Honesty Part II: Masking the Appearance of Trouble

While in worship at the ACFW conference, I heard slight whispers in the crowd.

"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."

I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.

My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.

Is she praying...or struggling with a migraine? How can you tell?

Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.

Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.

This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"

Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.

I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.

Awkward Steps...

I'm going to date myself with this post. Prepare yourself.



Remember that Sesame Street game, the one with the cool song, "One of these things is not like the others...one of these things is just not the same..."? The object was for children to notice patterns, develop cognitive skills. Since they personify practically everything from shoes to goldfish to cupcakes, I wonder if the writers for this show ever thought about what it's like to be that one out-of-place item.

It's a feeling I think everyone experiences from time to time, but one that I struggle with a lot. Satan knows it's an easy button to push for me. When I feel awkward or uncomfortable, my extroverted personality does a 180 and I either try to fade into the background (hard to do when you are over six feet tall) or withdraw, even to the point of leaving/running away.

Hey, it's not easy blending in with spiral-print purple vinyl!

Knowing that I "don't belong" is just one tiny step away from rejection, or so Satan tells me. That these are lies doesn't always sink in...and my pattern of behavior holds.

Just yesterday I "escaped" from the church I've been attending since January. I've talked about this issue of feeling as though at any moment some preschooler will walk up to me and point, "That's the one who doesn't belong!" (Ok, maybe not anything quite that dramatic, but the point's valid.) I looked around the sanctuary of visiting people and couldn't think of a thing to say to anyone or any way to join in on a conversation. I felt lost and craved the safety of being alone, in my car, listening to an audiobook or thinking through the scenes I wanted to write for my new novel. In my fantasy worlds, I control things. I'm never awkward. I never say the wrong thing--or if I do, I can rewind and try again with no penalties. There's no one to accidentally offend, no one who can really hurt me, no one to give me a pity smile as they try to understand what on earth I'm talking about. In a way, I'm God. It's a powerful place...and ultimately a lonely and empty one.

Apparently this girl is not only lonely, but also double-jointed (or about to realize her back HURTS).

My fantasies are good in that they become Christ-driven stories for me to write, but escaping into them too much just takes me away from the blessings I could be receiving from the people I love. It'll take time for me to completely trust my new church family, but so far, they've accepted me. I've found ways to help them...and the rewards for getting involved and taking risks have been incredible. Why did I do the Magic Schoolbus thing and "take chances, make mistakes, get messy!" with such fallible people? At those times, I was trusting God to love, protect, and guide me. Ouch. Guess what I wasn't doing last night. Ouch again.

Hey, Bob? We're going to need the industrial-sized version for this boo-boo.

It's amazing that, with such an awesome, powerful, sovereign God, I have such problems letting Him take over all the time. It's not like I ever do a better job than He does. I suppose letting go, even to Someone you trust and love, is not a one-time decision but a daily--or even hourly--decision.

So...here goes trying for a stronger faith first in my God, one step at a time. God, guide me, and help me remember just how much I trust You.

Although I may not have scored high on the trust meter with God, I just earned massive cool points by posting a pic of Indiana Jones on my blog. Go me.

Let me be busy (or else I'll eat cake)

I was working away in the kitchen of a friend's house as she, her husband, and her children bustled about to prepare for a birthday party for the eldest girl. I had arrived a little later than planned (mostly due to *lots* of emergency responders on the highway--welcome to Fourth of July mayhem), but had instantly gotten to the business of stringing decorations, taping streamers, and coaxing sheet cakes out of uncooperative glass pans. When the mother was attacked by a wasp, I shooed her and her children inside while I armed myself with Raid and went on the offensive (anyone who knows me knows that my instinct is to run, scream bloody murder, and hide in the bathroom when stinging insects are around).

This is not a good picture of a wasp. This is a ruined picture of a flower. *shudders*

The cakes were just about finished with my haphazard decorating skills when the first party guests arrived. Before long, the house and yard were full of kids and friends, of whom I knew about half pretty well.

Instead of letting things fall to someone else to finish, though, and beginning my socializing, I stayed in the kitchen. It was easy to justify for a little while. There was a pile of tropical fruits to cut up and arrange. Counters needed to be wiped down. There were my dirty prep dishes to wash--I can't make a mess and "leave it" for someone else to clean when I'm a guest in someone else's home. A hundred little details needed my attention and I stayed busy in the small area of the kitchen. The father of the birthday girl thanked me nearly every time he passed by, although the last time he just muttered, "You work too hard, girl." I just smiled and rinsed off a serving tray.

I do love to cook and bake. Preparing food for people makes me overflow with joy, and while I don't always enjoy cleaning, I don't mind it most of the time; periodically I even get a little anxious when I see something messy and know I could help clean it up (funny how that only occasionally kicks in at my own house). I love to serve people, help them with their needs, and make their lives better. Easing the strong vibrations of stress and tension that flowed from the parents before the party made me feel helpful, important, and wanted. I didn't need anything more than the look of relief and sincere appreciation in the mother's eyes as she looked at the finished projects over a bandaged finger and her calmed-down baby. It was fun for me to help design decorations and help corral children. It was powerful being the one who could step in, get the important work done, and be the calm and serene one in the midst of mini-crises (especially because if this had been my party, I would have been freaking out, too). I kept very busy...until everything was done.

The bad thing about a hefty to-do list for an event is that eventually it will be completed. I stood by the sink of clean dishes, eying the fully-stocked table of food, and thought "Well, now what?" Most people would have then thrust into the party, talking with others, finally grabbing some food for themselves, and generally have a great time. I felt awkward and froze. My safety net was the kitchen. Suddenly I didn't know how to talk to people. Being rejected hadn't been an issue when I was fumbling my way through slicing a watermelon.

My results with the stubborn melon and an oversized knife were a bit prettier, but this is so much more impressive on the entertainment factor.

After thirty minutes of standing around and pretending I had things to do, I eventually maneuvered myself to a place where I could gracefully exit. Guilt twanged a bit in my core (or was that hunger? Besides a few chunks of pineapple, I hadn't bothered to eat--too busy, other people wanted that food, etc.) as my car rolled away, the first to leave. I knew that I wasn't likely to get into a confrontation with anyone. From what I had learned over the past five months, I was surrounded by loving people. As soon as my usefulness was over, though, I felt every bit of the outsider, the "newbie" interloper who just doesn't fit in. I'm too young or old, smart or ignorant, liberal or conservative. A voice in the back of my mind pointed out just how much I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb...and eventually people tire of the offensive element and push/cut it out. I knew it was Satan whispering these lies to me. My faith is stronger than it has ever been. I knew better. I still ran.

You don't have to be a Carrol fan to realize that very memorable characters suddenly taking off at top speed tends to be noticeable, and a bit of a drag.

I can list a whole host of great reasons why I felt like this. I can justify every reaction, blame my misgivings on an ugly past that rears its head more than a bucking bronco. It's not going to change my behavior, my feelings, or my fears the next time I accept an invitation to a party or assist during a church event. The problem is deeper than just understanding the why behind it. I have to fight that reason. I have to change. I have to take more risks and be vulnerable again, no matter how many times I get hurt.

Funny--I suddenly feel too exhausted to move.

Logic Bombs

A friend of mine was telling me the other day about a situation she found herself in a few years ago. She was at church and a few older people had mentioned that they didn't think her attire was quite appropriate for being in services. She saw absolutely nothing wrong with the outfit--it covered everything, was a moderate length, and there was only a tiny hint of cleavage (and she's a very buxom woman, so it's hard to avoid "showing the line"). Being judged isn't something any person wants to have happen, and some respond very strongly to this kind of scenario. I've seen women burst into tears immediately after the confrontation, locking themselves into bathroom stalls for nearly an hour. I've seen women decide to "give 'em a show" in order to contrast "truly inappropriate" attire with what they normally wore--in one case, a 30ish lady donned stripper heels, a miniskirt that didn't even cover the bottom of her bottom, and a top that left nothing to the imagination.

You don't have to cover every inch of skin, but the congregation can't blur you out, either.

I can understand that instinct to pull out the logic bomb on people who, to us, have such ridiculous opinions that it offends us. I've had students deem me as stupid and apalling due to my weight right in front of me and during class. At that moment, I pulled out the biggest logic bomb I had and let it explode all over their judging faces. Not only did I disprove that fat people are always jolly (my German-Austrian temper was highly evident), but I also pulled their logic out and showed all the holes involved in making assumptions about people simply because of outward appearances. Problem was, we as humans make assumptions all the time. If I see someone who looks like they're a heavy drug user fiddling around my car when there are no other cars parked remotely close to mine, I'm going to suspect that they're trying to break in and steal something. It's a defensive mechanism that originates within our primal instincts of survival.

While I'm sure the rhyme has helped many a person stay safe when dealing with snakes, I just scream and run no matter what they look like--that way instead of a 50% chance, I'm hitting closer to 100% of surviving the encounter.

We should confront those with mistaken assumptions, especially if they are potentially damaging to other people, and logic bombs can help. Paul pulled one in Galations 2:11-16. Peter was falling back into his legalistic ways and, due to being a major influence on so many, was causing others to fall away from the truth. In front of the others, Paul chastises his friend and mentor, reminding him, and those following him, of the truth.

Sometimes a logic bomb can go the wrong way, though, blowing true logic all to pieces instead of demolishing falsehoods. (If you don't believe me, go to the E.R. on Independence Day and count all the injuries from fireworks that "weren't supposed to do that.") The woman who decided to channel her inner Brittney Spears and let it all hang out in church? It was definitely an explosive move...and not one that necessarily reflects the point she was trying to make--that she has discernment when it comes to dressing. Yes, showing up the "enemy" can be very self-satisfying. Doing so, however, is not always the most effective at actually resolving the situation. Those students in my class learned that I was a caring, very intelligent, and capable person not through my outburst but through my day-to-day dealings with them in the class. I had one-on-one conferences with them over their papers that really highlighted just how much I knew...and how much I could really teach them.

What should we do when we find ourselves chastised for something we don't see as wrong? Well, there are a few options. Talk to the people involved, find out why they have the issue, and see if you can come to an understanding (sometimes we really do have to "agree to disagree" and let it go at that). If they are staunch on the issue, especially if they claim it is tempting/harming others, then the Bible clearly states what our solution has to be: give it up. We wouldn't have wine bottles everywhere when inviting a recovering alcoholic to our house, so why would we flash cleavage and thigh at men who are recovering adulterers or porn addicts? If we want others to respect our choices and needs, we need to respect theirs. Otherwise, we're heading for war...and those bombs really hurt.

Getting Uncomfortable

A friend of mine changed her status on Facebook to "If we want to grow, we are always out of our comfort zones." I've heard this sentiment before, usually with the imagery of stagnant ponds that, while they are useful, aren't the beautiful bodies of water that can really make a difference (tell that to the family of tree frogs who thoroughly enjoy the unchanging pond off my backyard, but....point made). This one brings to mind a tender green shoot of a plant, having to push through first earth, then air that is often unforgiving and rarely protecting. Honestly, that plant was safer under a layer of black dirt, even with the beetles scurrying around down there.

I made a choice a few weeks ago to put myself in a new and rather uncomfortable situation: I joined my church's recreational softball league. To put this in context for you, I am very unathletic. I'm tall, overweight, not very coordinated in a gross-motor way, my hand-eye coordination works excellent with embroidery needles but not so much with large balls that could potentially concuss my skull, and I have a multitude of physical problems that make sports difficult (no cartilidge in my knees and fibromyalgia, mainly). I don't even necessarily like sports. I am easily the worst player on the team and not just because I don't even understand all the basic rules of baseball (let alone slow-pitch softball).

The thing is, our city's recreational league rules demand that there be at least four girls playing on each team at all times. The pitcher and catcher must be of opposite genders. At least two girls must be on the infield besides the pitcher/catcher. Batters must be lined up in alternating gender order. If there aren't enough girls on the team, the team forfeits...and loses a costly deposit. Needless to say, our church was having issues getting enough girls. The first few times the pastor asked the congregation for volunteers and a few friends invited me, I shrugged them off. I'm not an athlete. I'll be gone several weekends visiting my boyfriend. It wouldn't work. I'm not comfortable playing sports--and I don't like doing things, especially publically, if I don't think I'll be very good at them.

God had other ideas. Within a week, I had been dumped by my boyfriend and had two ladies practically push me into going to a practice for the team just so I wouldn't be stuck moping around the house, trying to kill off old feelings and deal with being a single woman again. "A little exercise will help distract you, and besides, you need to be around Christian friends right now." I was needed and apparently wanted despite having nothing substantial to offer the team besides my gender. I showed up.

Through a couple practices and a tragic double-header game, I decimated any high hopes of being an asset to the team. I can throw shorter distances ok, but catching is not my strong suit and batting...I'd have better luck if the ball was five feet in diameter. It took me a game and a half to realize, as catcher, that I was supposed to try to catch the foul balls. I kept, to my dismay, squealing and jumping out of the way of close pitches as I batted, terrified of getting hit (not that it kept me from some painful impact bruises). A few bad catches, the ball hitting my left forearm twice with considerable force, ended up jamming the nerve in my arm and I lost the use of my hand for nearly an hour. I tried cracking jokes all the time to relieve the tension I felt, the feelings of being a failure, and basically to keep myself from crying in pain and anger. Not everyone got them...and few of them were laughed at. Apparently my discomfort wasn't so hidden after all.

The logic that a very unathletic girl in athletics probably wouldn't be successful was something to fight against. I was a very intelligent, stubborn, persistent, and often patient person. God wouldn't have pushed me into this activity to make a fool out of me...would he?

Besides a nice dose of humility, something even Paul said was needed for Christians, I believe that God wanted me to stretch myself. I'll never be scouted by a professional team and may never actually hit a ball and get on base in my lifetime (although getting "walked" to first is such a wonderful blessing). I do need to try new things, keeping my focus on being out there, in this crazy uncomfortable world, so I can shine with God's love and be a witness for Him. I can't show my faith if I'm sequestered in my house or only venturing out to do things I know I'm good at (although, if I am willing to remember, I wasn't always good at those things, either).

Surprise of all surprises, I rather like softball. I'm watching baseball games on TV and picking up some ideas. I'm getting excited about games and want to do what I can, as much as I can, to support my church in this ministry. I never would have done this if I hadn't been in so much emotional turmoil over the dissolution of my long-distance romance. Already there is a silver lining, a purpose to losing a guy I thought I could marry someday. Now I'm looking forward to finding a new guy who is even better for me...and who knows. Maybe he'll like softball, too.

The difference between small and insignificant

I read this at church last week, mostly on a whim (I wrote it that afternoon in the softball dugout) and because a friend of mine and her husband encouraged me to...and I figure that if God speaks through other people to me, I need to start listening more.


Sooooo...the reading went well, even if most of the audience didn't *quite* know what to call it. "Your poem...story...reading...oh, whatever it was, honey, it was good." Hehehe. For your reading pleasure, I present my new poem, still a bit rough around the edges but not half bad. :)





I thought it would be awesome
To have a Mentos God
A God who would drop
Into my Diet Coke Life
And create a chain reaction that would
Douse everyone within a
10-foot radius.


A candy-coated God,
Instantly effective,
Infinitely attractive,
A catalyst for an explosive combustion that would spill
My contents
My heart
My faith
Onto the world.
Instant dazzle.
No work on my part, just a willingness to be open
To His presence.


It worked for others--a bright, passionate light that
Inspired
Oohs and ahhs
Like a 4th of July fireworks show over the Potomac
(Before budgets constricted the celebration).


You've heard about these
Sonic Boom Christians.
They had books written about them,
Their diaries published,
Hallmark movie specials, and
Colorful inspirational inserts in
Sunday bulletins.


Their lives meant something on a grand scale--
And no one could deny the effects of their
Carbonated demise.
So I prayed for the kind of drama that would turn me into
God's perfect 2-liter bottle.

And wished.
And prayed.
And imagined.
And prayed.


All I got was the mundane, very
Un-tv-worthy existance of
An old dollar bill.

No powerful ministry,
No Barbara Walters knocking on my door,
No satisfaction of knowing I have,
In one fell swoop,
Propelled thousands of bubbling Christians to
Heaven's door.


Just a crumpled dollar bill.


I've been forgotten and left behind in the mud,
Caustically bleached in the washer,
Mangled and marred by insensitive people.
The face of a leader that I was
Designed to
Display is
Faded and
Shaded
Almost beyond recognition.
He's still there, but no one seems to pay attention.


I'm not even generic Cola.


All I've done is help Carrie pay this month's rent.
And brought a smile to little Kevin's face when Mama had
Just enough
To buy that Happy Meal.
And symbolized the start of the new business downtown that,
After two years,
Was able to sponsor a youth softball league
And got dozens of kids off the streets.
I was used to minister to a foreign exchange student
During her first Wal-Mart trip with a
Member of Campus Crusade for Christ.
I was used to bail a teenager out of jail
When he thought
No one cared
Anymore.
I was used to send a missionary to China--and his
Brilliant blast to Heaven claimed eighty souls for
Christ before they took
His life.


So maybe I won't implode over the masses in
True Mythbusters Special fashion.
Maybe I won't be a conduit for an impressive shot of
Divine power,
A flash of glory for even the
Blind to follow.
Maybe, in years to come,
No one will remember I existed.


But for right now
Today
I can touch
One
More
Person
In a small way--and that might make a
Beautiful,
Soul-saving difference after all.


It's a multitude of tiny,
Individual bubbles
That overflows the edge.

The 25th Letter

I think God must think Himself to be one heck of a preschool teacher. I mean, He's the Lord of millions of humans who flat-out don't listen, can't survive on their own, and usually end up making messes of EVERYTHING. We get fingerpaint all over the walls, cost a fortune (or your son's life), and consistently forget at times to think of others besides ourselves. We don't always play well with the other kids, and while we still have innocence, it's not always the kind that we truly need to preserve.

My behavior at times over the past week has been much of that of a two-year-old (although I refuse to have a full-on temper tantrum on the floor--my knees won't take the beating anymore). I keep asking God, "Why?" I know He has a reason--adults *always* have a reason, even if they don't know it. A lot of things have fallen apart lately. My jobs are shaky at best, lowering my contract work to half. My heart has been broken by a man I loved. I spent two sleepless nights crying, then staring into the darkness chanting that infamous 25th letter of the alphabet. I've told friends that if I could see some sort of purpose, some sort of reason, some sort of light at the end, that it wouldn't be so bad.

Truth is, while I'm grabbing onto things that may be the very reasons I seek, it doesn't change the facts that I still have to grieve for my lost love and be a lot more financially cautious. There are still consequences for my choices and the choices of others. No man is an island--we all affect each other in ways that may ripple out to be huge blessings...or disasters.

I'm still not sure what God's trying to tell me through this rough patch, but I have suspected a few messages and reminders so far. First, I'm turning to God more than I ever have...not quite enough, but it's definitely a big change in instinctual behavior for me. Instead of isolating myself, which provides just the darkness necessary for brooding, depression, and self-hatred to grow, I've been pushing myself (and letting others push me) into the light. I've joined the church's recreational softball league despite having no athletic talent in that area. I'm conditioning my long-neglected voice and filling in as a substitute on the praise and worship team. I'm seriously considering beginning a PhD program next fall...something I've never really considered pursuing again. I'm starting new projects with friends and have even stumbled into a surprise babysitting job for a family I love. All these things probably wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for losing my job security and my boyfriend.

I will still be cautious, trying not to take on too much as I so often do (and, as keeping busy helps me work through pain and sadness, it's incredibly tempting). God needs me to rest a little more this summer, take care of myself, and really focus in on my relationship with Him. Eventually God will bring me my heart's desire, if it is His will. It's about being patient and believing.

I'm still tempted to say, "NO! I no wanna! Gimme now!" I think God's had enough of rolling his eyes at me for now, though. :)

Lessons for the Teacher, Part I

Part of what makes an excellent leader, and teacher, is the desire and ability to continue learning. For teachers, it's often called professional development. We have days set aside every semester for us to get together and talk, discuss policies, share teaching strategies. There are conferences where we can meet people from across the state or even across the country. We leave perhaps tired from the travel, but inspired and exhilirated, ready to take on the challenges of educating others all over again.

The problem with conferences is not just the cost, or the travel, but rather the infrequency of them. While I was a graduate student at Truman, I was able to go to three major educational conferences, mostly because there was funding available for us. Since graduating, these incredible large-scale meetings of like-minded people have been mostly out of my reach. There's little to no funding on the community college level, and since I work two jobs, getting out of responsibilities for five or more days at a time is a huge challenge at best. The euphoric inspiration, the feeling of belonging, and the excitement of being in this field at this time fades quickly as I reenter reality. If only I could have these experiences more often, get this sort of refueling on a regular, even weekly or daily, basis.

Thing is, I can.

The center of my life, the rock that keeps everything else grounded, is God. Just as I want to excel in my profession, I desire even more to excel in my walk with Him. I don't need to depend on the occasional revivals, camp meetings, or brilliant "lightbulb" moments that come once in a while and dissipate as I forget the lessons learned. What I need are the daily reminders and weekly meetings with like-minded Christians.

Enter "Quiet Time" and "Church."

Church isn't as much of an issue as it used to be. After years of allowing fear to keep me from taking a chance on a place to fellowship and worship, I have found a church home that ministers to my heart. I have rediscovered old friends, made new ones, and am touched by the truth and beauty in the people there. Quiet time...is another matter. My family and the few women who have either been blessed or cursed by having to live with me all know that daily regimens, outside personal hygiene, are not one of my strong suits. Vitamins. Daily writing time. Exercise. Reading. Homework. You name a habit, I've tried, and failed, over and over, to develop and keep it. I've tried methods to help me, ranging from positive reinforcement, accountability partners (who either forget or are fooled by my tricks to "get out of trouble"), punishment, deprivation, and even financial retribution. Nothing works for long. That first day that I let myself slide, that I say it's ok for me to skip...is the beginning of the end.

If I want to see God working in my life, if I'm sincere about my desire to be an instrument for Him, if I want to weather life's storms better than "just surviving," then I need to get with God's program. As many have said, "How would your significant other feel if you didn't talk to them every day, only called when they needed something, or made excuses every time you wanted to spend time with them?" I understood this before I had a boyfriend, but now that I'm in a serious relationship where we DO talk every day, I see the huge impact this has a lot more clearly...and I'm feeling the guilt.

Thing is, guilt isn't to punish us, but to push us into action. If we feel bad about lying, then we need to be honest. If we feel bad about isolating ourselves, then we need to take a chance and fellowship. If we feel bad because we're using/ignoring God, then we need to take time to be with Him.

It's not going to be easy. I have lots of excuses. I'm making a committment, though, starting today, that I'm going to challenge myself to be the best daughter of the King I can be. One small step at a time, one goal at a time; the most important one I can have is my relationship with God.

Step 1, Day 1: Daily time, set aside, to read my Bible and pray (not just for what I want/need, but to really talk/commune with God).