Hey, it’s God here. I’ve made a staffing decision. You’ve done nothing wrong, but I can’t move to the next level with you on the team. I know the Bible says, “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’” It’s just, well, your personality rubs me the wrong way, and I’d rather not put in the effort to find a way to work alongside you. So, I need you to plan your exit strategy. Of course, we’ll wait to tell everyone until you have something else lined up. It will sound better that way. Yeah, I know corporations and educational institutions have to figure out how to do this every day, but the one in charge of the church gets to do what he wants, right? And will you do me a favor? I know the second greatest commandment is to love your neighbor, but I need help. I’m swamped and don’t have time to judge everyone. Will you spend more time judging rather than loving? That would be great. Please don’t use your time feeding, protecting, and loving. Instead, tell others what they’re doing wrong and shame them into changing their ways because even though you’re not perfect, we should expect them to be. On a final note, people seem to have forgotten who I was when I walked the earth. My skin was brown, not white. I was a refugee in Egypt for a couple years. I travelled and ate with society’s losers. Let’s not remind anyone, okay? It might result in turmoil and uprising. We can’t have unrest when everything is going smoothly.
My last post was the summer of 2016. That’s when everything began to shift.
Last night I sat on an open field watching my daughter play soccer with a gorgeous sun and cool breeze filtering onto me. Perfect evening. Except my mind focused on my friend’s son who I knew was close to his last breath.
My husband and I achieved twenty years of marriage this week. As each anniversary arrives, I can’t wait to celebrate, feeling victorious and proud. But if you told me in 1996 the lessons I had ahead of me, I might have reconsidered the wedding.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” – Declaration of Independence
My abortion did not occur at Planned Parenthood or a county clinic. It happened in the late 80’s at a well-established suburban hospital. An obstetrician who delivered living babies on the side performed the procedure. At least, that’s what he called it. The nurse was a neighbor on my street.
I had arrived. After birthing four kids in less than five years and safely seeing the twins to their second birthday, I declared myself ready to live again. The treadmill became my evening companion, helping me shed ten pounds over the long winter.
I was in Orlando at a conference with my hottie hubby. For two mornings, Paul had coffee waiting for me when I woke. My heart was full. The gesture spoke love to me. To this java loving, non-morning person, it really was a big deal. I felt cherished and cared for.
Sometimes I prefer having things black and white, like what time the babysitter will show up or how much the sheet cake from the local bakery will actually cost. Sometimes I prefer shades of grey, like am I actually a size ten (I know one designer who says so) or am I an awesome writer (I know at least my mom thinks so.) But grey can be a dangerous color.
She knew she was being ridiculous, but her emotions knew no bounds. She’d rise in the morning, ready to face the day. Morning coffee and journal in hand, birds chirping while she poured words onto paper, gaining a solid grasp of the mental game. She was loved. She was not a failure.
Hi! I’m Kelly
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