the thankful beethe thankful bee

Finding hope, joy and humor in our everyday.

faith

Are you sitting in an open grave?

by Melissa Holderby on category ,

It should have been a happy day. It wasn’t. In fact, I felt like I was sitting in an open grave. Unable to stand up and walk away. Allow me to explain…

the results of young and stupid

We recently found ourselves on the receiving end of an unplanned sum of money. Not enough to quit a job certainly, but enough to pay off several debts that have buried us for decades. To be clear, I’m not talking about our modest house mortgage or used car payments. I’m talking about credit debt. WAY too much credit debt if I’m being truthful. In our defense, some of those obligations were a result of college tuitions, medical bills and various unforeseen lousy circumstances. But let’s be honest, okay? Most of that debt represented a whole lot of “young and stupid”. In other words, buying stuff on credit that we didn’t immediately need, but we sure did want. Stuff that we felt we had “earned” because we worked hard and were generally nice people. Why shouldn’t we take that vacation? Have those new clothes? Enjoy a room of new furniture?

So we bought. Nothing flashy or extravagant, mind you. I am a fairly low-maintenance girl married to a fairly simple boy. We just purchased things that we should have waited and saved for instead of quickly buying with the bank’s money. Because guess what? The banks aren’t our friends, and they would like their money back with interest. I get it. It’s business.

buried financially and emotionally

Not only did those debts financially bury me, but emotionally entomb me as well. Our mountain of financial mess was colored deep shades of shame and regret for me. Regret that we didn’t handle our money with more wisdom or restraint early in our marriage, and plenty of regret that those decisions had control over us still. Every month I sent another minimum payment I heard the same recording in my head. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” And so, I dutifully sat in the grave we had dug for ourselves, deeply ashamed.

suddenly my grave was opened

Then along came that unplanned sum of money and freedom was closer than ever before. With a few clicks of a button we were able to knock our daunting mountain down to a manageable mole hill. In other words, we were able to pay down a significant chunk of our credit debt and pay cash for some long-overdue repairs to the house. There was finally light breaking through the burden. There was space to finally exhale. What a glorious leap toward financial freedom, right?

Except I didn’t feel glorious. Or free. Nope, I felt… well… nothing. I remember the exact day the payments all posted to our accounts and zeroed out the balances due. My husband was so happy! I was grateful to be sure, but numb. Almost dead inside.

What in the world? What was the matter with me? I should have been rejoicing in the streets at the very least. Instead I was sitting in an open grave with all the joyfulness of a corpse. Those accounts had kept me wide awake plenty of nights to be sure, buried under their weight financially and emotionally. And now those debts were gone. POOF! Eradicated. So, where was my sense of relief? I thought I’d feel alive again!

clearing my muddled mind

And that’s when I asked God for guidance. I should mention that He doesn’t audibly talk to me in a voice that I can physically hear with my ears. (No burning bushes in our front yard either, although that would be pretty neat.) Instead He communicates with me through pictures in my head. Or sometimes the sharp arrow of an unexpected thought cutting to the front of my muddled mind – usually a thought I don’t recognize. Sometimes He even speaks a word to me through other people. (Some of you reading this blog have served as that person for me at one time or another. Thank you!) Anyway, I looked up to the wide blue sky while still sitting in my open grave and said something like this…

Hey, God. Can we talk about something?

You know I love our chats. What’s on your mind?

Well, I am forever grateful for this unplanned money and the freedom from debt it represents. I honestly doubted that the day would ever come that we would be free from those accounts. Now that day is here, and I feel no comfort.

Why do you think that is?

I’m not entirely sure, but I think it has something to do with the fact I didn’t EARN it. That gift was given to us out of love and sacrifice. I didn’t deserve it, and I can’t “pay it forward” to someone else. It’s almost like I still owe somebody something.

I see. Do you carry those same thoughts over into your relationship with Me?

What do You mean?

I mean, do you have difficulty fully accepting My love and grace because you didn’t earn it? You feel you don’t deserve it, and you will always “owe” Me a debt you can never repay?

Well… … … yes … … … … that’s probably accurate.

And did you notice what week your credit accounts cleared to zero?

The week of Good Friday and Easter. (I’m beginning to see the connection You are suggesting.)

Right. The week of My biggest sacrifice, given freely out of love as a gift to cover your debts. You owe nothing for that. Zero. Nada. You just have to receive it.

But, I have received it! I have received You! I try to walk in relationship with You as closely as I can.

Yes, and I love that. And you don’t fully embrace the JOY and PEACE that comes from relationship with Me despite your circumstances. Just like your heart couldn’t experience relief when your credit accounts were paid in full. You are still sitting in an open grave wondering if you have earned the right to leave. I am not shame, and I am not regret. I AM the light in the darkness. Step out of that open grave and join me. Feel joy and peace no matter your circumstances. That’s the life I gave to you. That’s the life I want for you. And I’m right here. Waiting. For YOU. I have saved you a good seat in the sunshine.

Are we still sitting in an open grave?

Well, that certainly got me further thinking on the matter. Debt was a deep grave we had dug for ourself a long time ago, and I was willing to continuously punish myself by sitting in the shame and regret even when I had been given my freedom. Are there other open graves in my life? Dank and dark places where I still sit despite knowing that I am no longer obligated to stay there? Is my grave forgiveness I stubbornly withhold? Ongoing guilt over my myriad of past mistakes? Pervasive anxiety over my children’s futures?

I am still pondering all that and working through it with God’s guidance. What can I say? I am a work in progress. But I am not in eternal debt anymore. Jesus paid that for me. And that’s what I want for you, friends. I want you to quiet your hearts and your minds and allow Jesus to pay your bill IN FULL. We are not meant to stay in our own figurative graves. We are meant to walk with our Father in the light. He loves us. He loves us enough to make the ultimate sacrifice with us on His mind. Receive it with confidence. Embrace it in full. Then have peace and joy because of it.

So, until next time, friends. May the God of Easter’s empty tomb shine His light on you. And may you stand up and walk right out of your own open grave – whatever those circumstances may be. He’s saved you a seat in the sunshine.

Happy Easter, bee readers!

Fondly, Melissa

“This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike “What’s next, Papa?” God’s Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know who he is, and we know who we are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what’s coming to us—an unbelievable inheritance!” – Romans 8:15-16 (MSG)

Why this mom won’t pray for a special miracle.

by Melissa Holderby on category , ,

We are blog friends, right? I mean, I assume you can handle my sloppy truth without judging me too harshly. Well, this mom won’t pray for a special miracle for her special needs son. There, I said (typed) it. And I want to tell you why.

I sat down to write this specific message to you several times without success. Every time I mustered the energy to log into my writing platform, I just sat and stared at the blank screen. The little cursor blinking patiently in the upper left-hand corner of the glowing display. How can I possibly articulate my feelings around this without dishonoring Someone? Or sending the wrong message? Or even worse – discouraging another hurting soul? And every time I slammed my laptop shut and walked away. A little less confident and a little more discouraged.

I’ll be completely honest, friends. I haven’t published anything since April for a multitude of reasons. The world seems to have swallowed me whole and left little of my creative spark behind. Most days I am focused on what has to get done in the next 24 hours at home and at work while still eeking out a little bit of parenting. My friendships, my marriage and my writing have all taken a back seat. Again. Can anyone else out there relate? Can a tired girl get an “amen”?

A special miracle.

Even deeper than my surface reasons, I have been too afraid to share this with you. What in the world could I possibly have to say to meaningfully encourage another warrior momma walking a similar direction? The issues of parenting a special needs child seem too big, and my words feel too small. I certainly don’t want to sprinkle hollow platitudes or insult anyone else’s story with shallow ideas. The Thankful Bee was created to be a balm. A beacon. A place where we can all exhale for a minute, recharge, and then take another step forward. I am truthfully unsure if I can be that for anyone (or even for myself) at the moment.

Still, I feel compelled to share my journey forward on this particular path. In other words, why this mom won’t pray for a special miracle – complete and immediate healing for her son’s cerebral palsy. My story isn’t clean or tidy. In fact, it is fraught with hard feelings and tough questions. Questions like, “Why does God allow babies to be born with disabilities?” Or, “Why does God grant some people’s petitions for miraculous healing and not others?” Does He favor one person over another? And why, despite my professed strong faith, does this mom not pray for that specific, special miracle?

Let’s question the basics.

Before we delve into the deeper points, let’s answer some foundational questions together. I had to really look long and hard at these to determine whether I was stuck in the muck of a basic tenet or not.

Question #1: Do I genuinely believe God is powerful enough to heal my son?

Answer: Yes, His omnipotence has never been in doubt with me. All I have to do is look back at Luke’s adoption story to see His might. God moved impossible mountains to bring Luke, his birth mom and our family together. Nobody and nothing will ever convince me otherwise. Period. I 100% firmly believe that God is capable of erasing Luke’s cerebral palsy with one breath, one word or one nod.

Question #2: Do I honestly believe that God is good/kind/loving enough to heal my son?

Answer: I soul searched on this question a bit longer than the first one. Probably because of those really tough questions I mentioned earlier. And while this blog post isn’t meant to resolve why bad things happen to good people, I still have to answer “YES”. Yes, I can look back on the five decades of my life and point to specific evidence of God’s loving faithfulness. How His goodness rose up out of the ashes of my own past desperate situations to bring beauty and joy and peace. So, yes, I have to answer that God is good and His love for Luke and our family is rock solid.

[Case in point? Have you read about our sparrow yet? It will always be one of my favorite stories. You can find it HERE.]

Let’s really rip it open.

I have examined my heart, and I believe that God is powerful enough. And I believe He is good/kind/loving enough. So, why won’t this mom pray for a special miracle to obliterate her son’s cerebral palsy? Warning, this is where my feelings get extra sloppy. Do I believe that our family is WORTHY of a miracle?

Certainly there are thousands of mothers out there asking God right now to heal their babies of worse things – terminal cancer, pervasive drug addiction, crippling depression, etc. I mean, Luke’s cerebral palsy isn’t a progressive condition, and it isn’t fatal. His muscles are weak and floppy, and his balance and coordination are impaired. He is not yet able to communicate verbally, and he sometimes drools if not prompted to swallow or wipe his mouth. His gross motor, fine motor and expressive speech skills are all impacted, but his intelligence is unaffected. He’s a super smart little cookie trapped in an uncooperative body. He can only improve from here, and he continues to encourage us with his steady progress.

(Side Note Public Service Announcement – Don’t assume that because he isn’t talking that he isn’t taking in every word you say. He also isn’t hearing impaired. So when you ask invasive questions about his special needs or about his adoption story, HE CAN HEAR AND UNDERSTAND YOU. Seriously, I assume you are well intentioned people, but don’t make me punch you. Because I will. Like a protective mama bear with a slightly floppy, drooly, non-verbal cub. )

Moving on…

So, do I not pray for that miracle because I think other families are ahead of us in line at heaven’s “Miracles Answered Here” window? Yep, that’s probably it if I am being completely truthful with myself (and you). We are managing, and Luke is doing well despite his struggles. Feel free to bless someone else with our miracle, Lord. We don’t want to ask for more than we deserve. We want whatever YOU want.

God’s unexpected response.

Anyway, in talking to God about my reasons for not specifically asking Him for a miracle for Luke, He answered me in a very unexpected way with just two words. “SLOW BURN”. Huh? Those weren’t exactly the words I needed. And then it was like the veil was lifted from my eyes and I saw a teeny peek of what God sees. God has already given this mom a special miracle for her boy. Luke’s miracle healing isn’t a quick flash. Instead, it is a SLOW BURN.

Luke’s miracle is the team of talented therapists and teachers who build into him (and me) every week at school. Slow burn.

His miracle is a team of gifted outpatient therapists and other medical specialists who genuinely care enough about him (and me) to patiently listen to my concerns and include me in the decision making. Slow burn.

Our miracle is having two jobs that allow us to accommodate our schedules around Luke’s needs. And some seriously amazing health insurance. And access to resources other families don’t automatically have. Slow burn.

His miracle is the unexpected financial help that has come our way to pay for expensive equipment and services not covered by that awesome insurance. Grants, special funds, and one heck of a financial advocate through our local Children’s Hospital. For example, did you know that a local coffee shop’s baristas covered a portion of Luke’s $7,000 speech generating device by donating all of their customer tips for a full month? Who even does that?! Slow burn.

And Luke’s miracle is a community of friends and family who fiercely love him and support us as his parents. They pray for us, and make us laugh and pick up the slack when we need help. Slow burn.

Your own slow burn.

Where are YOU on this road? Even if you are not raising a child with special needs, I bet there is something in your life for which you’d love a little divine intervention. What is that prayer you leave unspoken? Do you doubt God’s power to grant it? Do you question His goodness around that thing? Or, like me, do you consider your ask unworthy in light of other peoples’ “bigger” problems?

Regardless, my advice to you is to still boldly ask Him. Be that mom and pray for the special miracle. And then look for your own slow burns. God is always listening, and He always answers (“yes”, “no” or “wait”). Sometimes just not in the way we expect.

Until next time, friends!

Melissa

Online resources.

Want to learn more about cerebral palsy? Here are some helpful links.

Cerebral Palsy Foundation https://www.yourcpf.org/

Center For Disease Control and Prevention – Cerebral Palsy https://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/cp/index.html

Do I really and truly believe in Jesus’ resurrection?

by Melissa Holderby on category

Friends, I have MISSED you! I won’t go into all the details about where I’ve been or why I haven’t written to you in a few months. Suffice it to say that several life stressors reached up all at one time and sucked me into a sinkhole of other pressing responsibilities. Or in other words, day-to-day life kicked me in the teeth, and I have been tired. Too weary to write for certain. I think I have come up for a quick gulp of air, though, and I want to share something with you. Something that God has been pressing into my heart over the past few weeks – Do I really, truly believe in Jesus’ resurrection? Like honestly believe it?

Golgotha and the fanciest of carrots.

That’s certainly a loaded question to ponder, isn’t it? Especially during the holiest week of the Christian calendar that culminates in Easter, aka “Resurrection Sunday”. Like many of you who follow the same traditions this week, I dyed the hard boiled eggs, bought the milk chocolate bunnies and made plans to attend church in person for the first time since pandemic shutdown in March 2020. I have given pause this week to consider historical locations in and around Jerusalem like the Upper Room, the Garden of Gethsemane, and Golgotha. I’ve thought about names like Peter, Judas, Pontius Pilate, and Mary Magdalene.

Oh, but I didn’t stop there. Heck, I even made arrangement for my immediate family of five to enjoy lamb chops, roasted potatoes and fancy carrots for Easter dinner. And yes, they are fancy carrots because they are tri-colored and organic. (Typically my kids are used to single-hued orange carrots with pesticide residue, thank you very much. But this is EASTER DINNER for Pete’s sake, so I splurged on the most special of carrots.) Oh, and I almost forgot. Lemon meringue pie for dessert. Not homemade pie. Out of a box pie. Because I’m not super woman and I’m tired, remember?

Anyway, amidst all of my Easter-y doings, God put a big question on my little heart. Not once, but three times.

The big question.

Do I really, truly believe in Jesus’ resurrection?

Wait…..what???

Of course I believe in Jesus’ resurrection! I actually really enjoy Easter. I mean, I’ve got the pastel decorated eggs, and the chocolate rabbits. We have the fanciest of carrots for dinner, Lord. And we have pie! Of course I really and truly believe!

Do I really and truly believe in Jesus’ resurrection?

Um…. like as an actual historical event? Is that what you mean, Lord? Yes, yes I do. And not just because I got spoon fed the story as a child either. I’ve given this some serious adult contemplation over the decades. Thoughtfully considered multiple sides of the debate. I’ve read investigative journalist Lee Strobel’s book, The Case for Christ. (Okay, I watched the movie, but it made me WANT to read the book.) Jesus’ resurrection is the cornerstone of my entire faith. My ultimate reason for hope and joy and peace in this crazy world. So, yes, I really and truly believe.

Then He planted the same question with a slight twist.

Do I actively live my life really and truly believing in Jesus’ resurrection?

Boom! There it was. THAT deserved some pondering on my part. I mean, I publicly profess to believe it. Do I privately live like I believe it? In other words, do I conduct myself as if I believe that the same holy power that raised Jesus from the dead is alive and working in the world today? Or more specifically, alive and working in my own little blip of a life?

My final answer.

Well, let’s examine that together for a moment, shall we?

I said earlier in this post that I’ve been weary. Tired. Spent. Part of that stems from a recent uptick in medical and therapy appointments for my youngest son, Luke, as he prepares to turn three years old in a few months. Between the processes of leaving Early Intervention services, starting public preschool services with an IEP, prepping for a dual outpatient surgery, and coordinating his ongoing care between multiple departments at our fabulous children’s hospital, WHEW! It’s like a second full time job.

And some days it is an uphill climb for me emotionally and mentally. Why? Because if I am being completely honest with myself (and you), I feel driven to stay hyper-vigilant about Luke’s cerebral palsy and his rehab 24/7. In my mind, if I don’t immediately make the appointments, do all the therapeutic activities and constantly stay on top of the insurance benefits and pending grants, then my little boy will somehow lose and cerebral palsy will win.

Huh. It is strange to even put that into words. But there it is, in Arial font, for all the world to see and judge. I never fully exhale at the end of the day, because I am not living like I really and truly believe in Jesus’ resurrection. I mean, it’s all right there in the Easter story that I’ve heard and read to my own babies countless times. Death did not win. The darkness did not win. And I have to really and truly believe that cerebral palsy will not win in the end either.

Where do we go from here?

So, what does that mean for me? For us? It means that we are invited to receive the same power that resurrected Jesus from the grave. To ultimately hang our hope on the exact same Holy Spirit to restore us to wholeness. And whether physical, mental or emotional healing be in this literal lifetime or on the other side of Heaven, we do not have to be fearful. We can have hope today. Joy. Peace.

You see, I am not called to live afraid for my son. I am not called to carry the weight of healing him or protecting him from cerebral palsy. And I do not have to tend the figurative fire 24/7 for fear of Luke somehow “losing”. Because Easter tells us the end of the story. Life will win. The Light will win. Mightily and completely. And the resurrected Jesus stands in the gap between what we humanly can and cannot accomplish on our own.

Romans 8:15-17 (MSG) “This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike, ‘What’s next, Papa?’ God’s Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what’s coming to us – an unbelievable inheritance! We go through exactly what Christ goes through. If we go through the hard times with him, then we’re certainly going to go through the good times with him!”

Happy Easter, friends. The grave is empty. Exhale, celebrate and live like you really and truly believe it.

How to give off more light than smoke.

by Melissa Holderby on category

Do you give off light or smoke? You know – if you were a campfire or a backyard fire pit? Which one are you primarily – a light-giver or a smoke-giver? I’m convinced that everyone leans one direction or another based on my fifty years of experience on the planet. Especially on social media. Whew! Some folks generate seriously blinding smoke with their Facebook and Insta memes and rhetoric, don’t they? Well, I’d like for us to explore how to give off more light than smoke. Our world seems to be figuratively on fire, so let’s get to it.

I really LOVE to burn stuff.

Much to my own delight, I recently bought a portable fire pit designed to be relatively smoke-free. I won’t go into the scientific mechanics of “secondary burn”, but I will say that I really like to (safely) ignite stuff! It’s therapeutic for me. I set that kindling ablaze and my stress level drops by at least half. There is something mesmerizing and soothing about quietly staring into controlled flames outside in the dark on a crisp autumn night. The way the fire wraps around the oak and cedar logs like an embrace. It is a powerful, beautiful, grounding experience for me.

That being said, my roaring fire pit generates three things in varying amounts – light, heat and smoke. Two of those things are desirable and feed my soul. Conversely, one of those things stings my eyes and makes me cough.

The same can be said of people in our lives. There are people who bring light and warmth. And on the other hand, there are people who churn out choking smoke. How would our friends, co-workers, neighbors and own family members describe us? Would they say we are light-givers? Or smoke-givers?

Regardless of our answers to those questions, I know who we are called to be.

We are called to bring light.

“For you were formerly darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light!” [Ephesians 5:8. MEV]

“You are the light of the world.” [Matthew 5:14. MEV]

“The night is far spent, the day is at hand. Therefore let us take off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light.” [Romans 13:12. MEV]

By the way, out of equality and fairness, I searched for Bible passages about being the SMOKE of the world. I couldn’t find any.

But exactly HOW do we do that? How do we give off more light than smoke?

Step #1 – Be honest about your fuel source.

For starters, I can tell you that my backyard fire pit behaves differently depending on what I put in it. Well-seasoned, dry quality hardwoods like oak, maple and cedar give off high amounts of light and warmth with very little residual smoke. On the flip side, soggy “yard garbage” like wet leaves generate almost all thick choking smoke.

So, first figure out what you are consuming in the “fire pit” of your soul. Are you burning solid fuel from beautiful sources? Or are you igniting “yard trash” of ugliness and divisiveness? I promise you, friends, you will generate the byproduct of your selected fuel source.

Step #2 – Know where to find high-quality fuel.

If we want our fires to generate light, then our second step involves knowing WHERE to find that well-seasoned, solid hardwood. In other words, where can we successfully harvest quality fuel for our souls? In my experience, our best natural resource is mature people. Real actual in-the-flesh humans. But not just any random people. You have to find “persons of peace”, because they are reliable light-givers.

Jesus gave a list of people who would be first in His kingdom. Let’s look at what He had to say in these verses often referred to collectively as the “Beatitudes”. (Not “BAD attitudes” like I misheard as a little girl in Sunday School. Ha ha!)

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
4 Blessed are those who mourn,
    for they shall be comforted.
5 Blessed are the meek,
    for they shall inherit the earth.
6 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
    for they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful,
    for they shall obtain mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart,
    for they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers,
    for they shall be called the sons of God.
10 Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake,
    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” [Matthew 5:3-10. MEV]

I think Jesus gave us some guidance in those words as to WHERE to find solid sources of soul-fuel. In other words, the meek (humble) and the merciful. The pure in heart. Those hungry and thirsty for righteousness. And the peacemakers.

If we want to generate more warm light than choking smoke, then THOSE are the people we want to consume. THEY are the high-quality fuel for our own fire pits.

Step #3 – Burn, baby, burn!

So first, we honestly examine our own fuel sources. Secondly, we choose to seek out and consume solid hardwood in the form of “persons of peace”. And lastly, we light our own fires and burn them brightly out in the open.

“Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a secret to be kept. We’re going public with this, as public as a city on a hill. If I make you light-bearers, you don’t think I’m going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I’m putting you on a light stand. Now that I’ve put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine! Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven.” [Matthew 5:14-16. MSG]

What can YOU do today to be a light-giver? Ask God to show you an opportunity – however small or grand it may be. And when He does, then DO IT. Humbly. With grace and mercy. And with a pure heart, seeking nothing for yourself. Avoid creating choking smoke. Instead, be a light.

Go burn brightly, friends.

xoxo, Melissa

Turning fear into something unexpectedly beautiful.

by Melissa Holderby on category

Halloween seems like a good time to talk about our fears. Even the most stoic, hardened human on earth has SOMETHING that spooks them, right? Well, I’ve got a two-step story to share with you this Halloween. A redemption story about turning fear into something unexpectedly beautiful. I can’t wait to tell you the tale. It’s one of my favorites.

Before we jump into our story, let’s look at fear on different levels, shall we?

Level #1 – Our superficial fears.

Our superficial fears take center stage this weekend for sure. In fact, data shows that over half of the US population loves some good Halloween spookiness. The National Retail Federation tracks seasonal and holiday spending in the US, and has a Halloween Data Center (for real). According to their website, 58% of Americans will celebrate Halloween 2020. The average Halloween consumer will spend $92 this year, with a total expected $8,000,000,000 in spending on the holiday in 2020. That’s BILLION with a “B”.

So, what are some of your superficial fears? Spiders? Snakes? Ghosts? COVID-19? The US Presidential Election? I’ll willingly share mine. I’m afraid of alligators, haunted houses and unseen things that brush up against my legs in the ocean. I also find worn down ice cream trucks, dolls with missing eyes and clowns especially creepy. My personal worst case scenario is a clown driving a dilapidated ice cream truck with a giant pet alligator. No, thank you!

Level #2 – Our phobias.

What if our superficial fears turn into something greater? Like a phobia? In other words, an object or a situation that triggers marked fear and physical symptoms such as dizziness, nausea, and shortness of breath. In some cases, these symptoms may escalate into a full-blown panic attack.

Just for fun, here is one of my favorite scenes from the 1965 animated TV special, “A Charlie Brown Christmas”. It’s the one where Lucy works to pinpoint Charlie Brown’s fears. Best line in the whole clip in my opinion? When Lucy says, “Well, as they say on TV, the mere fact that you realize you need help indicates that you are not too far gone.” Funny AND true.

Unofficial top ten phobias of all time.

All cartoons aside, the National Institute of Mental Health estimates that 12.5% of American adults will experience a specific phobia at some time in their lives. According to a blog article I read at fearof.net, here is one list of the “top ten phobias of all time” with updates for 2020.

  • #10 = Trypophobia – The fear of holes.
  • #9 = Aerophobia – The fear of flying.
  • #8 = Mysophobia – The fear of germs.
  • #7 Claustrophobia – The fear of small spaces.
  • #6 = Astraphobia – The fear of thunder and lightning.
  • #5 = Cynophobia – The fear of dogs.
  • #4 = Agoraphobia – The fear of open or crowded spaces.
  • #3 = Acrophobia – The fear of heights.
  • #2 = Ophidiophobia – The fear of snakes.
  • #1 = Arachnophobia – The fear of spiders.

Hmmmmm. I wonder why I avoid having my back to the room or a crowd in a public place? Either that’s a slight nod to (#7) claustrophobia, (#4) agoraphobia or I was assassinated in another life and I still feel a protective urge to keep my attention facing outward. Yeah, I see you, Abraham Lincoln. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Former Mr. President?

Level #3 – Our hidden deeper fears.

But what about the even deeper fears? The ones that lie buried in our hearts and insidiously pull strings in our relationships and careers? Those are the ones involved in my story today.

I also recently read a blog article called “Top Ten Fears That Hold People Back In Life” from Psychology Today (January 2020). Here is the list according to that author:

  • Change.
  • Loneliness.
  • Failure.
  • Rejection.
  • Uncertainty.
  • Something bad happening.
  • Getting hurt.
  • Being judged.
  • Inadequacy.
  • Loss of freedom.

Any of that ring familiar if we are being honest with each other?

So, right here, my friends, is where our two-part story for this week picks up. Ready for the tale? Let’s go.

Part One: Haunted by Christmas caroling

One of the scariest (and probably most misinterpreted) experiences of my life was in a nursing home. The late 1970’s. I was in early elementary school. A Girl Scout. Troop 1098, to be exact. And my troop was Christmas caroling in a neighborhood nursing home. Oh, I’m sure we were adorable – little uniformed scouts, all rosy cheeked and innocent, singing nostalgic Christmas songs for the residents.

Except I didn’t feel adorable. No, I felt uncomfortable – like I was trespassing. Like I could somehow sense a deep pain and sorrow just underneath the gaudy tinsel and fluorescent lights. And I was afraid.

I remember avoiding eye contact with the elderly forms – some leaning over in their wheelchairs, others in padded recliners seemingly staring off into space and rhythmically picking at their crocheted lap blankets. I purposefully held back in the group so I wouldn’t be volunTOLD to go wish “Merry Christmas” to anybody too scary.

Remember – I was very young. My memory of the event and what happened next is from the perspective of a little girl.

One door open at the end of the hall

I have no idea what compelled me to pay closer attention to one open door in the hallway. But when I looked inside, there was a gaunt, pallid woman laying in her bed. She was holding one skeletal hand out to me, beckoning me to enter.

And for some crazy reason, I did.

As I cautiously inched closer to her bed, I was taken by the stale smell of the air and the wildness of her look. She had long, stringy gray hair splayed out behind her like an oily fan across her pillow. Her skin was paper-thin and her blue veins were visible in her arm and hand. She had deep set wrinkles, crooked stained teeth and vacant eyes.

I never saw her coming

And then – like a bolt of lightning out of nowhere – she grabbed my wrist, and rasped the most horrible words my little ears could imagine. I froze as her terrifying voice settled like a dark shroud over my head.

“PLEASE HELP ME.”

I tore my wrist free from her bony grasp and fled that room like my life depended on it. I was sure that I had encountered a literal witch and she was going to haunt me forever.

Shocked into silence

Panicked, I caught back up to my merry little pod of carolers and was silent the rest of the outing. I told no one about the witch in the room down the hall. Not a nurse. Not an adult troop leader. And not my parents. Nobody.

My fear from that encounter was eclipsed only by the guilt that I felt as our wood-paneled station wagon pulled out of the parking lot and into the dark December night. I was convinced that my shocked silence had killed that terrifying husk of a woman. That somehow – at my tender young age – I was responsible for her demise. And that she was going to ultimately snatch me, if not in life, then at the moment of my own death.

That night I started to perceive death as scary and cold and ugly. Something to be feared. And I vowed to never step foot in a nursing home again. EVER.

Part Two: Facing my fear and paying my debt

The second part of our story takes place in the late 1990’s. Now that same little Girl Scout me was grown woman me – married and enjoying a blossoming career as a physical therapist. Up to this point, I had worked in hospitals and outpatient clinics. And NO NURSING HOMES.

And then one afternoon my phone rang at home. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let our answering machine take it (1990’s, remember?). On the other end I heard a therapy recruiter leaving a message for me about a nursing home job in the area, and to please contact Such-And-Such Rehab Company if I was interested in hearing more. Ha! My career path was just fine, thank you. No need to rub elbows with scary, cold, ugly death again.

Hold the phone

TAKE THE CALL.

Wait, what?!? I don’t want to take the call. I’m not interested.

TAKE THE CALL.

The unmistakable urge – from a source outside myself – was clear as a bell.

TAKE THE CALL.

So, I dove across my bed and picked up the phone just as the recruiter was about to hang up. And I bet you can guess what happened next. Yep. I became the newest full time employee of Such-And-Such Rehab Company. In a nursing home.

A chance to redeem myself.

As it turned out, I got over my superficial fear of nursing homes fairly quickly. I actually loved that job and adored my new co-workers. My new boss was a gem who taught me lessons about therapy and life that I still fall back on today. You see, I viewed my work in that facility as a chance I’d been given. A chance from God to redeem myself from my frightening childhood Christmas caroling failure.

And redeem myself, I tried. I mean, I worked hard. I fought tooth and nail to physically rehabilitate the residents I could, and to make more comfortable the ones I couldn’t. In addition to my standard physical therapist role, I wiped butts, washed feet and vowed to be a beacon of compassionate light. And I was fairly successful at it with a few exceptions. And one of those exceptions was a resident named Berta.

Berta hated me and everybody else.

The best word I can use to describe Berta is “miserable”. She was a sour, dour old woman who hated me, the nurses and everybody else. She rarely got out of bed, and never changed out of a hospital gown despite having a closet of clean clothes. In other words, Berta was hard to like.

And guess what? It was MY job to go to Berta’s room three times every week and try to get her to do anything physical. Sit up in a chair, take a short walk, maybe do a few leg pumps in bed. Something! Anything! And Berta never did. On a good day, she would squeeze her wrinkled eye lids shut and ignore me when I entered her room. On a bad day, she would yell at me and call me awful names. Try as I might, I couldn’t reach her.

If I could just last another week or so

I knew if I hung in there long enough, Berta’s constant refusals would earn her a discharge from my physical therapy services and the torture would be over – for her AND for me. You see, her insurance company wouldn’t pay the bill if she wasn’t participating. I only had a few more days left to deal with Berta and then we’d be free of each other.

Before one of our last scheduled sessions together, I trudged up the stairs from my basement office and took a deep breath outside Berta’s door. Ashamed as I am to admit it to you, I dreaded these moments. I felt it had become a giant waste of my time and I had a million other responsibilities pressing in on me.

I exhaled slowly, counted to ten, knocked half-heartedly and pushed open Berta’s door.

A different Berta

Except Berta wasn’t laying in her bed this time like all the other times before. No, she was sitting up on the edge of her bed, swinging her legs like a little kid.

Even weirder? Her face lit up with a smile when she saw me, and she welcomed me into her space like I was some kind of dear old pal. She was practically giddy. “Oh, come in! Come in! I am so excited you are here!”

What in the world?!?!

Weirder still

Then it got weirder still. “I want you to meet my mom and dad!” At that point, Berta proceeded to introduce me very sweetly to her parents. She waved her frail arm toward an empty space of thin air, grinning like she had just won the lottery.

Now I had worked enough time with elderly folks with dementia to know that often they revert back to a much younger time in their lives. It’s a fascinating clinical part of the dementia process. Clearly Berta had crossed that line. She was in her late nineties, and her parents had been long gone for quite some time.

Still, I didn’t want to upset her, so I politely smiled back and said “nice to meet you both” to the space of thin air. I also thought I should capitalize on this opportunity to get Berta moving, so I suggested that she take a little walk with me since she was feeling so, well… perky all of a sudden.

“Oh, I can’t take a walk with you. I’m going home!”

Time to cut my losses

Okay, now I was feeling less amused and more frustrated. Berta was a permanent resident of the nursing home. There were no discharge plans, because her home had long been sold by her adult children. She had nowhere else to go. Berta obviously wasn’t oriented to her situation at all, and I obviously wasn’t going to get any work accomplished with her. AGAIN.

I decided to cut my losses and move on to my next patient. In other words, I didn’t have time to entertain this situation if we weren’t going to achieve anything productive. I initially took this job to redeem my failures, after all. So, I wished Berta well in her trip home with her parents (yeah, right) and went on my way. Dementia is a sad, sad thing.

Berta left me a gift.

When I came into work the next morning, one of my colleagues asked if I had heard about Berta yet. I assumed she fell out of bed overnight? Pulled out her own catheter? Punched one of the nurses again? Nope.

Berta had died. Only a few hours after I had left her room the day before. I think she had quite literally introduced me to her mom and dad, or at least some vision of them. And she had quite literally known she was going Home. She was excited about it with gleeful childlike expectation.

As I sat processing that news, I noticed something strange within myself. The frightening image of death I had from that Christmas caroling night had been replaced. Now I just saw Berta, swinging her legs on the edge of her bed like a carefree child. Not the least bit afraid. Happy. Glowing.

What a blessing God granted me by allowing me to witness Berta’s joy. I had been standing on holy ground that afternoon in her room, and I hadn’t even realized it in my haste to be productive. I want to live my life like Berta during our final visit. And that’s how I want to some day die my death. Unafraid. Adventurously expectant. Unexpectedly beautiful.

This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike “What’s next, Papa?” – Romans 8:15 (MSG)

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Time to burn my masks to ashes in the fire.

by Melissa Holderby on category ,

May I be brutally honest with you? Like trusted confidant over a cup of coffee, whispered confessional honest? I am weary of wearing masks. Yes, on one hand I am referring to global pandemic, COVID-19, save the humans face masks. The excitement of those wore off for me a while ago. And on the other hand, I’m talking about more figurative masks. The exhausting ones that I’ve woven and worn since childhood. It’s time to burn my masks to ashes in the fire. Let’s light them up together, shall we?

My first literal mask.

To start us off, here is a picture of my first ever literal mask. Halloween 1971. I was rocking the black cat vibes as a toddler – costume no doubt from Woolworth’s. That mask was thinly molded plastic with a tiny elastic string secured on both sides by equally tiny staples. The cheap elastic always snapped loose, and my dad had to reinforce it with “real” staples from his gunmetal gray office stapler.

I don’t really remember that mask and costume, but I imagine I enjoyed wearing it for a few hours that evening. No doubt I felt safe and secure with my dad, walking down our street in our suburban subdivision at dusk. Crunching leaves beneath our feet. Coming home with a plastic jack-o’-lantern full of candy. Protected. Loved. Valued. Not a bad mask at all, if you ask me.

My first figurative mask.

Several years later, came the first figurative mask I remember donning. It’s my earliest memory of feeling embarrassment or shame. I was in the third grade – still generally feeling protected, loved and valued. Our class had just returned inside from recess on the outdoor playground, and Miss Little instructed us to get our crayons out of our pencil boxes in our desks.

Now, you’ve got to remember that it was 1978. There was no forward thinking “flexible seating” options and shared work spaces in the classroom like today. No politically correct shared resources so everyone feels equal. Nope, our desks were individual with a hinged lid that lifted up to allow access to our own books, pencil box, paper, etc housed inside. My desk probably looked something very similar to this…

Factory 20 : Vintage design inspiration | Vintage school, Old school desks, Vintage designs
My very special crayons.

Anyway, my family didn’t have an excess of material wealth by any definition, but do you know what MY pencil box had at school? A brand new box of twenty-four name-brand Crayola crayons. Beautiful, sharp-pointed waxy hue sticks of endless possibility. I always made sure those crayons were put away neatly – all the points facing up and grouped by color families. To this day I STILL love a tidy box of good-quality crayons.

Imagine my horror when I opened my personal pencil box to find every single one of my crayons snapped in half by an anonymous classmate. I remember feeling dumbfounded. My eight-year-old cheeks got hot and my eyes brimmed with wetness. My crayons. Me. Not protected. Not loved. And not valuable.

Swallowing down the hurt.

I don’t recall many details after that, except that I wove and wore my first figurative mask. I distinctly remember slowly closing the lid of my desk, plastering an unaffected look on my face and calmly letting the teacher know I didn’t have my crayons that day. You see, I vowed that I would NOT let my third grade crayon assailant have the satisfaction of seeing my hurt.

Fast forward to eleven.

Fast forward a few years later to sixth grade. Same elementary school, except now it was 1981 and now I was eleven. Today we’d say I was a “tween”. Back then I was a “pre-teen”. Anyway, I was taller than most of the boys in my grade at that time. My hair was fine and poker straight, which was NOT a trend during the eighties decade. Lanky and shapeless was bad enough, but I also had a habit of raising my hand first and often in class. Because I knew the answers, so why not give them? In other words, I was an easy target among my peers. “Teacher’s pet.” “Goody-two-shoes.” “Priss.”

Even more dumbfounding than my broken crayons three years previous, the most popular boy in the whole school pulled me aside one day and asked me to “go with him”. Now, I know tween “dating” means a lot of different things to a lot of different folks in 2020. However, in elementary school in 1981, “going with someone” meant they were your girlfriend or boyfriend in name only. In other words, “going together” never meant that you actually WENT anywhere together. As in, no spending time together in school or afterwards. No sitting together at lunch. No hanging out together on the playground. What it DID mean is that you were accepted by a peer of the opposite sex. Big stuff when you are eleven (or twenty-one, or fifty).

Again I remember being totally shocked, and stammering that I’d “have to think about it”. In retrospect, that was a totally bad ass answer. In all reality, it was really me stalling for time because I had no earthly idea what to do.

So true to my word, I thought about it that night. A lot. And I processed the whole scenario like a naive eleven-year old with zero street smarts. And the next day, I strode across the polished gym floor of my elementary school during indoor recess and told this boy that I didn’t think I was old enough to have a boyfriend. But that, of course, I was flattered and thank you for asking me. And did I mention I told him this in front of his toadies – his posse of slightly less popular male friends? Yeah, not wise.

No one will ever want you.

Well, his boy unleashed a barrage of words on me unlike anything I had ever received. First, he laughed in my face. Loudly. Then he told me the whole thing was a dare. Then he proceeded to publicly declare me undesirable as a girl and as a human. In front of most every other boy in the sixth grade.

His exact words burned into my heart that day and are still there. “No one will EVER want you. EVER!”

My new mask.

And so I wove and wore a new mask from that day forward. The mask looks like a fiercely independent woman who can stand on her own two feet. One who nurtures and encourages, and doesn’t need to take care of her own body and soul with the same regard. One who minimizes her physical appearance as much as possible.

At fifty years old, I still deal with the scars of that wound. As a grown woman with a husband, three kids and some of the best friends on the planet. I cognitively understand and can logically explain away those incidents from my childhood. Yet, there is an eleven-year-old version of myself buried deep inside that still believes that boy. Likewise, anything similar said to me by other males since then has just reinforced the lie.

Somewhere way, way down in the pit of my soul, a sense of being unprotected and unlovable took root. Because of the lies I’ve been told by broken people over my life, I am prone to doubt my value. And I don’t fully depend on anybody but myself. As a result, I don’t fully trust anybody either. So, I withhold and protect a small piece of myself at all times. From my husband. From my closest friends. And from my Creator.

[Related content: Always Keep A Nice Tight Grip on the Reins.]
Time to burn my masks to ashes in the fire.

You know what? It’s exhausting – wearing that mask. I wrestle with God all the time over it. He says to take it off. Throw it into the fire and burn it. And He will exchange the ashes for a beautiful crown. He will replace my hidden sorrow with joy. He will give me a spirit of thankfulness in place of a secret spirit of sadness. Free of my mask, I will be strong and straight and tall like a mighty oak tree. God, Himself, will see to it. And my mask-less life will be a testament to how glorious God is. (Isaiah 61:3)

I have recently begun working on removing those masks once and for all. It’s time to burn my masks to ashes in the fire. That’s a process, because they are deeply tangled and I am a fallible human. But I am trying. I want to be free of them. I know there is a better earthly life on the other side of the process. A life where I can walk in freedom knowing that I am eternally protected. Loved. Valuable. God, Himself, has seen to it.

That time I got conned in church.

by Melissa Holderby on category

I always love reading Sandy’s Facebook posts. She’s bright and witty and full of encouragement. It was an easy choice to include her in our month-long Queen Bee Series. We are so glad she said “yes”! The thankful bee is proud to share Sandy’s warmth and humor with YOU this weekend, too. Come join her tale about that time she got conned in church. It’s a good one!

That Time I Got Conned In Church

by Sandy Thornton

Once upon a time, I lived in the great state of Texas. I moved down there after grad school because when you’re twenty-five, the world is an adventure. And since I didn’t yet have the constraints and responsibilities of other adults – adultier adults – I figured what the heck. I lovingly refer to these years as my “YOLO years”, and this was my “southern exposure tour”. 

You see, I grew up in New York.

Oh, no-no… not the Big Apple.

Syracuse. The Salt City.

Known for frigid winters, snow, college basketball and, well, salt mining. I cut my teeth on icicles and spent the only three weeks of actual summer weather swatting mosquitoes. My childhood was about as un-exotic as you could imagine.

Leaving New York for Texas

All was said and done with my formal college education. So, I decided to bite the bullet and move some place completely different. Enter the Lone Star State! But, the bible belt wasn’t unfamiliar to me. I’d been going down to the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex every summer of my childhood to visit my dad and that side of the family. Each time I’d go to visit, I’d inevitably end up going to church with my grandmother. Because, that is just what you do in the South.

And that’s not to say that I didn’t go to church in Syracuse. We certainly did. But my teeny little quiet church in Solvay, New York was worlds away from the evangelistic behemoths that lined the streets of those Texas towns that I frequented during Summer vacation.

Church back home

Church in New York for me went like this: Wake up too early. Get dressed. Go to Sunday school. Eat a bunch of the cookies that are supposed to be for the fellowship time after church. Then go to the service in a too-cold sanctuary. Sit – pray – stand – sing – repeat. Done.

Church in Texas with Grandma

Church with Grandma was nothing like that. I mean, I’d still have to wake up too early for my taste, but we had to “dress”. Like, IN a dress. The preacher always wore a very well tailored suit, and smelled like Stetson Original. He shook hands, and referred to all of the guys as “Brother” first name and the women as “Miss” so-and-so.  And then he’d get on the pulpit and unleash a solid amount of fire and brimstone.

Basically, he preached that we were all sinners and, unless we repented, we were totally going to Hell. Then there would always be an altar call. Like, without fail.

If you don’t know what that is, an altar call is when the preacher urges you to go up to the front of the congregation and let Jesus live in your heart. Not like a squatter of course, but allow Jesus to be a part of your life and forgive you of the multitudes of your sins. Some folks in Christian circles refer to this as being “saved”.

Too smart to get conned

So, by the time I moved down to Texas, I was used to this. I knew the drill. I could smell an altar call from five miles away – much like Stetson cologne. So, it blew my ever-loving mind when, as a twenty five year old street-savvy young woman with two college degrees, it was MY time to get conned in church. In other words, it was my turn to “get saved”. 

To this day, I don’t quite know how it happened. I had traveled to visit my dad and we ended up going to the church where my uncle was the pastor. Of course, my clean-cut, impeccably dressed uncle wore a beautiful suit and leather loafers (minus the Stetson). His message wasn’t quite as fire and brimstone-y, but it was compelling enough, with lots of “Yes, Brother” and “Amens” thrown in from the congregation for dramatic effect.

Mind you, not by me. I’m as WASP-y as the day is long. (WASP = White AngloSaxon Protestant). And public affirmation – really any type of public display of anything – is completely out of my comfort zone. Nevertheless, it was still a fine service.

And then it snuck up on me

Just when I figured we were about ready to wrap it up, my uncle asked the congregation to bow their heads and close their eyes in prayer. Awesome. No problem. I’d done this a bajillion times before. So I closed my eyes.

My uncle did all the usual prayer-y types of things and at one point, he started talking about how broken the world is. I had to agree. Even in 2007 the world seemed to be in a sad state in it’s own way. Not “global pandemic-people are dying-we still don’t have a vaccine” sad, but it did have it’s fair share of low points.

The burdens we carry

He then asked everyone to take a moment and think about the burdens that we were each carrying. Well, I had burdens. A bunch. I was working in a new school job thousands of miles away from the home I grew up in and the people I knew. My fiancé was in another state. I suddenly had a lot more grown-up person bills to pay. I pulled crazy long hours at my job, and I worried all the time that I wasn’t a good teacher. That I wasn’t measuring up. And I wanted so badly to do well, both for myself and for my students. After a while, that stuff starts to weigh on you. And the weight is heavy.

My uncle started asking everyone wouldn’t it be good to just let go of those burdens? Lord, yes. I found myself slightly nodding my head in agreement. Who wouldn’t want that? He then said that God could take all of those many burdens away if we just allowed Him the space to do it in and it just sounded so good. So… just, easy.

Just so easy

At that moment, I wanted to feel like I didn’t have to control every waking second of my day. Of my life. I wanted that sweet release of letting something bigger than myself take care of it. Didn’t everyone? So, when my uncle said that if we wanted God to walk with us – to take on the mantle of our heavy lives – all we had to do was lift our hand into the air. And eyes still closed tight, I raised my hand. Of course I assumed everyone in the sanctuary was also doing the exact same thing at that very moment. 

Except, as I opened my eyes to look around, I saw that absolutely NO ONE else in that entire building but me and a couple Hispanic guys a couple pews over were raising our hands. And then it dawned on me…

HOLY CRAPCRACKERS!

I AM BEING SAVED!

RIGHT…

NOW.

I was witness to and involved in my very own altar call, and I hadn’t even realized it was happening! 

It was my time to get conned in church! Served up the Kool-Aid! Duped! 

I felt like I was being kicked in the face by a donkey, and my fight-or-flight mechanism kicked in. Hardcore! My heart literally dropped into my stomach as I looked around at everyone staring back at me. All of them smiling like I’d won the biggest cash drawing of the lottery.

I had two obvious choices at that moment. First, I could bolt out of that church right then and there, Runaway Bride style, probably to my own future family disownment. Or, second, I could brave it out with everyone in the sanctuary staring me down. It felt like time stopped in a weird “Twilight Zone” kind of way.

My moment of truth

And in that moment, it hit me. All of those things that my uncle said and all of those things I had been feeling while he was saying them were true. I was burdened. I was tired of my life the way that it was currently going. And I did need help because I was tired of shouldering it on my own. And if walking up on that altar like a freaking grownup was a way to let go of these things and let a big, huge God carry them for me, then I was going to do it.

I remember very clearly thinking “it’s now or never”. So, I picked one lead weighted foot up. And then the other. And I moved forward towards my uncle with a tunnel vision I had never experienced before or since. I let him pray with me and for me. And I released all of it. To God. To the universe. 

No unicorns or puppies.

That was thirteen years ago. And I can’t say to you that because of this moment, my life has since been a rosy dream full of magical unicorns, puppy parties, and calorie-less ice cream. It hasn’t. In fact, my hardest years have hit me since this experience. But in my darkest times, the only thing that I’ve been able to cling to is this fact: God is bigger than any possible thing that I could ever go through.

Likewise, it doesn’t mean that I’ve made it easy either. I have not been the ideal God-follower. I’m still headstrong with a very high desire to control all of the comings and goings of my life. But God knows that already and I’m still a worthwhile soul that He invests in daily.

Over the years, and this year in particular, I have said things to God that I would never in a million years say to another living soul, mainly because the words are so dark and so hurtful that I would never be able to recover from uttering them out loud.

But I have to believe that this Source of Blessing is bigger than my words and my anger.

That God is vast enough to hold the stardust of the universe in His hands, and yet personal enough to carry all of the heavy things that I hold.

If I just raise my hand.

About Sandy

Sandy is a nearly forty-year-old mom of three, driving her own struggle bus through the ins and outs of marriage, child rearing, and music making. She currently works in music at a Methodist church and with the Cincinnati Youth Choir. She also enjoys camping with her family, copious amounts of coffee, writing, trolling Facebook, and wine.

If you enjoyed reading about the time she got conned in church, then check out more of her writing on her blog, The Book of Thornton – a collection of “musing from a not-so perfect person”.

We hope you are having as much fun reading our guest authors this month as we are bringing them to you. Look for the fourth installment of our Queen Bee Series coming to you next weekend. In the meantime, here is a look back at weeks one and two!

Life Lessons Learned From The Minefield Of Breast Cancer – by Holly Wintrip.

How To Live The Real You: Undisputed Origin – by Kristen Borchgrevink.

See you next weekend, friends.

Be encouraged!

xoxo, Melissa

How to live the real you: Undisputed origin.

by Melissa Holderby on category ,

The thankful bee is wildly excited to bring Kristen Borchgrevink to you as the second guest author in our Queen Bee Series. I originally met Kristen through my children’s involvement in high school music and theatre. She is a talented and beautiful soul. So, grab a mug of hot apple cider or that pumpkin spice latte. Settle in and exhale, dear friends. And enjoy the read. How to live the real you: Undisputed origin. You will be encouraged!

Undisputed origin.

by Kristen Borchgrevink

Wipes tears away, rolls up her sleeves.

Let’s go.

Living authentically. If you grew up in youth group like I did, you have probably heard the phrase ‘we want to live authentically’. This has been a goal for my life for as long as I can remember. I tell people all the time, “I just want to lead from a place of authenticity. I want to be 100% real with you…”. I’m sure I feel that way in the moment.

But do I really want that?

I have recently gone through a lot of emotional stress and change. Those of you who know me personally know that I’ve been carrying some pretty heavy burdens. Honestly, I am not doing a very good job. I have been having trouble processing and being real with myself. I slap a smile on my face and might as well put an auto response on my text messages when someone asks me how I am doing. “I’m doin’ ok! Thanks for asking, but how are you?”

Deflect.

Don’t answer the question.

Don’t get too deep.

They’ll see how broken you are.

Why is that bad though? Why do we constantly strive to appear better than we are? And why do we constantly keep people at arms length to hide what’s actually going on in our lives?

Because I want people to see a better side of me than I see of myself.

Let me give you a little background for context…

It all started with the NSale.

I have recently tried to break into the influencer occupation. I love blogging, and I love fashion. And I would love to be apart of that. However, the past month made me question everything.

It all started with the NSale.

For those of you who do not follow fashion bloggers, the NSale is a super prestigious sale that Nordstrom does every August. They have a hierarchy of dates for shopping based on a person’s level of spending, store credit card, or level of influence on social media. Following all of these incredible bloggers has made a really ugly side of me appear. I am going to open up and be honest about it. I would rather sweep it under the rug and hide it, but I think it is important to shed light on this though.

Comparison. Envy. Sadness.

Watching these bloggers vlog their Nsale experience set off a sadness inside me that I haven’t been able to understand. I watched these STUNNING, FLAWLESS and INFLUENTIAL women walk into fitting rooms with racks of shiny, new, expensive and exclusive clothes to try on for their followers. Their hair is beautiful, their bodies appear perfect and they are drinking champagne while trying on all these beautiful pieces. Doesn’t get much better than that!

I love clothes. The first thing I buy with my fun money is clothing. It is interesting to me how quietly comparison sneaks into our lives. As I watched these women buy all of these clothes, I kept looking at my budget. I watched them demonstrate the fit of the jeans, and I looked about my waist in the mirror. I watched them style pieces with the new “must have sneaker” that “goes with everything”, and I instantly wanted to get rid of the shoes I already bought for fear they might not be good enough this season. Honestly, I spent way too long on social media watching these stories and posts and trying to find ways to justify spending all this money to look like these women. It’s after all what I want to do!! If I want to be influential, THIS is what works in the current culture.

Trust me, in retrospect, I hear how irrational I sound.

Sadness like a dark cloud

A sadness came over me like a dark cloud. Then the lie that has followed me through my entire life.

I will never be good enough.

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I say all of this to bring attention to the root of all of that garbage – Comparison.

Comparison is a liar and a thief

Comparison will steal any joy and happiness that you have. In other words, comparison is a liar and a thief. It makes you work twice as hard for something that might not even be what you actually want. It causes you to doubt every calling on your own life. And it causes fear and anxiety to reign in your head instead of love and peace.

Comparison slowly creeps in and steals your ability to shine and forces you to focus on the light in others while slowly dimming your own. We compare ourselves to others in every aspect of life. We compare our timeline with other people, even though we serve the Author of time.

As Steven Furtik says, we compare our behind the scenes with other people’s highlight reels. We compare talent, looks, success, parenting and our marriages. We compare bank accounts and jobs as well as how well behaved our kids are. How many followers on Instagram we have. How fit we are. What is fascinating is that we are trying to prove something about our life to someone who isn’t paying attention. They aren’t paying attention because they are trying to prove something to someone else… it goes on and on.

It’s about believing – not proving

Comparison will make you think you have to prove your worth instead of believing your worth.

When you do not believe in who God has called you to be, you convince yourself to perform and prove your value.

All of this is coming from someone who is struggling with this right now! So if you see me performing my life instead of living it, call me out, people!

Comparison manipulates your mind into performing and keeps you from actually living.

Comparison makes you believe you have something to prove instead of resting in who you are.

Because the reality is, when you realize who your creator is…. you realize you have nothing to prove.

You don’t need to prove your worth

So what makes someone compare themselves to other people? For me personally it stems from a deep rooted place of insecurity. Somewhere along the way I have bought into the lie that who I am at my core is not enough. I feel as though I am inadequate. Maybe it stems from the performance world, constantly comparing and competing, you always have this unattainable goal.

Here is something you may not know about me – I am a word nerd. I always look up the definitions to words because I find it fascinating that I don’t know the real meaning behind some of the words I use. So I looked up the word ‘inadequate.’

Inadequate: “Lacking the quality required, insufficient for a purpose”.

That definition hit me like a ton of bricks. This, my friends, is the root of so many of our problems in life. OK, maybe just mine but I have a feeling I am not alone in this. We all are born with a longing to have purpose, a reason for being brought into this crazy world. As we grow up we are bruised and broken along the way by other bruised and broken people. (Never an excuse to hurt others, but most of the time hurting people hurt people.)

We doubt our Creator

We are all just searching and longing to have a purpose. When you allow the world to influence the way you view yourself, the lies take root into your soul. Suddenly a beautiful masterpiece (Ephesians 2:10 “For we are God’s workmanship…”) starts to crack at the seams. We start to doubt the Potter’s intentions and doubt the beauty of His handiwork. We forget the time that our Creator spent forming our souls and our hearts.

When we look through those broken lenses, our self-perception shifts and skews. Those lenses lie and tell us we need to look, think and be a certain way. We forget that the Creator had our purpose in mind when he fastened our hearts. We doubt our value because we have unbelief in our hearts. And we don’t believe that our Creator made us the right way, or maybe, just maybe…. He made a mistake?

Oof, don’t you dare let that lie take root. He doesn’t make mistakes.

Snakes don’t yell. They whisper.

In the Garden of Eden, it was a snake that tempted Adam and Eve. That is interesting to me. When I think about the way a snake would speak, I imagine that a snake’s voice wouldn’t be very loud. It would be quiet, right up in your ear, whispering and piercing. I think that is why we don’t notice the lies right away. We get so used to the negative self-talk in our own heads we can’t tell a difference. All the whispers and all the lies start to blend together and soon enough it will start sounding like truth. Those lies start sprouting little roots that start traveling and growing until they have taken root deep into your soul and into your heart and we don’t know who we are anymore.

Suddenly those whispers become the only thing we can hear… like white noise.

No wonder the truth is silenced.

Be careful little ears what you hear

Now that I have two impressionable daughters of my own, I think very often about what influences they take in. Anyone who grew up in Sunday School might remember a little song that said, “ Oh, be careful little eyes what you see, be careful little ears what you hear.” Maybe it was just MY mom. 😂 That song haunts me now that I am a mom because what we take into our ears and eyes has a direct affect on how we feel about ourselves.

I hear you. “But Kristen, what does this have to do with comparison and living authentically??”

Wow, I am so glad you asked!

When we listen to the lies and block out the truth our security in who we are gets shaken. We start to question who we are and why are we here. The unbelief creates a void that we try to fill with quick fixes and easy solutions. We numb the pain or distract ourselves and shove it down long enough for the next lie starts knocking on our hearts. When I feel myself start to drown my life boat has always been to go back to the beginning.

The Origin

Once again nerdy Kristen makes an appearance for this paragraphs episode of…. “What’s That Definition!“

Did you know that authenticity means to have undisputed origin.

You better hang on, I’m about to preach.

Undisputed origin. When you are living in authenticity you are living with an understanding that you have an undisputed origin. Or in Kristen’s translation, you know where you come from. When you know who you are the rest of the lies cannot stick. Those lies are disputed. They hold no weight, no validity and no value. There is no argument to be made. The line is drawn. We are striving so desperately to find purpose yet we forget that we were meticulously formed in our mother’s womb.

How do I know that?

The Truth according to our Creator

Psalm 139: 13-16

13 For you created my inmost being;
    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    your works are wonderful,
    I know that full well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you
    when I was made in the secret place,
    when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes saw my unformed body;
    all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

[SIDE NOTE from the thankful bee: Valuable. As in, worth more than many sparrows! And that is a recurring theme here at the thankful bee. Check out “The Sparrow and the Surfer Dude” HERE.]

And the list goes on and on and on…

Your value is undisputed. Rest.

Here’s the thing… when we believe who we are, the lies of the world and the lies of the enemy hold no weight. Our value is undisputed. When we are our real authentic selves, just who God created us to be, nothing else matters. We are who we need to be! We have purpose. Knowing who we are is made easier when we know Whose we are.

When we belong, when we are accepted and loved, then our hearts can find rest. There is no need to strive, to compare, to alter, to be perfect, to try constantly to be who everyone else wants us to be…. we rest. We rest knowing we are already who we were meant to be. And we rest easy knowing that we have a purpose.

Someone else’s story and journey is not our journey. For example, we do not know what storms the Lord has walked through with those people. We don’t see the sweat and tears behind the perfectly posed photos. We don’t see the nights of little sleep working to reach their goal. And we don’t see the pain of comparison that they are dealing with, too.

Similarly, we don’t see the argument and the melt down that family had right before that perfect family picture was taken. We don’t see the temper tantrum that two-year- old had before their mama bribed them to take a cute “mommy and me” photo. Likewise, we don’t see the immense pressure our favorite music artists are under. We don’t see the list of rejection that Broadway star had before they won their Tony. We just don’t see it.

The pressure is off

When the truth sinks in, suddenly every day you can become a more beautiful creation in the Potter’s hands. The pressure is off!

A vase doesn’t compare itself to another vase. It serves its purpose knowing it holds the beauty of the flowers within.

The moon doesn’t get jealous of the sun’s time to shine. Instead, it confidently waits knowing night time is coming.

We were created for greatness. We were created to shine.

Stop dimming your light by comparing yourself to others. Shine bright and live in authenticity.

Live the real you: Undisputed origin.

About Kristen

Kristen started blogging in March of this year. She is a wife to husband, Peter and a mama to her two beautiful daughters, Elliana and Shaylee. She has her Bachelors in Vocal music from Lee University and enjoys Musical theater as well as leading worship! Kristen has also been music directing local middle school and high school theater programs and teaching privately on the side.

She recently started blogging about her love of affordable fashion, the craziness of motherhood, home, life and her relationship with Jesus. She says that she is surviving the (mama)hood with coffee, Target runs and a little bit of sarcasm! You can read more from Kristen on her blog, Mindfully Mended Mama.

The inspiration continues next weekend with the third installment of our monthly-long Queen Bee Series. Please plan to join us October 17th as the thankful bee welcomes our next guest author, Sandy Thornton, from The Book of Thornton. Sandy’s true tale about “that time she got conned in church” is a story you don’t want to miss!

Life lessons learned from the minefield of breast cancer.

by Melissa Holderby on category

Today’s guest author is someone very near and dear to my heart. Holly and I met in high school, and she remains my soul-sister to this day. In honor of October being Breast Cancer Awareness Month, we are kicking off our “Queen Bee” series with her story – Life lessons learned from the minefield of breast cancer. Prepare to be encouraged!

Life Lessons Learned From the Minefield Of Breast Cancer
by Holly Wintrip

My breast cancer journey started long before my diagnosis at age forty-five. During my thirties, my friend Amy was diagnosed with breast cancer in her left breast. Amy was a kick-ass woman from Texas who ferociously loved her boys, family and friends. She was never afraid to speak her mind, always helping other people.

When Amy was diagnosed, she insisted I feel her tumor so I’d know what it felt like. She endured a lot during her journey, but I remember her distinctly telling me she should have had a double mastectomy instead of a single one because her cancer showed up in the remaining “good” breast forcing her to have another major surgery.

Sadly, Amy passed away in October of 2005, but little did she know that her words and actions would later save my life.

A lump in Las Vegas

In September of 2015 while on a trip to Las Vegas, I decided to do a breast self-exam. You know the kind where you’re lying in bed and you think “Oh, I’ll just do a quick boobie check.” I’d been doing self-exams for years but this time I felt something, and I froze in fear.

I kept touching and feeling the spot while my husband, Scott, looked on with concern. I told him immediately that something wasn’t right and made him feel the spot, too. We both knew that in that instant our lives were changing.

Knowing how your breasts feel is so important. Mine were always dense and lumpy. What I felt didn’t feel like a tumor. It was a hardness with no defined outer edges. I knew it was off because I had never felt that before. And, I knew it was something wrong because I had felt Amy’s. Her tumor was in the 12 o’clock position in her left breast… and so was mine.

Keep fighting, keep advocating

Getting my diagnosis confirmed was incredibly stressful because I had to strongly advocate for myself and ask for second opinions. The first radiologist and my gynecologist’s PA both told me it was a fibroid cyst. Had I listened to them, the cancer would have gone unchecked. Thankfully, I insisted on an appointment with my gynecologist who ordered further scans. I went to the same center and had an on-call radiologist who didn’t dismiss me. He confirmed what I felt with an ultrasound and said I needed a biopsy.

The results of that ultrasound-guided biopsy were not good. Sure enough, I had breast cancer. By now, it was almost ten years to the date of Amy’s death. I could hear her voice telling me to fight and keep advocating for myself.

The week of Thanksgiving, I had a lumpectomy and three sentinel nodes removed. My doctor ordered a Mammaprint test on the tumor to see what the rate of recurrence would be. I was told my tumor was Stage IIA, Hormone Positive with IDC and DCIS. All nodes and margins were clear, but the Mammaprint came back with a high chance of recurrence. My oncologist said I would need four rounds of T/C (Taxotere/Cytoxan) chemotherapy and then radiation.

Holly and her first surgeon – Dr. Blumencranz – at “Pitch for Pink” in Clearwater, Florida.
Cold capping

A friend and fellow cancer-warrior told me that she saved her hair during chemo by a technique called “cold capping”. Here’s how it works. Scott put the caps in a cooler of dry ice the morning of chemo. Then we arrived at the center at least two hours before my infusion to set up. The caps had to be kept at minus 32 degrees Fahrenheit. I wore the cap for one hour before the infusion started and at least two hours afterwards. Scott had to put a new cap on me every thirty minutes. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, frozen, nauseated and had ice in my hair. I did, in fact, save my hair which really helped me emotionally to see “me” in the mirror.

Ready to quit before round three

I had a port inserted before my second chemo session and came armed with a heating blanket and peppermint oil. It all went okay, but I was ready to quit. When I went to my oncologist for my check up, I told him I was out. Finished. Done. I was not doing this anymore. He calmly redirected me and said that everything would look better a year from now and then made the appointment for the next chemo session.

After the fourth and final chemo session, I could barely keep anything down. I vacillated between constipation and diarrhea. After a few weeks of this, my oncologist ordered a colonoscopy and endoscopy. My dad had just passed away of colon cancer, and he wanted to make sure that nothing else was going on. Thankfully, everything was fine.

Time for radiation and more meds.

My chemo symptoms finally started to abate by the beginning of April, and then it was time to start radiation. I qualified for a shortened but more intense round of radiation – 4 ½ weeks versus 6 weeks. Radiation for me was a breeze compared to chemo. I did get a bad burn on my left breast and had some fatigue, but nothing that kept me from working.

The next step was to determine which long-term cancer medication I should take. My oncologist initially put me on Arimidex with a monthly shot of Zoladex to suppress my ovaries. Chemo had put me into menopause, but in order to be on Arimidex I had to be kept in a menopausal state.

I was not told that the monthly Zoladex shot was to go in my belly. Imagine my surprise when the nurse led me into a room and told me to lie down and pull up my shirt. This was not something I wanted to do on a monthly basis!

I was now on summer break from my teaching job, so I had more time to catch my breath and think about all of this long term. That’s when I realized that going to the cancer center every month was stressful for me, and I didn’t want to be beholden to getting medication every month. I had issues with my periods prior to chemo, so I met with a new gynecologist to discuss having a full hysterectomy. There’s a lot of cancer in my family, and I knew there was a connection between breast, colon and ovarian cancers. I opted for a hysterectomy in July 2016.

I was so happy when I finally healed from my hysterectomy, because it meant my journey was over. But my body had other plans for me.

Another lump

I was due for my six-month, post-chemo mammogram in September. So, like a good girl, I did a self-exam prior to my mammogram appointment. Wouldn’t you know it, I felt the same damn hardness as in Las Vegas, but now in my right breast. Through a flood of expletives, I heard Amy’s voice, “I wish I had done a double mastectomy.”

I had a surgical biopsy and thankfully it was “only” LCIS. – a type of breast change involving cancer-mimicking cells growing in the lining of the milk-producing glands of the breast. Fortunately, these cells do not invade through the walls of the glands, and are more easily treated. The LCIS was removed, and my surgeon said I was fine. My medical team followed me closely from here on out which meant more scans, more doctor visits, more
biopsies and on and on and on. I felt like my breasts were ticking time bombs.

My oncologist switched me from Arimidex to Aromasin and increased my treatment duration from five to ten years. He also supported the watch and wait approach. I took that time to get second medical opinions. Most plastic surgeons were not too keen on doing reconstruction because of my history with radiation. All conferred that I most definitely needed at least a year between my last radiation and any surgery. Radiation affects all of the tissues in the breast and can inhibit healing and cause capsular contracture with implants.

Another complicating factor was a genetic blood clotting disorder that I have which kept me from going on Tamoxifen. The doctors didn’t care to embark on a surgery with that hanging over their heads. None of the doctors would recommend a double mastectomy. They all said I could “watch and wait.” Still Amy kept whispering, “I wish I had gotten a double mastectomy.”

A new fantastic road

I continued to research using breastcancer.org for much of my information. There I learned about the Center for Restorative Breast Surgery in New Orleans. I initiated a conversation with them, joined a private Facebook group and continued to research their approaches. If you had told me a year prior that I would be considering an eight hour surgery, out of state with a surgeon I had only talked to on the phone, I would have said you were crazy. But here I was going down that road. And boy was it a fantastic road to travel!

This group of doctors are specialists in micro-surgeries using flaps for reconstruction. They only work with breast cancer patients and their hospital is attached to their offices. I scheduled my surgery for June of 2017. I was to have a bilateral mastectomy with SGAP reconstruction. SGAP uses the fat flaps from the top of the buttocks/hip region.

Breast reconstruction is not a boob job

Many people think breast reconstruction is like getting a boob job, but it is far from it. They don’t realize that a vital part of your body is essentially being amputated. Each woman goes through a wide range of emotions when making the decision to have reconstruction or remain flat. More life lessons learned from the minefield of breast cancer.

My surgery was almost nine hours long. I had four drains, compression garments, leg pumping calf cuffs to ward off blood clots, and who knows what else coming out of me. It was insane.

Moving forward without my parents

During this entire time, my mom was slowly deteriorating from her own lung cancer diagnosis. We bonded and took care of each other as best as we could as cancer patients often do. I took time off work to fly to Minnesota to see her, and talked with her daily about her needs and desires for her funeral. She passed away in October of 2017 with me by her side.

I now had to continue on alone to my last surgery without my parents – my original A team. I lost both of them to cancer within two years.

My final revision surgery took place just before Christmas in 2017. This entailed a butt lift to correct the indents from the flap removal, a boob lift, port/hysterectomy scar revisions, and liposuction to smooth everything out. It was “only” four hours long, and I still had four drains and compression garments afterwards. I now had a fabulous perky butt and “booty boobs”.

New Year, New Me! Amy would be proud.

Putting myself back together again

Closing out my mom’s estate and closing out the end of another school year became my tasks. During this time, I realized that I was physically and mentally spent. I had nothing left to give. And I needed to recover and breathe. So, I quit my job, and began physical therapy, grief counseling and brain training for “chemo brain”. I started to work on putting myself back together again. Honestly, I am still doing this as we speak since there is no time limit for “getting over” any of this.

My post-cancer phase has been harder, because I look “fine.” I am in remission, so I should be “fine”, right? I am told I am strong and brave, but no one sees the fatigue and emotional PTSD that trails along with me like a child’s droopy blanket. I usually hold back with my story because it is “too much” for many.

Mortality is a scary thing, and once you’ve been through the personal hell of cancer or sat with someone as they take their last breath, you realize that you’ve moved into a new stage in life. People will either move forward with you or they won’t… and that’s okay. Life lessons learned from the minefield of breast cancer.

Living as nomads around the globe

Cancer forces you to re-evaluate everything in your life. As a result, my husband and I sold most of our belongings a year ago to live as nomads. We have no house and no cars. We go where the wind takes us around the globe, and stay until we are ready to move on (before COVID-19 anyway). Interestingly, I’ve met other breast cancer warriors who travel similarly as a way of life.

Surviving is hard and takes a lot of time and patience. Pushing forward into a new way of living is both exhausting and exhilarating. It can be a challenge, so go easy on yourself when you think you should be doing something different – a different way of eating, exercising, looking or feeling. It can also feel defeating when we see others pass away from cancer. We often wonder, “Why them and not me?”

Life lessons learned

So, what are the life lessons learned from the minefield of breast cancer? Know that your journey is unique, and your way is okay. You are not alone. Breathe. Give yourself space and time to grieve. Ask your questions. Research your options. Advocate for yourself (it’s actually okay to fire your doctor). Lean into your tribe, and find other women walking a similar journey. And be sure to look for the magic everywhere – in a cup of coffee, getting out of bed, a smile, or a chance to share your story to help another.

Amy insisted I feel her tumor. In a sense, her selfless act saved me. In turn, I paid it forward the same way with my female friends and family. Relationships matter. Being authentic and vulnerable matters. Knowing you are not alone matters. For it is through our connections that we save each other.

About Holly

Since her initial diagnosis in 2015, Holly has beaten her cancer into remission, lost both of her parents, left her teaching career, and sold most of her earthly possessions to travel the world with her husband. While living a minimalist “nomadic life” abroad, she has welcomed a granddaughter, learned to surf and gotten very close to her goal of visiting fifty countries before turning fifty years old. (She made it to forty-five different countries before COVID-19 impacted international travel. And just before turning fifty in June.) Holly continues to navigate healthcare systems on other continents to address her ongoing cancer remission – and one broken ankle from surfing.

Want to hear more? Holly has told her inspiring story on Breast Cancer Conversations, a podcast produced by Survivingbreastcancer.org. Look for Holly specifically in three episodes. #75 – What Life Can Be Like After Breast Cancer – Traveling The World With Holly (September 13, 2020). #76 – Losing Your Hair During Chemo vs Cold Capping – An Interview With Holly Wintrip (September 13, 2020). And #77 – Superior Gluteal Artery Perforator Flap Breast Cancer Reconstruction (September 27, 2020).

Next weekend our month-long series continues with another guest author and friend of the thankful bee. Subscribe directly on the blog (thethankfulbee.com) to receive an email alert when our second Queen Bee lands. Join us October 10th to hear about Kristen’s struggles within the fashion blogging industry and her own self-image. It’s going to be fabulous!

Poop on my shoe and the devil in my ear.

by Melissa Holderby on category

I find that in my weakest moments I am most vulnerable to temptations and lies. Like when I’m overly tired, or hangry or pushed to the brink of personal stress overload. It seems like we have all had more than our fair share of that in 2020, doesn’t it? Let me tell you about the day I had poop on my shoe and the devil in my ear. In other words, the toothpaste and dog poop story. Yes, those two things CAN exist in the same sentence. They just did.

(BIG ANNOUNCEMENT AT THE END!)

So, there I was. My morning started out like any other day. I was busy managing the household, making sure all the cogs and wheels were turning relatively squeak-free. Allan was in COVID isolation, the toddler was into EVERYTHING, and we had no real food in the house. Except a half a box of Cheezit crackers, some dry spaghetti noodles and various condiments. No worries, friends. I had placed a large grocery order the day before and had just returned home with a van full of (mostly) nutritious deliciousness.

The grocery wipe down dance.

It is important at this point in our story for you to know that because of coronavirus hoopla, we have been wiping down groceries before they come into the house. Feel free to debate that in the comments, if you must. It’s our reality right now, along with increased hand washing, masks in public and social distancing. We aren’t playing around. I always say, “Trust God, and still use the good brain He gave you.”

At any rate, we had performed the grocery store wipe down dance so many times by this point, Colin and I knew the choreography like seasoned Broadway veterans. I wiped off each item as it came out of our van, and placed it inside the door for Colin to pick up and put away in our pantry, refrigerator, freezer, etc. By the time I was done wiping off “germs”, Colin had the entire load stocked and shelved. Agile. Precise. Organized. Just the way I like things to be. 

By the way, in case you ever are called to make the decision on my behalf, Colin is my #1 choice for who to take with me onto a deserted island. Luke is too little to be of any real assistance. Allan is a health liability. And Hannah would most likely kill me in my sleep so our rations lasted longer. (“Survivor – Holderby Family Edition.” Are you reading this, Jeff Probst and CBS?)

Misstep #1

The only items that don’t get put away by my grocery ballet partner are things that need to go to our upstairs bathrooms. For example, shampoo or body wash. I set those inside the door to the left and deal with those afterward. And THAT, my friends, is where the first misstep in our story happens. And “misstep” is exactly the right word.

You see, I wasn’t paying close attention when I came through the door to wash my own hands. No, I was too preoccupied with my “to do list”. As a result, I didn’t notice the brand new tube of toothpaste still laying on the hall floor. I stepped on that sucker square in its middle with my right shoe and burst the tube of minty goo all over the place.

Ugh! Not only had I just lost a full tube of toothpaste in my rush, but now the grooves of my right shoe were covered in cool mint stickiness. In fact, I found it not just irritating. I found it a tad bit gross as well. So I grabbed the canister of wipes, sat on the bottom step, and angrily worked every groove of my shoe clean again. I may not have been agile, but at least I felt precise and organized again.

Misstep #2

I stood up from the bottom step, huffed off to the bathroom to wash my hands, and THAT is when my second misstep happened. Quite literally. You see, I wasn’t paying close attention when I came through the bathroom door. No, I was too preoccupied with the previous inconvenience that caused a speed bump in my “to do list”. And once again, as a result, I didn’t pay attention to my surroundings. In other words, I didn’t notice the hefty pile of fresh dog turds recently deposited by “man’s best friend” in the middle of our bathroom floor.  I stepped on that sucker square in its middle with…. Yep, the same right shoe!

Suddenly I was more than irritated. And I was certainly more than a tad bit grossed out. And my right shoe no longer smelled minty like toothpaste, or lemony like disinfecting wipes. No, now my shoe smelled like poop. Australian shepherd – schnauzer poop to be exact. In my haste to get the groceries inside and check off that box on my “to do” list, I hadn’t immediately noticed our dog whining at the back door to go outside. She got the last laugh, though, didn’t she?

The enemy takes advantage

At that point my emotions spilled over and I felt the frustration swell into anger. And in that moment, our enemy took advantage of my weakness. Suddenly I had dog poop on my shoe the the devil whispering in my ear.

“You are a mess.”

“It’s not just your shoe that is gross. It’s all of you.”

“Fat. Ugly. Disgusting.”

“You are full of shit. Inside and out.”

“Every other woman on the planet has her act together. It’s not rocket science, Melissa.”

“You are alone in your glaring inadequacy as a human being.”

ALONE. UTTERLY ALONE.

Satan is a liar.

Now, I’ve been down this road before. Maybe not with literal poop on my shoe, but certainly with the devil in my ear. As a result, I know the devil is a crafty liar. An attractive deceiver. An opportunistic con-artist. And I am PISSED that he is lying to you, too.

“He… has nothing to do with the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks out of his own character, for he is a liar and the father of lies.” John 8:44 (NIV)

“Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by your brotherSISTERhood throughout the world.” 1 Peter 5:8-9 (ESV)

How pissed am I? Pissed enough to fight back with the resources God has given me. Not only has God given me the ability to write and the blessing of my own blog. He has also put some pretty amazing women in my life. And the thankful bee is bringing some of them straight to you.

BIG announcement

October is hereby QUEEN BEE MONTH at the thankful bee. What does that mean for you? It means that each weekend in October we will hear from a different Queen Bee. A fellow traveler on this planet with a struggle to share and a story to tell.

Because, dear friends, we are NOT alone. We are NOT “the only one”. And we are NOT defined by the proverbial poop on our shoe or whatever the devil is whispering in our ear.

So, plan to join us next weekend to kick off our first ever Queen Bee month. You will be inspired!

If you have not already officially subscribed to the thankful bee, do it today. Then you will get a simple email from us when new content publishes to the blog. There is a space to subscribe to the blog with your email right below this post. And we promise never to share your email address or try to sell you anything. Do not miss this special month of unique opportunity!

Until next week, be encouraged!

xoxo, Melissa

About the Author Melissa Holderby

Wife. Mother. Friend. Daughter. Sister.
Spiritual warrior. Outgoing introvert.
A beautiful mess.

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