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Posted in healing

Times of Resting

I’m a huge advocate of being in the Word daily. But I’m finding that this, too has seasons. I recently spent 6 months solidly in the Word and read the Bible through from cover to cover in that time.

Right now I’m in the Bible sporadically. This has been a hard season. But it’s a season of growth. Of separating fact from fiction, reality from hope, and truth from lies.

I’m slowly awakening from a slumber I put myself in to protect myself from a whole lot of trauma I’ve gone through in my life.

So right now, although I’m not in the Word, the Word is in me. And God is regularly bringing it to mind to teach me truths in this season.

These are times of resting in God. Of leaning back in his arms and allowing him to open up my heart like a skilled surgeon and do the repair work that needs to be done.

The patient doesn’t speak during surgery. Just rests.

So please don’t worry about my social media absence. I’m in good hands.

Posted in Poetry

Line After Line

As I lay here in the dark
I hear the low hum of the freight train
As it runs its nightly course outside of town
And I wonder where it’s going and I wonder where it’s been
Oh it’s quiet here when you are not around
And the humming of the whistle sounds eerily like your name
And I hold my breath until it travels by
If I listen long enough
I convince myself you feel the same
And you’ll be home quick as you can fly
But when it’s gone
I swear I hear you say goodbye
One more time

Sometimes I sit alone
In the comfort of my porch swing
With the comfort of half-tea-half-lemonade
And I hear the tender sound
Of the night winds start to sing
It reminds me of all
The memories we made
And I think about the laughter
And the quiet talks we shared
And I know it’s madness
To sit and think
That once upon a time
You deeply loved,
You really cared
It’s then I find
I’m running out of drink
And my sapphire eyes are on the slowest blink

Sometimes I sit and write
In the quiet of my bedroom
After everyone else has finally gone to bed
And I thank God for the night and the rising of the moon
It’s the only time I have to clear my head
This is the only place I have for working off your memory
As long as I keep writing I’ll be fine
But I wonder when I’ll be free of this pain
And how much more is in me
You must be stacked in every corner of my mind
Because I keep writing off your memory line after line
After line after line after line

From my book:

Daybreak In My Soul: Lyrical Reflections on Life and Love

(c) 2006 ISBN: 978-1-84728-994-0

Posted in healing, heartache, Jesus, Life Lessons, Love, Prayer, Truth, Word, Writing

Me, Being Vulnerable

I took this picture on a beautiful night on a beach in Ventura, California. It was the only long trip I took with my husband. This is the cover of my book. It’s breathtaking. But I cannot look at it without wanting to throw up.
Why? He left. Suddenly. Had a baby with someone else.

Betrayal by someone you intimately, ultimately trusted (bio Dad, exes, friends who violently assaulted me) makes you question your worth, your decision making skill set, your whole life. It can cause you to dissociate from yourself. To cling to anyone who appears to love you while pushing them away with your actions. It causes you to feel unsafe in every single relationship you have. It’s cost me real love, and time, and closeness with people I adore.

It shuts you down, forces you to cope one way or the other. For me, I drank to numb the pain. I couldn’t handle it.

Sixteen years later I’m finally feeling it. All of it. Without the aid of any pain killers. And it’s excruciatingly hard. I’m putting in the hard work of letting myself feel and heal.

I’m realizing that every time I walk away from God, or yell at the sky “why?” and “where were you?” I’m accusing him of being guilty of what my ex, and the monsters who attacked me and the ex bf who emotionally abused me, (and even myself for staying so long) are actually guilty of. That’s also betrayal. God understands betrayal. I’ve done it to him so many times. He hates that they did this to me. He hates that I allowed it for so long. It’s scary letting God into my wounds. But he’s not a man. I can trust him. He’s safe.

So if my eyes leak when we talk, you’ll know why. I’m learning and growing and healing. It’s the bravest, hardest thing I’m doing. It will take time and tears and effort to learn to trust and love and live fully. But in the end I’ll be better.

If I have opened up with you over coffee or messenger and shared my heart, perhaps this gives you some insight into how scary that has been for me. You’ve probably wondered why I cling or put up a wall and then cling again. This is why. I have a beautiful broken heart.

Why am I being so vulnerable?
Because somewhere someone is numbing their pain instead of facing it. So this is me, finally facing more trauma than I’ll EVER share on social media, saying to YOU – if I can, you can too.

If this is you, message me. I promise I’ll pray for you.

I love you. Yes, YOU. You’re so worthy of love. You’re too precious to walk through life with a wounded heart. Be brave with me. Let Jesus heal your heart.

Love,
Melissa

Posted in Poetry, Writing

Nice and Slow

Lying here awake tonight
As the clock ticks off the time
Nice and slow
Nice and slow

Just outside of town
The 1 am train takes its bow
Its whistle blows
Its whistle blows

Can’t get you off my mind
The train, it’s right on time
But no one knows
But no one knows

You’re not coming home
You’re not coming home
You’re not coming home

I’ve run a needle through Patsy Cline,
Five or 7 times
And Norah Jones
And Norah Jones

It’s just begun to storm
I pull the covers over my arms
The lighting glows
The lighting glows

I just can’t tell my friends
The truth that shakes my bones
Because no one knows
Because no one knows

You’re not coming home
You’re not coming home
You’re not coming back home

Posted in healing, heartache, Letters, Life Lessons, Love, Poetry, Truth, waiting, Writing

Tear-stained Wisdom

You never really knew me until you sat across from me at coffee on a cloudy day and watched the rain fall from my eyes.

You never really understood me until you let me get past the catch in my throat that’s always there when I sit across from you.

It’s as I listen to your heart through your words that I can make sense of my own feelings, which is why I always pause and let silence stand between us for a long moment before I speak.

It’s when I make sense of my own feelings that I can process yours. Then I can give you the tear-stained wisdom that is chiseled in my soul.

I never really knew you until I sat across from you and realized that we can both as freely give as receive wisdom and love.

And I’d like to know you more.

And I’d like for you to know me more.

But texts don’t form tears, or capture the pitch when you really laugh out loud, or give a full picture of what’s inside a heart.

But it’s all we can do now.

And it’s going to be really hard to give my whole heart again to anyone else when it’s broken but still yours. But it’s going to be hard for anyone else to break my heart when it isn’t really whole because it’s still yours.

I can only let time and silence and steadfast prayer heal me.

Posted in Lyrics, Poetry

Everything in My Story

When I started life abandoned, you had plans for adopting me.

When I was beaten and assaulted, you had plans for my healing.

When I was homeless and addicted you had plans to turn my life back to you.

Now everything in my story – is all for your glory.

Now I’m living as a daughter, I’m adored and I am loved.

I provide healing for those assaulted, I point broken souls above.

Now I feed and clothe the homeless; and offer the addicted a taste – of your amazing grace.

Now everything in my story – is all for your glory.

Posted in healing, heartache, Life Lessons, Love, Uncategorized

Do You Want to Get Well?

When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?”

John 5:6 NIV

As I type on my dimly lit phone, I’m at the emergency room with my 11-year-old son. It’s almost midnight and we’ve been here for a few hours. Around 8:30 pm he came into my bedroom and said, “Mom, will you take me to the doctor? My head hurts too bad.” At 9 pm the urgent care center sent us to the ER to be tested for meningitis. (Thank God he doesn’t have that.) He also tested negative for strep, flu, and mono, but his white blood count is elevated.

But when we got back into a room at the ER, and they were about to start an IV, he absolutely panicked. Suddenly fear took over and he began to shake and hold his arm against his chest so the nurse couldn’t get the IV in. He sat up in the bed, buried his face in my chest, and sobbed.

I reasoned with him. Reminded him he’d had an IV years ago when he broke his arm and he was fine. Nothing I said made it any better.

Sometimes our minds are our worst enemies.

Finally I put my hand under his chin, tipped his face up to look at me, and said, “Son, do you want to get well?”

“Yes. My head hurts so bad. Please make it stop.” He sobbed. “This will make it stop?” I nodded.

Then he relaxed and allowed the nurse to give him an IV. In the end he said it wasn’t so bad.

An hour later, with headache meds coursing through his veins and his quiet snoring filling the room, it hit me – today I panicked just like this over something else.

I had been afraid of losing both someone and the dream of something and it caused me to sob and hold my heart in my chest where it couldn’t be touched and lash out at whomever said that letting go was the best thing for me. The fear of abandonment and loneliness and being unloved forever washed over me. I feared feeling unworthy and unlovable and useless and embarrassed and rejected and unwanted. The fear to me was just as real as the needle was to Gavin. Letting myself feel the sting of letting go that would ultimately heal me was just too scary in the moment.

It reminded me of when Jesus healed a man in the Bible, but first he asked the man, “Do you want to get well?”

Of course I want to get well. But just like my son, I have to get past the fear of the pain that will ultimately allow healing to flow through me.