How to Receive Comfort - Part 2

The barriers we put up to "protect" our heart are there for reasons that make sense at the beginning.  Over time the need for the barriers usually diminishes, but by then we have learned patterns of behavior that are hard to overcome without help.   

I unconsciously learned at a very young age that being my own source of comfort was the only consistent way to get my needs met.  My dad was never a source of comfort, and my mom was an unreliable source of comfort.  I stopped depending on them to meet my needs and learned instead "to be strong for others” (a euphemism for bypassing grief). 

I was unaware that this is what I was doing and it took me decades to figure it out. I started hoarding stuff and sneaking food at a very young age to cope with my emotions.

Recently I walked into my Freedom Ministry Training class at church and opened up my workbook as directed by the instructor.  My eyes were immediately drawn to this image: 

Decades of unawareness fell like scales from my eyes and suddenly so many things made sense.  The training manual reads, “…our family of origin plays a significant role in shaping how we relate to God, the Father; God, the Son, and God, the Holy Spirit.”  It went on to say, “Experiences with our mother can produce limitations in the way we relate to the Holy Spirit.”  

Being left in the care of others at age 7, and then being left in the care of strangers in Mexico at age 9, and ultimately running away from home at age 13 were the life-shaping experiences that I had with my mother.  

I wasn’t sure how to process all this, so on my next visit with my counselor I “outed” myself and showed her the textbook, and told her I was at a loss.  We talked about how my relationship with my mother had stopped being about receiving comfort from her at a very early age. She gave me the following homework assignment that day: 

Find some time when the house is quiet.

Get comfortable.

Close your eyes and ask God what it would be like to receive comfort from the Holy Spirit.

Wait quietly for the answer. 

It felt awkward to me to think about doing this and I was very resistant to the idea.  My burning desire for wholeness and healing is what motivated me to do what she said. 

The next day I found myself in a quiet house.  I remembered my assignment and went and lay down on my bed and I could hear my counselors voice in my head telling me to “Get comfortable”.  (At this point I’m still feeling awkward and resistant to this whole exercise and I’m thinking, “Fine.  Whatever.  I’ll get comfortable”, and start arranging the pillows under my head.  “Okay.  I’m comfortable. Now what?”) 

The next voice I hear is no longer my counselors.  It’s the voice I have come to recognize as God’s when He is speaking to me in my spirit.  He said the same thing my counselor said to me, only the meaning behind the words went much deeper:  “Get comfort-able.” 

I knew immediately that He meant for me to let down the protective barrier I had around my heart and invite Him into the wounded place I had kept covered and protected all these years.  This idea caused me to begin to experience anxiety, so I had to back up a little and pray (out loud) a familiar prayer I had been praying since November that helped me overcome anxiety:

“Fear, you have no place here and no authority to stay, so I command you to go to the foot of the Cross, or wherever Jesus tells you.  Holy Spirit, come and fill up all the places in my heart that are wounded and need comfort.”

Only this time, the second half of my prayer was from a place deep in my heart that I had never prayed from before.  It was like my grown, adult self was standing next to that little seven year old girl inside me and asking for the comfort I needed from my mom on that day but couldn’t get.

Praying, and really meaning, the second part of that prayer was like the dam broke and the flood of tears that followed was overwhelming. As I lay there sobbing with my chest ripped wide open and my broken heart exposed, my mind began a conversation with God that went something like this:

“Okay, here I am, with my broken heart as exposed as it can be.  I need to know this is real.  I need to know how this “Holy-Spirit-comforting-me-thing” works because I don’t understand it and experiencing this much pain all over again feels overwhelming.”

Then God speaks again and says to me, “As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you.” 

I realize then that the voice I had been hearing all these years was the Holy Spirit’s voice, that the Holy Spirit had been with me, near me, present in my life, all along.

The Holy Spirit then begins to play some images in my mind of specific times when I have comforted my own children and how it was that just my presence, my words of comfort, and my arms wrapped around them, brought comfort to them.  I remembered when we were little when we were sick we got to sleep with mom, and how comforting it was just to be next to her.  I remembered when my son Jacob was just five months old and had surgery and I stayed in the hospital with him the entire time, never leaving him without the source of comfort he had learned to depend on.

I was able to make a huge leap of faith that day and experienced the very real, comforting presence of the Holy Spirit, who had been waiting patiently for me to work out all my “Father” issues so that he could step in, introduce himself, and teach me how to receive comfort from Him.  There's a reason why He is referred to in the Bible as "The Comforter”.

There are some of the steps I took in order to be able to receive comfort from the Holy Spirit:

1.  Acknowledge that you are "un-comfort-able"

2.  Acknowledge that you are in pain

3.  Acknowledge your need for comfort

4.  Stop being your own source of comfort

5.  Get (or Be) "comfort-able"

6.  Remove the barriers and expose the wounded places in your heart and experience the comforting presence of the Holy Spirit

Steps 1 through 3 took months of counseling during the previous year for me to figure out and acknowledge what the problem was.

Step 4 through 6 will be an ongoing process for me.

How to Receive Comfort - Part 1

There I was, eleven years old, out in the garage hiding.  I waited until I knew I would not be discovered and went to the freezer that was kept out there and found what I was looking for.  The little chocolate donuts, six to a wrapper.  I found a package, opened it right there and gobbled down the frozen treats as fast as I could, hoping nobody would find me.

In an overcrowded house with a dozen or more children and half as many adults, it was difficult to find privacy for sneaking the sweet treats, but I managed to do so often.  When my favorites were finally all gone, I would then look for my next favorites:  the white powder donuts. 

I learned about “closet-eating” as a way of self-comforting or self-soothing very early in life.  It was a very poor substitute for what I really needed during that phase of my growth and development, which was to receive the comfort I needed from my mom and dad.

I didn’t know my dad growing up, and had been separated from my mother on so many occasions as a young child that I learned to not depend on her to meet my very real needs.  Sometimes she would be gone for a few days or a few weeks.  One time I was left in the care of others for more than a year without any hope of her return or knowledge of her whereabouts. 

The first time I remember it really affecting me was at age seven, standing on the driveway of the house we were living in, bawling my eyes out and begging for her not to go. 

“Stop crying.  Crying doesn’t do any good.” That’s the message I got from my mom.

I cried anyway that day, but not being able to depend on her constant presence to comfort me caused me to start looking for other ways to find the comfort my heart desperately needed.

That pattern of being my own source for the comfort continued for decades.  It resulted in a weight problem and hoarding tendencies that began at an early age, and of course, continued for decades and eventually became an issue with obesity and a tendency to hold onto my “stuff” longer than what was healthy.  No other outcome was possible when food and stuff became the substitute for the real comfort I needed. 

My attempts at weight loss and decluttering were usually successful at the beginning, but every attempt ended with me eventually regaining the weight I had lost, plus more; or re-accumulating more stuff than I had gotten rid of in my last attempt at decluttering.  Lots more weight. Lots more stuff. 

The roller-coaster ride with my weight leveled out some after I attended a class called “Levels of Change” taught by Bob Hamp.  That was followed by a class called “The Problem Jesus Came to Solve” and several others, which are available to everyone, for free: 

Link:  http://gatewaypeople.com/ministries/freedom-kairos/media1

My problem, even after attending these classes, was that I did not recognize that I was my own source for comfort.  

After that first Freedom Ministry class in 2005, I made a commitment to myself that I would not try any more “diets” (I would consciously choose to make healthier choices at times, but I don't consider that to be a "diet") until I could solidly connect with my real identity and know “Who I am in Christ” with absolute assurance. I left class that day with a bookmark that read, "Who I am in Christ" and the following list of reminders with scripture references.

I am accepted.

I am secure. 

I am significant. 

This led me on a journey to the Heart of My Heavenly Father.  A journey that took almost a decade.  It makes sense considering I had no real relationship with my earthly father to help me navigate this journey.

To be continued....Part 2....here's a taste of what's to come:

Once safely connected to the Heart of my Father, I was easily able to make the next leap of faith and that was to a connection with the Holy Spirit, who had been waiting patiently for me to work out all my “Father” issues so that he could step in and help me learn to receive comfort, the real deal, from Him.  There's a reason why He is referred to as "The Comforter"!  

I was so used to “being strong” (a euphemism for bypassing grief) and carrying the very heavy load of grief inside of me, that I didn’t even realize that’s what I was doing.  It took me several more years to figure this out. I had no idea that when I signed up to take the Freedom Ministry Training class (so that I could help others) it would result in my healing and learning not just “how to” allow the Holy Spirit to comfort me (more knowledge), but to actually "do it" (experiential), "it" being allowing the Holy Spirit to comfort me...

Why I hope the Broncos win today. It's not what you think.

I was nine years old when we lived in Denver.

The reason I know this is because it was the year that the Dallas Cowboys played the Denver Broncos in Super Bowl XII.  I also know this because I would turn 10 years old later that year while living in Mexico.

There was a fever pitch in Denver leading up to that game.  My sister, Kathleen, was a HUGE Broncos fan and I adored her, and therefore I liked these Broncos, whoever they were.  I remember in school helping decorate a very long banner that we were told would be put up in the hallway of the stadium where the Super Bowl would be played.  The Broncos would run past it on their way out to the field.  This banner was hanging in the cafeteria and we were sent in, class by class, to help decorate it.   

I barely had any idea what football was all about, but I wanted in on the excitement of cheering on the Broncos that my sister loved.  I didn't know what to write at first, but as I got closer and read the banner, and watched the other kids, several recurring themes emerged so I grabbed a brightly colored orange Crayola Crayon and joined in with the others.
 
"Orange Crush" was one of the predominant themes, of course. 



What I really wanted that day was to be a part of something bigger than me, and to feel included.  On this day, I was like a chameleon, and turned myself a bright orange color to fit in with the crowd and feel like I was part of the excitement.  I also craved Kathleen's approval.

I couldn’t have been any more ignorant of what a Super Bowl, or even football, was all about.  What I did know is that feeling included felt better than feeling like an outsider.  I had been an outsider my whole life.  We were not allowed to make friends outside of the cult we were born and raised in.  There was even one December that we were sent to the library to sit out of the Christmas party, because "...our family doesn't celebrate pagan holidays”. 

For the first time that I can recall, I realized that there was another world outside of the very small world that I was living in and I wanted to be a part of it.   I found something outside of my small world that I could safely and inconspicuously include myself in, and oh, how good it felt to expand my horizons!

So today, I'll be cheering for the Broncos, win or lose.  Not because I'm a Broncos fan, but because all those years ago there was a little girl that had her eyes opened so she could see more than she had ever seen before.  That little girl dared to write on a banner, dared to include herself in something bigger than herself.  Only a few short years later, that same girl, a teenager now, would need more of the same daring spirit, but that is a story for another time.  

It's now decades later and my daring spirit is emerging once again.  I've been speaking and telling my story for years, and now it's time to write it.  The writing process has already demanded more courage than I thought I had in me.  That small seed planted long ago in a cafeteria, a little girl making her mark on a banner with a bright orange crayon has blossomed into a woman with a keyboard, writing a manuscript for a book that will be published later this year, if I understand this process correctly.

This writing of my story is my own personal Super Bowl, and the stakes could not be higher.

I have an adversary and to him this is no game.  My adversary would swallow me alive if he could.

I also have Someone who is for me.   I know that His Angel-Armies go before me and that they are my rear guard.  I also know Who is walking beside me on this journey.

I also have many, many someone's standing and cheering wildly from the stands and my gratitude knows no bounds.        

What do you call God?

It was difficult for me to call God "Father" for the longest time. It took me years to get there.  Decades, even. I distinctly remember the first time I heard someone do that as they prayed out loud. They said, "Father, ..." and then started saying the rest of their prayer.  I was about 14 years old. It felt very presumptuous to me, not to mention awkward. 

The more formal "Father in Heaven" or "Heavenly Father" was easier. Safer.  It's all I ever heard growing up.  "Father Far Away" is what it really meant in my head and heart, which makes sense considering that my own father was "nearby" only three times in my life, that I'm aware of.

For me, what I call God when I pray, and what I call him when talking about him to others has been like an orphaned child that has learned to speak their native language and then being adopted by a family from a foreign country.  That child has to learn a whole new language while navigating the familial relationships with everyone around them. 

When you grow up fatherless words like Dad, Daddy, or my favorite, Papa, don't roll off the tongue very easily at all. It actually feels quite awkward saying the words, forming them with your mouth and giving voice to them. Again, like trying to learn a foreign language.

When I think about all the terms of endearment my children use when talking to me, or referring to me, it warms my heart that Mom, Mommy, and my favorite, Mama, come easy for them. 
It's been a long journey for me, but I imagine that it warms God's heart that I've navigated my way to feeling more familial in my relationship with Him.  He has been endlessly patient with me in this process.

I'm a ways off from feeling comfortable calling God "Daddy". That would be way too awkward and just plain weird. I've begun warming up to saying Abba when I pray alone, which is a Hebrew term of endearment like Papa.  However, when I write in my prayer journal, it's recently become "Abba Daddy".  I can see where this is heading and not only does it feel safe, I'm beginning to speak this language fluently, like I've known it all along.  

What I know now, deep down in my knower, is that no matter how long it has taken me to get here, I've been The Apple of His Eye since I took my first tottering steps towards Him.

Anxiety and Hoarding

October 24, 2013.  The alarm bells went off in my head again today.  When that happens it gets very loud and the flashing emergency lights make it hard to see or think clearly.

This time it was about an old, beat up trash can.

I’ve had this trash can for about 17 years and it has served me well. There are now holes in the bottom of it from being dragged across the concrete driveway from the garage to the curb and back. One wheel has fallen off and the other one is all cock-eyed, as you can see in this picture. 

I have come to understand through a professional, holistic counselor that when the alarm bells, as I’ve come to call them, go off in my head and there is no clear and present danger that is what I'm now going to start calling a false alarm.

And just like when a false alarm sounds in a public building, even though everyone knows it’s a false alarm, whether intentionally set off for training, a practical joke, or a malfunction, you must go through the safety procedures as a precaution. 

The alarms in my head are malfunctioning ones.  At one point in my life they may have served a legitimate purpose.  However, these days there is no good reason for them.  There is no clear and present danger about the things these alarm bells are warning me about.

Like I said, today it was about an old beat up trash can.  I have known for a long time (years) that it had exceeded its usefulness when foul-smelling, mysterious liquids began seeping from the bottom and smelling up my garage and causing extra clean up work. 

This past summer during my gardening frenzy, I bought two new trash cans for hauling wood chips, intending to replace the two old trash cans when I had gathered enough wood chips.   (Can you ever have enough wood chips, Kata?)

You might already see where I'm going with this.  It’s nearly wintertime, and the two old trash cans are still in my garage, alongside the two new ones. 

Today it fell on me to take the trash to the curb and I decided once and for all, that at the very least the trash can with the holes in the bottom and a missing wheel was going to become trash, instead of just containing it, however badly it did the job.  (Notice that I didn’t decide to rid my garage of both old trash cans, just the worst one.)

That’s when the alarm bells sounded.  That’s when the alarm bells always sound:  when I decide.   As long as I’m procrastinating on the decision and “still thinking about it”, all is well.  When I decide, well, that’s when things go a little sideways and all hell breaks loose (speaking literally, not figuratively).    

              My heart starts to pound.

My pulse races.

My base of my neck tightens.

My palms get sweaty.

My breathing becomes shallower.

My stomach clamps down.

My legs get wobbly and I start to feel light-headed as adrenaline courses through my veins.

All that happens within moments after I decide to get rid of something I no longer need.

The anxiety is real.   It is palpable.  It is very present.  It is powerful.  It is also not going to go away unless I change my mind and talk myself out of getting rid of…whatever it was…the thing that needs to go is no longer even important because the anxiety has taken over, taken control.  The endless “what if's” and all the potentially devasting crises that could happen in the future have started enumerating themselves in my head. 

The people who know me well and have walked beside me on this journey, already know this about me.  Now everyone else does too and I’m okay with that.  I know I’m not the only one who deals with this.

Anxiety has controlled the decisions I make, and have made, with few exceptions, for most of my life.

It started at the tender age of seven, when my mom left me in Dallas with a family so she could go work in Denver.  I began “collecting” (we now call it hoarding) pencils; lining them up in my locker at school from the newest, prettiest pencils with big erasers on the left side of the locker and moving to the right as they got older, more used, and chewed up; the smallest ones with no eraser left on the right. 
I had a system worked out in my head about those pencils, too.  I used them up, not like a normal kid would, best to worst, but the other way around.  My small fingers would cramp up as I tried to write with the too-small pencils, ones that would often get stuck in the pencil sharpener.  Finding lost and discarded pencils brought me a measure of joy and comfort as I would add them to the growing collection in my locker.  It also helped me cope with the separation from my mom.

The day she left I was standing in the driveway sobbing my eyes out and begging for her not to go and, because she didn’t know any better (and had no real choice in the matter), her parting words to me were, “Anna Keturah, stop crying!  Crying doesn’t do any good.”  So I hoarded pencils instead.  That was my first attempt to control something, anything, in a life where I had little control, even less security, and I didn’t feel “safe”.  I didn’t know about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.  What I did know, deep down in my knower, was that adding another pencil to the row of pencils in my locker made me feel better.  It was a small comfort in a seemingly comfortless world. 

Because I lived a life characterized by fear, chaos, and insecurity, it’s no wonder that I developed habits and patterns of thinking that cut deep channels in my mind and heart, like too many tires over the soft earth after a severe thunderstorm.   

“Save the best for last and don’t discard anything that might be useful someday” and
“You never know what will happen and what you might need in the future” became a way of life for me.  Those kinds of ideas controlled most of my decisions.  When you’ve spent your entire life living through one crisis after another that kind of thinking makes really good sense!  To this day I have backwards thinking about my stuff.  My closest confidants could tell you many unflattering stories on me about this. 

When the alarm bells sounded in my head that day, I finally recognized them for what they had become:  a too-tired, overused, and malfunctioning warning system that had long since stopped being about protecting my mind and heart and helping me self-comfort. 

On that October day, I purposely started taking in deep, heart-slowing breaths of the cool, fall air.  That helped slow down the scrambling thoughts telling me that another crisis was surely on the horizon and I’d better be prepared for it this time (how much can an old, beat up old trash can really do for me in a crisis!?).  The scrambling thoughts were slowed just enough that I was able to see that I was no longer the little girl that collects pencils to feel better.  Little Anna Keturah is still alive and kicking inside me. That wounded part of my soul is still in need of more healing, which will come in time.  

Because the alarm was sounding, I went through the safety procedures as a precaution.  Instead of enumerating all the potentially devastating crises ahead, the "safety procedures" will now involve opening my eyes to my present surroundings, thinking about how far I've come, and enumerating the truth instead: 

Today there is no crisis. 
Today I have enough of everything I need. 
Today my life is good. 
Today I am loved, secure, and significant in His Kingdom. 
Today my Abba Daddy has my back, just like He did when He stood beside me at the locker tenderly watching as I lined up my pencils. 

I quickly went inside and scrawled a note on lined paper with a Sharpie,

“PLEASE TAKE THIS TRASH CAN. IT IS ALSO TRASH.”

I found some tape and ran back outside, hurriedly taping it to the old, beat up trash can before I could change my mind.

Anxiety and Overeating

It's official. My eyes are bigger than my stomach....Almost.Every.Time.

Just yesterday, even though I served myself less food than I thought I would need (meaning less food than I wanted), I still served myself more food than my body needed for breakfast. There I am spooning food into my mouth, and I get a gentle message from my belly telling me there is just enough food in there.

That's when the mind games (anxiety) begin inside my head:

"BUT THERE'S STILL FOOD ON YOUR PLATE!"

"THROWING IT AWAY WILL BE WASTEFUL!"

...and the big one that gets me every time...

"WHAT IF THERE'S NOT ENOUGH FOOD LATER!"

"LATER" can mean an hour later, or around lunchtime, dinnertime, next week, next month, next year, or even in my retirement years! The fear that there won't be enough food "later" drives a lot of the poor eating habits that keep me overweight. It also drives my tendency to keep more stuff than I need, but that's a whole 'nuther blog.

At this point, what I normally do is lie to myself (again), and believe the lie, (again) and say that I'll serve myself less food "next time". ("Next time" is the distant cousin of "I'll start tomorrow.").

Today was different though.

Today I ignored the anxiety emanating from somewhere deep in my bones and I called called a spade a spade.  I called the lie out for what it is: a boldfaced lie.

There is no "next time", as I've learned over the years. So I tried something I call "This time".

"This time" I spoke the truth to my heart:
There is enough.
You’ve always had enough (sometimes just enough to keep body and soul together, but enough).
You always will have enough.
Even if the worst case scenario unfolded today (The Apocolypse! The Destructions! Wait!  I don't have my Year's Supply!) and you didn’t have enough and it killed you, then you’d be in the presence of God.  So it’s all good.  Paul says, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”  I like it in Spanish better: “Porque Cristo es la razón de mi vida, y la muerte, por tanto, me resulta una ganancia.” 

Then I stood up, walked over to the trash can and WASTED (gasp! horrors!) all that perfectly good, not to mention healthy for me, food.

My belly thanked me for not overstuffing it.....and all the hosts of heaven applauded. Thunderously.

The reason they applauded is because, for me, this is more of a spiritual battle than a physical one. For me, this is spiritual warfare. All the hosts of heaven and all the hosts of hell know it is a lie and they wait with bated breath each day to see if on this day, "this time", I'm going to see the lie clearly for what it is and act/behave/choose accordingly (meaning, speak the truth).

Let's back up a little...

"Who (or what) is your source?" is a question that has been asked of me in the past few years by different people and in different settings. The "Christian" response is, of course, God.

The question for me has become even more specific: "Who (or what) is your source...of comfort?"

Repeatedly, ad nauseum, since I was a little girl, and there really was only enough food to keep body and soul together, the answer has been “food".  And keeping stuff I don't need, but again that's a whole 'nuther blog.

There's a reason it's called "comfort food". When you take away my source of comfort, or if I even think about not having enough food, or not being able to get to food, anxiety and panic are the result. It's like alarms bells go off and lights start flashing in my head alerting me to a very real and very present danger.  Only for me, there is currently no real and present danger.  Anxiety is a learned response that helped me cope with some very difficult circumstances growing up, but it is now not helping me at all.  It’s working against me. 

When the anxiety and panic rises up within me, I want food (comfort).

When I'm tired, I want food (comfort).

When I'm lonely, I want food (comfort).

When I'm stressed out, I want food (comfort).  The two 42oz, party-size bags of peanut M&M's I consumed recently during my 11 days in North Carolina working 12-14 hour days is evidence of this. That's an average of less than 8oz per day. Trust me; I did the math after-the-fact to help me justify my nonsense behavior.

You see the pattern there?

It's a lie that food "comforts" me. I find that out, every time after overeating and am feeling "uncomfortable". The thing (food) that I'm wanting to bring me comfort actually causes discomfort.  Talk about messed up, backwards, and unhelpful thinking.

It's a lie that food will comfort my heart. Right now, after this one victory, I can acknowledge the lie that it is. I don't know what will happen next time, but this time, I clearly see the lie and can act/behave/choose accordingly (i.e. speak the truth).  

I have come to the conclusion that there is a huge, gaping disconnect between what I say I believe….("My God will supply all I need...blah, blah, blah" ...at least that's how it sounds in my head when I'm in the middle of a battle....and I'm finishing off the half gallon of ice cream in the freezer, secretly, one respectable bowl at a time....though I confess there have been times when I skipped the bowl altogether and it was just me, a spoon, and a half-gallon of Blue Bell)…and how I act/behave/choose.

(Clearly I need an editor. That last paragraph alone is one long, run-on sentence, among other difficulties, but since this is how I talk, I have no idea how to fix it.)

Here's the truth: I have an enemy. An adversary. One who is against me.

Peter calls him a lion, "Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour." John calls him a thief, "The thief comes only to steal, kill and destroy.

Lions don't go after the healthy sheep in the middle of the flock. They go after the ones that are sick, the weak, the hurting, the stragglers, and the isolated.  And little girls that that didn't get enough food, comfort, security, or love when they were little.  The lion’s appetite is for my total destruction.  He doesn't just want a snack, as Jimmy Evans says in his teaching "Living Among Lions" (here is a link to it:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlSiUt60QZ4).

Here's the truth: I have a Helper. A Friend. One who is for me.

John records Jesus saying to the disciples, “I no longer call you servants...instead, I have called you friends.”  Then later, He tells them, “But the Helper, the Holy Spirit [also known as the Comforter, ironically enough], whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.”

2 Chronicles says, “For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose heart is loyal to Him.”

The battle for my heart is very real! It's hard to see it when I'm only looking with my natural eyes. However, when my spiritual eyes are open, it's easy to see that there is a real war going on.

Elisha prayed, "Open his eyes, LORD, so that he may see." Then the LORD opened his eyes, and he looked and saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.

My first instinct is to want to figure out the mechanics of how to fight this battle!...and win it every time!...and finally be free of the anxiety and panic that overwhelms my head and heart!…and yes, finally and forever be thin again!  I feel the anxiety creeping in just writing all that.  ***big sigh*** (I’d at least like to make it back to Onederland.  Is that too much to ask?)

But I’m not going to go with my instincts this tim by telling myself that I'll figure this out and finally win forever the battle of the bulge.  Can you see how my thinking shifted from speaking the truth to myself, to telling myself lies again?  ("I'll figure this out!  I'll beat this thing!") The lies have failed me too many times, and this time, I’m not going to fall into that trap again.   

What I’m going to say is what I have been learning, ever so slowly:

Freedom isn’t the absence of something, but the presence of Someone. 

Thank you, Bob Hamp, for that nugget of truth that has been shaping and forming me into the person that I was created and redeemed to be. 

“Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” 

Yesterday morning, when I saw with my spiritual eyes the battle that was taking place, and I grabbed a hold of the truth and spoke it, and held onto it, I allowed the presence of The One Who is Truth and Life to enter into that moment and have dominion by speaking the truth to my heart, there was freedom.  Right there in my dining room.   

    

More healing for my once-fatherless heart happened in the car on my way home today. 

 Bob Hamp writes in Think Differently, Live Differently, "...the story is about the Fathering heart of God restoring the hearts of His sons and daughters. ... Without doing a thing, becoming who you are can change those around you and will ultimately be a part of God making all things new."

I heard Nelson Hawk's song Words on the radio today and his song became the prayer of my heart and my anthem as I've recently become more brave about telling more of my subplot in God's story. 

I turned it up loud and sang along:
             
Let my words be life
Let my words be truth
I don't want to say a word, unless it points the world
Back to You

As the song played, I was declaring (very loudly) that in the telling of my subplot in God's story I wanted to always point people back to Him. 

So all these thoughts about my future were swirling around in my head when the next song came on.  I've heard it a thousand times, but it's never gotten through to me like it did today. 

Matthew West's  Hello, My Name Is undid me and the tears came and one hand is raised.....and the tears spilling over made it hard to drive.  That's when you know you need to pull over and get your worship on.

Hello, my name is child of the one true King
I’ve been saved, I’ve been changed, I have been set free
"Amazing Grace" is the song I sing
Hello, my name is child of the one true King
I am no longer defined
By all the wreckage behind
The one who makes all things new
Has proven it’s true
Just take a look at my life

It's true.  Even though my past has cast a long, dark shadow over my life I am not defined it.   

Why does it always take my heart by surprise when My Heavenly Father finds me in the big middle of my messy life and whispers to me that I Am His Child?  It's enough to make me stop what I'm doing, get my worship on, and exchange my tears for more healing for the still-broken places in my heart. 

"THAT NUMBER" Does Not Define Me

My weight does not define me. 
My weight does not even begin to describe me.
It's a number.  That is all.

#251.


There it is. 

That number is not what I weigh today, and I hope to never see that number on the scale again.

In the meantime, while I continue the journey of making peace with my flesh and bones, I can tell you that there are times when I have allowed that number to silence me and keep me from doing things that make this world a better place.  There have also been times when "being who I was created and redeemed to be" (as Bob Hamp defines the word freedom) has leaked out through the barriers that I have put up to help me feel safe. 

For far too long and far too often I have allowed that number to define me and shape my identity.  As I continue the journey of healing, that number will continue to change.  Not because I obsess over it, but because of Who I am allowing to change me.  Because of Who does define me and Who does give me my identity, which I have struggled with all my life. 

It's taken me a long time to come to the place where I believe that I am worthy of His love and care, not because of what I've done (or not done) but because of what He did.  Because I am His child.
Because each of the children that I birthed into this world was worthy of my love and care before they could speak or do anything of significance.  The moment I held them in my arms for the first time they were already loved, secure, accepted, and significant in my life. 

Matthew 7:11 says, "If you being [human*] know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask Him?"

[*human:  I'm using the Greek definition of the word evil, meaning "in a physical sense: diseased or blind"] 

Being human in this sense means that I can sometimes be described using any number of adjectives:

weak, hurt, injured, lame, ailing, battered, wounded, debilitated, crippled, maimed, traumatized,
messed up, broken, flawed, imperfect, defective, faulty, blemished, damaged, botched, cracked, leaky, marred, confused, unfit, dysfunctional, frail, crazy, deranged, unhinged, unstitched, unglued, unsteady, impaired, abnormal, unfinished, incomplete, twisted, warped, contorted, mangled
soiled, sketchy, adulterated, deficient, lacking, insufficient, deprived, inadequate, unsuitable, not enough. 

Contrast those adjectives with just a few that describe my Heavenly Father: 

good, whole, perfect, excellent, safe, strong, healthy, sufficient, enough.

Now read that verse again....."If you being [human] know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask Him?". 

That number will change because there is One who describes me with words like:  accepted, secure, and significant in His Kingdom.  When He looks at me, He sees me and calls me "beautiful" and "beloved", and tells me that He is well-pleased with me.  He was well-pleased with me the moment I was born (again) into His Kingdom and before I ever did one significant thing.  My messed-up childhood, and growing up without a father, left me with wounds that made it hard for me to believe what I heard when He spoke those words over me. My journey to really believing it is true has been a long one. 

There's a handful of people in my life that I'm hoping, if they read this and see that number they will be kind and compassionate, and will withhold judgement and not feel ashamed of me.  My own shame about that number and my personal struggle with my weight has kept me from sharing more of my story with those who need to hear it.  That number changes, daily sometimes, and it's a number that I have allowed to silence me for too long.

No more. 

I thought it was okay for others who struggled with their weight to say and do things that make this world a better place, while holding myself to a higher (impossible) standard.  A standard that goes something like this:  "When I can 'pull it all together' and maintain that pulled together state over a long enough period of time (in other words, for the entire rest of my life), then I will have proved my worthiness.  Then I can speak."


Because I believed I had to meet that higher (impossible) standard, I have, for the most part, kept silent.  I have sat on my hands when I wanted to write, and put my hand over my mouth when I wanted to speak. 

If I waited until I pulled it all together, and then held it all together, for the entire rest of my life, before I speak, well, you see the problem with that.  I won't ever speak.  No one will hear my story. 

Those who know me well would tell you that I have spoken and written, and they are right.  In spite of all my hangups, parts of my story have leaked out through the cracks!

If you only knew how long I resisted telling my story for the first time, and how hard I have worked to overcome all the obstacles that were in my way...

In her book, I Thought it was Just Me, Brene Brown writes, "Stories require [courageous] voices to speak them and [compassionate] ears to hear them".

This is only part of my story.  I hope your compassionate response after reading this is, "I hear you." 

I love to read, and don’t read fiction very often. So it’s normally non-fiction (the “self-help” kind) that I read, usually with a pen or highlighter in hand, and so I leave my mark on those books. The good ones also leave their mark on me.


“Think Differently Live Differently” by Bob Hamp is no exception. I began to read it with great enthusiasm and with an unconscious expectation that my life would be changed as a result of me “doing” the things it said and secretly, I longed to be forever free from the effects of compulsive overeating, namely being “fat”. In other words, I’d finally lose weight - for good this time.

This issue in my life (compulsive overeating) is what had been the catalyst of me asking Bob for counseling years ago, before the book was ever written. I had attended one of the Freedom classes called “Overcoming Life Patterns” and knew that I needed more help than what I had received in class. That began a series of life-giving encounters with God through Bob and with the people involved with Freedom Ministries at Gateway Church. So when I heard that he was writing a book, it was obviously something that I looked forward to with great anticipation. I promoted the book before it was even published.  And then after it was published, and before I had a chance to read it myself, I gave it away as gifts to people that I love and care about.

Then I started reading it for myself. I even volunteered to lead an online book study and began with great enthusiasm…until I got to chapter 8. On page 153, in big bold letters was the word “FOOD” and then a story is told about a woman who had some of the same issues I was facing. I highlighted a few things on that page, the last highlighted words being, “… (I held up my Bible), but there is real food in here.” Somehow, after reading and highlighting that sentence, I became too busy to continue this journey. I found reasons to avoid reading any further - all of them very “legitimate”.  As a married woman with eight kids and a full time job, who could blame me for not having time to read?

All that changed this morning when I found myself in a quiet house, and was encouraged by my husband to spend some of my quiet time with God. It had been months since I’d picked up the book. With the clarity that hindsight provides, I can see now that I was afraid of reading any further and being disappointed. I didn’t want to be given a list of things to do, and find myself, again, having failed to do what I needed to do to be forever free from compulsive overeating. Since I was about eleven or twelve, I have used food to comfort myself and to ease the feelings of anxiety that remain all too familiar to me to this day. I know in my head that I am trying to fill a hole in my heart left by the devastating effects of my childhood and even some of the events of my grown up years – a hole that no amount of food can possible fill.

As I read, and as I began talking to God using the suggested prayers, and I quieted myself and began listening to God talk to me, one of the core lies that I have believed was, again, revealed:

“There is never enough.”

This is the same lie that was exposed many, many moons ago in my personal counseling with Joy over a period of about five years. Her words to me at the time the lie was exposed were, “Look for God’s Abundance.” I have done so in many ways and had experienced a measure of relief from the effects of the lie. So today, again, I am faced with the lie as it is exposed, along and its destructive effects on my soul. As I allowed God to talk to me, and to speak His truths into my heart once again, I was reminded of what I had learned before: “There is always more than enough.” With Him as my Source, there is always more than enough. In His Storehouse, there is an abundance of everything I could ever possibly need or desire. It’s only when I try to provide for my own needs, and use my own limited and unreliable resources (food) as my source of comfort and as a means of easing the anxiety that grips my heart when I look into the future and imagine going without (whether later that day, or in the coming winter, or in retirement), that I get all tangled up in the web of lies. The truth is, that I had more than enough food yesterday, I have more than enough food today, and will continue to have more than enough food tomorrow, and next week, and this winter, and on into my retirement. When I really think about it, how else could I eat “too much” if there wasn’t more than enough all around me?

So I’ve learned that freedom is not the absence of compulsive overeating. Freedom isn’t losing the excess weight and keeping it off.  Freedom isn't finally being skinny again. 

As Bob says in the last paragraph of the last chapter, “Freedom is not about doing good things and avoiding bad things. Freedom is not a matter of removing every last obstacle. Freedom is when you live life as the person you were created and restored to be. It is the unashamed response to the flame that leaps in your heart when you are near your destiny and your Destiny draws near to you. Without doing a thing, becoming who you are can change those around you and will eventually be a part of God making all things new.”

Restoration and redemption have been recurring themes in my life. Most recently, as I had prayed for a “Boaz” [a husband] and then watched, amazed, as God brought Stephen into my life. Once again, He provided more than enough. It was a source of joy and deeply fathering to my heart when Bob was able to perform the ceremony on our wedding day.

Even as I have stumbled my way around these truths over the years, and learned things, only to have to learn them again, I have watched the lives of my friends and family, and even strangers, change and be changed as a result of me being who I was created and restored to be. There is so much more of “God making all things new” that is desperately needed in the lives of the people that I love and care about and carry a burden for. It’s a relief that I don’t need to do anything and that I only need to be the person that God created, redeemed and is in the process of restoring me to be.

Undone

Once again, I am undone by Him.


This morning I was feeling “resistant” in my relationship with God, and I acknowledged that in my devotional time. This had been something that was an ongoing thing, and there was a “spiritual dryness” that I’ve known well in the past and was facing once again.

I knew that part of it had to do with an area of my spiritual disciplines where I needed to walk the walk, and not just talk the talk.

So this afternoon I took a very small action step, and did the first of what will become more, and bigger, action steps in the future. There was a relief in my spirit as a certain heaviness lifted, and I knew I was on the right track.

So as I am driving home, I heard a [new-to-me] song by Paul Simon called “Father and Daughter”.  I've posted a link for those like me who've never heard it before. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aqR24ODVlcE

Here's the chorus: 
I'm gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow
Gonna paint a sign
So you'll always know
As long as one and one is two
There could never be a father
That loved his daughter more than I love you

It made me think about my four girls and both of their father’s love for them.

Then my Father interrupted my thoughts and said, “This is about how I feel about you, Anna, and it has nothing to do with what you do, or don’t do. My love for you is not dependent on your actions. You already know this.”

The dam broke and the tears spilled out in amazement, once again, at how much I am loved. I realized in that moment is that I still have mixed up theology about God’s unconditional love for me.

Silly me.

I Am Not Normal

I am not normal.

That's as good an introduction as you're gonna get, and the people who know and love me best will tell you it's the truth. There's hundreds of stories I could tell you, but I'll just start by telling you what happened this week instead.
(My girlfriends could tell you stories, too, but I hope they will keep their mouths shut, for the most part.)

"Normal" women like going to the mall to shop.

I get to the mall, and it sucks the life, and what little energy I might've had left, right out of me. My legs turn to mush, and walking becomes an act of my will.

I met a friend at the mall a few days ago. After five minutes, I surrendered to my abnormality, and begged to sit down. We went to grab a bite to eat, and then I took a nap on their shoulder, instead of going shopping.

Then yesterday I ended up at the mall again, somehow. Actually, I went because I love my daughter and she needed some "pre-wrap" from Claire's and had some money burning a hole in her pocket. (Don't worry, I didn't know what pre-wrap was either). By the time she was finished shopping and ready to go I was dragging myself out of there just wishing to be horizontal, or better yet, shot, and put out of my misery.