Why I’m Better than the Lies I Tell Myself

We are our own best sabotagers, aren’t we? We feed into the lies we tell ourselves due to a number of different reasons. I’m in a new season of life where I’m constantly running into inspirational stepping stones which speak volumes for my self confidence. Don’t get me wrong, having self confidence and being boastful are two completely different concepts. Though, the end result of a task usually boils down to our self confidence which is the foundation of belief that we’re good enough, worthy enough to complete it in the first place. This is an area I’ve lacked greatly the past year in particular.

This time last year, I was working as a taxi dispatcher for a man who 1) took great pleasure in debating with anyone whose belief in God didn’t align with his– which he relentlessly denied there was one, and 2) treated his staff like soldiers in Nazi Germany. This man cut me down to size at every turn, and on many occasions held no qualms about berating me and my abilities via telephone at three o’clock in the morning. His alcoholism and addiction to video games occupied his time otherwise, when he wasn’t instilling fear of his superiority into the employees at his company. I’d worked so hard, given him extra hours of overtime and was first to volunteer when another dispatcher would be consistently late or call in altogether. By the end of November after making what I thought was a reasonable business decision, giving a hard working driver some much deserved reprieve, I’d been reduced to nothing more than pond scum and my confidence in doing any job at all made me inferior to the lies thrashing around my mind that I was not good enough to excel at anything ever again– professionally or personally.

“But false prophets also arose among the people, just as there will be false teachers among you, who will secretly bring in destructive heresies, even denying the Master who bought them, bringing upon themselves swift destruction.” (2 Peter 2:1 ESV)

I cannot count how many times this egomaniac sent my blood pressure and anxiety through the roof of our ozone layer. While none of this is the key concept for today’s blog entry, it does however help me land the plane for my primary moral of the story. Sabotaging our truth. Whatever truth may be sinking into our hearts, it’s not there for no apparent reason. It’s there for when we finally decide to toss the rhetoric of failure by the wayside and give our full-self into something without fear, without deniability, just diving in head first.

This month has certainly spoken volumes to my self confidence practically more so than any other time in my life. While it hasn’t gone without some real heart-ache and deep conversations with God–even prayers in a different language I swear to Him that I have no recollection of its coherency–I’m coming out of the month stronger than I was entering it. And if anyone truly knows me, I have not been fond of the number nine. (September being the ninth month of the year). But by the grace of His Holiness, I am certainly coming out feeling like David after he conquered his giant with nothing more than a rock. Both professionally, and personally.

Something occurred to me last week, as I struggled in more than difficult waters, another lesson learned and I did something I hadn’t done since 2016. Any other time before my transition back to the Godly flow of things, I would have told myself I was not worthy of cooking something that required poultry. Each time I’d previously think of preparing something which requires the utmost care and consideration to temperature and storage, I’d remind myself that if I practically burn a pot of water, how could I cook chicken in the oven? However these days, budget conquers convenience and I needed to just do it because a carnivorous beast like yours truly cannot survive on salads with cottage cheese alone, and sliced deli meat is rather costly. Upon returning home from the grocery, I was presented with two cooking mediums. I have a decent sized Crock-Pot, which for one person is way big enough but you should know me by now if not personally, that my brain is only capable of an all-or-nothing mentality. Or I have an oven and pans to bake in, like people have done for centuries. I wanted so much to take the easy way out, giving thought to the allure of convenience. But something else, something more omnipotent [God] nudged me in the direction of baking my barbeque chicken thighs the old fashioned way. The method which required culinary brilliance I thought I hadn’t been worthy of. But I proved my inhibitions wrong, and boy am I glad I did.

Outside of looking up which temperature and time-frame online to bake chicken thighs, I did everything else by what my mind was guiding me to do. When my timer went off to remove the chicken, after the 45 minutes I’d been instructed to wait from online, I noticed most of the pieces remained relatively pink beneath the skin. So instead of panicking and throwing my fists to the heavens for sending me down the avenue of failure, I decided to keep a patient attitude and figured I’d let them cook another 20 minutes before removing to pour the sauce over them. This proved to be the appropriate approach. Sure enough, after allowing the extra time, they came out looking almost perfect and the extra 10 minutes of baking with the sauce slathered across them would be the right amount of time.

“[to] put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires, [and to] be renewed in the spirit of your minds, [and to] put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness.” (Ephesians 4:22-24 ESV)

Within minutes, I found myself settling in to enjoy the meal I’d prepared. Sure, it was no complex recipe and something most of you could have done in a state of sleepwalking, but I was happy with the result. I was so satisfied that I didn’t listen to the lies deep within telling me that I would mess up even the simplest of entree. This has further sparked my interest to dive back into a world of discovering my inner culinary self. Since I can now cook chicken the old fashioned way, come November, I aim to accomplish my next poultry mission. I have never cooked a turkey, but I figure at 32, it’s high time I stop self sabotaging myself and just go for it. All I truly need for that is a cooking thermometer, to ensure the inside is the temperature it should be.

And on the professional front, I am headed into this seasonal job on Monday with the confidence and patience that I am capable of achieving the necessary skills and knowledge required to do it with faith and confidence. It may only be customer service, but this is the most exposure to customer service I’ve had since mid last year.

I hope everyone has a wonderful new week upon us. It’s bound to get colder here in Colorado, as we welcome the changing of seasons with open hearts. If you have any good Autumn reads to enjoy under a nice weighted blanket, please send them in my direction.

How a Single Night of Failure Provided a Bridge to God’s Timely Blessings

I don’t know about you, but I can never seem to put on my socks whilst standing. Call it lack of equilibrium, or I’m bigger boned than most, or whatever you will. An excuse isn’t going to miraculously give me that ability, because I am not capable of creating miracles all by myself. If I lift one leg and hunch over, I’m just bound to fall over. Only when I am seated, can I truly focus on putting the socks to cover my tootsies– safely and comfortably. You might be thinking I’m about to write about self-reliance. While this aligns nicely, I am also speaking up about patience. Taking things one at a time to focus on whatever I need to without the, well, fear of failing. We hate failing in today’s world, don’t we? But we certainly don’t have to fear that. In the words of Duckie, one of my favorite childhood cartoon characters in “The Land Before Time”… Nope, nope, nope.

Earlier this week, I shared a personal story about a huge struggle I encountered after The Big Cheese took my momma back home to be in His kingdom. That particular feat began with lots of physical pain which doctors couldn’t define what was causing me to feel all that I was suffering. With a lack of answers why, they tossed around words like “psychosomatic” and “idiopathic.” I grew even more frustrated because it was affecting my ability to stand, and work in anyplace which required me to stand for long periods of time–or use my legs at all for that matter. This persisted for a good year, and you know what ultimately caused it? Worry. Nothing was getting better. My life was not improving, even after overcoming my for-all-intents-and-purposes… addiction to painkillers and muscle relaxers.

“Be patient, therefore, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains. You also, be patient. Establish your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is at hand.” (James 5:7-8 ESV)

Nine years ago, I might have cracked open to scripture only in the frailest and darkest of times. And only then, that was maybe a couple times a year. Looking back now, I can identify that period of time as a result of little patience. I thought I was able to do everything myself, despite my legs turning into grape jelly. That’s when I met Bea, whom I consider my life adviser. We’d crossed digital paths in a Facebook group for writers. This was when I realized, God put her in my life for a reason. She was very much a motherly figure, the kind of emotional support a human provides another. I’d joined a temp agency to try even earn fifty bucks that week, if that’s all it would turn up.

The next day, I got a call asking if I was willing to work with a catering company who needed help at a wedding event. Having never served anyone anything in my life before but sass mouth, I was uncertain if I was a good fit. Since I was anything but a coward, I put forth the attitude to try. But this temp job required a white oxford shirt and black pants, of which I had neither. I spoke with Bea on the phone about the opportunity and she offered the encouragement that I should try it. The fact I lacked to meet their clothing requirements was in fact, no obstacle at all. Bea went to her local Chase Bank and deposited the money needed into my account so I could go to Walmart and jump through that hoop.

Evening arrived and I drove myself to the catering business’s central kitchen and helped load the van of all the food and utensils needed at the venue. I rode with them and a handful of other workers to the wedding site. This is where things went downhill, in the most literal and figurative sense combined. The venue was behind a clubhouse which literally rested at the top of a hill. After the reception began, I was shuffling my ‘big bones’ up and down a hill for three hours. Because of my mobility concerns, my head rarely looked up from the ground. I was pouty because I was uncomfortable physically and mentally (see; I have never liked large groups of people). If I had to count how many times I genuinely smiled instead of plastering a fake one, I’d say it was only during a brief conversation with a lady whom was my Home Economics Teacher in middle school.

Fast forward an hour later. Silver platter in hand with my head locked-in on the ground, a gentleman I didn’t see in my peripheral vision was headed up the incline as I was stepping down. We bumped into each other, causing the tray of disgusting looking tapas to smash firmly into his shirt which probably cost more than I was surely making that evening. Little did I know at the time, it was the father of the bride. Major yikes. What I was sure of, was upon impact, I lost balance and tumbled down the hill. Not one soul walked over to help me up or see if I was even okay. I picked myself up, walked over to pick up the tray and hobbled myself back to the catering tent where I sulked for about twenty minutes wondering why I was putting myself through such torture.

After having my pity-party, I was asked to help serve dessert to everyone seated at the tables where I was required to hold a platter of cake slices above one hand and a carafe of hot coffee in the other. Of course, my little blunder caught most people’s attention, I was being criminalized because I ran into the bride’s dad. Like how dare I be clumsy, right? Bouncing from this table to another, I was sure to catch the stink eye and disgusting sighs from people in the wedding party. I didn’t like how rude they were, and by that point I was just “not having it” so I sat the carafe of hot coffee down on the last table I’d served, dropped the tray which thankfully was bare by that point. Put my hands in the air, proclaiming, “You guys are horrible people. Mean and rude people.”

I hobbled toward to the caterers tent and told the owner that I just couldn’t do it anymore and my legs were giving out. I needed to just go home and clean up the scrape on my arm which had came in contact with the sharp edge of a rock on the tumble down. He let out a cavernous sigh, but appeared to not show a look of surprise before replying, “I get it, I’m sorry this didn’t work out.” He reached into his pocket and handed me cash from his own wallet. It was $100. That was certainly way more than I would have earned if the night went without a hitch (no pun intended). He said if I could sit down and wait a few minutes, he would take me back to my parked car at their business. He apologized for my fall and showed me so much grace and understanding. I called Bea while sitting down to wait for him. I was distraught and having a breakdown. For I failed miserably, yet somehow The Lord came through this man with a generous and understanding heart. I could see some disappointment in the owner’s eyes. But if I could place my finger on his true feelings, he showed more understanding and compassion than giving the enemy a bridge into my mind which had already been in a fragile state. He bore the fruit of the Spirit which was certainly everything mentioned in the below scripture.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness.” (Galatians 5:22 ESV)

The next morning, I returned to Walmart to get some food with that very gesture of Faith from the catering proprietor. As I was leaving, I ran into an old colleague from a previous job. She told me that her ex-husband was needing a couple new employees at Pier One Imports. Some of you know me personally, and know where I’m headed with this. That job, combined with the help and support of Bea and her husband, is what lead me into the new life I’d established in Indiana. Pier One Imports let me transfer to a store in the Hoosier state so I wasn’t moving with no employment.

What is something you can look back and say, “Huh, you know it was through patience and taking one moment at a time which led me to XYZ?” For certainly had I not taken one moment at a time and not experienced that evening, I wouldn’t have been blessed with the “early rain” [the Pier One Imports job] which led to the “late rain” [the end result which was employment post-move].

God is never early, He is never late. But He’s always on time.

You’ve all heard that phrase, surely. The Hebrew translation to this is referred to as mow’ed, which means ‘appointed time and place.’ We just need to be patient and believe that God is going to arrive on time.

Prayer:

“Yahweh, please help me and all your children sit still just a bit longer. Let us put our Faith in your plan and learn to take it one moment, one step at a time. For nothing we try ourselves is ever going to hurry your mighty power even a second quicker. I appreciate the blessings you bring into our lives each and every day, which were in your will to happen timely and seamlessly. Hallelujah to you and your perfect son Jesus for letting our hearts beat according to your clock and not our own here on this green earth. Amen!”

How I’m (now) Trying Not to Act Like a Spoiled Doctor’s Kid

I do not like riding the bus. I’d just as well starve to death if it means enduring two long bus rides to a grocery store. I’d rather sprint backwards through a snowstorm to work (when I find a job again) than to submit myself to the agonizing misery. While that may bode well for shedding some pounds, that’s not what God wants or expects of me. But riding the bus? It’s too loud and obnoxious, usually crowded, and it’s never on time. What would be a five minute drive is an hour long circus ride, only there’s no soft drinks or cotton candy. Most of the bus drivers seem to have a stick up their butt, and there’s usually a certain level of pride which comes into play. 

Writer and theologian, C.S. Lewis once stated: 

“It was through Pride that the devil became the devil: Pride leads to every other vice: it is the complete anti-God state of mind… it is Pride which has been the chief cause of misery in every nation and every family since the world began.”

On my journey through humbleness, I realize that this is something I greatly need to adjust to. I haven’t always had the most humility in my life. Actually quite the opposite, since I was young, I’ve acted like a spoiled doctor’s kid. Though neither of my parents came even close to such a profession. Also equate into the picture that I get overstimulated and overwhelmed way easier than most, and you have a recipe for disaster. I’m scared to drive–but trust me when I tell you that you’re much safer with me not behind the wheel! 

Try as I might in this new chapter of my life, I am not perfect either. Although, I’m finding that I am adjusting my thinking. I see the world through God’s eyes and there is a certain amount of understanding in my heart now, which I kid you not, was never there before. In fact I’m sitting on the city bus right now. Mandisa blasting through my ears, and I’m holding onto my bag of groceries for dear life. If this driver makes another sharp turn or slams on the brakes one more time, my orange juice is bound to break loose and explode all over. Though I’m uncomfortable, I can sense the bus driver is having a bad day. He’s honking the horn at cars and grumbling to himself while shaking his head as steam emanates from his ears. But I sit here with an open heart, patient and humble.

“Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” (Proverbs 16 NIV)

There’s a couple different aspects of pride coming into play here. I still feel like I shouldn’t be riding the bus, but I can’t rely on my neighbor around the corner to take me home each time– especially when her son (older than I am) is hanging on in the hospital from a septic infection after his appendix burst open requiring it to be removed. Yet I’m remaining humble because I can understand seeing the world through a different lens helps the balance of happy vs. hurt in the world. Honestly, I should just be thankful I don’t have to walk the entire way home! The other side of the prideful coin is the driver (much like every other driver, surely this isn’t you, right?) is too prideful in his abilities to operate such a big vehicle. As if to say, “Move over everybody, I am more important than you because I have a dozen passengers to get somewhere.” 

How many times have all of us been too prideful and it affected our immediate moods? Our time is no more valuable than anyone else’s and moaning like a miserable beast isn’t going to make that waitress bring your food any faster is it? As a matter of fact, from past experience I know with certainty had I let my pride get in the way, I may have said something to the driver which would with zero doubts not reflect what Jesus would do. And that sour attitude might’ve resulted in dropping my groceries all over the ground, making the rest of the afternoon ruined through eternity. 

Though, an ounce of patience and a pound of gratitude can bring satisfaction in no time at all. Thus was the case, as I am now back at home in the peace and stillness of my house. As peculiar as this sounds, I can hear this voice inside me (may it be God or just one of the thousand voices in my mind– kidding of course, I usually only have three) and it’s saying, “See? That wasn’t so bad was it?” Much like my parents would have to remind me after choking down my pride, forcing me to eat my vegetables. At eight-years-old, I was too good for veggies. I loved tomatoes, and pickles, green beans, and squash. But I hated carrots more than the enemy disdains divine intervention. I’d tell them, “These taste like dirt and I’m pretty sure we aren’t supposed to eat dirt, right?” In hindsight, I was a very snarky child. Bless my mother for making it as long as she did!

I’ve got a long way to go on this journey of humbleness, before I can think of myself as being remotely righteous or Christlike. Much like I know many of you do too, and it’s okay. But one thing I know for sure, we can all get there in due time if we just have a little more patience and shove pride deep into our britches. Learning to let go of pride is just par for the course in the grand scheme of lightening our loads, and surely it’s not as easy as snapping our fingers. Caveat, don’t we owe it to ourselves to try anyway?

I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend.