LASTing Peace, Week 9

Now, is Bleeding into Eternity

As I sit here, my littlest sister is laboring to bring Henry Jordan Martin into the big wide world. I was just there, just visiting Texas, hoping against realism that Henry would come while I was there, but alas, he was simply waiting for me to leave.

This brings me full circle, to ponder the chapter I read in C.S. Lewis' book, The Great Divorce, last night. At the same time, it highlights a recent Facebook post by a man I have admired for most of my life.

Just a brief background:
Harold Ray Wells, is the father of two of my best friends growing up. What time wasn't spent in our home around the school desk was often enjoyed in their living room eating breadsticks and homemade cheese sauce, in the backyard harvesting honeysuckle and stalking slugs, at church with them or on vacation with them at Grand Lake.

Mr. Wells was my parents' Sunday school teacher. He exuded a poise that comes only from being inhabited by the Holy Spirit. He was quiet, intentional, relaxed, happy and peaceful. He was almost an enigma to me as a child, How does he do that?

My heart was crushed when I learned a few years back that he had been falsely accused of a crime. As a police officer nearing retirement and with a stellar reputation, the charges seemed rubber, ridiculous and contrived as they were, we prayed that the lies would bounce off of him and shatter on the floor at the feet of his accusers. God hasn't seen fit to let that happen. So Mr. Wells is now in prison, awaiting response to his appeal.

Frequently, those of us who pray for him are privy to pieces of his journals and letters that he sends out to encourage us - imagine - him encouraging us. Reminds you of Paul, right?

"Waiting for the love of my life to visit and listening to 'interludes'. I was thinking that just as I am unworthy of prison, to a much greater reality I'm unfit for paradise. How can I ever complain when both are gifts and both must be received with thanksgiving? Knowing both are divine appointments, designed that God might be glorified. One is temporary and one is eternal. When does 'eternal' take place? Before today, before yesterday? If eternal life with God (as Charles Stanley points out) happens the moment we trust God - then could it be that our resurrected life begins at that time and what does that mean? This life, with all it involves, has no power, ownership, or control over us. We are buried with Him in baptism, raised/resurrected with Him to walk in newness of life - a glorified life in a fallen world. The evidence of Christ in you - NOW. How do I do this? Through the crucible of life. I feel as if I am in the 4th quarter of the life testing. What am I made of? Who am I? Who is God? I am experiencing the overwhelming, surrounding knowledge of God's blessings."

I added the bolding, because that's the question I want to address.

When does 'eternal' take place?

Consider Lewis' reference to those on a trial run to Heaven as "ghosts". And when he treads upon the terra firma of that land, he finds it's foliage more solid than himself.

The grass, hard as diamonds to my unsubstantial feel, made me feel as if I were walking on wrinkled rock, and I suffered pains like those of the mermaid in Hans Andersen. A bird ran across in front of me and I envied it. It belonged to that country and was as real a the grass.

Most of the time, most people press through this atmosphere, feel the rush of it against their skin and believe that they are real, that where they are and what they do is real. And, even most Christians act as if we won't live forever. Our habits and decisions are refined to exploit today, and fend off the ultimate end of our personal worlds.

But what if eternal has already begun? What if we will only become more real over time, through long walks with God, through intimate conversations with Jesus and solemn attentiveness to the Holy Spirit? What if we don't need to squeeze every drop of pleasure out of this moment, because we anticipate endless moments, ever better,  stretched through the expanse of eternity?

What if?

First published at Predatory Lies, June 2013

Sowing Tears and Reaping Joy, Chapter 2

Ed and I were on-again-off-again through college1.  Then, after I married an Army officer at age 22, he stalked me like a jealous boyfriend.

He showed up in our bedroom when dying sunlight seeped through the blinds and illuminated our naked bodies. “Remember what you ate for dinner? You look like you have a food baby.” Ed was vicious.

He showed up in the bedroom every single weekend morning. “Get out of bed, lazy fool. You’re better off going for a run than cuddling with your husband.”

He showed up in the kitchen, leaning over my shoulder. “Why don’t you serve him a double portion, then you can just eat a tiny bit. Or better yet, just make yourself a salad.”

He showed up in the living room when we wanted to watch a movie. “How can you sit there and let calories slowly turn to fat? At least do some sit-ups while you watch TV.”

Ed spent so many years badgering me, that I’d forgotten what it feels like to be hungry, what a genuine craving is, how to cut a pie at Thanksgiving, scoop ice cream for birthday cake or share a Papa John’s pizza with my husband. I turned to Ed with every choice, “Am I good or bad if I eat this?”

My husband, Patrick, hardly knows it, but he is my knight in shining armor. He is my God-sent hero, consistently coming between Ed and me, severing that fatal attraction. Patrick first took me out in college. Despite my selfishness, confusion and divided loyalty, he never criticized or left me. Much like Jesus, he quietly, patiently loved me, capturing my heart piece by piece until there was nothing left for Ed.

The Army moved us to Fort Lewis, Washington, in 2008. From there, Patrick deployed to Afghanistan for a year. Ed visited occasionally. I tried to resist him, enlisting the aid of a therapist and a dietician. I limped along, above the dangerous line on the doctors’ weight charts, but far below what my body needed to stay warm in Washington.

Alone one afternoon, I ventured down to Percival Port. The Olympia Farmers’ Market on the edge of the Puget Sound is renowned. I parked blocks away behind a used furniture store then followed the calls of vendors and the flocks of hippies toting their recyclable bags. Rounding the final corner, I stopped, awed by the spectrum of colors and the vibrations of life emanating from the market.

A red, three-sided barn crouched over rows of rough wooden tables. Like a huge umbrella it defied the gray, wet skies of western Washington. Craftsmen and farmers’ booths spilled into the bulging parking lot. On one end was a seller of herbs. Lavender, basil and dill mingled on the breeze. I ducked beneath a low hanging fuchsia plant.

The apple man at the far end of the market’s breadth became my favorite by season’s end. He stacked apples and mushrooms three crates high in a large square around himself and his gray haired father. Once in a while, his young son helped on a Saturday afternoon.

“You’ve never tried a Honeycrisp apple? That’s a crime! Oh, and did you see this mushroom? It sells for $35 per lb. You can’t buy them anywhere else in Washington!”

Between the apple man and the herbs were cinnamon roasted nuts, Emu lotion, tables toppling beneath the weight of bountiful harvests. Beets, broccoli, cucumbers, squash and vegetables I’d never heard of. A crabber set up his booth when he was in port.

I watched the crowds around me milling, smiling and tasting. Hippies in their tie-dyed scarves and dreadlocks held an air of life-hunger mingled with indifference toward social expectations.

I peered inquisitively at the sellers, faces round and rosy with contentment, satisfaction and pride. Food, bounty and harvest were the source of this joy. There was gratification in dirty fingernails and well-fed waists, smudged cheeks and tired backs. Happiness found in the fruits of hard labor; in sharing flavors and nourishment. Sharing life. And this was good.

My fingers tingled with excitement. I felt invited into the community that began with seeds and soil and culminated in a colorful feast. My cell phone vibrated against my thigh.

“Hello?”

“Hey Abby, it’s Megan.”

Megan and her husband were the only two people I knew in the whole state of Washington. I have no idea why she called, I plowed over her words in my enthusiasm.

“Can you come over for dinner?” I could feel the market’s energy seeping into my pores, suddenly I would burst if I failed to release it. “I’m at the market and I am going to buy oysters and red wine. Please, please come join me?”

Life is a two-step, an organic thing. It must be received and it must be re-gifted. Held too long in tight-fists, it will die.

Life cannot be controlled, manipulated or malnourished. Life cannot be lived alone, but Ed’s greatest ally is solitude. Life will not tolerate Ed.

Ed, anorexia, began to withdraw when my husband bravely entered my life. As friends encircled me, I felt the pulse and freshness of life. The more I pressed what little life I had into the hands of others, and hungrily accepted the relationship they offered, I reaped joy a hundred fold.

Things were changing, a harvest was coming. But what of the famine years? What of the starved intimacy of marriage, the languishing closeness of sisterhood, the wilted camaraderie of mother and daughter and the shallow, neglected friendships?

God was about to show me that He can restore even ruined relationships. Redemption was only beginning.

“Most laws condemn the soul and pronounce sentence. The result of the law of my God is perfect. It condemns but forgives. It restores - more than abundantly - what it takes away.” Jim Elliot

First published at Haven Journal, March 28, 2013

Breaking Up With Anorexia, Social Changes, Chapter One

Few women want to wait tables on Valentine’s Day. Warm fuzzy feelings aren’t usually kindled by pouring red wine into other lovers’ glasses. It’s no fun watching a young man spoon feed his girlfriend a bite of his favorite bourbon glazed chicken, as she scooches closer to him on one side of the booth. Most women swoon to split a sundae with their beau, or pop one of his chocolate gifts between his puckered lips.

Whatever you do, please don’t ask me out. Please do not invite me.

In college I had a steady companion. He literally went with me everywhere. This guy was clingy and demanding and controlling. I tried to dump him dozens of times. My parents hated him, my friends thought he was nuts.

“He is way too controlling!”

“You can do better than him.”

His full name was anorexia nervosa, but I didn’t really want anyone to know about him, so I called him Ed.

Every single morning Ed told me he loved me. That’s hard for a girl to resist. First thing every day we went to the gym together or on a run. I felt thin, strong, capable and self-disciplined. Often, by the time we finished working out, Ed convinced me that it was too late to meet my friends for breakfast at the student union. So, I’d shake the dregs from my coffee pot and head to class.

Everyone has their own idiosyncrasies. Ed’s most obvious quirk was that he hated to eat socially, and he didn’t think I should dine with others either. “I just don’t like people to see you stuffing your face,” he would tell me. “It’s for your own benefit, I promise. If you go out with people you’re likely to eat junk food or drink too much. When you get home, we can have a salad together.”

Beth was my best girlfriend and a marvelous cook, or so I’m told. Many afternoons we met at her house and went to the nearby lake for a three mile walk. She knew a little about Ed, and knew that it made me uncomfortable to talk about him. Usually, we talked about school and Bible study and her boyfriend, Scott. Once in a while, she broached the subject of Ed, wondering if he was still around.

“Hey, I was just curious how you’re doing with Ed. I’m kind of worried about your weight, you’re looking really thin and tired. What did you have for lunch? Do you want to come over and share dinner with me and watch Friends?”

Then, she would invite me to try her newest kitchen success. Masterful lasagna, tiny cute cookies, or homemade hummus. “That’s OK, really. I just put a piece of cinnamon Trident in my mouth.”

A few years later I had my first Christmas as the lonely wife of a deployed soldier. Numerous families from church invited me to celebrate with them.

“Come have dinner with us on Christmas Eve.”

“We always have coffeecake and cider on Christmas morning, please come be with us.”

Eternally more entertaining, I politely declined in order to paint my bedroom. While friends and family surrounded spreads of ham, stuffing and pumpkin pie, I spent the day painting my room chocolate brown with a buttercream accent wall. It was a good workout, I’m sure. I capped the day with a holiday-worthy dinner of microwaved eggplant.

In September 2004, Hurricane Ivan screamed up the east coast. My husband was still deployed. I worked at GNC with two girls who had been friends for years and whose husbands were also overseas. Chrissy and April tried for months to draw me into their fellowship.

“We will probably lose power tomorrow,” April warned. Having grown up in Florida she knew what to expect from a hurricane. “You don’t want to be alone, it will be boring and cold and maybe dangerous. Why don’t you hangout with us? We are going to buy craft stuff and spend the night at Chrissy’s house. I plan to make cookies before the power goes out, too.”

“No thanks.” I’m pretty sure April expected me to say that. I had been refusing their invitations to lunch, slumber parties and other events - any event that might require me to eat scary foods in their presence.

Eating in public was the most debilitating fear of my entire eating disorder. Even if I could manage to choke down a peanut butter sandwich by myself, I simply couldn’t bear the thought of someone watching me eat a cookie, a drumstick or a twisted, gooey,
butter-drenched cinnamon roll.

April, Chrissy and I worked in a small mall, and our store was directly across the isle from Cinnabon. Every day I drank copious amounts of Cinnabon’s decaf, carmel pecan flavored coffee, enough to kill a small animal. With each gulp, I imagined that the flavor was every bit as indulgent as a sticky bun. I was simply smart enough to enjoy my treats without the calories.

Eating meant losing control. Starvation became my signature. Everyone knew that I only ate carrots, peaches and non-fat yogurt. In my imagination, they admired my resolve; my unequaled ability to resist the temptation of fattening foods.

Occasionally someone would say, “I wish I could be anorexic for a day. How on earth do you turn down cheese enchiladas?” With that they would dish up seconds, and walk off to join the rest of the normal, social group.

I wondered, “How on earth can you laugh like that? Where does your joy come from?” More precisely, “Where has my life gone?”

For a time, I tried to have the best of both worlds: Blissful indulgence and unmatched resolve. I told Ed that I was busy on Saturdays and that he would have to find something else to do. I spent the summer of 2005 casually dating a new diet.

This arrangement gave me some leverage over Ed. He didn’t want to lose me, but he could also see that I needed some space. I was desperately lonely. So, for a time, he agreed to let me have a “free day” every Saturday; a day when I could eat in the company of others and share their food choices.

One specific weekend my sister was visiting from Kansas. I was so excited to be able to go out to lunch with her! Kelsey had a craving for French fries. At McDonalds, she ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Oh the expanse of that menu! For so many years I had diverted my eyes. Ed always accused me of flirting with disaster, a blimp-sized waist line, if I so much as perused the options.

“Can I have a large order of fries and a large vanilla shake?” It was strange to hear those words in my own voice.

I thought Kelsey was going to pass out. How long had it been since we had fellowshipped over food? While we ate, I explained my new plan to her.

“Ed and I are still going out,” I promised. “He cooks all my meals six days a week. But on Saturdays, I have a free day and I can eat anything I want.”

What I didn’t tell her was that my new beau was abusive, too. On free days, I often consumed dozens of cookies, two or three flavors of pie, half of a sheet cake. Every Saturday night, I went to bed miserably sick, with a trash can six inches away. Every Sunday morning, Ed woke me with breakfast of black coffee.

“Wake up. You have a six mile run ahead of you.”

I couldn’t figure this out why was joy so evasive? Watching my sister finish all but three French fries, I knew I had not experienced even a measure of freedom. I was more hungry for her emotional indifference toward food than I was for any sweet concoction.

There is no sweet success in starving. I marveled at others’ knowledge of satiety, satisfaction. That was the difference. My sister’s joy came from experiencing pleasure so deeply that it quenched her momentary longing. She looked for joy, grateful for abundance, which left her free to set her own limits. A victim of Ed’s arbitrary limits, I lost all true self-control. I could consume everything or nothing, but I had no concept of fulfillment.

I wasted 15 years on Ed. Because of that loser, I don’t have memories of parties with friends, summer barbecues or ice cream dates. However, I finally found the strength in Christ to breakup with him. It was a breakthrough but it lead me to my next crisis - intimacy.

 First Published at Haven Journal, March 19, 2013

What the Scale Told Me

What the Scale Told Me

As I battled my way through the Valley of the Shadow of Death that is anorexia, I got pretty used to believing that I don’t weigh enough. And somehow, even though I was stumbling through the steps of recovery so that statement would no longer be true, on some level, I clung to “skinny” as part of my identity.

The chains of an eating disorder have begun to finally fall away. And I am happy. Every single morning it feels brand new to behold my own body in the mirror. My little niece laughs when she rediscovers her belly button for the millionth time. That’s how I feel.

When I pull my favorite waffled blue t-shirt over my head, I wonder: This is me? Are those really my own strong legs? Are my own hands that gentle on my husband’s cheek? Can I really feel my puppy’s satin coat beneath my fingers? Are those really my own blue eyes?

Almost like a distanced observer, I have seen myself rediscover my own taste and style. I am not a fancy girl. There isn’t a single pair of heels in my closet. For me, dressed up is a lavender, fitted shirt that complements my eyes and dark blue jeans. Oh, and I swap the tennis shoes for a cute pair of flats. I have learned that I my natural hair color is soft brown, not strawberry blond. And I am happy. I am learning that I have enough within my own body to explore and relish all the goodness of my life.

Then, today the scale told me that I weigh enough. And it rattled me. Just a little bit. You see, for the last 19 years, the people who love me have told me that I am too thin. Their constant prodding to put on a few pounds became a part of my identity. Even though I have become healthier, some tiny part of me has rested in the thought that I am just slightly under weight.

Better too thin than too heavy right? The thought lay hidden just below my consciousness. That small deficit between my weight and the doctor’s chart gave me some padding and made me feel safe. Until today.

Today, the scale told me that I am enough.

I don’t weigh myself. I don’t own a scale. I never bought another one after one therapist had me enact a dramatic scale murder by throwing it out the window. But once or twice a year there is that obligatory doctor’s visit. The nurse takes my blood pressure, asks if I drink or smoke, taps my knees and elbows and then cavalierly tells me to step on the scale. Doesn’t she know what a dangerous piece of equipment that is? But she has already turned her back and is making notes.

I told myself that when this moment came, I would calmly ask her to weigh me backward like they did in the treatment center. But suddenly, the moment came and without a clear thought, I found myself standing on the little metal box. For a few seconds, I bravely bored a hole in the wall with my stare. The nurse took her time documenting my blood pressure, just a few seconds too long. And I looked. Oh.

The next time I saw that number, the number I weighed before I ever got sick, I expected my heart to fall through my chest and shatter on the floor at my feet. I expected to burst into hysteric tears, like those only my mother has seen. But my mind just registered, Oh.

The nurse placed my purse back in my hands, slightly irritated that I had suddenly retreated into the twilight zone and was unable to collect myself enough to pick up my things and follow her down the hall. Finally, she pushed open the heavy door to my doctor’s office and told me it would only be a few minutes.

What if that was a few minutes too long? What if in those few minutes, that three digit number registered in my healing mind and suddenly I couldn’t handle it? What if my recovery wasn’t strong enough to know my own weight? How did I let my eyes fall upon those numbers?

I waited for the agony to hit. The doctor finished her exam, checked her last box, nodded politely and left the room. Slightly dazed, I floated through the sun-dappled parking lot. I felt God wrap His arms around me in the unseasonable 60 degree February afternoon.

I weigh enough. I am enough. I am well enough to trust God’s design of my very own perfect body. I am strong enough to be a life-giver. I have grown enough to put the memories behind me. My healthy body and testimony of hope bear witness of the safety of recovery. And I am happy.

First published on SheLoves Magazine, March 23, 2013

Outside the Fence

Outside the Fence

Thank you for being a listening ear when I just have to explode with the goodness and truth about my Savior Jesus Christ. He has more than saved my soul, He has more than removed the dread of death, He has more than rescued me from the pit of hell - Jesus daily saves me from my personal hell.

Everyone has it. A personal hell. A circular thought pattern of anxiety on an endless loop. Like a hamster on a wheel, the cogs churn all night in your mind, working, twisting, writhing to find some answer you missed before.

A personal hell. A habit you hate that nips at your heels like a rabid dog. It's breath is death. If you're lucky, for now, you're one step ahead of it.

A personal hell. A never fading memory. Faces or words that lurk in your quiet moments, feasting on your peace.

A personal hell. Impending possibilities of unemployment, illness, danger, financial collapse. Everyone has a personal hell.

As most of you know, my hell was born in the form of anorexia. But the habit of starving and compulsive exercise fed on my peace and grew into anxious, relentless thoughts of calories and laziness and bulging body parts. Then, anxiety swelled until it infected my mind with fear of poverty, fear of loneliness, fear of change and of course an every growing fear of food. And finally, even when recovery began blinking sporadically on the horizon, and I began plunging toward it in blind, uncoordinated desperation; then my hell bloomed like licking flames behind me. Memories.

Bless the Lord Oh My Soul! Who becomes my vision and my only thought!

Two weeks ago, I learned that I now weigh as much as I did before I ever dueled with anorexia. That in itself is enough of a change to fan the flames of fear. Then, this weekend, my husband and I attended a marriage retreat in Staunton, VA. It was a chaplain's event called Strong Bonds. 

[Side note, if you have an opportunity to go on one of these retreats - take it! Especially, if for some reason Chaplain Denning is leading it!]

Back to Jesus' valiant rescue...I always fret over these types of "fun" events. They are anything but fun for me. My regular workouts are threatened by pathetic hotel gyms and no space outside to go running; not to mention early morning obligations. And, nice as everyone seems to think free food is, for an anorexic, the idea of a prepared plate being set in front of you is terrifying.

Who knows how much butter some careless caterer used on the mashed potatoes? What if they serve dessert? How do I say no when everyone is watching and moaning over how sublime the cheesecake is? How am I going to find safe food to eat if these are my only options? On top of all that, a retreat is supposed to be relaxing and fun. For most people that means lingering over good conversation and dark beer. Or, swirling red wine while debating the merits of a restaurant's barbecue ribs. For me, that means sustained agony in a place of temptation while bound by a bunch of self-woven rules.

The first night there, we went down to dinner. I had told them that I am a vegetarian so the caterer brought me a plate of pasta, drizzled with olive oil and flecked with onions, mushrooms and green pepper. Yikes! Patrick was served chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans.

My darling hubby looked at my plate and asked, "Do you want my potatoes and green beans? I'll eat your pasta."

"Okay."

So we traded partial plates and I ate. I ate every delicious creamy swirl of potato and every green bean dripping with golden butter. And it was good! But the best part is that fear did not rise up in my throat. Anorexia did not loom behind me all night with a tightening grip on my neck. We finished the evening over  beers by the fireplace in the hotel bar.

But Day 2 was even more spectacular! At breakfast, I did not eat the special, safe food I had thrown into my duffle bag "just in case." Instead, I enjoyed fried potatoes and scrambled eggs! Then, I sat on my derrière for a three hour lecture! After the lecture, lunch was served. I tried to refuse it and Patrick agreed to take me to Subway later.

But when the waitress delivered a veggie wrap the size of a small torpedo, my tummy growled. The thin flour tortilla was crammed with broccoli, mushrooms, sprouts, full-fat cheese... and dressing. Some saucy, delicious, doubtlessly not-light dressing.

OK, OK. I'll eat half. Oh well, I'll eat all of it - it's so good!

I could go on and on about the excitement rumbling against residual fear in my belly. But the tantalizing hope of a different future - holidays not spent skulking in the kitchen to monitor the usage of oil. Date nights not wasted at Subway restaurant so that I can get a  50 calorie salad. What if.... it doesn't have to be that way forever?

Tiny Staunton is quaint, to be nice it's historic, but there's not much to do. So, we found ourselves sitting in a little bar a couple hours later, sampling beers with friends. So much for a low calorie afternoon! Then, of course, dinner time arrived. That merciless hour when every American is supposed to eat...again.

We landed at the Mill Street Grill. (Highly recommended by everyone, if you're in the area.) Just a salad, I told myself. Just the side salad.

Oh, but I love shrimp. I had lived through Friday night. I had lived through most of Saturday. What if, simply enjoying Saturday night too, isn't a crime? So I had shrimp and salad. And hot chocolate when we got back to our room.

If you have never argued with yourself about the merits of a certain food, or the innate evil of an extra calorie. If you have never run an extra mile to compensate for a delightful dessert or celebrating your own birthday, then maybe you don't have any idea the freedom that I enjoyed this weekend.

But, if you have ever skipped a meal so that you could go out to eat later. If you have ever run an extra mile (or two, or three) because you ate four extra crackers. If you have ever stayed awake counting calories instead of sheep - then you know exactly what I mean. You know exactly the type of freedom that we have not danced in for so many years. 

The truth is you may not be there yet. The truth is, I didn't think I was there. But Jesus knew I was. And Jesus is the one who saved me. And Jesus is the one who surprised me by throwing open the gates I have long hidden behind.

Oh the beauty of the view as I stand here in His arms surveying the landscape of blessing He has in store for me - and you. 

But now, this is what the Lord says, He who created you Oh Jacob, He who formed you Oh Israel: 'Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have summoned you by name and you are mine.' Is. 43:1

Fear Not: 31 Days to Freedom from Fear

First published on February 25, 2013 on Predatory Lies

Born to Deliver, A Book Review

Born to Deliver, A Book Review

Maybe the most compelling story isn’t the one we identify with, but the one that breaks our hearts. It’s the story we pray never comes true.

The book, Born to Deliver, is the personal story of Kathy Brace and the slow, painful, permanent way that Jesus drew her to Himself. At the tender age of fifteen, Brace found herself pregnant and abandoned by her boyfriend. Her alcoholic father had deserted her, her mother and her brother Eric years before. Caught up in her own pain and the numbing mechanics of providing for a family as a single woman, Kathy’s mother was emotionally unavailable. Through a series of bad romantic relationships and illegitimate pregnancies, Kathy’s brother was her only reliable friend.

Loneliness echoes through the pages of this story. Though she has never experienced unconditional love, the structure of a family or the comfort of a committed husband, a longing resides deep in Kathy’s heart. More than anything she desires a happy life. But she has no idea where to find it, and no real understanding of what it looks like.

If only I knew what it actually looked like so that I would know when I found it.” (pg. 30)

From a stark home for unwed mothers or wives with unwanted pregnancies, to an empty, cold green delivery room, the reader’s heart sinks a little heavier with Kathy’s own heart in each chapter. I could almost feel the bruises and scrapes when she threw herself from a moving car, not caring what could happen. I shook with her when she held a gun to her head, and I shivered with her against the cold metal table in a back alley abortion clinic.

Every chapter of, Born to Deliver, has a new climax, a painful experience that seems a little sharper than before. However, a strand of hope winds its way through Kathy’s story. With a cliffhanger at the end of every chapter, there remains a conviction that light is just around the corner. With another page, another day, another year in her life, hope is coming. Jesus will rescue His daughter, His bride.

First published at Start Marriage Right, Feb. 7, 2013