What is Healthy?

I believe that the greatest gift you can give your family and the world is a healthy you.
~ Joyce Meyer ~

I always get to where I’m going by walking away from where I’ve been.
~ Winnie the Pooh ~

It seems that my life journey is a constant peeling of layers of poor self-image and self-condemnation.  So, as I write yet another blog, or journal entry, or whatever this thing I keep doing has become, I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but living in China has deeply challenged my view of healthy. This has been a year of little to no weight loss, devastating and disappointing attempts at Whole30, yet areas of strength and growth physically, emotionally, and spiritually. 

Two and a half years ago, I began this journey of discovering new definitions and ways to be healthy.  For me, it started out of obedience to God and doing a Whole30 challenge as I felt his prompting for me to do.  It was wildly successful.  I had a strong support system, and a  lot of things shifted for me.  I lost about 20-25 pounds, and did remarkably well on Whole30.  I began to use that as a way to change my life.  I had ups and downs for sure, and I learned many lessons in that period of time.  A little over a year ago, I had been at my lowest weight in a long time.  It was a total weight loss of 55 pounds, but then transition happened. 

Transition made Whole30 and Paleo extremely difficult.  It took so much time and energy for me to maintain that lifestyle, so when our life went up in the air, we gravitated toward the things that were comfortable and easy. And then transition led to a stressful year of teaching, in which, once again, we gravitated toward what was comfortable and easy. Healthy is rarely comfortable and never easy. Not only that, but I tried really hard to lose weight the way I used to, and I couldn’t do it here.  Ingredient lists were in another language that was hard to translate.  Eating out was impossible for the same reasons, and I was just flat too tired to put in the effort, especially if Stephen and I can both go eat cheap Chinese food for about $5-6 (USD). 

And that essentially led me to this place of evaluating what healthy is. At my lowest, I was willfully eating junk food every day because it wasn’t worth the effort to fight it.  Sandwiches, chips, chocolate, and cheese, all my go-to binges.  Carbs, dairy, and sugar, repeat. That was right after I decided that without weight loss, it wasn’t worth it, and since I wasn’t really losing weight, I might as well give up.  Then I wrote this blog, essentially coming to the conclusion that trying and failing feels so much better than not trying. 

As I begin to still work out the details of what living healthy looks like for me, there are a few things I don’t want it to be, and there are a few things I want it to be.  First, here is what healthy is not going to be: 

  1. Healthy will not be counting calories, stressing over ingredients, and obsessing about every item that goes into my mouth.  If we are out eating pizza with friends, I’m going to eat pizza.  If we go to the movies, I’m going to eat popcorn.  Life is short, and food is delicious.  I want to enjoy both. 
  2. Healthy will not be weighing in and checking my “progress.” Healthy is not weight loss. When the clothes don’t fit, I’ll buy some new ones and measure progress by how many sizes I’ve lost. Weighing in just leads to obsession, guilt, and shame. Weight loss is just a byproduct, and I will not make it the supreme focus of my attention.  My mind and emotions will be the focus. My only reason for wanting to lose wight is because I do not want to be held back.  Whatever adventure, I don’t want to be told no because of my weight.
  3. Healthy is not skinny.  I will not chase a size.  weight-this-is-not-your-worthwill not chase a number.  I will chase becoming better than I was the day before.  I’m competing against myself because comparison to any other standard will only lead to defeat and frustration with the body God has given me. I can’t change me, but I can choose to make it healthier one choice at a time.

That said, here is what healthy is going to look like. 

  1. Healthy is working out because it makes me physically and mentally stronger. It pushes out the negative self-image and self-condemnation and forces me to push against what I think I can do.  And the biggest measure of progress for me is going to be how far I have to go in order to continue to push myself.  Right now it doesn’t take much, but as I grow and progress, I will have to push myself harder and stronger in order to taste the painful yet healing process of exceeding my perceived limits. Pushing your limits doesn’t feel good, until you have overcome that limit.  That is the victory I will fight for. 
  2. Healthy is making healthy choices as much as possible and “unhealthy” choices that make me happy with careful attention and moderation.  Cutting out all chocolate and sweets is not going to happen, but choosing when and how much is entirely in my control.  One cookie is ok, the whole batch is not. And if I already had a sweet, I don’t need another later that day. 
  3. Healthy is growth.  It is changing the little things now and moving forward.  In the wise words of Pooh, “I always get to where I’m going by walking away from where I’ve been.” (Christopher Robin, 2018) Moving, growing, trying, are the only ways forward into my healthy life. That can be mental, physical, or spiritual growth, but just as a healthy plant continues to grow, so a healthy a me must continue to grow wherever I am planted. 




Rising Up

Have you ever asked yourself a question that you didn’t like the answer to? Have you ever felt like giving up because of the answer you gave yourself? I am not talking about suicide giving up, but that bury yourself in a hole of self-loathing because you don’t like the answer you gave yourself?

I didn’t think so. I’m sure you live a perfect life free from all the lies and struggles that I battle. You probably won’t relate to my last few weeks at all. *insert tone of sarcasm with an eye roll*

They say it isn’t the falling down that matters; rather, it’s the getting up. But what if the falling down takes your breath away? What if the falling down brings you closer to the voice of lies and further from the voice of truth? What if falling down makes it just feel easier to stay down?

The truth is that no one said this would be easy.

Living in another culture is hard.

Figuring out a new normal is hard.

Dealing with stress is hard.

Missing home is hard.

Teaching is hard.

Choosing health is hard.

Somehow I found myself entertaining the lies that it was ever supposed to be easy. Leaving your home and all that is familiar when you are trying to get healthy doesn’t help your cause. It hurts it, royally jacks it up—caves it all in on itself like a sink hole between what is familiar and easy and what is reality, between who you are and you wish to be. But that means you also get to rediscover why you started.

Here is the vulnerable truth. I tried Whole30, and I failed it. It was too difficult and I gave up. And I don’t regret giving up; I only regret what followed. At first, I was still reserved and controlled, and then I flipped. All the things. I ate all the things. I felt miserable eating all the things, but I didn’t want to cook. I didn’t want to keep trying. I was fed up with eating healthy, so I convinced myself I didn’t care. I put the bare minimum into my work, and I tried to ignore the regret, guilt, and shame of walking away from what I knew was right.

I found myself hating my body for the first time in a long time. I found myself hating the way I was created and the slow metabolism I was given. I found myself hating how hard it is, especially when there are toothpicks around me that could eat a cow and not gain an ounce. I wanted to escape my body. I wanted to escape this challenge. I wanted to escape. But, the only way to escape is to leave, and that isn’t an option. I wouldn’t trade being here, so I have to figure out what the new normal is. I have to figure out what healthy is. I have to figure out what being a fighter who maintains the will to fight is. I have to stop backing away from the work.

To fight is physically exhausting and at times emotionally frustrating. To not fight is discouraging, frustrating, and heart wrenching. To not fight is to give up, and that is worse. It is so much worse. Maybe I will always be fat on the outside, but that isn’t my identity. Obesity is a reality, but I refuse to let it be an identity. Maybe it will take 10 years to finally “reach my goal,” whatever that elusive allusion of healthy is anymore, but I do feel better trying and not losing weight than I do not trying. And I guess that says something for itself.

I fell into a chasm. I had climbed hard and then lost grip. I no longer saw the path to healthy. It got tough, and I got reckless, and I fell down. I stopped listening. And rather than enjoying the beautiful world around me in a healthy way, I got trapped in this voice of rules and legalism that were not attainable. And I killed myself in pursuit of skinny, not true health.

So this is for the rising back up. This is for the ones who have felt struck down, but refuse to believe they are destroyed. This is for those who feel like they can’t continue the way they are, but they can’t go back to where they were. This is for those who have fallen and don’t know how to get back up. For me, the falling has been about my identity and weight and health. For you it may have been different. Maybe you made a big mistake. Maybe you have a past. Maybe you have been hurt. Whatever makes you feel like you’ve lost your way, let this be the moment you rise up again.

I don’t have it figured out, clearly, but here we go… again. And don’t think this is something you do on your own. It takes listening to the voice inside, Jesus, the source of inner strength. It takes shutting out the one who tries to keep you down with lies. RISE UP! I refuse to live defeated.

Creating Space

My life has always been on a journey into the great unknown of the world to discover deeper love amidst beautifully diverse people.  And along that journey, I grew closer to the Father, to the greatest love the world has ever known.  My relationship went deeper as mentors spoke into my life with truth, destiny, and purpose.  I understood more about how I should live as I studied books that others wrote.  The Father was around every corner through community.  And while I am still in a season marked by community, I felt stripped, bare, vulnerable, empty.  The Father felt distant, and it was a constant battle to convince myself that He was near.  I had to depend on what I knew was true and not what I felt.

As I am walking through this dry period, I am confident this will be the richest and most beautiful journey yet to unfold. My journey with the Father thus far has been so heavily influenced by others.  It is as if I was pursuing the Father by bumming off the revelation of others.  I was depending on their passion, their pursuit, and their wisdom to better understand the Father, to better hear the Father, to better know the Father.  And they carried me this far.  They carried me to a place where I was confident stepping into the Father’s will for my life, where I knew truth firmly enough that my faith would never be burned away.  They gave me a resolve.  And for all of that, I am forever grateful.  But in stepping out, I never realized how I had depended on others in my walk with the Father.  And suddenly, they were not there.  Suddenly, I felt like I had been dragged into a desert and every connection point to the Father through others was severed.  And as I stand in the dryness, looking at the ropes where all those connections once had been were now frayed and broken, I felt alone. I felt abandoned.  I felt distant.  I felt lost.


And I found myself crying for no reason.  I found myself unable to read the scripture because it was empty and void of all meaning, as if the very Spirit that gave it life had left me behind, too.  I couldn’t go to a traditional “church” because it was too different to bear and to me, it was empty.  And so I did all I knew to do.  I worked hard at the reason the Father brought me here: teaching. It was my final connection to something that was a constant pursuit of my heart with the Father. I found community with those at the school, and while it was challenging and meaningful, it wasn’t a direct connection to the Father for me. Nothing was as I expected.  Nothing was perfect.  Nothing was “living the dream.” Where are you, Abba? Why can’t I feel you with me? Why can’t I hear your voice? Why do I feel lost? I knew I was where I belonged. I knew I was in His will for my life.  I knew He would never leave me or forsake me, so why did I feel forsaken?

And as I began to acknowledge this desert, this place of severed ties, this place of emptiness, I started to hear Him again.  He was in a song blasting through my ear buds that flooded my heart with tears.  He was in the sunrise.  He was in the dove swooping down in front of me on my jog.  He was in the littlest things that affirmed my heart He was there.  Yet, He remained mostly silent. Then, without saying a word, in the quiet reflections of the new community placed in my life, His grace began to heal my heart of all the pain of this emptiness, and I heard, “All your connections are broken. It’s you and me. Nobody else.  What are you going to do? Will you pursue me for yourself? No one will carry you anymore.”

And as I began to talk it out with a friend who has allowed Holy Spirit to continue to work out all of the messiness and emptiness I was feeling without providing the answer, it felt like I was slipping into striving again.  And I found myself back peddling without the words to express what I was saying.  It wasn’t that this revelation was about striving toward God, which is what it felt and sounded like.  It wasn’t as if the weight was all on me. But it is as if I just need to step out; I just need to do something.  Then she said it, “You just create the space.  He fills it.” And it was like this “Ah-hah!”

I haven’t got it all figured out.  I am not saying the church is bad.  I am not saying the whole of scripture is bad or flawed. I am not saying every relationship that has drawn me closer to the Father is bad.  It has all led me to this point where I could go so much deeper with the Father than ever before.  I am simply realizing that my walk with Him never had to be defined by time in scripture and prayer.  That isn’t the only formula for intimacy with the Father.  Church, scripture, prayer, Christian books, seminars, teachings, podcasts, community of believers are all fine and wonderful as an outside influence, but they are not my connection to the life-source. I must be connected with the life-giving Father on my own.

Creating space could be going for a walk to meditate on His truths and listen to His voice.  Creating space could be running and letting yourself just push past every worry and anxiety to focus on breathing in His peace.  Creating space could be blogging about everything He has been revealing to you, and giving yourself a space to process it all.  Creating space could be reading a passage of scripture and listening for His teaching to peer through the text.  Creating space could be weeping for the nations and crying out to the Harvester. Creating space could be stopping work for five minutes to just breathe and listen.  Creating space could be pausing the chaos to praise His name.  Creating space could be painting a picture He gives you.  Creating space is not limited to input reading, output praying. Creating space is this: He speaks, I listen, and then I obey.

Finding Out Time Doesn’t Heal All Wounds

We always hear, “Time heals all wounds.” What if it doesn’t? What if time doesn’t bring your grandmother back? What if time doesn’t take away the pain you feel when you remember a tragedy you faced? What if time really doesn’t heal at all, only covers it up, like putting a rug over a stain and calling it “healed.”


A few weeks ago, I was invited to a Friday night party with fellow Christian workers.  I worked late that night on a crafty project, which to me really isn’t work.  Once I finally got to the party, the Jack Daniels and Coke and the Sake had already been taken out and poured.  I probably seemed somber, and I bet everyone thought it was because I was tired from all the stress at work.  You can read about that on our family blog. But what the crew didn’t know is that I was uncomfortable.  I was questioning how these God-fearing people could be drinking liquor.  I understand beer and wine, but why hard liquor? And then the uncomfortable feeling became sadness and pain.  It was like my heart was an orange being squeezed into juice. I found myself asking why I felt such grief and pain by my friends’ choices?

Was it some form of pride? Perhaps.  I did find myself thinking and feeling like they had been removed from a pedestal, as if I was somehow better than them because I chose to abstain from alcohol.  Was the pain just me looking my pride in the face and finding it to be as ugly as a rose dying in a vase with mold wrapped around its stem? That may have been part of it, but that wasn’t all of it.  Then it hit me like a 100 million volts of electricity, a lightning bolt of emotion.  This restricted feeling on my heart was the exact same pain I felt six and a half years ago.

On March 12, 2011, I was on my way back to college from a leadership training in New Mexico.  We had stopped the van to eat lunch at a church fellowship hall.  I remember looking at my phone and seeing that I missed a call from my mom.  Thinking nothing of it, I called her back.  And as she spoke the words, “Your brother has been in an accident.” I hit the grass like a comet plummeting to earth.  I felt the squeezing on my heart, as all the joy and hope drained from it, like juice from an orange.  She explained how my 20-year-old brother had driven drunk, and he rolled his car in every direction.  She was on the way to the hospital to be with him.  He was in critical condition. As the story unfolds, we find that by all logic, we should have lost my brother that day.  My comfort became knowing God spared his life when alcohol tried to take it.  My prayer became a plea to let this wake my brother up to the eternal fate of his own soul. And I moved on, a little broken, yet grateful.  Time heals all wounds.

I had no idea that the wound was so deep from my brother’s accident.  I had no idea how much it had affected my view of alcohol.  I had debated and discussed with people about the topic.  My head knew that it was theologically permissible, though potentially dangerous.  I knew it wasn’t inherently bad in moderation with incredible self-control, even though I had made the choice to abstain. Yet, here I was feeling so wounded and concerned for my friends, wishing they would choose something else.

Once again, I put the rug over the wound.  Nobody is supposed to see that stain.  I couldn’t look at my friends for a couple of days without thinking about the stain under the rug, but by Monday, everything was good again. It became like a distant memory yet again.  Then yesterday morning, I cracked open my Bible to Romans 14.  Paul is addressing judgemental Christianity. He refers to the strong in faith being able to eat anything and the weak choosing to abstain from eating meat.  His warning to the meat eaters was to not hold contempt toward the abstainers. His warning to the abstainers was to not judge or look down on those who ate meat.  And I immediately made the connection to alcohol, knowing this was in part what I did to my friends.

On one hand, I found myself repenting for my own pride and judgements against my brothers and sisters in Christ.  I am not better than them for abstaining, and I know that. Yet out of the wound of my heart oozed a bit of pride and ugly judgmental thoughts.

On the other hand, I found myself praying a prayer of inner healing.  As I closed my eyes and remembered the events of that horrific day, I asked God where He was in the memory.  He first showed me the army of angels, linked hand in hand, engulfing the car like a sheath.  He then showed me how He put his body across my brother’s body, holding him back from the life robbing damage that could have happened. Then He showed me that while I was on the ground broken and weeping, His arm was around me like a cloak of comfort. And the wound I didn’t know I had began to heal a little bit.

I don’t know if or when I will be able to withstand an environment of hard liquor without feeling the pain of my brother’s accident.  For now, I am choosing to not let time heal my wound, but to let the Healer heal my wound.  Don’t just cover up your pain, and hope nobody sees it.  Seek the one who can treat the stain, the one who knows your pain, the one who can remove the sting. Time alone doesn’t heal all wounds, but the Lord of Time, God Almighty, heals all wounds, but that does take time.

Lessons and Exams

Do you ever feel like life is one giant, never-ending year at school and that God is the teacher? In our before school training this week, we have learned about the importance of intentional lesson planning.  We do not test or assess students on something they haven’t been taught.  We want to introduce it to the kids and see what they know, then plan the unit to meet the kids at their level.  We assess as we go to monitor their progress, and we grade the unit exam to see what they have learned.  Each lesson needs to be intentional to point to the key concepts of the unit. I feel like God has been taking me through a unit on Intentionality, Obedience, and Consistency for the last few years.

As you can imagine, I have a lot of thins on my mind with the start of the school year.  I definitely was feeling unprepared to start the year, especially from an American standpoint.  My classroom is still not fully set up.  I am still finishing my job board, and I don’t know what else I am putting on my bulletin board at this point.  I think it will be a questions board or something. That’s a different blog for a different time.  I still have to hang up the word wall.  I still have writing posters to hang up.  I still need to buy a carpet for my reading corner.  It seems there is a never-ending list of things I want to finish so that I can focus on the important things.

And I find myself feeling once again that there are all these important things I would like to achieve. I feel like I am so close to getting there, but I am just trying to get settled to where I feel like I can move forward in them.  And instead of reaching up to achieve them, I am reaching down to stop them from falling beneath me.

So as I enter the weekend finally getting more than 5 or 6 hours of sleep because of late nights at the school, and as I look to start my checklist of the many things I would like to accomplish in my classroom before Monday, I find myself wondering if this has all been a test.  Like in all the times before now that I tried and tried to learn intentionality with my husband and my cleaning.  And in all the times I was feeling challenged to build routine when my schedule was in such flux, maybe these were times God was teaching me to prepare me for my current situations.  And as I self-assess, I want to do better on the test than I am doing. Perhaps I am not so good at learning life lessons as I am at learning algebra and trigonometry.

And perhaps I just need to stop over analyzing life, put aside whatever my idea of perfect is, and just intentionally reserve time to seek the Perfect One. I struggle with that kind of focus when life is in chaos. I feel like I am in chaos.

The Plight of the Prophet

I can only imagine the high and low Isaiah must have felt at his commissioning.

So often, we focus on the first half of this chapter, Isaiah 6, in which Isaiah sees a marvelous vision of the throne room of heaven.  “I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and the train of his robe filled the temple…” We see where Isaiah gets wrecked in a good way with God, and experiences the unwarranted favor of the Lord, a measure of grace that is beyond his time.


Then God asks, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?”  How could Isaiah not jump at the chance?  After having such a life changing revelation of the holy power and yet grace of God, how could he not commit his life to the work of the Lord?  And his reply confirms it, “Here I am! Send me.”  In a place of total humility and surrender because of what he witnessed, he commits everything, not knowing what he signed up for.

God must have known just how difficult Isaiah’s task would be emotionally.  He must have known that Isaiah was going to need a reference point to hold onto, which is why Isaiah must have been commissioned in such a bold fashion.

I have been meditating and chewing on the commissioning of Isaiah for a few weeks, and I thought there was a glimmer of hope in God’s words:

Go, and say this to the people: “Keep on hearing, but do not understand; keep on seeing, but do not perceive.” Make the heart of this people dull, and their ears heavy, and blind their eyes; lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their hearts, and turn and be healed.

Then [Isaiah] said, “How long, O Lord?”

And [God] said, “Until cities lie waste without inhabitant, and houses without people, and the land is a desolate waste, and the Lord removes people far away, and the forsaken places are many in the midst of the land. And though a tenth remain in it, it will be burned again, like a terebinth or an oak, whose stump remains when it is felled.” The holy seed is its stump.  (Isaiah 6:9-13)

When I first read the, “lest they see with their eyes… and turn and be healed,” part, I thought there was a glimmer of hope.  I thought God was saying to keep proclaiming this message so maybe, just maybe, they would turn from their wicked ways and seek God again.  I thought it was the unrelenting nature of God. But as I delved into the Hebrew text and studied it as best I can, that is not what God asked of Isaiah.  Here is the best Megan paraphrase based on my study of the text:

Go and say this to Israel: “You listen with your ears and not your heart.  You see with your eyes, and not your inner man.” I want you to continue to tell them this until they are callous, blind, deaf, indignant, and unresponsive.  If you don’t, they will turn and be healed… I want you to keep saying this message until everything is utterly destroyed, burned away, removed, and forsaken.  When I have finished, all that will remain is a stump, a holy seed for me to replant and regrow.

Do you see the hopelessness in Isaiah’s commission?  God is basically asking, commanding, Isaiah to preach a message in which nobody will hear.  Isaiah is prophesying to Israel through the Assyrian invasion, through the time when God is allowing Israel to be utterly destroyed for their wickedness and whoring after other gods. God is so done with Israel’s unfaithfulness, that He doesn’t want them to repent.  God will always come to the rescue of the repentant heart, so He wants to make them dull and callous to the truth.  Yet, He still wants truth to be preached knowing that it will not be received! All to weed out the remnant of Israel that will faithfully seek God and be replanted, the holy seed.

I can just picture the devastation of God’s request.  I can just imagine the agony of preaching to a people you love and watching them continue to run away from God.  It is heart shattering.  And it must have been in these low moments, that Isaiah remembered his throne room experience.  He must have remembered the holiness of the Lord, the majesty and splendor.  He must have remembered how utterly ruined he felt as the angel touched a coal to his lips.  He must have remembered the extreme measure of grace he was given, and out of a love and obedience to the holy God, he found the strength to continue.

We live in a world of people calloused to the word of God.  We are commanded to continue to preach, to love, to minister, to share the truth of God to a people who may or may not turn to God.  Still, we must never give up.  We must keep preaching, keep fighting, keep interceding, until nothing is left in the world.  We must persevere with Christ until the world is utterly destroyed and the return of the Lord is imminent. And what is our strength? Remembering who God is and where His grace has brought us.  Grace empowers us to live a holy life surrendered to God, especially when the task is daunting and heart shattering.

Jeremiah is known as the weeping prophet, but I am sure Isaiah had his share of weeping, too.  Perhaps this is the plight of the prophet, the mouthpieces of the Lord, to see the destruction of mankind, yet feeling powerless to remove it. If God told you to preach something, proclaim His truth even though it wouldn’t be heard, would you endure the heart ache?

Losing Control

In case you haven’t heard in the last 3 months of silence, we are moving soon.  It isn’t just a pack up the U-Haul move, either. It is an “I’m leaving on a jet plane,” kind of move. It is a go and sell all you own, box up your sentimental belongings for storage, and start all over in a new culture move. I know all moves can be stressful, but this has been like a drive through the mountains.  It has been a fun and beautiful adventure to see God work out the details, but it also is stressful not knowing what lies around the bend in the road.

And to be honest, I would probably be just fine if we only had the move. But no.  Life doesn’t work that way.  I started a temporary, independently contracted job that is extremely time demanding.  It is stressful.  This is a job that I have had for the last two summers without near the amount of stress.  That is mostly due to a summer full of traveling to see people and invest in them before the big move and packing.  Lots. Of. Packing. Which means the things I did all summer long last year I am now doing on the run throughout the program this year. And I just can’t handle it this year.

I have learned something about myself in all of this.  When I break and buckle under the stress, I get mean.  I absolutely hate it.  I want to escape the world and not think about it all, but I can’t. If I did, it would never get done.  And I find myself caught in this stress cycle where I am not having time with God, so I am not easing my stress, which then makes me more irritable, which then makes those ugly flesh tendencies to rear its head, until all my emotions are rampant and I’m weeping and breaking down, to then feel guilty for how I have treated everyone under the stress, which causes more stress on top of the ongoing stress, which I continue to be unable to deal with because my way of dealing with it is taking a cup of coffee and escaping the world by reading the Word and journaling for an hour, so rather than filling my spirit, I empty my spirit, and the vicious cycle continues until all I see is the ugliness of the flesh I so wish I could kill, crucify, deny, and ignore, but there it is, ugly and exposed. I. Hate. It.


I hate that I am so deep in this stress not knowing who I have hurt or how my words came across or who I need to apologize to.  It feels like I am lost without hope, without light, and I’m drowning in it. There is just too much responsibility on my soldiers. Take out the dog. Clean the basement.  Sort through the boxes. Pack the bags. Work 12 hours a day. Do laundry.  Have I even showered in a week?

Does your grace reach me down here, God? Does your love reach my ugliness, God? Can you make it all right? I sure can’t.  I’m crying out, God. Save me from myself before I implode. I never wanted to put stress and flesh on the throne of my heart.  I want you to be center stage, on the throne, ruler of my heart.  So kick me out, and take control, Lord.  Please, take control.