I’ve never thought of myself as the cheerleader type. Itty-bitty skirts and pom-poms? Um, like, no thanks.

After Sunday, however, I might reconsider.

Maria, Amanda and Eric

I stood at mile marker 9, as runner after runner passed me by. The half-marathon had started at 7 am—13.1 miles through Denver. Only forty-five minutes after the pop of the gun, the first elite runner passed my post. I watched in awe, marveled at his incredible speed and strength. If he saw me at all, he didn’t show it. His focus was solely on the goal.

Soon, the handful of elite athletes gave way to the thousands of men and women of various sizes, shapes and ages who came out to run two to three hours for fun.

Of course, at mile 9, there’s very little fun left.

I’d considered running this race myself, my second half-marathon. But time constraints made it impossible to train. And I knew this wasn’t a race to run without preparation.

But then my friend, Jerri, contacted me. Her son, Matt McQuinn, died in the Aurora Theatre shooting July 2012. Jerri had heard about Amanda, a survivor, who planned to run the race in honor of the victims: one mile for each life lost, the last mile for all the families left behind. Her fiance had been one of the twelve. This race was her way back to life, even in the loss.

So Jerri asked: “Would you run Mile 10 with Amanda? Represent Matt and the family?”

Yes, absolutely. So Sunday morning, I stood at mile marker 9 along with Matt’s brother, Eric, to wait for Amanda and our 1-mile run together.

But I didn’t anticipate what would overcome me while we waited:

Inspiration.

Goosebump-raising, misty-eye-making inspiration. Unlike the elite leading the pack, the vast majority of runners agonized with each step. Sweat dripped off their bodies, faces red and strained from exertion. I knew how difficult the tenth mile of a thirteen-mile race could be. You’re far enough from the beginning to be utterly exhausted. And still too far from the finish to be energized by its draw. Still, they kept running, determined to finish. Inspired, I started to cheer:

“Way to go! You’re doing great! Nine miles. NINE! Can you believe it? What an accomplishment! You’ve got this! You’re almost there! Keep going!”

Goosebumps. Covering my arms. Because as I whooped and hollered like a teenage girl on the pom squad, I experienced two unexpected changes:

One, the runners cheered. Not every runner acknowledged my loud self on the sidelines. But those who did, smiled and picked up their pace. It was as if an exchange was made: the enthusiasm and confidence of a stranger passed to the weary and worn runner. A few even cheered right back at me.

And two, the cheerleader wanted to run. There’s something about cheering for someone else that makes a bleacher seat less than satisfying. The more I cheered, the more I wanted to run. It wasn’t enough to watch from the sidelines. I wanted to be in the race, with them.

Every day you and I encounter people weary of their race. Neighbors. Grocery store checkers. Moms at the bus stop. Mail carriers. Co-workers. DMV employees (yep, especially them). Ordinary people running a long and grueling race, who simply need to hear that someone sees and believes they have what it takes.

Unfortunately, we’re usually so consumed with our own race we fail to stop and see another’s.

But what if you took a minute to cheer? What if we stopped just long enough to say …

Way to go! What an accomplishment! You’ve got this! You’re almost there! Keep going!

Some will ignore your offering. Caught up in their circumstances, they won’t notice or care. But others will turn, smile, and find new strength to keep going. For them, your well-timed words just might change their race.

Either way, I bet it’ll change yours.

Because when you cheer for someone else, you run a better race yourself.

Have you run a race and experienced the encouragement of a cheerleader? Who needs to hear you cheer today?

I’ve never been good at goodbyes. I blubber and cry. We’re talking tears, hives and uncommon amounts of dripping. Or I avoid it altogether. You know, the turtle and the shell variety. Ugly either way you look at it.

The past few years of my life have been marked by endings. Highschool graduations. Selling our ten-year family car. Adding more children. Saying goodbye to empty nest before it even began. Changes in family, in schedule, career, expectations, dreams. Endings, endings, endings.

But I no longer think of changes and endings as devastating. Painful at time, yes. But not without potential.

Yesterday, Faithlife Women featured a story I wrote about my family’s move from Arizona to Illinois when I was a little girl. I hated it. Cried for days. But now, 35 years past those first 6, I see that move as one of the best things that ever happened to me. Sometimes all a painful ending needs is the perspective of a different vantage point:

“I was not quite seven years old when my family moved from Tempe, Arizona to Bloomington, Illinois.

I still remember hiding myself in the living room drapes, peeking out every now and then to glare at the movers as they emptied our home of everything familiar. I watched, indignant and despairing, as if these men were thieves rather than employees doing a job.

The next day, our family pulled out of the driveway for the last time, leaving behind my Holly Hobby bedroom, my first best friend, and the front yard willow tree underneath which I had discovered the magic of imagination. Within a week, the moving van met us in another state to deliver all our belongings to our new home. And although the belongings were the same, somehow my 6-year-old self knew I would never be. Life as I knew it came to an abrupt end …” [Keep Reading]

Take a honest look at your life, today. What needs to end so you can enjoy a beautiful new beginning?

“How many children do you have?”

It’s one of the first questions I’m asked, whether speaking at a conference or paying for groceries. It’s an expected question, a natural one.

But I never know how to answer it.

I have five children at home, one in his own apartment twenty minutes away. The oldest is 21, the youngest is 6. But only one of my six children called me “Mom” from birth. Only one shares my genetics, brown eyes and mischievous smile. Only one did I nurse and swaddle and witness his first smile.

The other five came to me in unexpected ways. Two from a second relationship, when still 5 and 6 years old. That relationship eventually became the marriage I treasure today, over twelve years strong. At times they’ve called me mom, but the biology is different.

Does it count?

And what about the youngest three? They’ve been in our home for not-quite two years. They call me “Mom” daily, the former “Aunt” reference fading. Still, they know my perch in the family tree is not as “birth mom.” Another woman carries that title.

So, on Mother’s Day Sunday, when my pastor asked the moms of four or more children to stand, I didn’t know what to do.

“Should I stand up?” I grabbed my husband’s wrist, whispered in his ear.

“What?” He didn’t understand my question.

“Should I stand up? Do I count all six of our kids or just one?”

He shrugged. I waited, needing his validation.

“Sure, go ahead. You’re their mom.”

So I stood up, along with a couple dozen other moms. But then, doubt. Loads of it. Did the pastor require proof? Birth certificates? Court orders? Blood tests? Baby books and snippets of hair?

If so, I’d have to confess my fraudulence to a packed room of perfectly traditional parents.

Ugh. Anything but that.

This is my very real struggle. One I share with scores of silent women (and men, for that matter). At times I wonder if it’s just me and my skewed perception. But then a dear friend, who didn’t mean to offend, asked me only yesterday:

“Did you stand up at church on Sunday? How many kids did you say you have?”

Ouch. Exactly. Her question confirmed my fear:

My sense of unworthiness isn’t insecurity. It’s cultural perception of what it takes to be a “real” mom. I may love my six children as if I’d given birth to each one. But without a certificate or blood test, I don’t measure up.

There are many of us “un-moms” out there. The step-mom. Foster mom. Guardian mom. Kinship mom. Mentor mom. Even, at times, the adoptive mom. Regardless of the dinners made, homework assignments completed, conversations shared, and “I love you’s” given, she’s discounted as less than ideal. Less than enough.

It isn’t right. Maybe not intentional. But it’s real.

So what do we do?

At the least, it warrants a conversation. Even better, a commitment to see and actively support the thousands of men and women who fill gaps they didn’t create and love and lead children they didn’t birth. What they’re doing matters, and it does, indeed, count.

But the first step begins with the un-mom herself. The one who doubts her significance and wrestles with her role.

Yes, you.

[And me.]

So you didn’t wear maternity clothes and eat tacos at two in the morning. So you didn’t groan for twenty-one hours of labor until the doctor dropped a squalling child in your arms.

So what.

You said “I do” and opened your arms to children you didn’t birth. You said, “Yes,” and welcomed a troubled child with no where else to go. You signed papers and set up extra bedrooms and got that extra job.

A birth certificate isn’t the measure of a mom; what you do with the gift you’ve been given is. Don’t wait for the world’s validation. God has given you a sacred responsibility. For whatever reason, He brought you—YOU—a child needing your love.

Do it well. Stand up and take your place as a lover and molder of children.

You are a mother.

Do you know a non-traditional mom, someone who is investing in a child she didn’t birth? Tell us about her. Then send her this post. You’ll make her day. 

We sat at a restaurant table, eating burgers and fries. Rather, he ate. I picked.

From “Jesus Calling,” by Sarah Young

“It’s nothing personal.” He talked casually, not knowing how much his words seared me. “It has nothing to do with your performance. You’re great. We just can’t afford to keep doing business the way we have been. We’re losing too much money.”

A noble attempt to reassure, but I couldn’t get past his last words:

“We need to let you go.”

My head told me to take it at face value. I should believe his explanation, understand the business side of these decisions and walk away with head high and heart secure. These things happen, all the time.

But deep down, in a wounded area I couldn’t quite identify, I believed this instead:

If I was good enough, they wouldn’t let me go.

It’s been years since that day. But the experience reinforced a long-held belief. As did the writing rejections. The divorce. The children who rebelled. The friend who walked away. In every case, I held my inadequacy responsible.

If I was enough, they wouldn’t have left.

And so I worked, worked, worked to be the best wife, the best friend, the best writer, the best mother.

You do the same. I heard your words when we spoke after the event in Pennsylvania. I saw the doubt in your eyes even as I stood on the stage speaking in Texas. You lose a friend, and blame yourself. You watch a child struggle, and question your mothering. You take in all life’s rough edges and losses and rejections and assume somehow you are to blame for every. last. one.

But sometimes rejection is more about them than you. And your worth is never, ever tied to your work.

“Do you know how much I love you?” I ask my six-year-old the same question we rehearse nearly every night as I tuck him into bed. He’s desperate to know he matters. Maybe one day he’ll finally understand my answers are rock, not fog.

“So much!” He spreads his arms wide, although I’m certain he doesn’t yet believe in a love that will not leave. There’s been too much evidence to the contrary.

“Yes, so much.” I smile. Then ask another, more telling question: “And will I ever, ever stop?”

“NO!” He announces it, proud, like he can’t quite believe something so good can actually be his.

“You got it, buddy. Never.” I rustle his hair, look him in the eye. “Even when you’re having a bad day. Even when you scream and don’t listen. Even when I get frustrated and put you in time out. I love you. Always.”

I lean down and kiss his forehead, knowing he’ll be smiling long after I turn off the light. Even so, I know we’ll need to go through the questions again tomorrow.

I walk away, wondering when—oh, when?—our reassurances will show fruit. It takes such effort when the words don’t seem to stick. The thought is barely finished before I hear a question, this time asked by Someone other than me:

Do you know how much I love you?

How often I forget, how desperately I need to hear it.

So much. I answer Him. So very much. 

And will I ever stop?

He pushes me a little bit further, hoping I hear Him better this time, deeper. Understand—finally—His words are rock, not fog. I remember the missteps and mistakes, the wandering and doubting. How I worked so hard to be enough. Defeated, I put my worth up for sale. Still … 

No. You never let me go. Never will. 

Worth without work. Love without loss. Rock, not fog.

Chances are, we’ll go through this again tomorrow. He’ll again ask the questions. I’ll again remember.

But this time, today, I smile as I shut my boy’s door.

And something deep inside me rests.

Have you ever equated your worth with work and results? 

I originally scheduled another post for today. But it seemed trite, in light of suffering.

Yesterday morning, soon after I snagged my first cup of coffee and before the sun had filled the sky, I read the following. Later in the day, when news out of Boston slammed against my chest, I thought of it again.

I have no words. But Tozer’s give me something stronger than all my “why” questions to lean into to. I hope they do the same for you.

In this world where men forget us, change their attitude toward us as their private interests dictate, and revise their opinion of us for the slightest cause, is it not a source of wondrous strength to know that the God with whom we have to do changes not? That His attitude toward us now is the same as it was in eternity past and will be in eternity to come?…

In coming to Him at any time we need not wonder whether we shall find Him in a receptive mood. He is always receptive to misery and need, as well as to love and faith. He does not keep office hours no set aside periods when He will see no one. Neither does He change His mind about anything. Today, this moment, He feels toward His creatures, toward babies, toward the sick, the fallen, the sinful, exactly as He did when He sent His only-begotten Son into the world to die for mankind.

God never changes moods or cools off in His affections or loses enthusiasm. His attitude toward sin is now the same as it was when he drove out the sinful man from the eastward garden, and His attitude toward the sinner the same as when He stretched forth His hands and cried, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”  —A. W. Tozer, The Knowledge of the Holy

Earlier this year, on a particularly frustrating day, I wrote a letter “To the Mom Who Can’t Keep Up.”

I felt exhausted, overwhelmed. No matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t seem to stay on top of all the to-do’s. I wanted to either scream or cry. Maybe both. Instead, I wrote this letter.

Before lunch the next day, it would become (by far) my popular post. Thousands of readers commented or shared, expressing similar angst over the never-ending expectations and failures of motherhood. To my great relief, I was not alone.

Jill Savage, Founder and President of Hearts At Home and author of nine books, recently released a new book that speaks to this wrestling with imperfection: No More Perfect Moms: Learn to Love Your Real Life. Jill has been a dear friend for more than twenty years. What I love most about her? She’s imperfect, just like you and me. At the end of this post, I’ll tell you how you can get a free copy of her book. For now, welcome my good friend, Jill: 

***

When child number one threw a fit in the grocery store one day, screaming at the top of her lungs in this very public place, I was so embarrassed. I’d witnessed a scene like that before I had children, and I swore my kids would never do that. Since becoming a mom, I’ve found myself in all kinds of situations I never thought I’d be in.

When the kids didn’t sleep much, I found myself beyond weary. When they didn’t potty train as quickly as other kids their age, I was discouraged. When they grew older and began to have a mind of their own, I found myself exhausted from the conflict.

I’m less patient than I thought I’d be. I weigh more than I want to. My children are more strong-willed than I expected. At times, my marriage isn’t the “happily ever after” I dreamed it would be.

Inside I think thoughts like: I don’t measure up. I’m failing as a mom. My kids don’t act like her kids. My house doesn’t look like her house. My body doesn’t look like her body. My husband doesn’t help like her husband does. What is wrong with me?

Have you ever felt that way? Have you wondered what is wrong with you, with your family, with your kids? The truth is that nothing is wrong with you or your family—or me and my family. We are all normal. Our frustrations are normal. Our disappointments are normal. Our struggles are normal.

When you and I compare our insides to other women’s outsides, we always come out short. We’re comparing our struggles to their masks.

There are no perfect moms (just women who make a good outward appearance). There are no perfect kids (just kids who are dressed well and behave well just when you see them). There are no perfect houses (just ones where the clutter is cleverly stored!) There are no perfect bodies (just ones who know the beauty of Spanx!)

Perfection doesn’t exist…but unfortunately we waste a lot of time and energy pursuing the elusive mirage we’re just sure can be found. While we’re pursuing perfection, we’re missing out on the most precious parts of life: the laughter of silliness, the joy of spontaneity, the lessons found in failure, and the freedom found in grace.

Let’s give ourselves—and our family–the gift of grace to make mistakes. We can’t be perfect moms, but we are the perfect mom for our kids.

Where do you most often fight feelings of failure: mothering, appearance, housekeeping, marriage, or ???

FREE BOOK GIVEAWAY: Today I’m giving away one copy of Jill Savage’s book, No More Perfect Moms. If you want to be included in the drawing, make sure you leave your name, email address, and blog comment below. And don’t forget to use the share buttons below to link this post on Facebook and Twitter.

WANT THE SUPPORT OF OTHER IMPERFECT MOMS? Jill is leading an online, Facebook study beginning Tuesday, April 16. Hundreds of moms have already joined. You don’t have to do this alone! Find out more information and join the group by clicking here.

When I first held my newborn child, I never dreamed being a mother might one day break my heart. I only pictured play dates at the park, books read by the bedtime nightlight, and chubby little hands holding my own. Anything less seemed inconceivable.

But then my babies grew up, entered adolescence. They became less boys and more men, less adoring and more questioning. They developed their own dreams and ideas, pushed against my convictions and fought my best attempts to guide. At every turn, I found myself negotiating and wrestling with near-adults who once savored my words but now argued with every. last. one.

Bless their hearts. Not nearly as adorable as when they were born.

Independence is expected, but it’s tough to watch our children chart their own course. Especially when their course is so different from our own. Whether it’s the friends they choose or the pastimes they pursue, we lose sleep and pace floors, afraid a day will come when we lose them for good.

And, much as we hope otherwise, at times we do. Life writes prodigal stories in even the best of homes.

If this is you, you’re not alone. I have no words, no promises your child will “figure it out.” And until she does, your ache will remain.

I can tell you this: the waiting doesn’t have to rob you of living. You may not be able to make her choose better, may not be able to save her from herself. But you can fight worry while you wait for her to come home:

Let Go. Sleepless nights have been a staple since my boys became teenagers. My worry worked itself out in the dark of my bedroom. But sometimes my motherly concern morphed into something far more dangerous: Control. As a mom of children who are now adults, I wish I would’ve learned how to let them go. I can teach integrity and responsibility, make them put their dishes away and brush their teeth. But when adulthood snatches them out of my grasp, there is little I can do force the course of their life. My over-control does nothing but close doors. I have to let go, and allow my children to find their way.

Never Stop Saying “I love you.” Last week, I read a poignant tribute by Frank Schaeffer to his mother, Edith, who recently passed. Although she was a woman of devout and bold faith, he spent years outright rejecting her certainty for cynicism. Now, decades later, he believes in the God his mother adored. Why? Because she never compromised either her beliefs or her love for him. You will not not always agree. But never, never stop saying “I love you.”

Pray Like a Life Depends on It (it might). Recently, when concern over one of my children brought me to tears, I struggled to think of something I could do. Surely I could say something, convince him of wisdom. But, in my heart, I knew I’d already said enough. That’s when I realized I’d neglected the one “do” that could make a difference: I knelt on our family room floor and prayed.

“When I think of all this, I fall to my knees and pray to the Father… I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you, my child, with inner strength through his Spirit. Then Christ will make his home in your heart as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you, my child, have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.” —Eph. 3:14-17 (NLT)

Let go. Love. Pray. This may be your best parenting yet.

Have you known the grief of watching a child (or loved one) struggle? How did you cope?

She turned an ordinary request into something extraordinary. And delicious.

Kelly makes toffee. Melt-in-your-mouth, make-you-dream-of-heaven toffee. Various flavors, sizes. Traditional English. Cookies and Cream. Chai Tea Latte. Espresso Bean. Flavors that scandalize my (God help me) toffee-loving taste buds. I heard about her business from her daughter and soon went to her website for more information.

It is impossible to overstate my love of this golden confection. Sure, I wanted a stash for myself. But I also thought it’d make a nice gift for event hosts and clients. Honest. So I shot her a quick email and asked for a price list and shipping options.

She replied back within a day. Prompt. Courteous. A great first impression. More than enough. But it turned out to be only the beginning.

Within a few days, I received a large delivery of individual bags of toffee samples. Five of her most popular flavors, in various sizes, and packaged in rich decorative boxes with gorgeous, cascading ribbons. In all, about 3 lbs. of toffee perfection.

Pinch me. I’m a pig in front of my trough.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been hoarding my secret stash and sneaking clandestine toffee treats. It’s my responsibility to research. I must, must, must know if it meets my standards before shipping gifts to clients and friends. Yes?

Um, yes. I can attest the toffee is quite satisfactory. Now, where did I put those elastic pants?

Last week I read Fred 2.0: New Ideas on How to Keep Delivering Extraordinary Results, by Mark Sanborn. Troy and I had the privilege of sharing dinner with Mark and his wife, Darla, several months ago. Delightful. I hadn’t read any of his books before, but determined I would. Mark says the following:

“The prevailing spirit of the age seems to be ‘Get before you give.’ Without a tangible incentive—money, recognition, or applause—many people just don’t find any reason to do more than necessary.” (pg. 32)

Ouch. Yes, true. But not Kelly. Not even close. She probably hoped to gain my business. But she had no expectation I’d write a post about her craft, no knowledge of the Facebook and Twitter friends who might hear about what she does and how well she does it.

She showered me with the fruits of her talent, not because of something she hoped to gain, but because she loved the giving.

Simply, she delighted to do it. How rare she is! I couldn’t help but wonder: Am I a Kelly? Or …

1. When I give a gift, card or encouraging email, do I expect a thank you? Or hope to gain points on the approval scale?
2. When I do someone a favor, do I hold it like a promissory note I plan to collect on later?
3. When sharing talents or expertise, do I offer the bare minimum to get by?
4. Do I drop compliments because I hope it ingratiates me to the person or warrants similar accolades in return?
5. Do I grow disappointed, even bitter, when my efforts at excellence aren’t acknowledged or reciprocated like I think they should be?

I’ve interacted with enough such people to know how instantly distasteful an offering becomes when so motivated. But I had to admit: I’ve behaved the very same at times.

Ouch. Again.

Few things taste as sweet as an extraordinary, unexpected gift. But nothing ruins the flavor like an angle or expectation behind the offering.

What if we, instead, chose to take Kelly’s approach to the way we serve others? What if we delighted in the giving and blessing and encouraging far more than any possible hope of a benefit in return?

What if the act of giving, itself, was enough?

Like Mark said so well, “Don’t settle for normal. Choose to be extraordinary.”

Normal is negotiating for position, doing only enough to get by, keeping score. Extraordinary is giving and serving extravagantly for the sheer delight of it. Three pounds of beautiful, finger-licking toffee. Just because.

And extraordinary is choosing to share, rather than hoard.

Okay. Got it.

What is one way you could give or serve or love extravagantly today?

“You know what Easter is really about, right?”

I glanced in my rear view mirror at the three heads bobbing in the backseat. We’d just finished a not-so-small grocery run (is there any other kind?). They’d seen the bunnies and baskets displayed in the store, giggled incessantly about Easter eggs and Sunday’s certain candy.

Of course, we’d discussed Easter before, talked about the heart behind the holiday. I wanted to get it right, make sure the story stuck.

Only silence in reply.

“This Sunday is Easter. Do you know why we celebrate it?” I took another look in the mirror.

“Eggs!” The littlest little announced from the backseat, her arms up, triumphant.

“Well yes, we will color some eggs. But no, that’s not really the heart of Easter.”

My boy scrunched up his forehead, reaching for the right answer. “Bunnies!” he declared, certain he was closer to the truth than his sister.

Uh-oh. Breathe.

“No, not quite. I know you’re hoping the Easter Bunny will come, but that isn’t why we celebrate Easter.” Confusion clouded the faces on the bobbing heads.

Fabulous. I’ve failed as a mother.

I wracked my brain for a better approach, a hint I could give that might clue them into the truth.

“Think about Christmas. Who do we celebrate at Christmas?”

“Jesus!” All three shouted in unison.

Whew. “Yes, Jesus. That’s when we celebrate his birthday, the day he was born.” Let’s try this again. “So now, who do we celebrate at Easter?”

“Jesus!” they answered. Because when all else fails, “Jesus” is almost always the right answer.

“Yes, exactly. Jesus. Do you know what’s significant about Jesus on Easter Sunday?”

Silence. Again, wretched silence. Until the oldest, the leader of the lot, braved an answer:

“Um … did Jesus find some eggs?”

So we have a bit of a learning curve in the Cushatt house. We’re working on it. And we’ve certainly talked about it more since our drive in the car. I can’t really blame six-year-olds for their confusion. Everywhere they look—at the store, at school, on television—a preponderance of evidence claims Easter is about everything but Jesus.

It’s easy to miss the cross in all the candy.

For me, too. God help me, for me too.

I was cutting a roast when it happened. The brand new butcher knife I received for Christmas met the fleshy palm of my hand. It was an accident. I moved too fast, rushed through dinner preparations while contemplating my other to-dos. Foolish! I chastised myself the minute it happened. Then I called the kids to get me a napkin or towel, something to stop the bleeding. Upon closer inspection, I could see the wound went deep, but was relatively small. In time, it would heal without a mark.

For the past few days, I’ve carried this cut on my hand. I feel it every time I type on my laptop or reach for a glass of water. Proof of my frantic foolishness, reminding me to slow down and be more careful.

But it took me much of the week to see Easter in it. I’d missed the cross for all the candy.

“I have engraved you on the palms of my hands,” He says (Is. 49:15-16)

Engraved. Fixed. Carved. Impressed.

Not a result of foolishness or haste. Not a haphazard byproduct of an accident or mishap. Not a painful reminder of a mistake or misstep. Instead, an intentional engraving on a fleshy palm because Someone wanted the reminder.

Not because He’d forget; but because we would.

This is why we celebrate Easter. Because He welcomed the deepest of wounds so we wouldn’t have to.

No, Jesus didn’t find eggs. He found you. He found me.

And we are healed.

Just about the time I think I’ve kicked a lifetime of insecurity to kingdom come, it sneaks back up on me.

Drat.

One moment I’m on top of the world; the next moment I’m deep in doubt. Questioning everything from my mothering and writing to how I look in a mirror and clean the house (or, rather, don’t clean the house). It gets old, this wrestling for security. I want the matter of confidence to be settled, over, done. Not just in my head, but in my heart.

Last week, FaithLife Women featured a post I wrote about this constant reaching for reassurance. Two stories of two women, separated by generations but joined in their constant reaching. One grieved, the other gained. In the end, it was all about finding the Right Feet:

“She crawled across the floor on her hands and knees, tears pouring. Oblivious to her desperation, her husband grabbed his car keys and hastily packed bags in a single motion. “Please…don’t leave …” 

[You can read more here.]

Where does insecurity sneak up on you?