<![CDATA[Courage, Kindled

<![CDATA[Courage, Kindled - Musings]]>Thu, 16 Feb 2023 10:48:45 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[God Will and I'll Try]]>Wed, 06 Jan 2021 11:55:31 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/god-will-and-ill-tryJanuary 6th
I’m reading Henri Nouwen’s book, Discernment. In it, Henri defines discernment as the determination of God’s will for and in our lives and Henri believes we discern God’s will through words of authors, nature, people, and other sources.
Today’s chapter discussed how fellow travelers help us discern God’s will for our lives and help us understand what we need to address in our development to meet that will. I agree with Henri that people serve a great function as markers and indicators of the direction we should travel. So, Henri had my attention when he introduced the concept that friendship involves forgiving the other person for not being God or Jesus. He cautions not to look to any one person as a source of a perfect relationship.
Henri points out that imposing too high of expectations on another is toxic, damaging:
If people expect too much from each other, they can do each other harm; disappointment and bitterness can overpower love and even replace it. But in the practice of discernment in daily life, we can learn to appreciate our closest friends, family members, and sometimes complete strangers, as signposts pointing toward God. Friends may be guides who see what we may not be able to see ourselves. Discernment, p. 72-73.
When I read this, I was reminded of a time when someone in my life expected perfection from me. Amazingly, I fell short. I did not meet the standard, and my fellow traveler was angry and hurt and made no bones about telling me so. I was deeply hurt when I learned I had disappointed, and said “I am sorry, what can I do to fix it?” At the same time, I said, “You know, I’m only human.”
I also recalled the time my dad had his gun out and accidentally shot a hole in my car, which was my pride and joy. Seriously. He shot a hole in my car! The paint peeled back from the hole in a circular pattern the size of a hand. I looked at him, mouth agape, eyes wide open, and with my hands in fists at my side. He shook his head and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever made a mistake in your life.” And put the gun back in the closet without another word.
We find ourselves in these stories. Because we try to love the best we can, but we are (last time I checked) human. Henri says our humanity comes with a formula for great relationships:
                            . . . friendship requires a constant willingness to forgive each other for not being Christ, and a willingness to ask Christ himself to be the true center of the relationship. When Christ does not mediate a friendship, that relationship easily becomes demanding, manipulating, and oppressive, and fails to offer the other the space to grow. True friendship requires closeness, affection, support, and mutual encouragement, but also distance, space to grow, freedom to be different, and solitude. To nurture both aspects of a relationship, we must experience a deeper and more lasting affirmation than any human relationship can offer. Discernment, p. 75-76.
God is the source of lasting affirmation and the One who meets our every need. We cannot expect any human being to fill God’s role. Friends are companions, each giving us joy and serving as helpers along the way. In a very human and hopefully, humane way. We let God be the One who loves us in a Divine and Perfect Way.
While Henri says we are to forgive friends for not being God, I’d say: my challenge is forgiving myself when I forget that people are not God, to forgive myself from expecting too much, and to seek forgiveness from the friend for imposing impossible expectations. I’d like my friends to feel free to say, “You’re expecting me to be like God again. Can’t meet that goalpost, sis. Just your beautiful friend here. Chill.”
One of my favorite Lyle Lovett songs, “God Will,” has the lyrics, “Who keeps on loving you when you’ve been lying, saying things ain’t what they seem? God does, but I don’t. God will, but I won’t. And that’s the difference between God and me.”
So, I love like a human. I strive to allow my friends to love me like a human. I seek divine love from God. And I help my friends seek divine love. And we each seek to love each other a little better, a little deeper, a little more like Jesus, every day. Without the burden of expectation. With forgiveness when we fail. With deep joy when we get it right.

]]><![CDATA[Well, THIS is awkward!]]>Sun, 03 Nov 2019 13:51:20 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/well-this-is-awkwardIt’s okay to be awkward when you’re learning.
Seriously. Who ever tried something and was good at it the first time?   Or as good at it as she became after some effort?   NOT ME.   I’m completely awkward when I learn something – when I started running, my running buddy said, “You know, you can breathe through your nose, it’s less noisy.”   AWKWARD!
I’m learning how to do this site.   I’m wobbly on Weebly.
Baby steps. When I attended the John Maxwell certification course in the summer of 2018, I rode the bus with a woman who told me I needed to learn to crawl before I could expect to run. My desire to run immediately was stopping me from starting my dream.   That hit home. And then, my BFF sent me a meme yesterday. It said, “When babies take their first step and then fall on their bottoms, we praise the first step.”
I certainly don’t feel these first efforts are praise-worthy.
Except, this: I am doing it. It takes guts. I’m afraid of the site not looking good (bad first impressions), people mocking me, criticism from family and friends, attack from haters, and (be still my heart) not making a difference – having irrelevant and useless content.   That’s a big ole serving of fear.
Meh. Who cares. Fear is a meanie, here to be a killjoy.   He can go sit in the corner. I’ve had enough of him.
Yeah, I’m learning. I’m starting somewhere. The site will get prettier, better, leaner, more impactful. I’ve got things to say – take what you like and leave the rest. I think there’s someone out there who one day will see what I wrote and will say, “that is exactly what I needed to hear.”
My wise lady friend, Dottie, said to me, “You need to let go of the result, stop trying to control the outcome.   Do what you’re called to do.”
Awkward, smawkward.   “Are you ready? Are you ready? Let’s get it on!”
(And by the way, this site will be a little quiet for a while, as my efforts are focused on a thankfulness journey on the Facebook page “Courage Kindled.”)

]]><![CDATA[Divine Fullness]]>Tue, 23 Aug 2016 23:00:00 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/divine-fullnessOne of my go-to books on self-growth is The Self-Forgiveness Handbook, A Practical and Empowering Guide, by Thom Rutledge. Thom discusses the concept of divine emptiness; the state of being which follows the clearing out of long-standing, negative, toxic habits and thought patterns through the process of self-forgiveness. It is the “I don’t know” space.

“I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know what to do now that I am ready to stop beating myself up and holding myself back. I don’t know who I will be when I finally let go of these unforgiving beliefs about myself. I don’t know and I am afraid.” (Rutledge, p. 91).

To help us, Thom provides a starting point – using the easily visualized concept of an empty room.

“Think of the empty space that you have created by separating your true identity from interpretations, beliefs and directives that are toxic to you, as a big empty room – your big empty room.

“You have cleared the space of all its previous furnishings in order to make room for the furnishings (beliefs) of your choice. This is your space and you have worked hard to create this emptiness. Resist the temptation to fill the space immediately, even when the openness, the not knowing, scares you.” (Id., p. 92).

I love Thom’s counsel:

“Remain steadfast. Protect your emptiness from toxic beliefs that will try to reenter the space. Remain alert and aware. Watch for the beliefs that you want and invite them into your space. Think your new thoughts. Practice your new beliefs, even before you believe them. Act according to your new thoughts. Behave towards yourself with love and respect—make this your daily practice, you daily commitment.” (Id., p. 94, emphasis mine).

My toxic beliefs can rage. Some of them may be familiar to you: You are a mistake. You aren’t good enough. This is all your fault. You’ve ruined your children, you know. There’s no hope for a better you.

My counselor handed me Thom's book and reminded me that I was the one person who could rid myself of these ear-worms. Tired of hearing that crap in my head, I read the book. I followed Thom’s guidelines of self-forgiveness and worked hard to clear my soul of beliefs that had sheltered there, hunkered down, lurking away from the light of my true self. I routed those bastards. Sent them home, packing.

Except for fear. That lingering malinger. He shows up with his leering grin. He likes to disguise himself as a multitude of other things. He loves it when he can thrive on a personal crisis. He is the imp that starts the negativity that stifles my joy.

In April 2016, my uterine fibroids had grown so large that they were impeding my body’s basic functions. I couldn’t urinate. It was painful to move my bowels. The fibroids caused bleeding; random and voluminous. What had been harmless for years was now a source of ill health. My family history of reproductive cancers left me with one viable choice. Remove all the reproductive organs, including the ovaries. Because of the family history, the doctor would prescribe only a minimal dose of estrogen and for a very limited time. So I would be thrown into menopause at age 49. A “full yank” with a hormone rollercoaster thrown in for fun.

In June, just before surgery, I was ending a hot yoga class, one hand on my belly, feeling my pulse there, a steady throbbing. My blood, coursing, to feed the fibroids. I was furious. How many times in my life would my energy feed that which drains me and gives me nothing back?

As the fury faded, I talked to myself. “What this emptiness will mean to me? Will I have more energy? Will I feel better? Or will I age more quickly? Will I be less sexy? Will I be less feminine? What will replace this void?“

There was no answer. My heartbeat continued to emphasize that my energy was nourishing this toxicity in my self. Fear showed his ugly self with answers, growing stronger with his words: “Gray hair. Fat. Asexuality. Leaky bladder and Depends! Jowls!”

Like I said, I know this guy, Fear, and I am no slouch when it comes to fighting him. I countered the thoughts and as the tears of battle dripped down the side of my face, I reassured my self that past learnings would guide me as I shed these toxic tumors. I would choose to replace them with a new healthy life. Not right that second, though. Slowly. Through a practice of steadfast, alert and aware choices. Deciding what I wanted and inviting it into this new, empty space.    Slowly, quietly, my God self emerged and my fears subsided.

Days later, I woke up from surgery. I knew immediately the fibroids were gone, there was no heaviness in my abdomen where they used to be. I was lighter. I exclaimed to the nurse attending me, “They’re gone! I can tell! Right away, I can tell!” She laughed. “Yes, they’re gone.” “Thank you, thank you!” She gave me one long, eyebrow-raised nod. She thought it was the drugs.

I believe we realize, in our core, when our life-joy is threatened by the toxic. The problem is it started out small and unassuming and we've lived with it for so long. We’ve grown accustomed to it and even nurtured it and leaned on it as a crutch. We didn’t realize it was getting big and powerful. Then, one day, we wake up because the toxicity has spread and denial of its stench is impossible. We decide do the work to expel it.

I also believe that it’s not the hard work of getting rid of the poisonous that keeps us stymied, it’s the fear of the emptiness. The emptiness in my gut was real and it scared me. Emptiness seems threatening - will it swallow us?

On the yoga mat that day, I chose to think of the emptiness as divine. I created it by my wise and life-affirming choice to expel that which was no longer healthy to me. From there, thinking of it as a sacred place waiting to be filled, I committed the space to be a home to my life’s purpose, I invited the severed nerves to feel a promise to be staunch in the pursuit of kindness, I tasked the dead-end blood vessels with the stubbornness to expel anything that hindered me from achieving why I was put here on this earth. I chose, and am choosing, to be steadfast and to work, using strength of faith and will and providence, to slowly and surely replace the empty spaces, in my gut and otherwise, with Divine Fullness.

The toxic could be that cocktail we have every night, or maybe the condescension we have in our voice with our spouse, or maybe allowing someone to take us for granted, or being a doormat for someone to wipe their feet upon. Maybe it's how someone you love gaslights you, and you allow it. There's many forms of tumors and toxicity which start small and grow.

I hope we don’t fear the emptiness so much that we continue to embrace those poisons. I hope we can expel the toxic and reflect the joy of Divine Fullness.

“I have loved you with an everlasting love. I have called you and you are mine.” Jeremiah 31:3; Isaiah 43:1.

Edited March 2019; May 2019.
]]><![CDATA[On Hot Yoga and Shedding]]>Fri, 24 Jun 2016 23:00:00 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/on-hot-yoga-and-shedding went to hot yoga for the first time the other day.   Fifteen pounds overweight, no steady exercise in a while, I sauntered into the studio. Long running tights (hey, they are lightweight!), short-sleeved running shirt, running shoes and socks, and a fleece. (I was cold…). I walked to the desk and discussed attending class, and was handed a signup sheet and release form.

I had plenty of time, so I people-watched. Slender girl in bikini. Older woman in more sturdy bikini. Dancer type in boy shorts and sports bra. Older fella in shorts only. Barefoot.

Each carried a yoga mat and water. I picked up my purse and stretched it wide: altoids, sunglasses, credit cards, and lipstick. No mat, no towel, no water.

Clearly, I was failing what my mother would call the-most-important-test. What to wear. Her voice said in my ear, “Quick, go home and change before anyone sees!” No time for that. I went back to the desk. “Do you supply mats or water?” Yes, mats were rentable for a small fee. I purchased water for a larger fee. I walked into the locker room and noticed, as I tucked my purse into the cubby, took off my fleece, shoes and socks and tucked them into the cubby, that the regulars were stuffing things into their cubbies. I might be okay; I could blend in.

Into the practice room, a steamy 103 degrees. I looked into the room and thought, I wonder where the instructor puts her mat, I don’t want to put mine where she usually does. “I’ll just ask someone!” I thought. As I opened the door to enter, I noticed the sign “Silence is observed in the practice room.” Gulp. Okay, just guess where she won’t be and put my mat there.

As the hour went on, I noticed how profoundly I did not belong. I was unable to do the poses, including the repeated transition poses. I shook holding the poses I could do. I was not familiar with, and could not follow, the instructions of the very fit yoga master who walked about the whole time.   I spoke into the silence, “Oh sure, wrap my arm around my ankle.” “Who does that?” “You’ve got be kidding me!” “I am dying.   Any minute, no pulse.” “Down, before you f’ing faint!”     Whispers really. I’m sure no one heard.

I’m also sure no one else saw a black tunnel narrow before their eyes, three times, during the class. Not passing out was what doing my best looked like. The girl to the left of me? Her best looked like art: long limbs, beautiful movements of graceful strength, impeccable form.   She even breathed in and out at all the right times. Both of us, doing our best.

And I was not alone in my pool of sweat. We all had one. The sweat ran down my back, my legs, in between my toes, and down the sides of my face.   Dripped off multiple points of my body; nose, belly, elbow, knee.

I have been retaining water due to any number of reasons; too much salt, not enough water, hormones, tight clothes, bad food choices. My body was delighted to get rid of the water. It worked at it. I would find that I lost a pound of water weight in that hour – a testament that it needed to go. And I stank. Because I have not been the healthiest lately, my sweat was putrid. Like the skin off a growing snake, I shed that waste from my body so that I could continue my journey a little brighter, a little better.

The yoga instructor told us as we started, “This is not about comparing or competing in any way. YOU are the only person in this room. Give yourself the gift of doing only this for these 60 minutes. Go into child’s pose when it gets too much for you. Take care of, be concerned with, only yourself.”

I listened to her as best I could. I offered praise that the girl to the left of me set a great example that I could follow and for her inspiring beauty, I giggled when I wobbled, I listened to my body say “child’s pose” multiple times and for long periods of time. I watched the achingly slow clock.

It was not an hour that I would like to repeat and I am glad it was not documented. But it was a needed hour. A reset hour. An hour to touch base with my body and apologize for neglecting what it needed, to thank it for taking me to yoga and helping me live through it. And I belonged because I shared a common purpose with people I did not look like: be present in this practice for 60 minutes, do the best we can, allow our bodies to tell us how much they can take and honor that limit. And shed the toxic.

Updated May 2019.
]]><![CDATA[Let Your Hands Be Strong]]>Mon, 18 Apr 2016 23:00:00 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/let-your-hands-be-strongMerely months before my father died from cancer, he had a visit from his sister, Mary Ann.  Mary Ann is a former nun, deeply spiritual, musical. and despite the many health and financial struggles her life has handed her, joyful. Her laugh ,a mix between a cackle, a bark and a song, will make you cringe and join her laughing, at the same time. Mary Ann is younger by a decade than Dad.

These siblings talked for hours and Dad would perk up when she came into the room. You knew from their conversations that these two were bonded by many shared experiences. Dad was seventy-five, struggled to leave his chair, spent much of his time quietly sitting. He watched the clock, pointing out when four hours had passed and he could take his next pain pill. A rancher who could carry a hundred pound calf as far as was needed on his shoulders, a father and grandfather to many, reduced. A man whose gruff voice could send people scurrying, quieted. Mary Ann spoke to him like she spoke to the man of forty, or thirty, that she had known. That is the person she saw in the chair.

Towards the end of the visit, Dad spread his hands out before him and looked at them.   He turned them up and over and side to side. He splayed his fingers, he put his hands together in prayer. He cleared his throat, he began to speak. His words went something like this.

“These used to be such strong hands.   Now they’re so weak. So old, so tired.   I couldn’t fix a barbed wire fence with them anymore.”

Mary Ann slipped down from her chair to the floor by him.

Dad looked at her, intently, eye to eye. Then back to his hands. His voice quavered. “Did I do more harm than good with these hands? I was rough and mean; I hit people. I built things.   I held babies and caressed children. But in the end, did I do more good than harm? I don’t know.”

Mary Ann was on her knees now, holding her brother’s hands.   “Oh yes, Ed. Such wonderful hands; so much kindness, so much good. Strong father, giving children the gift of faith. Strong husband.” Her voice went low. I could not hear from across the room - only snippets. “Remember…” “You helped…”

I didn’t need to hear the exact words.   They were close to each other, leaning in and on each other. He was crying. She was crying. He, listening. She, consoling.

It was only moments. Mary Ann’s last words were, “Good hands. Strong hands.” In that short conversation, she and he had discussed whether or not Dad had lived as good a life as he might have.
It put a thought in my heart. From time to time, I look down at my hands. “More good than harm?”   “Strong hands?” “Kind hands?”

Jewel’s song Hands resonates with me – especially this morning. “My hands are small, I know. They mine and not your own. And I am never broken.”

The bible has much to say about hands.   There is the raising of hands to win battles, the raising of hands in prayer, praise and celebration. There is the laying on of hands for healing; exhortations that lazy hands make a man poor. There is the importance of the right hand – what you hold in it and who is at your right hand. There is guidance by hands. Jesus restores a shriveled hand, stretched out to him. Here are some of my favorite quotes:

“I hold you in the palm of My hand.”

“I will save you and you will be a blessing. Do not be afraid, but let your hands be strong.” Zechariah 8:19.

“My times are in your hands.” Ps. 31:15

“Do not let your hands hang limp.”

Our hands are ours – and they work good and bad in our lives.   They caress or slap. They can fix or break. As Jewel points out, our hands are our own, and they do the work we would have them do – not the work of others.    We have a choice, in any moment of our lives, to let our hands be strong.   And kind. Or otherwise.   We can let our hands hang limp and useless by our side – saying we don’t have the strength or it is not our problem or just choosing to do nothing.    We can clench, open, splay, grasp, let go.

How would my life and yours differ if we looked at our hands in critical moments? Once a week? Whenever? What matter of evil would we prevent? How much kindness would the day show? Would we do small acts of kindness - hold a door open for someone maybe?   Type a quick text to someone we haven’t touched based with in a while? Fold them in prayer for our children?

“My hands are small I know, but they’re not yours, they are my own. And I am never broken.”

Updated May 2019.
]]><![CDATA[Avoiding Walking Dead]]>Sun, 17 Apr 2016 23:00:00 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/avoiding-walking-deadMy boys and I are watching The Walking Dead together.   The zombies have no emotion, no thought except that which drives them to survive.   There is no chance for fulfillment of their talents or life dreams, no love for others.   They are on auto-pilot, their brains taken over by the virus or disease that has hold of them.   When one of the characters we follow puts a knife through a zombie's head, I usually think "thank goodness, that one's suffering is over." I think this, though the writers make pretty clear that the zombie doesn't know it is suffering or the depth of its suffering.

Yesterday, a friend sent me Elizabeth Gilbert's blog post, which quoted Tracie Cornell's essay called Getting Back to Me, and talked about how Tracie was "slowly dying in a failing marriage." It speaks of how Tracie chose life and decided to experience the strange and wonderful in the gym, with her girlfriends and her small children. Tracie likened the gym to Italy, a weekend away to a trip to Indonesia. Life tied her presence, but not her spirit, to one place. Elizabeth was moved deeply:
"Whenever I see people trading in their numbness for awakening, their self-abandonment for self-care, their shame for dignity, their fears for boldness, their lies for truth, and their passivity for ferocious self-accountability, ... it just makes me want to cheer. I think it makes the whole universe want to cheer. "

Much is unspoken in the post.   That's because Elizabeth understood Tracie as I understand her.   For me, the words "slowly dying" resonate.   When we give too much of ourselves to something that is unhealthy or gives little to nothing back, we slowly die.     When we "turn aside to false gods" or lies (Ps. 40:4), we slowly kill ourselves.   We slip slowly, deeper and deeper over time, into "slimy pits" and "mud and mire" and we walk on ground that threatens to give way under our feet (walking on eggshells, perhaps?)(Ps. 40:2).    And because so much of our time on that journey is spent trying to deny that it is happening, to paint it more brightly with hope that somehow, some way we can change the circumstances, we are like those zombies, we don't even know we are suffering. Then, something happens, our denial and hope is stripped away and we wake up one day and say "How did I end up here? I am in one deep and slimy and miry pit - way the hell down here."

( I like the word "mire".   It is a "stretch of swampy and boggy ground." Or, "a situation or state of difficulty, distress, or embarrassment from which it is hard to extricate oneself." (Oxford Dictionary).   I think of a miry pit as being like the tar pit in the Croods movie; sticky, black, life-sucking.   Slimy is distasteful and requires a shower to be rid of. Miry? It implies struggle, and useless struggle at that. The paradox is that if you don't struggle, the mire gets you; it wins.)

One of the saddest moments of my life was when I woke up and saw the depth of the pit I was in.   One of the happiest moments of my life was when I realized I didn't have to stay there.   I decided, again using Elizabeth's words, "to participate stubbornly and constantly and joyfully in the riotous and unique experiment that is [my] own life."

I had to dig out of the pit. That was not fun.   Say what you will about the Bible, and your faith may differ than mine, that book was instrumental in my digging.   It helped me redefine myself as a person of tremendous value and to see that others, for centuries, had endured what I was going through and lived to thrive.   Slowly, and sometimes suddenly, I was lifted out, my feet found solid ground, I stood firmly in my own skin and I sang songs of life and love and joy.   (Ps. 40:2-3).

Maybe you don't "sing?" We all do, I think. Those tapes in our head that run constantly? "You are worthless, you don't matter, you'd better listen to him/ her, you're so ugly - who'd ever want you?" Those are songs; they have rhythm, and a chorus, and verses.    I sang those dirges. Over and over.   Now, there are new songs.   Songs like this: "You are loved with an everlasting love." "You are the apple of my eye."   "Be strong and courageous. Be strong and very, very courageous." "You are fearfully and wonderfully made."   And one of my favorite songs I sing to myself, "The Universe is glad I am here, I bring much good."

Elizabeth thanks me, and you: "Thank you to anyone who has ever decided to live boldly, rather than to fold up into a small parcel and wait for life to pass them by."

Here's to us, us avoiders of walking dead, us non-folders.  Like the characters in the series, we make, and reaffirm, the brave, courageous choice of living bigger.  Here's to you - what's your song?

Psalm 40: NIV
http://www.elizabethgilbert.com/eatpraylovemademedoit

]]><![CDATA[Dory has it right!]]>Thu, 28 Jan 2016 00:00:00 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/dory-has-it-rightI am much more like Nemo’s dad than I am like Dory. I have missions and I pursue them passionately and to the point where I have tunnel vision.   It is a character asset of mine. It is a character defect of mine.

Dory says, in Finding Nemo, “just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.”   Easy for a fish to say.   I’m not that good a swimmer and sometimes I feel I am drowning. Now is one of those times in my life.   Work is hectic and there is much change, making formerly simple tasks more complicated and time-consuming.   My sweet sister passed away only six weeks ago.   I am moving my boys, years post-divorce, from our home (complete with barn and shop) to a new, cleaner, fresher, smaller home.   The usual things of life have continued – my sons’ debate, soccer, speech, school and usual lives have not slowed.   My love relationship requires attention and care. My friendships are a source of blessings and laughter. As I move, I grieve the loss of my marriage. The efforts put forth over the years, the investments in material things to stay happy, all seem futile now and leave me only with sad memories, baggage and work.    I worry about my kids and their sadness and their anxieties as we move. There are papers to sign, utilities to transfer, decision after decision to make. There is much good here too – the help of my sweetheart warms me, my brother’s trailer makes me smile as it bounces over ruts in the road, the friends who bring me dinner nourish more than my body.

“God Calling” tells me today that “It is to the drowning man the Rescuer comes.” It points out the disciples thought Jesus may have forgotten them in his sleep. “Master, Master we are going to drown!”   Luke 8:24.   (As a side note, this makes me giggle today.   I may have to say it over and over today. “Master, Master, I am going to drown!” It certainly feels that way!)   It points out that Jesus could have calmed the very first waves, but “It is a part of My method to wait till the storm is at its full violence.” So God has a little drama-queen in Him? He recognizes that we humans sometimes only learn from the extreme and dire. The meditation bids me to “go forward unafraid” after ridding myself of the fear:

“In the spiritual (as in the material) world there is no empty space, and as self and fears and worries depart out of your lives, it follows that the things of the Spirit, that you crave so, rush in to take their places.”

This resonates.   There is no room in my mind and heart for joy and life and love if my head and heart are full of worry, and fear, and regret. And sadness.   I become like Nemo’s dad – overwhelmed, overtaxed, worried, hopeless and despondent. Everything seems so big, even the next step.   I paralyze myself.

Notice that.

Circumstances didn’t paralyze me.   Reality didn’t paralyze me.   My thoughts and my fears paralyze me.   I paralyze myself.

I render myself less useful.   At a time when I need every facet of my being at full capacity, I paralyze myself.

The life-taker has to love that. When I am paralyzed and struggling to do the next thing – there is little room for God and His saving hand. No room for joy, and confidence and strength.

I don’t have to deny myself the feelings of regret, sadness and being overwhelmed.   That would be silly because those feelings are present and real. I can’t fight them off entirely. But I can let them come and then, let them go.   I don’t have to stay there treading water and going nowhere.   I don’t have to let all my energy (or even a substantial part of my energy) be lost to fear and tiredness.

I can say to myself, “Reach for the hand of the Rescuer. Tell Him, “Hey, I’m drowning here!” Don’t choose to be overwhelmed because you think that’s the only way life has meaning. Don’t paralyze yourself with negative emotions.   Remind yourself of silly Dory and keep swimming.

Updated May 2019.
]]><![CDATA[Corrie Ten Boom]]>Sat, 02 Jan 2016 00:00:00 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/corrie-ten-boom

Corrie Ten Boom's book, The Hiding Place, is set during WWII. Corrie writes it after surviving the concentration camp. She went there with her sister and father. She was the only survivor of her family.

The Hiding Place will help you understand how God fits into the suffering of our lives. Corrie's insight, and the wisdom given to her by her father, will encourage you to think differently about the world, suffering, and how to live during dark times.

One of my favorite stories from the book is when Corrie and her father are watching the German soldiers load up Jewish civilians for transport to the prison camps. Corrie is looking at her fellow civilians and she expresses to her father that they must pray for these neighbors, so that their suffering doesn't cause them to lose their souls in the midst of all the turmoil. And her father replies thoughtfully, "Yes, it is imperative that we do." Corrie is struck by her father's tone and follows his gaze to realize that he is speaking about praying for the soldiers.

Another favorite scene is when Corrie is a little girl and her father will not allow her to carry his briefcase. He explains to her that it is a parent's job to carry those things too heavy for their children. Later, as an adult, she understands he was speaking about more than the suitcase.

Corrie writes a book full of unforgettable stories which will challenge your thinking and inspire you. If you could use some hope or a different perspective, take a break from the world's view and consider Corrie's.

]]><![CDATA[Start.]]>Fri, 01 Jan 2016 22:00:00 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/startPlain words of advice given to me. "Just start. Your blog will reach the people it is intended to reach."

The advice was well-put. I spend too much time thinking and not doing. Putting too much energy into concerns and too little into living.

My purpose is simple. I want to share what has helped me on my path and to give back in honor of what others have given me. To practice and to share the practice of authenticity, gratitude and joyful living.

I've ignored, for a long time, the urge to start this blog; the desire to create a place of hope, courage, joy and strength. So, forgive the awkwardness and the roughness of the beginning. I'm getting started.

]]><![CDATA[Music for the Journey]]>Sun, 23 Aug 2015 23:30:00 GMThttp://www.couragekindled.com/musings/music-for-the-journeyMusic can be a great source of help and wisdom on any given day. It can life your mood, help you meet a challenge or help you to relax and breathe through strong emotions.

This is where you will find some of my songs-those that I turn to over and over for company as I travel!

"...when you get so down that you can't get up and you want so much but you're all out of luck... just hold on tight to your dreams." --Hold on Tight (Electric Light Orchestra)

This is the theme song for my life. I discovered it in 1984 when I used it in a high school report on the topic "Dreams". I've always loved it - especially very loud, in a car, going as fast as the road will permit, on my way to someplace fun. But I've also played it loud, as I sobbed through a painful moment.

p.s. The video for this theme song is goofy and eclectic! It makes me laugh - the hairstyles, the quirky theme, the cheesiness! Don't judge me!

"...everybody working for the weekend...everybody wants a new romance... everybody's going off the deep end.... everybody needs a second chance."

-- Working for the Weekend (Loverboy)

Vintage 80s. My high school days. I listened to this song after Mom died in 2004, and burst into tears as I was blissfully happy driving down the road with it blaring. "Thank you Mom, for giving me the love of music." Rock and Roll. Blaring. Happiness on the road. Gratitude cocktail.

Updated May 2019.

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