down in the dirt

In 2015 I was prayed over in visions, and the Father showed me a wolf that was chasing me as I ran to a mountaintop. I was fearful until a brave welled in me at the top of the mountain as I was able to turn around, look into his yellow eyes and kick him in the face. I got that wolf tattooed on my hand with Genesis 50:20. Because the enemy is always after our story. he wants to bite our throat before we make it to the mountaintop, where we can scream it out loud. There’s some sort of healing in ourselves when we speak out our story, then that same healing flows through to others. The wolf was catching up with me again the last few years. I was believing that what I said was just pointless words and I was believing that my story didn’t matter. I was hiding behind my husband and motherhood and anxiety and the fear of (wo)man. Then yesterday, my sweet friend gave me a prophetic letter with the mention of that wolf. I immediately looked at my tattoo and remembered the first time I kicked him in the face. I remembered what he is after. And that I’d rather lay my head deep in the dirt next to Jesus than to please anyone with silent words just to make them comfortable. There’s a time to walk quietly in the deep of the woods to heal and let go and there’s a time to turn around, kick the wolf in the face and use your voice. 🌿 you intended to harm me, but God’s using it all for His good..

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Memories From The Stovetop

Certain things will always bring me back to a time or place from my past. A smell. A song. Food. Like eggs, for example.

When I’m at my sisters, I love getting eggs from the chicken coop. It reminds me of my beautiful Aunt Kathy. It’s funny how certain people can make such a lifelong impact on your life, even at the age of 3. She had long, dark hair and a beautiful face. Her spirit was gentle and kind. She loved horses and being outside. But what I remember most about her was the two of us walking hand in hand out to her chicken coop to collect eggs. And jam. For some reason I think of her when I eat jam.

But she isn’t the only one I think of when it comes to eggs.

This morning I was making scrambled eggs. Of course they came from my sisters chickens. They truly are the best. And it brought me straight to my grandma. She. Loved. Eggs. Scrambled eggs, to be exact. I cracked 5 eggs into a bowl, as my puppy patiently watched from a close distance, and I was instantly sitting in my grandmas living room, on her “davenport.”

I loved that day. My sister, brother-in-law and I took our dogs to my grandmas to visit. Lo and behold, she made us a pan full of the yellowest scrambled eggs in the world. Yep. The whole wide world. They could have won a prize. Not too long after, she comes out of the kitchen with a whole sandwich.

“You’re not eating eggs, gramma?”

“This is for the dogs.”

I love her. You know a woman’s heart and soul is full of diamonds and pearls when they make a gourmet sandwich for her granddogs. We have a photo somewhere of her sitting in her chair, breaking even pieces off and feeding them this sandwich made for a king.

I don’t think any member in my family can make scrambled eggs without thinking of sweet Ella Mae. It was her trademark.

And with every cracked egg, I’m back in her kitchen, soaking in the memories of my beautiful grandma.

I thank God everytime I remember you.

-Philippians 1:3

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