Bethany G. Paget

Midwife of words


July 2013

As per usual this post is following my Story 101 prompts, questions and random queries.

Last Sunday night we began our week of silence.  A loud, deafening week in which we were asked to fast from social media, the internet and blogging.

To say that I freaked is an understatement.  You could ask anyone in my group and they would, laughingly tell you about my freak out updates of how I was sure I wouldn’t be able to do it, and how I was afraid of being alone and no one being there when I came back.  (Yes I have abandonment issues.  We’ll discuss this in later posts)

Monday morning I woke up really anxious.  See my usual morning routine is to grab my hot cuppa java and see what the internets have to say to get my day going.  Yeah because that is a GREAT way to start one’s day off on a peaceful note.  Ummmm as I quickly learned it was due time for some adjustment in my routine.  Back to Monday.  Coffee in hand, I climbed back into bed, on my properly piled pillows and heating pad, cause you know (don’t go there with me fool) and was like “shit now what”

My excuse for going straight to the internet and not Jesus, reading or writing is that I am not awake enough until I have had at least one cup of coffee.  However when I said that out loud to myself I suddenly wished there was someone there to bop me on the head.  It seemed to me, to be the most illogical argument.

So after I sat there for 10 minutes twiddling my thumbs thinking DAMN what now, I grabbed my journal and wrote, wrote and wrote.  For who knows how long.  Abigail was quick, as ever to remind me that I had been in my room for FIVE HOURS (that’s 30-45min in 7 year speak)

Then came my second struggle with our week of solitude and silence.  The eh hem silence part.  I cannot seem to ever just be silent.  When I write I must have music on.  I get myself ready and either turn on a playlist or pop in my earplugs.  I have to take a long look at the second part of that word.  Plug.  That is precisely what I am doing.  I am plugging out the sound of myself, the sound of God wanting to speak as I write and the sound of silence (Que Simon and Garfunkle)

However sometimes I do need the music.  If I am at Starbucks, McDonalds or Barnes and Noble where other people’s noise and conversations, although interesting are louder than my thoughts.

As I sat in my bed Saturday night, ready to write, thinking about one of the questions that Elora posed before we went into our week, I plopped those plugs in and dove in.

I couldn’t hear anything beyond muffled thoughts and fear.  Fear?

Yes fear.  If I am silent when I write that means I have to allow myself to be willing to hear.  From God, from the wounded parts of myself and from that place deep within me that is flowing out as I am learning who I am as a writer.


That question she posed.

“What words am I supposed to be writing, but avoiding”


Of course I know what words and NO I do not want to write them.

In my heart, in my writers core I know they are begging to come out, to be seen, heard, acknowledged and responded to with love and grace.

See that is where the fear comes from.  The avoidance, the why behind not writing them.

Because those words have caused me to be pulled out like the adulterous woman and demanded that I (she) be stoned

Branded with more than one scarlet letter

The pain I have been called to write about is what shaped the identity I am breaking free from

The expectation of who I *was supposed* to be, who I “tried to become” who I was broken to be, and how I am slowly who I really, REALLY am 🙂

But they burn when used the wrong way.  Cut like a knife and leave me running away with hot tears burning down my cheeks.  They have been used wrongly by people who said they loved me, were my “mentors,” in love with me or wanted to protect themselves out of denial.


Throwing pleas in the face of the face of one that hurt you “YES this happened.  This is where we were, and when.”

Daggers being thrown back, sharp and cutting to the quick.  Words that make my bones ache so bad I cannot even type them.  Not yet.

That’s my hard thing.   Writing it all out.  In layers of course.  It’s not just a tell it straight out and read it through kind of hard thing.

My story is multi faceted, deeply wrapped in fleshly hurt.  With colors woven and silver linings in the mix.

The story of me, of my story.  Where to start?  I am not sure.  Yet whenever and wherever I start it’ll lead to the next, then the next and so on.

I will go forth marching my drum that’s always been pounding to a different beat.  But this time, this time I will be ROARING.

As Always,


Little Lioness

This is another post for Story 101.  This week we were asked to step OUT of our comfort zone.  Ummmmmm I freaked out a little.  Mostly because I like to think of my writing as safe and comfortable here in my little corner.  Where I can be my real raw self and write about my real life.  Somewhere deep within me though there is a writer spirit longing to be set free, to write more than just real life.  To write poems, stories and GASP a novel.  

Here is my first out of the pretty, pink safe little box piece I wrote.  It came from the depths of love for my sweet Abigail.  If you know her or have even heard one story than you will know how true this is.


Brown curls dancing around her face

Like those of a spirit that knows she’s free

Big eyes, full of wonder

Darting here

Glancing there

She rarely slows

No, there is too much to do

To see

To be felt and taken in

Stories to be told

An imagination that becomes real

It’s like watching a fireworks show as her mind bounces

From ponies to mermaids to lost abandoned babies that need a home

Then, like gasoline on a fire

It becomes too much for her

“Mommy I’m scared. “  She says

As she presses her head into my chest

Her warm breath on my skin suddenly takes me back

Tiny fingers

Toes pushed through the holes in her bright purple baby blanket, which is now faded and worn from love

She hungers for the nourishment my body was created to supply for her.

I glance at her now, all of seven years old

Tall enough that she rests right under my breasts

In an instant I miss those moments

Her, on my breast

The intimacy of the God given mother daughter connection

Skin to skin


Sacred, silence

The darkened middle of the night moments

Sheer exhaustion, pulling her into bed with me

Holding her close

Drifting back to sleep

Breathing in her heavenly baby scent

I did not know then, as those moments were passing by

To capture them

Hold them

Remember her scent

Her skin

The connection

Her need for me

For nourishment

Now she has a lioness spirit

A  ROAR for freedom within her own aching heart

Bouncing curls

Darting eyes

Glorious, Holy like imagination

Our spirits connected through the Creator

Though she longs to be free

And I long to hold on

We are still one

United in Christ

My daughter

Flesh of my flesh

Spirit of my spirit

My little lioness


“And though she be but little, she is fierce”

~William Shakespeare~

The Beautiful and the Ugly of Expectations

I just can’t today.  

I love the kids I nanny for, the ones I was hired to nanny.  Then the other three were brought into the house by social services and I said “yes, I can watch them all (so 6 kids including my daughter, age ranges from 16 months – 11 years) for 1 week.  1 week turned into three.  

I grew to love the older three in all their uniqueness and the different way they have grown up.  BUT, I have not been compensated for watching them.  

The light housecleaning I was asked to do when hired has turned into cleaning up their dinner messes, bathrooms, laundry and being a housekeeper as well as a nanny.  

There is also  a very unhealthy dynamic that involves social services care on more than one level.  The way they talk to each other, to the kids and to me is not okay.  I am constantly triggered and on my defense when I am all of sudden being attacked as a person when really the problem is within the family unit and has nothing to do with me.  

The way they choose to discipline and give consequences (or NOT) makes no sense and is so unhealthy but I have NO VOICE.  Yet the healthy, empathetic choice and consequences based discipline I give is wrong and is causing the 6 year old (completely traumatized from birth) boy to act out.

The level of unappreciation I feel and the fact that I cannot speak up for where I feel as though I am being taken advantage of feels like I am being pushed back to that 9 year old little girl who was told she had something wrong with her but wasn’t allowed, couldn’t speak out and say “NO, NO I DON’T.”  

I feel helpless, defenseless, tired and soul weary.  This was my first job after not working for a year and having the whole “shit year” so I have no savings, no back up and I don’t want to leave these kids behind.  

Today was the breaking point.  I walked into dishes PILED in the sink yet the dishwasher was half empty so they easily could have been loaded.  The counter was a crumb covered nightmare, there was trash everywhere and the floor was just an ant picnic waiting to happen

I want to weep for these children because they know no other way and may never.  I came into this fully believing that this was where God wanted me, I have felt that before though and then have been moved on.  So maybe He leads but doesn’t have us stay.  Maybe He plants but doesn’t have us grow roots.  Maybe that truth that when He leads us to a place it sometimes is only for a brief moment.

I started this post post in anger.  I was mad.  I have been angry for the last couple of weeks.  Yet as I wrote and had to keep taking breaks to get snacks, change a diaper or two, feed the baby and allow myself to pee I was able to step back and see the bigger picture of why I am so angry.

It comes back to expectations.  I have grow to hate that word over the last year.  I had huge ones.  I briefly wrote about them in my last post.  I was a counselor in a detox, I had MY plans to go through school, get my masters in counseling and set myself up in a pretty little private practice where I could just counsel away and save lives.

Ugh…. It sounds so ugly when I say it because I was telling God what I was going to do and I had the expectation that He agreed that it was a mighty fine plan.  Well apparently He did not because for the last year I feel like I have been free floating, with no purpose, no idea of what’s to come or where to go and I HATE it.  I’m scared.  I feel like I am bouncing.  Idea’s of midwifery, moving to Africa, staying a nanny and blowing it all up and fleeing Colorado have all been running amuck in my brain.

All the expectations I had for my life have been blown apart.  I know why.  I can feel why stirring in my soul.  In my core.  As He, the living God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit who drenches me in His life giving renewal.  It never means that letting go of expectations are easy, or okay.  It is painful.  It is all coming at a time where my soul, my heart and my brain (both the literal and the metaphorical) are being cleaned up and healed in various ways.

I am in love with Oswald Chambers and My Utmost for His Highest.  Every single day I am struck to my bones with the knowledge that even as painful as this place I am in is, it is for the single purpose of knowing Jesus.  NOT for being a good worker.  Or a HIGHER purpose.  Or for being a platform, womens ministry speaker (that’s a good story, y’all will get a good laugh out of that one.) It is all for the single purpose of knowing Jesus.

I don’t know if I can settle with the fact that God allows things to happen for “the greater good” I used to believe that very fact,  Romans 8:28 was a verse I stood by. For everything.  Now my faith is being reworked and formed into a beautiful garden of life. I am not sure what that means to me anymore but I do know this…….

He loves me.

He never left me.

He was ALWAYS there.

He HATED it all and wept through every.single,ugly,fucking,bit.OF.IT

He did know, even if He did not/did allow it that I would be here, looking at the bigger picture.  

The bigger scope as I curse under my breath as I sweep the floor for the 5th time in one day, load the 3rd load of dishes, scrub the dinner mess off of the counter.  As I say in my head “Hmmmm I wonder if they look at the dinner mess and say “Oh we can leave it, Bethany will be here in the morning to clean it up.”

If I stay, if I go.  If I pack up and flee.  If I go back to school, if I…….

I am not sure at this point if “those things” really matter.  

He matters, my heart bound up tightly to His matters.

That’s where I have to be right now.  There.  So close to Him that I don’t know where the separation is.

Him.  Me.  Bound.

As Always,





This is another look into who I am and where I am at as part of the Story 101 summer session.

“The Harmony of Silence” ~ Wassily Kandinsky~

White Pages.

Silent, still air.

The hum of my breath.  In and out.

A quickening in my gut comes when I realize that I am alone.  My first inclination is to pick up my phone and see what is going on out there in the internets.  After I have completed my social media tour I wait five minutes and go back again because we all know so MUCH can change in five minutes.

Being alone scares me.  The silence scares me.  More often than not I have a movie or a show on my laptop in the background, am on my phone and have my journal next to me.  

The silence scares me.  The breathing scares me.  What am I reaching towards and what am I releasing?  Fear, pain, anxiety.  What I am leaving behind, what I am searching for.

This last year left me wrecked.  When I was in Africa last June I saw a God I never knew existed.  A God that existed in ALL nations, in ALL tongues and a God that I could worship even when I did not understand the language I was worshipping in.  The God I knew before I got there was blown out of the box that I had Him in.  Funny thing is, I did not realize I had Him in a box.

 I thought my life was going great.  I was a counselor in a detox, “I had a plan for my life” I paid my perfect, outside lip service to God and called it good.  On the surface it was good.  Internally it was a wrecking ball waiting to destroy every fiber of my being.  Destroy it did.  I came back from Africa and I lost my job, my health started to decline rapidly, my relationship with Abigail took 10 steps backwards and in the midst of all of that I made the choice to walk away from my unhealthy family.  It was one thing after another, yet God was there in it all.  Providing financially in ways that I still struggle to believe were real.  Yet the waves of pain, loss and health failures kept crashing against my weary soul to the point where I could not see where He was.

Well meaning friends (at least I saw them then as well meaning) who saw the lip service paying Bethany would tell me that “God was going to use this for something HUGE” “That He was so faithful, that He was going to continue providing in such huge ways” 

I was able to agree, to nod my head, to say those cynical, whitewashed tomb expressions back.  To make them believe that I did indeed believe that those things were true.

On the inside however my soul was SCREAMING.  It was shattered.  “How do you KNOW those things are true?” “Have you had a direct conversation with God about MY LIFE” These were the women who would tell me that they didn’t think that I heard from God about certain choices that I was making.  Ummmm really.  I can’t even go there right now.

I had lost all perspective.  I ached.  I hurt.  My soul was dry, bare and empty.  I wanted to believe that was everyone was saying was true.  I told them I believed them but I didn’t.  I read my one year bible and tried to grasp onto what it was saying but it didn’t go anywhere.

In the midst of my spiritual upheaval I found out that I was indeed going to have brain surgery in order to fix/heal the Chiari.  I was both devastated and elated at the same time.  After M.O.N.T.H.S.  of no one listening to how much pain I was in, even though they knew my diagnoses and knew the only option was surgery.  After having my first surgery cancelled because the surgery was an inept, narcissistic, judgment making asshole.  After having to let go of home school because I was bedridden and on opiates a good majority of the time it seemed as though the light was breaking through the darkness and hope was rising.

Hope did indeed rise.  Out of the ashes.  Out of realizing that my first intended surgery was cancelled for a reason and I was moved to a different hospital and surgeon so that God could show me that His love comes in different forms.

He showed me His love through the CNA named Cynthia who, as a single mom that immigrated from West Africa who worked nights so she could take care of her kids during the day and go to nursing school.  On the third day after surgery when I could finally get out of bed and wanted to shower, she helped me into the bathroom, got my clothes off and got me on the shower chair.  There I was, butt naked, stoned out on so many different pain killers and muscle relaxers and all of a sudden I realized I was not going to be able to shower myself.  I looked at her and said “Cynthia, I can’t do it” 

So she showered me.  Washed my hair, my feet, my body, my arm pits.  She looked at me and laughed and with her sweet African accent said “You gonna have to do that part” pointing to my vagina.

That was the beginning of the road home.  To the breathing, to the reaching, to the releasing.  To this God I never knew existed.  To seeing a God that shows His love in so many different ways.  

That was the beginning of opening my heart fully to this idea of healing.  Not being fixed, or looking to a bible study or a book or a mentor to take it away.  But healing.  Allowing myself to go to that place that hurts so bad sometimes it takes away my breath.

Therein lies the breathing in ~ reaching.  The breathing out ~ releasing.

Sitting in my therapist’s office yesterday this very topic of solitude came up.  Of why I am so afraid of being alone, being quiet, being still.  Our plan was to finish an EMDR session we had started but as we spoke about fear of that it seemed to tie in with the solitude.

The idea of practicing solitude.  Starting out with two minutes.  Turning my phone completely OFF 🙂 breathing in and reaching towards more of this God, this Jesus and this Holy Spirit that I want more of.  That my heart is craving, aching for.  When I breath out I can release that fear of what being alone means……..

Memories.  Waves of pain crashing against a pained, weary soul.  Shame.  Scars.  Literal and metaphorical.  Aches of what new boundaries mean.  That those boundaries mean loss of things I never had.  Breath stealing hurt.  Deeply sown trauma that I fear if people were to actually know about they would thrown stones at me like the Pharisees did to the adulteress.

The longer I sit.  Breathing in, breathing out.  I remember the woman who grabbed the hem of His robe.  How He turned.  He asked who touched Him even though He already knew it was her.  He made sure that she knew He noticed her, that the crowed noticed her.  

He saw her.

He sees me.

He sees YOU.

Things change.  They fall apart.  My brain gets opened up.  In more than one way I suppose.  A box gets blown open.  A heart gets shattered.  Platitudes are spoken.  From others and my myself.  He always knew.  Knew that I would be on my knees, on the kitchen floor in a sobbing heap, screaming “FUCK, I don’t understand anymore”

He did not leave.

He knew I would get here.

With new eyes.

With words.


Words of pain, hope, beauty.  

Fresh words.  

Ready to heal.  To declare that I see Him as I never saw Him.  That I see Him now with my own eyes and not the eyes of who others were trying to tell me He was.

Now I know Him for Him.

And I love Him.

Breath in ~ reach

Breath out ~ release

As Always,



The Question Post

This is part of my series in which I’ll be writing from prompts given for the Story 101 Session I’m in. These posts and prompts will hopefully draw out more of who God created me to be as a writer. My hope also is that they will help me process through where I’m at in my journey.

20 Questions

1. My favorite childhood toy was…… Hmm that’s a hard one. I don’t have a lot of childhood memories so to pin one down is tough.
2. My favorite childhood game was hide and seek. We would play for hours and hours outside in the summer. Those were some good times and shenanigan times too 🙂
3. A movie a remember liking is a toss up between E.T. And Flight of the Navigator. I would watch them both over and over again.
4. Something I like but I don’t do very often is take bubble baths. Between the Barbie dolls and the toy horses in the tub. Added to the inability to get comfortable. It just takes too much work.
5. If I could lighten up a little I’d probably do more fun spontaneous stuff with Abigail. I have a really hard time with stuff like that. I struggle with being to rigid in our time together and not letting to.
6. If it wasn’t too late and I wasn’t 32 I would totally be a pro surfer. TOTALLY!!
7. Favorite musical instrument is the cello. I love it’s deep, rhythmic sound.
8. Entertainment. I don’t spend a lot on that. However I have a ridiculous Americano habit. I’m embarrassed to even admit how much I spend at Starbucks per month.
9. If money was not a hold up I would buy my artist a Mac book pro and some beautiful journals from Anthropologie.
10. Actual time to myself. Where I have rest and peace. Hardly ever. It’s usually mom stuff. Errands, me going to therapy or other appointments. I have major guilt in having Bethany time and when I do I can’t relax. I don’t know what to do with myself. I had last weekend alone, Fri-Sun and I was violently ill with the norovirus. Soooooooo yeah.
11. I’m afraid to dream because if I do I might get so lost it in that I go through with it. It’ll either fall apart or the people around me will shout insults at me.
12. My secret book loves are Beverly Cleary and Junie B Jones. I love that I get to read them to Abigail because then I don’t feel geeky for loving them.
13. If I would have had my childhood to another way, well I don’t know where I’d be. Not here. It’s because of that, that I am who I am. However maybe I would have been an actress. I do have a flair for the dramatics.
14. If it didn’t sound so crazy I’d write…….. A BOOK!!!!!
15. My parents probably think artists are crazy or hippies or both.
16. I believe God thinks artists are beautiful, Holy, born to breathe life into the broken spaces. Speaking hope, painting life, singing the beauty and acting out those aching moments that we cannot. I believe every artist has been given their gifts by God whether secular or sacred.
17. What makes me feel weird about this class is that my writing will be judged, nitpicked and pulled apart. That I’ll be shut down and told to stop.
18. Trusting myself is the scariest thing ever. It seems impassible when I’ve always been told how stupid, wrong and how poor my choices are. However in my healing and finding my voice I’m learning that trusting myself is okay. That because my ultimate trust is in God, Jesus and The Holy Spirit that I can trust myself because I’m not alone.
19. My cheer up music is Mumford and Sons. EVERY TIME!
20. My style of dress is Boho, non-matching, eclectic, comfortable. I love cardigans, scarves, TOMS and skirts.

I hope this gives you more of a peek into who I am.

As Always,


Scandalous Hope

The heaviness
The weight of it
Stripped naked
To the core
From a scandalous place
A God-man
Stripped naked
Just like me
Nailed to the Cross
My loss
Became His loss
Tears shed
Blood Shed
His sacrifice
Hope rises up
Beauty out of shame

As Always,


The ways of God

Trigger Warning: Abuse, trauma references and probably some other stuff that might piss people off.

I have decided that for right now, in the space I am in that my writing needs to be raw, vulnerable and unedited.  I can’t go back and allow second guessing of what I am putting out there.  There are so many thoughts and words that are bouncing around, begging for the freedom of being put on a page.

So here I am, again.  All of me.

I tend not to talk a lot about Abigail.  I do in the general terms of our relationship, of us being a family and my being a single mom.  What I shy away from her is personal trauma and my role in that.  I want to respect her privacy as well as my own.  It is an ugly topic to bring to light because there are still places in my heart that are not healed.

We have struggled.  I left her “father” (I use that term in the lightest way because he has done nothing for her) when I was four months pregnant.  We haven’t heard from him in 2 1/2 years and it’s better that way.  I made the choice to protect my daughter from his abuse and we are better off.  After that though I was on my own.  I moved from Florida where we had been living back to Colorado when Abigail was three months old.  Back to my “home” in with my parents who were incredibly abusive growing up.  Moving into to a controlling environment, with a baby, not knowing how to parent because I had NEVER been parented was a shit storm waiting to happen.

Once Abigail and I were on our own is when things started to really get bad.  I was alone.  I was scared.  My trauma that for so many years I had kept buried under the surface with drugs, sex, cutting, detaching and dissociating was rearing it’s ugly head like an angry lion that needed to be fed.  Now believe me.  I kept it covered with my “perfect little church girl ways” Paid my lip service.  Raised my hands in worship, served others, went to bible studies, MOPS, prayed like a mofo.  But when I was alone with Abigail at home that’s when it fell apart.

I had needs.  She had needs and I didn’t know how to meet either.  I needed my environment clean and controlled and with a two year old that just isn’t realisitic.  I had this brewing anger and anxiety in my chest and gut at all times and I would burst at the drop of a hat.  It was bad.  I made some really poor choices as a mom and I hated myself for it everyday.  I didn’t understand why I was in the “sin” I was in.  I would beg God to take it from me.  I figured if I had enough faith, prayed enough, fasted, moved or went to more bible studies He would do something….. ANYTHING.  But He didn’t.

I sank deeper into this storm of not knowing what to do with this beautiful little girl that God had indeed CHOSEN to give me.

I will never doubt that God, in His infinite goodness, knew that I needed to be her mom.  Even though at the time I was a drug addict living in a motel.  Yet I would question Him, hands up in the air in anger at why He would have given her to me if He had know I was going to be such a shitty mom.  I didn’t want to be that way.  I didn’t want to yell and scream and tell a two year old that everything was her fault, or that I hated her.  The shame that I carried for those things was unbearable for so long.

In the midst of this she was sexually abused at a daycare that I had put her in while I was working.  The way the investigation went and the outcome of it still angers me to this day.  The one good thing that came of it was the Victim Compensation board paid for two years of therapy for her.  Which does acknowledge that even though no charges were even filed, they agree that a crime occurred.

In the midst of that, and trying to “manage” and STOP my “sinful” behavior I had so many different people telling me what I needed to do.  I needed to spank her, take parenting classes.  Read “The Strong Willed Child” No thank you and BARF.  People were looking in from the outside, seeing my girl as her uniquely created, spirited self who did struggle with being discipline.  Only because at home everything was so chaotic.  I understand that they were, in their own way trying to help but the by the book, spare the rod spoil the child, authoritarian Christian way does not work for every child.  In doing that they were labeling both of us.  I was defiant because I balk against traditional discipline and she’s been labeled strong willed so many times.

I think I have gotten away from my original intent.   That always happen.  Yet I said I was just going to write what I needed to and not overthink it.

I tried so hard to be a perfect mom, to STOP being a bad mom.  To lay everything down at the cross.  It wasn’t enough though.  I didn’t understand the real cause of why I wasn’t able to parent Abigail the way she deserved.  I was falling apart, our relationship consisted of constant yelling and pain and I even had thoughts about giving up her up.  At five years old yes I did.  I was tired.  Overwhelmed.  Alone and hurting from my own trauma.  Now I have a traumatized child that needs me and I just couldn’t do it anymore.

Now two years later we are moving forward.  We have made huge strides and God had done some serious repair and redemption in her heart, mine and our relationship.  We have an amazing therapist.  I see her for myself and we see her together for family therapy.  I learned the reasons why I was reactive.  Not anger, NOT sin.  Not something that would just stop if I read a book, took a parenting class or spanked my daughter.  I never thought that we would be here.  It was not without a ton of hard work.  We had plenty of two steps forward, three steps back.  My trip to Africa last summer sent us back about 10 steps but we have overcome in huge ways.

It’s funny in a, God has a unique approach to healing kind of way, because Abigail and I have a parallel healing process.  Like we are both in the same place at the same time.  Our spirits are so connected because we are together all the time. We just walk through it together and as I parent and help her heal I am doing the same thing for my heart.  My wounded parts that need healing and re parenting are also very similar to Abigail so I really am learning how to be a mom.  The mom that God always knew I could be when He chose me to be even as a junkie,

It’s still hard though.  I wrote about what keeps me up at night for the Story 101 summer session.  It’s the managing.  The making sure that she’s getting what she needs, that I am getting what I need and that God isn’t getting lost in the shuffle.  That I am not neglecting my anchored relationship with Him.  It does go by the wayside because right now I feel like I am constantly going 110 miles an hour.  Between work and mothering there’s nothing left.  Without a partner to share the load there really is nothing left for me.  Abigail needs a lot of me because she didn’t get a lot of the me she needed in the beginning.  It’s like we are going back to her being a baby (which we actually do sometimes) and are starting over.  After all is said and done, I’m drained.  But her heart is healing and so is mine.  We still stumble and fall but that’s where I have learned just how big the Grace of God really is and how far reaching His love really goes.

The last seven years has been ugly and beautiful at the same time.  If you can learn to grasp the ugly and the beautiful and the same time and still call it good, because you know He is good it takes some of the sting away.

As Always,


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