THERAPY

I didn’t write yesterday, so I didn’t post. I was caught up with getting my second novel ready for publication, and I also didn’t feel well. As the night continued, I felt even worse. I also didn’t want to post for posting’s sake. I needed to have something of substance to post about. I am still not feeling well, and even as I laid down last night, I felt guilty for not writing or posting, or for skipping my midnight prayer session. I hate that I didn’t suck it up and push through, because I feel as though I have a responsibility to give it my all—at all times. Maybe that's it too huh, I am my worst critic. I know how to be hard on myself and rarely show myself any grace or mercy. It's a good thing that God's grace is sufficient. He loves me enough and there is no condition.  And perhaps God isn’t asking for constant output. Maybe He’s asking for surrender.   So, here's the divine truth I know God wants to say to you even in this moment: “Come to Me, all you who are wea...

Lord, Give Me Peace There was a weight today. It was loud, dramatic—persistent. It settled over me like mist, quiet and cajoling, threading itself through my thoughts and movements. I couldn’t name it at first. It wasn’t fear exactly, but something adjacent. A sense that something was off, that something unseen was pressing against me. Like a whisper in the atmosphere, not from God, but from somewhere else—somewhere manipulative, somewhere false. I felt as though something bad was going to happen. Not in the physical sense, but spiritually. Like words were being spoken about me in places I couldn’t reach. Not truth. Not testimony. But distortion. Lies. And worse—people were listening, tuning in. I could feel it in the atmosphere. The ache of being misrepresented, of being spiritually exposed, settled in my gut. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I also knew: those hearing it did not believe it. They hear it, but they don’t receive it. That knowing didn’t erase the ache, but it kept me fro...

I met an old lady today. She smiled when she saw me and immediately started telling me about her life and her problems. She felt comfortable approaching me closely and even touched my arm. Every time she tried to leave, she would turn around and come back to talk to me some more. And one thing is certain—even with the weariness I saw in her eyes, she left smiling, preppy, and joyful. I know that takes a lot to muster, because when you feel downcast, smiling never comes easily—neither does walking with a posture of joy. The interaction had me grinning from ear to ear because she was such a sweet old lady, and in the end, I knew more about her than most people I’ve been around for months or even years. I started to think about how I didn’t want to leave the house but was forced to by my youngest—and good thing too, because I needed to pick up some items for him for school and food items to make their lunches for tomorrow. I also never would have met her. On my way out, I saw the kindest,...

Lord, be my center of gravity. I feel as though I am spinning out of orbit. Or perhaps I am just a broken vessel waiting for your blood to mend and I will always concede because you are the potter Lord and I am just the clay. A broken vase in your hands can become quite the masterpiece.  I sit with You, yearn for You, glean from You, but there is much that my soul goes through. I don't know if I can take any more battering or beatings.  September came like a tsunami after the storm of August hit. August came with so many challenges, even after posing to be promising.   Then September hit, and I thought maybe things would start to turn around, but what I felt was constant dread and one bad situation birthing after another. There was no rest, no recuperation. Just work and work and more work.   I was giving my all at work but still felt as though my efforts were in vain, as I realized just how strange my boss can be. I have never felt secure in my job, so I t...

A prayer and a poem for the women who were mishandled, misread, and made to carry what wasn't theirs.  God of the unseen, the abandoned and those who don't belong. The hidden, the forsaken, the ones who walk alone. We come to You with hearts that have been mishandled and mouths that were taught to stay silent.   We come with the ache of being chosen in secret and denied in the open.   We come with the weight of glances that lingered too long, touches that blurred boundaries, and words that twisted truth. We pray for the women who were loved behind closed doors but shamed in the open. For the ones who were romanticized, sexualized, and scapegoated and told it was their fault. For the ones who were called “too sensitive” when they named the rupture. For the ones who were told to forgive what was never confessed, even though it was a blunder. We lift up the women who were watched but never truly seen. Touched with longing that weren't their's to meet. Who were emot...

Philippians 3:10 and the ache I have for intimacy that only God can give .  There are verses that comfort. And then there are verses that confront. Philippians 3:10 did both for me today. It didn’t whisper—it pierced, it left me in want and wanton. It named the ache I’ve been carrying quietly: I want to know Him. That's it, simply, earnestly and to live for him.  Not just know about Him. Not just recite His miracles or memorize His parables. I want to know Him in the marrow. In the silence. In the surrender. I want to know Him in the power of His resurrection—and yes, even in the fellowship of His sufferings. This verse doesn’t offer a sanitized version of faith. It invites us into a reckless intimacy. A knowing that costs something. A knowing that transforms--it's a little scarey!  The Power of His Resurrection To know resurrection is to know what it means to die first. To let go of what no longer serves. To release the old narratives, the shame, the striving. Resurrecti...

I’ve faced rejection so often that I had started to expect it. I was always on the defensive of anyone who came at me sideways with a side eye. I was almost flabbergasted when I didn’t get rejected or whwn people were nice to me—or when there was no opposition, no resistance. Sometimes I’m accepted so quickly that my head spins. Wait… what? Rejection--It used to hurt. I felt alone, unwanted. But then I became an adult—a mature one—and it stopped mattering. I had suffered so much trauma by then that I honestly didn’t care how people reacted to me. I didn’t care if they accepted me or not. Then my children experienced rejection. And suddenly, I did care. I cared deeply. I was able to comfort them, to tell them: As long as you accept and love yourself, and know that God loves you—so much that He gave up His only Son so you’d be alright forever and ever—you’ll be okay.   I also told them the hard truths--not everyone will like you, there will be people who will never love you. The...

I told God I wanted purpose. I didn’t know exactly what I meant—I just knew I was sad.  Sad in a way that lingered even when the house was quiet and the children were laughing. And at the core of that sadness was a question I couldn’t shake: What have I been doing with my life all this time? I’ve tried so hard. I’ve poured myself into projects, into prayers, into parenting. I’ve sacrificed, built, restarted, and still—still—I feel like I’ve failed at everything I’ve attempted. There’s so much evidence of failed effort. So many failed happenings. So many moments where I gave my all and still came up short. And I cried. Constantly. Quietly. I cried in the kind of way that made me question whether God was even listening. Then God answered. Not with a solution which is really what I was hoping for. Not with a strategy which I felt that I really needed. But with a scripture: Psalm 27. I didn’t understand it. I read it slowly, hoping something would leap off the page and explain why this...

There is love that breaks us inward, and then there’s the kind that wrecks the body without ever touching the soul. There was a time I loved with everything in me—though it didn’t start out that way. I liked him, I did. And I was seduced by the things he teased: a better life, no sorrow. It wasn’t about riches, because I married for love—and love was his currency. I thought I might finally be happy. I might finally sleep without sorrow. I might finally be okay, because someone finally, truly loved me. But he didn’t love me. He loved the concept of marriage and didn’t want to be left out, since all his friends were getting married. He was irresponsible, reckless, and stupid too—if I’m being honest. But I married for love. Not because I loved him, but because he seemed to love me. Because he needed me—and I had nothing. Not really. It was a whirlwind romance. He was perfect. It was new. I had never been the object of anyone’s affections before, and the promises he made only made him more...