret and do in our lives. When our core lies start blaring, the truth of who we are gets muted and our vision of our God-given glory grows dim.

Can we get our original shimmer back? Absolutely! Anytime! There’s so much more to say about that. But for now, the answer is YES! You were meant to SHINE!

*   *   *

STOP THE PRESS!!! I was writing all of that while my girls were lovingly preparing a special birthday dinner and extravagant three-layer chocolate cake with buttercream frosting. They know how to make a mama feel loved! I was enjoying the smells and the kitchen banter, wondering where this birthday post was going, when all of a sudden…SURPRISE!!!

My unbelievable daughters not only prepared dinner for me, but they invited guests! Five people walked in my back door all at once. And all at once, I felt SO LOVED. My girls knew exactly who to invite: the friends who have become like family…and family who are as dear as friends. I was scrappy and braless since I wasn’t expecting a party, but you know what? It was perfect. Because these people have seen me at my messiest. They entered into my darkest, heaviest places…and they STAYED. They didn’t reject me, abandon me, or find me unworthy. They didn’t forget me or decide I was too much and too hard to love. They entered into my story and they keep showing up. And you know what? I finally believe I’m worth it. The enemy has no chance against the truth these people bring into my lives! My daughters included!

So what’s the point of this whole post? Well, after a good meal, the richest chocolate cake and a full heart from a full table of friends and family, it’s just this: YOU ARE WORTHY OF LOVE AND CELEBRATION. On your birthday and every day. There’s so much more I want to say. Another day!

So much love to you Bravehearted Beauties!

P.S.

I love you, my daughters!

Thank you for celebrating me so beautifully tonight!

You are my best gifts EVER!

I’ve been quiet again. Trying to process my feelings surrounding things I wish I didn’t know anything about: sexual abuse, sexual assault, sexual harassment and sexual shame. {Wow. I just laid it out there right off the bat. Sometimes I surprise myself.} Wishing these things weren’t part of my story. Wanting to feel more healed and sure of what to say before writing anything publicly. But…writing is a part of the healing, and sharing some of my story for the healing of others is part of my calling. So here I am. And here you are. We aren’t alone.

If you’re an abuse survivor or someone who loves an abuse survivor, I hope this will speak to you. Our stories are sacred. The internet is not. But sometimes we need to see in these public spaces that the ones who could otherwise appear to have perfectly beautiful lives also have broken stories. I have a beautiful life filled with broken stories, some redeemed and some in process. I’ve come to accept that I am beautiful. But I’m also learning to embrace my brokenness. And I want to invite each of you to do the same…to embrace both your beauty and your brokenness.

If you’re looking for a tell-all, this isn’t it. For me, the details are sacred, meant for sacred spaces. Some of my stories don’t yet feel safe to speak to anyone other than a counselor I’ve learned to trust over the years. There are things my parents don’t know, my friends don’t know, my daughters don’t know. And…as many trauma survivors can relate to, there are things I don’t know because I can’t remember them cognitively. But my body knows. My spirit knows. And the safer I become in my own body and spirit {thank you Jesus; thank you Trauma Sensitive Yoga}, the safer it becomes for me to remember my own stories.

Current events have brought sexual abuse, sexual assault and sexual harassment to the forefront. Hashtag movements such as #metoo and #ibelieveher have given sexual abuse survivors a much needed voice. Breaking the silence and speaking our stories is essential to healing, so I’m a fan of that part. I know from both personal experience and research that silence perpetuates fear and shame, blocking our healing. We’re only as free as we speak…even if just to ourselves and our God. So by all means, speak your stories!

That being said, I have a tender plea: if you’ve shared your story of abuse for the very first time on the internet, please, for the love and care of yourself, find a good counselor or support group and share it with them. We are harmed in relationship and healed in relationship. The internet is not where we heal. Screens can’t provide the kind of relational healing we need no matter how vulnerable we are with our words here.

To a survivor, these current events and hashtag movements aren’t just things happening out there to other people. They aren’t political issues or conservative vs. liberal conversations. And for the love of women everywhere, these are not just feminist issues. These are human issues. And if talking about these things makes me a feminist, then so be it. I will champion femininity all day long! We are GLORIOUSLY made in the image of God. The crown of all creation!

For survivors, current events and all the surrounding media attention are reminders of our own stories, most of which we’ve kept in silence out of fear and shame. As the hashtag movements go viral and story after story rises to the surface, survivors are remembering and reliving their trauma. Many of us are re-experiencing the sensations of trauma in our bodies and brains, decades after the abuse or assault occurred.

And then there are those who can’t remember, but they feel all the sensations. The hashtags burn like wildfire, and so do the trauma sensations buried deep in our bodies. We read other people’s stories and start feeling twitchy, restless, anxious, uneasy. We’re either shutting down or on fire inside and have no idea why. Because we can’t remember. All we know is we’re crawling back under the covers, eating more chips or chocolate, maybe pouring another drink. We’re edgy and hyper-vigilant inside but trying like hell to put on a good front for our family and friends. We’re attempting to control our internal chaos through external perfectionism, performance and people pleasing. {Cleaning obsessively may look better than indulging in excessive amounts of food and drink, but for most of us, it all stems from the same root. It’s your heart that needs attention and care; not the clutter or decor in your house.}

One of the most triggering elements to me personally in recent weeks has been the discrediting of a woman’s abuse story because she can’t remember all the details. I heard this more times than I can count. Even in church of all places! (I’ve never been so triggered by a sermon in my entire life!) Y’all! I can’t remember all the details! This is not uncommon for abuse survivors. In fact, it’s quite common. And for anyone to say a woman can’t be believed if she doesn’t remember the where, when and how of her abuse is not only insensitive, but ignorant of how trauma affects the brain.

I can tell you this: I’d be terrified to testify about my abuse. I don’t think I could do it. I don’t know how she did it. I can’t even tell some of the people who love me the most because I’m afraid they’ll want details I can’t give them to “prove” or validate that it actually happened. When you can’t remember the year it happened or the age you were, that’s a huge indicator that abuse happened, not an indicator that it didn’t.

The way I began to remember my abuse was through my body. I referenced some of these things in my last post. Six years ago, inexplicable hives gave way to flashes and sensations from my past, triggered by some things happening in my present. Too much to explain here. But this is the key: listening to my body, honoring and trusting what it has to say, has taught me a lot about my story. Not the details of abuse, which I don’t really need to know in order to heal, but the essence and reality of abuse and trauma that my body carries. We can only heal what we can sense, speak or see in our stories. So I’m thankful to my body for not only carrying, but revealing the reality of abuse in my story. And thankful to my brain for doing what it was designed to do to help me survive and get through life: let the body hold it until the rest of me was ready to process and heal.

To abuse survivors: I believe the story your body carries. Even if your brain can’t remember.

[If you want to learn more about how the body remembers, read Dr. Bessel van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score. I affectionally call it “the trauma bible.” I’ve learned a ton and refer to it often. I even keep an extra copy on hand to share with others. Turns out scientific research validates the significance of what our body remembers even when our brain doesn’t. So to anyone out there who doesn’t believe a woman who can’t remember the basic facts, read the book!]

Over the last few weeks, amidst all the talk of sexual abuse and can she or can’t she be believed, I’ve ripped every fingernail off multiple times. Just like I did as a child. The shame and fear that abuse creates always finds a voice, even a silent one like nail picking. As I look down at my fingernails today, feeling some shame that a 43-year old woman would pick her nails like an anxious child with no voice, I remember that I have a voice today. I don’t need my over-picked fingernails to be the silent scream of my inner anxiety. I can say to you, “I’m an abuse survivor who feels anxious inside of my body today.” And I can choose things like writing, beauty hunting, prayer and Trauma Sensitive Yoga to lower that anxiety and actually heal the trauma.

As current events have triggered my trauma, I’ve been taking full advantage of the benefits of Trauma Sensitive Yoga. I’ve also had the privilege of leading individual sessions for other abuse survivors. Y’all, it works. Not magically in one session, but over time. I don’t need to know how it works. I just know that it does. Just as I don’t need to know how inner healing prayer works. I just know that Jesus comes to integrate young, traumatized, shattered places in us with our adult selves so that we can live whole, healed, abundant lives. Part of my calling, as I shared here, is to offer healing to women right here on my farm. {I promise these references will soon turn into reality. Each week, I’m taking baby steps to create a yoga/retreat space here on the farm. And will share it with you as soon as I open the door.}

All these current events and the daily hard of living in a broken world can leave our hearts feeling a little prickly. Overlay all of this on top of abuse and those prickles can feel like sharp thorns that affect our ability to love and be loved. Be kind to yourself. Take care of yourself. Give yourself grace. And more grace. Sometimes we do all the right things to heal, yet still feel prickly, thorny and even on fire because the triggers are just so active. That’s ok. Keep giving yourself new grace. New mercies every single morning.

As much as I want it to happen miraculously overnight, recovery is a process. There’s the breaking, the painful exposing, the healing, the rising, the falling, and the rising again. My story still feels pretty shattered. I’m rising and falling and rising again as I contend with abuse and divorce. The two are intertwined. When two abuse survivors fall in love and get married at a young age, with no healing and no idea how unhealed trauma affects them on a daily basis, marriage is a whole different kind of hard. Can a marriage survive all that trauma baggage? Absolutely! I believe a marriage can be an extraordinary place of exposure and healing. I believe God can redeem and restore broken people and broken marriages. I believed that for all 20 years of my marriage. I believed it even after I signed divorce papers, until recent news and revelation gave me reason to lay that down. So yes, I believe in the restoration of your broken marriage. But I also believe that where a marriage falls into abusive patterns and is not a safe place for healing, God will rescue and redeem you, even if the marriage falls apart. Because ultimately, you matter to Him more than anything in this world! YOU, my brave and beautiful friend, are the crown jewel of His creation. And He will stop at nothing to rescue you and and redeem every broken part of your beautiful story!

P.S. I had no idea where this post was going when I sat down to write. I just knew I needed to write. So thank you for reading. I’m sure there will be a bit of a vulnerability hangover that follows, as expected when we speak truth about abuse, but knowing even one of you benefited from reading these words makes it worth the public sharing. Also, there are things I’d like to say to my own daughters and other young women about sexual assault and sexual shame. Another day! For today, I just want all of you to know: you are not alone and healing is available. No one and no story is too broken for the healing hand of God.

P.P.S. I almost forgot! A blog post I wanted to share with you from a trauma survivor and PhD who articulates powerful truths about healing: It Really Happened and We Need To Heal From It. I’m a huge fan of her writing and recently bought her book to add to my collection.

I know deep down in my bones that I was made to be a truth teller. We all are. But telling the truth takes some serious courage. Especially when the truth of your life is uncomfortable, undesirable, irreconcilable, or flat out inexplicable. I haven’t always had truth telling courage. I struggle with it even today.

Honest: it’s taken me weeks to find the courage to share this post. It’s choppy and all over the place and may upset someone. I hate that fear still gets in my way. But here’s the deal: it’s not the absence of fear that makes us brave; it’s finding courage to stand up, speak up, and show up right in midst of our fear. We can do this brave thing, dear ones…one small step at a time!

*  *  *

Back to truth telling. It’s not about finding the right words or being a great writer. It’s all about being brave in the midst of your fear. It’s about speaking your voice when fear threatens you into silence. Or when a particular person threatens you into silence. There is no one who gets to silence you when God calls you to share your story. And no one who gets to control the telling of your story.

I’m pausing here. Thinking about a few people who haven’t wanted me to tell the truth of my story. There are some who’d like me to keep silence or to tell the story their way. There are some who think it’s my job to protect their secrets and their image. And I did that for a long time. But the deeper truth is, I’ve been my greatest enemy: trying to control my own story and refusing to share the parts that don’t fit my desired outcome. Oh, Lord. Here comes another surrender. God, I surrender the desired outcome of my story entirely to You. Give me the grace and courage to just show up and participate in the truth of my story each day!

*  *  *

I’ve been told I have a way with words…a way of articulating things that others feel but can’t find the words to express. I know this is a gift from God. How else could my words give you language for your heart and story when our details are so very different? But with this gift comes a shadow side. I’ve used words to dance around and diminish my own truth. I’ve used words to convince myself and others that things are better than they really are. At first, it was about self-preservation. I didn’t even know I was doing it. I wanted to believe the best in everyone and everything, and wanted to give everyone else a reason to believe the best, too.

But when your story breaks beyond your ability to cover the cracks, there’s no more dancing around it. There’s no more holding it all together and trying to control your story with well-crafted words. Only tears will speak the truth of your heart in these cracked open places. Tears just might be the most honest thing about you. Let them rise and reveal the truth of you.

Pain doesn’t just break you. If you let it, pain points you to the truest places inside of you. Those cracks in your story that broke so wide open you couldn’t cover them any more? They are the places where your beauty is forged and your bravery rises. I’ll never forget the cracks in my story. And I’ll never forget what was forged in those broken open places: the truest parts of me.

*  *  *

A few weeks ago, I received news that cracked my story wide open yet again. There’s no sugarcoating it. The man I was married to for 20 years asked another woman to marry him. Six months after divorce.

How is this my story?!?! I knew in my gut this was coming. A long-distance, whirlwind romance and quick engagement is familiar. That was my story, too. When I learned of a trip to Mexico through social media back in June, I knew. It felt so predictable based on what I’d come to know. But knowing something in your gut and finding out it’s true are two different things. Predicting something doesn’t prevent the pain of it. The truth can really hurt.

As I heard the word “engaged,” my heart pounded inside my chest like a jackhammer. Not because he’s moving on, but because of what he’s left behind. Two beautiful daughters who’ve seen very little of their father while he travels every week to spend time with another woman and her children. That’s the ugly truth. It’s not the truth I want to tell, but it’s the truth we’re living. I’ve never felt sicker, sadder and angrier all at once in my entire life. A grown woman’s heart can handle a lot, but when pain comes to your children, and you can do absolutely nothing to prevent it…that hurts something fierce.

Of course, there’s more to this part of my story, and it’s mine to tell in its right time. Not today. There’s no rush. I know my story matters, and I’m also mindful that it’s not just my heart on the line here. I have two teenage daughters whose hearts mean more to me than anything else in the world. I’m fiercely protective over them and mindful of how my words and choices affect them. I respect that they will have their own stories to tell one day, and I bless them to speak their stories fully and freely in their own time. (Even the unflattering, uncomfortable parts that involve me.) But out of respect for myself, I will speak what I can of my own story as the time feels right for me…bravely, truthfully and tenderly.

 *  *  *

To tell your truth, you have to know it. And to know it, you have to accept all the parts of it: the beautiful and the broken, the desirable and the undesirable, the parts you can make sense of and the parts you can’t.

*  *  *

I’ve been writing about my life since I was 10 years old. In 1985, I stapled together three different colors of heart-shaped paper with my Hello Kitty stapler and created my very first journal. Over the last 33 years, I’ve filled thousands of lined pages with my wild, ever-changing handwriting. Nine years ago, I started writing online, sharing beautiful things on a blog. My intent was to share the inspiration behind my design work as well as my love of photography. But the writer in me couldn’t resist the deeper expression of my own heart through words, so in 2014, I left LLH Designs behind and started Bravehearted Beauty.

After all of these years and all these words, there’s something I’ve only recently discovered: I’ve been writing, but I haven’t always been telling the truth. Not even to myself.

There’s no shame in that. I was writing as vulnerably as I knew how at the time, but much of the real truth of my life was hidden between the lines. Hidden in the words I didn’t want to write, didn’t have the language to write, or was too afraid to write. What would others think? Would I be believed? What would those who brought harm and heartache to my story do to me if I told the truth? What was the truth? Any attempt I made to speak my truth was usually dismissed, denied or reframed by those who thought they could control the story. Fear silenced me for decades.

I can now look back at my personal journals and even the last several years of my blog and read between the lines. I can feel and remember many of the details I didn’t or couldn’t write. And I’ve even heard from a few of you who’ve experienced similar stories, that you could read between my lines, too. Some of you sensed what was going on before I could admit it to myself. Others are shocked because I worked so hard to protect my story and those who are involved in it. I never wanted anyone to get hurt, but I was hurting inside almost every single day.

During my decades of silence, I didn’t remember much of my past and struggled to comprehend my present. But my body held the story. As Dr. Bessel van der Kolk reveals through research and neuroscience, and as my own experience validates, the body always keeps the score. For me, the hidden details of my story have been carried in tight muscles, migraines, autoimmune responses, intestinal pain, adrenal fatigue, inexplicable hives, a struggle to breathe deeply, depression, anxiety, and on the outside, a curled up, self-protective posture that no amount of trying hard could straighten. I didn’t feel safe in my own body. I rarely felt well. And now I know why: all the trauma, heartache and harm buried deep inside was manifesting in these ongoing, unresolved physical ailments. No wonder traditional medicine didn’t bring healing to my body.

Now that I’m in a safer place in my own story and in my own body, the details of my story are rising to the surface. I’m learning to give voice to my story, first to myself and sometimes to others. Giving voice to my story is healing not only my heart, but also my body. {More on that to come. I can’t wait to tell you more about my experience with Trauma Sensitive Yoga. Soon I’ll be offering it here on my farm, sharing the healing I’ve received.}

At first, it’s enough to just to learn your own story and to hold it close. For a time, that’s powerful, safe, needed and good. But in it’s right time, there’s a deeper healing that comes to you and to others in the sharing. A brave truth teller is willing to share her story. It doesn’t mean she shares all of her story with all people all of the time, but she’s willing to speak the broken parts of her story for the greater beauty of bringing healing and restoration to herself…and others.

There is POWER in your story! I love the way Dan Allender articulates this in To Be Told:

“Your story has power in your own life. And it has power and meaning to bring to others. I want your story to stir me, draw me to tears, compel me to ask hard questions. I want to enter your heartache and join you in the hope of redemption. But your story can’t do these things if you can’t tell it. You can’t tell your story until you know it. And you can’t truly know it without owning your part in writing it. And you won’t write a really glorious story until you’ve wrestled with the Author who has already written long chapters of your life, many of them not to your liking.

We resist telling a story we don’t like, and we don’t like our own stories. But consider this: if you don’t like your story, then you must not like the Author. Or conversely: if you love the Author, then you must love the story he has written in and for your life.”

As I wrote here, I haven’t liked my story and didn’t want to tell it. Abuse and divorce. Who wants to write about those things? Not me. But I also know I wasn’t meant to live in silence as a permanent victim to the harmful parts of my story…or as a bitter, resentful hater of the undesirable parts of my story. I don’t love all of my story, but I’m beginning to love what my story has produced in me: deeper capacity for intimacy and empathy, a stronger sense of identity and worth, an eye for beauty in broken places, a calling to bind the brokenhearted and a more authentic, tested faith. All of these things have come through the cracks I so desperately wanted to prevent and cover. It’s time to let them show, for these cracks are where I’m being made more beautiful.

*  *  *

The truth will set you free, but before it does, there will be a battle. This isn’t surprising if you consider spiritual warfare. We have an enemy who hates truth and light. He’s called the “father of lies” and “prince of darkness” for a reason! If that sounds too other worldly, consider the attack against truth in this world. Every truth teller has encountered it. Some people won’t like or accept your truth. That’s okay. Truth telling isn’t about validation or acceptance. It’s about healing and freedom. Some people will try to send you back into silence through intimidation and accusation, especially if your truth exposes something they want to keep hidden. I’ve experienced this in response to some of the things I’ve written here on my blog. Is public truth telling worth it? That’s something I take to God every time I write. Nothing is published without prayer.

At the end of the day, this is where I land: if the truth of my story has the potential to heal and set people free, I want to be brave enough to share it. I will always seek to honor my God, myself and my daughters in the sharing of my story.

At the end of all of this writing, this is what I’ve discovered: truth telling is a lot harder than writing. Anyone can learn the skill of writing; only the brave learn to tell the truth. Strong skills help you feel safe and protected…until life falls apart at the seams and your story appears to be unraveling beyond any skill set. But this, my friends, is where you get to dig deep, find courage, and bravely tell the truth of your life first to yourself, and in time, to others. This is where you find the deeper healing and freedom you are meant to experience in this life. This healing and freedom is FOR YOU! I am for you. I honor you and all of your broken and beautiful stories, even the ones you’ve yet to tell. May the cracks in my story give you courage to enter into the truth of your own broken and beautiful story.

Grace and courage to you, dear hearts!

P.S. I’m not an expert or a therapist, but I do want to say something about fear. Fear kept me silent for a longggg time. But there are times when fear is valid and needs to be honored. There are times when your fear is telling you something important: that it isn’t wise to share your story outside of a therapist’s office, that it isn’t safe to confront your abuser or to speak your voice in the presence of a person who causes harm. Sometimes staying quiet keeps you safe. But as with any form of self-protection, there comes a time when it’s no longer serving you…when it’s doing more harm than good. And that time has come for me. Please remember as you read my story that I didn’t just wake up one day feeling all brave and start telling my truth to the world. There were years when I couldn’t speak my truth even to myself. There were years I could speak it only to a therapist. And there may be years that I can only speak it here in broad terms, not details. Only God knows. Every person’s process and timing is unique. There are no formulas. There is no rush. Listen to your intuition. Trust that voice of God inside of you.

Oh, how I love these two Bravehearted Beauties! It’s back-to-school season, and this time around feels a little “extra.” Because this year, I have a sophomore and a SENIOR!!! Yep, that whole last year under my roof thing just got REAL! Maybe that’s why it took me a week to share a first day photo. Just trying to take it all in.

One of my desires this school year is to focus on the joy of the present moment with my girls instead of looking ahead at how it’s all about to change. I too often have the end in mind before fully experiencing and enjoying the goodness of the present moment. Staying present is big work for me. An area where God’s been growing me and where I’m utterly dependent on His help just to STAY HERE instead of racing ahead and trying to get out in front of everything.

Sidetrack: I’ve been trying to get out in front of things my entire life. Always trying to prevent, perform or perfect so that things don’t catch me off guard or hurt so much when they get to me. But you know what? This doesn’t work! Life happens. Pain comes whether you bust your tail trying to prevent it or not. But so does JOY. And BEAUTY. And GOODNESS. All that getting out in front of everything blocks us from experiencing the fullness of joy, beauty and goodness in the present. Why? Because it leaves you anxious, overthinking and hyper-vigilant about things you can’t control. And all that anxious energy driven by future things makes it really hard to experience what’s available to you in this very moment.

I know because I’ve been there. As recently as yesterday. And I may be there again as soon as tomorrow. If this is you, first let me say, GRACE TO YOU. Then, let’s take a deep breath. You aren’t too far gone, no matter how far in the future your mind has raced or how hard you’ve worked to prevent and perfect. You can come back to this present moment right here, right now. Try inviting Jesus into this moment with you. Ask Him to show you where He is in this present moment. One way to do that is to look around you and notice a simple beauty right where you are. Keep your gaze on that for a good, long pause. Then look again. And again. Another way to return to the present moment is to notice your breath. One gentle, life-giving breath at a time. There’s no right way to breathe. Just be intentional to take air in, let it fill and expand your body, then release it back out. Repeat anytime, anywhere. {These are all notes to self!}

I love a good sidetrack, but back to where I thought this post was going: a new school year.

My girls and I have declared this year as our year to THRIVE! 

To put that into context: last year, we were surviving. It’s all we could do. And we did it. Some years are like that, and there’s no shame in that. Some years, surviving is a victory all its own. Some days, just getting out of bed and putting your feet on the floor can feel like a Mount Everest moment. Especially as you’re walking through a traumatic event. For us, it was divorce. We were surviving the shock of a story we never imagined.

Here’s part of what surviving looked like for me during the last school year: I woke up almost every single morning at 6AM to greet my girls with as much cheer as I could muster at that insane hour. Y’all! This is HUGE! I’m not a morning person and have never been the one in the family to make sure we get up and out the door on time. {Mornings were his thing.} Then I put some worship music on in the kitchen, made a hot, healthy breakfast, brewed coffee and tea, and sent my girls off with a hug, a kiss and a smile. I did that every single morning except for a small few when I was too sleep deprived to function. And on those mornings, I set up a self-serve granola station. Again, all of this is a MIRACLE! This is survival at it’s best. Caring well for my children during a season of devastation was one of my highest priorities. And God gave me the grace and strength to do it. {As did your prayers. I mean it when I say there are days you carried me!}

Once the girls walked out the door and went to school, I had to face the reality of a legal process and get to work on the dreaded but necessary business of divorce. It felt like a full time job, and I hated every single thing about it. Talk about toxic, contentious and costly! It makes me want to vomit thinking about how much it cost me financially, but just as significant is the emotional, physical and spiritual cost. At one point, while panicking over how much the divorce was costing me on every level, I heard God say I was worth the cost. And so were my girls. He reminded me that my rescue cost Him everything, and he’d do it all again just for me. I may never know all the battles God fights for me, and my girls may never know all the battles I fight for them. But in the end, what matters is that we know our worth as daughters of the King.

Self-care became essential for survival over the last year. I’m not talking about pampering and self-indulgence {though I wouldn’t mind a little of that!}, but true care of the mind, body and spirit. Trauma Sensitive Yoga, hikes, hunting for beauty, writing in my journal, long showers, time with close friends, counseling, watching football with my brother, and cheering on the Houston Astros {World Series Champions!} were some of the ways I cared well for myself last year…and will continue to do in this year of thriving. To care for my children the way I desire, I have to prioritize caring for me. This is true whether you’re a single parent or not, going through hardship or not. We can only love and care for others to the extent we love and care for ourselves. {More on that here and here.} At some point, no matter how much we love our children, we will run out of steam and resent the needs of others if we aren’t honoring and tending to our own good and valid needs.

When the legal process ended, and the full time business of divorce was over, survival meant lots of sleep. I was exhausted every single day. I still got up every morning for my girls, but when they walked out the door, I often crawled back in bed and slept for a couple more hours before proceeding with my day. Extra sleep became a huge part of self-care in this season. I gave myself grace for the first few months. I knew I had been through a lot and was grieving heavily. Not to mention struggling with the gray days that seemed to go on forever. When the sun started shining again, I started to feel some shame about crawling back in bed. I was hard on myself. Crawling back under the covers for needed rest and recovery felt too much like depression, and I didn’t want to go there. I miraculously survived the entire divorce process without falling into depression and didn’t want to land there in the end. That’s when my counselor said, “This is grief. And grief feels a lot like depression. Let yourself grieve. Give yourself grace.”

By summer, what survival looked like began to shift again. I was still exhausted despite a spring full of naps, and still grieving with a rising anger over all that happened and what still happens at times. But the difference was now I could sleep in if I needed to {though our roosters like to crow outside my bedroom windows each morning!}, I wasn’t in charge of a morning routine, there was no tight schedule or homework, and we could rest and recover a little more fully from all we’d walked through in the last year. My girls were with me almost the entire summer. Quality time together has always been my greatest joy. Especially this summer as I marveled over how they’ve matured and who they are becoming.

Y’all, my girls amaze me. Their honesty, their bravery, their hopefulness, their ability to connect with their hearts, speak their voices, stand in the midst of suffering…they inspire me every single day. I could go on and on about what I witnessed in them over the last year. Despite the massive crumbling of our family of four, they survived with dignity, courage and grace. They got up every single day, did their school thing well, then did an incredible job of self-care with hot baths, face masks, hot tea, candles, cozy blankets, counseling…and Netflix! My girls rock at self care! In this last year of surviving, they grew physically, spiritually and emotionally beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed in them in one school year. {Their shocking 5’8″ and 5’9″ height feels like a physical manifestation of their tremendous internal growth.} And through it all, they were there for each other. Loving each other in deeper, truer ways through suffering than I’ve ever witnessed in times of ease.

Just before school started, I wondered how I was going to do it all again as a single parent. I was doing that thing where I try to get out in front of today and think of all the early mornings, all the breakfasts and dinners I’ll need to make, all the homework, all the college application details, even going as far into the future as dropping my oldest off at college and returning home to an emptier house this time next year, wondering how I would survive that big life event as a single parent. {See where this goes?!?! Way too far ahead and hijacks me right out of the present moment. And leaves me sad or fearful over what has not yet happened instead of enjoying what is happening right now.}

I want this last year for the three of us together to be special, meaningful, and so much better than last year. But how do I make that happen? {Oh, precious mamas, the pressure we put on ourselves to overcompensate and come through for our children in ways that only God can do!} Before I could get too carried away in my own agenda or internal swirl, my oldest said something out loud that shifted everything. The night before school started, she said, “WE SURVIVED.” Past tense. This feels huge. “And now we get to thrive!”

She also said something about how she liked the three of us together, liked what we had become over the last year. And that’s when something else hit me: the three of us had not only survived, but through our season of survival, we had become something better together than we had been before. Talk about beauty out of brokenness! Our story may not look fully redeemed right now, but there’s restoration taking place all along the way.

And just like that, the night before school started, the three of us declared this the year of thriving. Last year we were surviving; this year we are THRIVING! 

Does that mean it will be free of the struggles and suffering that come with divorce and being human in a broken world? No. It means we are ready for MORE and believe it is for us. It means we are hopeful even as our hearts are still hurting. It means we can smile at this moment’s present joy and take in every single moment of this senior and sophomore year. SO, my friends, here’s to THRIVING! Will you join me? And if this is your season of surviving, know this: the suffering you experience here will become the fertile ground for a future season of thriving. I believe that for you even if you can’t see it.

Love to you with all of my brave and beautiful heart,

My dearest Bravehearted Beauties, you are absolutely STUNNING! Your kindness, encouragement and tender holding of my heart and story after such a vulnerable post are both stunning and humbling. Your responses to hard things cured me of my vulnerability hangover almost as quickly as it came. And my goodness, knowing you’re still out there reading and responding to my words after almost a year and a half of blog silence…is just…WOW. And to all of you who prayed for me during the silence, without me even knowing, a sincere thank you. I know I don’t rise up each day and stand through hard things by my own strength! There are days when I know your prayers are carrying me.

Friends, I’m convinced, today more than ever, that our stories matter. My story matters. And it needs to be told. Even this broken, not what I wanted to live or tell story will be used for good. And right here in these broken, not yet beautiful parts of our story, we are still part of God’s GOOD story. We don’t have to wait for our stories to look better to declare they are beautiful. We can join in with Joseph and declare over our story what he declares over his: what was intended to harm, God will use for good! {Genesis 50:20}

I mean…if we just knew the stories that surround us each day. Your stories. And the stories of everyone you encounter. Stories are SACRED, my friends. I know some of your stories because you’ve chosen to share pieces with me through a screen, but I know this is true of all of you: every single one of you have sacred stories. And they don’t have to look big, brave or beautiful right here in this moment for that to be true. There is a sacredness in the brokenness. And in the hiddenness…until it’s time to share. And only you and God know when it’s time.

We are all walking on holy ground when we share and hold each other’s stories. Both the sharing and the reading or listening are brave. I am HONORED that you choose to enter into this sacred space with me each time you read. And honored every single time you bravely choose to reach out, respond, share back or just let me know you’re out there. I honor you, Bravehearted Beauties.

There’s so much I want to write. I know every word that will bring glory to God, healing to me, and healing to others will be written in it’s right time. There’s no rush. I look forward to seeing what rises to the surface each time I write. I also look forward to sharing some brave new offerings God is stirring in my heart. As I shared in this recent Instagram post, I received some unexpected creative inspiration and strong nudges from God through heart rocks in Maine earlier this month. And though my story still needs a lot of healing and redemption, I know it’s time to step into the calling that has come out of my broken places: a calling to partner with God in creative ways to bind up the brokenhearted.

So much more I want to say, but in these last days of summer, I’m setting my laptop aside as much as possible and savoring every last moment with my girls. I’ll be back when school starts. {Or when I recover from the fact that I have a SENIOR in high school! Don’t even get me started!}

Sending all my love and thanks to you, dear hearts!

Hello Bravehearted Beauties. It’s been a long, LONG time. Sixteen months since I’ve logged in and written here. I wasn’t sure I’d ever return. {Pretty sure I’ve said that before!} So why am I here today? Because there’s always a story behind the beauty. I don’t just go on solo vacations, chasing waterfalls and posting pictures because I think it’s fun. I actually don’t like solo vacations very much at all right now. But I love beauty, and I hunt for it because I need to hear the voice of God in the midst of my brokenness. Psalm 19 says all of creation pours forth speech every single day. I believe that with all of my heart! I sensed God’s presence and heard His voice for the first time when I was 12 years old, on top of a mountain at a summer camp in Arkansas, overlooking a valley. To this day, I turn to the beauty of creation for more of God.

Yesterday, I tried to confine my story to a tidy little Instagram post. Sometimes it works. But today, words are welling up stronger than I’ve known in over a year. I’ve felt the rumblings of this for months, but didn’t know where to enter in and begin again. And then it happened. Today is the day to sit down and let my story take up more space. At a certain point, not writing, or not speaking your truth, can start to do more harm than good. And honestly, I wasn’t just not writing. I was running away from writing. Running away from the very thing God made me to do, and that, my friends, never leads to life.

God made me a writer. And when I write, I feel His pleasure. Adapted from one of my favorite quotes of all time: “God made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.” Olympic runner Eric Liddell coined those words. I came to know them through Chariots of Fire decades ago, and a dear friend reminded me of them today. I’m slow as molasses and don’t feel any pleasure running, but we all have our own thing. And when we do that thing God made us to do, we’re in the sweet spot…feeling His pleasure and feeling more like our truest selves.

Back to the image of a waterfall and what it speaks to me today. In my quiet time away from the blog, the words of my story have been gaining strength, swelling and gathering into larger stories that can’t be contained or silenced. The stories begin small, somewhere way upstream, rambling slowly and not drawing much attention until they reach a horizon line of sorts. And then like rushing water that falls over a hard rocky edge, thundering, crashing, smoothing, softening, and eventually pooling peacefully in deeper places, so are my words. I have thundered at God in private and have written a few snippets publicly, but I haven’t let the river of words, or the story, run freely. There comes a time, and only you and God can know it, when the words of your story gather together…to be told. And that doesn’t mean every detail is shared all the time, but it means that over time, the entirety of your broken and beautiful story finds its voice.

So if God made me a writer, and I believe in the power of bravely sharing our stories, why haven’t I written anything here over the last 16 months? And only sparsely the year before that?

I didn’t like my story. More bluntly, I’ve been angry about my story. And not just angry about all the brokenness, but angry at the One I’ve trusted to redeem it. I’ve only recently been honest enough with myself and with God to let that anger rise and to give it a voice. And in case you haven’t found this out for yourself: God can handle your anger. And more than that, He loves you every bit as much when you’re dropping f-bombs as He does when you’re singing His praises. That’s just the truth of how He loves. That’s still hard for my old, performance-driven self to believe at times, but I’ve thrashed against God and tested Him every bit as much as He’s tested me. And He’s still here, standing just as close, looking at me as tenderly and lovingly as ever. If anything has changed, it’s me, not Him. {And I needed to change, so painful as it is, I’m willing to accept whatever change will heal and transform me into all I’m meant to be.}

So there’s the anger, and it deserves a voice. But I’ve learned that anger is a bodyguard emotion. When you find the courage to deal honestly with your anger at the door, you’ll gain access to deeper emotions…the ones we try to hide from others, and even from ourselves. For me, the most prevalent and pervasive emotions behind anger are fear and shame. These two bullies have kept me silent for most of my life. I’ve tried to outdo them with perfectionism, performance, control, a clean house…anything to bring order to my inner chaos. But all of that was like trying to hold a beach ball under water. Fear and shame can’t be pushed down forever. In fact, the harder you try to suppress them, the louder they become. The more you try to control them, the more control they gain over you.

Why are fear and shame so powerful and prevalent in our stories? That would take an entire book to answer. I’m not going to write the next book on shame or fear today, nor am I going to tell you every reason why they exist in my story, but I’ll tell you this: our stories make no sense until we get honest about our fear and shame…where they’re rooted, what drives them, and how they drive us in our daily life and relationships.

And this, my friends, is where I’m going to lean hard on what I know is true about the healing power of speaking our stories. This is where I’m going to drop down into deeper waters and give voice to the parts of my story I haven’t liked, and haven’t wanted to put into words. Two words need to be spoken…for my own healing, and maybe for yours.

Abuse and divorce.

I feel like I just dropped a heavy load. I could almost hear it hit the ground. There’s no way to lay those words down quietly. And no way to make sense of my story without them. Some will read those words and scatter. Some will be curious. Some don’t yet realize it’s their story, too. And some know exactly what I’ve been carrying. Abuse has been a part of my story for a long time. A lot longer than I realized. Divorce became a part of my story in the last year. My fear and shame are rooted in abuse and have been exposed more deeply through divorce. I’ve thrashed hard against these two words. I don’t like them. And didn’t want them to be part of my story. Sometimes I’ve visualized them in big, red, capital letters, stamped across my story like some kind of cancellation of God’s promises. As if to say there will be no restoration and redemption for me and my story. BUT GOD. He’s not finished. My story isn’t over.

For decades, I’ve carried the shame that abuse was my fault. And lived in fear that if anyone knew…oh, if anyone KNEW! For decades, I accepted the blame abusers placed on me and swallowed the shame the enemy heaped on me. I absorbed it down deep like every abuse survivor does. And tried to make my life look better on the outside than I felt on the inside. {Hello Houston house…meticulously perfect, clean and orderly!} Then I moved to a farm, started to embrace the mess, and could no longer keep up the exhausting performance it took to hide the pain and shame of abuse from myself and others. My body could no longer hold it, my brain could no longer forget it, my spirit couldn’t thrive in it, and my heart couldn’t heal in it.

Recovery from abuse felt hard enough. Then came divorce. Not at ALL the story I thought God was writing. Not the rescue I thought God was arranging when He spoke Psalm 91 over me in 2015. Not the outcome I imagined when we entered into a “therapeutic separation” in 2016, not the end I expected when he filed for divorce in 2017. I didn’t see it coming. A year later, I see things I couldn’t see then. Hard things I need to see to become all I’m meant to be. But I’m not here to unpack that story today. I’ve got two brave and beautiful daughters who are in this story, too. And I want to honor them, as well as their relationship with their dad, the best I can while also giving voice to my own story. Trusting God to direct me in the details, the timing and the sharing of my story. And to give me courage when I’m afraid.

I will say this: I dared to believe in the restoration of my marriage even beyond the signing of divorce papers. I wanted the miracle. I hoped against hope. Because that’s how God made me, and I like that about me. But in the last year, a veil was lifted. And I began to tell the truth to myself. I began to trust myself again. I stopped accepting the blame and started coming out from under the heavy cloak of shame. And while I’m still carrying a lot of fear and anxiety in my body, I’m doing weekly work to release that fear, partnering with God to heal my body through trauma sensitive yoga. {More on that to come. Feeling a very strong call to complete my certification and offer this kind of trauma healing to others along with healing prayer. Maybe even right here on my farm.}

My story isn’t the one I would have chosen. It’s not the one I wanted to write. I wanted my broken marriage to be restored. I wanted to love and be loved all the days of my life, by the same man I said yes to 20 years ago. I wanted to heal together, rock on the porch together, tell our miracle stories together. And I wanted my daughters to see the restoration promises of God come true right before their very eyes, while they lived under our roof. That was my idea of a good redemption story. But that’s not the story I’m living. And before you tell me anything can happen, let me tell you this: you are right, but some things don’t need to happen again. So unless it’s a whole new thing, I don’t want that old thing back. I’ve been rescued and delivered from abuse, and I know that one day, I will be rescued and delivered from the pain of divorce. So today, and everyday, my challenge is to show up for the story I’m living, the one God is writing. And to join Him in the kind of storytelling that brings healing to my heart and maybe even yours.

So here I am. Showing up. Being brave with my story. And hoping it will help you be brave with yours, too.

With all of my bravely broken and beautiful heart,

I also want to tell winter to BE GONE! It was 20 degrees on the farm this morning. Clear and beautiful, but way too cold in mid-March for this Texas-turned-Tennessee girl! Thankfully, we’re headed somewhere sunny and warm next week. I don’t think you’ll ever find me skiing over spring break. Not on the heels of my winter blues! It’s all about sunshine and vitamin D for me!

Before I’m officially done with winter, I have a little beauty to share from last weekend’s surprise snowfall and a few from early January. As much as I prefer sunshine, fresh fallen snow does make for some easy beauty hunting!

And just because I can’t leave you shivering, here’s to the happiest flowers on earth! I love the way they burst through the brown and barren ground, heralding the beauty that’s to come.

Behold the daffodil!

And fluffy chicken butts!

Hugs and spring love to all of you!

Hello Bravehearted Beauties! It’s been a long time. Too long. Sometimes the hardest part of getting back to something is knowing where to start. As a linear thinker, I tend to start at the beginning, or start where I left off, and go from there. But sometimes that feels overwhelming and keeps me from starting at all. So I’m just going to start right here with this one small post and a short little video.

Is there anything you know you need to start again? Is God giving you that gentle nudge or maybe even a not so subtle push to get started on something? To return to something? Or move forward on something? What holds you back? What makes it so hard to start? For me, it’s fear more than anything else. I hate fear. I know it’s not from God, but I wrestle with it more than I’d like to admit. And then God reminds me, right in the midst of my fear, what He sees when He looks at me: Bravehearted Beauty. Time to kick fear’s butt today and start again. Who’s with me?

I’ve missed you, Bravehearted Beauties!

In recent years, I’ve developed a “brave radar.” As I listen to people share their stories, I listen for the ways they are brave…both in big ways and in small ones. Many times, I see brave where people can’t see it in themselves. I love to call the brave out in others. And I love to honor the otherwise overlooked parts of a story that culminate in a glorious crescendo of beauty and bravery.

I don’t know if this story I’ve shared has reached its crescendo yet. Only God knows. {Personally, I sense there’s a lot more goodness, beauty and healing to come.} But today, I want to honor the brave ones who came before me in this story. Their specific stories aren’t mine to tell, and my short sentences won’t do their stories justice, but I’m so in awe of each of these people and want to their brave and beautiful hearts.

First, there was a brave young woman who made a brave choice to give life to a son she knew she couldn’t keep.

And there was a brave couple who made a brave decision to adopt a son as soon as they heard of his birth.

Hearts breaking. Hearts opening. Love is so very brave.

46 years later, there was a brave sister who followed her intuition and bravely pursued a big brother she believed was out there somewhere.

And there was a brave brother who received word of biological siblings out of the blue and bravely said yes to more without knowing a thing about them.

Then there was another brave sister who supported her brother of 46 years in his decision to meet two brand new sisters, and bravely embraced them with hugs and chocolate.

And finally, there’s me…bravely telling the story God is asking me to tell, knowing I’m not entirely supported, but trusting that God will bring beauty to every broken place. And believing that somehow the telling of this story will usher in more healing and goodness than any of us can ask or imagine. {Ephesians 3:20}

Will you dare to believe in the MORE with me? Not just in my story, but in your own? Let’s keep partnering with God in His story by being brave with our stories each and every day…both in the little things and in the big things.

Love to you with all of my brave and beautiful heart,

P.S. You don’t have to wait until a story is made beautiful to bravely honor and rejoice in it. I’m very much in the middle of my own pain and brokenness right now. Some of it is related to this story and some is not. But no matter how broken things look today, I know this much is true: there is a particular beauty formed in you through brokenness. Will you be brave enough to allow it? And even embrace it?

“So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace. These hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us. There’s far more here than meets the eye. The things we see now are here today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can’t see now will last forever.”

2 Corinthians 4: 16-18, The Message