When will we as women no longer care what others think of us?  Or… gasp… say about us?!  My morning started out in a pretty ordinary way. Steel cuts oats, berries, Bible Study, snuggling with puppies. Now that I am no longer working, the morning yoga schedule at my gym has become very appealing to me. I roll up my mat, push a headband into my frizzy head of curls, grab a water bottle, and head out my door.

It is a beautiful, crisp fall day and I feel great. I attack the stairs to the yoga studio with a bounce in my step. I leave my shoes at the door and enter what I thought would be an oasis of calm. A peaceful start to my day. I place my mat upright on the floor and quickly set about borrowing a couple of the gym’s mats to cushion these aching knees.

I hear the studio door swing open behind me. As I turn around, a lady moved my yoga mat to a different spot and rolled her mat out where mine had previously resided. My face must have displayed my surprise even though my lips remained silent.  The Yoga Mat Queen’s words rang through the air:

“Most people like to be closer to the front or you can put your mat next to the gym’s mats.”

A small spark inside me prepared to ignite.

“No, I like to be in the back. I really don’t want to be that close to the mats. It makes it difficult to spread your arms out.”

Not to mention the fact that the smell of all those mats enveloping my nostrils did not appeal to me.

I quietly unroll my mat where she had placed it and add the extra cushioning. I hear murmurs from the back row. Evidently I had entered the “Estrogen Zone.” You know the spot- you make a relatively sane, reasonable comment and the Estrogen Club Members descend on you complete with stares, barbed comments, and pointed whispers. Clucking, snipping, and dare I say, obsessing, about where they always place their yoga mats. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I tried to concentrate on – hmmm- what was I supposed to focus on?!  Oh yes- my breath.

As the clock announced that the yoga class was winding down, I thought about how absurd this situation was. I had convinced myself that the Yoga Mat Queen didn’t like me, I had concluded that I also did not like her, and I did not feel any of the therapeutic benefits of yoga. I am convinced that this never would have happened in a room full of men. Of course, a man might have picked up said lady’s mat and tossed it to the other side of the room. Or he might have shrugged his shoulders, muttered an interesting adjective for said lady, and claimed a new spot for his yoga mat. But alas, even though Tamoxifen is quietly re-routing and effectively stamping out my estrogen, I still have just enough of said hormone left to feel bothered- almost sad – that the Yoga Mat Queen and I might never become friends.

I roll up my mat, grab my water bottle, and collect my shoes. I resolve in my spirit that Today is a new beginning. I pledge inside my head to no longer care what others think about me or… gasp… say about me again. My estrogen may be waning, but this little lady doesn’t give a…  Well, you know.

Once upon a time we fell down- hard- on concrete no less, and skinned our knee.  The wound bled and our knee was oh so sore. Soon after, a scab would form. Our mothers would admonish us not to pick the scab- otherwise, it would leave a scar. The scab would often sport various colors and take on a life all its own until… one day it fell off. The skin underneath the scab was pink and fresh- and looked a bit out of place on the landscape of a nine-year-old’s knee. Raw yet promising.

According to Merriam-Webster, a scab is a dry, rough protective crust that forms over a wound or cut during healing.  Scabs- we’ve all had them. But what do we do in the middle?  That ‘in-between’ time. The healing is not quite complete but the injury is not as fresh. We can turn our attention to the surrounding skin- the remaining parts of our lives. We can moisturize that scab with the soothing oils of compassion for ourselves and encouragement from our friends. We can put our mothers’ advice to work and avoid activities, people, and places that pick at our scabs.

I can’t help but think that God uses grief or a season of mourning as a ‘heart scab.’ No loss is too small or too great in God’s eyes to provide that dry, rough protective crust. Entering the empty nest season- He fashions the scab. Losing a loved one- He allows the scab to form and protects it from falling off too soon. Facing a health crisis- He bends down and touches that skinned knee. For every loss and season of letting go, He washes our knee oh so gently and wraps us in a warm, “I’m your Daddy” kind of hug.

The trick in living with a scab is remembering that sometimes even when you don’t pick at it and healing moves forward, you are left with a scar. Sometimes the scar is not visible in the light of day. Sometimes the scar is most visible in the ambushes of the night.  Anxiety tiptoes next to your bed and points out the indelible mark of what happened to you. Then it’s time to pull back the covers and take a long look at the scar. Offer God praise for the gift of the scab, the raw promise of healing, and gratitude for the scar that announces who carried you through.

Philippians 4:19

“And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of His glory in Christ Jesus.”

The calendar pages flutter in the breeze reminding me that summer is behind us. Autumn has arrived and with it comes my birthday week. My heart vacillates somewhere between trepidation and excitement.  Deep in my soul I know that every day is a gift- before my feet hit the floor I breathe in and out. I thank God for a new day and do my best to recognize that it is His breath in my lungs. But, I would be less than honest to not share a bit of the trepidation…

For women like us, it starts with our morning routine. I do some stretches in bed under the sheets to wake up those joints. After matcha, breakfast, and time in my Bible, I head upstairs. Then it begins. I smile and greet the collection of jars: anti-aging eye cream carefully designed to hide fine lines and puffiness, oil and moisturizer for those hard- to-hide wrinkles, and to round things out some light anti-aging foundation designed to plump up one’s skin and conceal any inconsistencies in skin tone.

For women like us, I imagine a different marketing strategy.  Some pro-laughter eye cream beautifully formulated to highlight the number of times JOY has made its way to my eyes. Perhaps some oil and moisturizer to announce to the world how many sleepless nights were spent rocking a newborn baby. And… to round things out some light pro-aging foundation, designed to let my husband see my skin as a testament to the decades of love we’ve shared.

For women like us, I would like to have a cup of tea with the creators of the commercials who encourage us to ditch our original hair color, lose another 5 pounds, slather on as much cream as possible in the battle against cellulite, and try- really strive- to look at least 10 years younger than the number on our driver’s license.

What would I say to them? I would remind them that my hair, my weight, and yes- my cellulite- will never define me. They will never know how many times I’ve laughed so hard I cried and may or may not have peed my pants. They can never estimate the worth of those 5 pounds as they cushioned my hip when I held a fussy baby there. And they will never understand the grab bag of emotions that my skin wears today: the graduations, the weddings, the births, the deaths, and the scars that surgery leaves in its wake.

For women like us, I want to remember that our birthday weeks are a celebration of our stories.  That before we were even babies, God was dreaming of us. He was thinking: “And now I am going to write the story of Pam, Kate, Denise, Beth, Joy, Margaret, etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.”  And He was smiling- knowing exactly how He would weave every moment of Joy, Sorrow, Fear, and Excitement into those stories. He was covering our hearts, our spirits with such a warm blanket of Love and Acceptance that if we ever realize the depth of that Love- we will be completely awestruck.

For women like us, I envision our Heavenly Father exhaling, grinning, and exclaiming, “TA-DA!” as He fashioned our hair, our skin, our eyes, our souls.

For women like us, I blow out my candle and make a wish. I wish for another calendar year, another chance for Life to write the passage of Time on my face and body.   For women like us, I want to try- really strive- to remember that when it is time to go Home, I want to look like I spent my years. For women like us, I want to put fresh flowers on the kitchen table “just because,” light those new candles, and use that beautiful china on a random Wednesday night.

For women like us…

I have never been one to believe I have audibly heard the voice of God.  I have felt His Presence living within me. I have enjoyed “God Winks” as He communicates to me that there is no such thing as coincidence. I have discerned His Hand directing me to respond or act in a certain fashion which I believe was God-inspired.  But, I have never heard God’s Voice speak directly to me. Until last Sunday…

The morning’s Worship was incredible- the message, the music, the palpable love of God in the room. The teaching was from the life of Moses, specifically The Red Sea “situation.” The message was straightforward:

• Don’t be fearful.
• Don’t be forgetful. Remember God’s Faithfulness in your past.
• Be still.

That’s when I heard it:

“Be still, and let Me lead.”

The words were a sacred echo in my mind, refusing to leave my thoughts. “Be still, and let Me lead.”   When was the last time I had let Him lead?  I blushed.  I couldn’t remember. I am a “get your list together, accomplish the task, do your research” kind of girl. What does it look like?  What does it mean to lead and to follow?

According to Laura Riva’s, “Lead Vs. Follow: What Do the Roles Really Mean?”, The Lead and The Follow are opposite sides of the same coin that are essential for the perfect partner dance.  The Lead becomes the ‘picture frame,’ providing the space where the dance takes place.  The Lead is the Director, carefully orchestrating the dance and crafting a vision for the performance and a plan to get there.   He is the Navigator, paying close attention to detail and organizing the structure, spacing, pace, and timing.  A good Lead takes care of the Follow, ensuring that her movements bring beauty and purpose to the picture frame.  A good Lead is decisive and never asks the Follow to take over as the Director.

The Follow’s role is “to respond and interpret the signals of the Lead. The Follow has the luxury of giving herself completely to the flow of the dance with no worries about what comes next.  She is the Actress, partnering with the Lead, her Director,  to deliver an extraordinary performance.  A good Follow never sacrifices the partnership in order to fulfill her own solitary vision.

Why were these words- to lead and to follow- uppermost in my mind?

You see, last Thursday I stepped down from a position I have held for the past six years. The writing portion of my job was coming to a close. There would be work for me to do for anywhere from six weeks to six months, but it would mostly consist of  inputting data. My spirit had been telling me for a while now that a season was ending.  Yet, after I made the decision to step down, my feet slipped into ‘Pam mode.’ I began frantically planning my next move and experienced my very first panic attack: sweaty palms, racing heartbeat, swirling thoughts. I took over the role of the Director and began dancing at an awkward, uncomfortable pace.

That’s when I heard His Voice. “Be still, and let Me lead.” So, I am handing Him the picture frame and surrendering to His structure, spacing, pace, and timing. This leaves me free.  Free to listen, Available to be cast in a new role, Open to His direction. My Heavenly Father is taking my hand. I can finally hear the music, and it is breathtaking.

“Be still, and know that I am God…”

-Psalm 46:10

What I Know for Sure…

1. Anticipation of a major life event is usually worse than the actual event itself.
2. Your dog will always believe you are a rock star, and lives every moment to affirm this belief.
3. Sleep is often the best antidote for a weary spirit.
4. Friends who make you laugh are priceless.
5. Tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches (cut in triangles) is the mother of all comfort foods.
6. You always weigh more when you go for a check-up than you did last night.
7. Allowing yourself to be sad for 15 minutes and then moving on is therapeutic.
8. Sometimes a girl just needs some dark chocolate.
9. Brain fog is real after the age of 50.
10. Wearing a bra is highly overrated.
11. You always need to fill your gas tank when you are exhausted.
12. Talking with the Creator soothes the soul.
13. A mate who agrees to ‘dialogue’ with you is irreplaceable.
14. Giving birth is the closest you get to living through your own death.
15. Your computer secretly laughs at your errors.
16. Some people are just mean, but most people are kind.
17. Your children can make and break your heart.
18. Reading God’s Word brings you into His Presence.
19. Sisters are friends who have to love you.
20. You must have an Ending to have a Beginning…

It started quietly. I almost missed it. Just a ripple at first, then a small wave, and soon a tsunami. The edges of my life, jagged and worn, didn’t seem to fit as the corner pieces of my existence. It was as if someone had picked the box of puzzle pieces up and began shaking them until chaos reigned. The shapes and colors of the pieces were out of focus and no longer matched the spirit within.

The thoughts swirling inside my head were loud, fast, and scattered. The woman I used to be watched in disbelief as I sat in the rubble. Sifting through the ashes with my fingers, I held the me who resided there. Mommy, Teacher, People Pleaser, Guilt Carrier, Regret Keeper. She looked so young to me as I held her hand, a little unsure of herself, and trying. Always trying so hard.

Placing the ashes carefully in a beautiful box, I looked up at the night sky. The stars were peeking through and light washed over me. I felt my God’s Presence and heard Him whisper. I followed his loving instruction and displayed the beautiful box where I could be reminded, but not overtaken by where I’d been.  He brushed my knees off, offered His Hand, and pointed to a path up ahead.

I can only see a few steps ahead of me on the path. But I move forward regardless. He doesn’t leave me. He is my steady hand as I stumble over tree roots and follow the twists and turns along the way.  I laugh as I comprehend what He is teaching me. It is time for a re-boot. The debris was necessary for the remaking. He will use some of the ashes for the reshaping and hand me new corner pieces with vibrant colors and softened edges.

I’m glad I didn’t miss it. I’m delighted He didn’t leave me as is.  Every fear, every ache, every scar is a glorious part of  the remaking. Remaking: a verb, a present participle, no less.  Present, Here, Now.  A new and different version. I smile- I can’t wait to get to know her.

“See, I am doing a new thing!

Now it springs up;

Do you not perceive it?

I am making a way in the wilderness,

and streams in the wasteland.”

-Isaiah 43:19

Psalm 139:1 – 4 (NIV)

“O LORD, you have searched me and You know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; You are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue You know it completely, O LORD.”

Have you ever been invisible?  You know the feeling- you’re standing at the party alone and everyone is making small talk except you. You’re at the meeting and no one asks for your input or even addresses the fact that yes, you are indeed a consumer of oxygen.  Invisible.

In the building where I work, there are two people from Somalia who faithfully clean our restrooms and empty our trash cans. The woman silently mops floors and scrubs toilets. She is careful not to make eye contact and seems almost startled when I interrupt her chores with a “Good Morning.” I sometimes wonder which one of us is invisible. My thoughts trail off into the distance. Maybe she appears startled because no one greets her- maybe she has become invisible in her own mind’s eye. Or perhaps I am invisible to her- my life so incomprehensible to her that she is unable to see me- really see me.

The man comes each day- grinning. He empties our trash cans. We exchange our hellos, I say thank you, he says “welcome.” His eyes are smiling and when I return from missing work for a few days, he asks: “Vacation?”

Lately, our conversations are dotted with more syllables:

“It’s beautiful out today. Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yes, maybe rain later.”

He picks up my trash can and dumps it into his receptacle and quietly disappears. One evening as I drive home- I begin to wonder what his name is. He doesn’t know my name and I don’t know his. I make a mental note to ask him tomorrow.

But tomorrow comes and goes and I don’t ask the question. I say ‘hello, thank you, enjoy your day.’ He replies with a ‘welcome, you too, bye.’

Today is different. He faithfully comes around the corner to my work station and appears almost joyful. I greet him and he returns the pleasantry.

Then he looks at me- right into my eyes- and asks the question:

“What is your name?”

I stammer my reply: “Pam.”

I volley the question back- “What is your name?”

He answers but I cannot make out what he is saying. My bewilderment must have registered on my face. He says, “Look here.” He gets out his name badge and points to his name: “Adan.” He grins up at me and asks , “You?”  I realize with a grin that he can’t decipher my name either.  I repeat, “Pam. It’s a very short name. Just three letters.” He smiles.
Something inside me wells up and I stretch out my hand to offer a handshake. He nods his head to say no and points to his gloved hand. He doesn’t want me to touch the hand that has also touched our trash. My hand hangs in mid-air, waiting for his response. He smiles and touches my arm. “Pam.”  “Adan.”

As I drive home that evening- I marvel at the power of human connection. To see someone- really see someone- you must know their name. My thoughts turn to our Creator- He sees me. He sees you. We are never invisible to Him. In the darkest parts of our hearts, He is there.  In the joyful, light-filled spaces, He is there.

Jesus, You always see me- even when I am unable to see myself. You know me- all of me- but never turn away from what you find in my heart. Help me to see others, nudge me so that I do not overlook the souls around me. Remind me that no one is invisible.  Amen.

Proverbs 18:21

“The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.”

Do you have a household chore that you absolutely detest?  I’m talking you’d rather watch paint dry than complete this particular job. For me, it’s unloading the dishwasher. Actually, for everyone residing in this household- unloading the dishwasher seems to win this dubious prize. Most mornings begin with this chore.  One Saturday morning began with such  promise. Pancakes with blueberries, almond milk, and an incredibly blue sky outside our kitchen window. I opened the dishwasher and pulled out the top rack. Does anyone else have coffee mugs that seem to mate during the rinse cycle? Where on earth we collected all these dispensers of caffeine I will never know. I reached up high to put a travel mug away and in slow motion it bounced off the shelf, onto the counter, and clumsily bumped into my Matcha tea bowl. (This tea bowl will be discussed in future blog posts). The glass Matcha bowl fell to the floor and shattered. It was an impressive sound and pieces large and small rippled out from the vicinity of the dishwasher.

My husband is an engineer, so when objects shatter, he is all over it. With shop vac in hand, he devises a highly systematic way of cleaning up broken glass. As I moved our kitchen chairs out from under the table, it struck me that our words are a lot like these pieces of glass. Words can spill forth from our mouths, unintentionally bumping into the people around us.  If only we could hold the syllables in for just a few more minutes, perhaps they would evaporate before having ever been launched at those we love.

I noticed that while my Matcha bowl shattered within inches of our dishwasher, there were tiny shards of glass several feet away near our basement door. Our words- both good and bad- are not static. They ripple out- leaving traces behind, in front of, and next to those people in our path.  We’ve all done it- uttered a phrase that we immediately wish we could take back. Chances are you have also been on the receiving end of someone’s verbal grenades. And then, there are those people who speak a word of truth into our lives in such a gracious, loving manner that we often pull their words up from our memory banks.  We love to just rest in the warmth of those words, to savor their encouragement and the love they bring.

So how do we become people who utter ripples of hope, rather than waterfalls of shame and regret?  I am trying out the 3 P’s:

1. PAUSE: Activate that internal Pause Button. Count to 60- or longer if necessary- before speaking. This is hard. Go ahead- try it. It gets easier with time. Try singing a refrain from your favorite song inside your head. It also helps while pausing, to look at the person you are about to offer words to. I mean really look at them. Ponder what you think you see in their eyes. Is it Pain? Rejection? Disappointment? Anger? Fear?  Gazing at the person, rather than merely glancing at them can guide your speech.
2. PRAY: You will need to surrender control of your mouth to The Holy Spirit. Do not utter a syllable until you feel Him directing your words. I often find this happens in the most amazing way. I offer my words to someone and think to myself, “Who said that? Where did that come from?”  They certainly aren’t words I am capable of crafting on my own.
3. PLANT: Use your words to plant seeds. Seeds of Hope, Encouragement, Truth, Comfort. Remind yourself that you are not responsible for the harvest- merely the planting.

The next morning my husband came upstairs to give me a kiss goodbye as he headed off to work. He warned me to be careful. When he picked his books up from the kitchen table, he found several tiny remnants of glass hiding between one title and the next. Words- just like shattered glass- can hide dormant for years. So, let’s bring our words out into the Light- and expose them for both their goodness and their ability to wound others. In the Light, we can pause, pray, and plant.

Father God,

Help me remember to “watch my mouth.” Teach me that a soft answer turns away wrath and can bind a wound, mend a heart, and lighten a soul.

Amen.

The plates are stacked neatly inside my cupboard.  Dinner dishes are arranged in one mountain of expectation – inviting large portions of wholesome food to linger there.  Salad bowls sit close by, winking at me and smiling at the thought of organic produce.  The dessert plates hover above because I have always loved dessert- especially chocolate.  The plates appear perfect- unblemished at first glance.  Looking closer there is one stray plate with a tiny chip.  Broken yet whole.  The plates remind me of my journey- moving from brokenness to wholeness.

So what do you do when you’re in a crisis?  When your feet are mired in the mud and muck of unexpected trials?  How do you move forward to a new place- a firm place for your feet to stand?

1. Grieve.  Grieve deeply and at no set pace.  Be kind to your broken spirit- laugh and weep with abandon.  Ignore voices from well-meaning friends who urge you to move on.  You need to do the hard, important work of mourning.

2. Cry out.  Cry out in place of prayer. Insert your calm, quiet prayers in your bedside drawer and cry out to the LORD. We often can’t find the words to form a coherent prayer when we are broken. Crying out to Him loudly and unashamed helps us to recognize His Presence, His Grace.

3. Immerse.  Immerse yourself in songs of Praise and Scripture. Pour over the Psalms and Isaiah. Drink in the pain and the promise found there. Splurge on some colorful index cards and write out your verses. Post them where you will find them waiting to comfort you throughout your day: on the bathroom mirror, on the door of your frig, on your steering wheel, and at your desk. Sing along with your favorite Praise songs- this is no time to be shy- belt those lyrics out in the shower, your car, your kitchen.  Apply the words of Scripture and the lyrics of Praise to your wounded heart like a healing salve. They will offer a cooling sense of relief and stillness.

4. Seek.  Seek Christian counsel from someone who is not emotionally connected to you. They can offer objective, sound thoughts to your questions. Notice I said they offer thoughts, not answers.

5. Nourish.  Nourish your body with exercise and simple, wholesome food. A walk outdoors, a deep stretch on your yoga mat, an invigorating run, and simply breathing in and out will connect you to your body, mind, and spirit. Take the time to prepare a meal that is simple and healthy. And most importantly, chew. Chew slowly, deliberately.  Linger over the textures and tastes your palate encounters.

6. Connect. Stay connected to a small group of core friends. This may be people in your small group at church or family and friends who get you- really get you.

7. Look.  Look out and up. Resist the temptation to isolate yourself and burrow inward. Instead look out- look outward to others- what is happening in their world. Look up. Look up to Jehovah and just be with Him. Stay away from the Enemy’s pit of blame and what-ifs.

8. Write.  Even if you do not fancy yourself a ‘journal-er,’ record your thoughts, emotions, and prayers. After time has passed, revisit your words. You will marvel at how far God has brought you.

9. Trust.  Begin to trust your heart and body once again. Sometimes this means listening to the way you speak to yourself inside your head. Is the tone you use kind? Are you compassionate? Do you offer your spirit forgiveness instead of blame?

10. Cast.  Cast your crystal ball to the side. Stop yourself from walking down the path of gazing into the future. Stay Here, in the Now. Put your arm around Today and hold this gift close.

Opening the cupboard, I gaze at the elegant white dishes.  My eye rests on the chipped plate.  I take it out and hold it carefully. Lovingly I place it on the table. It is broken yet beautifully whole. Just like each of us. I think it’s time for dessert.

Colossians 2:10: “…..and in Christ you have been brought to wholeness…”

Face Down. A phrase that can be interpreted so many ways.  One might fall face down to the ground- ouch.   You might be asked to turn your cards ‘face down’ during a heated game of poker- well, okay I don’t know how to play poker- so insert ‘UNO’ here instead. When proctoring a test, every teacher worth his or her grain of salt usually begins with the ominous instruction, “Leave your paper ‘face down,’ until I ask you to turn it over.”  That one makes me feel a bit queasy.

The official definition of ‘face down’ from the Free Dictionary reads:

1. To position something so that its front surface is oriented downward.
2. To confront someone or something in a resolute or determined manner.

Recently, I experienced an afternoon that began with the simple yet oh so complicated direction: “Untie your gown and lie ‘face down.’ Place your breasts in the spaces and rest your forehead as if you were getting a massage.”  Trust me, this machine doesn’t look like any piece of equipment I have ever encountered when getting a massage. I had entered “The Magnet Room,” the room for MRIs. It has been 3 years- yay-three years ladies and gentlemen- since my bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction. Time to check the integrity of my ‘girls.’ The technician asked me if I would like music in my headphones. After settling on 104.9, she handed me a cute little squeeze ball in case – the technician’s words now: “In case you can’t make it through.  Squeeze it and I’ll come back in the room and we’ll stop.” One last instruction: “Stretch your arms out in front of you.”

And so I comply. I am ‘face down.’ We begin with 20 minutes of pictures with no movement. Complete stillness- arms outstretched. The clanging comes and goes- growing in volume as the minutes tick by. As the clanging ebbs and flows, I can hear the lyrics of a contemporary Christian song. I focus on the words and my breath. In through my nose, out through my nose. Yoga actually comes in handy. I strain to hear the lyrics at times. My mind embraces the thought that this MRI is a metaphor for Life.  The world, everyday stressors, our own agendas become the clanging din that threatens to drown out the beautiful symphony of Jesus’ voice calling to us- beckoning us to just be still with Him. Just Be.

I make it through the first 20 minutes. Next, my technician injects the dye into my IV. It is a cool sensation running down my arm. My arms that are outstretched and oh so still. Our last 15 minutes will be a barrage of pictures taken with the contrast dye in place. Lying ‘face down,’ I land on the analogy of facing down my fear- confronting the Big ‘C’ in a resolute, determined manner. Just like the Free Dictionary says.

The 15 minutes end. I made it!  I did not need to squeeze that ‘just in case ball.’ I grin to myself. The technician helps me out and like a nurturing mother makes sure my gown is tied and my dignity intact. As I head back to the dressing room, my spirit messages my mind that yes- I was ‘face down.’ I was positioned so that my front surface was oriented downward. I confronted the Big ‘C’- looked him square in the eye and did not need to look away.

I rub my arms- they’re a bit stiff from remaining outstretched for so long. My soul ponders those arms. My arms outstretched in total surrender, my body lying ‘face down.’ Before my God- completely surrendered. Trusting Him, Yielding to Him, Surrendering to Him. ‘Face down’ and yet my soul stands. Thank you Jesus.

Job 11:13-15

Surrender Your Heart to God