Marcy Pusey's Blog, page 5

FMF- The Fear I Want

When I think of fear, of course my first thought is of all the fears that threaten me. Death of a child. That I’m truly unloveable. That people will hate me for my values and opinions.

Then I think of how I shouldn’t have fear, because perfect Love casts fear out. I know these things.

Each day, the news seems to bring us more and more reasons to fear for our lives. Fear for our children, our communities, our world. If we all want lives of peace and security, how is it the media finds so much to cover? Perhaps our fear drives us to harm, bully, threaten, diminish, even eradicate others in order to fill our small sense of security, however twisted it is.

When our fear is without the hope of Peace, we lash out in a self-protective, fight-over-flight, ironically self-destructive, way of life. A life that promotes the things we fear most…

That’s not the fear I want reigning in my life.

A number of years ago I had the life-changing opportunity of studying in Jerusalem. I remember the day I first visited the Western Wall… a remaining wall that surrounds the Temple Mount. The sacred atmosphere of the place was silencing. Mind you, as a follower of Christ, I know that God doesn’t live in an earthly location any longer. When the Messiah came, He gave us the Holy Spirit to reside in us. I didn’t approach that wall in the same way that many of my Jewish brothers and sisters do. Yet, I learned something from them.

That day I met, for the first time, my God as the Ancient of Days.

God has been my Present. Relevant. Current. Part of my everyday world. Yes, He is the God of forever also… but I experience Him in the now.

Not that day. That day when I approached the walls that scream silenced of all they’ve witnessed… I met a very old God. An ancient God. Not a God with dementia or Alzheimers or blindness or a cane or the other things we think of when we think of “old.”

I met a God who’d been around a long, long time. Like, forever.

And I felt small. Humbled. Amazed. Awe-struck. Yes, He’s my Present. He’s my Now. He’s the I AM.

And He’s the Alpha. The Before-Time Existed. The One who breathed life into the very first man. The One who separated light from darkness. Who passed before Moses on the mountain in all His glory.

I met Him.

And I’d always known Him.

This is the fear I want in my life.

The fear that I find before the throne of an almighty, terribly holy, just and merciful Ancient of Days.

The fear that reminds me that I am created.

The fear that calls for deepest respect. Admiration. Awe. And a healthy sense of my place.

Not the fear that threatens… but the fear that speaks security.

The fear inspired by One who is able to keep His promises.

And whose promises are GOOD.

The Hole in our World

The world is a heavy place.

More and more, we are swept away by confusion, pride, self-righteousness, anger.

Our emotions have us chained as their slaves, yet we think we’re the master.

We seek to fill voids and holes and unhappiness with whatever promises to fill it the fastest… only to be left more dissatisfied than when we started. We plunge deeper, dig further, compromise more… until we don’t recognize our own faces in the mirror.

The suicide rate increases. Depression and anxiety medications help us get through the day. The hour. Sometimes the minute.

Really? Is this all there is?

Then I have them over for dinner. Or we go out for coffee. Or I eavesdrop on their conversations from the bench. Or read about them.

The Korean couple who serve as doctor and nurse in Jordan.

The missionary kid who became a mother and her heart expanded beyond her home and into a South African community- again. Or maybe it never left.

The ceremonies that bring in families from over 52 countries where they serve as orphanage directors, well-diggers, church planters, hospital help, language teachers, school maintenance staff, counselors… friend to the lost and lonely and hurting.

There is still light in the world.

And it shines bright. It refuses to be put out.

Because there are some, imperfect and insecure and fragile as we are, who know our weakness leads to something bigger and more beautiful than we can imagine.

Who know that the impossible is possible with One.

Who, having tasted WHOLEness, want to extend wholeness, in all its joy and freedom and rest.

Whether it’s through a meal to a hungry child. Or to a small group of hormone-crazed teens about to take over the world. Or through clean drinking water. Or a community center. Or a smile to your German neighbor.

We who know that no amount of physical transformation, sexual “freedom,” the “right” spouse or the clean house or the perfect kids or success or… none of it will make us whole.

That void in our souls and in our world is meant to remind us that we are all foreigners here.

To draw us into our homesickness.

We are meant to feel uneasy in our skin. But we have become a people so reviled by discontentment that we’ve forgotten its purpose. Forgotten the treasure waiting for us. We keep settling for false quick-fixes that leave us less.

When He’s handing us every bit of what our soul needs.

I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)

This has been another Five Minute Friday :)

This is meant to be a free write, which means: no editing, no over-thinking, no worrying about perfect grammar or punctuation.

Just write.

Stories of Trauma and Triumph

It’s a boy! I mean, it’s a girl!

I mean… it’s a BOOK!!! A NEW one!

And I’m so excited to share it with you.

I have written one of the twenty essays included in this book, Becoming Women of Worth: Stories of Trauma and Triumph.

And I have to tell you that this essay is a special one to me. It’s an excerpt from a book I’m revising called, “And Then There’s Hope,” about the tragic loss of my mother-in-law.

Which occurred in my home.

While I was sleeping.

By one of our own.

To know more, you’ll have to get the book

This essay (and book) are special to me because they’ve been key in helping me process, understand (what I can), and heal from such a devastating situation. At the same time, the Lord used it to give me eyes to see His handprints all over our story and to show me the power of HOPE. The hope that carries us through the darkest of valleys and toughest of roads. Without this hope… well, I’d be lost and the story would be different.

What I’ve written is my story. Not my mother-in-law’s. Nor her husband’s. Nor her son’s or daughter’s. Mine. They have their own stories to tell.

As if that weren’t ENOUGH…

Dorina Gilmore, one of my dearest and closest friends on the planet (as well as gifted-writer-friend, chef-extraordinaire, cross-fit junkie (and the reason I’ve ever run a day in my life), heart-for-the-orphan, fellow co-laborer for Christ… well, the list goes on and on) has also contributed an essay to this book. It’s one of my favorite pieces of her writing EVER and now it’s memorialized in the pages of this newest gem.

That would be enough to make my heart swell and swoon over this compilation of stories full of God’s glory. But then my sweet, new friend, Glenda Alvord, also contributed an essay on how God has carried her from deep trauma to triumph. And it’s beautiful. And so is she. And I’m so, so glad to share the pages of this book with her. The first of many, I’m sure.

Finally, the last story is… well, enough to slam the stake of God’s goodness right into my very soul. A reader of our previous book, Becoming Women of Worth: Stories of Hope and Faith, wrote in a testimony of her experience reading my essay in that book. And it’s powerful.

In ways I can only hope you can understand.

Start here… buy the book. Then read my post. Read her testimony. It’s the last story of the book. But you must. read. this. post. first. Once you’ve read my word-theme for 2015… read her story. I hope it gives you goosebumps like it gave me!

You can get the book on Amazon… kindle or print. And really, I don’t make a penny on what sells over there. I only make a few dollars on books I sell personally (so if you’re in Europe, wait to get yours from me! :D) But that’s honestly not why I’ve contributed to this book.

I write these essays with the hope that my journey with self and God will encourage others. Like my post says… I want to extend any comfort that I’ve been offered. So read! Enjoy! Share the book! My hope and prayer is that more lives will change and more women will see realized in their lives the hope that can carry them through trauma.

It did me.

The post Stories of Trauma and Triumph appeared first on marcypusey.com.

That Time He Took Me On A Ride

I recently had the gift of a trip to Disneyland with family and friends.

I think the popcorn-smelling-gases they pump into the air negatively affected the decision-making part of our brains because we all thought it would be a good idea to start with Space Mountain. With our little kids. Or maybe the sentimentality of our own childhoods overpowered our ability to think clearly as a parent.

Regardless, off we went.

I ended up in the front row with my five-year-old daughter. Now, my sweet girl is fearless, so perhaps in my muddled thinking that’s why I thought we could “sacrificially” take the front row.

We climbed in and I explained to her what to expect. We’d go up. There’d be loud music. And then we’d be flying through space. But don’t be afraid; I’m here and it’s fun.

Well, we went up.

The music was loud.

And it was terrifying.

Way more terrifying than I remembered. Darker. Faster. More jolting. I don’t remember if she was crying or screaming or in a panicked silence… I only remember the fight-or-flight awakening of my brain and the acute awareness that I’d just brought my baby onto this ride of terror.

I pulled her in as close to my side as possible. We went up, down, sideways. We couldn’t see a thing except for stars that looked on a collision-path with us.

“Just hold on, sweetie, hold on,” I whispered, as I made her body one with mine. So that with every turn, every jolt, every drop, her body moved with mine… and not its own whip-lashed free-flying that I imagined hers would’ve done without me.

I spent the entire ride praying for safety and security and peace into her ear and heart.

“Hold on baby girl, I’m here with you.”

A billion-feeling light years later, the ride ended.

She looked up at me and said, “Can we never ride that ride again?” Oh, my brave girl.

I apologized over and over for taking her on the ride without going on it first myself. I told her that I didn’t remember it being so fast and dark. I later learned that’s because it wasn’t. The ride had only re-opened a few weeks earlier: faster and darker.

My daughter blew me away with her self-awareness.

“Mommy, even if you went first and told me it was too scary, I would still want to go on it. I would have to see for myself if it really was too scary.” 

And if my life is like Disneyland (ha!) then God has just taken me on Space Mountain.

He took me on a ride I wasn’t ready for. Wasn’t expecting.

As the ride climbed up, my heart panicked. “Letmeoff, letmeoff, letmeoff!” It was too late.

I imagine He whispered into my ear some of what to expect… but the rest just had to be experienced. And as the ride burst out into a fast-paced careening through an unpredictable outer space, He pulled me in.

Whispered peace and comfort and security into my ear and heart.

Held me so close that my body moved with His through the turbulence. Through the climbs, the drops, the sudden twists to the side, our movements were one.

“Just hold on, baby girl, hold on.”

Oh, I’m holding on. There’s no feeling in my hands, they are so numb with the holding on. With the leaning into His side so I don’t have to feel the tug to fly out of the coaster.

And when I feel brave… I peek. And what I see in those flashes of brave peeking, well, I think it’s beautiful. It’s the universe. And He knows the name of every star. Placed it right where it is. And I can feel the wind massaging my cheeks, my hair, and it almost feels good. Then we drop again, climb again, twist again. And a billion-feeling light years later, it’s over.

Daddy, can we please never ride that one again?

Well, the ride part is over. Will be over.

And I’m changed.

I’m hyper-aware of my mortality. My husband’s mortality. The mortality of my children.

And I’m not as brave as my daughter. I didn’t need to experience this ride to know it was too painful. I believed the others who’ve ridden it and that was enough. Or so I thought.

I’m grieving that life is so short, so hard. Grieving that I don’t know when this ride ends and that I can’t see the track. Grieving that I don’t know when my last day is… or their last day or your last day. And that I just have to love so incredibly deeply, cherish immensely, hold tightly while it’s here to be loved, cherished, and held.

And I’m terrified.

“Hold on sweetie, I’ve got you.”

And He does.

And it’s going to be okay.

I CRIED OUT, “I AM SLIPPING!” BUT YOUR UNFAILING LOVE, O LORD, SUPPORTED ME. WHEN DOUBTS FILLED MY MIND, YOUR COMFORT GAVE ME RENEWED HOPE AND CHEER.

PSALM 94:18-19

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Are We Really Ever Ready?

There are many things in life I’ve thought I was ready for. As a kid, I thought I was ready to read. Or write. Or make friends. Swim. Ride a bike. Along the way, most kids realize that these things we watch other kids do so easily… come at a cost. Frustration at the struggle. Scraped knees. A nose full of water. Eventually we were ready, but not when we thought. Not in the way we thought.

Then I grew up and I was sure I was ready to get married. So I did.

And realized maybe I wasn’t. Not in the ways I truly needed to be, like selflessness. Like humility. Like all levels of maturity. I was in… and now I had to grow up within it. And years after I needed to be… I might finally be ready. On good days.

Then the pill made its way out of my bloodstream, my brain, and I thought I was ready to be a mother. Ready to tackle this task that so many others before me seemed to do with such grace. And we welcomed him into our home. Our lives. Our hearts. And he kept us up all night. All day. Screamed that maybe I wasn’t ready. But here we were, all in.

And seven years later… well, I’m still not ready. At least one of my four children daily reminds me that maybe I wasn’t cut out for this. At least not in the picture-book fantasy world of mothers. Or the mothers on the covers of magazines who are toned and smiling with their doting children on the knees. I was ready for that. Not this.

The thing about being ready is that it’s entirely reliant on our feeling about the whole thing. About our sense that we have it within us to complete whatever task is set before us.

That somehow we are capable of being what we need to be. That we can muster up within us some grand effort.

I won’t pretend to say that I was ready to see him go. To see him cross the finish line before us. To join a welcome-home party I wouldn’t be able to attend yet. There were moments… when his pain was excruciating and his wife and girls looked on, prayed on… that I was ready for his suffering to end. For his body to be healed in its full glorious restoration that only Heaven promises.

I was ready for his suffering to transform into eternal joy and peace and fellowship with his adoring Savior.

But I’m not ready for all the rest. For the hole that leaves us. For the daughters without their daddy. For his wife without her lover. For his mother without her son. For his family without his physical presence. Audible laughter. The runners without their coach. I’m not ready.

But here we are, in the thick of it. And tomorrow we celebrate him… hold our own welcome-home party on this side. We’ll laugh at his antics and tears will spill and songs of hope and peace we will sing. And none of us will feel ready but we will keep holding each other up as we walk forward.

Because really, the only way to actually be ready, is Christ.

Summed up in that one word. THE Word.

It’s not by our ability to muster up the gumption. It’s not an act of our self-determined will that we can be ready for the things that really call on us. It’s only through Christ that we have any strength (Philippians 4:13). It’s only by the riches of His glory in Christ that our every need is met (Philippians 4:19). It is only God’s peace that transcends understanding (Philippians 4:7). It is only by trusting Him, not my ability to feel ready, not my understanding of why bad things happen to good people… only submitting to the reality that we are not big enough, strong enough, sufficient enough to live this hard life… that we will have a straight path to walk (Proverbs 3:5-6).

I’m not ready. And I don’t have to be. My Sustainer is always ready.

Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you (Isaiah 46.4).

He. Is. Ready.

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The Gift of Laundry

It used to be one or two loads a week. No big deal. I was the only one who relied on it. Affected by it.

Then I got married.

And my laundry-load doubled.

I felt it. I felt the difference between one person’s clothes and two.

I remember standing in the kitchen—a newlywed whose single life had been adventurous, gallivanting across the globe… now feeling domesticated and chained to dishes, laundry, dusting, sweeping, vacuuming. Tears mingled with dish soap. Grumbling mixed with prayer.

Then we had kids. Four of ’em. In a year and a half.

Plus the five we fostered in that same time.

My load was now for six.

IT.

NEVER.

ENDS.

Then we invited another sweet boy to live with us.

So now we’re seven.

Seven mouths to feed. Seven sets of dishes to wash. Seven sets of laundry—clothes, bedding, bathroom towels…

Seven.

It may be the perfect number.

But it sure means a lot of laundry.

But as I stood as a newlywed in that kitchen, tears streaming, heart pouring… God showed me something.

This was worship.

This was setting aside my agenda, serving with my time and energy, the ones God had given me as sweet and precious gifts. Those dishes were a gift. And I could begrudge it or embrace it.

I chose the embrace.

I choose the embrace.

The embrace of what a mountain-high pile of laundry means… it means the love and presence of six priceless people living within the safety and holy fragrance of my home.

It means the smiles that warm my heart, the birthday decorations that adorn my walls, the hand-drawn pictures of me on the fridge, the hugs that squeeze out joy, all clothed in that pile.

It’s an offering.

The very least I can do to express how grateful I am, how blessed to have clothes to wash. How privileged I am to have the ones in my home for whom I wash. A way of thanking and praising God for His grace and mercy in my life.

Not a burden.

Laundry is a gift.

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The Mile Before the Race

I remember circling the track… before the race even began. We’d done our warm-up exercises and were taking a little jog. Or so I thought.

“Why are we running a mile before the race even starts?” I panted at my dear friend. A friend who got this non-runner running this thing. 

Stretching me into spaces of life I was sure I didn’t belong. Runners.

“Well, you know how that first mile is the hardest? We run that hard first mile and get it over with… then when the race starts, it’s out of the way and only gets better from the start!”

Huh.

Actually… that makes some sense.

It’s definitely true that the first mile of a run is the most painful, hard to endure, frustrating mile of the race. At least in my opinion. And though everything in me wanted to say, “don’t add an EXTRA mile to an already long race!” her words made sense. Why not get that yucky one out of the way and start the race ready to go?

I had also struggled with this concept in our trainings. Warm-up? WHY? Sometimes the stretching and warming up was as hard as the workout! Why not just skip the stretching? Or skip the workout? Shoot, a nice cold Pepsi in a hot tub sounded great.

But alas, week after week, we stretched, trained, and prepared for the race.

So here I was, running a mile before the race even began… doing all things in opposition to my brain’s complaints yet compelled by love for Haitians, orphans, and my Glmores.

Gratitude and Grown-Ups

We have a practice with our kids that when they are stuck in a complaining-only mode, we make them say a certain number of things they are thankful for.

 It works magically on my 2-year-old, 4-year-old, 11-year-old, and 12-year-old. Today I re-realized that it also works on a 30-year-old.

I’ve been sick with the worst cold of my entire memory for seven days and counting. Two days of intense headaches, then two days of repeated fevers, chills, and total non-functional living (I pretty much slept for 36 hours). I started to come out of the fog… but couldn’t breathe for an entire day (until I found the perfect blend of Neti pot, congestion spray, and ibuprofen), a day of face pain, and a day of snot: today. I’ll spare you the details. Other than last night my pinkie toenail fell off…. random! No injury, no infection, just came right off. *sigh*

You can see why I was caught in a mind-cycle of misery. Each day I’ve improved in health… and each day had a new challenge to face. Sometimes when I cough, I also pee. Really? I’d had it.

Something struck my on the drive to my son’s pre-school.

“Corban, you know how I have you say things you’re thankful for when you’re stuck complaining?”

“Mmm-hmmm” came the sweet reply.

“Well, Mommy is stuck complaining and I need to say things I’m thankful for.” He completely understood, of course.

My list began, “I’m so thankful for each of my children—the unique ways that God has made them—and that He would bless my life with them. I’m thankful that today looks like it’s going to be a sunny day.

I’m thankful that they’ve found a home for us in Germany—and that it’s better than I could have dared imagine. 

I’m thankful that I’m not as sick as other much less fortunate people who put me to shame with what they endure. I’m so thankful for my friend Dorina—what a gift to me (and one that I’m not ready to say good-bye to!)”

My list carried on and the tears came.

Picture this… a congested mommy, with a nasal-frog voice listing these gifts… tears falling, voice wavering… getting higher pitched and weepy. Oh, my poor children.

I explained that saying what I was thankful for reminded me of the many good things God has given me… and that makes my heart so happy that tears come out!

He giggled. I’m sure he was thinking, “My mom might be nuts…” but he hid it well.

The amazing thing was that 1) the tears cleared something in my sinuses and I could breathe a little better and 2) I felt better. Not healthier. Lighter. Lifted.

An end to the dreariness was in sight because I’d chosen to shift my focus. Ahhhhh, the sweetness of looking at things greater than myself. I may be sick for another 7 days (that’s how long I’m hearing this cold lasts) but so what?! I have SO much to be thankful for and I will not let a stinkin’ cold rob me of all things beautiful!

Yes, gratitude even works on the grown-ups.

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