Confessions of a Closet Fangirl

{Let’s just get this out of the way…I’ve been a bad “blogger” friend.  I have been avoiding writing for quite a while.  At first, I couldn’t think of anything to write about.  And then when I did, I was too busy.  And before you roll your eyes, I’m not someone who pulls the “I’m too busy card” often…but seriously, the last 18 months of our lives have been OUT.OF.CONTROL!  And then when something would settle down long enough for me to sit down and write, I’d talk myself out of it because it had been so long…it’s embarrassing! (Besides, almost anything I’d write about I already told my mom and as I’ve said before, she could very well be the only one reading this.) So there are my excuses and my apology. I’ve had a recent reminder that bravery and transparency give others the permission to be brave and transparent.  When I originally started writing “out loud”, it took all of the bravery I had and it was the one definite place I gave myself permission to let it all hang out, as transparent as I could be.  So forgive me and let us all move on.}

I wouldn’t normally describe myself as the fangirl type.  (And if you have no idea what I’m talking about when I say fangirl, do yourself a HUGE favor and youtube “One Direction fangirl moments” or any variation of that!  You can thank me later! ) Like I said, I’ve never been a fangirl.  Because of my mom’s super-awesome 90’s American-Christian parenting, secular music was banned in my house, so the closest thing I got to a boy band was a Christian version called Plus One and believe me, it’s as terrible as it sounds.  I’m sure my mom would put this particular house rule in the category of over-zealous parenting along with her apology for not letting us celebrate Halloween, but who here hasn’t had a few over-the-top parenting moments? 

**I actually instated a rule at our house for a while that no kids were allowed to pray at dinner because I was tired of listening to them fight over who should get to talk to God first—I’m serious, people!  (Talk about screwing your kids up!) (Also, I love you, Mom!) 

Until two weeks ago, I thought it was strange that anyone would have a desire to meet a celebrity, ask them to sign their name to something, and feel like their life was somehow enhanced in a supernatural sort of way.  I simply did not get it. 

That is until my “celebrity” BFF, Jen Hatmaker, in the flesh, was in the same arena as I. (And if you don’t know who Jen is either, honestly people, I don’t know how to help you.  I can’t be your pop culture guide, I am missing an entire decade of music, remember?!)  Honest to goodness, I felt like a 15 year old girl at her very first concert!  (In every way…we couldn’t afford the good seats, so we had to settle for being so far up the lights were almost in our way…)  But then miracle of miracles, we were given closer seats, mere rows from that truth-tellin, hysterical, insightful, make you think woman! 

I will go to my grave saying that when we yelled her name, she actually waved AT.US.  (Not just at the crazed crowd…at.us!)

All this to say, my friends secured a place for me in her line, to meet her, to have her sign her name in my book!  (It’s still all a little weird, right?)  As I stood there, I couldn’t believe how ridiculous I was.  I was finding my breathing shallow, my hands a little trembly.  I was trying to decide what I’d say to her.  Should it be something clever?  Something deep?  Should I show her my sense of humor?  Ask her to coffee?

 If this is how boys feel when they go to ask a girl out for the first time, have mercy!  Those poor things! It’s a wonder the human race hasn’t ceased to exist!

When my turn finally came, I stammered something about reading her book and something about my husband and…I don’t even know!  It was all happening so fast and the security people and event volunteers were all in such a big hurry and they were telling us to look at the camera and she was clearly putting on a very nice front for all these weird women who thought they had some special connection to her and were saying all these cheesy, unimpressive things and I’m pretty sure she could sense the holiness of the moment we were about to have and right as we were about to embrace and she would tell me how she’d been waiting for a friend like me her entire life and we should get our families together for dinner…they were pushing me away and trying to usher the next person in!

Can you even? 

So, there you have it.  Confessions of a closet fangirl.  I had no idea I had it in me.  My only regret is that I didn’t hug her and refuse to let her go, much like my friend Celeste when she got to meet Sandi Patti.  She made the absolute most of her moment, dang it!  (Though she too, was forbidden from Halloween, she was/is a die-hard Backstreet Boys fan, so she had a slight edge on the fangirl market.)

Until we meet again, Jen…

 

Your BFFTYHNIEE,         

(Best Friend Forever That You Have No Idea Even Exists)

Autumn

Sexy Back

                Last Saturday my husband decided it was time for a date night. I looked forward to going out with him all day.  There are so few moments between a husband and wife with small children that aren’t interrupted by someone needing a drink, or a snack, or needing something wiped that I honestly felt giddy at the prospect of going out…after dark…to a place with no children’s menu.

                It’s been a long time since I’ve been part of the dating scene, but I do remember that getting ready for the evening was a significant part of this ritual.  Perfect hair, fresh make-up, cute outfit, perfectly accented accessories, coordinated bag, and oh-no-you-didn’t shoes.  I began strategically planning in my mind…I was going to do it…I was bringing  sexy back.  Unfortunately, what Mr. Timberlake seems to have left out of his painfully inappropriate lyrics is that bringing sexy back is a lot harder than it used to be…

                You see, what kept me from bringing sexy back was my lack of planning for the very thing that stole my sexy in the first place. In my earlier years, I never had to calculate the time (read life) that three small children suck out of you. I never planned for the witching hour.  (You know, that inevitable meltdown by one if not all of your children at the exact moment you’re burning whatever is on the stove.) Speaking of burning something on the stove, I never had to plan ahead to feed the kids before we left…and write down every number I can think of because if me or my husband or the restaurant or the three emergency contacts or 911 don’t answer, the babysitter can call my college roommate’s ex-boyfriend’s grandma to help in the case of an emergency.  I never had to attempt to get all three kids bathed and in pajamas.  And can one ever  really plan for the child who refuses to wear pajamas after spending an eternity looking for the Ninja Turtle footie pajamas he HAD to wear?  In case you were wondering…he was hot. Or what about the other one who is too busy smiling at herself in the mirror to hear you ask her to PLEASE go get her pajamas for the 852^nd time.  And the baby, do you hear him screaming because he must eat…NOW!  Because when your three months old and you weigh in at the 100^th percentile, milk is clearly a very precious commodity.  My former, sexier self would never have had to plan for all that.

                By the time I finished with the kids, I had about 30 minutes to get ready before the babysitter arrived.  Not a problem. After all, motherhood may have robbed me of a lot of things, but it also taught me the art of primping on a time limit.  My hair wasn’t styled as planned, but a ponytail can be sexy, right?  I knew Jarod would never notice if I just slapped another coat of make-up over the one I’d worn that morning…or maybe it was leftover from the day before, who can keep track?  My cute outfit ended up being jeans that fit somewhere on the spectrum of My Underwear Won’t Peek Out the Top and Full Blown Mom Jeans that somehow ended up with spit up on them. Sexy, right?  I even topped it all off with practical shoes that showed off my perfectly un-manicured toes.  I forgot earrings and I initially grabbed the diaper bag, but thought better of it and grabbed the first purse I could find buried in the back of my closet.

                As we were walking out the door, I felt a little defeated.  I knew when I planned to bring my sexy back that I wouldn’t be able to obtain an exact replica of my former dating glory, but I had hoped it would at least resemble it.  But here I was, looking just like an unsexy mom, the kind of unsexy mom I swore I would never be.  I felt like calling it all off and just asking if we could eat cookie dough in bed and pick out another Netflix movie.  My husband reached over, grabbed my hand, and said, “You look great tonight.  I’m so lucky to have such a sexy wife.” 

                It was in that moment that I realized that even though motherhood has left my body with less perk and a lot of sag, for my husband, my sexy never left.  While I’m sure he wouldn’t complain if my body miraculously appeared as it did when I was 19, my body isn’t what captivated him.  My husband is captivated by me, by my commitment to my relationship with God and our marriage, by my service to our family…and I’d like to think my puke-covered-semi-mom jeans helped too.  So even if I can’t be restored to my former self, maybe I got my sexy back after all…

 

 

Stevie Wonder Identity Crisis

      I was recently faced with the challenge to find a picture of myself before motherhood and then was asked to consider who this girl was.  What were hopes and dreams, her aspirations?  I laughed looking at a picture of this thin, young girl all dressed up, ready for her senior homecoming.  And while that opinionated girl came off as fairly confident and a girl who “had her head on straight”, she only had vague notions of the future; she had no idea who she was or what she wanted from life.

Good ol' church camp...and slightly cropped top...
2004 really did rock, didn't it?

      So here I sit 10 years later still unsure of who this girl is.  I’ll be honest right now in telling you the “Christian” response to this question of my identity really held little weight in my life.  You know, the youth group answer that says, “your identity is found in Christ”.  For as long as I’ve been a Christian, nearly my entire life, I can honestly say I had no grasp on what that truly meant.  Maybe I missed that week in Sunday school or maybe I was too busy attempting to flirt with some cute boy at church camp that day, but somehow I missed it.

So here I sit 10 years later and am once again struggling with who I am…

For as long as I can remember, I have lived up to the label given me.  For instance, my parents said I was a “good girl”, so I strived to be a good girl.  My teacher said I was a “gifted student”, so I did my best to perfect my academics.  For me, these labels were fantastic motivators to always do better and strive to do my best, but they also became what I used to define who I am.  And let me tell you something…I’m exhausted, ya’ll!  (I added the southern accent for emphasis.) 

In the last 10 years, my labels have been changed so frequently and rapidly that I can hardly figure out what standard I’m living by anymore. I’ve gone from cheerleader to high school graduate, undecided to education major, honor student to college graduate, student to teacher…single to girlfriend, engaged to married, wife to mommy of one, no two, whoops…three kids, mom to stay at home mom, Nebraskan to…well, let’s not get carried away here. J  You see what I mean though?  I’m tired.  I can’t keep up…

The problem with my current evaluation system, my current standard of knowing who I am is that my standard is constantly changing.  It’s hard to meet an expectation that’s there one day and gone the next.  What’s more is that I often can’t live up to the standards that I’ve set for myself.  My identity in being a loving wife is abdicated when I snap at my husband for being late or not immediately doing what I’ve asked him to do.  My role as caring mother is terminated when I impatiently respond to a tantrum or am too tired to read that book for the 82^nd time this week.  I fail to live up to my own expectations and then what?

Well then I’m left sitting here contemplating who I really am.  I failed to live up to the standard of loving wife, so I guess I’m not a loving wife.  I’ve failed at being caring mom, so I’m not a caring mom.  I’ve failed to be a loyal friend, talented homemaker, and so on and so on. I’m forced again to face the reality…I don’t know who I am.  So, I read a book or blog or compare myself to the “perfect” woman of the week and resolve to live up to this new set of standards that will surely define me.  It’s an endless cycle…one I’m ready to break.

I had to face the question before me—who am I when all of these things are stripped away?  If all of these things are just pieces and jobs and priorities I’ve held…who am I?

I decided to revisit the old Sunday school standby.  If the Sunday school answer is always Jesus, this time didn’t prove any different.  My identity is found in Christ.  He set the standard I should strive for, the expectations I really need to meet.  Sure, he’s given me the role of wife, mom, friend…but he’s also given me guidelines for those jobs and he also knows these roles will change over time.  Which is why my true identity, who I am at the core of my being cannot be defined by my busyness or my to-do lists or my earthly relationships.  My true identity lies in who he created me to be. 2 Corinthians 1:21 says, “Now it is God who makes both us and you stand firm in Christ.  He anointed us, set his seal of ownership on us, and put his Spirit in our hearts as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come.”  I am established, anointed, and sealed by God.  This verse resonated in my soul (and also had me singing Stevie Wonder’s song Sign, Sealed, Delivered…).  It gave me assurance and hope that God has put his name on me, his seal, his approval.  Everything he intends for me to be is ultimately found in who Christ is.  And because he has given me his Spirit, I am capable of reaching that standard. 

The good news is that even when I fail, or forget who defines me, my failure doesn’t send me into a tail spin.  I recollect myself and set my eyes back on the one standard that will not change.  Furthermore, the “deposit” part of that verse gives me hope and helps me to remember that this life isn’t it…there is glory yet to come!

I am thankful that my identity is in Christ, the one who stays the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow…and I’m also thankful that I don’t suffer from the bi-monthly identity crisis I faced in high school.  Hallelujah, praise God that I no longer have to decide between a crop top and flare jeans or crop top and wide legged jeans…

Faithful

      I’ve found myself reflecting on God’s faithfulness in my life a lot lately.  Almost one year ago to the day, I received a phone call from my husband that drastically changed my life. 

      I sat sobbing on our used couch in the quiet darkness of our cozy Nebraska home, thankful that our two-month-old daughter and two-year-old son hadn’t put up a fight at bedtime tonight.  I didn’t have the physical or emotional energy to deal with it.  The realization kept washing over me in waves, I was moving to Nowhere, Illinois…closest Target over one hour in any direction.  As I cried I prayed.  I prayed God would give me the resolve and the courage to follow where we felt He was leading—although I was sure He had to be geographically confused since I had explicitly said Illinois was the last place I wanted to move.

      In the weeks to follow, I grieved the loss of the good life (that’s a Nebraska reference for my Illinois friends), and tried to face the reality that I would soon be an Illinoisan..Illini…does anyone really know what to call people around here?

      In those weeks, I found myself doing a lot of crying and a lot of praying.  As I fought to keep life as normal as possible for a two-year-old whose world had already been turned upside down by the arrival of the dark-haired attention-stealer we called “Sissy”, I continued to pray.  I prayed as I painted.  I prayed as I ripped up carpets, cleaned, organized, and prepared to sell our house…during a Nebraska winter at Christmas time.  I prayed as I was an exhausted mom to a newborn and a new potty trainer.  I prayed in the absence of my husband, my teammate.  I prayed as we said painful goodbyes to our church family and the place where we’d grown as a family.  I prayed as I said goodbye to my parents.  I prayed as I kissed my sweet niece and held back tears as I clung to my sister and brother.  I prayed as we pulled out of our driveway for the final time and I prayed as we made the long journey to our new home.  I prayed as we unpacked and as we adjusted to our new life.  I prayed.

      This past year hasn’t always been pretty…and it certainly hasn’t brought all of my best qualities to the surface.  In fact, a lot of the last year has been challenging and difficult, but God doesn’t care that I didn’t do it perfectly or that the odds often seem stacked against us.  He was and is faithful.  He walked before us, patiently, lovingly, doing the impossible and working for our good time and time again.

      Our home was on the market just over one week and we had a buyer!  I made it through the newborn stage of my daughter’s life with at least some of my sanity still intact.  Ronan (and I) survived potty training and I’m happy to report both seem to be thriving. What was a difficult year for our marriage, God provided strengthening and unity. God extended our “family” by giving us another amazing church to serve and grow with. We have been blessed tremendously by our new community and home.  The friendships we have formed are among our most treasured…and our friends have even let us keep our Nebraska title by referring to us as their “adopted Nebraska family”…take that Illinoisan/Illini! 

      One year ago I couldn’t have imagined (even in my wildest dreams) that I would ever be able to say that I am truly grateful that God stretched and grew us the way He has over the past year. And while I still don’t understand camouflage, Cardinal baseball, or the lack of football in our new home, I truly am grateful that God brought us here…even if it was some sort of clerical error.  Without this adventure, we would have missed out on so many blessings, but most importantly, without it we would not have been able to witness God’s faithfulness and presence in our daily lives.

Lord, I praise you for your faithfulness.  Thank you for this great adventure.  Thank you for Your plan in our lives.  When challenges arise and uncertainty is at hand, remind me that You are faithful.  

      

Skunk Spray

I’ve previously written about the peace and serenity that is offered in country living.  Perhaps it’s just the shock of moving from a well-developed neighborhood in the center of a large city to the tranquility of being in the middle of nowhere, but we continually find ourselves in awe of our new surroundings.  Our daily walks are much less about how many blocks to reach our destination and much more about scenery and stillness.  We don’t find ourselves leery of “that one house” and often find ourselves stopping to chat with the few neighbors we do have. 

 

Ahh...the freedom of country living

One of the things both of the kids have really grown to love is the wildlife in our area.  We have seen more creatures this past summer than in all our years combined in Omaha.  We have been serenaded by coyotes and bullfrogs, marveled at caterpillars, turtles, and toads, spied on hummingbirds and salamanders, and daily sightings of deer.  We’ve even had the pleasure of observing (from afar) a mother skunk with several babies…which leads me to my next point.

One of our many wildlife friends

As enjoyable as country living is, it doesn’t come without its own disadvantages…some of which really stink!

This afternoon as the kids and I were playing outside, I noticed the dog had gotten out of the yard.  And while this is a disadvantage in the city because you have to wildly chase your dog through your neighbors’ lawns and in front of moving vehicles with fistfuls of hotdogs and processed lunch meat, sweetly calling after them through clenched teeth (because what you really want to yell would have to be censored on HBO)pretending you enjoy this game of hide and seek with your canine friend all while your neighbors are watching from their windows and wondering what kind of lunatic moved in three doors down  (I may or may not be speaking from experience), country living allows your dog a bit more freedom to roam. 

The frog whisperer

So, I let the dog have his freedom, the kids and I continued soaking up the sun, and my sanity stayed intact.

I saw the dog leaping about and barking in the pasture behind our house…then we smelled it, that incredibly offensive odor that can be mistaken for none other than skunk. At first it was just a slight smell that I was sure we could tough out. After all, we are country people now.  But as the dog continued to bark and flail himself around, the smell grew increasingly pungent. (For you city dwellers, let me just tell you that the few times you’ve crossed the skunk smell in your car while passing through a rural area and you complained…you have no idea!) I thought my eyes were going to shrivel up and fall out of my head.

I gathered up the kids and made a beeline for the door, called my husband and asked what on earth you are supposed to do with a dog that’s been sprayed by a skunk and waited the next 45 minutes as the dog continued to battle against a skunk in our backyard. That’s right.  He stayed.  He continued to bark and terrorize while being sprayed.  This just goes to prove my point that Moose is not the brightest crayon in the box. 

After bathing him several times with a box a baking soda, a gallon of vinegar, a can of tomato soup, dog shampoo, and being verbally accosted, he has been banished to the basement and the candles are burning. 

My apologies to our neighbors who have been attacked all afternoon by the powerful skunk smell upon walking outdoors.  I’ll completely understand if you want us to get rid of the dog…the skunks on the other hand are your problem!  

Break Dancing and Hindrance Techniques

This week is the first in which we have decided to begin the countdown to weaning our youngest.  I say “we” in the same sense one says, “We need to clean out the garage.” While these pronouns imply a sense of teamwork, something you and I will do together, what I really mean is, “You need to clean out the garage.” So when I say we are in the beginning stages of weaning, what I really mean is, “I have decided to begin the countdown to weaning our youngest.”

      Breastfeeding my children has afforded me the luxury of not having to diet after my children were born.  While I wasn’t one of those women who used it as a license to be a glutton, it did spare me from having to closely watch every morsel that touched my lips.  In addition to not having to be a calorie-Nazi, I was also able to work out at my leisure. 

      While I walk several times a week in effort to maintain some level of physical fitness, this week I decided I needed to push myself a little harder and maybe even mix up my routine by adding in some different work outs in order to offset the changes that would occur once Emersyn is weaned. 

      My kids were happily playing so I saw this as my perfect opportunity to squeeze in a new workout. I put in my Turbo Jam DVD and the second Chalene greeted me with too much enthusiasm…my workout was over.

      I’m not kidding.  My kids literally dropped what they were doing and were drawn to the TV screen like a mosquito to a bug zapper.  They couldn’t look away.  In the beginning they smiled adorably and clapped along.  Ronan joined in mimicking the moves the best he could.  This action soon morphed into break dancing directly in front of the screen with several shouted warnings of, “Look out, Mom!”, as he spun by me. 

Emersyn gleefully clapped her hands and bounced along until she realized this dance party wasn’t going to end any time soon.  She took the stand-in-front-of-mom-so-she-can’t-move-without-knocking-me-over approach. I quickly found a distraction for her and made an attempt to get back into my workout. I’ll give my daughter credit for being persistent.  She was right back at my legs in 5.7 seconds balancing in effort to stand as her mother continued to bounce around and punch at the air like a lunatic.

If all of the break dancing and hindrance techniques weren’t enough to make this workout completely useless, how about the fact that at one point the dog joined the revolt?  I’m not kidding.  The dog actually came and stood so close to me that I could feel him against my leg. 

About midway through, I found myself laughing.  I’m not sure if I was laughing because I found the situation all that humorous or if it was the result of feeling like a mental patient.  Either way, I’m pretty sure I read that laughing is good for your abdominals, so that may have been the most effective part of my workout.

I learned something this week.  I learned that the reason moms don’t work out isn’t because they are lazy, out of time, or even lack motivation…it’s because they have children!

 If you happen to be one of those rare species of mothers who get in an honest-to-goodness workout more than once a week, rock on, girlfriend!  And wear a bikini for me…because at this rate, I won’t be ready for swimsuit season anytime in the next 10 years.

 To the mom whose only success at working out is when her kids are strapped into a device in which they cannot escape…and to the mom who has decided that there are not enough endorphins in the world to make up for the effort that is needed to exercise with young children…you’re not alone!

**When I was able to recover from my laughing fit, I grabbed my camera to document the absurdity that was unfolding before me.  For your viewing pleasure…my non-workout…**

Everyone's feeling good at the beginning...

Ronan learning the moves...

Ronan break dancing...

Will this dance party ever end?

Holding onto my leg in a valiant effort to stop the madness...

If the kids can't stop you, maybe I can...

Finally...it's over!  You've come to your senses.

Cracked

     I recently found myself wanting to crawl in the crib with my 11-month-old for a morning nap.  I was completely drained.  I had no energy, no motivation, and my patience was wearing thin. Thankfully Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood has been added to Netflix so my three-year-old was completely and totally absorbed while I tried to pull myself together.

     The idea of being drained came to mind again as I was reading my Bible the other day.  The charges of infidelity are again being brought against Israel.  God is again using a prophet to remind Israel of what they have given up…his glory in exchange for worthless, man-made idols. (Jeremiah 2:11)

     God speaks to the Israelites saying, “My people have committed two sins: they have forsaken me, the spring of living water, and have dug their own cisterns, broken cisterns that cannot hold water.” –Jeremiah 2:13

     This idea of a broken cistern continued to stay with me, playing over and over in my mind, so I decided to do a little investigating of my own.  Enter, Google.  (How anyone got anything done before Google entered the scene is beyond me.) 

     To quote Dorothy Ann from The Magic School Bus (also a new addition to Netflix…don’t judge me). “According to my research…”, cisterns were dug in ancient Israel as a type of reservoir.  The summer months proved to be long and dry for the Israelites and because of the soft limestone in and around Jerusalem, digging these well-like cavities made perfect sense. During times of rain, the cisterns could collect the run-off water from roofs and surface water.  The people developed a type of plaster to coat the cisterns in an effort to prevent the water from seeping out.  Cracks were prone to develop though, resulting in the drainage of the cisterns.

     As I began to read more about these ancient cisterns and consider verse 13, I was struck with the idea that I have at times forsaken God’s glory to dig my own cisterns…and end up completely drained.

     I know that God has a plan for me.  I know he has my best in mind.  I even believe that God desires good things for my life, but somewhere along the way, I give him up for my own desires, plans, hopes, and dreams…I begin digging cisterns.

     For the most part, I think most of my cisterns were actually started with the best of intentions.  I want to be a loving wife, patient mom, good friend, take care of my body, be successful in my ventures. All of these things are good.  In fact, I think that God even wants these things for me.  I would even go as far to say these things are biblical. 

     The trouble with these cisterns though is that once they’ve been dug, they have to be filled.  So, I dig my cistern and fill it with my hopes, dreams, plans, and desires.  I may even be able to keep it full for a while, but eventually a crack will form and my cistern will be completely drained and leave me empty.

     It seems like such a hopeless situation.  I mean my hopes of having these good relationships and being successful are noble.  Heck, they might even qualify as godly…so what’s the deal?  Why is God trying to stand in my way?  Why is he all up in the Israelites’ business anyway?

     The problem isn’t that we have hopes and dreams or plans.  The problem is that we’ve forsaken God in the search for those things.  The problem is that when we leave God out of the equation, we are left doing these things on our own strength, our own energy, our own…and eventually our own strength and our own energy is going to be drained, it isn’t going to be enough to maintain the well.  Or we end up as my friend Corinna would say, “cracked”. (And if you’ve been reading my blog long enough, you know that I am definitely cracked…) Our lack of strength and our abundance of cracks only leave us one place…empty.

     The answer lies between where we forsake God and where we begin to dig and fill our cisterns.  God tells us He is, “the spring of living water”(verse 13).  A spring is a source of flowing water.  It isn’t replenished by our efforts or drained because of cracks.  When we tap (no pun intended) into the source of living water, the spring of living water, he can fill us to overflowing.  Through him, we have the strength to be a loving wife, a patient mom, a good friend, take care of our bodies, be successful in the ventures we take, and then some.  We are no longer limited to our own ability, but depend on God who, “…is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us…” –Ephesians 3:20

     So what do you say?  Are you tired of wasting your own energy?  Let’s throw our shovels aside and save our energy for something else…like say, new additions on Netflix? (Kidding!)

Lord, forgive me for forsaking you and digging cisterns that hold nothing.  Lead me to your living water that never fails.