• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency
• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency
• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency
• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency
• I am sufficient in Christ’s sufficiency

Maybe my mother is to blame. She didn’t have to tell me that she named me after Christ. What a heavy burden to lay upon a child. I feel as though I have to live up to my namesake somehow, to suffer as he suffered or to save as he saved. It’s ridiculous, I know. I know I’m not God. I’m not all or even partial God. I’m human. I’m only human. There’s nothing particularly brilliant and special about me aside from that of any other human. I’m weak. I’m frail. Even for a human, I’m pathetically weak and frail. Delicate, as I like to say. Don’t be too harsh with me; I’m delicate, as though my body were composed of fine porcelain. Maybe my body is composed of fine porcelain or was at some point. It’s as though my body has been shattered upon a slate tile, and I’ve spent the entirety of my life searching for the teeny-tiny missing bits in a vain attempt at reassembly. Only Christ can reassemble me and make me whole again. Until then, I bathe in the droplets of gold dripped upon my surfaces as my heart of stone is gradually purified in his blazing fire.

• I am an artist
• I am an artist
• I am an artist
• I am an artist
• I am an artist

I’ve spent decades telling myself that I am a wannabe. It could take decades for me to reverse the damage by behaving as though I am a real artist. How does a real artist behave? A real artist produces art. I’ve been producing art for several years now. I have four poetry books compiled and self-published on Amazon. I’ve taken incredible photos. I’ve drawn amazing pictures, pictures I look at and still can hardly believe I drew it. I’ve painted paintings. I might not be too thrilled about any of the paintings I’ve completed as of yet, but I have completed them. I am an artist. I write. I dance. I draw. I sing. I allow the creative voice of Spirit to speak through my voice, to impact the world in fresh and new ways through my hands. It would be nice if I could look at everything I create and say, “It is good,” but I’m not God. I’m going to make a lot of mediocre stuff. I’m going to make crap, fire fodder, recycling. The point is that I make. I am an artist, and every time I allow my artistry to flow through me, even if the final product is ridiculous, the process is pure delight.

• I am going to survive my drive across the country
• I am going to survive my drive across the country
• I am going to survive my drive across the country
• I am going to survive my drive across the country
• I am going to survive my drive across the country

I haven’t been able to figure out how to post pictures on my blog yet. If anyone out there has a quick cheat sheet you can share with me, I’d be most appreciative. I know, videos on how to use WordPress abound, but between driving from Arlington, WA to Arlington, VA via Arlington, OR and Pensacola, FL, reading four books and writing four book reviews, I’m stretched a little thin this next couple of weeks. And I’ve been taking so many pretty pictures along my trip so far. They’re not all water features, but I do have a photo of Multnomah Falls, the Columbia River, and the creek along the crest of Cabbage Hill. I don’t know what its name is. I was so hoping to share my journey here in real time, ish. I’m a rookie blogger with a lot to learn, but we’ll get there.

• I am alive and well
• I am alive and well
• I am alive and well
• I am alive and well
• I am alive and well

It may seem obvious that I’m alive, but, for me, it’s not necessarily a given. I’ve struggled with depression my whole live. I’ve been suicidal most of that time. I’m finally on medications that help, but I still tend to feel empty and dead inside. I want to sing. I want to dance. I want to be happy, joyous, and free. And yet, the creeping darkness threatens to overtake me. According to the Christian tradition, Jesus died on good Friday and rose to new life on Easter morning. He died once for all, and, though I’m not masochistic enough to wish an actual crucifixion upon myself, I certainly am jealous of the physical death that puts an end to the daily death I endure. I die daily on the inside, sometimes much more frequently than that, and each time, I know I can look forward to a resurrection. Death is always required prior to a resurrection. I’m grateful that each day, I get to choose to focus on the resurrection part of life rather than the dying. It can be a difficult choice to make, but it is my choice non the less.

• I am healing and feeling
• I am healing and feeling
• I am healing and feeling
• I am healing and feeling
• I am healing and feeling

I always knew there was something wrong with me; I just didn’t know what it was. I wore an invisible cloak of dis-ease. I reeked of incompetence and inferiority. Everywhere I went, a little rain cloud hovered over me like in a Sunday morning cartoon strip. I was powerless. I didn’t deserve to exist, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was saturated in the first step of recovery before I even knew it was necessary. My entire life had been spent whirling in the cyclone of powerlessness and unmanageability. I didn’t drink much. I didn’t smoke or do drugs. I was a good Christian, until I wasn’t. But I was able to fast and pray. I read my bible. I won “sword drills” and bible trivia games. My elder sisters were rebellious, but I was the good kid. I was pleasant and quiet. I sat with the adults at the big people table soaking in their conversations with my large, inquisitive, baby blue eyes. I couldn’t figure out went so horribly awry. I spent decades in survival mode, begging God to have mercy on me and just take me home already. Little did I know that I first had to endure the tests and somehow persevere through the moanies before the two could merge into a testimony through which others could also begin to heal.

• I am young. I am strong. I am confident, and I am love
• I am young. I am strong. I am confident, and I am love
• I am young. I am strong. I am confident, and I am love
• I am young. I am strong. I am confident, and I am love
• I am young. I am strong. I am confident, and I am love

Where it all began. This string of affirmations changed my life forever. I didn’t even realize what was happening. It wasn’t intentional. In my mind, I was just trying to push myself; I was trying to just keep running. I was training for a marathon, and I needed all the help I could get. Nine years earlier, I attended a small group that was a part of my church. We were working through these small booklets filled with questions and thoughts to ponder. One page had a line upon which we were to write down a ten-year goal. As I had no goals at the time, I wrote down the first thing that popped into my head. Once it was on paper, there was no going back. I didn’t listen to music while I ran. I needed the time to be filled with silence, or, rather, the slow, rhythmic plodding of my feet hitting the pavement. It was meditative. It was restorative. It often felt like death as I pushed my body beyond its prior known limitations. It was exactly the death I needed to begin my journey beyond my invisible addiction onto the new path of recovery.

• I am happy, joyous, and free
• I am happy, joyous, and free
• I am happy, joyous, and free
• I am happy, joyous, and fee
• I am happy, joyous, and free

On mornings like this, joy is the enemy because I just don’t have the energy. My body weighs a thousand pounds. My right arm is cramping from attempting to write old-school style with pen and paper. I’m suddenly grateful that I don’t ever have to attempt writing with chalk. Just the thought makes my entire being skeeve. Oh, to be happy, joyous, and free. In recovery, I learned HOW to be happy: Honest, Open, and Willing. It’s simple enough, but it certainly isn’t easy. Though, it is at least achievable. Society teaches us that the only thing we need to be happy is more, the ever-elusive more, which is a beautifully cloaked lie. Personally, I don’t really want to have more. It’s hard enough to keep up with what I have already. Except for shoes and dresses; they’re so pretty, alluring, and my downfall. A simple life with good friends, singing and playing card games, is how I was raised and is the life for which I yearn. The more honest I am with myself, and with others, about the true desires of my heart, the more likely I am to see them come to pass.

• I am more precious than a pearl
• I am more precious than a pearl
• I am more precious than a pearl
• I am more precious than a pearl
• I am more precious than a pearl

Any time I begin to question my personal worth and value, it’s time for me to examine what I’ve been putting out into the world. A genuine pearl is amazing because it’s spent years forming inside of a protective shell, the oyster, adding one thin layer of coating around a minor irritant until a beautiful sphere is formed. The same can be said for my authentic personality. I’ve spent decades forming the person I’ve become within my protective shell, my body, adding one thin layer after another of translucent luster until my life glows from the radiance within. And yet, not all pearls are authentic. Most pearls are produced in a lab, made into perfect uniform balls, or into whichever size, shape, and color the consumer desires. These pearls are much less expensive, i.e., much less valuable, because they’re not unique. They’re a quick fix, a cheap imitation of the original. So, when I begin to feel as though I have no worth or value, I know it’s because I’ve not been my authentic self. I’ve been hiding the imperfections that prove my identity, and those are the gifts that make each of us precious beyond comparison.

• I am salt and light in a dark and dying world
• I am salt and light in a dark and dying world
• I am salt and light in a dark and dying world
• I am salt and light in a dark and dying world
• I am salt and light in a dark and dying world

Conviction breaks my heart this morning as I read about the ancient city of Jerusalem. The city was full of religiosity and pretentious piety. Visiting the temple, offering sacrifices, and following the rules of the law served as justification for the Jews to ignore the social injustices occurring all around them. Prophets called for “repentance,” for the people to stop allowing systemic oppression of the poor, for the rich to change their ways, to give up their luxuries in order for the less fortunate to receive basic sustenance. There is no excuse sufficient enough to condone the enormous disparity in the inequal distribution of wealth, then or now. The powerful had no compassion for the needs of the disabled or the disadvantaged. It’s been thousands of years since the Babylonian exile; and yet, the conditions of human society are still exactly the same. I weep for the hard-hearted and for those who are exploited. I’m not a socialist or a communist. I don’t believe everyone should enjoy the same benefits regardless of their efforts. I do, however, want to encourage goodness, gratitude, and generosity. I do desire to attain the capacity within my own heart to hold myself to a higher standard of giving and receiving with open hands as a channel of grace and healing. I do aspire to be salt and light within my sphere of influence to the best of my ability. To shine and to flow are the extent of my calling, and obedience to these are the greatest reward for which I could ever hope to discover.

• My victories are worth celebrating
• My victories are worth celebrating
• My victories are worth celebrating
• My victories are worth celebrating
• My victories are worth celebrating

Hiding. It has to stop. Hiding behind failure and inadequacy is habitual; it’s where I feel safe. Unknown, unseen, unloved hurts, but it hurts less than the arrows of judgment and criticism. And yet, I’m tired of playing small. The isolation is suffocating. Stepping out of the shadows of past shame is scary; it’s frightening as heck. Still, my heart longs for connection, yearns for understanding. Can anyone understand? Does anyone else know how hard it is to speak when no one has ever listened? The prophets of old spoke wise words that fell on deaf ears, or worse. The ground soaked in their blood because the people didn’t want to hear what they had to say. I don’t want to speak words that merely tell people what they want to hear. My work is to speak truth, speak love, and speak life. Let others throw stones. I’ll celebrate with choirs of angels at each step forward I take. If I don’t celebrate my victories, no one else is likely to. Conviction is a gift I no longer have the privilege to refuse.