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..
My son had his one year appointment today. I can’t believe he is one. Everyday he wakes and he is doing something new. He’s been walking for the last month and a half, and with each day he grows more balance, he walks a little faster, he needs my hand a little less. Today at his appointment, his doctor smiled as he showed off his walking skills, and said “He is getting the walk down, soon he will be running!”
And my mama heart is in no rush for that. I’m in no rush for him to need me less. To let go of my hand. Though I’m so proud of every accomplishment he makes, I love him being my baby. I love watching him slowly plant his feet firm on the ground, gain his balance and walk. And I know, soon he will run. Soon he will chase his brother off without needing his mama’s hand. It made me think of where we are at in life. I was getting so frustrated with our walking season. I was ready to run. But today the Father reminded me, walk before run. He is in no hurry in teaching us to run. He loves holding our hand in the walking season. Full of compassion as He watches us fall, and loves watching our determination as we get up, gain our balance and walk off again.
And I ask, Lord don’t give us the things we aren’t ready for. We don’t want a single thing prematurely. We want to hold Your hand in the growing season, we want to learn from You and walk slowly with you, though there are moments when I try to run ahead. Your hand picks me up, and we start again. Thank you Father, for those you’ve surrounded us with that walk with us, believing in us, and calling out the best in us. This season is a treasure as we walk before run.
10 years old. It’s hard to even try to imagine life with a 10 year old. But that’s how old you should be this January. That number feels significant to me, and my heart and mind are jumbled with a thousand thoughts surrounding you and your 10th year. I remember the first January that rolled around 10 years ago when you should have been born. Each day I woke and I wondered, should this have been the day? Your day? I remember a dream I had when I was struggling internally with my abortion. I remember being at a store and I had a son that I had just met that I couldn’t bring myself to love. He had been with a father who was loving him deeply. I watched them interact with each other and it pained me to see how loving their relationship seemed to be. And I didn’t know how to do it. The father showed me how to love my son, too. I woke up and I knew it was you.
I’m much different than I was back then. I’ve grown much and I know better. I close my eyes and imagine sitting across from my younger self,10 years ago. She who was consumed with confusion and lonely and secrets and grief. I reach for her trembling hand and I imagine she’d pull away behind the wall that surrounded her for years to come. I know her and she lives in a desolate place. But I’d call her out of it. I wouldn’t look away when she couldn’t look me in the eyes. When I’d tell her I know what she did out of fear and I’d remind her that she is loved and forgiven. And oh how I know her so well. Oh how I know she wouldn’t believe it. But I’d speak it over her again, and again, and I’d hope she would really hear me this time. I’d tell her it won’t always be this way. That there’s going to be harder days but I’d promise her there will be a Rescuer and He is on His way. That He is already here, just waiting for her to let Him break down all of these walls. I’d wrap the younger me in my arms and reassure her that Healing is on His way. That it feels like abortion stole her story but oh sweet girl, this is not the end. I’d declare victory over her and call out the mother heart in her where she felt like all she was is destruction. And I know her so well and I know her broken. But I’d tell her I’m so proud of her, because in 10 years she will look back full of wonder for what could have been, but so much gratitude for what He has done. There’s so much to say about what He has done. And I know she wouldn’t believe it then, but I’d tell her there will come a Sunday in January where she will stand in a church that feels just like home, and she will sing to the Father about His goodness. So much goodness. And there won’t be a single wall left. Just freedom.
And I’m thankful for the promise of sitting with my baby on his side of Heaven one day, it will be a warm January day, and we will be eating birthday cake.
I thought by now maybe we’d be somewhere new. Somewhere broke down on the side of the road in the motor home we bought three years ago that’s now probably been sold a time or two since we sold it last fall. I’ve spent time wondering maybe if I didn’t miss some turns then maybe we’d be somewhere far from here by now. But we’re still here, in our hometown.
Sometimes you’re called away but sometimes you’re called to stay. Just stay. And when you’re gone from everything, all that you know, in a new town and new faces, new street signs and stop lights, it takes all that you have to be brave. Brave to step on the new sidewalk outside of your new house. Brave to re-memorize where the closest Tim Horton’s is on the corner (you pray to God there’s a Tim Horton’s). Brave to say hello to new faces. To start over again. And that’s always viewed as honorable. You’ve made it, right? Getting out of your hometown. But sometimes you’re asked to stay. Stay planted in the familiar. You don’t have to use that old GPS in the center counsel because you’ve drove down Michigan Avenue a million times or two since you were a kid. Seeing a familiar face every time you go to the store and it all feels like home. A different memory at every red light floods your mind as your car comes to a stop. When did it become such a bad thing to say you’ve lived here all your life? When did it get written in the rules that we have to leave in order to really have lived? Sometimes life’s missed when we’re so busy saving up for the next bus ticket out.
Yes, it can be brave to leave, to start over where nobody knows your name, but it also takes courage when we are asked to stay. Invest love and life right where your roots are planted. In the familiar. In the faces who already know you. What you have done in your past and the mistakes you have made. It’s brave to to pick up and start again, right where you are.
Sometimes we’re asked to pack up our things and invest in a new place. But sometimes we’re asked to just stay.