Our gift from God.

I don't know why I do it to myself, but sometimes I can't help but watch those danged 'ol reality television shows about babies.  What can I say?  I'm a glutton for punishment.  When my husband asked me why I put myself through the pain, I didn't have a good answer.  I love babies, I said.  That was my best defense.


After watching the emotional story of a young, teenage couple who chose to put their baby up adoption, the moment inevitably came where they had to hand the baby off to the adoptive parents.  


Now, just let me say - I think that adoption is a beautiful thing.  


Okay, so they are handing the baby off to the adoptive parents, and because they were worried about changing their minds, as soon as the baby was delivered, the boyfriend threw his arms around his girlfriend and hugged her, blocking her few of the baby.  They lay there, just having delivered their first child through blood, sweat, and tears...and they just wept.  "We can do this.", they kept saying.  "She'll have a better life...we have to do this."


The nurse held the baby up and said, "Look at your beautiful baby!"


But they didn't.  They just held each other.  Sobbing.  Weeping.  "We don't want to see...take her away."


Blah.


I have tears rolling down my face as I type this.  I can't even describe to you what my face looked like as I was watching this scene unravel.  I.  Lost.  It.  Big.  Time.  I'm talking like serious sobs with moans.  Alligator tears.  That funny squished face that you make when you're really, seriously, uncontrollably crying.


Georgia stopped playing with her plastic banana and looked up at me.  She laughed, ran over, and grabbed my knees...laying her head down.  Then she climbed into my lap and kissed my face.  Twice.

And I died a thousand happy deaths.


Again, I respect these teenagers for making the best choice that they felt they could for their daughter.  They were able to bless an infertile couple with the gift of a lifetime.  They were able to bless them with the child they could never have on their own.


But, my goodness.


My goodness.


The thought of giving that precious child that you so carefully carry all those months away...well, frankly, it rips my heart out of my chest.


I can't imagine not seeing her face every day.


I can't imagine not having her to hold.  To kiss.  To snuggle.  To love.

Being a mother is a calling.  God has called me to care for the every need of this child - emotionally, physically & spiritually - while she has been entrusted to Stuart and I.  Ultimately, I know that she belongs to the Father, who cares for her even more than this mother can comprehend.  But for her time here on this Earth, I will protect her and comfort her to the best of my ability, while completely relying on God's strength and parenting graces.


As a mother, I hope to be selfless.  It's not about my post-pregnancy body or my post-nursing-negative-AA-bra-size.  It's not about less "me" time, or having to sacrifice "my" social life.  It's Not.  About.  Me.


It is about raising this child to love the Lord.  It is about preparing her as an arrow to be shot forth for His glory.  It is about handling this responsibility with grace & glory.


Yes, I do realize that this doesn't really have anything to do with the story I told you above...but in reality, after watching this show, all I could do was smother her little face with kisses.  And cry.


Because she is our gift from God.


And for that, I am humbled & grateful.


*Tear*


...


There is a chance I may still have a hormone problem.


The end.

Homemade frosting & birthdays & babies.

Friday was my little pickle's birthday, as you are well aware since I've told you twenty times already.

And I'm still mourning, and celebrating, the fact that she is growing up so quickly.  While it's hard to see her grow out of her baby-ness, I am also excited for all of the new things she is learning and becoming.  She plays now.  And giggles.  And hides.  And chases.  And hugs.  And kisses.  And snuggles. 


Friday, at her birthday party, she began walking.


And I cheered. 


And I cried.


Then I begged my husband to have another baby with me.


...


Moving on.


Seriously, though.  I need another baby.  


For reals, I'm moving on now.


Her wonderful birthday celebration didn't come without some forethought to what baked goody we would enjoy! And while I tried to convince Stuart it would be fun to make some red-velvet cupcakes colored with beet puree, he insisted that I make something...less...beet-y.  So instead, I opted for a chocolate zucchini cupcake.  And while I wish I would have taken the time to soak the flour, I didn't.  It's a good thing Sally Fallon wasn't invited to this birthday party - she wouldn't have been pleased...

...although...I must share with you this killer frosting recipe I found!  I can't remember where I came across it...otherwise I would give them credit...


Never-the-less, this frosting was super easy and super delicious.  I was so thankful to have a healthier alternative to the typical powdered-sugar frosting option.  I will be using this for my go-to frosting from now on, as it far surpasses the coconut oil based "frosting" I have attempted before.  Which didn't taste good.  And didn't have a good frosting texture.  Bleh.  


I'm half-tempted to just mix up a batch and keep it in the fridge for when I need a lil sweet pick-me-up...because sometimes, that's just what I need.  Quit judging.

Vanilla Frosting
This recipe is a vanilla based frosting, though it could easily be altered to chocolate or orange or lemon or almond or cinnamon or whatever your heart desires.  Add a few tablespoons of cocoa powder or the zest of an orange, lemon, or lime, or even a teaspoon or two of almond extract or cinnamon!  Yummo.


You will need:
 - 2/3 cups honey
 - 3 egg whites
 - Pinch sea salt
 - 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 


Step One:  In a double boiler (or a smaller pan placed in a half-filled-with-water larger pan), using an electric mixer, beat together the honey, egg whites, and salt.  Whip it.  Whip it good.


Step Two:  Keep whipping the honey/egg mixture as your bring the water in the bottom pan to a boil.  This will take a few minutes.


Step Three:  Once the water is brought to a boil, continue mixing for another five minutes.  Then, remove from heat.


Step Four:  Mix in your vanilla and continue to mix with the beaters until peaks form. Or until you like the texture that you see.

Step Five:  Ta-da!!!! Frosting.  Shiny.  Sweet.  Marshmallow-like.  Wholesome.  Sinfully delicious.


This was the perfect topping to these dark chocolate cupcakes.  Mmm.

As you can see, Georgia quite thoroughly enjoyed it.


Isn't it a rule on your baby's birthday that they are allowed to get as messy as they'd like while eating their cake?  No one even cares if there is chocolate smeared in their ears and between their toes.  They just look so dang cute...when in Rome, I say!  When in Rome, on your birthday, get messy while eating your cake!

A good time was had by all...

G-baby and Brooks...

Kyson...my baking help and bowl licker...

Papa and two of his grandbabies...

Grandpa Larson...

...and a stuffed hippo from Auntie...


And did I mention cupcakes with frosting?!

What a special day it was!  Maybe next year, there will be another little one's birthday to celebrate!...


Sorry, I couldn't help myself.  Blame my uterus.


And enjoy this frosting!

This post part of Real Food Wednesdays!

The Stink Face.

Though I'm not quite sure where she learned it, our daughter has mastered what we affectionately call "The Stink Face".


Behold.

Nose scrunches.  Lips pucker.  Eyes glare.


Adorable, right? Well...at least we think so.  However, we've found that while The Stink Face used to be reserved for dinner time and such, it has now made it's appearance everywhere.  At the grocery store.  In the office.  At church.


Oh look at your sweet little baby!  What a doll!


(Georgia puts on The Stink Face).

What the wrong with your child??!?!?!  God forbid!!!!  Take her away!  (The mothers yell this as they use their bodies to shield their children's eyes from the horror).


I keep telling G-baby to put her best face forward...

....and this is all I get.


Where has my sweet child gone?!


The one who used to look like this:

Ok, fine.  Baby alien is not much better than stink face.


Maybe she's a genius and this is her way of communicating that she loves me?


Maybe this is her way of telling me that there is something rancid and squishy in her diaper?


Maybe this is how she will choose to smile?


But you know what?


I love her so much that I don't even care if this is how her face is stuck for the rest of her life.


Though future love interests might.  Although, come to think of it, I'm sure that would make her protective-father quite happy...

...don't you love how things just work out!

Instead of this post.

Instead of writing this blog post, I am out savoring my last few weekends of summer.


I'm gathering green beans and tilling soil.


I'm going to weddings and eating barbecue in the sunshine.

I'm grilling corn and picking berries.


I'm pushing my baby in the swing.


I'm staring at my tomatoes...hoping...praying...that they'll turn red before the first frost.


I'm shooting daggers with my eyes at everyone who has red tomatoes.


I'm toilet-papering their houses, too.  And throwing green tomatoes at their cars.


I'm kidding.


I'm assisting Stuart in bottling his recent batch of beer...well, more like observing really.


I'm hangin' with my brother-in-law, J-Man. Aka: Jerry.  Aka: Jeremy.  


I'm eating my third bowl of freshly grown peaches and cream.
No, I'm not exaggerating.


I'm buying corn from my car window on shady street corners.  It sort of makes me feel like a drug-addict.


I'm walking around barefoot.  In the dirt.  


I'm sitting by the window, sipping some kombucha, soaking up the sunshine on my face.  Just because I can.  Because it's summer.  And it's ending.  And frankly, I'm not quite ready for that yet.


So instead of writing this post, as you can obviously tell, I have a lot of things to keep me busy.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get the tongue started in the slow-cooker for tacos tonight.  Umm, ya.  You heard me right.  We're really jumpin' in the deep-end with this one...but Jerry swears they're good...so I thought, why the heck not.  Let's give it a go.  Tongue tacos.


You know I love you too much to not tell you how they turn out.  Trust me.  It will be documented.  Me and my D70 won't let ya down.  Aren't you glad you have me here for such news coverage?!

Have a wonderful Labor Day!

Reassurance.

My husband, my Stuart dearest, asked me the other day why women (ie: me) need to be reassured.  Constantly.


"Do I look okay?"


Yes.


"Are you sure?"


I guess so.


-15 minutes later-


"Honey, are you sure these pants look okay?"


No.  They make you look huge.  Go change.


Originally, the conversation began by me asking Stuart if he cared who put away his clothes.  You see, we used to do it together - sort of like a team bonding experience.  We would shout "Go team Elliott!" Then, we'd race up the stairs, give each other a high five, and begin the bonding experience of sorting laundry.  But since I've had extra time at home lately, and Stu has been extra busy at school, I've began to put away his laundry for him.  It was no big deal, really.  I already washed it and folded it...so the only thing left to do was to separate "His" from "Hers" from "Georgia's" and tuck it away in the dresser.  And after a few weeks of this extra care I'd shown his clothing, he hadn't said anything about it...


...and because I am an emotional brain-fart, I asked him.


Honey, do you even care who puts away your clothes?  Does it help you if I do it? Or would you even care if I just left it on the bed for you to do?


He laughed.  Of course he appreciated it.  Of course he was grateful to have a wife who makes sure that his underwear are clean, folded into the shape of a swan, and displayed on the dresser in true fabric-origami fashion.  I mean, hello!  Who wouldn't?  


But he asked me, "Why do women need to be so reassured all the time?  Guys don't need that."


To which I replied:


Because some days, we spend the whole day at home just feeding and cleaning our children.

Because we scrub out dirty diaper pails after shaking turds out into the toilet.  And then we forget to bring it back to the laundry room.  Hence, the lone, dirty diaper.


Because we plan out menus to maximize efficiency and make sure there is healthy food in the fridge.


Because sometimes we forget to shave our legs because we've been busy gardening.


Because we cook dinner at night - happy to have a warm meal to serve you.


Because we scrub poop stains out of the carpet.

Because we do dishes.  A lot of dishes.

Because we sweep up dog hair 53 times per day.


Because we make sure the home is clean and fresh for fellowship & guests.

Because I've picked up this tupperware 14 times today already and she just keeps pulling it out.  (Quit judging my cupboard.  I mean it.)


Because we do things a man wouldn't think of...like washing out our stinky garbage can.


Because we make sure bills are paid on time.

Because we'll spend the whole day cleaning the house, only to go to bed with the room looking like this.


Because we run errands, perfectly timed between naps and feedings.


And because on a daily basis we are covered in urine, fecal matter, drool, vomit, and Lord only knows what else.


And I'll be danged if sometimes it just doesn't seem like the most under appreciated job in the world.


It's not glamorous.  It's not, by 'worldly standards' of great importance.  Who cares that you have a healthy meal on the table when you can go to Pizza Hut?  Who cares that money is properly managed when there are credit cards?  Who cares how our children our raised?  Aren't we all just trying to "survive" this thing called parenthood?


I've been thinking about this a lot lately, because I do believe that to serve God, a Godly husband, and to raise Godly children is a calling.  God has entrusted me to care for this home, to serve and honor my husband, and to raise up children who love the Lord.  And that is...well....that's a lot of work.  I'm not just trying to survive a half-hearted marriage.  I'm not trying to just raise children who are acceptable just by social standards.  I'm not trying to cut corners or do things the easy way - I'm trying to do my best at the task that has been granted to me.  


This calling is a blessing.  It is a an absolute gift to be able to put my husbands clothes away.  And change my daughter's diapers.  And tirelessly clean my floors.  It will be a gift to teach my children about the Lord and how redemption is found in Christ.  


And so I explained to my dear husband, it's always nice to know that the work you do on a daily basis - be it ever so small by worldly standards - is appreciated.  And it's important to remember that tasks that may seem mundane, tireless, or under appreciated are still an opportunity for us to glorify God.   


Be it training your child.


Or scrubbing the sink.


Or, dangit, putting clothes away for your husband.


And Amen.

Baby Votes.

Yes, I bought a Nikon D70.


No, I haven't accomplished anything since receiving it.


There is laundry to do.  There are floors to sweep.  There are grocery lists to make.  There are blog posts to write.  There are gardens to weed.  


What I have done, however, is take a lot of pictures of my little peanut. What?! Quit judging! She's cute!  She's the perfect little model!  I can keep her from eating things off the floor and hone my skills at the same time!  


So today, we're going to have a "pick your favorite photo of my cute baby" contest!  And no, my pictures aren't spectacular yet.  But I'm learning!


You must vote.  That's a rule.

#1.  I like to call this photo, Mermaid Wannabe.

#2.  I call this photo, Lush.

#3.  I call this photo, I'm Extra Cute In Sepia Tone.

#4.  I call this photo, Round Head.

#5.  I call this photo, I Covet Your Blueberries.

#6.  I call this photo, Love Bug.

#7.  I call this photo, The Squishy Face.

#8.  I call this photo, Bed Head.

#9.  I call this photo, God Has Blessed Me With A Beautiful Baby.

So there you have it.  You've officially seen all that I have accomplished in the last 48 hours besides brushing my teeth and washing my feet.  


It's a rough life here on the homestead, I'm just glad I'm here to pull the weight for everyone.


Happy weekend my friends.  Go take pictures.  Eat food.  Drink wine.  And give thanks!

Part Deux: My testimony. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

If you missed Part One, read the post HERE before starting this one...or you'll be sincerely confused.  I'm just sayin'...

Okay...now where did we leave off...

I hadn't wanted to go.  But Travis insisted.  "She's your old friend from college, you should go to her party."  So, reluctantly, I packed up for the weekend trip to a nearby lake town and prepared myself for all the bachelorette enthusiasm I could muster.  I didn't really know anyone besides the bride, which could have been extremely awkward, but luckily all us girls got along and were having a lot of fun lounging by the pool, drinking horrible lime-flavored beers.  Later that night, as we loaded onto the party bus, I had no idea what the night would bring (besides the inevitable bachelorette mayhem).  

I was excited to find that there was live music at the local bar.  When the female lead singer invited the bride and I up on stage to belt out a horrible, horrible version of Black Velvet...well, I just couldn't resist.  Coincidentally, our bachelorette party of fifteen-ish females (all in rhinestoned pink tank tops...not by choice), ran into a bachelor party of fifteen-ish males of a totally unrelated wedding party.

I spotted one.  He was pretty cute.  Dance worthy for sure.  

Eyeing his outfit as I walked over, I noticed he was wearing Pink Floyd swim trunks.  Hmm.

Without saying anything, I grabbed his hand and drug him out on the dance floor.  Luckily, he had the same dance style I did: purposefully dance like an idiot so that no one can tell just how truly awful you are.

Post-embarrassing dancing, we got around to talking, and he told me he was from Georgia.  "Georgia? But you don't have an accent?".  He insisted that he was and even showed me his ID to prove it.  I told him, probably offensively, that he would be way cooler if he had an accent.  I also asked him what his position on gun control was.  You know...normal questions, like that.

A few hours later, as the party bus was getting ready to leave, he stormed on at the last minute, scanning all the female faces for mine.  Once he saw me, he said quickly, "Can I give you my phone number?"

And so he did.

And while the pain of breaking it off with Travis soon there-after was difficult...things just weren't working out as I had planned.  Go figure.  I hadn't been able to control...anything.  I had tried.. and I had failed.  One of the toughest things for me to remember in my life is how unfair this entire situation had been to Travis.  He had been faithful, strong, and consistently kind.  But it had been unfair of me to remain with him, all these years, and still be so unsettled with the faith, or lack-thereof, involved.  Though our relationship never reached that deep level that can only be reached when both individuals are committed to the Lord, it was none-the-less painful to part.  And even though we both knew it had been a long time coming, it still didn't ease the hurt.  I wish I had been more considerate, more comforting, more kind.  I wish with all my heart that I could have changed how I handled these circumstances.  

Though, I suppose, it's all the more reason to be thankful for forgiveness that cannot be found in my own heart.  I cannot forgive myself for the situation with Travis.  It's impossible.  Only God can do that.

Sigh.

Let's move on.

Stuart and I continued to get to know each other, over the phone.  He was visiting for the summer and was living with his brother in a town a few hours away from here.  I could try and write this in cohesive sentences, but let me just break it down for you that incredible, unique chain of events involved with our meeting:

1. Stuart's Mom lived in Atlanta and was looking for a roommate, insert a roommates.com ad.  2. A girl from Washington was looking to "get away" to Atlanta and found this ad.  3. Girl moves in with Stuart's Mom.  4. Girl meets Stuart's brother.  5.  Girl comes back to Washington after her summer away.  6. Stuart's brother decides to visit Washington with her.  7. Stuart's brother comes back to get his car in Georgia and drive back to Washington.  8. Stuart's brother asks Stuart to come with him, for a few weeks, before starting school in Mississippi.  9. Stuart drives out to Washington with them. 10. Stuart plans to stay for a few weeks.  11. Stuart meets me via a completely unrelated town, with completely unrelated people that both of us barely knew.

Talk about divine circumstances.

And it was Stuart, who a few months later, introduced me to doctrines that truly changed my views on, well, a lot of things.  

You see, my Stuart is the son of a preacher man.  "The only boy, who could ever reach me...was the son of a preacher man..."  That's just a little song I had for you.  But truly, the Lord is good in that he did know exactly what this stinkin', lazy, rebellious, silly, floundering, girl needed.  She needed her a solid, Christian man.  She needed her the son of a preacher man.

Stuart introduced me to the doctrine of grace, which until then (at least to my knowledge), is not something I had ever really thought about.  Did God save us? Or did we save ourselves? Who did what? How did we come to be 'Christians'? How are our heart changed? How does sanctification begin? Did we seek God? Or is mankind so naturally flawed from the fall that we cannot even seek goodness? And as anyone knows who has studied this doctrine, your view of grace affects almost every other view you hold to.

Stuart also introduced me to theologians like John Calvin and R.C. Sproul.  He introduced me to The Westminster Confession of Faith.  He introduced me Covenantal Theology and helped me through the hard issues I was struggling with, like hell, true forgiveness, and wrath.  Together, we studied all kinds of things.  We read the Bible together over the phone each night.  We prayed together.

Oh, how sweet sanctification can be.

I have goosebumps just typing this - what an exciting time this was!!! I remember telling Stuart that the Calvinist view of grace and a covenantal view of the Bible helped connect all these millions of scattered doctrinal-dots that I had acquired over the years.  This gave shape to my Christian-skin structure. It gave me a backbone.

And, bear with me a moment, as I put in a shameless-plug for my husband: Being with a godly man like Stuart has been a blessing - though, that word doesn't seem to do justice to the magnitude of it all.  Stuart is the kind of man who loves me as much all done up with makeup on as he does at night after I wash it away.  He is the type of man who will ride horses and till the soil, work with his hands, and fight for my honor.  He is also the type of man that can appreciate classical music, a good vanilla latte, and artisan bread.  He appreciates old books, a good cigar, fine scotch, and almost anything hand-crafted out of wood.  He is eclectic.  And he lets me be who I truly am - never expecting me to fit into a pre-packaged image, that I strove so hard to fit for all those years.

He lets me wear my cowboy boots.  And my high heels.  

And he's exactly who God designed for me.  To better us both.

Please forgive all the couple photos, but frankly, I don't have 

any pictures of God to put in this post.  And posts must have photos.  So sorry.

As my pastor reminded us a few days ago at church, sanctification (the process of being made holy), is a painfully slow process.  And while we wish at times that instantly, overnight, we could be made holy and pure....well, that's just not the way it works.  Sanctification is a journey.  I can look back on my past and be weighed down by the ignorance and folly of it all.  Or, I can look back on my past as a road that I have traveled that has brought me to this beautiful place I am able to enjoy today.  And hopefully, in another twenty five years, I will be able to look back at another road traveled that has brought me to even a further point of holiness and grace.  

We grow.  We change.  We learn.  We seek forgiveness.

I hope that this post offers encouragement to those of you out there that feel your life has been a mess. Like your sins have been horrible.  Like your burden is heavy.  No sin, no burden, and no mess is too big for God to forgive.  Ever. 

And He delights to forgive us for our shortcomings (which are many) - that is the Gospel, my friends!  We have not been, nor can we ever be, perfect...and so we cling to the only person who is and was and will be to come.

Jesus Christ.

And Amen.

My testimony. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Part 1 of a 2 part post.  Grab a cup of tea folks, it's a long one.  


You know, blogging is easy in the sense that you can only let people see the parts of your life you want them to see.


Have a nasty, disgusting closet?...Don't do a post on it.


Have a super, organized, wonderful remodel?...Post away.


But as I was laying in bed the other night...snuggling Stuart...trying to sleep...I kept tossing and turning - my mind was racing.  All I could think about was this post - and since then, even though I'm hesitant to share it, I've been meaning to sit down and write it. Because it's going to take quite a few words, I decided to split it into two posts.  So today, we will begin.  And tomorrow we will finish.


I don't know if you'd call it a testimonial, but I'd like to dive a little deeper into a few things.  What got me to this point.  The good, the bad, and the ugly. 


Hold on, let me take my last bite of scrambled egg.  I'm really gearin' up for it.  

Okay.  Here we go.  Back to the beginnning.


I was born in a small town in central Washington.  Born and raised in the good 'ol Northwest.  My parents have been happily married for, like, a hundred years or something.  Truthfully, my childhood was wonderful.  Many children would be envious of the amount of love I had poured out over me each and every day.  My parents loved us to the "moon and back" - as they say.  


We began going to church after my oldest sister, Brynn, made a wish with a penny in a fountain that we could go.  As my Mom has said, "Talk about being humbled...".  Neither of my parents were raised Christian.  But, as our gracious God would have it, they both committed their lives to Christ at that point.  And even though I was very young, I remember being at their baptism.  That was pretty special. 


From then on, church has always been a part of our lives.  After a number of years in the Baptist church, we left to attend a Methodist church - What did this even mean?  What's the difference?  At the time, I didn't have a clue.  And at the time, I was thoroughly absorbed with the youth/childcare/fun activities that were involved with it - and less than thrilled with the doctrinal, learning aspect of it all.  Sure, I knew about God.  Or about Jesus.  Or about the Holy Spirit.  But I didn't read my bible - I didn't pray (exception of youth group prayers, of course).  To me, church was socializing.  Not scripture.  


At this age (middle school), I discovered boys.  I also discovered that I liked boys.  Tee hee.  My poor parents.  I was young when I began pushing the limits of acceptable behavior - and boy, they let me know it.  But, bein' stubborn as a mule, the harder they tried to real me in, the harder I pulled away.  And though I never got into big trouble, I would appreciate a gallon of white-out to blot out moments I can remember during this time.  It can be very awkward as a young teenager, learning how to balance on the teeter-totter between the youth and adult worlds.  


Fast forward a few years to high school.  Like any teenager in high school, I wanted to dress a certain way, act a certain way, and talk a certain way.  I remember thinking I was really cool once for saying a swear word in the hallway.  An older teacher pulled me into her classroom, shut the door, and said "Now, young lady, you are far too pretty to be having such horrible words come out of your mouth".  Ouch.  Awwwkward.  (Side note:  I've never been good at confrontation.  In moments like this, I usually shrivel up into a ball and die of embarrassment.)

This is my best friend, and guiding light, from high school - Miss Abby

During my high school years, my family still attended the Methodist church, though is seems that our attendance got rather spotty in those last few years, but maybe that was just me.  Though I continued to get good grades and *fun-fact* play the snare drum in the marching band (did I just get kicked up in the coolness-factor or what?), I still found myself hangin' with a crowd that was, let's just say, less than grounded in biblical principals.  They weren't bad...but they also weren't Christian.  Not the ideal setting for a vulnerable teenager girl, that's for sure.


When I was sixteen, I began attending the local community college through Running Start.  From the time I was sixteen, I was enrolled in college full time and graduated high school with my A.A. Degree.  The nature of the Running Start program puts you in the college classroom - at sixteen - with people who are 5, 10, 15 years older than you.  So, I see a cute boy, and the next thing you know, I'm headed over to a party at his apartment.  Because he's old enough to live on his own.  Yikes.  


Now, let my just interject this:  My poor, poor parents.  No, they did not approve of this behavior.  No, they did not condone these actions.  Yes, they sat me down with the Bible, and pointed out verse-for-verse the errors in my ways.  Unfortunately, because I never got into serious trouble per-say, they made the mistake of trusting me.  Which I took full advantage of.  Sure, my parents and I laugh about this now (now that I'm married and have a baby...not in jail or pregnant), but at the time, I know that I hurt them severely.  It's moments like this that humble you as a Christian - when you realize the depth that your actions can have on other people.  When you realize just how dead in sin you can be.  I had been taught better - and I chose to rebel - against the teachings of my parents and the teachings of God.  

Don't I just look like a rebel with those aviators?  This is me, my niece, 

sister Tye, and sister Brynn on a trip to Montana.

Now, this was an interesting point in my Christian journey.  Everything was emotionally driven.  Again, feeling that I didn't have the answers to life's "big questions", I found myself floundering in the "Surface Christianity" - you know the type I mean?  Self-help books. Emotional music. Posters. Bookmarks.  Sure, those verses look great on that magnet...but did they help me to understand the core, nature of God?  Did they help me to understand how the Bible was applicable then, now, and forever?  Did they teach me how God saves people - how he turns them from their sin to a life of repentance and dependence on Christ?  Did they teach me about grace?  And sovereignty?  And love?  And equally important...wrath? If I had all of these positive things around me - why was I still so confused?


I specifically remember driving around, listening to K-LOVE on the radio in my 1983 Bronco (lifted, with 35" mud tires, baby...) and feeling very emotionally charged after listening to a song.  Soon after, I pulled into the college parking lot and remember feeling very sad.  Because that positive emotion I had felt while listening to the song melted away faster than an ice-cream cone.  It super-charged me for a moment...and then, that moment fleeted.  It was almost like I was wearing a Christian-shell with only the skin on...and I didn't have enough understanding inside to hold the rest of my body up.  


In 2004, I began attending Washington State University.  Go Cougs!  After entering into the Animal Science Program, I chose to focus my studies on Beef Production.  Yep, I be a bon-a-fide cowgirl.  I instantly hit it off with lots of friends there and because we were mostly all in the Animal Science Program, we shared a lot of the same hobbies.  We rode horses.  We chased cattle.  We fed cattle.  We roped things.  We drank beer.  It was an enjoyable time in that I was finally able to be around what I loved - ranch life.  


But.  The entire time I went to college, I only went to church one time.  One time.  I am so embarrassed even typing that - it brings tears to my eyes.  I didn't read my Bible.  I rarely prayed.  I had strayed, to say the least.  At the time, I was dating a wonderful guy...let's call him Ted..no, that doesn't fit him...how about Travis.  Travis was a rancher and was just a fun guy - everyone loved to be around him, as did I.  We shared many hobbies and friends, and were virtually inseparable during my two years at WSU.  But Travis was not a Christian.  And even though I should have never gotten into a relationship with a non-believer in the first place, it would take me over three years, a few breakups, and a lot of heartache to figure that out.


Lets just fast forward past the tears, shame, and sin present during this time.  Thank you for your cooperation.


God is good in this way - from when I was born, he began shaping my heart to love him.  And even though I had strayed and wondered far from His ways, he continually was growing my heart into a heart that would seek Him.  And I did.  


Little things would weigh on my heart - I would feel guilty.  I would feel scared.  Ashamed.  Exposed.  I knew things weren't right in my life, but I didn't know why.  Or how to fix it.  So, naturally, I called my Mom crying...and she simply said..."Come home."  After graduating college in May of 2006, at the ripe age of 19, I did just that.  I came home.  Alone.


But I didn't come home to the home I had grown up in.  My parents had since moved to a hobby-farm in the outskirts of town - which allowed me to bring my horse home from college.  I was in heaven.  We went riding in the orchards every day.  We spent nights up out on the porch, sippin' coffee, and watching the chickens roam around.  We picked blackberries and scrapbooked.

We talked about God.  


God bless my parents for never...ever...ceasing to talk about Him.


Even still, it wasn't an easy road.  The next few years were a little slippery.  Maybe I could make things right.  Maybe I could be the person someone else wants me to be.  Maybe I would be happy, if only I was there.  Or with him.  Maybe I could ignore all this dependence crap and just control this situation.A horrible relationship and two more moves later, I found myself once again on my parents doorstep like a lost puppy.  


My poor, poor parents.  Have I said this yet?


At this point in their lives, my parents had once again moved churches.  They were now attending a local CMA church that was alive with fellowship and community.  I began attending a small group with them here and began to purposefully, and studiously, study the word of God.  I stumbled about the wonderful teachings of Alistair Begg and Ravi Zacharias - who began to help me form a more tangible, solid foundation of doctrine.  I remember one time meeting with a pastor, who helped counsel me through the idea that a Christian, according to God's word, has no place to be in a relationship with a non-believer.  What!  Is he crazy!  That can't be right.  There aren't good, Christian men out there.  They don't exist.  And if they do, they sure as heck don't want me.  I'm sinful.  I'm filthy.  What kind of Christian man would want this?


Mind you, at this point, Travis and I had decided to give it another go.  Surely, we could make it work?  Right?


All he had to do was believe?  And then we could believe together and it would be perfect, just like I'd planned.


But oh - was God ever working.  Through the next year, I was brought to a place of repentence...and dependence.  I began to understand that I wasn't in control - that He was.  I began to understand that he had severe authority that ruled every cell on this earth and that nothing - hear me now people - NOTHING happens that is apart from His will.  I learned that he was able to take that tangled mess of sin that was shackled to my ankle and cast it into the sea, never to be seen again.


I remember one time praying in tears that I would forget all of the sins of my past - sometimes, I could remember them so clearly, it was like I was there again.  I hate that.  I just kept praying - help me forget...help me forget...help me forget.  I was so ashamed.  And then one day it dawned on me:  I remembered so I wouldn't repeat.  I needed to feel that shame and that pain to remember where a life apart from Christ had taken me.


Remembering my sins helped me to remember just how far God's grace has brought me.  From death to life. From sin to purity.  From darkness to light.


But I don't think it was until I met my husband...ahem, in a bar...ahem...that I truly understood the goodness of God's grace.


Stay tuned tomorrow for Part 2 of the saga....