A Willing Vessel

A

Broken, Mended & Made Useful

Willing

Vessel

By Michelle Yoder with Brenda Black

A

Broken, Mended & Made Useful

Willing

Vessel

Vessel Willing A

Broken, Mended & Made Useful

Michelle Yoder with Brenda Black

Copyright 2024 by Michelle Yoder and Brenda Black

Published by The Word’s Out 540 SW 1100 Rd., Deepwater, MO 64740

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other- except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION® NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society®. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Cover: Brenda Black, The Word’s Out Various Illustrations courtesy of contributors to Unsplash.com and Pixabay.com.

Author Photos:

A.M. Photo, Allen Marshall Austin Black, Backroad Productions

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: June 2024

ISBN: 978-0-9963680-3-2

To purchase more copies of A Willing Vessel, visit: www.thewordsout-brendablack.com

Dedication

I want to dedicate this book to my parents Gene and Alice for their dedication to me; and their love and prayers for me, whether I felt it, knew it, or was blinded by my enemy to it. I know now by the grace of God how much you were there for me even when I did not feel it or see it. Thank you both for doing your best and leaving me a godly legacy. I love you so much!

Chapter 8 – Poured Out for Others .................................79

A single vessel ready for service

Chapter 9 – Repairing Cracks in the Cup........................91 Some cracks just won’t be fixed

Chapter 10 – At Home in the Hood ................................101 Packed in God’s bubblewrap

Chapter 11 – Gone Country ............................................109 An earthen vessel fit for greater service

Chapter 12 – Parenting Through Pain, Prayers & Promises....117 The delicate beauty of a fragile heirloom

Chapter 13 - What’s Inside Spills Out When Tipped ......129 A pitcher filled with joy and peace

Chapter 14 - Container Still Under Construction ........... 137 Intended use for His good purpose

Epilogue ........................................................................143

Acknowledgements .......................................................144 Meet the Authors ….......................................................145

Foreword

The story you are about to read is based on true accounts of my life. Some names and details have been slightly altered to protect the people who played key roles in conveying accurately the experiences being shared. My intention has never been to portray myself as a victim or heroine; neither to degrade nor condemn anyone else. These are my genuine circumstances, and the emotions and perceptions as I remember them.

I have also tried to avoid inferring the intent of others or divinely discerning their thoughts. Dialogue, quotes, and circumstantial elements are derived from my memory and presented to the best of my ability to recall the specifics.

While exposing my own life and struggles, at the heart of this work is the overarching desire to illuminate a greater character. This is God Almighty’s redemption story! He is the One who reveals Himself in mysterious, practical, providential, and miraculous ways.

Should your story resemble mine, please know that I care and pray for those fighting similarly dire battles. Perhaps, by sharing my story, you will find the courage to do the same. Be assured that Jesus Christ can take our brokenness, and redeem and remold it for His glory.

Introduction

Nagging doubts and questions often creep into the thoughts of those whom God is calling. I have entertained more uncertain thoughts than one can shake a stick at when it comes to God leading my life. My overly-used excuses run like a grocery list through my mind: That’s crazy; you can’t be serious. I can’t do that! That’s impossible! It will cost me too much. It’s way too risky. I’ll get messy. I don’t have time. Every doubt is automatically purchased and put to work to derail God’s plan.

Sometimes, when faced with new challenges, nagging questions also start to fight for attention in our minds: You want me to go where and do what? What if I get hurt? What if they don’t like me? What If I get robbed? What about my rights? Despite my hesitancy, or because of it, I have come to realize that no matter what God is asking me to do, He is right there to help me through it. God always delivers what He promises. All He asks from us is to be A Willing Vessel:

A: a person or thing.

Willing: ready, eager, and prepared to do something. Vessel: an empty container ready to be filled and used for a specific purpose.

Wow! Even in the individual definitions of each word in this phrase, there is this sense that God desires us to partner with Him. The word of God says it this way: “A large house contains not only vessels of gold and silver, but also of wood and clay. Some indeed are for honorable use, but others are for common use. So if anyone cleanses himself of what is unfit, he will be a vessel for honor: sanctified, useful to the Master, and prepared for every good work,” 2 Timothy 20-21.

Knowing the Lord’s desire is one thing. Following His lead, quite another. Still, I believe all who are part of the body of Christ must act in faith and obedience if we are serious about our walk with God.

Such devotion to be a willing vessel begins with honesty and transparency. Therefore, I will be laying it all on the line within these pages, airing truckloads of my dirty laundry, while exposing the unwavering, boundless God who passionately pursued me through every bleak moment. He alone gets the glory for getting me to where I am today –willingly on a mission for God’s Kingdom.

The journey has been difficult, and I am not proud of my past, except for the fact that my God redeemed it. In its telling, I understand that some may be shocked by my story, but I refuse to let Satan keep my life in bondage to the shame of my past. My story, my life, my testimony is what it is. But, praise God, I have come to the point where I want to share what I have learned through the struggles to help others through their thorny paths. Perhaps, through my story of pain, rejection, abuse, disillusionment, risk taken, and rewards received, others will find the courage to face their enemy, call him out in the name of Christ, and move forward to victory.

As I prayed and reflected over my life, I struggled with the right words to convey the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I continued to wrestle with those pesky soul-searching questions like: “What is my purpose in life?” or “When I die, what will be my legacy?” I came to this conclusion: I want to be remembered not for what I did or who I was, but that I was used greatly by God. Christ is my everything! Only because of Him do I live. The following scripture expresses well the ache in my soul to be His vessel.

“God intended that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us. For in Him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are His offspring,’” Acts 17:27-28.

All those who are in Christ have their own Godstory to share. According to Revelation 12:10-12, telling those stories helps us to overcome Satan’s power.

“And I heard a loud voice in heaven, saying: ‘Now have come the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God, and the authority of His Christ. For the accuser of our brothers has been thrown down—he who accuses them day and night before our God. They have conquered him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony; and they did not love their lives so as to shy away from death. Therefore rejoice, O heavens, and you who dwell in them! But woe to the earth and the sea; with great fury the devil has come down to you, knowing he has only a short time...”

Our testimonies – my story and your story - hold power over the enemy who knows his time is running out. If we allow him to silence us, then he will win. I’m not going to let that happen!

Fear, worry, shame, guilt, rejection, depression and many more negative feelings will no longer silence me or keep me from doing what God has laid on my heart to do. From this day forward, no more, Satan - not today! For that matter, not any day! I will kneel before a God who promises in His word that He will continue to work on me until the day of Jesus. I will open my mouth and share my story.

Get ready to pick through the quagmire of quandaries. Get ready to meet someone who messes up daily, but enjoys God’s mercies, which are new every morning. Prepare yourself for this inadequate container who is simply trying to wrap her head around the God of the universe, using His imperfect creation to share His story. Through it all, the prayer is that you will see Jesus reflected in a “willing vessel.” Together, we’ll learn to find joy, to weep and lament, to forgive, to show grace and mercy, to love, to hurt, and to overcome by the word of our testimonies.

“Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will continue to perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.”

From Unformed Clay

Near Deadly Beginnings

to a Fractured Pot

1974 marked tumultuous year of battles, from the White House to heavy weights. President Richard M. Nixon resigned, falling from power and grace in the eyes of the world. George Foreman forfeited an undefeated world heavyweight title to his cocky challenger Muhammad Ali, in front of 60,000 boxing fans.

I, on the other hand, entered the ring of life late, powerless, and with far fewer spectators. Where my similarities align with these men of history is that little went according to plan. Right from the beginning, my own set of bothersome struggles and heavyweight battles began.

The due date was Valentine’s Day. My dad Gene and my expectant mother Alice were anxious about my arrival. They knew all too well that no guarantee came for a healthy baby. Each of my parents, at only 21 years of age, had experienced the loss of their firstborn son when he was only five days old. A heart defect and double pneumonia had cruelly robbed them of soft snuggles, rocking chair lullabies, and a lifetime of should-have-beens. Grandparents on both sides of the family mourned the tragic loss of their first grandchild. By God’s grace, Donnetta, their baby girl bundled in perfect health, arrived two years after they buried the brother I never knew. Though tragedy gave way to answered prayer, they still longed for a chance for another son.

A Willing Vessel

Toughened, as well as tenderized by life, and built sturdy and low to the ground, Mom stood just four inches above the five feet mark on a tape measure. At home, she spoke her mind. But the brown-eyed girl rarely held her own until the final outcome. Much more often, she surrendered to my father’s say-so, citing godly submission as her defense.

About to give birth to her third, she welcomed the familiarity of her six-foot-tall, man-with-a-plan at her side, who typically called the shots. He’d be there to give her courage, calm her anxious thoughts and wipe her brow with a cool cloth. Likely, he’d bring a little relief to the tension with his goofy sense of humor. And oh, the sweet moment they would share when their baby breathed his first gulp of air.

This time in the maternity ward, they were the generation on the cusp of seeing traditions traded for new frontiers.Hospitals began permitting fathers into delivery rooms. Together, Mom and Dad could see that boy come into the world.

Even with protocols changing, individual doctors still had the final word on whether or not a father could stand at the head of the table during labor and delivery. Since my father worked at the hospital as an engineer with the maintenance department, their doctor reasoned my dad could handle the drama and not end up knocked out like Foreman. The doctor sure didn’t want an unexpected patient passed out in a heap on the hospital floor during a delivery.

Valentine’s Day came and went. Still, no baby. Nothing could be done, but to wait. The days dragged for Alice. Swollen feet and anxious thoughts warped great expectations into stressful impatience. Nearly a month labored along before my mom finally went into labor, on Mar. 11. Unfortunately, the doctor who granted Dad access went on vacation. The stand-in obstetrician left Dad standing outside.

Near Deadly Beginnings

I can only imagine my mom’s feelings of stress, anxiety, pain and relief, matched by great disappointment. Though I was too new to remember the drama myself, I know from her retelling of the not-like-we-planned-it event that Mom paced the halls, trying to hold out until her regular doctor was back on duty and my dad was allowed in for the delivery. She was angry throughout the entire ordeal. What was supposed to be my blissful arrival into the world sounded in the retelling as if great joy had mutated into pure agitation.

It seems to me that it was a fight to bring me into this world, and ever since, it has felt like the enemy is fighting to take me out. As a result, instead of believing in my great potential, I’ve often felt more like a fractured pot.

I came into the world that March day on my terms instead of succumbing to Mom’s wishes. Having survived the tense delivery, and my parents’ disappointment with a daughter instead of a son, I went to my new home to live with my older sister Donnetta and a mentally handicapped foster sister Janey. As the littlest one in the pecking order, some days for me were gloriously wonderful; some days were downright rough.

An infant makes a pretty good toy for a two- and five-year-old. In a toddler’s world, common sense and consequence are not steady companions. Creativity and carelessness, well, that’s more often the case. So, when Donnetta and Janey were sharing a snack, they thought a 6-week-old baby would enjoy a bite too. Mom walked into the room and found her three-week-old little tyke turning blue! A heaping spoonful of peanut butter in my mouth blocked my airways! Praise the Lord, I survived that too.

Perhaps my sisters learned their lesson about forcing something into a newborn, but no rules were in place about

sprinkling foreign substances on the baby. In their imaginary world, those same little culprits thought a wee one looked like a sweet tator. The logical thing in their minds was to sprinkle her with salt!

Sodium pelted my tiny face and stung vulnerable eyes. My mom heard me screaming and came running, horrified that the abrasive granules would damage my vision forever. She raced to the kitchen sink, cradling her wailing child. Then she forced herself to hold my writhing, tiny frame under cool water for what must have seemed an eternity to her, while she did her best to rinse all of the salt out of my eyes. Thank God above, I didn’t lose my sight.

Mom must have sequestered me from the dynamic duo at that point because I don’t recall any more harrowing stories of damage or near-death encounters from that developmental phase. From then on, I seemed to come up with enough adventure on my own. By nine months, I had skipped learning to walk and went straight to running. Then came climbing by the time I was one.

Mom had just changed a dirty diaper on her charge –the kind of humdinger where you plug your nose and press past the gag reflex to just get through it. After a thorough cleaning, she laid me down for a nap and left the room fully confident that where a mother leaves an infant lay she should be able to find her upon return. In her absence, I went into Houdini action, climbing over the side of the crib. The problem: I fell head first into the diaper pail – the same pail that bore the toxic dump I’d just imparted. From Mom’s account, we headed straight to the tub again!

Yet another of my harrowing toddler incidents could have proven more than just dirty. This one came close to being deadly.

Near Deadly Beginnings

Grandpa and Grandma joined our family ranks for a trip to beautiful Colorado. We had been driving at length on one of those winding, ever-climbing Rocky Mountain roads. Each ascending mile offered rugged outcroppings giving way to plummeting valley views below. Aspens glistened in the summer sun. Pine trees shot up like green prayer-formed fingers interlaced across the distant slopes. The scenery was so breathtakingly majestic that it merited a stop at one of the roadside lookouts to better take in all of God’s wondrous creation.

Mom and Dad, Grandpa, and Grandma unfolded stiffened legs from the gold-tone station wagon, laden with suitcases, coolers, pillows, and toys. Then they unloaded the antsy girls in great need of wiggle room. Once reassembled with the adult-to-child ratio to their advantage two-to-one, we trekked toward the top of the dusty arc that marked the boundary between the well-traveled highway and a vast wilderness. With one eye on the mesmerizing view, Grandma’s other eye thankfully was on this young explorer. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have caught me by the hem of my pink sundress as I walked toward the side of the mountain cliff, blissfully following the birds. If not for that ruffle and Grandma, I would have tumbled to certain death.

I wonder what thoughts went through my mom’s and dad’s minds at that time. I know what goes through my mind when I reflect upon it. I must have been accident-prone! I sure was a curious kid. And the big question that pops into my head: How could they, and how would they, find a way to train and teach such a wreck going somewhere to happen?

It sure seems like, even then, Satan was trying his level best to intercept God’s good intentions for my life. But God, said, “Oh, no you don’t! I have plans for her — a job, a calling, and a purpose.”

A Willing Vessel

My Creator laid it all out for me, even before I took one breath. I know this because Psalm 139:16 says, “Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.”

I am grateful that He had a plan, but, if I had been the author of my life, I would have left some of my days out. Like the day I managed to clumsily hang upside down from a window sill with my head dangling in a barrel of rotten apples. Or the time I fell walking home from school and handily broke my collar bone.

If I had ordained all the days of my life, I would have also cut myself some slack and removed the jealousy I felt toward my older sister. I always looked up to Donnetta. She was good at -- well, EVERYTHING she tried. We were both in piano, ballet, and gymnastics. We both had to play clarinet because it was the only instrument my parents could afford. I just always had to do the same things Donnetta did. Even worse, everything came so much easier for her than for me. She got straight A’s and never seemed to have to study. I barely pulled a B average, and I studied all the time. It was hard to compete with someone you aspired to be who always stayed two steps ahead, perpetually moving the goal farther out of reach.

I struggled with being me. I didn’t like me. I was clumsy and not as well-liked by other kids as was my perfectly social sister. I had to work twice as hard to perform well in extracurricular activities. It seemed no one noticed when I did succeed, because all eyes were fixed on Donnetta. Hurtful words from family and church members intensified the jealousy. I cannot count the number of times I heard, “If only you were more like your sister,” or “We don’t ask you to sing, because you’d clear out the church.”

Near Deadly Beginnings

More stinging words went something like, “We would ask you, but you are not as good as your sister.”

I grew up with a battle raging in my brain: The urge to meet their expectations warring against the longing to be accepted without changing a thing. I don’t even know if my older sister knew how her abilities to excel fueled my inferiority at the time.

While sisterly competition is natural to a certain extent, mine was exaggerated, probably because of a desire to stand out among the crowd. It might help to understand that over the course of 16 years, our family played host to more than 65 foster children. Our life ebbed between normal and healthy to chaotic and dysfunctional.

I do have great memories of going to work with my dad and feeling quite special when I was in early elementary school. I thought my strapping green-eyed father could do anything. His profession as an engineer in maintenance for 24 years demonstrated skills in woodworking and remodeling. And always, he modeled due diligence. Whatever one started, according to Dad, should be completed to perfection.

He loved his job and carried out his duties, even when off the clock. I remember times when we’d be out shopping or dining. Dad would be bothered by a loose department store shelf or wobbly table at a restaurant booth. He would pull out of his shirt pocket his trusty, ever-handy screwdriver, and fix the object on the spot.

Dad was a deep thinker and simmered ideas long and hard before acting on them. Once he made a decision (complete with a nice, neat plan), things better go according to that plan. Dad’s itinerary on a trip, for example, withstood no departing. Stick with the schedule or suffer the wrath of his irritability and raised voice.

A Willing Vessel

His work ethic, nor his compulsive-obsessive ways changed, but something else flipped with Dad about the time I was in third grade. He quit expressing his affection to us girls. The hugs ceased, and I felt his love had vanished too. I never found out until much later that his lack of healthy intimacy stemmed from old-fashion protocol he had adopted. Physically and emotionally distancing himself from his growing girls was a learned behavior. I think that the handed-down family model played a large part in how I tended toward unhealthy relationships. I questioned my dad’s love for me and later sought attention and love in all the wrong places.

Not only did I think I had lost Dad’s attentiveness, I barely had any friends to fill the kindred gap. We changed schools almost every two years. From Kindergarten through the first half of third grade, I attended public school. During the second half of the 3rd until the 5th, I went to a private school. It was during this transition that my parents finally got their long-awaited son. Aaron became a little brother to two older sisters. And then, shortly after, they adopted another boy when I was 11 years old. Sam lived with us for about a year. When he turned six, we adopted him.

I tried to adjust to a school change while navigating an entirely different family dynamic with Tim’s anger issues and outbursts. This troubled little boy came with a lot of baggage, mostly wrapped up in screaming, hitting, and throwing. Mom and Dad were concerned about the family adjustments and interruptions. They were also scared for our safety. Our new member in the family took out on all of us his frustrations and emotional injuries from his former family. I did the only thing I knew to do — I just took it. Being thrust into the role of the middle child, I bottled up all of the fear, insecurity, jealousy, and

Near

disillusionment. Once again, I felt placed on the back burner and unimportant. Still, I tried to help the best I could.

In 5th, 6th, and 7th grades, we were all homeschooled. I found it incredibly difficult to even want to make friends. I couldn’t muster what it took to keep friends, while being shuffled from one social circle to another, one method of teaching to a different one.

I retaliated in a peculiar way by becoming a rough and tough girl. Arm wrestling the boys and begging to play football would surely remove me from the long shadow of my sister. I merely wanted to find something I was good at that she didn’t do, so I could be told that I was special.

I waited for those powerful words. They never seemed to come. By the time I was in junior high, I do remember my dad saying he loved me. But he never showed it. He didn’t hug me or buy me a present. It seemed to me that he never celebrated my uniqueness or the gifts God placed in me for specific purposes. Even though I spent 8th grade through the first quarter of my Sophomore year enrolled in a Christian School, I sensed the deep love of neither an earthly nor heavenly father as a result of my flawed perceptions.

I wrapped up my final two years in high school split between two states with two moronically opposite experiences. I finally graduated from one gigantic nightmare.

When we moved during the middle of my 10th-grade year, I was extremely upset and confused. I wanted to just crawl into a hole. I was finally loving school while attending a large high school in Omaha, Nebraska, with 660 kids in my class. I marched in the band and anticipated performing in the Sound of Music spring play after acing the audition. I was dating a foreign exchange student from France who was helping me with my French, while I coached him in his English.

A

None of that mattered to my dad, who wanted us to move out of the city. In desperation, I asked him if I could stay. He bluntly said, “No. We’re a family. We move as a family.”

It didn’t take long for me to realize that his steadfast rules did not apply to my sister. She went to Dad and asked the same question, and received a far different response.

“I don’t want to interrupt your life in the middle of your senior year,” Dad told her. “That wouldn’t be fair to you.” Donnetta finished out her precious senior year living with a friend. That was heart-wrenching to me.

In the art of pottery, there’s a method called coiling, where a person starts building up walls of clay to form the vessel. That was me. I started nurturing bitterness and feeding every feeling of anger toward my father. I began building walls like rolls of clay headed to a kiln for hardening.

“...their hearts were hardened.”

Mark 6:52b

Inheriting an

Silent Sin of Disillusionment Unnecessary

Heartache

Blinded by heartbreak, hurt, envy, and ire, I began mentally retracing all the things I had been told all of my life. The never-ending loop in my head must have been audible to every person I met in the new school where I was forced to attend. If the outside world couldn’t hear the recording, I’m certain they could see the disgust in my eyes and attitude. Written all over my face were culture shock and obvious disenchantment for a podunk, rural school where I joined the ranks of a class of 44.

As early as day two on the campus, things went from horrible to horrendous. When I refused a date with a boy that I knew nothing about, he retaliated by spreading vicious rumors that I was a lesbian. All too quickly, I became the easy target to taunt and ridicule. The relentless bullying continued until the day I graduated.

I only made one friend in the two years I endured there. Thankfully, that lovely soul was kind, understanding, and loyal. We enjoyed hanging out and studying together. Her smile lit up any room she walked into, and the day that she walked into my choir class made the remainder of my high school days tolerable. She loved Jesus and you could see that in her. When so many others rejected me, I was amazed that she befriended me. I am grateful she is still there for me to this day.

I coped otherwise by avoiding P.E. class until the eighth hour, so I could shower alone. I studied every spare moment I had and headed straight to a job right after school to distance myself from anyone in that wretched place. In addition to the hate-filled stressors at school, my role at home added its heap of pressure. With mom taking a job immediately upon our move, and her going back to school full time, I became chief cook, nurse, and child caregiver.

Her youngest baby was not even a year old. But, it was my responsibility to rise very early in the morning, do my homework, prepare breakfast for everyone, take my little sister to daycare, drop my brothers off at their school, and still get myself to class on time. When I got home from school or work, my job description included seeing that they completed their homework and that supper was on the table and the house decluttered before Mom and Dad came home for the evening. Fortunately, one of them picked up my baby sister from daycare.

Even with all that I did, it seemed never done to Mom’s satisfaction. She couldn’t say thank you for feeding the kids and doing the dishes. She didn’t say thank you for doing the laundry. I always felt like she was never grateful for what I did do. From my teenage perspective, it always seemed she would hone in on the negative. She would come home and say things like: “You should have put the dishes away,” “You left some food sitting out,” or “How come you didn’t fold the laundry?” I believed that what I did was never enough, and I desperately wanted her approval. Every stabbing comment translated into five ugly words that pierced into my soul: “I am never good enough.”

If anyone ever says that high school years are the best years, they didn’t live through mine! By the time I received my diploma, I had accumulated extra credits in resentment toward my parents. The abrupt exodus from Omaha to

this raw deal always contrasted starkly against the blissful freedom my sister simultaneously enjoyed. It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t right!

One night I railed against the injustice of those at school who were making my life miserable, and I dredged up a grudge against my parents and their negativity. After yet another verbal boxing, I handed my mom a butcher knife and told her, “If I am such a horrible person, such a burden on you, please kill me and take us both out of our misery.”

It was not, by far, one of my finer moments. I just wanted away from the drama, the stress, the heartache, and the humiliation. I didn’t know then what I know now, that my mom, as my father had, was just transferring her upbringing onto me. At the time, I was a young, impressionable high schooler with a lot of pent-up emotions, nagging questions, painful rejection, and overwhelming responsibility placed on me. At 17 years young, I wanted to start being me and figure out who that was.

Dad’s mantra was that I had to abide by his rules as long as I lived in his house and that I would live in his house as long as I was in high school. I figured the only way — the best way — to get out from underneath my dad’s thumb was to graduate asap. Because of the weariness I felt at home and the bullying I endured at school, I went to my guidance counselor and told him I wanted out and wanted out EARLY! I took all push courses my junior year, and no electives, to graduate at winter semester in 1992.

I moved out on Valentine’s Day. Oh, the irony. The day I was to be born but didn’t arrive, became the day I would leave my family behind. I got up that unseasonably warm morning. The sun shimmered and the air felt fresh. Though the trees were still bare, I sensed in the mix of this difficult adjustment, spring’s newness on its way. With it came hope in my heart that this new chapter would be a great one.

A Willing Vessel

In one last sweep of our earth-contact home, I slowly moved down the long hallway, casting a glance in each room to spot and collect anything that was rightfully mine. My trail dead-ended into the final open door of the bathroom. There, something caught my eye -- a red velvet heart placed conspicuously on the counter next to the sink. The heart was trimmed in white lace. Across the front, satin embroidery spelled out “I love you.” A little note alongside read “I do love you, Michelle. Love, Dad.”

Just before driving away, I thanked my mom for the gift. She countered, “What gift?”

I said, “The one that you left me in the bathroom.”

Mom tucked her chin, then shook her head from side to side and said softly, “Honey, that was from your dad. He did that all on his own.”

I reasoned then and there that Dad truly loved me. But, I hadn’t felt the emotion that rightly affixes itself to such knowledge since I was about eight years old. At the point of my departure as a teenager, I was so angry and so unhappy, that it would take the next several years before I had dug through the rubble a spoonful at a time. Eventually, enough history would be excavated to allow me to accept the love my father had for me.

On the day of my exodus, all that my heart fixed itself upon was getting out of “Dodge” and back to city life somewhere.

I wanted to get there on my own. I wanted to figure it out. I wanted to be in control. I wanted to do things my way. I didn’t need God, didn’t need my parents, didn’t need anyone!

I had yet to deal with everything I had bottled up inside. I despised my life and didn’t believe it was worth living. I grew up in a Christian home, but somewhere over

the years, I started giving up on myself. I felt like I was judged at church as not good enough. I sensed through my parents’ actions that they did not love me as much as they loved my older sister. And I couldn’t figure out why or how God could love me, let alone forgive me.

My parents did the best they could, drawing on their upbringings and the knowledge they had at the time. Any objective outsider looking on would understand better than I that my childhood was not a total wasteland, nor a constant nightmare. Our family went on fun vacations, we enjoyed get-togethers and having people over to the house. Mom did fantastic things for us on our birthdays. A special plate for our favorite meal helped us know she truly loved us and knew exactly what each one of us liked.

Selfishly, I viewed all of these wonderful things through blurry lenses, distorted by hurt and insecurity. I have learned since what I did not know then. When we buy into a lie from the enemy, Satan takes opportunity to skew our vision. We build the walls ourselves out of anguish, insecurity, and pain. We believe what others say about us and not what God says about us. The enemy makes us so despondent that we keep our mouths shut and we die a silent death of disillusionment. He continues feeding us lies that render a warped perception of our true reality.

I no longer hold my parents responsible for my attitudes and actions back then. I realize now that I didn’t make it easy on them. I needed to be responsible for myself. I just didn’t know where to turn. How could I move on?

The clay that formed my life in those early years had hardened to such a point that it wouldn’t be easy for God to freely sculpt me as He planned. Oh, I realized my deep need for a Savior. But, it would be a long, tough road to the foot of the cross -- a rough, ragged, horrifying, and almost tragic path, that I am not proud I traveled.

A Willing Vessel

“I am forgotten as though I were dead; I have become like broken pottery.”

Psalm 31:12

Glaze on the Outside

Running Straight into Trouble

Mud on the Inside

I moved out of my parents’ home and in with my aunt and uncle. And, I walked straight into a world of trouble. It began innocently when my piano teacher Liz invited me over one evening to join a group of young single adults from church to listen to a new CD she had just purchased. I went mostly to appease her, more than due to interest.

Her buttercream colored house seemed to wink at me from behind white shuttered lashes. I imagined Venetian blinds blinking open just as I glanced upward toward the inky pupils of front windows staring down from atop a hill.

Two flights of steps later, I entered to find my friend Maggie sitting crosslegged and tucked between the knees of her boyfriend, who staked claim to one of two recliners in the living room. Neither hostess Liz nor the unfamiliar guy seated on the couch acknowledged me when I stepped through the door. But my eyes locked with the handsome stranger when she introduced us to one another. He recognized me from my senior picture held by a magnet to Liz’s refrigerator door. I knew nothing about him. His comments to Liz before my arrival about my beautiful dark eyes, ebony hair, and warm smile set in motion her matchmaker mindset.

Liz’s scheme for a second meeting between the “couch man” and I became a sealed deal after I queried later in private about this man called George.

A Willing Vessel

Call it irony or insanity, or simply uncanny, but meeting George at the same place where I face-planted into a bucket of rotten apples as a child, should have been all the foreshadowing I needed to steer clear. Unfortunately, I didn’t smell the decay to come. Neither did I see the dark core hidden beneath his rosy exterior.

He was older, wiser, handsome, and financially secure. Of course, he had ample lead time on me to amass his worldly charms. George was 12 years my senior. While I was living with my aunt and uncle and earning minimum wage on the fast food chain gang, it would soon be George I became dependent upon. He helped me to get my feet on the ground. He even opened a checking account for me, and cosigned everything since the banks wouldn’t let me manage an account solo until I turned 19. George taught me how to navigate a lease agreement and purchase a car, and of course, co-signed on those as well.

We laughed and went on fun dates. We spent summer Saturdays jet skiing and Sundays attending church.

I was in love -- at least in love with the idea of being in love. I ran away from a place where I felt unloveable and straight into the arms of someone who bought me gifts, gave me compliments, and wanted to spend time with me.

Quickly, our relationship escalated. I longed to spend every possible moment I had with George. Ultimately, every activity ended the same, with me giving him everything I had.

Only two months into the relationship, we began spending nights together in the same bed. All I knew about sex came from health class pamphlets and what neighborhood friends told me about their teenage exploits. A few magazine articles out of a subscription belonging to a friend’s mother rounded out my realm of experience.

Running Straight into Trouble

I believed he was the one, but, I unwittingly lied to myself. I convinced myself that because this guy said and did all the right things, he was ready to commit. Then again, why would he buy the cow when he already got the milk for free? I was so naive and completely oblivious to the fact that this man was playing me.

While I was being deceived, I was deceiving others. Everyone around me thought I was someone I was not. My life at the time appeared so put together, but, I lived a double life. I played the piano on Sunday mornings in the church where I grew up. I lived like a heathen the rest of the week. Every time I went to church, I knew what to say and how to act outwardly, while inside, decay gnawed away at my very soul. I knew deep in my gut that I was going against everything I had been taught. Still, my flesh raged: It’s my right! This is my life! Ironically, I wanted more than anything for my parents to value my decisions.

The fall semester found me moving out of my aunt’s and uncle’s home and into a dormitory at my dad’s Alma Mater. Oddly enough, in the midst of sinful deceit and fleshly living, I enrolled in a bible college.

On move-in day, my parents unenthusiastically answered my request for help to get settled on the campus. Mom ventured a placid, “Well, I’ll see what I can do.” Dad’s comment went straight to the point. “I have to work.” They showed up at day’s end, Dad in his work uniform. They met my roommate and we dined that evening, thus concluding our brief reunion.

How different it all looked when my sister embarked on her college adventure. Dad took off work for a two-week vacation with the family before taking Donnetta to college. Then we spent two days on campus, exploring the grounds and programs and meeting her roommate and their family.

Mom and Dad unpacked and helped set up my sister’s dorm dwelling as if it were a palace for the royal princess. On my big day, they said all the right things, but their actions rang louder in my head, screaming once again that I didn’t mean as much to them, because I wasn’t as good.

George came through with a bouquet to brighten my big transition. But even their vibrant colors paled when I found myself alone in that 8- by 10-foot cinderblock cubical later that night. At that moment I realized my world was about to implode. I bore a secret that none of them knew.

I was pregnant.

“I live in disgrace all day long, and my face is covered with shame.”

Psalm

44:15

Handle with Care

Shattered by Shame

or She’s Gonna Break

Classes started at the ultra-conservative college with roll call a daily ritual. It didn’t take long for professors to notice how often I failed to answer. That first quarter I spent most of my mornings hugging the rim of a toilet and welcoming the day with tell-tale signs of lost virginity and ample fertility. I was terribly sick, in denial, and scared.

The innocent and sweet role model I was expected to be for those younger people in my church, had tread a markedly different path once out from under their watchful eyes. Instead of walking in the grace of the loving God, I found myself kneeling before a porcelain idol and trying to hide the embarrassment. I told no one during the first three months of the pregnancy. Not even George.

Eventually, such a secret would be impossible to keep. Little did I know how soon the story would unravel. On September 25, 1992, running late to keep an appointment, I dashed for the college elevator. I tapped my foot nervously and strained to hear the bell tone and see the arrow above the door glow red for my downward trek. The wait was like watching molasses in January fill a quart jar. I opted for the stairs. In my rush to reclaim lost minutes, I tripped and fell uncontrollably down a flight of concrete stairs. Lying at the bottom on that rough slab landing, I instinctively

reached for my stomach, compressing the palm of one of my hands over the clenched fist of the other. The pain was excruciating. I knew at that moment what would be confirmed later. Cramping and excessive bleeding over the next three weeks horrifyingly documented a miscarriage. Emergency surgery a few months later would also reveal a twisted, warped uterus that lay shifted to the far right. My slim chance for ever bearing a child full term became glaringly evident.

Until that all came to pass, I lived each day as a nightmare. I was pregnant. Unmarried. Raised in a Christian home. Filled with shame, fear, and guilt. The double standard kept me so painfully trapped. I needed an escape.

But where could I go? Money was in short supply, and it seemed that I didn’t matter to anybody. George, who had become so controlling and demeaning, would taunt me about my weight and tell me my life would be worthless if I continued to gain. If I lost weight, it never was enough. Other times he knew how to say and do nice things that made me feel amazing. George elevated emotional manipulation to an art form.

Now this. Which way his whiplash response would swing, I dared to guess. I didn’t want to leave him. I longed to please him. But making him happy felt as difficult as meeting my parents’ expectations.

I mustered the courage and finally told him.

He broke up with me.

I wanted to die.

And I tried.

As if taking notes during a boring lecture, I scribbled down a short paragraph saying life was no longer worth it. I enlisted a cheap Bic® pen and college-ruled paper pulled from my backpack to sign off from planet Earth. On an October afternoon at the end of my first term, I downed a whole bottle of pills.

I don’t know how long I had been there, but when I roused enough to realize I was still alive, I thrust myself at the base of that same dorm room toilet and purged with each violent heave another portion of death and regret.

My roommate found me. I knew she would see my actions as a nuisance more than view it as a tragedy. It seemed anything I did or said in her company became grounds for formal complaints. She disliked me with a passion. As was her pattern, she went straight to the Resident Assistant.

The RA, in turn, took me to counseling. I was hoping for love, forgiveness, help, and understanding. My RA got me to share everything, and then forced me to meet with the dean of students. That turned out to be a rendevouz with several staff members who had already been told what I ventured in confidence. Within two days of swallowing the meds, I reported to the Dean of Students and sat before a panel of a half a dozen academic and administrative staff who glared straight through me. After their impromptu trial, they informed me that I was to vacate the premises quietly and had 24 hours to be off the school campus. In that same interval, I was to tell my parents or the college would make a phone call, divulging all of the sordid details of my suicide attempt.

The college just kicked me out and washed its hands of me. I felt like the woman with the scarlet letter, and more alone than ever! My cries for help were met with cold indifference to calculatingly preserve the school’s pristine reputation.

I went home to my parents and told them about the baby, the miscarriage, and trying to kill myself. My mom just sat there in a state of shock and sobbed. Every few minutes, she expelled heavy, heart-wrenching sighs that I could feel press against my chest, causing me to gasp for air myself. Dad internalized all of it as his dose of humbling, stating ashamedly, “Well, I guess we can’t say it won’t happen to us can we?” Then he stormed out of the room.

After Dad’s exit, my younger sister’s unwelcome commentary finally ceased, and Mom’s tears waned. She offered her condolences. “I’m sorry, Honey.” She then left me with her nagging questions, “What are your options and what are you going to do now?”

My only answer was to move back home.

I didn’t know where else to go, but I knew I wouldn’t stay long. Within two weeks, I was back with my aunt and uncle. George and I took another run at our relationship and opted for some counseling. The very first session we were working through the loss of the baby, when he turned to me and said, “How do I know it was my kid?”

How awful! How humiliating! I had never given myself to any other man. Still, I stayed with him! His harsh degradation made the truckload of shame I heaped on top of my head all the weightier. I anguished over giving the college a bad name and dragging my parents through the mud. I was ashamed of myself for all of my wrong decisions.

I moved out on my own and for a season, I just existed, full of regret, but not changing my habits. I spent days serving burgers and fries, and nights surrendering to my boyfriend.

When I did go to my own apartment, I navigated surveillance cameras and big iron gates surrounding the complex just to enter. Their ominous presence feigned

protection from the evil that lurked down every ally in the neighborhood. I slept with pepper spray on the nightstand and a baseball bat within reach. When walking from my car to the apartment, I carried that pepper spray in front of me, turned on, with a finger on the trigger.

One night when the fire alarms went off, I called my mom to ask if it would be better to burn to death or escape the fire, then be raped, shot, or stabbed. I don’t remember how she answered such a ludicrous question, but I do know that when I did go outside, I stayed by the fire truck.

I lived there because it was cheap rent, with utilities included, but, I lived in fear the whole time. I avoided going home most of the time and used that address as a cover. More often, I stayed with George.

Some of the monotony, and all of the dread, dissipated when I moved in with Angela. This sweet, elderly lady had need of some light housework. She offered in exchange room and board. We knew one another from the Southern Baptist church we both attended. She had been my Sunday School teacher and the AWANA director when I was a kid. Kindhearted Angela learned that her pre-school “Cubby” she once taught to memorize Scriptures was living as an adult in a terrible apartment in a tainted section of town. There, women stood on street corners, and apartment residents had to step over drunks passed out on the building’s front steps. Angela wouldn’t have it. She took me in.

In her care and company, I tried to make sense of everything and get back on my feet.

George moved to Texas, for a new position in a thriving company. He traded in his two-door black Chevy for a cherry red Corvette and a jet ski and trailer. I would fly down quite often to see him. Freely paying for the airline ticket and handing me extra cash, George insisted it would

make up for hours lost at my job. Frequently, he helped cover my bills. Looking back, it sickens me to realize he was paying me a tawdry kind of wage for skills he benefitted from personally. Blinded by his charity, the bouquets of roses I’d receive between visits, and the engagement ring on my finger, I let the cycle continue, even when he got verbally abusive.

Per our usual hypocritical habit, after Saturday night sinning, we attended church on Sunday morning. George frequently introduced me as his friend to his newfound Texas circle of influence. I questioned as to why he didn’t tell them I was his fiancé. Time and again, he brushed it off flippantly as an unnecessary detail. On Christmas Eve 1995, I discovered the real reason. George was cheating with two other women! They knew about me, but I didn’t have a clue about them.

The man I loved, totally rejected me. Had I not given him all of me! Had I not gone through so much with him! Suddenly, I wasn’t close enough, pretty enough, or good enough.

That ended the four-year cycle of our contentious relationship. But, not before he plundered my co-signed checking account and left me shamed again. He blew a thousand dollars of my money on gifts for others! All I got for Christmas was a bunch of bank notices chastising me for the bounced checks. I thought my life was over, yet again.

I wanted to run! Run from the hurt, run from the shame, and run from my family. I didn’t want to face my actions, or take responsibility. I ran to anywhere or anything, except the only thing that mattered – Jesus.

I was so lost and hurt, and not good enough to be loved by anyone. Not even good enough to keep my baby.

Over the next several years, I sporadically tried to get my life on track. Counseling and therapy helped only a little. Nothing seemed to be able to piece together the shards left from such self-inflicted carelessness and the cruel consequences of poor choices.

I continued at times to contemplate taking my life, to just be free of the misery. On other days, I masked the pain with alcohol. Bar hopping on Friday nights became my way of life. So enamored with pleasing people and playing whatever role helped me to fit in, I had no idea who I was or where I was going.

It took me six years to figure out that the problem wasn’t my circumstances or where I lived. It wasn’t my job or my choice of friends. My problem was me. Every time I pushed off the starting block, I ran encumbered with a pack strapped to my back, full of the same old emotional baggage. The places and people would look different, but the situation remained too familiar. As long as I kept running my sorry race, I continued to struggle and fail, to stumble and fall –whether down concrete steps or into a pit of despair.

“The wicked flee though no one pursues...” Proverbs 44:15

From Shards

Passionately Pursued to Saved

In my messed up exodus from God, the Holy One still knew me, pursued me, and flat-out took care of me. I, the ultimate poser, went to church on Sunday morning but had no desire to have a relationship with Jesus. Though running from Him and denying His authority, God still provided for me.

At one point, He used a growling and groaning empty stomach to open my eyes and awaken my soul. I was very short on food and had gone to our church food bank to see if I could sign up for assistance. Unfortunately, it would be a week before I could talk to the lady in charge who would help me with the paperwork to process my application. Even then, the pastor cautioned that the provisions would be minimal. All I could say in response was, “Well, what am I supposed to eat until then?”

He replied, “We will just pray that God will provide for you in a different way.”

Slight on faith, but filled with plenty of humiliation, I slinked my way back out to the street. When I went to open the driver-side door to my car, on the ground, right at my feet, sat a can of food. It stood straight up, slightly smashed on the bottom. I thought, OK, God, here’s my next meal. I picked it up and put it in the car.

A

As I drove home, I noticed cans and boxes of food placed remarkably along my route at almost every block, every stop sign, or stoplight, perched on the street just outside my car door. Surprisingly, none of them were toppled onto their side and not one appeared damaged, other than smashed in about an inch on the bottom. Every can looked like it had dropped straight down from a huge hand in heaven and landed with a dramatic thud! I drove around the neighborhood in search of someone carrying a bag of groceries who may have been leaving the trail. I never found any hint of such a person. There were no answers to the mystery, and only one response: “Thank you, God, for providing for me even when I was running from you.”

Once my needs were satisfied, sadly, it didn’t take long to dismiss such loving provision and forget God’s personal miracle. Then, on New Year’s Eve right after George and I split up, the Lord reminded me once again just how much He cared.

Youth leaders from that same church called and asked me to serve as a chaperone for their youth lock-in. I certainly had nothing else to do, now single and still sulking. So, I went.

Around 10 p.m., everyone gathered to watch the movie Against a Crooked Sky. Teenagers just a little younger than me grabbed plates filled with salty, sweet, crunchy, and chocolaty snacks. They settled in, covered in blankets, curled up on the floor, or slumped into chairs next to their buddies. I popped the video in, flipped the lights out, and found my piece of carpet real estate to watch the flick with the pack.

As I sat captivated by the story, something inside began softening, changing, opening, and breaking. I tried to fight the feelings washing over me, but I longed to know someone who would lay down his life for me like the main character Sam had done for his sister. I couldn’t ignore the

ache in my soul that brought to mind all of the lessons my parents had taught me my whole life. They explained how Jesus took my place on the cross. As a young child, I logged the information in my head, but that night, the idea traveled the longest journey ever. The love of God moved from my mind to my heart.

With my eyes fixed on the screen, I began understanding my deepest need for a savior. God did love me! He would forgive me! He wanted my mess, my shattered life, my ash heap, and me, a broken vessel. That’s why He came. That’s why he died on the cross. That’s why He rose from the dead!

After the movie ended just before midnight, I slipped away from the crowd unnoticed. I found a secluded spot in the church boiler room. The air hung musty and stale. Dried spider carcasses dotted the floor. Cobwebs, where once they perched, collected dust and hung suspended from corner to corner. Any other time, I would have cringed at the filth and cowered from the eerie confinement. That night, none of it bothered me. It suited perfectly the condition of my heart. I was dead and tangled in this web. I knew I could not get free from it on my own. So, in that place, I knelt on a cold, concrete floor surrounded by dead bugs. In between sobs and wiping tears that streamed down my face, I cried out to God in prayer.

“God I need you! I need a Savior. I am a sinner, and if you want my dead life, my life that’s worth nothing, You can have it. Here I am. I am yours!”

Since that night, I have never been alone. My friend and Savior Jesus has been with me. I have not, by any means, done anything perfectly, for I am human and reside in a sinfallen world.

But...

I

am no longer ashamed... about my family, my life, nor what I have done.

I am FORGIVEN.

“To you they cried out and were saved; in you they trusted and were not put to shame.”

Psalm 22:5

Bumps and Breaks

Falling Forward Toward Change

Christ lived in my heart once again, and in May of 1996, for a short season, I lived back with my parents in Iowa. This time, my help around the house came with an improved attitude. I chose to be better instead of bitter, because of my Savior.

I willingly took on chores, like mowing the yard. Even that small shift was evidence of my heart change. Just four years earlier, I left thinking that I couldn’t wait to get out of that crummy house and town.

My folks’ earth contact home anchored itself to a sloping backyard that ended tucked up about six inches under the rooftop. Prodding a push mower up the hill backward was a workout, calling for determined steps to prevent slipping and dangerously falling into razor-sharp, spinning mower blades. I knew the risk and kept my eyes fixed on the mower, pressing the handle into my hips and dragging it upwards methodically. Despite my caution, all safety measures flopped when I blindly stepped into a hole dug by our dog. I flew backward, releasing the lawn mower throttle. She sped down the grassy slope, finally whirring to a stop. I came to an abrupt halt myself when I smacked the base of my neck on the rigid mix of wood, metal, and tar paper shingles at the edge of the roof.

I hit that ledge with so much force that my head whiplashed, jerking forward, then whacking the house again! That time, I went down for the count. The next thing I remember was my eight-year-old sister’s voice.

“Michelle, Michelle, are you OK? Are you OK?” she shouted.

After rousing, I stood totteringly and staggered to the house for a drink of water.

“I feel very tired,” I told my sister. “I need to take a nap.”

She agreed to watch television while I rested. When my mom returned home, she woke me up, and I told her what had happened. Nothing more came of it until a few days later.

I worked as a checkout clerk at a large department store in a nearby town. I looked over the top of my register at the fellow employee in the checkout next to me and flatly said, “I’m about ready to pass out. Do you know what to do?” She said, “Yes,” just as I slumped over the edge of my register.

For the next three months, the head concussion I incurred from my lawn-mowing fiasco would cause my brain to swell and hinder my ability to walk. I was dizzy a lot, relegated to a wheelchair for a while, and I had to relearn to navigate with the help of a walker. I couldn’t bathe or shower, so I moved in with a friend in Omaha. She and my mom split duties to help me cope and recover.

Amid that dependency and downtime, God had me right where He wanted me – still and ready to listen. He had my attention and did a great work in my heart. God reminded me that I was His, and He was mine. If I would let Him lead, He would use my life for something good. I still had a lot to learn and a long way to go, but God was at work on me.

Falling Forward

By late August, the waiting ended. A full recovery ushered in a big adventure. I booked a bus trip to South Carolina and shipped all of my belongings to Wesleyan University, where I enrolled for the fall semester. I ended up arriving late, missing one of my connecting buses. My stuff arrived three days before I did! Fortunately, I got there before classes started and moved onto campus over the weekend, obtaining dorm access by presenting my acceptance letter.

I was there by myself. This time I wasn’t afraid. Neither was I pregnant. I wasn’t bitter or brooding. I wasn’t a bratty kid running from home. Instead, I purposefully headed somewhere I’d never been and somewhere that my parents had never been. And this time, I felt like God called me there.

Monday morning came around where I merged with the masses to stand in line at the registrar’s office to finalize my enrollment. My reward for patience was a student ID card and directions to the bookstore. There, I plunked down sweet cash for greater knowledge. About two hours later, I hit the financial aid office. The first question asked of me was how I planned on paying for their valuable services. I informed the lady behind the desk that financial assistance and a work-study program should cover my tuition.

“I’m here to sign up for those,” I said.

“You didn’t receive our letter?” she asked.

“What letter?” I countered. “I’ve been on a bus for four days.”

She casually ventured that the letter and I must have missed one another, and then she informed me of its contents. Her recap consisted of, “You have lost all financial assistance.”

Virtually in shock, I stood there doing the math. I could not afford to attend a single class at $300 per credit

hour. I had spent all my money on books, a bus ticket, and shipping everything forward. There I stood. I knew nobody, had no job, and had not even a dollar to my name.

I immediately tried to refund the books. The store would only pay me the used book price, which seemed ridiculous since I had them in my possession for a mere two hours! School policy left me no choice. I cashed in the books to get whatever they were willing to pay. Still, it wasn’t enough for a bus ticket home.

The university kindly allowed me to stay on campus for one week, while I looked for another place to stay. Eventually, a sweet, young couple took me in for about three months. During this time, I managed to secure a job at a wellknown retail store close to campus, all thanks to my new friend Dave who knew the area well. We met while waiting in line for registration, and his helpfulness and friendly demeanor quickly catapulted him to best-friend status. He was a godsend, and I will forever be grateful for him.

In addition to the job, I found a church home, thanks to my host family. One Wednesday night, the lady I had been staying with said, “You know, we really need to get you a car. While we’re at church tonight, I’ll give that as a prayer request.”

I had never seen prayer answered so quickly! That very night after services ended, someone approached and said, “Can you and Michelle come to my house? I just bought a brand-new van for my dog grooming company. If she wants the vehicle I used before, she can just have it. I will give it to her.”

I was flabbergasted as I watched God provide for me every step of the way. He did it through complete strangers who were loving me and there for me. I enjoyed that first semester at college and those weeks at the church

I sang in the choir, and even participated in a trip to Orlando, Fl., to perform in a Christmas story production.

Still feeling inexperienced in so many ways, I gradually developed my sense of self, making progress one small step at a time. It wasn’t always a smooth journey, though. There were hiccups along the way, such as when I ended up in debt despite working two part-time jobs and doing some cleaning on the side. At times, I found myself using the little I had to support the needs of my friends, even though I knew it wasn’t sustainable in the long run.

About the time I felt I was stumbling mostly in the right direction, my aunt in Omaha called with a prayer request. “Michelle, would you pray for the school where my kids attend?” she asked. “They need new teachers this fall.” Little did I know the series of events that a single phone conversation would set into motion.

I started praying over my aunt’s request. Shortly after our conversation, I lost one of my jobs. My first thought was for the rent I suddenly couldn’t afford. Fortunately, my parttime job with the city of Clemson would possibly become a permanent position. I applied for the upgrade. Unfortunately, so did others. When it came down to one other lady and me, she got hired.

I was down to one clerking job and running out of money, options, and places to live. I resorted to living out of the back of my car. I would pull onto the college campus late at night. I always chose the safest lot where I knew the security guard was on duty. There I would park my car. I got away with it for a while because I still had the parking sticker for the campus that was issued before I learned I couldn’t afford to attend. After fitful nights of restless sleep,

I got up each morning and went to work. I did that for a couple of weeks before my friend finally found out and asked, “Why don’t you just stay with me?”

I didn’t feel fully comfortable living with Dave and his two sons, but I had nowhere else to go. I moved in with them.

Chalk it up to bad timing, but Dave was in the middle of moving. Most of his belongings went to a storage unit, so we emptied the house he was leaving and hauled nearly everything he owned to a storage unit for safekeeping. He had about a week’s gap between getting out of the old and getting into the next place. With the little bit of cash Dave had on hand, we rented a room at a hotel during the interim.

During our last trip to Dave’s house to gather more of his possessions for transfer to the storage unit, we unfortunately got into a car accident. The van we borrowed was T-boned and the impact caused my seat to break. I was thrown into Dave’s lap and my glasses were flung out of the window. The paramedics arrived at the scene and were concerned that I may have broken my neck.They immediately immobilized it in a brace, laid me on a stretcher, and rushed me to the emergency room. After being released, I contacted Dave who came to pick me up in a borrowed car. The totaled van was left in the care of the tow service.

I had lost two jobs and occupied a hospital bed. I had lived in an empty house and then in a hotel room that served briefly as a makeshift home. Then, not even a week later, I was in another accident. I backed right over the edge of a cement pad, wrecking my bumper and tire. Two days later, I watched my car get repossessed due to a missed payment.

Let’s recap, shall we? Strike One – losing one of three jobs, so I can no longer afford my rent. Strike Two -

getting overlooked for a promotion at my second job, so the temp position gets nixed. Strike Three -- homeless, car wrecked twice over, then car repossessed, and down to one part-time job to put food on the table.

The day after my car went bye-bye, I told my friend, who was hauling me to my last remaining source of income, “At least I still have a job with the company that transferred me from Nebraska to South Carolina.” I knew with certainty that if it ended, it would be a sure sign that I should move back to Omaha.

Ann, one of the managers at that store, found out that I was pretty much homeless and had no vehicle. Out of incredible kindness, she said, “I will put your hours pretty much the same as mine, and you can come and live with me.”

I moved all of my stuff out of storage and in with Ann. My stay was short-lived. Soon after accepting her generous offer, I clocked out for a break at work, then returned to my register to buy a pop. After my shift ended, a different manager called me into the office to inform me that I no longer worked for the store. I had forgotten to sign out of my register, so it looked like I signed on to my register, checked myself through, and used my employee discount. That broke store policy and meant immediate termination. Even though someone else was running my register on my number, I got fired from this massive chain store over a 14cent discrepancy.

After sharing my dilemma with Ann, back at the house, she offered a reasonable and immediate solution. “How about tomorrow when I’m off work, we go to the unemployment office?”

As I stood in line filling out the paperwork, Ann explained that I would be getting a percentage of my

paycheck, as long as I filled out a set number of applications each week.

Ann consoled me by saying, “That’ll make you enough money to at least live on, pay us a little rent, and then you can maybe get a car back and get back on your feet.”

Though she intended for her words to comfort me, I was crying and feeling sorry for myself. My life was falling apart AGAIN! I had come to South Carolina to prove to the world that I could make it on my own. Instead, I had moved nearly a dozen times and lost three jobs. I was right back where I started. I had wasted another year of my life.

As I was crying and mentally rehashing my woes on the trip back to Ann’s, I looked up to see a coal-black billboard with giant, glaring white block letters that boldly read, “What else do I have to do to get your attention? ~ God.”

I was shocked! I immediately turned to Ann, “Did you see that?”

I described the towering artwork to her, insisting she must surely have seen the gargantuan letters on that mammoth sign. She calmly replied, “There wasn’t a billboard there.”

When we got home, I immediately called my friend Dave and told him, “You have to come see this billboard! Pick me up tomorrow morning if you have time.”

Thursday morning, Dave drove me to the site where I saw that divine message, but there was no billboard. While we stood on the grassy patch where just one day prior stood a towering metal frame hoisting nearly 50 feet of boards and graphics, I still insisted, “It was here! It was huge! It had this message for me!”

Dave stopped where that sign should have stood and said, “Michelle, do you remember what you told me? You

said if you lost your job, it would be a sign that you needed to head back to Omaha.”

I snipped back at him, “Well yeah, that’s all fine and dandy, but I don’t have any money. I don’t have any way to get any of my stuff back and there’s no way I can get back to Omaha. I’m stuck! I’m stuck here! I’m trapped!”

Dave countered with calm, forgiving advice when he said, “Why don’t we go back to where you’re staying, and you can call your aunt who lives in Omaha to see if she has any ideas about what you should do.”

I followed his sound counsel and picked up the phone. “You are never gonna believe this,” I said in a quivering voice, “but I think I’m supposed to come back to Omaha. I just don’t have any way to get there.”

My aunt said excitedly, “Are you kidding me? Last night at church, someone walked up to me and handed me money and said, ‘This is for Michelle’s bus ticket home.’”

My aunt continued to relay the benefactor’s message. “‘I don’t know what or why this is happening,’ she told her, ‘but, you’re supposed to go home tonight and buy Michelle a bus ticket so that she can come home.’

“Your bus ticket is already purchased for next Tuesday morning,” my aunt exclaimed, “and we will be there to pick you up when you get here.”

I had 24 hours to confirm the trip from my end, and not nearly enough time to get my belongings boxed up. I left everything I owned with my friend there in South Carolina and told Ann if I ever had the opportunity, or when I got the money, I’d either come back and get it, or I’d send money for her to ship it. I packed a single suitcase and a backpack that next Tuesday morning and ascended the steps of a Greyhound bus headed home.

When I got to Omaha, all I owned were the clothes on my back and the few personal items I shoved into the carry-on. The bus line had lost my lone piece of checked luggage. My aunt immediately took me to a thrift store to do some shopping. While we looked for bargain options for a basic wardrobe, she ventured my return as well-timed to apply for the Christian school teaching job she had asked me to pray about.

I agreed to meet with the principal, not knowing that she had already scheduled an appointment on my behalf. At 10:00 a.m. the following morning, I met with a sweetheart of a lady. As principal, she was to fill the need for a secondgrade teacher for the year. I did not possess a teaching certificate. I barely had any college under my belt.

“I don’t know anything about teaching,” I confessed.

“I will teach you if you’re willing to learn” she responded.

My shallow reply: “Well, I don’t have anything better to do. I guess I will.”

She quickly sealed the deal.“Great! School starts on Monday.”

It was Friday morning, and the reality hit that I would face a class of 17 students on a Monday morning! I had two days to prepare my classroom and lesson plans, as well as curb the fear boiling up from within. Talk about nervesous! I trembled and wanted to scream, I can’t do this! There’s no way! I was so stifled by anxiety that no words parted my lips. My insecurities raged on, hidden within.

The principal explained that I didn’t need a teaching certificate because this was considered a mission home school. None of the teachers received paid salaries. Instead, they had to provide their own support. My aunt and uncle vowed to provide for me financially and medically,

serving as my mission sponsor. Two certified teachers served on staff, meeting the school criteria that allowed the rest of the teachers to volunteer.

This kind, soft-spoken, and selfless administrator lovingly offered a crash course in writing lesson plans, preparing a lesson, understanding it, and translating the teacher manual. Then she left me to absorb the shock, and rise to the occasion.

I called my aunt into the room.“I need help!” I said. “We have to totally clean this room, get all the name tags done, and place them on the desks. And I need all this stuff!”

We headed to the store that same day to purchase the long list of supplies. Then, on Saturday, the principal and her family, along with my aunt and more extended family, came to help me set up the classroom and prepare the lessons.

I will forever be grateful for my aunt and uncle! They were foundational in my life. I bounced in and out of their home many times while trying to “find myself.” Every time I circled back, they welcomed me without judgment. Love, grace, mercy, and generosity were the solid particles that kept their pillar of strength unwavering and waiting for me.

I stepped into the role of a second-grade teacher with their blessing. I was scared to death! But, after volunteering in the classroom for two years, I learned teaching was my gift. I loved it! I enjoyed that the kids seemed to learn a lot from me. Feeding their minds was truly a fun time in my life.

God amazingly met my needs during that time and altered my future. I worked for two years without receiving a paycheck, yet I watched in wonder how God provided. Not just through my family’s sponsorship. When parents of one of my students said they were buying a new vehicle, they gave me their old one! I would also see the hand of God work through even more unusual circumstances.

A

The summer between those two academic calendars, I began having horrible tonsil issues. Even daily doses of high-powered antibiotics failed to squelch the infection and swelling. To alleviate some of the cost of treatment, I applied for state assistance. Typical bureaucratic red tape indicated an 8- to 12-week process before I could get those irritated tonsils addressed. When I explained that I only had six weeks left of the summer to allay the scoundrels, the lady at the state office pursed her lips, shook her head side to side, and flatly told me, “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

A week later, that same clerk called me and said, “Hey, can you come in? By the way, all of your paperwork has totally been, um... approved.”

My God is amazing! However, because I was an adult and the tonsils were so swollen, it took two surgeries and two hospital stays later before I was back on my feet just in time for the school year to start.

One pair of tonsils down and a couple of grades higher at the school is where I found my groove teaching 4th graders. In 1998, I also started attending the House of Prayer church in Omaha. Under the care of Pator Les and his wife Melissa, who became very, very dear friends of mine, I became their student. They taught me that I needed to care for myself. They instilled the knowledge that I was lovable and loved by many.

Their compassionate schooling did not change the fact that I still felt shame, guilt, fear, rejection, and depression at times. But, even if I fell short of an A+, at least I believed I was moving in the right direction. I was falling forward.

“In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

Romans 8:26-28

Repairing a Broken Heart

Better Use Super Glue And a Chipped Childhood

Counseling. The mere mention of the word for most people elicits notions of a desperate, last resort. For me, the word meant sweet release. To heed their advice and come out on the better end of my troubled past, my counselors encouraged me to write letters to people who had hurt me. I could deliver them to the ones I wanted, and burn the others. The goal was to get all of my emotions out on paper.

“Dear Jim,” I quickly scribbled on a blank page. Jim was a guy I met while working at the YMCA when I lived with my aunt and uncle. His tall stature, hazel eyes, and muscular build captured my interest. He was a maintenance guy at the “Y,” where I worked in the daycare. After work, we often went for a bite to eat or played a round of racquetball.

Jim was new in his faith in Christ, so he joined my uncle, aunt, and me for a weekly Bible study to learn more. After several weeks of spontaneous dates and digging into the scriptures together, our friendship took a turn. One night, I walked him to the front door to see him out, and he kissed me good night. The unexpected peck paled in comparison to his words that followed.

“Will you marry me?” Jim spouted, with exceptionally little ceremony.

His abrupt question startled me into silence. Barely past the sting of George, I needed time to pray and think.

A Willing Vessel

“Give me a week,” I answered, almost as unceremoniously as his query.

Thursday of the following week, layers of bubbles mounded atop the water filling the bathroom tub. I planned to crawl in, sit back and soak away the cares of the day. The phone rang, piercing the daze I already embraced.

“Michelle, it’s for you,” called my aunt. “It’s Jim.”

My heart raced, as a knot log-jammed my throat. I felt nauseous, uncertain which to blame for my wooziness -the steamy room or the fluttering in my stomach. My palms felt damp, though not yet immersed in the warm bath water.

I had determined my response and steadied the swirling thoughts in my head. When I got to the phone, I would voice my decision. While bubbles snapped like a bowl of rice cereal, I wrapped myself in a towel and nervously picked up the receiver, ready to say “yes,” to his proposal.

“Hello, how are you?” I managed.

Simple conversation for a moment helped ease my nerves. Then, Jim took the lead and steered the topic in a new direction.

“There is something I need to tell you,” he said. “Michelle, I am sorry. I must have missed it. You are not the one for me. Last weekend I met this girl, Kim. I want to go out with her.”

He continued as if he had nonchalantly invited me for coffee and then decided he’d rather have tea. I did not get an opportunity to say yes, or protest. While I stood silent, one hand scrunching my towel, the other cradling the phone in an ever-tightening clutch, he wrapped up the call.

“I care about you and hope the best for you, but we have to stop seeing each other,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Better Use Super Glue

I got off the phone in shock. Crushed again and left alone and cold, more from the pain in my heart than the draft at my legs. It all ended quite the opposite of what I had planned for that evening.

Writing his letter helped clarify the jumbled perceptions and emotions I had bottled up inside but had failed to process. I discovered that when you care about people deeply, you hurt deeply. Sure, I wanted the best for each of the people who had disappointed me, discarded me, or destroyed me. I still cared for them, even when they were hurting me.

Maybe, that was how my folks felt every time I rebelled against them. Theirs was the next letter I needed to compose.

In a lengthy, multi-page attempt, I told my parents how I felt and that God was truly getting a foothold in my life. I humbly ventured my desire to reconcile my past.

Through that letter, God brought me into a wonderful relationship with my parents. I cleared the air, began healing the past, and started recovering lost relationships. I learned a lot about my parents and their childhoods. I discovered why they did the things they did. Communication between us revealed their reasons for their approaches to many situations. Best of all, I gained a delightful relationship with my father that I never dreamed existed.

Sometimes as teenagers, we see our parents only as they are in the present. We don’t consider what they’ve been through. We can’t know their hearts’ anxieties or the tragedies their lives have endured. The moment I realized my parents ached and sincerely wept for me brought a tremendous healing in our relationship. That bond grew stronger and more precious to me with each passing year. I thank my parents so much for everything they did out of the goodness of their hearts.

A Willing Vessel

My parents truly did the best they knew how. I’m thankful to my mom and dad for loving God, praying for me, and never giving up on me.

February of 1998 turned into a healing time for me. That’s when I realized that the Holy Spirit lived in me, and I had His power within me to live, move, breathe, and have my being. I had gone to a women’s conference with my fellow school teachers. I think I spent more time on my face in prayer than I did upright that weekend. God gave me a vision during one, hour-long impassioned moment while I was lying on the ground with my hands straight up to the sky. It had to be God bearing me up, because in my own strength, I could never have held that position for that long. With arms lifted and eyes closed, I saw the heavens open up and Christ placing in my cradled hands a newborn baby.

The Holy Spirit said silently to me, “This is your child whom you have lost, but I’m going to give you new children. Anybody you serve; anybody you love; anybody you help – each is my child. Love them. Help them. Pray for them. Disciple and mentor them. Be there for them. In doing so, you have loved Me.”

His quiet but clear command reminded me of a list of questions in scripture: “Lord, when did we feed you?” “When did we give you clothes?” “When did we visit you?”

“And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’” Matthew 25:40-45.

That weekend revolutionized my life! It changed my outlook on what God was calling me to do, and reshaped who I was. My life suddenly had purpose. What God began instilling in my heart on that very day has never changed.

Better Use Super Glue

At the conclusion of the school year, I landed a summer job at a grocery store that turned into full-time employment for several years. Apart from work, I dug into God’s Word at every opportunity and immersed myself in praise and worship music. As I discovered who I was, I became more aware of who God was, and that He could work in and through me. He could use even me. I wasn’t too messed up, too ruined, too screwed up. Sure, I was still carrying too many things from the past, but as He used me, He cleansed me. God strengthened and began transforming me into the person He wanted me to be. My prayer very quickly became (and remains to this day) Lord, prepare me for what you are preparing for me.

He answered that prayer over and over again by providing opportunities to work in children’s ministry at the church I was attending. I headed up Vacation Bible Schools and directed countless puppet shows and Christmas programs. God also answered that prayer of preparation as I transitioned from working in a deli at a grocery store to moving up through the ranks within an agricultural insurance agency.

Just as I was learning the company’s computer software, news started circulating that the business was going bankrupt. We were all two months from pink slips, right in time for delivery on Valentine’s Day.

I couldn’t believe it! With my disbelief came the old negative thoughts. How could God let this happen? Why would I have thought things could be different?

God answered my doubt by preparing me for what He was preparing for me. A gentleman came to look at office furniture offered for sale as part of the liquidation efforts. He stopped by my desk and asked if I could come by his office later that afternoon. He worked as a head hunter for another

company. Since they were taking on a lot of the business from the firm that was going under, he wanted to employ a couple of people from inside who could help train his staff on the paperwork. Immediately his company hired me to work in their agriculture insurance department.

The new position came with a pay raise! And I only went three days without a job! I heard several months later that some of my former co-workers were still unemployed. God had my back. God had prepared the road before I even turned onto it. I felt more ready than ever to take on the world!

My aunt and uncle, on the other hand, remained leery about whether I was ready to move into a place of my own. They weren’t sure I had learned everything I needed about money and life management. I think they doubted I would make it, but I had to get out there and try. This time, I needed to trust God for what He was doing in my life instead of me trying to do it on my own.

I had relied on the Lord and debunked the worries of my family for an entire year by the time I got reacquainted with an old friend. Tom stood only a couple of inches taller than me. When he let his coal black hair grow out just a little, it curled and made him look more youthful. We started dating seriously. I liked his strong work ethic and how diligently he cared for his little six- and seven-year-old daughters.

Tom typically came over on Wednesday nights before church to have supper with me. If we didn’t dine in, we’d most likely be at our favorite restaurant, where we loved their chicken, red beans, and rice. His girls often stayed with me on the weekends. I curled their hair, and we pretended at tea parties. I fell in love with their dad and with them. They fell in love with me and were happy when Tom proposed.

Better Use Super Glue

With our engagement in 2003, we announced a wedding date of April 2004. I was so excited! Our pastor and his wife counseled Tom and me in marriage. We tallied up a lot of time together beyond those coaching sessions by heading up the puppet teams at our church and traveling across the state to take the programs to public conferences and several churches. Bible camps and a few hospital stays along the way propelled us to be there for one another and support each other during fun times as well as challenging days.

The weeks inched blissfully closer to our wedding date. I watched my fiancé grow in the Lord and felt my love grow deeper for him. I witnessed God restore a relationship between Tom and his estranged father. As for myself, I basked in the fabulous concept of no longer being single. It warmed my soul to its core.

Several months into the engagement and with wedding plans in full swing, my fiancé came to me after church one Wednesday night and said, “I don’t love you anymore. I want the ring back.”

I quivered in shock, my knees buckling. I feared I’d crumble to the floor in a heap. We were six weeks away from happily ever after. Every horrible, haunting notion of my unworthiness surged through me like murky, churning flood waters. They drowned my joy, my hope, and my dreams in their rushing currents, sweeping them violently away with his hurtful words.

I went to my pastor for solace, tears streaming down my cheeks. His prudent, but hard-to-take advice: “Michelle, if he won’t give you answers and doesn’t want to be with you, then you need to move on.”

It was good advice, and true. I tried so often with one-sided relationships. It’s hard work to make that kind last.

A Willing Vessel

Though I wanted answers that Tom was unwilling to provide, my only recourse was to let it go the best I could.

In the muddy mess of me that was left, all I could think was What did I do wrong? My next thought: What about those little girls? They had no way of knowing why all of a sudden I was gone. They would think I cold-heartedly just left them.

With the shards of dignity that remained, I went to Tom and said, “I will always love you and the girls, and I will pray for you. You have hurt me. I forgive you.”

I pulled the diamond from my finger, placed it in his hand, and walked away.

I cried and cried and cried.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

James 1:2-4

A Single Vessel

Poured Out for Others Ready for Service

When the tears finally dried, I began to see the benefits of being alone. Living single for the next several years freed me to be available. No strings. No obligations. No “let me check with my husband,” prior to answering “yes” to any number of requests. Most of which were tied to my church, and impacting the lives of children. I was free to focus on them.

I couldn’t believe I had come so far. I felt like I had been in bondage to my own distorted agenda. The chains of sin were finally broken. I lived in that freedom in my little white house perched on a corner lot. Its accommodations doubled in size thanks to the finished basement apartment where an older, disabled couple lived. Up in my quarters were two cozy bedrooms, and small areas defined by their use: kitchen, dining, living and laundry. It was certainly a step up from living in my car only a few years earlier.

I continued receiving counseling and working closely with Pastor Les and Melissa in church programs to maintain said freedom, and to reinforce my value in Christ. Through those sessions I began to see God working in me in order to work through me. I likened the process to the safety measures recited to airplane passengers before take-off. “In case of a change in cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop down. Please put on your own mask before helping others.”

I inhaled deeply words of wisdom that told me I was chosen, adopted, called by name and redeemed by Christ. I breathed out the knowledge that God would never give up or quit on me. In measured breaths, I strove to be my best through His strength and to move forward wherever He led.

With so many hours of wise counsel, my respect and affection for Pastor Les, his wife Melissa, and their children naturally grew. They sacrificed so much of their time to invest in my life. I wanted them to see the fruit of their efforts growing in me and for them to know that I loved my Lord all the more because of them. So, when 6’ 4” Pastor Les towered over me and presented a challenging request one spring day, I knew I had to give it serious consideration.

I remember that day vividly. The sun shone brightly and warmed the sidewalk, presenting a pleasantly soothing heat, the kind of warmth that beckons one to go barefoot. Pungent, sweet smells of freshly cut lawns perfumed my neighborhood. As I looked up -- way up from my shortlegged perspective -- the pastor’s blonde hair appeared nearly white, haloing the top of his head. I cupped my hand atop my brows and saw his blue eyes dancing with anticipation as he posed his serious plan.

“Michelle, I’d like to talk with you about a situation,” he said in fatherly fashion. “I am hoping you will be willing to help. There is a lady who has just gotten out of jail and is doing community service at the church. She needs a place to stay.”

Abigail was in her early-30s with a pretty rough upbringing behind her. She served a short jail sentence to match her minor offense. In that brief time behind bars, Abigail met Jesus. My role was to help mentor and disciple her in the Lord and help her to get transitioned back to life outside of prison, so that she could reunite with her children.

The pastor and I talked at length about the risks and logistics for sharing my home with a complete stranger. I needed time to think and pray. He heartily agreed.

There I was, just beginning my own journey through failures and daily struggles, still with the lies from my enemy Satan trying his fiercest to keep me oppressed and discouraged. Yet, God was ready to start using me, in spite of my broken, patched-together, repeatedly-chipped, inconstant-need-of-repair life. He wanted to pour his love, mercy, grace, and forgiveness into me and right through this broken pottery, all over someone else. Like the vision He had given me, I would be the vessel of His love.

Within a week, Abigail moved in and took the room that had formerly been converted into an office. I realized quickly that God asks us to do things that seem crazy and unpredictable. My latest circumstance only drove me deeper into Bible study. There I discovered that God teaches if we are to be the true hands and feet of Christ, there is no perfect scenario, nor perfect timing, except in accordance with His agenda.

Even though I knew very little about my new roommate, I had such a peace that overwhelmed me. I learned that it was about total trust in my Savior, not depending on what made sense, but simply doing what was right.

As we got to know one another better, it seemed that Abigail’s beautiful brown eyes lightened beneath her blonde bangs. Her joyful disposition transformed our house into a home. She was a lot of fun to be around and had a fire and passion to learn the things of God. We started a weekly Bible study and learned so much from each other. It was great to see how God allowed a complete stranger to become a trusted friend, and to teach me even more about what it means to be willing to get in the trenches with people.

A Willing Vessel

Over time, I watched Abigail change and grow. My heart softened and my guard dropped. God reminded me repeatedly that anything I risked losing was entrusted to me by Himself, and it was for use for His kingdom. At that time, it was all about Abigail.

She learned God’s Word. She got a job. She learned to budget, and the Lord worked things out where she would get her children back. That last hurdle meant Abigail would have to move out and find a place with more room for all of them. For one brief year, our lives intertwined, and then she moved on. I saw her several years later. She still loved Jesus, and still struggled with temptations and overcoming the enemy, like most of us. And she was still free from prison. Praise the Lord!

Soon after Abigail moved out, Clara moved in. She worked in community service at the church as a secretary. Then another lady moved in. Of course, their company kickstarted a Bible study! I tried to impart to them, along the way, the amazing formula for how this God who does not need us, still wants us. He loves us into His kingdom, then wants to work in us and with us to accomplish great things.

Another year passed by pouring my time, heart and resources into my house guests. I helped them financially, just like my uncle had done for me. I encouraged them to always seek God. And then they moved on. Again, it was down to one.

It seemed in the lapses between house guests, I would turn inward and begin again to question everything. When no one was there to love on, I’d feel like a failure. If I did minister, I’d wonder why God would want to use me. I felt daily that I gave into the temptations and lies from the enemy. Like the Apostle Paul, I begged the question: “Why do I do the things I don’t want to do, and do not do the things I should do?”

Poured Out for Others

Self worth and certain identity were foreigners, banished to some distant land by all the lies I carried from my past to my present. I still saw everything through a warped perception. My skeletons kept rising over and over from the shallow graves where I buried them. They would not stop haunting me from behind closed doors.

Even as a child of the most high God, my enemy roared! He lay crouching at every corner, still seeking to devour me. Satan continued to frustrate and keep me in bondage to the temptations and distorted view of my life. His aim: To render me ineffective for God’s kingdom. Satan sought to slay my relationships, silence my hopes, destroy my joy, and steal my confidence in Christ.

God had to take me through arduous combat to fit this soldier with the kind of understanding and patience it would take for the next woman He brought into my life. In the training, I was glad I did not see the future. I would have been horrified to think of where and what God was leading me into next.

My next roomie approached me out of the blue.

Crystal towered over me, her hazel eyes laser fixed on mine, as she nervously bit her lower lip and discreetly asked, “Can we talk?”

We stepped away from the flow of passersby and found a spot a little more private. Crystal swept her hand under her right ear and brushed her long brown hair to the back in a gesture that indicated she would be getting straight to the point.

She posed one pressing question as a new believer: “Now that I have Jesus as my Savior, is it wrong of me to go to church in the morning, then go home and get high?”

That was one of the easiest questions I’d ever answered.

“Yeah, that’s not exactly what God wants us to do to our bodies, which are the temples of the Holy Ghost,” I told her. “And when we serve Him and then go home and do the opposite of what His Word teaches us, then yes, that’s wrong.” She said, “Well, I don’t know what to do to get out of the drug house I live in and away from dealing in drugs. I don’t know where to go. If I leave, they’re going to find me and hurt me or hurt my babies.”

I offered a solution. “Crystal,” I said, “I’ll help you when you are willing to be helped. When you’re ready, you call me.”

It was a Friday afternoon. I was just getting off work and took advantage of the beautiful weather to roll down the windows and let the wind whip through my hair on the commute home. It was one of those days when you just wish you could be on the beach, basking in a sun-warmed blanket of nothingness while drifting in and out of sleep. The day would suit a walk in the white, sparkling sand, with your toes sinking into the ever-shifting grains. Even in the middle of America, far from the ocean waves, I could imagine this day in paradise, listening to the steady, rhythmic cadence of salty water meeting sandy land, and hearing gulls screeching above. I was lost in my fantasy and feeling all sorts of stress drifting away with my daydream when my cell phone rang.

Crystal answered.

“They all just left to go to the grocery store,” she said anxiously. “We have about 30 to 45 minutes. Come get me and my kids!”

I told her to start packing in garbage bags, empty trash cans, laundry baskets, whatever she could find. I was on my way. I drove as quickly and safely as I could, leaving my daydream beach growing insignificant in the rearview

mirror. It fully disappeared the minute I walked toward Crystal’s little, white house.

I could smell a bitter stench that grew more intense when I opened the side door into the kitchen. All the shades were drawn and the windows closed, thwarting any possibility for fresh air. What a sad, dark contrast to the beautiful day just beyond the heavy, filthy curtains obstructing its view. How could anyone live like this?

I stepped across once-plush carpet that now lay matted and soiled, and noticed that nearly every piece of furniture bore scars of serious neglect, with stains and tears to rival the carpet. Obviously, the residents preferred lifedestroying drugs to a healthy place to live.

I was so happy that Crystal’s eyes were opened and she realized this was not the life she wanted. She just needed someone willing to walk alongside her to help her get out of that environment. So, together we raced through the house snatching and shoving her belongings into anything handy. She already had most of the kids’ things in garbage bags. I helped sweep things off of the dressers into laundry baskets. We made a few trips to the car and loaded her precious 3-yearold daughter and 14-month-old son, with their “blankies” and stuffed animals in tow.

So young, yet, her daughter Dee knew something was up. She looked at me with wide, brown eyes that seemed to say, “Are we safe yet?” Her mom and I forced smiles and nods and offered words of assurance as we hurried from room to room. Our forced cheerful performance rendered little girl giggles and smiles. Her black, curly hair done up in braids bounced just a little when she laughed.

Little Jimmy, less in tune with the crisis at hand, waddled in his diaper, clutching his bottle as if that were the only security he had. He too, smiled up at me with his

big brown eyes and blonde curly hair. Neither of these sweet babies, nor we adults, knew just how much their world was about to change.

We drove away from that drug house back to my place, with Crystal and her kids following me in her car. The tension flying out the window a mere hour ago, now settled in my gut. What had I just walked into?

So many thoughts raced through my mind. I questioned whether I was qualified to help her and why on earth I was letting her live with me. I prayed and prayed again for God to guide my every day and let my plan be His plan.

Once clear of danger, I gave Crystal strict instructions to not tell anybody where she was or where she had left. Her phone started ringing off the hook. She did her best to not jeopardize any of our safety. Unfortunately, people from her past found out where she had moved. That led to multiple rounds of unseemly characters showing up high or drunk, wanting to force their way into our home. I threatened to call the cops when they began breaking down my door. It was a time of uncertainty and bouts of insecurity, but I knew God had led this small family to my home for me to be there for them. I did not waiver in my offer.

The next few months were trying on all of us. We lived in a small two-bedroom home. Crystal and baby Jimmy shared a room; I had my room; and for Dee, we created a makeshift space at the end of the dining room, with a bed and shelf for her things. We were cramped, but getting settled.

Then the real work began. Crystal did not have her finances in order, so, I did for her what my uncle had done for me. I took over her paychecks, and had her quit driving her car until both she and the car were legally licensed and insured. Abiding by the law instead of living in fear of the

police was a new concept for Crystal. We had many discussions on that topic.

Daily routines also took getting used to. We made arrangements for me to help Crystal get kids to daycare and her to work, before going to work myself. I served as taxi cab driver. I would get up every morning at 5:30 to get ready for work, get breakfast fixed, and pack our lunches. She would wake the kids and then we would drop them off at daycare at 6:30. From there, I’d drive her to work by 7:00, and I’d arrive at my job by 8:00. At day’s end, it was reverse order. I’d get off work at 5:00, pick her up by 5:30 and then go get the kids picked up from daycare by 6:00. It was a crazy life for about eight months.

Sleep deprivation didn’t stop me from clearly seeing the positive impact on Crystal and her kids. I could see her gratitude in everything she did. She helped so much around the house and with cooking. We had some wonderful times sharing meals, studying the Bible, praying and living together.

Just because things were going well did not mean Crystal didn’t grapple with hard stuff. She had been through so much at the drug house, that it took many nights of praying and crying with her to help her feel God’s love and forgiveness. She needed grace and mercy in her own life in order to bestow the same on others who had hurt her and her older sister. I daily tried to remind her how important she was to God; that she was special and created in His image. Simply hearing that God created her with a plan, and for the purpose of worshiping and bringing Him Glory, did not magically remove the difficulty of accepting such truth.

During this time, my prayer was, “Lord, do not let me lead her wrong, and give me your wisdom. I know if I pray for your wisdom, You will give it to me.”

A Willing Vessel

After several months, we finally got Crystal insured. I drove her to the license bureau to pay a fine, get her suspended license back, and legally tag the car. She was so happy when all those things started happening. I think at times she felt it would be impossible.

Her mental wrestling opened my eyes to my own habits. When something was too hard or not possible, I tended to come up with excuses for why it couldn’t happen. I sabotaged myself and felt like a failure again. As I watched Crystal make great strides toward what was next for her, I saw much of myself in her, sparring with the past and tempted to return to an old way of life.

She grew and grew and grew. So did I. We learned together how to help each other. We studied not only scripture, but budgeting, boundaries, and raising children. Many things had to be learned, and then taught. Time came and time went. And in the spring, after living with me about 18 months, it was time for her to step out for the first time completely on her own.

I helped her pack again, this time in calm, orderly fashion. We picked a day, found an apartment, and signed a lease. She moved in to an old school where the classrooms had been turned into apartments. We walked up the stairs and down the long hallway to her new home, appropriately decorated with a chalkboard and coat hook. I wanted to write in big, white print “You Go, Girl!”

What a satisfaction it was to keep in touch with her and to see how far she would indeed go. Crystal had her struggles, had more babies, and eventually remarried. She even went on to get her Masters degree and has done some amazing things with her life.

I would learn years later just how much Crystal credited me for giving her the start that she needed. She would

come to tell me how she wouldn’t be where she is today, if it were not for the time, energy, and money that I poured into her life to show her that she was loved. I think it’s amazing how God took me – the one who felt so unworthy, unloveable and poor – and used me to meet the needs of those exact things in someone else!

“Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be. My Father will honor the one who serves me.”

Some Cracks

Repairing Cracks in the Cup

Just Won’t Be Fixed

Fulfilled - and feeling empty. That’s how I would describe my once-again, single-resident household. When Crystal and the kids moved out, I longed for somebody with skin on to hug me, hold me, and tell me that life was going to be okay.

I wanted a family of my own some day. After three failed engagements, how could I even dream that anyone would ever want me? On top of that, I worked two to three jobs. That grinding routine left little time to foster my social life. My longings for companionship made me fixate on my lopsided lifestyle. I was pouring love into everybody else, but wondering who would be there for me.

Amid the loneliness and feeling sorry for myself, God reminded me to lean on Him. I spent several months alone and discovered that at that point in my life I definitely needed solitude to recharge. Once I gained renewed contentment, the Lord saw fit to bring in the next roommate.

God sent Lindsey, a beautiful, tall, tan woman with ebony hair and chocolate eyes. Her confidence equaled her beauty. My church hired this lovely lady as a secretary, and she desired to find a place to rent nearby.

Since I lived across the street, had the space, and she could afford it, she jumped at the chance. Though I provided the house, it was Lindsey that offered hospitality. She blessed me and spoke truth and joy into my life. She was on fire for the Lord, and her undaunted spirit didn’t need me to teach, train, or mentor her. I wasn’t called to disciple her. We were wholly destined to be exceptionally good friends. She and her friends encouraged me. We laughed together. We cried together. We positively had a great time.

In November of 2006, an enormous opportunity presented itself, measuring about 2,300 square feet. I bought a home! Lindsey moved with me into that big house, while many others offered unsolicited opinions for reasons why I should not have made the purchase. I heard pithy, cutting comments like: “You’re crazy” and “You’re an idiot.” I fielded rhetorical questions loaded with sarcasm and clearly seeking no answers: “What’s a single woman doing buying a 2,300 square foot home? Don’t you think that’s a little overkill?” Then there were the condemnations disguised as wise instruction: “You’re just wasting your money. You don’t need that big of a house.” However, I believed it was of God because Pastor Les and Melissa once again were able to bless me with a significant discount on the home and help me financially in the process. The church owned the house and was able to sell it to me. In turn, my purchase helped the church. It was a win, win for everyone.

I could not believe how much negativity I heard about my obedience to God’s calling. However, I did not live in that house long before all of their unwelcome commentaries faded from thought. I knew God was making room for more people for me to love and help.

About a year and a half later, Lindsey felt God leading elsewhere and moved on to what God had for her. It was great to see her a year later at a church revival. She

Repairing Cracks in the Cup

was engaged to a wonderful, godly man, and they were serving the Lord together.

In her absence, my younger sister ended up being the first new resident of my spacious house. Kayla came to me, needing support. I thought back to when she was just a baby, and I begrudgingly changed her diapers, fed her, or took her to daycare because Mom was at work. Still, there were other days when she was the delightful answer to my prayers, giving me a break from all the younger brothers.

When Kayla arrived, expecting a baby of her own, all I saw standing at my front door was that little, browneyed girl.

Unfortunately, this smiling child lay buried beneath an unplanned pregnancy, and a debilitating disease. It was a very trying time dealing with her Bipolar Disorder. Symptoms were so severe that she wouldn’t even get up to go to work some days. She lost interest in nearly everything, including self-care. Countless times during her pregnancy, she ended up in the hospital dehydrated because she simply couldn’t muster the energy to drink some water.

I wanted more than anything to help her. She was my sister. If I were not willing to invest my time and money into my own family, as I had done for strangers, then I wasn’t living up to the person God called me to be.

We set up a froggy-themed nursery and painted it blue and green. When her little boy arrived so small and frail, this aunty welcomed the refreshment of one so innocent.

During the same time my sister lived with me, another lady approached me with a startling claim.

“My mother is a witch,” she bluntly stated.

A Willing Vessel

She wasn’t describing a mean, grumpy old lady. Her mom was a self-professing, daily practicing, spell-casting witch. She experimented with seances and other mystic and menacing activities that come with such a dark world.

Her daughter Janet seemed quiet and reserved yet strong and determined. She said passionately and pleadingly, “I no longer want to live with my mother. I want to seek God. I want to do what God has for me; and I need to get out! I don’t know where to go.”

Of course, I offered, “Why don’t you live with me?”

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I entered her mother’s dark, dank house to help gather Janet’s things. An oppressiveness hung heavily in the room, trapped between walls where only fragmented strips of dusty light filtered through closed window blinds.

My stomach grew queasy from the stench of must and mold and the presence of devilish spirits. Her mother’s scowling stare, penetrating my every move, ratified my assumptions. She did not like me much. I wondered if she felt as sick to her stomach because of the Holy Spirit inside of me that I carried throughout her house.

I did not want to be there one second longer than necessary, and I knew that we needed to get Janet out quickly! As we left, her maleficent mother told me she had made a voodoo doll of me and would curse me if I ever double-crossed her. My steps accelerated, as did my prayers, claiming straightforwardly that God who is in me is greater than he that is in the world!

Though I offered the same guidance, support, and discipleship to my latest residents, something was different with these two. They did not want to leave their “stuff”

Repairing Cracks in the Cup

behind. I felt like they were playing the game, but were not sincerely willing to be helped like the others. I felt like they were the “Jonahs” on my ship, running from God and rocking the boat.

It seemed the longer I let them live with me, the more I struggled in my walk with God. Where there had been none, now there were issues with my job. Worse, I wrestled with a foul attitude within myself. There were so many things that I was fighting within and without. I didn’t realize how much it was all wearing me down.

After my sister’s baby was born, she frequently left him alone. It became exceedingly clear that she did not quite grasp the totality of motherhood. Kayla didn’t seem to be able to balance her selfish desires with the long, sleepless nights and round-the-clock care for her baby boy.

One night, she went out and did not tell me she was leaving. When she came in the next morning, this single, childless adult lit into her like a mama bear!

“What do you think you’re doing?” I shouted. “You know that you’re neglecting your child. You didn’t even make sure that there was someone to care for him or that the person you left him with knew they were supposed to take care of him! If he would have cried in the middle of the night, maybe I would have awakened, but I wouldn’t have known to go get him.”

I prayed later, asking God to forgive me for the way I reacted.

“God, I just need your help!”

In that humbling moment, I recalled the bible story of the Israelites instructed by God to put blood over their doors to protect them from the angel of death.

He would come in the night and take the lives of every firstborn son in Egypt who was not covered by the blood. I immensely felt like I was to do likewise. I went out and bought a can of paint and painted my front door crimson red. A couple of nights later, my sister left again. The next morning, I found her sleeping on the front porch.

“Why didn’t you come in the house,” I said incredulously.

She replied, “Because you changed the locks on the door!”

“I did not,” I answered. “Where’s your key?”

I placed her key in the handle, and with one click, the door swung open. I still believe that the “blood” that covered the door kept whatever spirit was on her from coming into my house that night.

My amazing God knows how to protect us when we are in the center of His will. I’ve heard it said there’s only one better place to be than in the center of God’s will. That is to be in His presence. I fought hard for entrance to that coveted and holy place near the heart of God.

Day in and day out, one upheaval at a time, these two women resolutely wore me slick. Unfortunately, I provided my version of fuel to the fire by making them feel that neither of them measured up to my standards. I expected them to be where I was spiritually. I discovered my hypocricy by noticing the stark contrast in how I tolerated real babes versus spiritual babes in my care. I allowed baby Alex to babble, crawl, and be totally dependent on someone else for his food or to change his soiled diaper. But I didn’t allow these spiritually immature adults to crawl and fall before they could run.

Finally, I felt the only way to take back command of the vessel and to sense my Lord’s presence again, demanded

Repairing Cracks in the Cup

that I take extreme measures. I took the hill, rallied the celestial troops, and prayed through each room in my house. Every prayer reclaimed God’s territories and returned Him to His rightful place as head of my home.

I prayed, “Lord, I want Your Spirit to be here. I want my house to be a haven of rest from the outside world. I want my house to be the seclusion in the Rock, the cave in the mountainside, the place of refuge from a difficult climb, or a safe, dry spot during a storm. I want people when they come into my house to feel the Holy Spirit’s presence, to feel the love of Christ; to feel the warmth and peace that only He can bring to a home. I don’t want them to feel the stress and anxiety the world has to offer.”

I then confronted both tenants about whether they genuinely wanted help or just wanted an easy ride. I felt like they were taking me for granted and were using me unashamedly.

I guess I hit a nerve, because they decided to move out and get a place of their own... together.

I helped them find a place and provided a few pieces of furniture during the move. Then, I wished them well.

They validated my suspicions concerning their sincerity and integrity. It was not long before I realized why there was such division, stress, and anxiety that led to fighting while they lived with me. In short order, they were hosting all-night parties and joining their friends in getting drunk or high.

Ultimately, my sister surrendered her son for adoption. Our family had to step in and take the baby away from her. My parents became his legal guardians. Eventually, my older sister adopted the little boy when he turned one. Although it was an open adoption, so that Kayla got to see photos and be involved in his life,

it remained a stinging reminder of her poor choices. Another six years would pass before I would have a chance to help my younger sister once again.

As for the other roommate, things went from bad to worse. A co-worker of mine approached me one day in late fall and said, “Hey, did you see the news last night?”

My friend pulled the story up online. I stood staring in utter shock at the name in glaring black print which confirmed the sad and tragic truth. The same girl who lived under my roof was in jail for attempted murder.

“The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are, and when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you...”

Exodus 12:13

Packed in

At Home in the Hood God’s Bubblewrap

Another full year passed, until just a few weeks before Halloween. I was working at a life insurance company. From my cubicle, I overheard two of my coworkers talking. One of them said to the other, “I don’t know what me and my boys are going to do, but I really need to move and rent my house.”

Though not intentionally eavesdropping, I still plainly heard her reasons for seeking change. She sought financial help. And, having been in an off-again, on-again, hurtful relationship, she sought a fresh start and wanted to be closer to where her children attended school.

Without even thinking, I leaned over the back of my chair, stuck my head around the office stanchion, and said nonchalantly, “Why don’t you move in with me.”

I quickly popped back to my desk, where she couldn’t see my face, and started a very loud (unspoken) argument with myself. “Why did you say that?” I screamed silently. “Are you kidding yourself? You finally got your house back. Why are you asking a single mom with boys to move in with you? This is not really what you want.”

Little did I know it would be exactly what I needed. With her paying some rent, it would help me financially too!

A Willing Vessel

The cranial ranting continued: “You wanted to be alone. You wanted to have time to yourself.”

Her stated question interrupted the squabble in my brain when the woman asked aloud, “Are you serious?”

I tilted back in my chair and said matter-of-factly, “Of course, I’m serious. I wouldn’t have said it, if I didn’t mean it.”

While I tried to close the metaphorical mouths of every justification rattling around inside my head, Susan said, “Wow! Do you have enough room?”

And I was off and running.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s just me, and I have a big house. You would have your own room, and we can make it really cute.”

Friday night Susan came over with her boys. A week later, they moved in. It happened so fast that I didn’t have an opportunity to give it any more thought. We became decidedly good friends, but not without a few disagreements concerning books, movies, fridge space, how to fold the towels, and how to decorate for Halloween.

Having lived with a witch’s daughter, I had firsthand experience with the battles in the heavenly realm and the spiritual forces that rage against us. I shared several things with Susan that I personally experienced, coupled with examples cataloged by the witch’s daughter.

Because Susan and her boys loved to read books that depicted darkness and sorcery, she felt hurt when I confronted her about those choices. Sometime later, she came to realize she was inviting the enemy and giving him a foothold into their lives through that kind of living.

Most of the time, we were on the same side of things. Especially one night in particular when our quaint backyard,

At Home in the Hood marshmallow roast turned into a SWAT team encounter. Susan and I were on the back deck eating s’mores with her three boys and my pastor’s three children that I was babysitting. Granted, we lived in a sketchy neighborhood, so it wasn’t unusual to see cops on the corner of where my house sat, in what I called our hood. They were typically tracking down drug users and gang members. Still, a helicopter with a spotlight hovering overhead seemed out of context.

While we continued building graham cracker, chocolate, and sticky towers for the kids around our little patio kiln, my pastor’s son finally spoke out loud about what he was wondering.

“Hey, Michelle,” he said, “That spotlight seems to be circling your house.”

I quelled his concerns by saying, “Oh, no. Just ignore that. They are probably searching for an older person who has walked away from the nursing home again. I wouldn’t think anything about it.”

A little more time passed before I noticed police cars accumulating.

We said, almost simultaneously, “I think we are surrounded.”

I pointed out to Susan the two cruisers in the alley in front of the house, two behind the house, and two more up the street and across the road. She had seen them as well.

In a matter of minutes, a dozen officers, fitted with bulletproof vests and guns drawn, jumped our fence, crashed through the back gate, and came straight for our then-huddled group! The helicopter’s spotlight beam stopped squarely over us. At that scary moment, we all threw our hands in the air and wondered our fate.

A Willing Vessel

It was crazy! We had crying kids asking us between gulps and sniffs if we were all going to jail. Worse yet, they assumed Susan and I had done something terrible.

The children pleaded, “What did you guys do?”

The scene was insane, and I tried to bring the hype down to calm by asking the cops the one line I’d probably seen on some television show, “Is there a problem, officer?”

One sternly replied, “Who owns this house?”

“I do,” I said.

“Where’s your gun?” he asked.

“I don’t even own a gun, Sir,” I said. “You’re welcome to check my entire property. I don’t have a gun. I’ve never owned a gun.”

Then he asked, “Well, who’s been shot?”

I said, “Nobody’s been shot, Sir. We’re all fine. We’re sitting here eating s’mores. Is there a problem with that?”

“No, there’s no problem with that,” he explained, “but we just got a call that someone’s been shot.”

We successfully tempered their concerns, and they left us with a wild story to tell! Later, we learned that their emergency call was ten blocks off course.

That didn’t mean that serious crime didn’t occur on my street. There was a tobacco store just around the corner from my house that wanted to start selling alcohol and other immoral products. Our church was in a legal battle, trying to curtail their enterprise because of the proximity to the church building. More reasons to not have that kind of business established in a residential area became obvious. While I was at work, my pastor witnessed that the smokes-and-such store was robbed. One of the employees ran out after the armed robber. Someone else from this store ran out

At Home in the Hood

with a gun, and seconds later, a man lay dead right there in the street next to my house.

When I got home from work that day, my house was under a crime scene investigation with police caution tape boldly denoting where I could not go. Investigators actually found a shell casing inside my house, in the bedroom closet. Again, I saw that when you’re serving and doing what God has called you to do, the safest place you can be is not relative to location. Rather, it is under His protection. God made sure I wasn’t home at the wrong time.

I watched the ambulance crew haul the body away while investigators picked over my yard, carrying any bit of evidence back to the crime scene van parked in my driveway. I had to be escorted in and out of my house for two days, and the hood buzzed with media. One news station interviewed me and wanted to know why I would continue living in such a dangerous area.

“This is where I live, and this is where I minister,” I said. “Just because something like this happens is not going to make me move. The only thing that will make me move is when God moves me.”

Bullet holes riddled the side of my house on yet another day when robbers attacked a nearby store. For the 2nd time in 10 years of living in that neighborhood, my house and yard once again were barricaded, and I had to be escorted in and out of my home. Another police investigation made me feel intruded upon.

Even after telling Susan these stories about experiences that happened before she moved in, we both felt the Lord watching over us many times. Neither one of us got shot. Both of us were blessed. Our home and our friendship ended up being a mutual win, enhanced by our continuation to serve God and love Him with all of our hearts.

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence.”

Psalm 91:1-3

An Earthen Vessel

Gone Country

Fit for Greater Service

With the flip of a calendar page, came adventures far removed from my newsworthy neighborhood. The Lord began inching me not just across town or across Nebraska. He didn’t want me to attempt college again. He never indicated that I should move back to my aunt’s in Omaha as I’d done so many times before. This time, God called me out of the city and to a rural route destiny.

Garden City, Missouri, touted a population of 1,642. Its only claim to fame was that some direct descendants of George Washington, once upon a time, lived there. Should I move there, I would exchange sirens for serenity, cops for cropland, and city life for country living. All of that would take some getting used to.

In February of 2011, during my visit to a cousin and her family for a long weekend getaway, I started to get a feel for what that might look like. I also realized I was falling in love with a dairy farmer in the area. I was suspicious this sweet widowed man was falling for me too.

We started making excuses to call each other on the phone after I returned to Nebraska. Long conversations turned into ridiculous phone bills. Visits in person became more frequent. In April, I returned to the small town to hear Calvin’s barbershop quartet perform in concert. The following week, I went back to attend the Garden City

Community Choir Easter Cantata that he directed. Subsequently, this joyful, kind, talented fella did the driving and came to see me in Omaha. I had a dishwasher that he was going to purchase from me. But there seemed to be more reason for his visit.

He took me to dinner that evening, and we ordered drinks and appetizers. Before the mozzarella sticks and blooming onion ever got to the table, he looked at me and said, “So, you’re feeling glad to come to Garden City, Missouri, and I’m feeling that I’ve fallen in love with you and would enjoy the help on the farm. Why don’t we just get married?”

That kind of tripped me up! I was expecting more of something down the line of, “I’d like to start courting,” or “Can we start dating?” Marriage, right out of the chute, threw me for a loop. I asked him to give me some time. He honorably agreed. While I pondered his proposal, he penned a letter to me. Within the week, I was reading his heart on a page, as he spelled out why he was sure marriage was right for us.

He told me that he had fallen in love with my heart. He explained how he had seen how I had helped so many people. He listed a few examples. My cleaning houses for handicapped folks and the way I served my church with my gifts and talents made his list. I had been attending that church since the fall of 1998, and that’s where my heart learned to desire mentoring and discipling others. Calvin said it was those qualities too, that helped him fall in love with me.

That pierced my soul, because in the Word of God, that was how Boaz fell in love with Ruth. He fell in love with her heart. Boaz noticed how Ruth had taken care of her mother-in-law. Her selflessness and compassion were the

Gone Country qualities that made her shine in the eyes of Boaz. To me, Calvin’s expression of affection showed me that this man had fallen in love with who I was, not what I had to offer or what I looked like.

We had a whirlwind of a romance. By Memorial Day weekend, he asked my parents for their blessing. They gave it, and we planned a late summer wedding for August 2011. I moved to Garden City, where we joined his church as Mr. and Mrs.

More than a few people were in shock over how quickly we got married and how instantly the decision to move forward. Though the courtship was brief, I did not enter into this commitment lightly. As with everything else I had been through, I undergirded my decision with prayer and fasting, seeking God to know with certainty that this was truly His direction. I had felt the call to go to Garden City since October of 2010, so to me, it was not as sudden of a decision as it appeared. Honestly, I prayed over everything that transpired in my life for many years.

As much as I felt ready for marriage, the Lord had not prepared me fully for being a farmhand. I went from an office cubicle to riding a tractor pulling a plow or harrow. I upgraded from a guard dog to protect me from urban crime to standing strong against a pen full of nursing calves, whose greatest assaults were butting the bottle. I gave up manicures to shovel manure or reach into the slimy backend of a 1,200-pound dairy cow to assist in a calf’s delivery. The biggest change, by far, was the shift from constant nighttime city noise to starlit country silence. Ironically, I had difficulty sleeping for nearly three months. It was just too quiet!

Added to the tangible stillness of night were those unfamiliar chores that filled my days. And in addition to those,

were so many more new things to learn about the business of raw milk and raising Holstein cows.We also learned together how to balance sharing life.

With Country Living 101 on my resume, it was time to put into practice in a new place the many lessons I had learned by helping the hurting. I married a man who agreed to minister to many in the off-hours of farming. Since I no longer had to be employed away from home, I experienced the freedom to impact even more people who needed help or a home.

In 2012, my younger sister, who had lived with me previously, continued down her slippery slope of desperation. Kayla’s troubled journey careened out of control until, regrettably, she attempted suicide by swallowing a bottle full of pills.

Her despair looked so like the haunting route I once took. But so much had changed in my life since this frightened college student thought ending it all was her only option. If anything good came of that, at least I knew what she was going through.

Though hundreds of miles apart, while existing in a lifestyle so completely changed, I still got to speak into her life. How beautiful and fulfilling to see how God used my troubled past and a redeemed present so I could be there for her.

Mom and I made the trip back to Nebraska to embrace the fragments of my sister and hopefully help her to restore her mind, body, and soul. We brought her to Garden City, to stay with my husband and me in a little place on our farm, where she had her own space, but remained close. We got her Bipolar medications straightened out and worked on resolving many other issues over the next two years. Most importantly, we had the privilege of seeing Kayla finally

get IT. She fell in love with Jesus, and God began changing her life.

Like the weeds I pulled in flower beds and gardens, God uprooted some unresolved issues of my own. But, never in my wildest dreams could I have ventured how one buried skeleton would surface in such jaw-dropping fashion.

Kayla came to me one Friday night and sheepishly said, “I’ve met somebody.”

“Why are you so nervous to tell me this,” I asked.

Kayla replied, “Because you already know him.”

“Just because I know him doesn’t mean that I’m going to tell you that you can’t date the guy,” I said, trying to dismiss her angst. “Who is it?”

During her lengthy pause, I rattled off in my mind a laundry list of possible old acquaintances.

“It’s Tom,” she finally said.

THAT name was NOT on my list!

Tom. THE Tom that I dated back in 2003. The same guy that had two little girls I adored. THAT Tom, who proposed, then weaseled out about a month before the wedding. THAT TOM!

My sister went on to explain, “We’ve been talking and texting for a while. He wants to come down and visit you.”

That she had met somebody through phone calls and text messages didn’t alarm me. I mean, who was I to judge? I had become the poster child for just such a romance.

For a split second, I remained speechless. Then, with a scrambled mess of memories whirling around in my head like bumper cars at a carnival, I flatly said, “O.K. And why does he want to visit me?”

“We are not going to go any further with our relationship,” Kayla said, with grave sincerity, “until we have your blessing. He is coming down here tomorrow.”

Talk about a bombshell dropped in my lap! I couldn’t escape from whatever might blow up in my face. I reckoned, in exchange for the assault, that the least I deserved for the shrapnel were some long-overdue answers.

The next day, I sat with my husband by my side and visited with Tom and Kayla for several hours. God reconciled that relationship. God brought forgiveness. God brought understanding to situations and misunderstandings. God brought healing between me and the two girls. What a relief I felt to now they finally understood that I had not just abandoned them.

Kayla did marry Tom, and they are loving Jesus and loving each other. She is an amazing woman of God, anointed and living in her gifting of encouragement. She even went back to school to complete what God laid on her heart. She became a photographer to show and speak the love of Jesus by capturing the smiles that sometimes mask what is inside. Now, more than ever, Kayla relies on God for strength and courage to face what is ahead.

After my sister married and moved away, we welcomed an older lady, blessing her with low rent during a time in her life when she needed such favors. She lived near us for a couple of years.

Over more than a decade, I welcomed women, young and old, into my home. Some troubled. Some addicted. Some desperate. Others would become lifelong friends. After all those experiences, something began to shift in me. Years of opening my home and my heart to women and their children galvanized a longing for a family of my own.

I grew up surrounded by brothers and sisters grafted into our family through the foster care system and I learned much while caring for them. As a teacher at the Christian school, I honed more child development knowledge. Through children’s ministry, God refined my training for the most important task of reaching a child’s soul. I felt ready.

At this point in my life, however, I didn’t see a baby arriving through my own womb. It would take a miracle. I had to throw onto the Potter’s wheel all of my emotional, physical, and experiential pieces, then watch the Craftsman do His work. Perhaps the Lord would mold me into a vessel to finally serve as a mother herself, on a little farm in Cass County, Missouri.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation.”

2 Corinthians 5:15-17

The Delicate Beauty

Parenting Through Pain, Prayers & Promises of a Fragile Heirloom

Calvin and I became foster parents and took on a 10-year-old girl and a 6-year-old boy, sister and brother. There were a lot of doctor, optometrist, and dentist appointments, along with therapy sessions in 2016, to get the children caught up with their health and emotional needs. It seemed we had just ironed out layers of physical and mental wrinkles trying to hem their lives back together when protocol ripped the seam binding us to them. Our special charges were mitered again with their parents. My heart ached with emptiness. They left so quickly that I never got to say a proper goodbye.

While fostering two children, plus investing my heart and energy into a marriage, a farm, and ministry in Missouri, I still couldn’t help but mentally wander back to Nebraska. Nagging worry for my parents frequently hijacked my thoughts from daily duties.

Dad was fighting colon cancer. The small church he pastored offered him a six-month sabbatical, so my parents called and asked if they could park their RV on our property and live at our place during that break.

Within the first month of their arrival, my dad fell twice. The second time, on July 23, meant a trip to Research Hospital in Kansas City, where we received grave and

unwelcome news. Dad’s cancer had spread to his brain and into his bones. The experts gave him four to six weeks to live.

We quickly enlisted the help of home hospice care. Our house became the revolving door for caregivers, friends, and family in our community – many of those lives my father touched profoundly.

I never would have wished anything different than to have my dad in our home for his final days and hours on earth, or the privilege of presenting him into the arms of His Savior Jesus Christ. Still, it was a difficult time, filled with not only care and company, but loads of laundry; cycle upon cycle of grief; and extra cooking, seasoned with plenty of crying. We cried for the time cut short and for days that we would never share. We shed happy tears for good memories and we wept over past regrets. The grieving process daily shifted in function and form as we tried to enjoy fleeting minutes, make the most of waking time, and attempt to rest during fitful nights. I tried to wrap my mind around the inevitable while steeling my heart to handle it.

Our foster children were unfamiliar with the outward expressions of grief and the reality of death. Those gutwrenching days produced in each of the children different versions for coping. Gabriel, who was 10, withdrew and quietly seemed to shut down. Six-year-old Levi solicited extra attention by getting extremely active. What he thought was funny caused many a mess and trouble.

On top of that, our church was in transition on a search of a new pastor. For a household of believers, not having a pastor to minister to my preacher dad, made my heart ache more deeply. Though surrounded by many, and raw with emotion, it would be the calm from my husband that kept me from losing it.

Parenting Through Pain, Prayer & Promises

Calvin reminded me often that everything would be okay. With calm and strength, he recounted all the ways God had brought us through the past. Calvin pulled me close to his chest, then whispered with quiet tenderness a long list of God’s unfailing promises. Calvin steadfastly reiterated that God had our back and assured me that the same God would not leave us now.

I needed those words of comfort, especially when we said goodbye to my father in early fall. We placed him in the arms of God come September. Going into the holidays was rough. We felt such emptiness and shock and found it hard to believe how suddenly Dad was gone.

Our family had to discover its new normal in our step forward to the murky unknown. On days when I longed to hear his voice guide me, his words echoed through my mind: “When people talk about me, I want them to talk about how God used me, and I followed Him.”

That same man that I desperately adored as a child, nearly abhorred as a teen, and came to respect as an adult, I now revered and longed to emulate. I vowed to carry his legacy by continually following His God and seeking the same humble position of being a vessel for God’s purposes.

The foster children left, my dad passed, and Mom headed to northern Nebraska, where Dad had pastored for 20 years, to pack up her house. My home felt empty, and I was left again wondering what God wanted to do with me from there. I fell back on my greatest coping mechanism – prayer. Amid recurring doubts and fears, I waited to see how the Lord would answer my next request: “Lord, send me someone else.”

One cold Friday morning in February, around 8:30, the phone rang. A case manager at a children’s home in Kansas City responded to my “Hello,” with an urgent question.

A Willing Vessel

“Would you be willing to take on a six-week-old infant?” she asked.

My reply had more questions than answers as I prodded for as many details as they were willing to reveal.

“I will talk to my husband and get back to you,” I finally said.

My promise to the case worker was not to casually bring it up at suppertime or when it became convenient. NO. I ran immediately to the barn where Calvin was milking our cows. He stopped his labor instantly when he saw me running across the yard toward him. I bolted through the wooden barn door and let it slam shut behind me as if to punctuate my breathless entrance.

“What is wrong?” Calvin asked with concern written across his ruddy face.

Right in the milk barn, with hoses and milk buckets at my feet and the lowing of cows as backup music, I told him about the phone call.

“They want our answer as soon as possible,” I said in haste, “because this baby will need somebody to bring it home from the hospital in two weeks.”

I rattled off all of the information the case manager had given me. The hard facts included that the baby at birth had four different narcotics in her system, residuals from her mother’s use of drugs. A sexually transmitted disease also infected her tiny body. The baby had survived resuscitation, three blood transfusions, and four rounds of strong antibiotics, and she required oxygen and feeding tubes. Medical staff placed her on life support for five weeks. The case worker thought they would be burying her, so they had not looked for or considered a foster family until she exhibited signs that

she might pull through.The unexpected rally by the baby warranted their immediate need for an answer from us.

They gave us the weekend to decide, but not without emphasizing the urgency to have a response as soon as possible. If we told them “no,” they needed to find another family that would take, love, and care for her.

Our decision was seriously weighty. The child may be blind or deaf, they warned us. She could have severe mental conditions that might prevent normal development and result in learning disabilities. The case manager tempered our enthusiasm with more details, including all the injustices done to this innocent babe and the extensive complexities a family would endure while caring for this precious child. Most explicitly, she emphasized that this was strictly a foster care circumstance. The goal remained reunification with the mother, if possible, and the biological mom would be entitled to visitations.

My husband and I leaped into the other’s arms, with the humming of the milk machine still running. There we prayed to the Lord to lead us in this decision. The intense thought of agreeing to such a daunting duty could alter our lives forever, even if we only tended to the care of this little one for a short time. But, another concern weighed with even greater heaviness. If we did not take her, we had to ask ourselves if we could go on with a clear conscience and no regret.

We had prayed for someone to care for. Yet again, this was not the direction I would have thought our God would take us. In stark contrast to the trepidation, we carried a feeling of excitement. Was God answering our prayers for a child?

We contacted a few people that we knew we would need to support us should we agree to care for the infant.

A Willing Vessel

Then, at 3:30 that afternoon, with tears in my eyes, I turned to my husband and said, “I cannot say ‘no’ when somebody needs me. I will not sleep tonight knowing a baby is out there that I could hold and love, but I told her ‘no.’ I don’t think I could live with myself.”

“I am so happy to hear you say that,” this sweet man of God said, ever so softly, tears falling from his blue eyes. Grinning from ear to ear, he continued, “Because I don’t think I can either. Call the case manager.”

We learned the name of the hospital where the little girl lay fighting for her life. We heard her name for the first time. And I couldn’t wait to go and get her.

“You can see her on Monday,” the case manager told me when we called with our decision.

“No,” I replied emphatically. “I will see her tonight!”

We could not wait for 4:30 p.m. to come. We had a milk delivery route in the city every Friday. As we sat waiting for our last client to pick up their farm-to-table products, we got more anxious with each passing minute. Our Dodge minivan sat perfectly still, with the rear hatch open, and Calvin and I parked alongside in our lawn chairs. In stark contrast, our minds raced through hundreds of questions. We were about to go and meet a little bundle that would need so much. Would we be enough? Would we be able to give her what she would need? Only time and trust in God could take us down the road that lay ahead.

My husband always said, “When making a decision, pray about it; seek counsel. Then make a decision and don’t look back.”

At 4:30 p.m., we loaded that minivan in record time and headed further up the highway, headed to the neonatal intensive care unit where our little one lay.

Parenting Through Pain, Prayer & Promises

Our rush to the hospital resulted in sitting for hours restlessly in a hospital waiting room. We paced the floor of the lobby. We sat and prayed, walked, and waited until they could get all the details and legal releases which allowed us to see her. Finally, by 8:30 that night, twelve hours almost to the minute since I answered the phone that morning, I held this fragile darling in my arms.

My heart melted.

She was beautiful and frail, weighing 4 lbs. and 15 oz. She measured a mere 14 ½ inches long. Her little dusting of brown hair over her tender head was so amazingly soft. The hospital bundled her in such a tight and twisted fashion that she looked like a little peanut lying in that hospital bed. I was nervous at first to pick her up. Feeding and oxygen tubes dangled from her tiny face. Wired to her little feet were gadgets to measure her oxygen, respiration, heart rate, and blood pressure, which were neither steady nor stable. She was so helpless, and so precious. The nurse assured us we could hold her and hug her. The first time I lifted this infant so tender and cradled her tiny form in my arms, I knew God had just entrusted me with her frail, little life. Sandwiched between Calvin and me, we kissed her from each side and loved her instantaneously.

I handed the tightly wrapped babe to Calvin and he instinctively began singing a Bill & Gloria Gaither song. “I am a promise. I am a possibility. I am a promise of what God wants me to be. I’m a great, big bundle of potentiality...” he sang liltingly.

In response to his upbeat song she smiled, causing Calvin to grin widely, his cheeks flushing crimson with warmth. When he announced her reaction to his crooning, I whipped out my phone and tapped the screen to capture the moment.

A Willing Vessel

As we cast our full attention on her and this simplest of facial expressions, other eyes fixed on us. The commotion that ensued was unreal! All the nearby nurses dropped what they were doing and came running in disbelief.

One said, “This girl, in the last five weeks, has been through three blood transfusions, four IVs with multiple rounds of antibiotics, and has not even so much as winced, groaned, or cried. There has been absolutely no emotional response from her until right now!”

Tears of joy pooled in every eye. At that moment, Calvin and I realized that this tortured baby girl felt safe in our arms and that she emotionally attached to us in that instant.

Of course, our tiny charge was still too sick and weak to take home, so I visited her every day in the neonatal unit. Feeding tubes and oxygen still tethered her frail little body in her plastic crib, but she was no longer on life support. The oxygen could go home with her, but the feeding tubes had to come out before she could leave the hospital. She needed to be able to nurse from a bottle, so I started doing skin-to-skin sessions with her, stroking her nearly translucent cheeks to stimulate a tongue thrust and inspire her to suck. I spoke and sang to her softly, encouraging wakefulness, or soothing her to rest peacefully.

As we rocked, I stared in disbelief at the profound intricacies of one so tiny. With diminutive lips – would she be able to speak? Those perfect, delicate fingers – would she use them to wave and clap? Her teeny, weeny toes – where would she go and how far in this world? The flush on her cheeks mimicked rose petals. The wisps of angel hair that crowned her adorable head reminded me of dandelion seeds in flight in mid-summer. I knew none of the answers, but I

Parenting Through Pain, Prayer & Promises

held a promise, just like Calvin had proclaimed in her first lullaby.

I gave her my heart the first time I laid eyes on her. The hospital gave me that baby girl to take home on March 4, 2017. A mere nine days after that, I walked into the courthouse with the dreadful understanding that the intent for the day was to determine a ruling on how to reunite the biological mother with my dainty foster daughter.

Upon arrival and barely inside the building, I came face to face with the child’s assigned guardian.

“Hey!” Mariah began bluntly, “Are you her foster mom?”

“Yes, I am,” I answered.

Mariah continued in a forward fashion, “Are you ready to adopt?”

“Excuse me!” I nearly blurted, unable to hide the shock. “I was told this was a reunification case.”

“You are right,” Mariah replied. “It is. However, we don’t think we know the full history of this mother because two older siblings to this baby are involved, and they have been on the books for over three years. Knowing your answer and where you stand will determine how we proceed today.”

I hesitated only an instant, and then said, “Yes, of course we’ll take her!” We had already discussed our decision at home should this very scenario present itself.

At the hearing, attorney Mariah quickly clarified that the child she represented had been placed in a loving home and that our family was willing to adopt her. The attorneys compiled three year’s worth of legal history on the mother’s track record of indifference to her older children. They merged that information into the present case with our little

one. Their mission: To prove due cause for permanent placement.

The final verdict did not come instantly. While we continued fostering, we waited for the next steps in the judicial process and jockeyed this sweet child to doctor appointments on average three times a week. She needed to see ophthalmologists, cardiologists, and pediatric specialists. Home health caregivers delivered oxygen tanks to the house and taught us how to run the equipment and transport it safely with her to all of her outings. We monitored her O2 levels and counted the tiny beats of her heart.

It was just a crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy time!

By June 1, 2017, we were back in the courtroom. This time, the child’s advocate would try to establish to a greater extent that a stable, loving family shoud adopt the infant rather than reunite her with her biological mother. The mom had refused drug testing for any of the weekly scheduled visits between March and June. On July 7, the supervisor of social service who initially called us with her request for fostering the newborn, advised that we hire a lawyer to represent us to see the process through.

December 8, ten months after she was born, Hope Elizabeth became officially, legally, whole-heartedly our chosen and dearly loved daughter.

Hope Elizabeth is NOT blind! Her eyes completely healed when the retinas reattached themselves. She is NOT deaf! She exhibits NO learning difficulties and in many ways functions and thinks beyond her years of learning. Our smart, bright-eyed, joyful child is a daily reminder of God’s love, His divine protection, and His amazing miracles. When she graduated from Kindergarten in May of 2023, she was near the top of her class in academic ability. She is our little miracle and answer to prayer!

“Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory in the heavens.Through the praise of children and infants you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger. When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place,what is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?” Psalm 8:1-4

A Pitcher Filled With

What’s Inside Spills Out When Tipped Joy

and Peace

We entered 2018, with feet on the ground and running. We became consumed with ministering to our community and raising this precious little bundle of joy that God had dropped into our laps. We were both involved in children’s ministry at our church. Calvin taught a Sunday School class, which he loved, and I directed a Wednesday night Bible Memory Kids Club.

Was our situation unconventional? Yes. Did it break tradition? Yes. Then again, my whole life had been a halfbeat off from what most call “normal.”

God called me to do some crazy things. He asked me to take some incredibly big risks. I struggled often to be obedient, believing the lies of the enemy, who tried time and time again to kick me into the ditch and off God’s paved path for me. Had I not been faithful to God’s counsel and stayed the course, I never would have been able to face the climbs and plummets along the road I traveled. The detours I took, the bridges I crossed, and the potholes I navigated around (or flat, bottomed out in), were all preparing me for each step farther down the road. My next steps would turn out to be some of the most daunting.

It was the Christmas of 2019. I remember Calvin and I talking one night in the bedroom about how much God had blessed us and how much He was using us. We were actually

feeling called to the mission field, believing God wanted us to reach out and speak into the lives of more people. At the same time, my husband was starting to exhibit signs of lagging energy and losing the use of some of his muscles.

We were justifiably concerned for his health, but knew that no matter what, God called us, and God would provide strength and courage. He would lead us every step of the way. Despite the circumstances, I felt that unspeakable peace that passes all understanding. I told Calvin that I felt like the Lord was bringing me to a point of contentment I had never known. Or maybe I had forgotten.

“It’s like the words from a song that says, ‘I’m coming back to the heart of worship because it’s all about you, Jesus,” I explained to Calvin one night. “I’m sorry, Lord, for the things that I’ve made it. It’s all about you. It’s all about you, Jesus.”

I continued sharing with Calvin that God was bringing me to a critical point. The only way I could have true peace while struggling with my true identity in Christ, and the only way to truly make it all about Him, when I still felt like I was not enough, was to lose the things that bound me to this world.

“How can we come to that point without losing everything?” I asked Calvin, not expecting him to answer.

I think I already had the answer. God revealed to me that His moving me to a small rural community far from the inner city was all His doing. He took me from where people knew me by my title, my work at the church, and my involvement in children’s ministries, the puppet teams, VBS, and Christmas programs, to teach me that I was relying too much on who I was and what I did. He was stripping all that away from me so that I would find my true heart of worship and identity in Him.

What’s

Out When Tipped

I prayed that in the coming year God would strengthen my spiritual vision to see what He sees, and to see HIM, no matter what happened or what lay on the road ahead of me. I shared this with my husband and we prayed out the end of 2019, faith-filled, but oblivious to what 2020 held.

Mom had moved back to a home in our back yard three years prior and lived with us her first year. In January, we took a wonderful family trip, with my mom in tow, to Jacksonville, Florida. She served as Hope’s official nanny for the trip. We stuck our toes in sandy beaches and marveled at the crashing waves that raced in from the Atlantic Ocean. I’ll never regret those blissful memories that would forever exist in stark contrast to what came the following month.

Though far from the ocean come February, entirely different kinds of waves lapped and rolled their way through our lives. The pleasant ones came from our prayer team at church, who had been lifting us since December concerning our directions from God for mission work. They unanimously agreed that we should sell our property and move forward with whatever God was calling us to do.

On the very day we met with the prayer team, we headed to Research Hospital for a liver biopsy for my husband. A CT scan and an ultrasound in response to abdominal cramps revealed numerous lesions on his liver. Unlike the soothing news of our brothers and sisters in Christ, these waves crashed over us in hurricane fury.

Calvin spent three days in the hospital. Once discharged, we could do nothing but wait, wonder, pray, and attempt to believe for the best and not borrow trouble. The following Wednesday turned out to be another wait-and-see stressor.

“We need to do another biopsy on Monday,” the doctor

told Calvin. “We did not get a big enough liver sample from the first biopsy.”

By Saturday night, we were back in the ER. Calvin fell and couldn’t get up. He felt incredibly nauseous, tired, weak, dizzy, and dehydrated. Calvin’s brother drove us back to the hospital and they kept him this round for five days. We came home on March 11, my birthday. The only gift I longed to get was good news wrapped in an all-clear report.

We waited again. We prayed more. Then, Monday, March 16, arrived. The oncologist delivered the words nobody ever wants to hear.

“This is cancer,” she said matter-of-factly, unpacking the results and giving them to us straight. “It’s fast-growing, and there is no cure or hope for remission. You can choose to do chemotherapy, but that will only buy you, maybe, an extra week. You only have a few weeks to a month to live.”

Immediately, I saw tears well up in my husband’s eyes. Then a smile stretched across his face.

“So, you’re telling me that I get to go see my Jesus, face to face,” he asked, with that broad, contagious grin, while seeking confirmation from the doctor.

I watched the oncologist shift her gaze downwards toward the floor. Though she may have been able to prepare my husband for the physiological transformation he would encounter as death drew near, medical school never prepared her for how to answer such a jubilant response to such dire news. She offered nothing. The doctor’s hands remained folded in her lap, so I reached over, touched Calvin’s arm, and with tears streaming down my face, forced a smile and said, “Honey, that’s exactly what she’s telling you.”

My husband then said, “Well, I guess we should go ahead and meet with the nurse for the chemotherapy just to see

what it’s about, so I can make sure I have all of the information to make an educated decision.”

We immediately met with a nurse who walked us through the harsh realities and risks involved in aggressive treatment. We left that office and began calling Calvin’s brothers, sisters, and his children to tell them the hard news.

Hearing their voices and sensing their great love empowered Calvin to be able to say, a mere hour after the appointment, “Honey, I can’t do chemotherapy. I want to enjoy my last days and hours with my friends and family. I don’t want to spend them sick and in the hospital. And I know I’m going to see my Jesus. If God chooses to heal me, He will heal me. If He can get more glory out of completely healing me, He will. If He can get more glory by taking me home, He will.”

We drove to the farm in silent reflection, each of us coming to terms with harsh realities while contemplating heavenly victories. Calvin called the hospital, and told them he would not be doing chemotherapy. Then we called hospice and got Calvin enrolled right away. Because of the Coronavirus pandemic, his son was able to spend five weeks with him, working from home, helping him sort through things on the farm, and spending some wonderful quality time with his dad.

My husband, the one who caressed my brow with tenderness, and strengthened my faith with his own, upheld me to the end. He encouraged me to move forward with whatever God would have for Hope and me. Calvin assured me that God would not forget us and He was my answer to prayer, my confidant, my best friend, and the One who would walk through adversities with me.

Calvin passed away in April 2020, five weeks after the diagnosis.

A Willing Vessel

To some, this will sound strange. I felt joy watching Calvin as his gaze turned one hundred percent heavenward. I saw the words of yet another song come to life in his tender moment of departing. And the things of earth grew strangely dim, in the light of God’s glory and grace, when Calvin turned his eyes upon Jesus.

Once again, I knew deep within my soul that whatever you face or are forced to endure, God does the heavy lifting. He carries us and every burden.

Calvin assured every visitor in those final days, “I’m at peace, I’m at peace, I’m at peace.”

He was. He is.

“But Stephen, full of the Holy Spirit, looked up to heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. “Look,” he said, “I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” Acts 7:55

Intended Use is for

A Container Still Under Construction

His Good Purpose

I don’t wish my husband back from his eternity or his Jesus, not even for one second. But, I have heartaches and loneliness. I miss him so much. In those times, I focus on the joy around me. I remember his smile, and I see the legacy he left.

I try to imagine what he sees and hears now: The glorious face of God; spectacular, never-before-seen colors that go beyond our visual spectrum; and the sounds of angels singing “glory, glory, glory” in perfect harmony. The latter might be Calvin’s favorite part of heaven! Thoughts like these bring me peace. I can even smile and feel sincere joy for him and great hope for me.

Those moments of solace have seen me through yet another move. I had to sell everything once again and start over with a new normal, this time with a pre-schooler in tow. As my daughter and I press on toward the prize, some days I am bold and brave, forgetting the things that lie behind and moving toward the things that lie ahead. Other days I think, But, God, you were calling us to missions. And now, you’ve taken my soulmate away.

On the heels of three steps forward and two steps back, I sense God’s reassurance. He reminds me that it is Christ in me who speaks truth in love, strength, and

comfort. Christ in and through me has silenced the shame, tamed the fear, and relieved the guilt. It is Christ in me who can use me yet, to reach the battered and the broken, the mental and the disturbed, and the hurting in times of sorrow. It is Christ in me and through me, in the Holy Spirit’s power, who instills strength through the trials and straight paths through the valleys. In the tribulations, He carries me.

This same spiritous force that strengthens or comforts me is available to impart to others such power when they go through similar experiences. Once, I was empty. Once, I was lonely. Once, I was running and scared and ashamed. Now, I am filled and whole, and I stand brave with a testimony and a life transformed by God.

My husband told me often to share my story. He encouraged me to overcome with my testimony. Calvin reminded me frequently that my identity is in Christ. And the Lord is not finished with me yet!

My journey continues. God does still have a plan and a purpose for me. In part, that plan includes sharing my story. I pray and hope that somehow, in some measure, it can speak to readers wherever they are in their journey. I pray that my shame, despair, solitude, fear and rejection, and all of the ways God carried me in those struggles, speaks restoration.

The God who passionately pursued me through it all reached me through songs, Bible verses, billboards, circumstances, and individual people. His work in me brought reconciliation and priceless adult relationships with my parents that made possible a forever-cherished time with my dad before he passed. God restored broken relationships of the past. He healed the guilt and despair I felt for getting pregnant out of wedlock. He covered my shame with His feathers of forgiveness, and He removed a whole lot of the fears in my life.

A Container Still Under Construction

I am counting on Him to calm the new fears I’ll face as a single, widowed mother and as a woman baring her soul before the world through the pages of this book. I don’t know how people will react, but I know that God is calling me to do this, and I know that He has me in the palm of His hand.

Even after all these years have passed, I still am a vessel under construction - a container intended for His good purposes. Though sometimes cracked, often chipped, a bit irregular, and not always up to size or standard, I am His.

My hope is that whoever reads this will find the courage to tell their God story. That doesn’t necessarily mean writing a book. Just start wherever you are, in your circle of influence. Don’t be ashamed of your life. Thank God for it and allow Him to use it in a mighty way for His Kingdom.

Be a VESSEL useful for NOBLE SERVICE.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” Jeremiah 29:11

“Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”

1 Corinthians 1:26-27

Epilogue

How does one end a story still being written? The stories of our lives are never finished until we are face to face with Jesus. When we walk through all of life’s twists and turns, we can never always detect our next valley of brokenness. We cannot anticipate the ambush or exhilaration awaiting us around the corner. Nor can we spot the camouflaged pit right in front of us. In such a precarious journey, it is difficult to remember that we are a work in progress -- ever-changing, ever-adapting. No matter what we face, we must remember this: God is a rescuing, redeeming, and restoring Lord who will forever walk with us.

Remember each person or vessel is uniquely crafted by the Potter’s hand to be the vessel He molds and uses. Some of us may seem more broken, but we press on in Christ, to become more like the image of Jesus in order to pour Him out to the world.

Every person will be shaped differently and filled with various contents because each one is designed for a specific purpose. We may not understand, but we must trust His hand. Through all of the brokenness of our individual lives, we can see Him at work when we take a moment to reflect on our past, embrace our present, and trust for our future, believing that He will carry us there too. As for me, God continues to write the rest of my story for Him!

Special Acknowledgements

Thanks to my aunt and uncle who stepped in and helped me through trying times. I will always thank God upon my remembrance of you for your love, prayer, time, and resources. You were being Willing Vessels in my life for God’s Glory! Thanks for believing in me when I did not believe in myself.

Thanks to Pastor Les and Melissa for speaking the truth from God’s word to me, whether I wanted to hear it or not. Thank you for encouraging me to take care of myself, and always be God’s vessel. You’ve been true friends through many years of my life. Thanks for challenging me to step out of my comfort zone and into what God has for me.

Thanks to every individual that God has ever brought through my life. Whether I knew you for only a season, you were sent for a specific purpose, or you have remained an important part of my life, I thank you for the time we shared. Each of you has taught me so much, and I hope that I have been able to do the same for you. I would not be who I am today if it weren’t for each and every one of you. Even during the most difficult times, God has used you to bring me closer to Him and strengthen my spiritual life, walk, and identity in Christ. I pray that God continues to work in your life and bless you in every way possible.

About the Authors

Michelle Yoder is a widowed, single mother who strives to fulfill her calling. She is a Bible teacher, speaker, and author. Serving with leadership in women’s ministry at her church, she helps mentor and disciple women in Christ. Michelle enjoys building relationships in her community through clothing and food drives, and singing at nursing homes monthly. She teaches 1st and 2nd grade at a Christian school and leads weekly chapel services for elementary students through object lessons and games. In her down time, Michelle enjoys spending time with family and friends, playing the piano, relaxing with a massage or pedicure, or swaying in her hammock.

Brenda Black is an inspirational speaker, author, columnist, and publicist, with more than 5,000 published works; and the creator of un-numbered brands, ads, blogs, posts and products. She owns and operates “The Word’s Out.” Her articles appear in publications nationwide. As an award winning author, original works are featured in multiple anthologies, including Chicken Soup for the Soul. Brenda is the author and editor of several books, like I Stand - A Miraculous Journey from Paralysis to Praise co-authored with gospel music recording artist Pam Morgan. Best known for her devotional Were You Born in a Barn, Brenda has also published a child’s story book Cowboy Pete, along with works that range from poetry and devotional to biographical. Brenda serves alongside her pastor husband, lovingly ministering to a rural congregation. When she’s not running a business or serving the body of Christ, you’ll find Brenda loving on and spending time with her family.

Book Michelle for your next event by contacting her at:

awillingvessel@yahoo.com

Get in Touch with Brenda to arrange for an appearance at your event by visiting:

https://www.thewordsoutbrendablack.com/speaker/

Or Scan right now to go straight to the Contact Form!

Knowing the Lord’s desire is one thing. Following His lead, quite another. Such devotion to be a willing vessel begins with honesty and transparency. The true story within lays it all on the line, airing truckloads of dirty laundry, while exposing the unwavering, boundless God who passionately pursued a searching soul through every bleak moment to shape, heal, fix, and fill her to be a useful and honorable vessel for God’s Kingdom.

The journey was difficult, but God redeemed it! Through this story of pain and rejection, abuse and disillusionment, risk taken and rewards received, others will find the courage to face their enemy, call him out in the name of Christ, and move forward in victory.

This is Michelle Yoder’s first book and serves as her bold statement about transparency in faith and what Jesus can look like when He is poured out through a willing vessel.

Brenda Black is a Christian writer, speaker and publicist with over 5,000 published works.