Memories of Generosity

This is my letter of Thanksgiving to my Father for the legacy of generosity he is building. 

To My One and Only Poppie, 

I don't know if I've told you how much I've come to admire your generous spirit. As we were growing up I took for granted the way you selflessly gave to those who were down and out. It wasn't until recent years I realized not everyone does that. Hurting souls have always found a haven in the Christ in you. Immigrants, homeless, recovering addicts, the elderly, the unfriendly.. Otherwise known as "the least of these".

I remember being about six years old the first time you picked up a homeless couple. It was a cold winter evening on Airline Highway. The man was pushing the woman in a wheelchair and you offered them a ride. We went by The Salvation Army to find it closed for the night. Instead, you drove them to the place they directed - a wooded area on the edge of a parking lot in a bad part of town. Jordan and I thought their tent was neat. But you knew differently; it was cold. Without hesitation you gave them the old comforters we'd used to keep warm in the van and we said goodbye to our smelly new friends. You went back the next day to take them to a shelter. 

That was the first time I understood what it meant to be homeless. We asked a lot of questions about what we'd seen. It made a lasting impression on me. I forever saw the homeless through different eyes. Eyes of compassion and understanding instead of cynicism and entitlement. (Poppie had no recollection of this whatsoever, but it has been etched in mine and Jordan's cherished memories.)

I can recall many other stories of lives that you touched. You couldn't afford babysitters so Jordan and I always tagged along with you to visit nursing homes, halfway houses, rehab centers and repair work days. Maybe we didn't spend our weekends like our other friends did, but I'm so very grateful that you taught us how to live like Jesus as a way of life - not a Sunday school lesson. This wasn't done out of obligation or preached "because the bible says to do it" and made into a cliche'. It wasn't religious. This was simply how you taught us to live. To see the need and meet it, even when "silver and gold have I none." 

How many times were you burned? Countless. Yet I've never heard you recount those instances. As a child I thought this ordinary - to give to those who eventually stole from or betrayed us. I never questioned why you did it again. It was our "normal". Now I recognize this for what it is - extraordinary. You display an extraordinary spirit of ceaseless generosity, undeterred by wounds the world has inflicted. You have been forgiven so much that you love much. Never have I known you to hesitate. Your right hand never let the left hand know what it was doing. Thank you for consistently modeling compassion and generosity to us.

I hear of families visiting soup kitchens to show their children how to serve. This is their good work. Poppie, you showed us much more than "good works". You showed us what it means to lay down your life; investing your time, money, hard labor, and most importantly you heart into people. 

I am overwhelmed when I think of the number of lives that you have touched and I pray fervently that I will be like the Jesus that I have seen in you over the years. To give without thought of gain or reward. You gave when you had nothing. But I can only imagine the heavenly crowns you have earned in these sixty years, and how many more you will earn, all to lovingly lay those crowns at the feet of Jesus and how blessed that day will be. 

Happy 60th Birthday,  

Your Bekah

Snapshots

Why is it that when someone takes an unannounced blog hiatus, they feel the need to provide excuses or somehow explain the absence? It's an unspoken pressure - and I know I'm not the only blogger who feels it.

So yes, I took an unannounced hiatus. All I know to tell you is that my inspiration fled for a time. But it has returned. My hands are itching to write once again. I can feel the fountain of words bubbling beneath the surface, and I am relieved.

But until the time that those words find their way these digital pages I thought I might share a few pictures with you - my blog followers - of what I've been up to for the last two months. You can actually see where my renewed inspiration comes from.

Jordan and I visited Houston with some dear friends of ours. We took a day trip to Austin, TX where the photo below was taken in this great crafty antique shop on Congress. Austin is a great city!

Me, Jordan {sister}, and Arielle

We had some grand adventures and tried new things (as always) like Coconut water that we got from a Malaysian Restaurant! Jaclyn (our friend in Houston) knows all these great places for great food! We wandered around Chinatown seeing odd sites and avoiding Durian Fruit every time we turned around. Jaclyn and her husband Orlando are as fabulous as my big sisters. And if you know me, you know my big sisters are pretty spectacular.

Jordan, Me, Jaclyn and Arielle

If you have been on Pinterest for any length of time it's likely that you seen this idea to give 60 memories for a fathers 60th birthday. This was inspiration defined! Our beloved Poppie turned 60 years old at the end of October and we managed to gather notes and letters from friends old and new, co-workers, church members, neighbors, and family.

Jordan stamped all 60 envelopes

I was absolutely overwhelmed to see the ways my father has effected so many lives. I plan on publishing what I wrote to him here on the blog sometime soon. This project produced many tears and much laughter, and our Poppie was so very blessed by it.

Tears as they were read aloud.

At the beginning of November Jordan and I decided to take a spontaneous trip back up The Natchez Trace where these adventures happened. This time were were going camping and hiking!

Me at the Parkway Entrance 

We had a great time hiking all 13 miles of trails in Tishomingo State Park. Even though most of the leaves had fallen, it was still beautiful!

Our shadows on Swinging Bridge over Bear Creek

We did a lot of smiling

We also listened to this song a lot on this trip. I love this group. You can download it for free here.

And finally, over this past Thanksgiving weekend, I turned 23.  I had an amazing time with my family and got some great gifts (Thank you Jordan for Bonhoeffer on Radio Theatre). As an excuse to get out of the house Jordan and I took my niece, Leah, and got manicures (in pale neutral shades).

Of course we did. 

I've got to tell you guys that my niece is one of the most amazing teenagers I've ever met. It shouldn't surprise me, because she has some great parents. I enjoyed every moment with her, as you can see from the pictures below.

A very happy birthday indeed

We got our "no evils" a little out of order

And y'all. This chick is gor-ge-ous. If my future children are even half as beautiful as my nieces, this family is going to have to take stock in the weapons industry.

Photo from my shoot with her this weekend.

I can't tell you the last time I've enjoyed my family so much. And still am. We made some lovely memories.

So the loveliness continues. I love the holidays. I love cuddling under a blanket (new new fluffy, fleecy one!) with some tea to watch old Christmas movies. I'm looking forward to an entire month of these kind of indulgences. It's the simple things...

milktea with honey #favorite

Contentment

I was just sitting here (in my apartment) trying to come up with a sufficient facebook status to sum up my weekend. To sum up how I feel right now. But I don't want to be one of "those people" who uses social media to list every little thing they did that day, knowing you may not care what I did this weekend. You may not care about the little things that make me happy. I am known for {perhaps} being {overly} sentimental. But I can't just let this pass me by without memorializing it somehow. I feel contentment. Better yet, I feel blessed. So allow me to count the blessings that have touched my heart this weekend.

My right eye almost closes when I really smile.

• Balloons, helium, and the various forms of giggling they produce
• Bright blue birthday cake (Yes, the cake itself was dyed blue!)
• Roller skating
• Captivating - this book is challenging me in so many ways
• Hugs and love from my 8 year old niece
• Having the title "my Bekah-wekah" bestowed on me in lieu of "Aunt Bekah"
• Holding the hand of "my 'Mara-Beara" in the grocery store (she really is the sweetest thing EVER)
• Long talks with friends and sisters
• Slow, rainy car rides that give me plenty of time to think, pray and worship
• Technology, allowing me to talk to my best friend every day, despite her being several countries away
• Naps
• Rainy long weekends
• Remembering that this weekend marks 8 years of fellowship with the church body I am a part of

I love the little things. I love that God made me to love the little things. I love seeing Him in them. My heart sighs with contentment on nights like this. I feel His peace washing over me, and I just want to pour gratitude back to Him for all these things so freely given, so grossly undeserved.

"O GOD, My heart is steadfast. 

I will sing and give praise..." 

~Psalm 108:1

Oh, How I Love Jesus

I was killing time in Baton Rouge today, so I stopped in on my mom at work. She works at a retirement center as a Registered Nurse. My mother has always loved working with the elderly. And I've always enjoyed visiting the nursing homes she's worked at, getting to meet her "favorites". My mom has an eye for picking out the "characters" among a group of people. In our family we would say they are "Such a person, such a person." 

A few weeks ago Momma was telling us about one "Such a person" at the retirement center, Ms. Lassiter*. Ms. Lassiter loves to sing in the hallways - loudly and often. And she often picks a favorite tune, singing it over and over again, much to the chagrin of the other wheelchair bound patients within earshot. I heard Ms. Lassiter today before I met her. I was sitting across from my mom in her office near the nurses station when a faint voice that would rarely be classified as "singing" came from the hallway.

Oh, how I love Jesus..


Her voice was timid in that first line.

Oh, how I love Jesus..


She gained confidence with the second line, putting the emphasis in the perfect place of Jesus' name.

Ooh, how I love Jesus..


The strains of her voice were high pitched, and shook as though her vocal chords were seized by Parkinsons.

Because He first loved me!

Ms. Lassiter croaked out the last line with such conviction, tears sprang to my eyes. My mother got up from her desk and led me into the hallway to be introduced. I could only grin as I laid eyes on this frail, shriveled woman who looked well over 90 years old. "This is my daughter, Bekah, Ms. Lassiter. You just blessed her heart with your song!" I looked into her clouded eyes, not sure she could see me, so I took her hand and said, "Nice to meet you! I loved it!" She grinned up at me and exclaimed, "I love to sing! I just love to sing! So whenever I feel led to sing, I just let it out! I don't care who hears me!" I assured her that I loved to hear her song, and our Lord loves to hear it too.

My mother soon had to answer a phone call, so I made my exit shortly thereafter in order to not be a hindrance. Ms. Lassiter wasn't much to listen to. If she'd been singing almost anything else, I might have been tempted to giggle a bit. But instead I found myself crying as I drove away. All I could think of was the scripture saying, "The Lord inhabits the praises of His people." no matter how humble those praises are. I know that my Heavenly Father took great delight in the unashamed, absolutely abandoned praise of His child in the hallway of that retirement home. I like to think He let me in on a little bit of His delight. And He showed me that this is how He desires all of His children to love Him - with abandon - because He first loved us.

I'm not sure if I entertained any angels today, but I know that an angel entertained me.

*not her actual name

De-stressing.

I've had a completely different post written out for almost a week now. But I left my notebook at work and it's been too long since I've written anything here so I'm just going to write this out. I hope it doesn't sound like I'm whining...

One of the things that I've learned about myself lately is that I work well under a certain amount of stress at work. Nothing motivates me to get something done quickly and efficiently like a deadline. It's a good kind of stress. I leave work feeling accomplished and satisfied - and I leave the stress there. Huge difference from my old job.

Revenue (previous job) made me anxious and stressed all the time. I would wake up in the morning with a sore mouth because I was grinding my teeth at night from stress. No matter how hard I tried, I was never measuring up. Even when I was the one setting the standard - I wasn't able to meet it, because they always expected more (this sounds like an exaggeration - it's not). When interviewing for my current job one of the questions the Managers asked me was, "What was a stressful situation at your job and how did you handle it?" I thought for a moment before replying, "Well, it's always stressful at Revenue, regardless of the tax season. There's always too much work and not enough people to do it. So we just have to laugh at ourselves and try to stay positive in order to cope!" Sadly, I considered that interview one of the worst I'd ever done. I thought I bombed it. And I cried the entire way home because I didn't realize how stressed-out I was until they asked me that question. I wanted out after over 3 years at Revenue. But God knew what He was doing. He took care of me, and by some miracle I landed the job that I'm in now. I love the people I work for.

If I face any amount of stress now it's because I'm being challenged and stretched in areas I've never been before. I'm learning things that are completely new - the hard way: trial and error. But it's great. Because I'm good at it, despite the bumps in the road. For example; today was really hard. For the first time in over 16 months that I've worked there I went into overtime because of a work-related issue we were experiencing. I almost fell apart for a few minutes. We had a problem that I didn't understand. I'd done everything I knew to do - correctly - and still things weren't working right, causing some major malfunctions further down the line for other people. But between me and IT, we got it figured out and repaired (turns out my computer is one of only a few in the building with Windows 7, and it's got some crazy kinks to iron out). All will be well. I left this afternoon with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.

I don't really have a point to this, other than the fact that God is proving Himself faithful to me. This area of my life is changing. Stress is no longer just something to cope with - it's something I'm learning to thrive under. And that's only by the grace of God.

Writing this out helps a little too... 


How do you handle stress?

Beauty from Ashes

When I decided to publish my glass heart story I thought it would be easy because I am so far removed from the events that inspired it. And I've told it to countless young women in ministry situations. But the truth is that I hesitated this time. Because while this story illustrates one of the most awe-inspiring works God has done in me to date, it is still deeply personal.

The Glass Heart parallels the story of my first broken heart. I gave my heart away to the first frog that crossed my path. Gratefully, I didn't have to kiss him to find out that he would never be the prince of my dreams. I walked away from that experience broken and fearful. It took me quite a while to trust the Lord with my heart, and even longer to trust any person.

Even once I learned to trust Him again, I believed that I'd destroyed my innocence forever. I accepted that I would have to live with the scars on my heart - for which I was ultimately responsible. I wasn't resentful about it. In my mind, I was damaged and there was nothing to be done. This was the consequence of my sin. I never expected to know innocence again. I'd made my bed and had to sleep in it.

All of that changed one morning in my high school chemistry class. Sunlight streamed in the window behind me, I sat down, and sighed. When I exhaled a lock of hair that was hanging in my face blew back into place. In that moment a childhood dream was fulfilled. As a little girl who adored "The Little Mermaid" I'd spent hours in front of the mirror attempting to imitate this sigh-hairflip-combo that was Ariel's trademark. I never got it right and resigned myself to never being a princess as a result. I'd completely forgotten about it until my hair serendipitously floated out of my eyes that morning. My excitement was unconstrained! Because that moment represented so much more. My childhood innocence was returned to me, symbolized by that "dream come true". A little wind whispered a truth that echoes in my soul, "The author of all true fairy-tales is writing yours... It can happen."


Let me speak for a moment to the girl, the woman, or even the man who has been broken. Your body, heart, and mind has been shattered. You may believe that you are beyond redemption. You may have resigned yourself to never being whole again. You think you are unworthy of healing and may even think it unnecessary. After all, you've adapted. Learned to live with the scars. But I am here to tell you that Jesus Christ is capable of restoring all things.

I know personally that nothing is so big or small that He cannot heal. I thought my broken heart was such a small matter that He couldn't bother with it. But now I know that if He cares to restore something as "small" as my innocence, He can restore anything. He can heal and bring full restoration, no matter what you think you've ruined. There is no detail He does not care intimately about.

His patience is never ending. He does not force Himself on us. The Lord never pushed me to give him my heart. He waited until I'd surrendered every piece to Him, holding nothing back, before He began His restoring work. Before He can begin healing you must trust Him with every part. His hand transforms. My life - my heart - is tangible evidence of His faithfulness. He has made beauty from the ashes.

A few years ago I purchased a glass heart pendant (pictured above) as a tangible reminder of the redemption of God in my life. It's one of my favorite pieces of jewelry, and I get compliments each time I wear it. I usually accept them with thanks, touch it, and remember how I have been made whole. I can never forget.

Have you ever been broken? Has He made you whole? Tell me your story. 

The Glass Heart

This is the first of several personal stories that I'll be posting during the next few weeks. They are stories of Gods redemption in my life and I finally feel free to share them. A few of you may be familiar with this one of my Glass heart. I first shared it at a purity banquet several years ago.


Once upon a time, not so long ago, a man loved a little girl. He watched over her as she grew and knew every freckle and curl. He was her Guardian, her hero and His presence was enchanting. There were many nights she spent curled up next to Him, learning His stories so well she could repeat them backwards.

It was on such an evening that the man presented a gift to the little girl who was now becoming a young lady. In wonder, she lifted an exquisite, hand-crafted glass heart out of the box. She marveled at its beauty and promised to treasure it close. Several times her Guardian offered to keep it safe for her, but she always laughed Him off, wanting the world to see the beauty in the heart He'd created.

As she grew older, the time spent with her Guardian grew sparse. There were occasional evenings she spent with Him and in those moments He would plead with her to let Him guard the heart, warning of its fragility. But she only held it tighter, dismayed that He would try to take something so precious to her.

It wasn't long until there was some distance between herself and her Guardian. Before she knew what was happening she was swept off her feet by a handsome young man. She was delighted by his exclamations of  her beauty. The young lady was convinced that when she showed him her beautiful glass heart he would admire its value. So, she gave it to him in hope of showing him how much she'd grown to love him. She trusted him to protect it for her.

The handsome young man accepted this gift with all the awe the young lady could've imagined. Dreams of forever began to fill her head. They were happy. For a while. Then, he got a little careless and the glass heart was chipped and cracked, but not ruined. The young man persuaded her that he would be more careful, and though she was disappointed, she let him keep it. But weeks passed and the cracks in the heart grew larger instead of being repaired.

The young lady eventually saw that her handsome young man had no intention of caring for her heart. She made a decision and determined not to be persuaded out of it - she was going to get her heart back and leave. So, she timidly approached the young man who had the delicate heart carelessly shoved into his pocket.
"I want my heart back." She said, while holding out her hand
He tossed it into her palm saying, "Take it. I have no use for this. What did you expect?"
Without responding the young lady closed her hands around the heart, turned and ran - until she could run no longer. She found a hiding place, fell to her knees and wept. Her palms opened to reveal bloody shards piercing them. In her haste to get away the glass heart was shattered in so many pieces. Only the skillful hand of the man who crafted it could make sense of the mess.

After her tears were spent she got up and began the journey back to the home of her Guardian. Her enchantment with the handsome young man had led her far from home. The last thing she wanted to do was show her Guardian the heart, broken as it was. She remembered all of his cautious words and could picture the disappointment in His eyes. On her way back she tried many things to put the heart back together. And some things would work. For a while. And then the heart would break all over again. Still she continued on.

Just when she got to the door of her Guardians home she panicked and concealed the pieces of her heart in her satchel, deciding not to reveal its brokenness. He opened the door and embraced her warmly. The young lady sobbed and muttered apologies for not coming sooner. She was taken in, cleaned up, and given her old room back.

For many days she rested, wondering what to do about the broken heart. The young lady and her Guardian went on daily walks where they talked about all manner of things, but He never asked about it. She knew He was waiting for her to explain. Many weeks went by, becoming months. Months that she couldn't bring herself to show Him the pieces of the once beautiful glass heart.

One evening they sat together watching the sunset in content silence. She sighed and leaned against Him, soaking up the last bit of the suns warmth. As the last rays disappeared on the horizon He leaned down and said close to her ear, "Beloved, it's time." Her heart accelerated and she nodded up at Him, knowing exactly what He meant. The young lady led the way to her room. There she opened a small chest that held the pieces of her heart and slowly laid each one on the desk like a scattered puzzle. They were there a long time while she cried and told Him the story of her broken heart. He looked at her with compassion then collected each piece, wrapping it in a handkerchief and without a word, slipped out the door. She slept peacefully that night, relieved she no longer had to protect the secret of her heart.

The heart was not mentioned and the young lady knew without asking that He would take care of it. Months passed, during which she spent time learning from her Guardian and talking with Him. She grew nourished and healthy. There were occasions when she wondered what became of the broken pieces but she never asked.

The young lady was studying one day when her Guardian came and pulled her aside. With a radiant grin on His face He brought a box from behind His back and held it out to her. She stared, open-mouthed. Slowly she reached into the box and pulled out a glass heart. Not just any glass heart. Her glass heart. It looked identical to the original, only without a chip, crack, or flaw.

As silent, joyful tears slid down her cheeks the young lady knelt before this man and held the heart out to Him saying, "This heart can only ever belong to one person. Its maker. You alone are worthy of its treasure. I love you Jesus."

The End is yet to come...


I told the back-story of this allegory after initially publishing this. You can read it here. 

More Than Just a Name

Those who know me in person know that "Rebekah" is not the name I go by. If there is some chance that I am introduced as "Rebekah" I will probably shake your hand, smile and say, "Please, call me Bekah." All of my email signatures and social media bear the shortened version of my name.

"Rebekah" is a name I have associated with being in trouble most of my life. My parents only used it when I was being severely reprimanded. I vividly recall flushing with dread every time they called "Rebekah Hope!" into the backyard. I would run down the mental list of mischief I'd been in, wondering which fiasco I'd be answering for this time. This is a habit I carried with me into adult life, growing anxious each time a teacher or supervisor used my given name.

I hated being called "Rebekah" all through middle school and high school. The guys in my classes quickly discovered this and taunted me relentlessly. There were two Rebekahs in my small high school. Since we had many of the same classes, it was decided early on that she would go by "Rebecca" and I was "Bekah". If someone slipped up and used my given name, I would rarely acknowledge them because I assumed they were addressing the other girl.

Last October, when I started this blog, I was wrestling with God. Earlier in the year I'd spent some time allowing myself to be courted by a guy with whom it ended up not working out. But in the midst of that the Lord stirred up dreams in me that I thought were dead. I was angry because I felt like He dangled something in front of me only to snatch it away. In the midst of expressing this to Him one afternoon, He spoke to me.

"You are not the first to get a promise from me only to see it unfulfilled within your timeline. I promised Abram and Sarai a child - and they waited, in faith, for the promise to be fulfilled. While they waited, I changed their names. As I am changing yours. It is no accident that your name is Rebekah Hope. You will no longer associate that name with anger, trouble, and anxiety. In the book of Genesis Rebekah was found as a wife through her service. You will be found serving me. Do not sit idle. Pour yourself into serving the least of these. Rebekah Hope, you have been so named for a reason. Hope in me. Serve me forever. Then it will no longer matter how long it takes to be found."

 I was - and still am - floored each time I read that. Has God really given me a promise and changed my name? I'm learning to quell my anxieties when I hear the name "Rebekah". And I'm learning to believe the promise He gave me even when it seems so unlikely.

I gave my blog this title as an act of faith. This is a daily reminder of how God has spoken over my life and a testament of His faithfulness to me. It's more than just my name.

How Did I Get Here?

I've been doing a lot of blog reading lately, which has me thinking about how I got here, and why I'm writing. Text has always been the medium where I've been most comfortable. I started writing at 11 or 12, shortly after my dad drilled grammar rules into my head through many tearful home-school sessions. After memorizing 436 proofreading symbols, I finally learned to love words.

My first online platform was "Teen-Open-Diary". Yes, it was as bad as it sounds. This was before MySpace was on anyone's radar. I created an "anonymous" profile, which I promptly emailed to my closest friends, and I began to write with gusto. I filled page after page of internet content with my every angst-filled teenage thought. "Relationship" trials, school drama, prayers, tears, depression. I treated that platform like my personal diary - completely uncensored as though no one was reading it. I cringe now, remembering that I thrived off of the drama my "honesty" created. Eventually the open-diary network was hacked one too many times and shut down, gratefully leaving me with only a few entries in my hardback journal as a reminder of the emotion-crazed pre-teen I was.

Shortly thereafter I joined a new youth group and found out that - wait - there are some deep, dark thoughts that only a few should know about? And the opposite sex shouldn't be on that list (especially at 15)? So, I stopped writing in all public forums and began to write for myself. I internalized everything that year, filling two journals and a sketchbook. I wrote pages of letters that I never sent, and some that I did. In that year I laid aside several destructive relationships and began to learn to relate to real people in real ways. This was a process. I can't tell you how many hours I wasted trying to speak my heart only to give up and write it down, passing it to the person across from me. Writing became a form of bondage for me.

Because this continued to be a problem, someone challenged me to give it up for a season and told me that, "It's out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks, not the pen writes." I laid my pen down and put the journals aside. That year I learned to talk. I learned to voice my heart. I was no longer bound to the pen. But I still didn't trust it. I was afraid that in this medium where I felt so comfortable I would say too much.

I tried for a while to write anonymously through Xanga, but I gave up after 5 entries the first time I crossed the line of "too personal" - even though no one was reading it. Then my friends jumped on the blogger bandwagon. I quickly found where I was safe - writing exclusively about the things the Lord was teaching me. I spoke only of struggles in the past-tense, from the side of victory. Prudence dictated that I keep things on a surface level while I learned to safely relate to the opposite sex, both virtually and physically. Eventually it came naturally - at least in person. But when it comes to writing, I have danced on eggshells for years, careful not to say anything that might later incriminate me.

I've realized that as a 22 year old young woman I can trust myself with a pen again. With some maturity has come discernment, proven in the fact that the hand-written version of this (I'm a little old-fashioned that way) has sentences with lines through them that won't end up in my final draft.

I want to tell my stories - both past and present. To testify of what I have been saved from, now safely removed from who I used to be. Maybe by removing the vague cloud that has covered my writing, I'll find out that I am not alone. And maybe... you will too.

To the Fathers

This is a testimony that I wrote and gave at a Father-Daughter banquet early last year. I think it is appropriate to honor my Father right now by sharing this. May it be an exhortation and encouragement to you as well.

The photo to the left of my sister Jordan and Poppie was taken a couple of years ago on the Baton Rouge barge dock downtown. I had it printed and framed for Fathers day that year.

Good evening -
I don’t think there’s anyone here that doesn’t know my sister, myself and my Father – or "Poppie" – as many of you affectionately refer to him. What some of you may not know is that I am the 5th of 6 daughters – 6 daughters who were raised in a ONE bathroom house. I think it would be fair to say that my Daddy has had his share of experience raising girls!

I want to testify tonight about the difference that the words of a Father can make to his daughter. Right now you are "the man" in your little girls’ life. I can only imagine the great weight of responsibility that comes with parenthood. But I want to encourage you to take advantage of this small window of opportunity that’s been given to you to endear yourself to your little girls.

My Father isn't perfect, and I don’t believe he would have me give you that impression. But I want to share with you some of the things he has done, raising us, that have made a lasting impact on my life. My sister and I, like most little girls, loved to play dress up. We spent hours in our room playing with makeup, veils, crowns and frou-frou dresses. When we dressed up we would wait in the front yard for Poppie to get home from work so that we could show off our handiwork. We were rarely disappointed. He would tell us how beautiful we were - even if we had mascara on our noses or lipstick out of line. It didn't matter that our dresses were 5 sizes too big and stained with kool-aid. In this way he earned our constant affection and devotion. We knew we were pretty because “Poppie said so!” and he was the final word.

As we grew older the dress-up sessions were a little more serious. We came home from shopping excursions with Momma to show off our purchases. No matter what he was doing Poppie would pause to look at all the new things and give his approval. But it never really mattered what we wore. We always knew that we were beautiful - inside and out- because He took every opportunity to tell us so. Countless times he spontaneously looked at one or both of us and said something like, “I am so blessed to have such pretty girls who love Jesus SO much.”

The consistent affirmation we received has had lasting repercussions as we’re entering adult life. Today, as a young woman who has been taught to be modest in all things - protecting the eyes of the young men around me - I feel confident that I can go unashamed to my father after purchasing something and ask, “Hey Pop, is this immodest? Do you see any reason that I should return it?” And I trust that he will give me an honest answer, looking out for my best interest, and helping me guard my virtue. I have learned to value his opinion first as my father, but also as a man.

It should be no surprise that in our culture media plays a part in shaping the image that young girls strive to achieve. But I’m here to tell you that fathers have a vital role in shaping who their daughters aspire to be. It’s almost cliché to say this; Your words as a father hold the power of life and death. I cannot explain why I want it, and I can't get rid of the desire for my Fathers approval. As a child, I craved his laughter. I would put on the most ridiculous antics and tell him endless knock-knock jokes just to know that I put a genuine smile on his face. Conversely, because I crave his approval, his criticism or correction strikes deeper than almost anyone else's. To this day there a few things that humble me as much as the stern voice of my Father. Without even knowing or meaning to, a Father can inflict lasting wounds on his daughter through harsh criticism - especially of her appearance. But the knowledge that her father is proud of her, that he values her, no matter how many opportunities she's given him for disappointment, can be the core of confidence for a girl of any age.

Let me give you an example. I was not the most popular girl in middle school. I was awkward around boys, I had frizzy hair – and I was the “goody-two-shoes”. I particularly remember one day that my dad dropped me off at school. He joined hands with me, praying briefly as he always did before letting me go. As soon as he looked up at me he tugged on one of my pigtail braids and said, “I love it when you wear your hair like this. It makes me feel like you’re still my little girl who isn’t growing up too fast.” That simple statement made my day! I walked through the gates of the school grinning from ear to ear and joined my friends. The first thing one of the boys said to me was “Why do you wear your hair like that?? It looks so stupid. You look like a little farm girl.” I couldn’t have cared less. What that silly boy thought about me paled in comparison to the glowing approval I’d just received from my Father. And those boys knew it. As a result they were terrified of my "precious Poppie”, who despite his 6'4" frame, is a big teddy bear. They knew he had my heart. He spoke words of encouragement and affirmation and without even knowing it my Father protected me from seeking the attention of other boys. He spared me so much heartache and insecurity through his uplifting words.

I look back and I know that because I was secure in my fathers’ love and affection, I didn’t need the affection of any other boy. I didn’t go seeking the attention that so many girls do – and they come back with broken hearts that they're too ashamed of to turn to their Fathers. Please - take every opportunity to share with your daughters how beautiful each of them are. Be sparing and thoughtful with criticism. I know for some of you this may not be easy. The Word of God says that “Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.” It is vital that your daughters hear your heart for them. It can, and it will make a lasting impact on how they view themselves for the rest of their lives. Because if you don’t say the things she needs to hear from a man, then she will find someone else who will...

Allow me to note that your little girl will never grow tired of hearing your heart. Just last week I got a voicemail from my Poppie. He was just calling to tell me – with tears choking his voice – how much he cherishes me and how proud he is of the godly woman I have become. He left a similar message on Jordans phone. I have no idea what prompted this, but it made me feel incredibly cherished. As a single young lady without a date in sight, I still need to hear those words from my Father.

I want to take this opportunity to say Thank You to my Poppie. Thank you, for your fervent prayers, and your constant encouragement that has helped me become a woman who is growing in character. I love you.

My Righteousness

Writing my previous blog post was all the motivation I needed to get into my heart and start digging things out. I didn’t do it through writing though. No. It was much uglier than that. I had to voice my heart, out loud, with the music turned up so I couldn’t even hear myself. Someone once told me “It’s out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks not the pen writes.” That statement is so true. In writing there’s much more opportunity for censorship. When I begin to speak to God straight from my heart, the things I say don’t pass through my mind before they come out of my mouth. I don’t worry about sounding eloquent. He already knows the thoughts and motives of my heart. It just flows.

God prompted me to get alone Friday afternoon. I drove way out into back country roads, pouring out my heart to Him all the way. The patience of Jesus is amazing. It was as though He stood there, holding up a mirror for me. At first, I refused to look. I didn’t want to see myself. But He persisted, prompting me to dig deeper, going far beyond the surface and getting to the root. It wasn’t pretty. The more I talked the more I saw myself. I’d become what I despise, despite all my best efforts. I was reminded that all of my righteousness is as filthy rags.

I am in awe that Jesus is so tender in humbling me. He showed me that I am nothing, but there is no bitterness in that realization. In my weakness I am forced to wait on Him. I went to this place I have in the middle of nowhere that I can just pull my car over and get out and walk around. God is so faithful to speak to me in that place. Not really because of the setting, but more because I’ve usually reached a point of desperation by the time I get there. I was spent. And I wanted to hear from Him.

He spoke. Almost as soon as I stilled my heart before Him, God reminded me of the promise that He has given me. That promise is unwavering. I know He will be faithful to fulfill it. And my faith will be accounted to me as righteousness. He gave me a mission – something to work towards, to bring honor to His name. When I got up to leave, the sun was setting. There was one place where a stream of light came through the trees. I stood there for a moment and I heard the Lord say, “I will make my face to shine upon you. You belong to me.” Nothing can compare to time spent with my Father. He is so faithful. He is so patient. And I will walk in His light all of my days.

Moving.

Recently I helped someone move. I thought that I would only have to show up and help move boxes that were already packed. The reality was entirely different. We arrived to find piles of household items around the perimeter of every room amidst the furniture. Only a handful of boxes were packed. Not to mention the closets and bathrooms were completely untouched. It was overwhelming, and it needed to be moved within a few hours.

Then I ventured upstairs to the Master Bedroom. Here, the closet was overflowing into the middle of the room where the bed was before. Piles of blankets, clothes, school supplies, books, cassette tapes, decorations – 4 feet high and 3-6 feet wide were stacked around the perimeter of the room in a pitifully failed attempt to organize before the move. I was armed with bags and boxes, but I didn’t know where to begin. For a few minutes I just sort of stood in the center of the room, dumbfounded, picking things up and aimlessly sorting through them. I was on sensory overload.

However, I was rescued. A girl friend was there to help, while the guys were ready to haul boxes and bags to the waiting trailer. She entered the room, grabbed a bag and started emptying the closet into it, with no rhyme or reason. No matter what – it was getting out of the room. I watched her for a moment before I opened a bag and started stuffing bedding into it until it was full. That was all it took for me to gain the motivation and momentum I needed. As long as she was moving, so was I. There was no time to stand there gaping at all of the stuff we were packing up. I had a singular thought - Move. Open another box, stuff another bag, just get it out of there. We talked, laughed, and she even sang as we worked. A constant stream of men were tromping up the stairs with empty arms, ready to haul each bag or box we crammed full. Steadily, the room began to empty out. We were finished in under an hour, and had fun doing it.

We moved on to tackle the closets, bathrooms, and kitchen. I had a rhythm now and was fine working alone. With all the help, the apartment was emptied in about 3 hours. It was a sizable accomplishment that left me feeling satisfied over the work.

It occurred to me that I’m approaching my mind and heart the same way I did that bedroom. It’s been so long since I’ve gone in and unpacked the things crammed in there. Writing typically gives me the outlet I need to go in, sort through things, make sense of them and come out with a clean slate. Whether it’s through an email, blog post, or in my journal. As long as I did it regularly it wouldn’t become overwhelming. But lately, I’m overwhelmed. It’s been a few months since I’ve written much of anything. I think I’m a little afraid of what might come out of me, because I know that once I’ve written something down, it suddenly becomes much easier to say. With words. And who knows what could come out of my mouth, what sort of things I could find myself admitting.

God has blessed me with some amazing friends. Sisters that are willing to dive into the chaos with me, help me dig around, and start to find some order in all of this. One friend recently challenged me to get to the bottom of things and clean everything out. I needed the motivation that came from seeing her perspective. And so I’m going in armed to clean everything out, to empty this chamber of my heart that I’ve left too long untouched. I’m ready to break up – forever – this pattern of walking in, looking around, feeling overwhelmed, and walking out, trying to forget it’s there. This passage from today’s My Utmost for His Highest spoke so clearly to me:

“How often have you come to God with your requests and gone away with the feeling – ‘Oh well, I’ve done it this time!’ And yet you go away with nothing, whilst all the time God has stood with outstretched hands not only to take you, but for you to take Him. Think of the invincible, unconquerable, unwearying patience of Jesus, saying, ‘Come unto Me.’ “

I’m not through yet. I’ve hardly started. But it’s going to get done, even if I have to throw everything out at once. I am so grateful that my God is so patient with me.