Can't See

Late last week I baby sat for my nieces and nephew whilst my sister was at choir practice. Matthew had had a really rough day and as a result was writing lines and then was to go straight to bed.
After many tears, whining and outright begging to not have to go to bed I had him snuggled into his bed. We talked about his behavior that day and why he shouldn't hit his classmates. He said that he couldn't help himself and he didn't know why he did it.

I told him to think about that guy they talk to him about in church, Jesus. That Jesus just like his mommy, daddy and Aunt Bethany love him no matter what, and that we want him to not hurt other people by hitting them. Matthew started crying because he didn't know what Jesus looked like so he couldn't see him in his brain. I pulled out his sisters story bible and started going through the pictures with him reading him a story. After answering his questions about "What would happen if the earth ran out of oxygen and there were no more air tanks" I turned off the light and tried to go back downstairs.
A few minutes later I was summoned by his yelling "Aunt Bethany Aunt Bethany!"
Back upstairs I trudged. "What?!" I asked him a little more forcefully than I ought.
He put on his best scared face and summoned crocodile tears to his eyes, "Aunt Bethany, I can't see Jesus anymore there are to many toys in my head."
After calming him down I was released to sit at the top of the stairs making sure the shadow monsters don't get back in his room.
Sitting there I started thinking about our conversation and thought, "Me too buddy. Me too."

On my way home that night I thought about all the toys I let fill up my brain to the point where I can't even see Jesus anymore. Frivolous toys like TV shows, books, music, relationships that don't honor God. Less noticeable toys like gossip, jealousy, anger, lust. How they fill up my brain and I forget what Grace through Jesus Christ looks like. Simple, amazing, unearned Grace.

A pauper to God's scandalous grace, all I know to do with the overflow is serve. -Beth Moore

Posts that may only be slightly related:
The Thud of Grace
Mercy
Kirsten, Shelby, Matthew

10 Things I'm Thankful For

Ten things that I am Thankful for this Thanksgiving (in no particular order):

1: Songwriters that write lyrics that soothe my soul and put into words my wordless prayers (I'm looking at you JJ Heller)

2: The heat from a nephew snuggled close to my side after a hard day of kindergarten

3: The non stop stories and stream of nonsensical words streaming from hyperactive nieces. Because it means they're still talking to me about everything important and unimportant to them.

4: Friends that work hard to stay connected with me even when I go underground and hide out for awhile. The conversations that pick up right where they left off hours, days, weeks, months, years before.

5: Family, a mom and dad that would do anything for me and teach me how to be a good person. A sister that I laugh till I cry and cry till I laugh with; one just a moments drive, a phone call, a beating heart away.

6: A church that practices what it preaches and asks others to do the same.

7: A ministry that I am passionate about, that gets me out of bed most mornings. A ministry that tells people, "I see you, I love you and so does God. You are worth being loved and cared for" each and every week.

8: Hope and faith in a call I'm beginning to listen to and believe is possible. A new determination to take the next step no matter how small or large, no matter how scary each and every day. Even when I don't want to.

9: My lovely home. It's hard and scary and expensive. But it's a lovely home. Owning it has taught me more about myself in 1 year than I learned in 3 years living alone in apartments.

10: Jesus. The Grace I am afforded through Him even and especially when I forget it and get so lost I can't figure out which way is up. "Your love can heal the wreckage of my soul"

Low Batteries

I had nightmares last night. Nightmares about home invasions, robbers and killers.
It's all very melodramatic this irrational fear of killers and robbers and I'm trying to get over it.
I woke up so early this morning it was still the middle of the night. I woke up with the nightmares tangled in my head. I had a killer headache and stumbled to the kitchen for medicine.
Standing in the brightly lit kitchen with all the lights between my bed and the fridge burning I heard it. A chirping noise coming from all around me. I looked towards the basement stairs and heard it. I heard it coming from the hallway and the still darkened corners of the living room.
My first instinct was that it was a secret code between a team of would be killers that were hunching in the corners with semi automatic guns and red laser scopes. A code warning that she was awake and they needed to remain hidden.
I gulped my medicine down and sprinted back to my bed, where killers cannot harm me. I slept the next hour or so with all the lights in the house on to scare away the darkness that holds the killers.
When I woke this morning for good and walked into the kitchen after showering and getting dressed I realized the chirping was my smoke detector. The batteries are dying and need to be replaced. I wasn't surprised, in the cool light of morning, that there were no killers. I even nervously laughed to myself as I walked out the door, sneaking a glance behind me just to be sure there was no masked man hiding in the stairwell.

I've stopped watching CSI, Criminal Minds, true crime stories on news magazine shows. I've stopped watching scary or even suspenseful movies and I change the channel when previews for such things come on. I've stopped reading scary books too.
But I can't stop my memories. My memories of all the Friday the 13th movies I've watched, the Stephen King books I've read and those years of my obsession with all things serial killer. They won't go away. Imprinted on my mind are these images of terror, mayhem, murder and fright.
I know there are no killers in my house. I know that if there were the lights wouldn't deter them and neither would the cushy expanse of my bed.
But I also know that killers strike everywhere. That in a sense no place, no small town or cozy well manicured home is immune from tragedy and death.

Sometimes I think, this is how I look to God. This silly girl running around pretending that she has control over what happens to and around her. Sometimes I think that when I ask for forgiveness he forgives me but has a hard time stopping the memories of my sin and disobedience from coming back to the forefront.
I end up trying to make God small. I try to fit him into this me-type god that thinks, acts, and says things like I do, like the people that have hurt me do.
I'm trying to stop. I'm trying to open my eyes wider to see this big God that I have seen do miraculous things.
Because I don't want a small god, a god I can put in my pocket and carry around and take out when it's most convenient for me.
I want a HUGE God, an inconvenient God that shakes up my life. I want to see where the pieces he's shaken up have settled and I want to stay out on the edge of this limb, outside of my comfort zone.
I don't want the memory of when that happened, I want it everyday.


Posts that may only be slightly related:
Denise
Impossible
Sandwich

Tomorrow

I'll start tomorrow.
It's what I always tell myself.
I'll do the dishes tomorrow, I'll vacuum tomorrow, I'll fold the laundry, wash the laundry, mow the lawn, start eating better, stop drinking soda, get up to work out....tomorrow.

Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow.
Hello my name is Bethany, and I am a chronic procrastinator.

I'm done procrastinating. I'm done, I'm stopping, I'm over it.
I'm going to be proactive, active, decisive and completely motivated.

Starting tomorrow.

Worthy

I was thinking through the discouragement I wrote about yesterday and wondering what exactly I can do to make more room for working out in my life. My life is pretty full and I quickly because overwhelmed.
I wanted to quit; to admit that it was ridiculous this idea of getting in shape and becoming more physically powerful. There were much more important things to do. Things like family night, Washington Project stuff, making money to pay my mortgage stuff.
Here's my typical week:
Sunday: Washington Project and church in the morning. Working in the yard or inside the house, laundry, baking, cooking, possibly working out and hopefully a nap

Monday: Work 8-5. Drive about 45 minutes in traffic, then depending on the day I have either a WP life group, a 2nd life group, a meeting with Michelle to plan for WP or working out (working out being the exception instead of the rule) Those meetings whatever they may be end about 930-10pm

Tuesday: Work 8-5, 45 minutes in traffic, workout with trainer for 30 minutes, cardio 30 minutes then attempt to cook dinner or just not puke depending on the workout

Wednesday: Work 8-5, 45 minutes in traffic, dinner with Diane before bible study at her house, bible study until 930ish.

Thursday: Work 8-5, 45 minutes in traffic, family night at my sisters house until 9ish

Friday: Work 8-5, 45 minutes in traffic, depending on the night work at the bookstore or workout (most likely the bookstore)

Saturday: Occasionally work at the bookstore, work in the yard or inside the house, bake, cook, laundry, run errands with Sharen, maybe work out/hang out with friends

The trainer said I needed to have at least 4-5 days of cardio and 3-5 days of strength training to make a dent in what I want to do. When exactly am I supposed to do that!? I could do it in the morning but I hate (HATE) showering in public showers. I come out feeling dirtier than when I came in, and I can't/won't go to work all sweaty.
So I'm laying in bed, twirling my hair and thinking about what to do. I could get up at 5am, go to the closest gym to my house and work out for 30-45 minutes and still have time to come home and shower at my house before leaving (on time) for work.

But it's to early, to hard, to much, to inconvenient, I'm not a morning person blah blah blah.
Then it occurred to me. For a year I used to get up at 5am every Monday and Wednesday to serve breakfast to the homeless community. I had very few problems getting up and showered and making the trek to Over The Rhine to do that.
Why?
Why wasn't it to early, to hard, to much, to inconvenient? Why was I a morning person during that year?
Because it wasn't about me. It wasn't a sacrifice for only me. I was serving them. They were worthy and deserving of my time, my energy, my inconvenience.
I realized with a start that I didn't believe that I was worth the sacrifice. I wasn't worth the effort. I didn't deserve it.

On one hand I know that it's not true, but I don't believe it.
I think about the words he spoke that day saying that I deserved to be healthy and I deserved to be in shape. I remember dismissing him and thinking how silly it was that he thought I didn't know that, because I knew it.
I don't, but I'm trying to learn. Because as silly and trite as it sounds God has requested that I get this body of mine under control and that guy just doesn't let up.
So if I'm a little crankier than normal it's probably because I was up at 5am working out. Now I just need to actually do it....


Posts that may only be slightly related:
Fragile
Knowing but not Believing
Stiff

Discouraged

"It's just not enough"
For a girl that rarely feels like enough for anyone or anything that sentance can devestate.
My trainer said that it's not enough for the loss I'm aiming for to just work out 2-3times a week. He said that if my nutrition was better it could be ok. He said if my nutrition was perfect it would be perfect. I thought, "If I was better...."
But my nutrition sucks. I thought, "I suck"

I'm overwhelmed with how much of what to eat when. When I get overwhelmed enough I just shut down and do nothing. I shrink back and withdrawal because I don't want to look stupid or like I don't know anything. I have denial down to a science.
I condemn myself with harsh and nasty words blaming my laziness and stupidity for the choices that I'm making. I get frustrated that I'm not losing a million pounds a minute and that I still get out of breath when I go up the stairs to many times.
I started holding my breath again.
I can see in my head the actions to take but I just can't seem to get my body to put forth the effort.

I'm going to try something different. Something new. I'm going to try to remember that I'm worth the effort. That I deserve to be healthy and happy. Because most of the time I forget that or believe I've never really known it before. So if I forget from time to time (all the time) maybe you could remind me.


Posts that may only be slightly related:
Learning to Breathe
The Only Balm
Still Broken

Bad Girl Bed

Most of the time I went to the house it was with my sister. But there were times I went over all by myself and stayed the night.
I would ask if I could sleep in the taller bed. The bed that was straight and didn't tip to the side. I was never allowed to, because that was the good girl bed.
They said bad girls slept in the bad girl bed.

There was a door beside the good girl bed. Behind it lurked a bad girl monster. If the bad girl slept in the good girl bed the monster would come out from the behind the door at night while she slept and carry her back behind the door. She would never see her mommy and daddy again.
So I would stay up late, watching David Letterman and eating cinnamon toast that tasted better than anything I've ever eaten, to avoid the bad girl bed for as long as possible. But eventually upstairs I would go.
To the crooked bed that tilted towards the wall. Accepting their word that I was a bad girl.