Conversation with a Sexual Predator

Posted on February 16, 2020 by crystal

I had just entered Costco with my husband and kids when I saw you. You are older, heavier, and balder then you were 23 years ago but your features are burned into my memory like a scared wound. The revulsion I felt in my body was rapid. Just the sight of you made my stomach turn, my fists curl, and my pulse race. The bile that raised up burned my throat as I willed it back in place. 23 years since you robbed me, groomed me and violated me. Do you remember me?

My husband said we could leave the store, that I didn’t have to put myself through this- the seeing of you. But you see, I am not who I once was and I don’t run away or cower down or submit to evil anymore. I would not be the one to retreat today.

I saw the woman at your side and I wondered if she knew who you really were. Did you tell her you are a sexual predator? Does she have kids? Have you changed? The bile rose in my throat again. I didn’t fight back before, I never stood up for myself, for I was utterly convinced (despite the few who learned of what happened saying otherwise) that I had somehow caused it all. Me, “a stupid, seductress, teenage slut” was responsible for what you did… I even planned on taking my own life after you attempted to rape me and failed because of the shame that enveloped me, the knowing that I couldn’t wash away your fingerprints on my flesh.

But not today. I am no longer her.

I thought it was time you meet me.

I feared I may have missed my opportunity while I regained myself, so I whispered silently to the God who has redeemed all you stole, “give me another chance…”

I stood in the middle of the aisle as my husband grabbed some butter and you rounded the corner with the woman. You looked up, you recognized me, and you quickly looked away. I stood there, arms crossed, and invited my children to gather around as I explained that this is what a predator can look like. And then, after what felt like too long, I willed my feet to move. I walked right up to you and leaned in a bit, you turned with a smile. That smile made it clear what I needed to say.

I wonder what you expected.

“Have you told her who you really are T**?” You looked at me with disdain before you looked away.

Again, I grew a bit louder, bolder, and unwavering– with one look I knew you had not changed.

“Does she know you are a sexual predator? Does she, T**? If not, she really deserves to know who you are and what you have done.”

At this, behind you, I heard her asking who I was, and then when my words registered, I saw her eyes grow big and heard her exclaim, “WHAT?” I faintly heard my husband behind me say, “I don’t think she knew.” And as you started to walk silently away I drew one last breath to say, “Who better to know than me, your victim!” And the chain fragments that were still being carried by me, fell. Did you hear them? It sounded like a surge of my power coming home, where it always belonged.

And walking away to a clammer of sounds between you and that poor woman, that my mind just could not be bothered with, I realized that I had finished taking back my power- power you once robbed me of.

Were you surprised to find yourself before one you once overpowered now standing before you fiercely, unflinching, a warrior?

I turned the corner of the aisle and fist pumped the air, then turned to look at my daughters who had watched it all. And I realized again, it is NEVER too late to take back your power, to fight for your freedom, and to land in the beautiful, bountiful land of victory.

Dear T**, I wish you knew my Jesus.

A Birthday Message

Posted on February 13, 2020 by crystal

We met mid-October, just 4 months before this picture was taken on your 15th birthday.

I can still picture it like it was yesterday, you standing there wearing that black boa wrapped around your neck while your sister sat at the table. Me 25, you just shy of 15.

Impossible.

Crazy.

Mom number 6, I believe they said.

I can still remember how the goosbumps rippled across my flesh when the whisper echoed through my mind-

“Meet your daughters.”

In fact, just thinking about that moment brings tears to my eyes- every. time.

Impossible, God!

Absolutely crazy!

No way! I immediately started to argue back…

Not because of you and your sister not being worthy of being chosen, you both have ALWAYS been worthy, but because I felt so unworthy, so ill equipped. And I was.

But then God did something only He can, he knit you both deeply into our hearts.

Forever and always.

Nothing and no one can shatter what God bound.

I know, it feels impossible to understand but one day I fervently hope you do.

So today, on your 29th birthday, just over 14 years later, here is what I long for you to know:

I pray that one day you will see and understand…

you were chosen then, you are chosen now, and you will always be chosen by us.

us choosing you is NEVER contingent on you choosing us.

you are loved deeply and passionately, imperfectly but ALWAYS.

I pray that one day you will walk in total freedom…

that the wounds of the past will heal.

you will believe your worth.

you will walk in victory, for that which the enemy meant to destroy you God can redeem and use powerfully.

I pray that one day you will see…

how God has always loved you.

how God has always pursued you.

how God is the only way to the healing place and the land of fulfillment.

how God has created you and sustained you and has great plans for you.

I pray that you would know…

that we understand our love can’t fix everything or maybe anything at all, but we are still here loving you anyways.

that we understand we can’t ever fully understand.

that we know we can never take the place of another.

that we are always fighting for you, no matter where, no matter what, we are fighting for you in the only way we can: we remain and we are lifting you up to the God who is able.

that we long to see the day where you are walking in freedom, enslaved by nothing.

that we still believe that your birth mom is remembering you today, if able.

Happy Birthday to our dearly loved and precious oldest.

We remain here, still loving you, still choosing you, imperfectly but always.

You are worthy.

Tempted to Quit

Posted on January 31, 2020 by crystal

This is not a post about weight loss, though if you must know I can now brag about my ability to play give-and-take with the same 40 pounds. I can list that under my super powers along with my ability to sausage myself into a pair of spanx like it is an olympic sport! But that is not the point of this post.

Sometimes I am tempted to quit.

Do you ever feel like just giving up?

The hard space you are in never seems to end,

The doctor calls with the news that you have cancer,

You never seem to overcome that thing that seems to be destroying you, or maybe

the pain is relentless and you are weary.

And the elixir of despair roles in, blankets you and tempts you to just quit.

I have learned that some people quit showing up for their life long before they actually die.

Unable to cope, they mope and they turn to whatever can offer some whisperings of comfort.

I have been there.

It is the space of defeat and disillusionment.

9 years and roughly 70 pounds separate the woman in these 2 photos.

But the digital numerals on the scale were never the point, the storyline and the struggle can’t be tiddly summed up in a photo. Oh, photos can be so misleading, so let me peel back the curtain of what you do not see…

The photos don’t tell of the children missing, the health battles, the parenthood struggles, the marriage counseling, the parents dying, the rejection suffered, the pain continuing, and one thousand other tear dwelling spaces.

However, the photos DO silently proclaim a woman who has not quit and will not quit.

They hint of a woman who keeps showing up for her life and fighting for her freedom.

And today, dear one, that is my message to the one who is weary…surrender but don’t ever quit. In the midst of the storm Jesus is there, offering to carry you through, giving himself, and declaring His love for you. With Jesus, surrender feels a lot like freedom. And I am slowly but surely learning that you can find freedom in the hard spaces because God never wastes a hurt. He has you.

Focus your gaze carefully, breath deeply, surrender completely, and take the next step holding onto the One Who Has Mighty Plans For You. This too shall pass.

The question is always, will you allow God to shape you through it, or the enemy to destroy you because of it? We freely choose. And I pray today that you will always choose freedom.

Share with someone you love and remind them to keep taking the next step.

Suffering

Posted on January 21, 2020 by crystal

Delicately pink and offendingly small.

Small enough to hold what once was two souls in their unfinished frames, and yet big enough to bury all my hope for the future.

I stared at the coffin as the numbness ran through my flesh, the numbness felt like a protective cloak that was holding in what was left of my sanity.

How do I grieve the loss of my children, God? How can I possibly keep going?

I looked down at the ground, carefully covered in that fake plastic grass carpet that attempts to pretty up a dying scene and hide the newly hewed out hole of earth that will welcome the latest to their return to dust, and I kept picturing my flesh falling forth into the hole.

I thought, just fall into the freshly turned dirt, heavy with the dust of those who came before. Fall in and join the dead, for what is left of you now? Hope is gone.

Let me die here with them, Lord. Why did you let me live?

The melody began in my mind, softly, tenderly declaring words of hope and truth that were not felt by even one bone of my flesh. A song of praise, of praise to the God of dust, to the one who gave and to the one who took away. All of my spirit joined in the chorus playing in my mind as the tears poured down my cheeks in surrender. How could I be filled with a song of praise to God while I stood at my twins’ graveside?

Was that one moment any less miraculous than if He had saved them? Or was it simply not what I would have chosen?

When would I ever choose to suffer? When would I ever choose pain? No, I would choose what I could control and fix and whatever felt good, but never would I choose pain.

What if there is profound purpose in the pain? Even as I type those words my flesh is ridiculously offended. Because, really, my self indignation wants to tell God how He should write the story differently, and it begs the question of his goodness. But does God owe me anything at all? And what could He possibly give me when I am faced with suffering, apart from my cries to remove the pain?

I am sitting in this space, over 13 years after the burial of my twins, asking the same question as I sit in yet another season of suffering and pain.

I read from Genesis to Revelation of some who came before, of God’s faithfulness, of His abilities to do far more than we can imagine, of His love. While something deep inside me cries out a deep and resounding, “Yes! True!,” they also feel like mere words on a page as I sit in this season right now. Should my feelings be what lead me? Only if they lead me to Him in eventual surrender of the simple realization that I am not God.

Remember.

I read of monuments they once built in the times of the Old Testament.

Monuments to remember what God had done.

Monuments that declare that God is bigger than their battle, bigger than their pain, that He always has a plan.

And I will myself to remember that scene, in that cemetery, with that small, soft pink coffin and with God pouring forth a song of praise in the darkness of death, and I remember anew how unfathomable His love really is. My mind still can’t comprehend how He was able. He became my hope without end. I did not come to my end that day, and light and beauty did dawn again.

In the suffering seasons, I have learned that His greatest gift to me has not been in the removing of my pain, but in the depth of His presence. I have no words to express the mysteries of intimacy with God, apart from the deep certainty that He is worth everything, He is who I was created for, and He is my perfect peace in the storms. It is a gift of knowledge and intimacy with God only learned in the profoundly hard spaces, quiet possibly because that is what it takes for us to see and hear Him most clearly– the certainty that we need our Creator for our very next breath.

My feelings, while informative, are horrible drivers.

I have to fight to see the truth-

And to hunger for Him like the thirsty long for water in the desert.

God promises it will be hard. He promises it will cost us. He promises it will be worth it. But most profoundly He promises to give us Himself. In this we receive the most incredible gift, and this is the detail that changes everything, making the impossible possible.

This, my friends, not the absence of suffering, but the presence of the Savior, is the very pulse of the abundant life.

A Lesson

Posted on January 14, 2020 by crystal

“Mommy, whatcha doing?”

“Spending time talking with God, sweetheart.”

“Ok, Mommy, I am going to join you. Let me get my Bible.”

…

“Mommy, God is good, and I will write about Him.

He made me beautiful and you beautiful and every single person beautiful.

I will always worship Him because I love Him.

I am going to read my Bible.

This is how I fight the enemy.”

*begins to make up songs about her and Jesus fighting the enemy as she diligently “writes notes” and “reads.”

They say that little eyes are always watching and you are always teaching. I have found it to be the most humbling of spaces. I often get lost in the heavy gravity of the responsibility of parenthood. Long ago I had plans of being the “perfect mom,” though I would never have admitted that. (Who would? It sounds braggish–instead, just wear the pressure like all the others still yoked to this impossible plow). My intentions were good but irrelevant, the reality of one crazy enough to try to do the impossible. Lessons too numerous to count have stripped away the perfection illusion like removing the flesh of a stinky onion: one layer at a time.

I have modeled imperfect one-hundred-percent of the time, and more often than I want to recollect I have modeled behavior that will never bear life giving fruit. I am, most days, woefully aware of the failed moments I am presenting, and shame taunts me like the the blood-thirsty, fang-bearing monster that it is. But slowly I am learning that I don’t have to let it bite, nor do I need to offer up my flesh for its flagellation..that too bears no good fruit.

God gently reminds me in moments and spaces like this today that, while I am an imperfect vessel, He specializes in using just that very kind. I fail, I fall, but I also crawl, kneel, and seek with an unquenchable thirsty-need the God who is chiseling me through it all, and my kids are seeing that too! I do not offer up hollow lip service; I don’t pose or pretend (or at least I try not to). I model a very real sinner seeking her powerfully real Savior, and that may be the most important lesson I ever get to teach.

Tag a person who needs a reminder that God is bigger than our failures.

God, Pain and Becoming a Drunk

Posted on December 27, 2019 by crystal

I looked down at the amber liquid that sat so peacefully in the glass as the light danced through it, and I desperately tried to will the muscle spasms that were tearing through my pelvis to end. I slowly sipped while beckoning the liquid to start relaxing the battle in my flesh. Six weeks since the miscarriage, six weeks since a good-bye of my third daughter to Heaven, six weeks of my body being on fire, again.

Six weeks of running.

I took another sip while wishing the wine was actually a piece of cheesecake because that is my true lusty drug of choice. Food, specifically sugary fats in almost any form, give me a hit of that. I don’t even like the taste of wine, and after all this time of “trying it,” I am guessing I will never develop the taste to actually “enjoy” it. Instead, it feels more like a powerful bottle of medicine, complete with liver warnings in cases of excessive consumption. Another sip.

After 8 years of therapy working through the whys of an eating disorder, trauma, and grief and loss, I don’t really need anyone to tell me how I got here.

Pain.

This time, though, it is physical, not just emotional, and it is the wrong time in this country to ask for help with physical pain- so sip.

My oldest barged in through the front door and declared she had placed her letter in the mailbox. She was bouncy with anticipation. I took another sip; the muscles were starting to calm as the warmth ran through my flesh. It was the first time she had ever written to her birth mother, and it was a big deal. I began to flash to images of her birth mother–brief moments we had shared in earlier years, and it hit me again: there is no difference between her and I. We both need a Savior. She chose meth, I chose cake, and now I am sipping on wine…all to “escape” the pain. The promise of “escape” is the root of the lie. “Only by the grace of God go I,” I mantrad as the tears once again filled my eyes… and now I am more certain than ever that one change can literally change everything.

I took another sip, and I heard Him gently and lovingly repeat the words he had whispered earlier that day, words I wanted to push away as I tried to walk…

What if feeling the pain DOESN’T destroy you?
What if you give all the fear to me?
What if I am enough to carry you through this too?

The tears fell.
What if God is right?

I took my last sip of wine and surrendered.

That was 40 days ago.
That was in the middle of the pain.
That was broken and battered and uncertain if I could keep surrendering all the moments and all the days of whatever lay ahead.
It was a step.

I have kept “stepping” through all the messy moments of the last 40 days.
I have kept leaning through the pain and physical setbacks.
I have learned more about breathing.
I have learned to like super dark chocolate and now know that the brand matters.
I have seen Him show up in a thousand different ways I may have missed before.
I have watched all of my littles grow and my littlest give her life to Christ.
I have lost some weight, increased my muscle mass, and grown able to do more than I have since I had hip surgery 3 years ago.
I am no longer having muscle spasms, but I do still have pain.
I have not arrived, but I am learning.

One moment at a time, one day at a time, I am learning anew He is able.
God is bigger than my lack of trust, He is bigger than my pain, and He is bigger than my fears.
He is truly a God whose strength is made perfect in our weakness…
Because I chose to run, I chose to drown, I chose defeat, I chose lies-
BUT GOD
Chose to rescue me.
BUT GOD
Changes everything.
BUT GOD
Is never content to leave us in the prisons we fashion for ourselves.

He is the God of freedom.
He is the God of peace.
He is the God who saves, rescues, and redeems.
And He does all of this because He loves us.
Broken, crazy, lost, stubborn, hurting, US.

May He never stop rescuing me, and may my pain draw me nearer and allow me to see clearer the One Who Is Worthy.

Do you know my Jesus? And if you do, what are you refusing to surrender and trust Him with? He promises He is able to do immeasurably more than we could ever imagine, and I continue to be proof.

Sincerely,
A Woman Who Never Imagined She Would Become a Drunk

The Furnace

Posted on October 28, 2019 by crystal

I turned down the radio. The song seemed trite, and I have no space or grace for trite right now. The cool fall air had been hijacked by a warm front that left me feeling robbed of the one mercy I felt my postpartum body deserved: the wonderful, crisp, cool air of fall. My annoyance over this detail beat in rhythm to the random hot flashes I had been experiencing, subject to a body that still hasn’t fully realized there is no baby left to serve. The tears that silently fell down my cheeks actually felt cool, almost refreshing. Grief and brokenness make for a garment not easily cast off; the only way out is through.

“Focus. Focus on your driving. Don’t let your mind wander.” I find myself repeating that often right now as I taxi about. The music playing softly in the background seemed to register again, just for a moment, one stanza, God being with them in the furnace or something…

Everything stilled as I sat at the stop sign and thought of Jesus standing with me in this fire.

I heard that sweet, small voice of the Holy Spirit melodiously beat through my mind with a reminder of an incredible promise.

He is with me. In every fire, in every trial, He promises I am not alone. It can’t consume me; it won’t destroy me. Instead He will draw me ever more deeply into His presence. I will walk out of this fire, and no smoke will hold fast to me. Instead, only his sweetness will remain.

The gift is not in seeing God say yes to all we ask. The gift is in getting Him.

The most incredible gifts aren’t on the mountain tops.

The most incredible gifts of God are found in the valleys, in the hard spaces and places that threaten to destroy us.

It is in those seasons that we are invited to press into our Creator, where we stand most aware of our weakness and our desperate need for a Savior.

And it is only then, in that sacred space, that we begin to taste and see just how incredible He truly is.

It is then that we begin to learn to trust Him.

When the fiery furnaces come, the enemy wants us to believe the lie that we won’t be ok. It is the same lie that marks the birth place of every fear. Yet, the God who made us, invites us, provides the very breath in our lungs right now, promises He has us–He will carry us, and He can be trusted. Sometimes the miracle is watching God create and sustain life, and sometimes the miracle is experiencing Him carry you through the fire and then use it in ways unfathomable.

May I echo the words of Paul, “But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”

And like Job, may I finally be able to say, “Even though he slay me, yet will I trust Him.”

Of this I am certain: the words of Paul and Job are birthed out of an intimacy with God so deep and sweet that one must journey through the valley to understand their weight and their truth.

I have only just begun to learn of a trust so ruthless, so profoundly rapturous, that I will forever be able to say, “I am His.” And I will rest right now in the sweetest of promises that this life is but a breath, and it is not the end of the story.

My Weakness

Posted on September 18, 2019 by crystal

My Weakness

In November 2014 we completed our one and only round of IVF, “our last try.”

The cycle was almost a bust because for reasons unknown at the time my ovaries weren’t responding to the meds. (We would later learn that we got a bad batch of meds that were virtually useless).

Of the over 24 eggs eventually harvested, only 17 were deemed mature enough to fertilize.

Of those 17 eggs, only 11 actually fertilized through forced sperm injection in a petri dish.

Of the 11 that fertilized, only 6 kept growing past day 2.

On day 3, one looked “slightly better” than the others, though none looked “perfect.”

That first embryo of just 10 cells would be our first transfer, and she would become my first ever successful pregnancy.

A few days later I got the call. Somehow, 2 more embryos had proven strong enough to freeze.

2 more chances, maybe…

I had lost over 100 pounds and was in the best shape of my life when we began in 2014.

I had planned, and I had worked hard for every inch of victory I gained.

I did the hard work of therapy and began the arduous journey of dealing with my crap that had led me to the grim prognosis I received about 2 years prior.

It was in my control to change everything, and I did.

I didn’t know it then, but while I pressed into the intense runs and long mountain treks, I had also begun an injury to my hip, a tear to the cartilage in my hip joint. The tear was completed the day I gave birth to our sweet daughter.

That day, I learned anew how little was actually in my control.

Exercise, which had become a welcome refuge and deep therapy of its own, was ripped away from me and was instead replaced by a steady and never ending pain.

It took 15 months for a correct diagnosis, 1 very painful hip surgery that I still can’t google the specifics on,and almost 3 years of rehab, learning to walk again, and countless setbacks to arrive where I am today.

And not a day went by that I didn’t think about those 2 frozen embryos and wonder if instead of “when” we would try if instead we would “ever” be able to try.

2 months before the actual frozen embryo transfer I finally got the “go ahead” to try.

My pelvis was finally holding, I had regained enough strength, and the muscle spasms had subsided.

Only this time, I would be heavier, older, and in worse physical condition than ever before. How could I do this now?

I felt so weak and unable, and, to be totally honest, ashamed to be in this space with my fragile flesh.

The world will think me a fool.

“My power is made perfect in weakness.”

I heard it echo through my mind again and again, His still small voice.

It was time.

God moved mountains to get me to even this space, and He was once again asking me to trust Him.

We were finally able to give one of the embryos a chance at life. A chance I had thought many times might never actually come.

I have had doubts fill my mind, I have battled fear relentlessly, and I have been reminded constantly of my weakness. And He gently reminds me that I am not the author; He is.

Here I sit, wonderfully nauseated by the new life that grows within me, because God is bigger than my weakness. He is able. He is the author and perfecter of my faith. And though I might have to lay my weakness before Him one thousand times a day, He isn’t mad, He isn’t surprised, He holds me in all my brokenness, and He loves me so much that He is willing to keep repeating, “My power is made perfect in weakness.”

His love truly is more precious than rubies. What do you need to lay before Him right now?

To Be Seen

Posted on July 23, 2019 by crystal

I have eyed the medicine sitting in its bright blue plastic bag in my refrigerator door off and on all day; tonight the shots will begin. It is a 3-pronged approach to hopefully wake up my ovaries and shock them into function–not that I will need the eggs for the transfer we hope to do, but our bodies are picky-down to a cellular level-when it comes to breeding life. I need an egg. Technically, I need 1,000 things to go perfectly; the egg is just one part. My head throbbing, thoughts racing, all the improbability I seem to be facing, and I hear the familiar thought echo through my mind once again. “Now God? Now we are hoping for a child? At our ages? With this body?” My thoughts cascade into a familiar loop of all my fears and I feel the heaviness growing within my chest. It feels like the choking of impossibility.

Remember the story of Abraham and Sarah?

Not that story again, not now. How many times have I read through different writings of this familiar story, a seeming favorite to quote to the barren and infertile to remind of God’s ability. Honestly, I have found it irksome. Our stories could not be more different. Sarah and I are in different worlds, and what could I possibly be reminded of that I haven’t heard a hundred times before?

Read it again. Dig. Look at it as you are, a woman who has long journeyed with barrenness and infertility.

Sigh.

…

That was several days ago…and I am still blown away by all I had never seen before about my girl Sarah. So, I invite you to pull up a proverbial chair and sneak behind the scenes into my favorite chapter of Sarah’s story, the promise, as I unpack what I think the scene may have actually looked like on that day so very long ago. One infertile woman’s look into the day of another…(Genesis 18)

….

Sarai. She had always heard of her incredible beauty, some even believed she was the most beautiful woman alive. Even middle aged her body showed all the firmness of never having carried a child, another attribute of her beauty in others eyes, but a searing daily reminder of what had never been. Her golden skin tones, her symmetrical features, she was a prize for any King, and once already she had been captured by a King because of her looks. Her worth as determined by her beauty fell flat as she considered how time had passed her by. Would she trade it all for a child? The one thing that every woman could do, she could not– she could not bear a child. There was not a day that had gone by since early in their marriage that she did not hope for a child. As year after year passed, her desperation grew. There was only one thing left in her power to try: to substitute another woman in her place to be her surrogate. The desperate try turned into a cold reality of yet another hope broken when it worked, and Sarai still felt the same inside. Her womb was still empty as she watched the swelling belly of another offer proof that it was her shame that made a child impossible. Not even Abraham could make her pregnant, though he could her surrogate. The world now knew without doubt it was Sarai who was broken. Her beauty, her freedom, and the wealth she enjoyed would never comfort that deep ache within her for a hope that seemed to be impossible.

…

Her hands went to work preparing the bread like she had done a thousand times before–the flour, the water, the kneading. She created the bread absentmindedly as her thoughts wandered to the guests her husband had said arrived. Both culture and status demanded their hospitality today, but this was something more. Something inside her whispered these were no ordinary guests. She remained in the tent, hidden away, unseen, doing as was expected of her. But when the food was done, something drew her to the tent door, to the men that sat just outside of it. She had to know more. Who were these men? Why were they here?

Then they said to Abraham, “Where is Sarah your wife?”

God shows up with two angels, shares a meal with Abraham and asks where Sarah is. The omnipotent God knows exactly where she is. He knows she is listening at the tent door; it is His presence that drew her. He sees her, not for her physical beauty like everyone else, and not for her barrenness. He is not hindered by her hiddenness; He has shown up, and He wants her to know that He sees her, truly sees her. And he calls her not by the name she had known all her life, but by Sarah, the Mother of Nations. He lets Sarah know with one question that He sees her and exactly how he sees her: not as barren, but as exceedingly fruitful.

Sarah. Sarah? His words touched places deep within her. They held power; they held life. This is what it feels like to be seen?

He said, “I will surely return to you at this time next year; and behold, Sarah your wife will have a son.” And Sarah was listening at the tent door, which was behind him.

Sarah couldn’t believe her ears as she laughed to herself. Her heart raced. Had she heard him correctly? She would have a son next year? Now, Lord? Now we are hoping for a child? At our ages? With this body? When it has been proven impossible for me by time? When we feel old? Now?

It was the thing she wanted most. This was the promise she had dreamed of having for most of her life. Just when she surrendered to the reality of never, God spoke of a certainty her mind could not compute easily.

And the Lord said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh, saying, ‘Shall I indeed bear a child, when I am so old’? Is anything too difficult for the Lord? At the appointed time I will return to you, at this time next year, and Sarah will have a son.”

Sarah, hidden within the tent, silent, her thoughts completely seen before the One Who Created Her. Can you hear His tone as He pours His love into her? Sarah, I see you. I know your thoughts. I know you’re struggling to understand. I know it is hard to trust that the day will finally come. I know you don’t want more pain. However, I am going to blow your mind. I am the God of the impossible. Nothing is too hard for me, and this is for my glory and always has been.

Sarah, shocked and fearful that her thoughts were known, and sad that they showed her vulnerability, her tenderness, and her pain, immediately sought to erase them.

Sarah denied it…

And He said, “No, but you did laugh.”

Seen. No hiding. Jesus is not mad; He is honest. He understands. He isn’t surprised. He wants her to know she never needs to hide from him her innermost thoughts and pain. He has her. He is the God who sees.

Her pain was never without purpose. In her season of waiting, she may never have imagined the plans God had for her. The waiting was not by accident but by design. In a time where the only certainty of barrenness, of impossibility, would be time, he allowed the time to pass so he could perform his miracle. God wanted to give her a front row seat to see that He is the God of the impossible. The one who the world thought was barren would become the Mother of Nations.

…

The tears keep filling my eyes. He is the God who sees, not just Sarah, but me and you. In our heartache, in the deserts, in the brokenness, in the waiting, He sees us. He is the God of the impossible, and He always has a plan. And He is inviting us to have a front row seat to watch Him do immeasurably more than we could ever comprehend. Whatever OUR impossible, He repeats, “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” Walking in that truth changes everything.

Gearing Up For a FET

Posted on July 5, 2019 by crystal

I stand in front of the mirror and look at my body that has gone through so much. My curves aren’t quite where I wish they were, and I am fluffier than I want to be. My scars are numerous, every one a tribute to a battle fought or a privilege carried. My gray hair is boldly declaring its victory crown which resembles more of a zebra stripe down the center of my head then an actual crown. My wrinkles are a map of a road well-traveled, and the only thing really left firm after having a baby, hip surgery and 3 years of physical rehabilitation, is my resolve to keep going. This is not exactly what I had planned when finally being able to try to conceive again.

I didn’t plan my course, I didn’t see all the twists and turns coming. If I could have, I am certain I would have tried to alter the course to avoid all the hard places that would mold me into who I am today. However, that avoidance would have robbed me of the most incredible knowledge and deeply profound experience of walking with the God of Love because I would have bought the lie that I could do this life thing solo. I was never meant to walk this solo. The hard places have shown me my absolute need of Jesus, and they have unearthed a great treasure of knowledge regarding His sweetness that I dare say I will never have the ability to put into words.

I need to look in the mirror and remember today who I am. Instead, I find myself wanting to focus on the giant mountain standing before me and it tempts me to quit before I even start.

I could focus on the fact that I am fluffy, almost 40, and uncertain if I will be able to do this again.
I could focus on my 3 kids and the age gaps that I never intended and how sometimes I feel like I am already failing at parenthood.
I could focus on the money, so much money, and how we are a single income family.
I could focus on revisiting the million hard places that I have already traveled on our parenthood journey.
I could focus on all that could go wrong as we begin diving into the FET process next week.
I could focus on everything that is out of my control.
I could focus on the 2 precious embryos who have been waiting for over 4 years now.
I could focus on how I feel like I have already failed in a thousand different ways.

OR I can be thankful and remember all of the moments He has shown He is bigger than my failures. My focus is always my choice, it remains the one thing in my control.

I am so thankful that I even get the privilege to try and become a mom again. Many times over the last 4 years of physical pain and disability I have cried out to God and wondered if we would ever even get the chance to transfer our embryos, if my body would ever heal enough? It has. What once seemed impossible became possible. How quickly I forget. I am grateful that despite my faithless moments God remains faithful. It is no small miracle that I am even here, at this junction of the road.

I will hold onto gratitude, and the monuments of remembrance erected by me of God’s power in my journey with white knuckled fists right now; I have to, or I could never journey down this road again.

I would love to say I won’t fear, I really wish I could. Instead, I will humbly surrender my fears to the One who has proven that regardless of the outcome, the hugeness of the impossible mountain, He has me, He is able, and He is good. Sometimes faith is a war cry, other times it is a sweet surrender. Of this I am certain though, sometimes God moves the mountain, other times He teaches you how to climb.