I've been busy

and my brain can only spew out short phrases right now, so here goes a summary of my life over the last six months...

heart attack #3  

surgery for my bionic husband

intermittent fasting for the win

walking in sunshine is therapy

losing weight, feeling great

grad school, it's really happening

dream coming true

destination wedding...my baby boy got married!

we danced <3  

so many special moments

and forever memories

remembering how to study and take notes and write papers

loving it, killing it

I'm going to be a psychotherapist (whaaaat?)

buried my mom and stepdad...didn't realize how much that would mean to have her here by me again

started watching Modern Family :) 

hired someone to clean our house

got to see my sissy…twice!

she gave me the ultimate most awesomest purse evah!  game over :)

started using a big planner because it fits in my most awesomest purse…game changer

booked a trip to hawaii!  

mr. wonderful is taking me to maui :) 

the end

You Don’t Say!

Lucy and Elmer lived in the red house next door.  They were super old people, at least that’s what my four year old self thought.  I used to go over and visit a lot.  Elmer was always outside, wearing farmers overalls and a hat with a brim, walking around the yard or doing man stuff in his garage like my dad.  If he wasn't too busy he would smile and say hi to me which was nice, but I was there to see Lucy.  

I don’t remember exactly what she looked like, but I think she wore glasses and had brown, wavy hair.  Or maybe it was grey?  I didn't pay much attention to appearances then, and the same is true now.  If you ask me what someone looked like or what they were wearing I might have a vague recollection, but it will most certainly lack detail.  I'm much more likely to remember what someone said, or how they were feeling.  

Lucy was always in her kitchen with an apron on, busy at work making something.  I remember her rolling out dough with a rolling pin and sometimes she would let me roll it.  She always seemed so happy to me, carefree and smiling.  She would listen with delight to whatever I had to say…which was a lot.  I would go on and on (and on) about my favorite show…Gilligan’s Island, telling her every detail and according to my dad would even include the commercials (Lucy wasn’t the only one who was blessed with my Gilligan stories).  

And Lucy gave me the greatest gift…she listened.  She not only listened, but she engaged with me, as if she was truly interested and thrilled with every word. “You don’t say!” was the response she gave after every exclamation I made.  And that of course encouraged me to keep going.  

She never seemed to tire of it. 

I remember more than once my mom yelling to Lucy from across the yard that she could send me home if I was bothering her.  Lucy always seemed surprised at the thought and said no, that I wasn’t a bother at all!  And I believed her.  Such a sweet lady.   

She made me feel special, and that was something.  

I hope I was that kind of mom to my kids when they were little.  I wanted to be and still do.  I want my kids, my grands, and whoever I'm with at the moment to know that they matter, I'm really listening, and that besides Jesus they are the most important person in the room.  

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."  - Maya Angelou

Fighting demons

I'm tired.

Fighting demons is exhausting, especially the ones that continue to haunt me long after I thought I had beaten them.  

It's a fight, nearly every day to keep trying.  To not let them win.  But the temptation is strong to give up and give in to unhealthy habits, and have immediate freedom from the struggle.  Whatever it is in the moment.

"Just have it, you'll feel better."

Escape.  Numb.  Give up.

"The fight is too hard, it's too hard to resist cravings and I don't have the energy."

"It won't matter anyway.  This one thing won't change anything.  Not really.  Not today.  I mean, look at me?"

"I can begin again tomorrow.  Or next week".  

Or never.

These are all things I tell myself, except they are all lies and I know it.  Even as I'm saying them, I know. 

Numbness wears off and escape finds its way back to reality.  

A reality that never seems to change.  

I can't seem to change it anyway.

God can, but He's slow about it.

And I don't appreciate that.  

When relief is what we seek, the last thing we want to do is have to wait for it.  

Change takes time and I hate that about it.

I crave the destination, but the journey isn't always pretty.  

It's kind of like riding in an airplane. 

It terrifies me.  I have lots of things in my arsenal to help me through it including meds and oils and wrist bands and snacks and music and alcohol.  "Flying Lisa" is a whole thing.  She's all about creating an alternate reality designed to numb out, escape, hide from the fear and the struggle rather than facing it.   

I don't want to live afraid.  

I don't trust God with my fear.   I tell Him I do, much like I tell others and myself.  But truth is I don't.  

Not really.

Not enough to let go of my arsenal of antidotes.  

Antidote:  a medicine taken or given to counteract a particular poison.

My poison is fear.  And it's deadly.  

It slowly kills the life I want to live, the faith I want to rely on, the truth I want to believe.  

What am I so damn afraid of?  I've been living with it my entire life, this fear, but I'm not sure I've ever really tried to figure out what it is.  What is its purpose, besides to destroy me?  Maybe that's the only purpose.  A demon's purpose is to be demonic.  To steal, kill and destroy, according to the bible.  

Maybe that's just it.  Maybe it's not more complicated than that.  

Demons have arsenals too, and their weapons are fierce and consistent.  They trip me up and snarl at me to stay down and sometimes I listen.  It feels safer to stay low rather than continue to be knocked to the ground over and over. When I"m crawling around in the dirt I don't have so far to fall.  I can sit there with my head on my knees and protect myself from inhaling the dust that gets kicked in my face.  

Except I'm not really protected.  I'm imprisoned.  

Security is not found in isolation, 

and freedom is not found in escape.    

The more I scrounge around in the dirt, the deeper the pit I inevitably dig for myself.

And a pit is not a home.