Be Prepared...

It happened super quick. One second I was walking just fine with Emerson down the steps of my terraced bank, heading home to run and get Amelia from dance. The next second I was laying in a crumpled heap somewhere between the bottom two steps of the terrace. My left ankle tingling and searing in pain. A rock jabbing into my ribs. Emerson’s panicked eyes filling with tears as she picked up the pieces of the mail that were strewn across the lawn. Awesome. Grace strikes once again. 

I sat up, wiggled my left foot, and choked back the tears that wanted to form around my eyes. Emerson was already terrified. I couldn’t cry in front of her. I pulled her close and said over and over again, “I’m ok! I’m ok!” This was more for my own benefit, but the words were soothing to her soul as well as the tears subsided and she walked the mail into the house, to then return and help her clumsy, aging mother up out of the mud and dirt. I walked gently into the house, brushing the leaves and muck off of my pants, and thinking hard about my ankle and the rest of the spots on my body that were starting to smart from my failure of gravity. 

Boy, these things happen quick. But there is some good that comes out of these moments. You are more careful, more prepared so it doesn’t happen again. I have never walked so carefully down those steps as I have in the days following my tumble. I choose different shoes to walk in that are more supportive. I’m more conscious of the steps that I take, looking for holes or toys or the slightest unevenness in the ground. I iced the joints and muscles that took the brunt of my topple. I checked the steps the next day and moved the rock that I most likely landed on. I’m more careful, more prepared, now that I know what could happen.

Why don’t I think to take the same precautions in all aspects of my life? The assaults that happen spiritually, or mentally, are just as painful, just as jolting, as the headlong tumble down the steps. I can feel the panic attacks coming from a mile away. So why do I wait until it’s too late to try and stop them? The attacks from Satan are the same. How many times do I need to walk down the same path before I might try a preventative strategy versus a reaction for when the onslaught hits? I don’t have the answer. But I should think smarter about all of this. 

I sometimes know what sends my spiraling into panic and despair. I know that I get caught inside my own head. I know I start to head the voice in my head that tells me I’m not good enough. That I don’t have anyone that cares for me. That people have their own troubles without worrying about me. That I wouldn’t even be missed if I just snuck way and left it all behind. I could prepare for those moments. Some say I should try medication. Some say prayer. I could start with positive self talk and all the strategies that I teach my social skills babies. I could pray or meditate or deep breathe.

And the spiritual attacks? Ephesians 6:11 says “Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” I could do that far in advance. Be ready. Be prepared. But I don’t. Why?

There are probably many reasons. I’m tired of fighting. I tired of preparing. Looking for how to make things better or easier or smarter. Sometimes I feel like life is so exhausting that there is just no point in fighting. Just let it happen. What is the difference?

But then something happens, like a fall down the stairs, and I’m spiritually and mentally under attack and feeling like I’m tumbling down the steps, breaking into pieces and feeling so much pain I’m not sure I can stand it. But, I find the strength that God provides me with and I stand up, dust myself off, clear away the rubble, and be prepared for the next attack. As a Christian it’s not if, it’s when the Devil tries to get to you. You just have to put on your armor, and be prepared. 

Physically, I’m ok. The bruises are fading, my ankle isn’t as tender, and joints seem back in place, and I am starting to be less cautious as I walk. Mentally, I’m ok. The waves come and go, I’ll practice the strategies that everyone suggests and I’ll be prepared. Spiritually, I’m ok. The fiery darts come at me, but I remember He gives me His armor and I already for battle. 

Be prepared. Walk cautiously. Know the fall is coming, but God will always be there to help you stand tall, wipe the dirt off, be cautious and take the next step. You might fall again, but oh the lessons you will learn!

One Step Closer...

Cabin fever had settled in. We were home for a bunch of days in a row. And now big sister is gone. Emerson and I hit up McDonalds for a treat and play time with some stranger’s kids. We’d been there a while and she was having a blast. Coordinating games. Leading charges against bad guys. Playing a rousing game of “The Floor is Lava.” I loved visiting with other moms. Watching my kid giggling and playing with other kids. Diagnosing kids with various communication or social disorders. It’s was fun for both of us. 

And then they came in. A family of five. A husband and wife with three darling little girls. The girls ran to the play structure and started playing with my kid. The couple sat at the table next to me on the same side together and started eating when their food came. 

Around the time they called their girls down to come and eat Emerson ran over to me for another quick sip of her drink and a nibble of chicken nugget before running off again to play. The little girls next to me ran off to play too and they all were fast friends. They exchanged introductions, hugged each other, asked how old they all were. The older of the three girls pointed down to her smiling parents and said “There’s my mommy and daddy.” They waved back and smiled. Emerson pointed to me sitting in the corner and said “That’s my mom.” I smiled and waved back. The couple turned and smiled at me. Then one of the other girls asked, “Where’s your daddy?” My heart skipped a beat and I held my breath. I never know how to respond myself so when my girls are confronted with this question my heart hurts for them. 

But Emerson handles it always with grace and her eight-year-old flair. She shrugged, declared “Oh, he died,” and announced her next plan at getting away from the boys in the play structure. I sighed with relief and picked up my soda for a sip. The man next to me scowled at me, leaned over, and sternly said “How dare you!” Wide-eyed I looked back at him and said, “Excuse me?” He slid closer to me and said, “How dare you teach your daughter to be so non-chalant about something like that. I don’t want MY daughters exposed to people like you. You need to teach your daughter to keep that sort of thing to herself. We don’t need our daughters exposed to that.” Then he packed up their food, called for his girls, and stormed out of McDonald’s as he cast a dirty look my direction. 

I choked back tears and sat in disbelief at what had just happened. What HAD just happened? Was I really just chastised for losing my husband? My daughter was judged for being honest about her father’s death. As the door closed behind them, I thought of five hundred things I could have said back to him. They’re lucky she didn’t tell them he killed himself. You’re judging a widow and a kid who lost her father? Emerson bounced back and forth between new-found friends and her food on the table, blissfully unaware of what had just transpired. Thank goodness! While I worked hard to just breathe and process what had happened and not burst into tears in the middle of McDoanlds. 

Psalm 147:3 says “He heals the broken-hearted, and bandages their wounds.” I am so thankful to Father for giving me this verse immediately after this happened. He heals the broken-hearted and bandages their wounds. He knows that I have cracks in my heart. He knows the grief that I carry. He knows how I struggle some days to hold those pieces together. He knows that some days those pieces feel like they are going to crumble and I’ll never find how to arrange the pieces back. Tonight some pieces fell out.

Grief combined mental illness takes a toll. Anxiety. PTSD. Depression. These things all eat away at you over time. Sometimes things are going great and you feel fine. Normal even. But in the background is always ick. Voices that tell you you aren’t enough. Feelings that twist and turn your insides. Tears that just won’t fall. Nightmares that jerk you awake at night. Paranoid thoughts that make you think all of your friends will leave you just like everyone else has before you. And when things like tonight happen, it’s just one more thing that pushes you closer to a breaking point. Closer to the edge. 

Being a widow isn’t something I chose. Raising my children alone wasn’t my plan. And blaming me for those things is ridiculous. My brain knows that. But my already fragile heart starts to wonder. Being a survivor of suicide already brings thoughts and feelings of blame and shame. Plant a seed and my mind runs away with the idea. And then that pathway leads to other thoughts. I should have saved my husband. I should teach Emerson to answer differently. We shouldn’t be so open about our story. We should just shove it down and hide it. 

But let’s back up for one moment to the Psalm. He heals the broken-hearted and bandages their wounds. God never promised life would be without trials. But He did promise to heal our broken hearts through the bad times. He did promise He would bandage our wounds. Tonight was a wound. Emerson has no idea anything happened even. And I thank God that He protected her from the truth. Her momma, however, was wounded. 

It is always shocking to me how cruel people can be sometimes. I try so hard to be kind to others always. To try and think about what their situation might be. Tonight caught me off guard. I found myself angry. Angry they would judge us. Angry that he blamed my daughter for sharing a piece of herself. Angry that he stormed out, making me feel like I was to blame for my husband’s death. Angry for cracking a piece of my lately-fragile heart. 

But I pause tonight and think about Psalm 147:3. I will give this broken heart to God again to mend. He will fix it. He will make it better. And then I pray. I pray for Emerson to always be brave enough to share her story. I pray that God protects that family from ever enduring what my girls and I have gone through. I pray that God heals the wounds on that man’s heart that caused him to lash out at me in the middle of a McDonald’s play place. And I pray that, no matter how many times my heart is broken, no matter how close to the edge I get, that Father God will cradle my heart in His hands, and paste the pieces of my heart together, to seal the cracks in my soul. 

God heals the broken hearted. My weary feet and my weary soul will continue to carry me through this life. One step at a time. One act of faith at a time. I often get closer to the edge, feeling like I’m about to break. But I just have faith that God will reel me back in and gently guide me onto the path towards healing again. Faith and hope and peace and love get us through. And even on the days that I feel like my heart doesn’t have any more pieces to crumble away, I will be bolstered up and know that He will set me on the path He plans for me. And my girls will be made stronger everyday, and I will too. He will bandage this wound from tonight, and all the other wounds too. 

My Name is Jonas...

I am the worst at remembering names. I run whole class social skills lessons at my school with kindergarteners and second graders. When I start my lessons in September, I tell the kids that I am terrible with names. I feel badly when I don’t remember their names. Their little faces scrunch up. Sometimes I feel like they might start crying. It’s important for us to be remembered. It’s important to be called by name. 

When we go through life so often it can feel like we are just another face in the crowd. There’s nothing special about us. Our name isn’t even important enough for someone to learn and remember. If they can’t take the effort to even learn our name, why would they want anything else to do with us?

Kids feel the same way. Amelia has an adult in her life that can never remember her name. This person hardly ever uses it and if she does call for her, it is often the wrong name. Amelia pretends it doesn’t hurt her feelings but I can tell it does. Amelia works hard for this particular adult. And Amelia takes pride in her work for this person, has interacted with her for years, so to not have this person be able to remember her name, I know it hurts Amelia. I try and explain to Amelia that it doesn’t have anything to do with how this person feels about Amelia. It’s not a reflection on Amelia’s performance. Some people just aren’t good with names.

Amelia got in the car yesterday and was just beaming. “Mommy! She remembered my name! She looked at me and thought hard and she remembered!” That small gesture was enough to make Amelia’s spirits soar for the rest of that day. She was thrilled 

It’s important for people to remember us. To at the very least remember our names. But that’s hard. We are human. Our brains are full of information that we use each and every day. And names can be so confusing. My kindergarten class has three or four girls who have names that start with the letter “E.” I get those confused often. Doesn’t make it any less terrible that I cannot remember their names. Amelia’s reaction is proof of that. 

Prayers of praise that we have someone who calls us by name each and every time. Someone who speaks our name often. Whispers it into our ear when we need encouragement. Even has our names written in His book. God knows our names. He never forgets. He always knows when we need to hear His voice. When we need that someone to come through and make us feel special. To make us feel important. He knows us and calls us by name. It says so in the Bible. Isaiah 43:1 says “But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” We are His. We belong to Him and he calls us by name. We are special and important and He loves us so. He will never leave us nor forsake us. He will always know our name. We are precious in His sight. We are His sons and daughters. Heirs to His throne in heaven. What an amazing feeling to be loved that much by someone!

So, pause and listen! Listen for His whisper in your ear, showing you that He loves you and calls you by name. He cares so very much for you! And He will never forget your name. 

In the meantime, I will sit with my babies at school and try to show them the same example of love and kindness that our Heavenly Father shows us. They are important to me. And I will learn their names. It might be May or June. But I’ll get it eventually. 

A Million Dreams...

I’ve always been a dreamer. A daydreamer. I dream at night. I process through things in my dreams. I’m often conjuring up images in my head of hopes and wishes and dreams for the future. I can envision myself doing things. It even goes as far as imagining things I would like to get done. Imagining myself darting around my house cleaning up this and that. Or daydreaming about starting dinner. I have a whole mind full of things I would like to accomplish. And this is especially true as the clock struck midnight last night and I turned the calendar to an array of new possibilities. I have high hopes for 2019 and the blank slate that has been presented to me.  I dreamed all day of resolutions and plans and ideas. 

And then reality of who I am set in. You see, right now I’m struggling with my autoimmune issues. I have Hashimoto’s Disease. I was diagnosed with it when I was thirteen years old but I never let it hold me back. In fact, I rarely talk about it to anyone because I don’t want it to be an excuse, a crutch to keep me from doing things. My thyroid is the culprit behind this disease and it is attacking my body. Usually it’s managed through medication but lately something is going a bit haywire. And as much as I don’t want to use it as an excuse it has wreaked havoc on my system lately. I am in constant pain in my joints. No matter what I do, all the weight I worked so hard to lose has slowly crept back on, and then some. It takes all I can muster to get out of bed in the mornings. I’m fatigued. Exhausted. So so tired. And stuck in the vicious cycle of no energy - gaining weight - even less energy - even more weight gain. 

So as January 1st rolled into the present my dreams turned to diet and exercise, which has been a daily struggle my whole life. I bought a planner, messaged my kickboxing instructor, joined forces with my sister, and set off on my new life changes. I planned my menus for the week and went grocery shopping. Planned my workouts for the week. Set alarms for kickboxing. Wrote out my goals. Hopes were high that I would find my dreams once again. I completed Week One, Day One of my Couch to 5K app, and sobbed through most of it. I was in excruciating pain for most of it. My joints seared with every step I took. My hands hurt. My hips hurt. My feet hurt. And all I could think about was how just eight short months ago I was in the best shape of my life. And here I am starting from the beginning again. Fifty pounds heavier. Muscles that don’t know what to do with themselves. Clothes that don’t fit. Old habits that snuck back in. 

I’m ashamed. Embarrassed. So sad that I am having to start all over again on this journey. I know what I need to do. I am strong. I am resilient. I plan and write and work and I’ll get back to where I was again. But, I’m also so very tired. Autoimmune diseases drain the life out of you. Adding in workouts and eating and cooking on top of all the other things you’re expected to do as a single momma to two beautiful, busy girls is daunting. I will push through, because I have a million dreams. But I will need help. 

I want to be healthy for my kids. I want to lose weight so I can maybe stop hurting constantly. I want to run a 5K every month and watch my times get better and better. I want to eat better and be a good example for my girls. I want to be more organized. I want to declutter my house and my life. I want to remodel the rooms in my house and paint and decorate. I want to plant a garden this spring. I want to build a chicken coop for my egg-laying girls so they are warm and together and safer. I want to show the people in my life more appreciation. I have a million dreams. 

I will keep my eyes on the prize. Not on the failures and disappointments that are so glaring right now. In the middle of my run tonight when I was in so much pain and sobbing and so down and discouraged, my God heard my cries. He promised me He would never leave me. He promised me He would love and protect me. He promised to help me achieve my dreams, if I only put my complete and total trust in Him. I deserve no part of what He is offering. But I am gladly accepting it. I need Him. More than anything, I need the strength and the peace and the love of my Lord and Savior. I need more of Him. 

I Corinthians 5:17 was given to my prayer partner and me for the new year. It says “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” My old, aching, pain-riddled self is going away and Father is going to make me new! My dreams will all come true as long as I put my faith and my trust in Him. It won’t be easy. But knowing how my story ends in the final victory, I know for sure it will be worth it!

So, how about you? What are your million dreams? Give them to Him! He’ll walk with you through it all this beautiful new year. 2019 will be amazing! Just trust in Him!

Happy New Year! God’s blessings in 2019 and beyond!

Most Wonderful Time

My heart is happiest during the holiday seasons. I love the breaks from school and getting to be home with my kids. I love hearing Christmas Carols on the radio. I love buying presents for my kids and my niece and nephew and all the people that I love. I love the traditions we’ve made. It is indeed the most wonderful time of the year. 

It’s also my hardest time of year. The pain and emotion stings my soul every once in a while and I’m caught off guard, even all these years later. Walking through Target and finding the perfect stocking stuffers. Browsing Amazon for just the right outfit for Amelia. Even the driving through the insane crowds trying to make it to get that one last prize for my Emmy. The elation and joy of this season makes my heart soar, and in one brief glimpse it can shatter into a million pieces. Tonight’s catalyst for this blog post was watching the girls excitedly open their gifts. Such joy and thankfulness beam from their little faces. I am so happy that they are so happy. 

And yet underneath for me, my heart hurts just a little. Brian should be here. He should be here to help pick out gifts. He should be here to pack bags as we get ready to head out to my sister’s. Brian should be the one I get to text when I find the perfect gift. He should be here to sit at the table with Amelia as she builds her LEGO set. Or helps Emerson learn how to use a baseball mitt 

And then, in the next mood swing, I’m so thankful that he isn’t. I get them all to myself. They are safe and loved and happy being a family of three. And we truly get to enjoy the holiday season. There’s no stress. No tears. No anxiety. There’s only peace and joy and love. 

Father God knew exactly what He was doing in our mess. He knew that victory was His and that we are part of His kingdom. His plan. We are strong and resilient and have a profound love for each other. And I am so very grateful. 

So I will use those moments in my next swing. It’s usually when I’m standing in the closet on Christmas Eve, praying the girls don’t wake up and hear me and spoil the magic and surprise. The tears fall then because it makes me sad to be doing these moments alone. To not have a helper, my husband. And then it shifts to Christmas morning when I get their little arms wrapped around me all to myself. And we get to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior and know that Brian is with Him. And we will be too someday. 

It truly is the most wonderful time of the year. And I wouldn’t trade any of these moments for anything. Enjoy your magic moments! Every single one of them. Don’t take them for granted. Hug and hold and honor. Love and laugh. Enjoy each second. Don’t rush through! Take it all in. Every smile. Every tear. Every single moment and memory. And check on your friends who are struggling. Even the ones that are eight years out and should be fine. They are fine. But they need love and extra check-ins too. 

Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! And may God bless us every one! 

Boulevard of Broken Dreams...

There are certain days that hurt worse than others. Doughnuts with Dad day at school often causes us to pause. The daddy-daughter dance that is incessantly advertised and then published about as daddies get to take their daughters out on a date is a bit hard, probably mostly for me rather than Emerson and Amelia. And today, also probably more for me. 

This last Sunday was a new one. The memory verse at Sunday School for this week is the Fourth Commandment. After class we were in the car on the way home and Emerson asked what we were supposed to do with that? We don’t have a dad! Amelia without missing a beat recited, “Honor your mother. Period.” We all broke out in fits of laughter and then talked about how our sense of humor is a bit warped perhaps. We cope a bit differently than others maybe. 

That situation was brought up again today by Amelia. Marilyn started my day with a hug. She said she knew what today was and wanted me to know she loved me, loved us. I quickly left knowing that the tears were on the surface. When I picked the girls up from school Amelia asked why Marilyn hugged me. I took a deep breath and told them that eight years ago today was the day their dad died. 

“Today?” Emerson sounded exasperated. “Why would be pick today?”

“I don’t know why he picked today, Em. He just did.”

“He should have picked 9/11. That’s already a sad day. Why did he have to ruin another one?”

Then the questions started from both of them. Questions that give my momma heart pause and sends aching pains through to my core. What were you doing when he died? Why did you call him? What do you mean he left a note? Did he do it in our house? Where was he? How did they find him?

None of this is in the parent manuals. I didn’t read anything about this in any What to Expect books. I answered their questions and choked back tears. I watched Amelia closely in the rear view mirror as she scrunched her little face up, her signal that she is done and doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

Emerson, after taking it all in, asked, “So, what are we going to do?”

Amelia once again without missing a beat said “Honor our mother. Period.” We laughed hysterically again. And moved on with our busy routine. 

Except my heart hurts. It hurts for me. It hurts for my kids. So many things that we were supposed to do as a family. Like daddy-daughter dances and doughnuts with dads and being able to recite the Fourth Commandment without a caveat. So many broken dreams just lying by the wayside. 

The Message translation of Jeremiah 17:14 says “God, pick up the pieces.  Put me back together again. You are my praise!” The pieces of our dreams were broken and shattered, along with our hearts. And those pieces sometimes break lose and the tears flow and the questions fly around. But God will pick up all of those pieces. He will put us back together. He will mend the broken parts and present us with new plans, new boulevards, new dreams. And every time we find ourselves falling apart, He will wait patiently for us to call out to Him in our times of trouble and He will pick up the pieces and put us back together. 

Who Is That Girl I See...

When you spend most of your life inventing and reinventing yourself, the image you see can feel skewed. Some days I forget who I used to be. Some days I want to forget who I used to be. Some days I forget who I am. Some days I want to forget who I am. And some days I just desperately want to be anyone other than who I see in the mirror. 

October is weird and angsty. There are so many emotions that swirl around me during this time that some days the best I can do is close my eyes and hope the ride stops soon. I am fairly certain it was October about four years ago that I sat on the couch of the second therapist I tried to get to fix me, looked into her eyes, and said, “Do you think I’m bipolar? I feel bipolar.” She smiled, informed me that I was not bipolar and then stamped PTSD into my chart and into my life. Bipolar is how I was feeling then. And that’s how I’m feeling now. I’m feeling lost and hurt and euphoric and happy and depressed and anxious and stubborn and brand new and broken all at the same time. 

And then, a friend posted what today is. Today is World Mental Health Day. I didn’t know, but sitting at the head of my bed feeling like a swirling ocean of emotions and trying to breathe and discovering this makes me laugh out loud. Is it mental health awareness day where we want to promote mental health? Is it fight for a cure day for those of us suffering from some form of mental unhealth? Is it a day we should celebrate with no work and being with people we love and doing something to take care of our mental health? Should I celebrate myself? Or should I feel badly that I’m a statistic and am diagnosed with PTSD? How does this work?

I find it interesting that September 10th is World Suicide Prevention Day and then October 10th is World Mental Health Day. Seems like that should maybe be the other way around. Maybe if World Mental Health Day was more than just a day, we wouldn’t need to even have a World Suicide Prevention Day. And it’s obviously not publicized very well. I didn’t know. I haven’t heard anything except for one Facebook friend that posted about it. But I can tell you that this month is Breast Cancer Awareness month. It’s plastered all over. Wear pink. Think pink. Raise money. Find the cure. And trust me, I am NOT trying to take away from the breast cancer cause at all. We need research in ALL areas of cancer to eradicate these horrible diseases. Breast cancer incidence rates are currently 20 deaths for every 100,000 women. I have grieved and have worried about and have lost more than my share of people from brain cancer, prostate cancer, lung cancer. It’s all terrible. 

But did you know that the suicide rate in males is 21.3 for every 100,000 and for females is 6.0 for every 100,000. Suicide is now the second leading cause of death in 10-34 year olds just behind unintentional injuries. But we are still not talking about it. They give it a day. And then a month later we talk about mental health. For a day. It’s not enough. It’s not saving enough people. It didn’t save my husband. 

I am eight days away from the eight-year anniversary of my husband’s suicide. Eight years has flown by and part of the invention and reinvention of myself that I talked about at the beginning of this post is directly linked to that incident. I suddenly found myself a young single mother with a three year old and a six month old. I had to learn to be strong and do it all and balance life without being “Brian’s wife.” So I have changed immensely. For the better, I feel, but it has still be a process that has changed me into a person I don’t recognize sometimes. Who am I? Who do I see in the mirror? I work hard to see an image that is positive. I work hard to make sure my girls see a mom who is involved and strong and a good provider. I work hard to feel and appear ok. And most of the time, that works. 

It doesn’t work as well in October. I miss my husband. I miss his goofy laugh and his mischievous grin. I miss his smelly fire fighter bunkers in his closet. I miss ironing his State Patrol shirts. I miss the scanner on the counter. I miss making him rum and coke and watching him mow the lawn. I’m sad that he ruined his career and his volunteerism and his family in one fell swoop because of his choices. I’m sad that the good he did in his life is sucked away by the bad that he ended on. I’m sad that rather than just focusing on grieving him I have to be angry and hate him. I’m sad that I feel like I can’t honor and remember my husband that way most widows honor and remember their husbands because he became a monster and I have to balance how I feel about him. So many emotions. I need a mental health day. 

So, there are days that I look in the mirror and don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I fit in this world. I don’t k ow what purpose I have on this journey. And then I remember that God is walking me along this path. He is helping me to discover the message in my mess. 2 Corinthians 12:9 says “But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” I know that God has already used our story to shine through to others. I know that the hills and the valleys are just pieces to the journey that Father God is walking us through and that looking back, we will see His power and His glory and His grace and mercy. He has a plan for us. He has a plan for me. He has a plan for all of us!

Who is that girl I see? Some days I don’t recognize myself. But, I can smile with confidence and know that that girl is a daughter of the Most High King. That girl is chosen and precious and a princess in God’s kingdom. That girl is more than her struggles, more than her pain, more than PTSD, more than the sum of all of her experiences. She is strong and amazing and beautiful and will rise above the statistics. It doesn’t matter who I see, it’s all about who my Heavenly Father sees. And I know that I’m precious in His sight.