When I gave birth to my firstborn in 2018 I struggled with postpartum depression on a very immediate and intense level. You can read about it here, but the short version is that my birth story involved a long labor followed by an emergency c-section which left me to deal with lots of trauma, physical recovery, and confusion. In my first month I dealt with intense lower back pain, a relentless rash (PUPPS), and limited mobility while my baby dealt with multiple episodes of thrush and a late diagnoses of reflux. We were miserable during what I expected to be the happiest time of my life.
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I never thought I’d be in the his place. I’ve always known that I was called to be a mom. There was a certain destiny and purpose on that calling. This is exactly what I wanted. On paper it would appear that I was prepared for motherhood (as much as one can prepare). I could check all the boxes that would point to the fact that I was ready. I was a nanny and a children’s ministry leader for years. I love kids. I have more patience and grace than your average person. My faith is solid. I’m thirty years old and happily married. I have a supportive family nearby. My husband and I work at a church, and have constant access to spiritual leaders and a community of friends. I'm the type of person who prides myself on having it all together, and being able to do whatever I set my mind to. Never would I have expected to struggle as much as I have.
This has been the most challenging month of my life physically, mentally, and spiritually. After a pretty traumatic labor and delivery experience, I navigated through recovery and the first weeks of parenthood with a laundry list of physical limitations. That was coupled with feeding difficulties, an inconsolable baby, and extreme exhaustion. My baby hardly slept. He cried constantly. And after the first week of adrenaline wore off, I cried just about as much as he did. Everyone kept telling me all of this was normal, yet nothing felt normal. By week two I found myself in a dark place mentally- one that most people don’t talk about. Very quickly I reached a dangerous low. In fact, My husband and mom gave me an ultimatum: I could call my doctor or they would. The next day I had an appointment. I was treated for postpartum depression with an anti-depressant and a referral for counseling. That was the first time my doctor instructed a twenty-four hour watch on me. Luckily mental health isn’t a taboo subject in my family, even though it is in our culture. I’d been medicated for depression in my teenage years, but NEVER dealt with suicidal thoughts. These thoughts terrified me. When the doctor asked me if I had “any plans” I wept and shook my head no. A few days later those thoughts crept in, and scared the hell out of me. I prayed. I worshipped. I told people. I did anything and everything I knew to do to bring it into the light to be dealt with. I wasn’t going to let those thoughts win. They were unwanted, unwelcome, and not my own. I love my life, and in my right state of mind I would never think those things. But the scary thing about PPD is that you’re not in your right state of mind. And because I was familiar with postpartum psychosis (if PPD goes untreated), it wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. My three year wedding anniversary fell on a Wednesday. It was our (mine and Eli’s) worst day yet. By the end of the day I didn’t recognize myself or my behavior. We ended up at the doctor, this time for him. He was almost four weeks old and seemed to never sleep. He was in pain and I didn’t know why. Once again, everyone told me that his behaviors were normal. But something didn’t seem right to me. Long story short: Elijah had both thrush and reflux. Because he had only gained two ounces in two weeks the doctor put him on medicine for the reflux. Within twenty-four hours (no exaggeration) it was as if we had an entirely different baby. But keep in mind, this was just before the four week mark. Four weeks of insanity and chaos had taken their toll on me. My sister, Mallory, was visiting from Texas and took over caring for him throughout the entire night so I could rest. She reported that he slept for a five hour stretch, and I was in utter disbelief. My family wanted to give me a break to catch up on rest that day, and despite my hopes for Eli’s recent breakthrough, I was terrified things would regress and I would return to the place I was in the day before. Before leaving, my sister insisted that I shower and offered to draw a bath for me complete with essential oils and candles. Despite my indifference, I obliged. I turned on my worship playlist, slipped into the tub, and felt numbness overtake me. It can happen that quickly. The thought of drowning came to my mind. And as soon as I imagined my family finding me, I shook myself out of that mindset and took the thought captive. I began to worship and speak over myself. I’d never been more thankful to have music playing. The lyrics “something’s changing in the spirit, something’s breaking I can feel it” played on repeat, and with each repetition I believed it more. I declared it and agreed with it. Naked, afraid, and vulnerable I took authority over those thoughts and told my mind the truth it needed to hear. The next day was my four week postpartum appointment. My younger sister came along with me. I expected a quick check and chat, but the appointment took a much different turn. The nurse explained that I needed to fill out a survey for PPD, which was about ten questions. As I finished I noticed that my score prompted a warning for immediate mental health assessment. I didn’t think much of it, I was just being honest and I’d already been seen and treated two weeks prior. Without diving into too many details, my doctor expressed grave concern for my mental state, my responses, and the fact that I had suicidal thoughts in the last twenty-four hours. She recommended that I be sent straight to the hospital for a psychiatric evaluation and twenty-four hour monitoring. That scared me. All I wanted was to rest and maybe a little normalcy. After some back and forth, we opted to bring my sister into the room for further discussion. My sister and I agreed that my mental state would likely be worsened by the stress of a hospital visit. We didn’t want to minimize the doctor’s assessment, but my sister exercised wisdom and discernment of her own, along with her professional opinion. We were able to compromise with the doctor that I would be supervised 24/7 by family over the weekend until I returned to follow up with her, on the condition that I needed to make a counseling appointment ASAP. The doctor didn’t seem happy with our decision, and I don’t blame her one bit. She was doing her job, and ethically I agree with her treatment. But I trusted my mental state at that moment, and my sister’s levelheadedness. I can admit that I would agree to hospitalization if I thought it would help or if I knew I posed a serious risk to myself or others. In my case, I knew supervision from home was a safer and less stressful alternative. Nonetheless, they reassured me that I wasn’t crazy, that this wasn’t my fault, and that everyone was worried because they cared greatly for me. In the car ride home from the appointment, I heard the Lord tell me that He was going to use this experience to bring freedom to others. That I needed to use my voice to do so. Not in the future. But now. My first thought was, “but what about me?”. I was clearly still in the midst of a major battle. And I heard a gentle yet reassuring’ “I will deliver you from this.” And I believed Him. So this is my part, my requirement of obedience so to speak. I know there could be a long road to eradicating these thoughts. I do plan to continue medication until my hormones and the chemical imbalances regulate. I plan to meet with a counselor. I’ve promised my family that I will continue to be open and honest with my thoughts and struggles. And I’ll share with transparency of victories and setbacks. I don’t seek pity or even validation, I just feel compelled to be obedient to the word I was given. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the phrase “I wish I would’ve known what you were going through” in past circumstances. So I’m putting it all out there. I won’t look back and say I did this alone. My husband, my mom, and my sisters have been the best support I could ever ask for... I could not have survived these last four weeks without any of them. When you allow others into the pain, you expose the problem to let light in all the dark places. I don’t want to stay in the dark places alone. And I don’t want others to. There is freedom in the light. I’m being led there by the spirit, and I want others to feel that same draw to freedom. These thoughts are not my own. There is no condemnation or guilt for what’s out of my control. But there’s a better way, and there’s truth that reminds me that the darkness and the lies have no hold over me, despite their best attempts. Lastly, I know this doesn’t make me a bad mom. In fact, I know I’m a great mommy for Eli. But he needs a healthy mommy, and he deserves the best version of me. So I’m going to do whatever it takes to get to that healthy place for my boy. And also for my husband, my family, and myself. I know I will. You’ll see. After sharing some photos on social media and receiving an overwhelming response, I decided to share the story behind them. On Saturday, Daddy took some photos of Mommy and Eli. I prefaced that I wanted to share the photos that stood out most from that day, and surprisingly none of them were from the photoshoot. But, rather, one photo was a selfie with my sweet little boy and the other was a photo of me at my most vulnerable, after a massive breakdown later that evening. I simply asked for prayer and wanted to point out that the photos I would soon post on social media were not an accurate depiction of a “picture perfect” week. Our week was rough. But my confidence was in the hope that things would improve, because our love for this boy is something deep. #thisispostpartum Tear stained cheeks. Bags under my eyes. Swollen face. Pain medicine wearing off. Internal and external incision pains. Uterine contractions. Clothes that don't fit. Insane hormones. Extreme exhaustion. And the realization that my husband was about to go back to work while I could hardly get out of bed. This photo is the perfect representation of an overwhelmed, terrified first time mom. I snapped a picture in the mirror to capture the juxtaposition from the morning photo shoot I had just participated in. This was the second time in a week that I distinctly remember not recognizing the woman in the mirror (the first time was my first shower two days after surgery). It had been exactly a week since my sweet Elijah Jude was born. After laboring for twenty hours, he came into the world through a last minute c-section, and the recovery was nothing short of painful, exhausting, and unexpected. He was a little guy, and his weight dropped from 6 lbs 11 oz at birth to 6 lbs 2 oz at discharge. He had some jaundice. We were given a lot of advice and instruction about how to help him gain weight and lose the jaundice, and honestly it was a bit overwhelming. Most people are sent home from a major surgery with recovery time and someone to take care of them. I went home hardly able to walk, get myself out of bed, lift anything heavier than my six pound baby, or bend over. And now I was responsible for this tiny human. Thank goodness for my husband and the village that helped care for us, but that didn't make things “easy”. The first few days home were hard. I had no idea what I was doing, and all I could do was pull from the overload of advice and instruction I received at the hospital, from baby books, and my own research. I felt pretty ill-equipped, even though I felt a strong maternal instinct. Everything seemed like a formula, with steps that I had to follow perfectly and that alone was exhausting. It wasn’t just eat, sleep, poop but a laundry list of do’s and don’ts which varied by person. I did my best to sort through the advice, judgement, and instinct but each night Eli was wildly unconsolable and that left Delyn and I confused, frustrated, and helpless. Was this how it was supposed to be? Something didn’t seem right. Everyone said how much newborns sleep. Our baby wasn’t sleeping. After coming off of a challenging night and about an hour of sleep I decided to set Eli in his boppy and get myself dressed and done up. I hadn’t felt pretty all week. My face and ankles seemed permanently swollen and I knew better than to expect any of my clothes to fit in a flattering way. But I asked my husband to take some photos of Eli and mommy because I felt like I deserved a sweet memory after a grueling week. So we took some photos, and then I instantly regretted all the time I spent NOT resting. I beat myself up over it, but had to suck it up and take care of a fussy baby for the remainder of the day. That evening I fell apart in the midst of sheer exhaustion and a still unconsolable baby. I’m still not sure why Eli was so fussy the first week. Maybe it was because I hadn’t figured out his needs. Maybe it was because of misunderstanding or miscommunication on what to do. Maybe it was an overproduction issue. Or a tongue tie. Or digestive problems. I don’t 100% know just yet. But what I do know is that I was utterly overwhelmed by the information and conflicting advice I received during my hospital stay. I was overloaded with sometimes unclear instructions and questions, and I unknowingly made all of their instructions “law”. My whole life I’ve been a rule follower. My family loves to recount the story of when little Meggie loudly announced while riding a bus in Washington D.C. that “the bus driver doesn’t have his seatbelt on!” for everyone to hear. If you tell me the rules are X, Y, and Z I feel compelled to follow them to a T. So when a dozen doctors, midwives, nurses, and even random staffers gave conflicting instructions, I did my best to apply them all. And quite frankly, that left me drained and confused. I wish I would’ve focused on learning about my baby and his individual needs, but I was hyper focused on following the rather unclear “rules” that flooded my foggy brain over a four day hospital stay. After a week of feeling like a failure and finally consulting with family and friends, I finally realized that the rigid structure I was told to follow wasn’t working for my baby and me. Something had to change. I couldn’t run on an hour or two of sleep per day for much longer. As I prayed through the circumstances, I felt like the Holy Spirit ministered to me on the subject of law versus grace. Please keep in mind that this was the Lord’s revelation for ME and my particular circumstances. That doesn’t mean it applies to yours. But I want to share because it's bringing freedom to me. What Yahweh revealed was that the problem is not with rules, but when those rules become the law in your life. There has to be grace. Legalistic mindsets are not gospel mindsets. This can be applied beyond babies; I think it applies to any area that can lead to bondage in your life. When you operate out of obligation and ritual, you are not operating in freedom or grace. Living under the law extends to life beyond religion. Maybe you know someone, though, who has a list of “dos and dont’s” in the name of religion. They don’t know why they abstain or participate in X, Y, and Z. That is a form of bondage. Bondage can also come in the form of fear, depression, anxiety, addiction, or any other state that keeps you in slavery. But we do not have to live in slavery, since we were born into sonship. This is explained best in the book of Galatians: “But when the set time had fully come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, that we might receive adoption to sonship. Because you are his sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out “Abba, Father.” So you are no longer a slave, but God’s child; and since you are his child, God has made you also an heir” (Galatians 44:4-7). Instead of operating under this law and submitting to perfection/striving/fear, I chose to spend some time in worship and ask the Lord what his heart for Eli was. I wanted to receive wisdom by the Spirit, because the natural was not lining up with what I knew was true over my son. He wasn’t made to live in bondage either. “...if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under the law” (Galatians 5:18). After praying very specifically for wisdom regarding Eli’s needs, I began to receive advice from family that led to research on what could be causing his discomfort and frustration. Before I knew it, I found plenty of information that lined up with his symptoms and consequent temperament. Things were clicking, and I was finding that some of the information I was given wasn’t necessarily applicable to our circumstances. So we made some adjustments. The following 48 hours were nearly a 180 degree turnaround. We made changes to scheduling, feeding, what advice we received, and what was best for our baby. Using wisdom and discernment we started to shake off the chains of bondage we had been feeling and moved forward in peace and grace. Eli is doing great. He is SLEEPING! We're still working through the learning curves, as to be expected, but he is so much happier and more comfortable. And we feel such a peace about his progress. We have our two week appointment on Thursday, and our main goal right now is for him to continue gaining weight and to be healthy and whole. We’re believing that he’s right on track. I feel confident that we are moving forward in a great direction. When I wake up early in the morning it gives me an opportunity to take in the new mercies of the day, spend some quality time with my sweet boy and soak in some snuggles, and dive into the Word to see what the Lord wants to minister to me on in this season. The best encouragement that I continue to receive is that God made ME his mommy for a purpose, knowing ahead of time exactly what he would need. I've been told that "it's okay to not be okay" at times. And we've received beautiful and encouraging messages of the prayer and intercession that is being done on his behalf. There is grace to be found. He's only ten days old. We know we'll get there. We know things will get better/easier. And each day I'm reminded of the new mercies that can help me get through the difficult times so that we can soak in the love we have for this precious boy. Jesus said “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them” (Matthew 5:17). Mommy and Eli's PhotoshootWhen Delyn and I were dating, we shared a journal that we mailed back and forth between Texas and Arkansas. It was right around four years ago that I wrote down a significant name in one of my letters. It was a name the Lord highlighted to me for the future, the name of a child. I remember the joy of penning those letters in beautiful script, and of the vulnerability and faith required to write it into existence as it was spoken to me. One day, I believed.
Flash forward to April of 2018, Delyn and I anxiously awaited the confirmation of our ultrasound technician regarding the gender of our sweet babe. I was confident I knew the outcome. We watched in amazement at the profile of this tiny human, “oohed” and “aahed” over each kick, and cried tears of joy as the reality of the life of our child unfolded before us. The technician announced with certainty that the baby in my belly was a BOY, and we were elated. But I have to admit that I was surprised, and honestly a bit confused. You see, the name God highlighted years prior was a baby girl’s name. I’ve always connected with women and girls very easily. I can relate to just about any woman, regardless of age or life experiences. I believe the Lord has been able to use this and will continue to use this ease of connection to minister to women. It made sense, to me, for motherhood to bring more opportunity for connection and ministry. I considered the destiny of a little girl, and felt confident in my role as a “girl mom”. “Give me a whole tribe of girls,” I thought. And suddenly, there I was… a boy mom. I was excited and apprehensive all at the same time. I had a Pinterest board full of DIY projects, nursery decor, and tiny clothes that I had to abandon and figure out just how to be a boy mom. Initially it kind of stung, and that’s really difficult to admit. The projects didn’t seem as fun. The nursery seemed limited. And the tiny clothes were much harder to come by. If reading this feels awkward or painful, imagine the vulnerability required to honestly write out these thoughts. I tried to stay focused on the purpose of this little boy, and all his future would bring. I prayed for him incessantly, and anticipated his arrival with great expectation.Things just felt different than I expected them to. For the next few months I focused on research. I wanted to find the best stroller, the right crib, and all the bargains. It became somewhat of a second job. I was tired all the time, so that didn’t help. I continued to pray constantly over our little boy, and over my heart. I loved him so much, and yet I felt so torn each time I would see a friend or acquaintance announce that they were expecting a little girl. It was an unexpected and unwelcome twinge of jealousy. And I resented the jealousy, because I loved my boy. Just before I hit the thirty-week mark, I had a surge of energy and excitement upon remembering a project that I could do: designing onesies. I ordered the supplies on Amazon, and started the projects as soon as they arrived. The teeny onesies were perfect. But the guilt that came over me when I realized this was the first project I’d worked on for Eli was thirty weeks into our journey soured the moment. And I resolved to do better. To be more intentional, to find projects that I could personalize, and to let myself be excited even though things looked different than I expected. A few weeks later, Delyn and I made plans to hang up the nursery decorations. We planned for the main wall decoration to be a flag, created by our friend Charlotte, that declared Luke 2:40 over Elijah. In context, the scripture is about Jesus, but we felt that it was a beautiful declaration and example. “And the child grew and became strong in spirit, he was filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was upon him”. It was beautiful, and brought me to tears, because it reminded me of what was important: Elijah’s purpose. With the help of my father in law, the shelves were hung and the remaining furniture was configured. Delyn was so excited about it all coming together. And yet I was so unexpectedly disappointed. The room somehow felt too impersonal. It felt like something was missing, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was incredibly discouraged and unfortunately that rubbed off on my husband, stealing his joy. The next day I drove around town, looking for the “perfect” decorations to magically tie the nursery together, and every store seemed like a failed attempt. Tears ensued at each stop. As I walked through the Hobby Lobby baby section I remember thinking how frustrating it was to see the beautiful girl decorations. “This would be so easy”, I thought. The boy section (per usual) was rather underwhelming compared to the girl section. And then it hit me. The nursery felt like a disappointment because I had never fully envisioned a finished boy nursery. My dream nursery was for the baby girl that I expected to carry. Oh, the guilt. Big tears. Real tears. Messy tears followed. Eli deserved the world. I mean, I know that babies don’t care about cribs and decorations and clothes, but he should always know that his parents anticipated his arrival with excitement and preparation. But I hated those silly, few nursery themes and hated even more that I was stuck on “stuff”. I’m not a possession person, so why was this such a central theme in my struggle? I decided to move forward with projects that were personalized instead of generic, because it wasn’t about the money or even the aesthetic, it was about having a space that I would be excited to bring my baby home to. For the next week I worked tirelessly on learning how to create unique macrame wall hangings and spent every hour outside of work on finishing them quickly. On one of my Marshalls runs, I came across a sweet little globe that matched the mirror above his dresser and remembered that Delyn had requested we incorporate a globe. He purchased a few watercolor prints. And we found a plant that would bring in some color and life. And before we knew it, the nursery was perfect for our little Elijah. Not because of the stuff. But because we could finally see ourselves in that very space with our little boy. One of the most important and humbling lessons I’ve learned during this journey has been that it is not about me. It’s not about the things I buy for my baby, the nursery I decorate, or even my ideals about how to raise a child or what my role as his mom will be. It’s about submitting myself to the understanding that God has plans and purposes for this child (and my future babies) that far exceed my limited view. When I consider the destiny God has for him, I sink back in amazement. And I remind myself that just because I’ve carried this baby for nine months doesn’t mean that I’m the only one to influence or guide him. I consider the potential that his father will be able to pour into his identity, as he was shaped by the Father. It changes everything. Last week as Delyn and I were eating lunch, our Youth Pastor approached us to share a thought that crossed his mind. A few months back, he approached Delyn and asked if he would preach at Youth one week in November when the Pastors will be away. He walked up to us with a big grin on his face, and said, “You know what I thought about the other day?”. We were intrigued. “When you preach in a few months, that will be the first time your son hears you preach. Isn’t that awesome?!”. Wow. That really hit us. The generational implication of a son hearing his father preach resonated deep in my spirit. What a foundation. We’re raising a little boy who will grow into a man of God. And while that is a huge responsibility and honor, it is one that I have to step back and thank the Lord that He graced me with a husband who will be able to lead our family and serve as the example for this son we’ll soon meet. The pressure and responsibility of being a “boy mom” is no longer insurmountable. Because the “boy dad” who I get to raise him alongside has been set apart for this exact purpose. Oh, that you would know the power of the Word. The Word himself. The Word made flesh. The Word He put in your very heart, from the beginning of time. The heartbeat of the Creator. The original author whose narrative shaped the destiny of mankind. The one who communicates through poetry and parable, allegory and allusion, imagery and foreshadowing, yet whose voice is undeniably authentic and still fully comprehensible to those who seek to understand it. Full of truth and wisdom, it is the lifeline of our spirit. Just as our flesh yearns for sustenance, our spirit hungers and thirsts for the only nourishment created with the ability to truly satisfy.
Oh, the beauty that came forth when He released His Word, when He spoke life into existence. From the void He created artistry of every facet. It is nearly impossible to fathom this wordsmith, this writer, this storyteller who not only penned the plans of creation, but spoke them into being at the sound of His voice. The release of His words. Oh, what a God we serve whose Word exists beyond the constraints of time. A God who is never surprised by the characters, plot, or details. A God who promises to work all things together for the good of those who love Him. A God whose Word will always be more than enough. Oh, that He is a Father who would never withhold, deny, or silence the power of words. A Father whose Word can never return void or empty. A Father whose words are always true. May our words line up with His Word. May our words be yielded to His Word. May our words be strengthened by the power of the One they belong to. I’m feeling overwhelmed with gratitude to see so many rejoicing with us 🤗. I want to share this post and get transparent for a minute amidst the excitement. There’s so much more to this photo. Today I feel really drawn to stand in the gap for those who are waiting for a “yes” in any area.
I always thought I’d be the girl to fall in love, marry young, and have a couple kids before I turned thirty (🤷🏽♀️). When the answer was “no” to a relationship in my early twenties, I felt the weight of all MY plans domino out of reach. And yet the waiting ended up being a blessing. That wasn’t the only “no” I’ve felt so deeply: “No, your daddy didn’t make it...”, “No, you didn’t get the job...”, “No, you don’t fit in...”. A no from the world feels harsh. And then I remember that scripture tells us “all His promises are yes and amen”. But what does that look like when it’s a no in the natural? You see, in the fall, we were believing and contending for this baby as we had been for some time. I was convinced that I was pregnant, and so before taking a test I prayed and told myself that ‘no matter what it says, at the end of the day, God will still be on the throne and everything will be okay.’ I looked at that test expecting to see one line or two, as I had done times before. But I must have grabbed a different type of test in my haste, because instead I looked down and found a digital “NO” staring back at me. Tears instantly swelled up and ran down my cheeks. I wasn’t ready for the no. The no felt really harsh and unfair. I was caught off guard, and I was disappointed. It hurt, because my heart wanted the immediate. I suddenly felt strangely embarrassed of my response and went to my husband to process it all. I felt like I had to explain myself, not to him, but to myself to justify those feelings. I looked at him, tears rolling down my face and softly said, “I prayed before the test that it would be okay either way. I told myself that at the end of the day, God would still be on the throne regardless of the results”. I paused. “I started this morning in the Word. And I don’t think the test was in my response. I think it’s okay to cry and feel disappointed. I think the test will be if I wake up tomorrow morning and spend time with Him, even though it wasn’t the answer I wanted today.” Delyn comforted me with the words, “You will. You’ll return to your King. You wouldn’t be the Megan I know if you didn’t.” And I felt relief sweep over me. It was a perspective shift. Just like that, we determined to continue contending for the promises unseen... that every promise would be YES and AMEN, that a timeline wouldn’t determine the outcome. The hurt of every “no” will be redeemed, restored and returned as a victorious “YES” because His word never returns empty or void. I stand before you today to acknowledge that the “no” can hurt. And it’s okay to feel the pain, the heartache and the letdown. But don’t stay there. You can literally lay that down at the throne. Because the “no” is never the final word! Believe for the YES that is on the way and start claiming that victory before it even comes to pass. It changes everything. I just want to encourage you today that a promise deferred is not a promise unanswered. Hope with joyful expectation that the Lord who who put those desires in your heart cares deeply to see you through the waiting. Some of the greatest blessings in my life have been seeing the “no’s” redeemed as more than I ever could have imagined. If you need someone to contend for you today, to agree with you, and to believe for you, I’d love to be that friend. We began to pray and prophesy over this area long before our move. We made declarations over the land and the people and our family. We called forth relationships and opportunities and business. We knew that there was a great deal of purpose behind the move, and that required a great deal of preparation-- we’re talking spiritual preparation to make way for the natural. When times were difficult in Arkansas we began to understand that the pressure and opposition we were facing were actually confirmation that what we were pressing TOWARD was worth the battle. For Christmas, I made Delyn a sign with our words of promise, declarations, and what we were believing for. We hung it on our wall and I read it every day. I clung to those words and the promises behind them for months.
With our last weekend in Bentonville came more unexpected disappointment. That Sunday morning I was deeply troubled in my spirit. I awoke before six o’clock and found myself overcome with emotion. An attack was coming against me, and it was the spirit of rejection and abandonment coming full force. Instead of waking up my husband (although I would normally do so) I retreated downstairs. I knew in that moment that only The Great Comforter could console me, so I laid on the couch and prayed as I wept. I knew it was an attack because I was offered thoughts and lies that caused immensely more grief. The enemy reminded me that the prior day marked the day three years ago where a family member attempted to take his own life to escape an impending federal trial. Those thoughts flooded my mind. And all I wanted to do was call my dad. After all, it was Father’s Day. My seventh Father’s Day without him. Boy, did the enemy love holding that over my head. But instead of calling for help, I just prayed for The Helper to intercede. I made it through those hours. Peace set in. Exhaustion set in. I slept for about an hour before church. On the way, I told my husband what happened, and we prayed. We prayed and cried some more. We spoke against this spirit of rejection that seemed to be plaguing us. And when we worshipped that morning, I could actually feel the supernatural transcend my physical body. I cried out in praise to the One who had never left my side during the darkest nights. Tears poured down my face, with my eyes closed and heavenward; I didn’t care about what was going on around me. I actually didn’t even know how Delyn’s worship experience was unfolding at that time, but I knew we were both in the midst of overcoming a pretty difficult weekend. An important note that I only share because it is relevant to the story is that Delyn’s biological father took his life when Delyn was just a baby. And while it’s not my story to share, it is a huge connection we have and explains a bit as to why that day was a culmination of some really deeply rooted struggles. After the service, we sat together along with my sister in law (Lacie) and debriefed. I’ll never forget what Delyn said that day because it resonated so deeply in my spirit that I never wanted to let it go. In addressing the feelings of disappointment, rejection, and abandonment he was no longer angry or even hurt. In fact, he boldly affirmed that he truly felt like he “was able to be with his Father on Father's Day". That wrecked me, because I wasn’t even able to verbalize those feelings, but in my spirit I sensed that same fulfillment. And I believe that was a really powerful representation of our season, because we learned through this difficult season who we could run to. I’m telling you, not for pity or selfishness, that there were times this season caused us to feel SO alone. But we clung to each other, and we clung to God’s promises for us. And some days that was quite literally all I had to get me through that day. And I stand to say that Yahweh is Jehovah Jireh, and that will always be enough. When I look back on that season I can see the mercies during that time that I didn’t always pick up on in when things felt hard, but that certainly helped me through. Sometimes it was through doors closing, sometimes through a person or a word, and sometimes just through the painful quiet was I able to fully hear God and obey Him. But one thing I know, He never left my side and never will. Only weeks after settling in North Carolina we attended a Young Adults night at The Refuge, a church we felt particularly drawn to. I’ll side note here to say that this wasn’t happenstance-- we were purposed to find it. It is a beautiful combination of Delyn and my needs and wants, it is challenging, it is inviting, and when I tell you that I’ve never experienced a more tangible presence of the Holy Spirit within a church body I am not just saying that. I mean it. After attending that first Sunday, we were introduced to the Young Adults Pastor, Skyler, who invited us back the next week for an event. The message that Pastor Skyler delivered was about a season of rejection that he had endured. He went a step further to say that he believed that season was actually ordained by God. I don’t think I’ve connected that deeply to a message in a while, but it really resonated in my spirit. You see, I’ve been through hard times before. I’ve experienced loss and suffering, moves and broken relationships, feelings of abandonment and desperation, disappointments and unmet expectations, but never this feeling of constant and overwhelming rejection. I’d never had trouble making friends, keeping jobs, or finding peace in circumstances like this. Day after day, month after month I grew weary. I withdrew. I leaned on my husband, and we clung to those promises we wrote down. I had trouble expressing my experiences to anyone until I heard the message at The Refuge that night, because it was such a confirming and relevant issue to me. You see, when that season was tough I didn’t doubt God’s love for me, or His provision. I didn’t consider myself “rejected” or “unworthy” because I knew His truth. But looking back, it makes more sense. I didn’t have to be accepted or understood, valued or praised, popular or needed. Because if everyone around us gave us every confirmation we needed about our plans, would we really think we NEEDED confirmation from the One who ordained it and called it into action? Honestly, I’m not sure if I would have. At least not on my most honest and humble heart level of transparency. And one thing I can tell you about my spiritual life in this past year is that it’s been anything but stagnant or complacent. Upon arriving here, we witnessed one confirmation after another that THIS is where we are supposed to be. I received a very specific word the week we arrived: Revival. I've mentioned to people that this isn't a "religious" word I tend to throw around. Oftentimes I'll speak of how God has redeemed and restored things in my life, but I don't generally use the term revival, so I knew it was given to me in the spirit. And we're seeing a revival in so many ways-- life being breathed back into places and relationships and circumstances that desperately needed it. This isn’t a “Let me prove how happy we are” kind of post. This is a real life, authentic, from the bottom of my heart: “life can be so hard, but I promise you there is hope at the end of these struggles” type post. We have difficult days. But the goodness and the favor we’ve experienced have outshined the tough days many times over. We are believing for amazing things in this time of revival! Let me preface this project by saying that I am in an ongoing process of body acceptance. Quite frankly, when it comes to my body I’ve spent the majority of my life more uncomfortable than comfortable with it. I have these awkward quirks and issues when it comes to clothes: I don’t like my arms exposed in tank tops, my favorite neckline is a t-shirt, and tight fitting items are generally out of the picture.
The intent behind this project was to really try to work through and deal with some of these issues. It’s one of those deep rooted mentalities that I refuse to pass along to future generations, so I know the importance is paramount. Dealing with a distorted body image goes back pretty far for me-- all the way to 8th grade. A friend of mine wanted to “match” outfits: denim skirts and and tank tops. The night before, I made her promise me that I wouldn’t get made fun of for wearing a skirt. As a thirteen year old, I was convinced that my legs were “too fat”, to the point of begging her to tell me the truth to avoid humiliation at school. That breaks my heart. My legs weren’t fat. I was young. And athletic. And innocent. And I cried over wishing my legs were the size of all the other girls legs. Looking back, I wish that young girl could’ve seen that she was normal, healthy, and strong. My quads and thighs were developed from years of soccer. They weren’t twigs. And that should have been okay. Little girls shouldn’t be crying over their bodies. Women shouldn’t be crying over their bodies. I’m not sure why it takes my brain so long to separate reality from perception pertaining to my own body image. I don’t think I’m the only one out there with this problem. I can quite literally see a photograph of myself, and instantly dislike it-- pointing out a physical flaw that captures my attention. Because I keep my galleries open in my editing software, I will see those same photos weeks, months, or years later and oftentimes see a completely different image-- seeing past the flaw that originally blinded me. Fast forward to this series of self portraits: I have no idea how I had the confidence to order a nude bodysuit and manage to put it on in front of the camera that first time. It kind of baffles me. I had ONE photo in mind, and that photo involved my husband. So I composed the photo and we captured the image. With no other plans in mind, he suggested that this photo needed to be the final photo of a series. I just thought I was finished. So I kicked him out of the room, because let’s be real... nobody really wants to be seen in a nude bodysuit and insecurities were rising. I started off with a few self portraits, and couldn’t believe the raw emotion that translated through the photos. I had to walk away because it was actually really difficult... I saw every unflattering angle, pore, stretch mark, and ounce of cellulite. But I had this creativity ignited in me that drew me back to the front of the camera the next day. And this time I had a confidence to capture my body as art, and not as the subject of some project on insecurity. It was liberating, and I was finding that I was actually pretty good at finding light and angles and creating interesting visuals. And every session I would walk away with a photo that I was really proud of. In the moment. Not two weeks later. Or a month later. That moment. And for me, that was proof that this project was a success. |
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September 2018
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