Project 52: Blue (Really, it's about Baptism)

Project 52's Topic this week: Blue.
When I was a little girl, I colored pictures of water blue. I suppose that's why I chose to take my picture of water for this challenge. Ironically, it does not capture a bit of blue. I'm going with it.

When I was 9 years old, I was a buck toothed lanky girl who stood at least a full head and shoulders taller than my peers, and although I felt incredibly awkward in my own skin and didn’t really have an understanding of who I was, I knew my Jesus and boy, did I loved Him. Sunday after Sunday, I sat in one of the 30 fabric covered pews flanked by floor-to-ceiling multi-colored stain glass windows with my mom and dad sitting strategically intertwined between my two siblings and I. I could predict church as well as Johnny Carson could predict the answers to clues in sealed envelopes. Church was not mysterious. It was predictable. I knew church. I knew the pastor’s sing-song rhythm so well, that I could practically count down the seconds and number of syllables until his inflection and seemingly calculated rise in tone began before he would slam his fist onto the pulpit. Echoing in the rafters and reverberating in our ears long after, that thud sent an urgency through our bones, guilting us to action, “less you be damned to hell”. It was a place that scared the bejeezus outta me (is that a bit sacrilegious here?) and at the same time felt entirely sacred. The only explanation I have to explain this seemingly oxymoron experience is to say that I felt the Lord’s presence in the face of legalism.

There were unspoken expectations and it seemed everyone played along. It was Sunday- Funday! I probably shouldn’t say that because wearing itchy wool skirts and pretending I liked being there wasn’t fun. If I can take an inch of liberty here, I would say, I bet it is actually Sunday-Funday for Satan. He loves when we put on those masks and act as if we’re OK. He loves when we compare our wool skirt to the pretty petite girl’s across the aisle. He loves when we sing songs about “oh how we love Jesus” and yet have just cursed Him the night before. I bet that sly little smile pulls at the corner of his mouth and a gleeful giggle escapes. We may be fooling the other wool skirt wearing chicks, but we’re not foolin’ anyone else, especially ourselves. That phrase, “fake it until you make it”, does not, absolutely does not apply here. I faked it. I faked it for the first 20 years of my life. And when I was 9, I started to realize that there were expectations of me that expanded beyond my outward appearance. And so I was baptized.

I remember checking the box on the envelope that I usually disassembled each week in order to have more space for drawing. I put it in the offering plate and that was that. A few weeks later I was baptized in front of the church with several other kids my age. My pastor asked me two questions prior: “Do you know Jesus as your Savior?” And “Would you be willing to sit on your knees once inside the baptismal so I can reach you?” (See, even at 9 I was taller than our pastor). My answer to both was “Yes”. I remember entering the baptismal and feeling absolutely elated. I swear they trucked in salt water because never have I buoyed that much. I tried to kneel, but I kept floating. The pastor managed and I was immersed “by the powers vested in [him] in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost”. Baptism done. That’s all it was. And I thought nothing more of it for many years.

I have attended church my entire life so I have had the honor of witnessing hundreds of people profess their faith publically in baptism. The idea of baptism always stirred at my heart and when my own daughter asked to be baptized when she, too, was 9, I felt the weighty, albeit, honorable task of making sure she understood what it symbolized. When I was in her same position I believed two things about baptism and honestly, I do not know where these ideas came from. First, that it was something you had to do if you genuinely believed in the Lord, and secondly, that it was a washing of the spirit, performed to obtain a clean slate. What I did before the age of 9 that I felt needed a clean slate is beyond me!

As my faith continued to be cultivated, the more I learned to love, love my Jesus and the more I felt compelled to understand His beautiful Truths for myself. I leaned that those two ideas I had at 9 were not so far off the mark, but there was so much more to it and it had nothing to do with me. Romans 6:3-10 became pivotal verses for me as I dissected each with a ferocious hunger. Though I could easily write in more depth about my discovery, I will simply say that baptism is ALL about Jesus, not about us. It is an emblem of Christ’s burial; signifying death to sin’s rule over our lives, to our unbelief, rebellion, idolatry, etc. and His resurrection; signifying a new life of faith, submission, and unfathomable, gracious, and sacrificial love. It’s a sign of belonging, of union with Christ in His suffering, but also in His glory. This is what we are declaring when we are baptized! Doesn’t this just give you gooseies?!!!  Don’t misunderstand me here, I am not saying that baptism unites us with Christ---FAITH units us with Christ! Broken down so eloquently by author, John Piper, we understand that: “…we show this faith, we say this faith, and signify this faith, and symbolize this faith with the act of baptism.” If we believe, we publically proclaim it through baptism. He died and rose so that we might have life---and life to the full (John 10:10). When we rise from the water, it is symbolic of the covenant we have made with Christ. (It is not the covenant itself, just as a wedding ring does not make us married. It’s a symbol).

You see, when I was 9, I made baptism about me, not Jesus. I didn’t know better. And a couple years ago, that weighed so heavily on my heart that I desired  to be re-baptized with all the understanding and genuine love I have for Christ now. So, in a horse trough at a very special ranch (Raven Rock Ranch), where I had felt increasingly close to the Lord and witnessed His glory more times than I can count, I was baptized. I desired to be baptized with the imagery of Christ’s brutal suffering and His un-surpassing desire to give me (and you) life. Kneeling in the trough filled with water warmed by the afternoon’s sun, I closed my eyes and felt my heart pierced with a pain I’ve never experienced before; and as I was about to be lowered, my eyes filled with tears for Him, for God’s Son. I cannot fully comprehend that sacrifice. I cannot understand that level of love. I had the honor of my husband and our good friend, Tim to stand by myside and together slowly lower my body until it was fully covered by the refreshing, life-giving water of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirt-- Whom I know witnessed this act of outward expression of my faith for them. A second or two passed before I broke the surface of the water and felt the warmth of the sun shine upon my face. I raised my hands toward the Son, giving thanks for the life He gave on my behalf and the life I now have because of Him. I am a new creation (2 Cor. 5:17). My daughters stood just outside the trough and witnessed what can only be described as one of the most meaningful events of my life.

My Baptism August 13, 2013
Yep, that's a horse trough. I'm classy like that!

Water. I love water. Everything about it, but especially it’s nourishing and life-giving, thirst-quenching attributes. I can’t help but to think of Rev. 21:6, which says, “He said to me, “It is done. I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. To him who is thirsty I will give drink without cost from the spring of the water of life”. Without a doubt, Christ is the merciful Living Water that brings the dead to life through His amazing grace!

Project 52: Guilty Pleasure

Note: Project 52 is a one year photography challenge. I love photography, adventures, and challenges, so naturally, I fell in love with this idea! As I looked over the list of topics for the year, I felt inspired to write a bit as well on each of the topics. It's been awhile since I've put much on paper, but I assure you my desire to write authentically and live boldly for Christ are just as much a part of me as always. Week three's topic: Guilty Pleasures. Although I have many, spanning from shoes to delicacies, I chose the one I hold the most dear to my heart---and honestly, could not live without: Books!

I love books. I really do. I love everything about them from the feel of their nearly smooth, weightless pages that beckon for my fingers to purposefully glide across them; to the rustling coo they make with each turn.  I read intentionally and yet, ever so slowly, lingering maybe longer than necessary at intersections of words because I long to relish in the feeling of connectedness as long as possible. And if I am writing to a fellow book lover, you know the tantalizing smell of books…some describe it as "musty" or "old", but I believe it’s the smell of wisdom, dreams, and love all bound together with string with the hope of sharing one’s soul with another. The smell wafts just beneath my nose and comforts me much the way a warm blanket just taken from the dryer might.

I’ll admit that some books plead for me to read them over and over again, while others sit content, collecting evidence of time, among my shelves watching over me as if to say, “I did my job well the first time around, but I’ll serve as a reminder of the time she discovered such and such or learned about this and that”. A few of my affectionately battered books stack seemingly haphazardly on my bedside table, while others rest, for now, on specially reserved shelves. Margins scrawled with thoughts, questions, names of loved ones, or prayers for understanding, guidance, or strength; phrases underlined, specific words circled... *sigh*, the mere picture brings peace to my heart. These books are my companions, delivering balm to my sometimes weary soul, offering encouragement when the storms of life seem to close in, teaching me lessons yet to be learned or, let’s be honest, to be relearned. Books are very much a part of who I am. Upon finishing each book, I hold it near my heart and feel as if I have gained a better sense of who I am. They nourish my soul in ways most other things cannot.


I love bookstores. Colorful spines, compelling titles, varying degrees of height, thickness, and depth, and genres galore greet me at the door and I feel as if I am home. If I thought it appropriate---heck, if no one would look my way, I would spin gloriously throughout the store with my arms outstretched, like Julie Andrews’ character, Maria in the Sound of Music. My mother taught me better however, so I’ll save those types of shenanigans for my real home! It is a rarity that I visit a bookstore and not walk out with an armful of books. I have absolutely every intention of diving into each and every one---and I am optimistic that I will! The guilty pleasure piece comes in when I admit that I have a plethora of unread books at home just waiting for their chance to breathe truth into this marrow of mine. I really have no business purchasing more books.

Several years ago, my silly husband asked me if I had ever noticed the big brick building on the left as I am driving into town. Brow furrowed, I questioned, “You mean, the library?”. You see, his sweet self was trying to feed my love for books while attempting to be a better steward of our finances. Of course, I know where the Library is and I frequent it often. However, I love, love marking in my books, which is funny for this type A girl, who likes things neat and orderly. This Type A girl would never think to destroy public property, hence the need to buy books. Asked why I mark in books, I can only say that it’s because I crave that connectedness, that mingling of thoughts with the author’s, and the necessity to digest in a tangible way (that is why I write).

I treasure the Word of God more than any other book simply because the connectedness, the level of belonging, of feeling held and loved and led-- as I am--- no matter what season of life I am in, surpasses any other book I’ve ever read. It is often referred to as the Living Word because it breathes life into me day in and day out. I see something new no matter how many times I’ve read it. Without a doubt, it is my life, my love, my joy, my teacher, my inspiration, my encouragement, my identity… my everything. I read a quote just today that explains my great, great love for the Word of God better than I could: “God’s Word. A love letter to my heart. A tool box for my hands. A shield for my mind. And a sword to use against the devil. What a gift”
Lysa Terkeurst.

Project 52: Morning

Quick Note: Project 52 is a one year photography challenge. I love photography, adventures, and challenges, so naturally, I fell in love with this idea! As I looked over the list of topics for the year, I felt inspired to write a bit as well on each of the topics. It's been awhile since I've put much on paper, but I assure you my desire to write authentically and live boldly for Christ are just as much a part of me as always. Week two's topic: Morning

"Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His mercies never
fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness". Lam. 3:22-23

I love lazy clouds lingering at the tops of bare trees and sunbeams fighting to display their radiance in the dim morning light. I love the reassurance of life as I feel my lungs fill with cool, sharp air and my skin prickle with goose bumps while exhaling prayers of thanksgiving for yet another day, which on their own, resemble hazy rain clouds drifting heavenward in the early winter mornings.  I love clear, dark mornings when stars still dot the sky, reminding me my God is so much bigger than I, so much more in control that I, so much more powerful and all-knowing than I. It’s exciting to embark on day where promises will be fulfilled, hopes will be dreamed, and new mercies will be gifted.

I’ve always associated mornings with mercy. I’m pretty sure it’s because when I was a wee girl growing up in a small Baptist church, we sung a hymn inspired by Lamentations 3:22-23, which speaks about God’s mercies being new every morning. We sung this hymn so often, seemingly every. single. Sunday, that I can still hear the slow, and I do mean s-l-o-w, organ’s vibrato in the back of my mind to this day. It wasn’t a song I particularly liked (can you tell?), however, the words acted as a key ingredient in the foundation on which I’ve built my now 43 years upon. I am not a glass-half-full kind of girl by chance. I am a glass-half-full kind of girl because mercy was planted and nurtured throughout my entire life.

Mercy is often misunderstood. When it isn’t overlooked, it’s taken for granted or confused with something it is not. And what I mean by that is that we often believe we deserve more or better or something other than what we have received. And although that maybe true, when we look for what we DON’T have, we miss what we DO have. And that’s exactly my point. Remember the story of the Israelites and how even though the Lord daily provided manna (bread) for them, they still cried out for meat? Remember how God eventually gave into their pleas and in the end they realized that they really had no desire for it after all? (Exodus 15-16) I think we’re a little like that too. We want all that Christ offers in addition to the perks of the world. Thinking about this, I wonder just how much we miss of God’s glory when we are searching for something we have assigned more significance to?

Robert Gelinas points out in his book, “The Mercy Prayer”, that mercy is “compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, steadfast love, unfailing love, goodness, generous love, and loving kindness”. You may read that list and quickly make the connection that those are attributes of Christ; and you would be correct! Mercy is at the core of Who Christ is! (Psalm 103). I feel it important to note here that mercy is for everyone; the loveable and unlovable alike. We are all sinners and fall ridiculously short of God’s glory (Romans 3:23); and if we consider that the wages of sin is death (Romans 6:23), we know we have been gifted an abundance of mercy when we receive His gracious, sacrificial gift of salvation. Mercy assumes we’re going to sin and He loves us anyway; He supplies our needs anyway. Mercy doesn’t alleviate our pain or suffering, but does act like an ointment to our wounds. It’s not based on anything we do or don’t do. On that note, I think it’s equally important to understand that God doesn’t dole out mercy with reluctance, or weighing the pros and cons of doing so, or even anticipating some form of repayment (not that we could!). He has no ulterior motive. He simply loves to love and He does that by gifting us His mercy each and every day, starting first thing in the morning. Micah 7:18 tells us that “God delights to show mercy”. Delights! Can you picture His face? Do you get a sense of His heart?

Perhaps the best definition I’ve heard is “Mercy is God’s grace in action”.

Going back to the story of the Israelites for a minute, it’s important to remember that God didn’t just place His provisions in their laps. They actually had to go out and gather the manna. When they saw the abundance of manna, they were so excited; so excited that they gathered far more than they needed in hopes to save some for the next day. Do you remember what happened? It rotted. God provides what we need for this day and only for this day. I love how Beth Moore, in her Bible Study: A Woman’s Heart, God’s Dwelling Place” points out that “our ratio of mercy matches our present need. When the time arises and the need escalates, so does the grace required for us to make it. God is always sufficient in perfect proportion to our need”.  We always have what we need. Nothing more, nothing less for today. We cannot store up or use up God’s mercies. It’s impossible. And every day, we will learn to rely on Him to meet our needs.

This morning I thank the Lord for another day, another opportunity to see Him and to reflect His love to the world. I challenge you to do the same. I am pretty sure that if we can practice having a thankful heart for what we already have, we will be transformed from the inside out. This happens when we trade our agenda for His; when we trade our shame, regrets, fears, etc. for His mercy. What a way to begin each morning!

Chapter Two

Below is a talk, a testimony of sorts. I had the privilege to share about an amazing, life-giving ranch in my area, Raven Rock Ranch. Though I gave this talk about 6 months ago, I was recently asked to publish it here. Seems silly that it is here where I am most vulnerable and did not think to share this with you. I'm calling it my Chapter Two. If you've followed me long enough, you'll understand. If not, "Chapter One" is in my archives to the right. Thank you for asking, whoever you are!

Meg and her Rusty

Raven Rock Ranch Testimony

When I was 26, I was raped. Nine months later I gave birth to a biracial baby girl. She had the daintiest, doll-like features: petite dark chocolate eyes, petal pink lips, and a head full of black hair---though I did not know that right away. She cried and cried until she was placed into my arms for the first time and instinctively I cradled her tiny six pound body into the crook of my neck and without a thought, whispered the words of my heart over and over again, “I love you, I love you, I love you”. Her crying soothed and I kissed her head and then her cheeks and then each of her ten fingers and each of her ten toes. In that moment, I knew she was mine. I knew in that moment I would do anything for her. The trauma we endured together over the last nine months seemed a mere memory. I chose to look forward, not back. Dennis and I named her Megyn, the most beautiful name we could find, which means pearl---and as you know pearls come from oysters, which are ugly, battered, weathered, but the pearls themselves are priceless, a genuine treasure. The same is true with my Meg. I loved her before she was born. I loved her more upon holding her in my arms and now, 15 years later, I love her more than I ever could have imagined.

I knew raising a biracial daughter in our predominately white community and home would be challenging for a multitude of reasons, but in my worst of nightmares I couldn’t have imagined all that my Meg would endure or that we would ever need a place like Raven Rock Ranch; a place for broken souls---some struggling with substance abuse, physical abuse, identity crisis, etc. the list goes on.  But in order to get to the story of how we ended up at Raven Rock Ranch, I need to back up a dozen or so years ago to the time when Megyn was about 3-4 years old---about preschool age, when she was just learning her colors.

At this time, it was part of Dennis and my routine to take one of each of our two girls upstairs to tuck them in bed at night. We’d snuggle under the covers and listen as they would share one good thing about the day and one thing that bugged them. We would listen as they’d say their nightly prayers and then we would pray over them as well. I loved this time---not because my energetic girls were going to bed after a loooong day, but because there was something sacred/special in this quiet time, where tender words of the heart are shared, where cuddles seem softer, and peace feels like my daughter’s small hands reaching around my neck and slobbery kisses that drool down my check. Dennis usually tucked our oldest daughter, Abigail, in and I usually tucked in Megyn. I remember the day when her nightly prayers began to shift from a heart of gratitude, where she prayed, “Dear God, thank you for butter and mayonnaise and cookies”  (not kidding) to a deep agonizing plea that I never would have imagined possible for a child of that age, if I had not heard it myself. “Dear God, please make me pink, like my mommy. God, why won’t you make me pink like my mommy? Can’t you do it, can’t you do it?” And she would sob, tears staining her plump cheeks. And so would I because I knew that the Lord was not going to change the color of her skin. It was then that I knew the struggled I feared for her was taking root.

By the time she was in elementary school, the name calling had begun. Names like “Afro-naut, Sausage lips, Blackie”. And by the time she was in the sixth grade, those hateful words became physical violence. I witnessed with my own eyes seven sixth grade girls circling my daughter kicking and hitting her as they called her these names, in addition to calling her a monster. As I rushed to my daughter, I noticed her disposition. She just stood there; her head hung low, her arms to her sides. She did not try to defend herself in words or actions. She--just—stood--there. Later when I asked why she didn’t try to defend herself, she said, “Because I’m not worth it. They said I’m a monster. I came from a monster. They must be right”.  (Sigh) I knew she was struggling with her identity and with bullying, but I did not realize that she believed that she was a monster because of how she came into the world. Children so easily believe the lies they’re told, even ones they have told themselves…

Dennis and I have raised her like our older daughter, in a house of love and acceptance. Contrary to many people’s fears/beliefs about giving birth and raising a child of rape, she is not a reminder of my attacker and though I will not take the time now to share a lot about that, I will say she is more of a reminder of the sovereignty of Christ in our lives. We do not love her differently than our other daughter. We have spent her entire life speaking and living out the truth of the value and gift of her life has brought to our family. Still, she cannot accept it. She rarely showed emotions, no smiles, no tears. She just existed-- withdrawn, isolating herself more and more, talking only when necessary, only interacting with others on a as needed basis.

Well, it was about this same time frame, sixth-grade, when I had gone upstairs to put clean sheets on her bed, when I accidently knocked over a bench in her room. It was one of those benches, with the top that opens and you can store things inside. Out fell a couple of knives, a runaway list, and her journal. You can imagine my surprise, I’m sure. Her thoughts of running away were not even on my radar. I never expected that, even with all of her struggles. That, in combination with the knives… you bet I broke that mom code about respecting my daughter’s boundaries and I read her journal cover to cover. What I discovered caused such a deep hurt within my soul and questions upon questions piled up---questions like, “How did she get to this point, where she glorified death?” She wrote about it in vivid detail.  And “Cutting? She became addicted to cutting in an attempt to feel?” I knew nothing of cutting. This scared me immensely. And “If love isn’t enough to save my daughter, to show her her worth, what is?”

 I confronted her about what I had read and she confessed all of her written words to be true and pulled up her sleeves up to show me the hundreds, literally hundreds of scars that ran up and down the length of her arms. I had never seen anything like it. When I asked her, “Why”, she said, “Mom, you have no idea what it’s like to live in my skin. I can’t escape it no matter what I do. I need to have control over something. I need it!”. I had no idea the importance of those words until much later.

I knew Meg needed something that Dennis and I could not provide. Really, if love had been enough, she would have been a well-adjusted, typical kid; she was anything but. I refused to leave her alone. I bent-over backwards, compensating for the wrong doings of the kids at school. Really, I was completely terrified that we would lose her to suicide. I made an appointment with her pediatrician and shared what we discovered and immediately he sent us to have further testing done, which revealed a hodge-podge of things: biological depression, anxiety, sensory issues, ADD and the list goes on. Meg was put on medication, which led to a two year roller coaster ride with several different medications and varying degrees of doses being administered every couple of months. Every—single---one---of ---them led her to have hallucinations and hear voices (which by the way where telling her to, “Kill herself”)! Though we did not have our doctor’s “blessing” we weaned her off all medication, feeling completely frustrated because we knew she desperately needed help, but not knowing where to find it.

We eventually found a reputable child counselor and I got a long with her great. Meg, on the other hand, struggled to answer questions or even to open up about the inner struggle she was having regarding her identity and the hatred acts repeatedly done against her. After a few weeks, Meg refused to go. When I asked why, she said, “I feel like I’m in trouble when I go. I feel like all we do is talk about the bad things. It makes me feel worse”. I understood that completely.

Don’t misunderstand me; I am not against medication or counseling. Both play a vital role in so many people’s road to healing/recovery. However, it is not always the best or right fit for some. Meg needed something different; though I didn’t know what. We needed something that she would be receptive to, something that would minister/speak to her tender heart and meet her where she was: a broken place.

By God’s grace and I do mean by God’s grace, we found Raven Rock Ranch.

I called Sandy, shared our story, and asked her if Raven Rock Ranch would be a good fit for my girl. She said, “Yes”. We arranged to meet the following week, which felt like an eternity as my heart beat wildly in anticipation the entire time. Upon arriving, she gave us the tour of the ranch, introducing us to each of the six horses and shared their stories. Each of their stories was of varying degrees of abuse. They were all rescued and given a new life, a new purpose.

As we moseyed through the ranch in our barn boots and heavy fall jackets, I leaned over to Sandy and asked, “So which horse will Meg work with?” She said, “I don’t know”. Looking confused, she responded by saying that she lets the horse choose the child. My smile masked my disbelief, but I agreed to play along.  Arriving at the last horse, Rusty, a beautiful copper colored quarter horse about 12 years old at that time, the same age as my Meg, he was out under a cluster of trees eating his morning hay when we approached the fence. We did not call out to him, we did not bribe him with carrots; we simply stood there watching him. And in that moment, he stopped, looked up, turned, and ran to us, stopping just short of the fence directly in front of Meg and lowered his head. In that moment, he had chosen Meg. Meg instinctively held her hand out to his muzzle and let out the softest giggle. My girl who had not shown any emotion in years---literally years, was not only smiling, but giggling! I knew in that moment that equine therapy was different than anything else we had tried. Meg was receptive. Rusty met her where she was and she embraced the idea of helping him heal. She did not realize that in her brokenness, Rusty would also speak life and value and purpose into her life.

A beautiful bud had blossomed between Meg and Rusty and continued to bloom during their time in the aisle of the stable, where Meg spent a good share of her 90 minutes a week brushing and caring for him and learning to tack. She clearly was in no hurry to ride. She found value in just being together. She gave more hugs and kisses to Rusty than any other horse has ever received---I am certain. She nuzzled noses and whispered secrets that I will never know. She would lay her head on the nape of his neck and just rest. It was enough for her to just be---  So many times I had to bite my lip to keep the tears from falling because what I witnessed time after time was my daughter who could not show herself care, love, acceptance, and grace or allow herself permission to fail or have the ability to forgive herself so easily show that to Rusty. As they worked together, anyone watching could clearly see this attitude of “I know you’re broken, I’m broken too. Let’s work together”. It was something that surpassed respect. It was a genuine friendship.

 Every week I saw smiles. Every week I heard laughter. Meg would go to the ranch no matter the weather---snow, rain---it didn’t matter. If she was sick, she went anyway because she didn’t want to let Rusty down. She couldn’t live without him. He had become her security. She was learning to accept herself--- as she was--- and find her identity in him through caring for him in his brokenness. She realized she was important to Rusty. He needed her. And whether or not she knew it yet, she needed him.

The time spent in the aisle way built a relationship of friendship and trust, which became apparent in the round pen, where Sandy would often teach the kids to ride or become leaders or whatever she foresaw that they might need to work on. Meg enjoyed riding, but could have cared less about it. She just wanted to be with Rusty. Sandy saw this in Meg and had her begin with what she calls “ground work”. The first day she tried this, she had Meg lead Rusty around the round pen and then just drop the lead and slowly start to walk away stopping  20 or so feet away. She believed Rusty would follow Meg because he wanted to, because she was his leader, because he trusted her. Meg desperately needed this assurance---and often.  Meg stood there and Rusty stood there. It seemed an eternity. I watched from the other side of the fence and prayed that she would not feel rejected again. I feared if he didn’t walk towards her, she might lose the glimmer of hope I had seen in her eyes, that maybe she would even give up on Rusty. I hoped and prayed that the Lord would do a mighty work, that He would show my daughter His love for her through the only thing that seemed to be able to communicate with her. In that moment, Rusty lowered his head, snorted and walked to her, he lowered his head again to her hanging hand and nuzzled it. The smile on her face---priceless! She’d rub his forehead and walk on. And he followed. He chose her over and over again. She didn’t have to change anything about herself for Rusty to accept her or to trust her. He just did. When she said stop, most of the time he stopped. When she signaled to back up, he backed up. She was learning that her words have value, that her words mean something---and not just to Rusty, but to those she interacted with. She was learning that if she could be bold with a horse, she could be bold for herself, stand up for herself, and believe in herself.

Not that Raven Rock Ranch is about riding. It’s not, but a measure of the change taking place in Meg could be seen in her riding. When she first began, she rode with her back hunched over as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible. And when she gave directions, her small, timid voice was barely audible. In fact, I remember the first time she wanted Rusty to do something, she said, “If you wouldn’t mind, could you please…”. I am not exaggerating when I say; she had no confidence in herself whatsoever!  By the time she graduated the program, a year and a half later, she was riding well; her posture was tall and confident. Her voice: certain. She was no longer cutting. She learned how to take control. She learned to be a leader.

There was evidence outside the ranch as well. She is gifted musically and writes music as away to process her emotions and struggles. Many of her songs are filled with encouragement and hope for others. When I see her in social situations talking and laughing, she exudes a genuine joy she did not have before. She has learned to accept herself as she is. She is not perfect by any means. There are still days when people’s judgment about her skin color and/or how she came into the world get to her, but for the most part, she has made peace with it.

She graduated from the program a year a ago and another healthy milestone happens tonight, when she attends her first formal school dance. My girl is going to a dance! My girl is choosing to go to a dance!

I am indebted to Raven Rock Ranch for the hope they so freely give and the heart in which they give to each and every child as if they were the only one on earth that mattered. Without a doubt, my Meg is not who she once was, she is living life and life to the full. I could never thank them enough!

Project 52: Who Are You?

A note before diving in: Project 52 is a photography challenge that I have accepted for 2016, but because I love exploring and learning more about both photography and writing, I am combining the two with each week's theme here.

Week One: Who Are You?

I cannot sum who I am up in just a few words or merely a few sentences. I am complex, yet simple. I might resemble the made famous quote by actor Tom Hanks in his role as Forrest Gump, I’m “…like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get”. I don’t mean to imply I’m mysterious, on the contrary; I’m an open book.  I like who I am though. I’ve worked hard to become the woman I am today. Everything you see of me on the outside has a story of hard work, fight, determination, and ultimately of love for myself because I have always known to some degree I am worth fighting for. I am better than the circumstances that have surrounded me or have threatened to take me captive, trying mightily to rob me of joy. I am not what happens to me. I am not my environment. I chose joy a long time ago. It resides deeply in my soul and escapes through my smile. I think I might even smile in my sleep most nights---not because my life is easy. Lord, knows it is anything but. I think I smile because I am secure in my faith. I am a glass half-full kind of girl.

I’ve been broken. Some of that brokenness has been done to me, while a good deal more I have done to myself. I am not broken now. Chipped and fractured in some places and certainly scarred in others. And I treasure each of those chinks in my armor because I have learned more about who I am and who I was always made to be. I am whole. I am complete. My identity is not in my scars, but more so in the One who bore them for me so that I might have life to the full---if I would choose it. And I did.

I am:

Loved
Treasured
Delighted in
Fought for
Protected
Cherished
Forgiven
Called
Comforted
Held
Led
Whole
Transformed
Redeemed
Free from condemnation
Sanctified
Saved
God’s workmanship
Anointed
Free
Blessed
Graced
Empowered
Equipped
Promised


As I sit here typing out these characteristics, it dawns on me that these point more to Christ and all that He is able to do in a surrendered heart who desires to learn and love. I guess that’s who I am then. A heart surrendered.

I have several life verses; verses I hold close to my heart; that I pray repeatedly as I ask the Lord to continue to refine me—at any cost---to mold me into His likeness. One of my favorites: Colossians 3:4 “I am an expression of the life of Christ because He is my life”. It is my prayer that when people see me, they first see Christ. He is my life, my love, my everything. It’s who I am!