Not Another Election Post {Or When and How to Make a Stand}

My pastor preached a message a few months back that I keep recalling through this messy election season. He was preaching from the Beatitudes. Specifically on the meek.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” Matthew 5:5

If I am honest, meek is not something I have ever striven to be. It just sounds like, well, a bummer. (Is this just me?)

In many Bible translations, the word meek is used interchangeably with humble and gentle. Track with me for a minute, because I think if we can understand gentleness and humility, we can understand what it means to be meek. {And why we might want to grow in this area}.

Gentleness implies a healthy self-awareness. It’s knowing our own strengths and weaknesses and mindfully stewarding them around others. Gentleness doesn’t mean we are without cracks and sharp edges; it means that we know how to keep our edges out of the skin of others.

Humility implies a healthy self-forgetfulness. It’s not thinking of ourselves too often, and when we do think of ourselves, it’s in the light of the greatness of God. It’s not just an awareness of our smallness and God’s greatness, it’s also rightly putting ourselves in the grand scheme of God’s love and plan for all.

Between God’s love and our brokenness, here’s what the gentle-humble meek know: “If left to ourselves, we would break far more than we would repair.”***

Deep down, in spite of all the ways we try to cover up our propensity to break things, we know we do.

We know how clumsy we can be with our words and our actions—how often our foot finds its way into our mouth. We’ve seen our frustration bubble up and out in loud, angry words at the ones we love most. We’ve sat practically stuttering when our friend carries her heavy burden of unimaginable loss—remaining silent when we wanted to say something or thinking what we did say sounded hollow. We’ve watched our compliments get carried forward on the backside or our hand in spite of all our best intentions. We’ve cringed over the posts that we offered up too hastily that offended deeply.

For all our best intentions—our desires to be a good mom, wife, friend, and disciple-maker—we are capable of so much breaking.

We often think of meekness as looking rather like weakness. But here’s the thing: our weaknesses draw us to God’s side. It’s meekness when we choose to stay there.

The meek are keenly aware of their need for God.

I’ve been thinking on this through the current election season. You guys, the church has been downright nasty. The cutting remarks. The touting opinions like facts. The declaring shame on all who would vote differently. The way everyone seems to have something to say, but no one is really listening. 

I have seen division and ranting and debating and excusing away terrible behavior and proclamations of who beyond a shadow of a doubt would be the lesser of two evils… all in the name of Christianity and restoring God to our nation? We've spoken death to one another in the name of being pro-life?

And I just wonder if we, the ones professing Christ, need to get back to our basics, to the sermon Jesus preached when He laid out the foundation of His kingdom? And, guys? How can we claim to be a part of God’s kingdom, if we aren’t living like a citizen of it?

 Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are the gentle. Blessed are the humble. Blessed are those who realize the surpassing greatness and sovereignty of God. Blessed are those who pray first and last and always. Blessed are those who know how capable they are of breaking others. Blessed are those who walk and talk slowly. Blessed are those who listen. Blessed are those who live recognizing their need to have God WITH them every single step, with every single word.

Because it’s the slowed-down ones, the looking-for-God ones, the relying-on-God ones, the gentle and the humble ones, on whom He has bestowed the earth.

I mean, think on this: We are worried about the state of our world and the state of this country. But God doesn't promise it to the reckless and impassioned ranters. God promises it to the meek.

The meek carry the world on their prayers. The meek change the atmosphere of a world in tumult. And God gives the world as an inheritance to the meek.

Do you want to see God in this country? Do you want to see God in your everyday life?

Slow down. Pray without ceasing. Re-estimate the greatness of God. Realize we are broken people and our wholeness is found when we lean on God. This isn't necessarily a call to be quiet. It's a call to live and speak by the Spirit.

“For you were called to freedom, brethren; only do not turn your freedom into an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another. For the whole Law is fulfilled in one word, in the statement, ‘YOU SHALL LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF.’ But if you bite and devour one another, take care that you are not consumed by one another…

"If we live by the Spirit, let us also walk by the Spirit.” Galatians 5:13-15, 25

What do you think? {I’d love to hear your thoughts on this, and my hope is that this would be a safe place to practically talk through this.} What has been your own process for filtering your strongly-held beliefs, opinions and thoughts through social media during this election? 

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

***I am quoting my pastor from his sermon. You can listen to the whole sermon HERE. (And it covers poor in spirit and those who mourn also, and it’s really good. Scroll down the menu to Beatitudes Part 1)

Where We Find Peace After Loss

Addy was lying in her bed waiting for me to pray over her. She was looking at the wall like she could see right through it. I knew there was a storm brewing in that eight-year-old brain of hers. She was about to broach one of the tough topics of faith.

“Mom, I feel like God doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t answer my prayers.”

Tears were welling up in her eyes. Bless her heart, she came deeply sensitive, just like her mama.

“I just miss Gramps real bad, and God didn’t bring him back to the earth like I asked Him to.”

Though taken back, my first instinct was to tell her how death is hard, but how when we put our hope in Jesus, death isn’t the end.

But that isn’t what she wanted to hear.

I know, Mom. That’s not what I’m talking about.

I asked God to bring Gramps back, but He didn’t.

She was really wanting to know why God doesn’t answer our prayers, why bad things happen, why God lets us go on living with gaping voids across our broken hearts.  

And really, the truth is, I still grapple with those questions. Even though I can recite Bible verses and state Biblical theology on why bad things happen, understanding loss is a bit like hugging a sumo wrestler. I just can’t get my arms all the way around it.

I sat on Addy’s bed and paused. I knew this was one of the big moments of motherhood—one I didn’t feel prepared enough or wise enough for. I took a deep breath and uttered a silent prayer: Lord, you have to be here. Please give me the words I don’t have.

While praying, I knew it was time to tell Addy my story. I had avoided this conversation. Partially because I wasn’t sure my girl was ready to hear it. But also because I wasn’t sure I was ready to share it—I certainly hadn’t felt ready to live it.

Addy knew I had miscarriages—one happened after the family pregnancy announcement—but I’d always been vague about the exact number. Four before Sam, one before you. But I just knew in my mother-heart, she needed to hear my story that night. And it was okay to tell her now of the pain and the struggle to trust God. It was okay to tell her how sometimes I still ache for the five I will never know here on earth.

She began to cry. We both did.

It felt like sharing unresolved faith. But I realized, isn’t all faith unresolved this side of heaven? Don’t we now only see in part, know in part? And isn’t faith believing in what we haven’t yet seen, and don’t yet fully understand? Isn’t faith holding tightly to the hope we have in the power of the cross to transform us and the hope we have of one day reaching Home?

During our conversation, words tumbled out before my brain could catch up: “Addy, I wouldn’t for all the world go back and change what happened because it would mean you and Sam wouldn’t be here. I don’t know why I lost those babies. But I do know God has been good, and those babies are safe in heaven.”

It seemed strange to hear those words formed by my own mouth. I remember how just two years ago I was so angry at God. I remember the struggle to trust Him. I remember wanting to take the whole lot of it and tie up my tubes so I could never ever lose again—maybe I desired another baby, but I desired control too.

And yet as those wouldn’t-change-a-thing words came out of my mouth, I knew I was speaking the truth.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

I reminded Addy how we prayed for Sam. Our whole family prayed for him and hoped for him and believed for him. Maybe the road of Sam’s arrival was marked with pain, but he came. And his presence has been all the sweeter for it.

It was in the aftermath of loss that I learned how to trust my Savior. I learned how to wrestle and how to hold on to hope like it was the rope that could save my life. I can say without the slightest twinge in my heart, for there is no lie in it: Jesus is my friend. I have walked with Him through storms. And we have made it through.

At the end of my conversation with Addy, I brought up a trip we had taken to the snow that past winter. I reminded Addy how I had told her to wear her thickest socks and to pack changes of socks. I told her a few times. Even though it was her first trip to the snow, she thought she knew better than me and ignored me. Ten minutes into snow play, her one pair of Hello Kitty socks were wet, her toes were frozen, and she knew that her mama had known better than she did. Addy thought her imagination and limited knowledge of snow could trump her mother’s actual experience with snow.

God is like that. He knows so much more than us. He knows our hearts, our deep-down deepest desires. He knows the future. He hears our prayers. And He answers. It’s just that He knows so much better than us.

He knows so much better than us for He holds an eternal perspective. Beyond my imaginings of eternity and all that I have ever read about it, God actually knows what it is actually like.

And in eternity, five souls—whose fleshly bodies my arms ache to hold, my eyes long to look upon—reside safe in the Father’s arms. There is hope and peace in that.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

PS If you are facing down a loss, particularly a miscarriage, dear heart, I am so sorry. I want you to know I pray for you and you are not alone. You can find my story HERE and maybe even find permission to grieve and the strength to hold onto hope.

PPS If you know someone who might need to read this, maybe I could humbly suggest sharing this with them?

Sharing in this beautiful community of story tellers.

When You Are Raising Both Big Kids and Little Kids

I’d forgotten what it’s like to have a toddler.

The generous ear-to-ear smiles. The fearless climbing. The insatiable curiosity.

I’d forgotten the surprise of discovering as a first-time mom that one human could need so much of my attention, so much of my time. I remember back to when Addy was a newborn and I felt like a zombie; I thought surely it was right here and now that mothering would be the most difficult and demand the most energy…  and then my baby started walking (and climbing and crashing and falling and stopping my heart right in my chest no less than ten times a day.)

I forgot the way life can feel so abundantly full, the gifts stacked right up: the bright blue eyes beneath long blonde lashes, the rough and tumble boy bouncing on his daddy’s back, the stopping in the middle of mom’s hurry to awe at open-close butterfly wings—the way the world gets bigger and smaller, faster and slower all at once when you get to re-see wonder through a toddler’s eyes.

I forgot the way life can feel so empty, the energy always lacking: the spills you couldn’t prevent, the messes that get made while you clean a different mess, the raw sinful defiance not yet tamed, the places you don’t go because you don’t see the point visiting a friend just to let her watch you chase a baby and shush his screams.

These are the days I once wrote of—the days of tied up feet, of walking slowly, of little done yet much accomplished in the unseen places of mine and my children’s selfish hearts.

There’s something so wonderful—so gracious—about being able to go back and do it all over again. I know what matters, and I know what doesn’t. I don’t need the random lady in the grocery store reminding me how fast it goes by (I think I’ve become that lady). I know. I have two elementary-aged kids. One who I think I might as well say it: I can’t carry anymore. I know that might sound silly, but I’m crying over it, because this part of me wishes my girl still needed me like that.

I am living this time around slower, less hurried. I know I am drained, but I am not anticipating the dawning of the next season where I will get more sleep. I know it will come. I want to live here now while I can.

There’s also something difficult about having kids spanned across different seasons of motherhood. I guess because Jed came right as Addy exited diapers, the different demands of mothering the two of them have always seemed to blend together. But Sam is different.

So now I have kids in sports. Kids with friends. Kids who can pretty well pour their own cereal on Saturday mornings. Kids who can take their own baths, do chores, and play independently. It’s a different season of motherhood.   

Only now I also have a toddler. So the demands of motherhood have changed with my other two, and yet I am pulled back. I am straddling two very different seasons of motherhood.

I feel stretched in two directions. One where I should be able to do more: taxi kids and tackle house projects and write during the moments of their growing independence. But I am chasing a toddler and forever cleaning the trail of crushed goldfish behind him.

In this stretch, I am finding that I have to re-surrender my life and my dreams. I am remembering that my no’s are even more valuable that my yes’s. My biggest and best and sometimes hardest yes is to love behind the curtain of our home—the unseen, un-thanked places of sweeping cheerios, singing silly songs, and cutting up nuggets for littles hands and few teeth.

I am learning to keep my eyes on what God has given me and not what God has given to, say, my friends who have kids the same age as my oldest. We are all different. We all have different capacities and different calls to live out. Some of us are done with the toddler stage… and some of us, well, aren’t.

A friend of mine shared a verse a few weeks back in a different version so that the verse so stood out and sorta broke my heart in the best way. “Know the importance of the season you’re in, and a wise son you will be. But what a waste when an incompetent son sleeps through his day of opportunity” Proverbs 10:5 (Passion Translation).

It is here right now that I have the opportunity to carry Sam, sing him songs, dice his food into tiny pieces, gently guard his safety, and enjoy his almost full dependence on me (along with those glimmers of defiant independence). It is here right now that I can have conversations with my older kids, answer their deep questions, hold their hands and cuddle up in their beds. I can watch them play and find their interests and imagine big. And though the needs from me seem great and spread wide, this is the one season I am living in. This is my day of opportunity. And by the grace of God, let me not waste it.

I want to live here and now, ever leaning on my Savior.

A Prayer: Lord God, I lift up all the tired mamas, the spread-thin mamas, the feeling-not-enough mamas. I thank You that You don't ask us to be strong, but rather grant us to fully rely on Your strength. Lord, would You bring rest and and encouragement to us? Would You give us the wisdom to recognize the season we are living in? Would You spur us onward, to seize this day of opportunity, to love those entrusted to us well? Would You help us to surrender our lives and dreams to You? We want to relentlessly follow after You and to point You out to our children. Lord, may we be the mamas who diligently raise up a generation that would praise Your name. We long to glorify You. And we desperately need You. You are our only Hope. {Amen.}

I'd love to hear from you! What are the ages of your kids? What are the "opportunities" you have been given in this season of motherhood? Let me know in the comments. 

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Super excited to be able to join in this beautiful community of storytellers after a long break.

7 Ways to Be Encouraged If You Are a Newbie Homeschooler

Recently, it seems I am meeting more and more people who are making a switch to homeschooling.  I recognize that dear-in-headlights look on their face and that what-am-I-getting-myself-into tremor in their voices.

I didn’t plan on being a homeschooler. But it is where God has led my family and has kept us thus far. I had in my head that I would just homeschool through second grade and send my kids on to public school, but here I am with my oldest starting third grade and my middle child starting kindergarten. And in spite of rocky beginnings, I enjoy homeschooling and have become passionate about it.

Anyways, since my brain is on homeschooling and I seem to have many friends just starting on this journey, I thought I would offer up the wisdom I have gained thus far in homeschooling. I hope it encourages you if you are just starting out. (Note: this isn’t my regular blog content. I have no plans on being a homeschooling blogger. But I am a writer who homeschools, and it's encouraging, so it sorta fits. Right? ;) Also, guys, I have a few posts written. {!!} I know! I am so excited to be writing again.)

1. No, you didn’t come with enough patience for it.

Signing up to homeschool is like signing up to always feel like you are coming up short: short on patience, short on time, short on energy. It’s almost like by homeschooling, you are choosing to be keenly aware of your need for Jesus’ grace every.single.day. But the thing is, we always DO need Jesus’ grace, and if you can see all the ways you are falling short as the places where you get to lean on your Savior, you and your kids will grow. I don’t know a single homeschooling mom that feels like she has enough patience to be a homeschooler, but I can promise you, by the end of the school year, you will assuredly have grown in patience.

2. Write a Homeschooling Manifesto. 

Regardless if you are the mom who is super excited or completely terrified to start homeschooling, at some point in the journey it will get difficult. There will be attitudes, there might be tears, and the days will feel simultaneously long and not long enough. Your house will get messy. You might even kick into survival mode, lose all the passion you started with, and find yourself ridiculously jealous of every single mom across America who can drop her kids off for a few hours. When you get to that place, it helps to remember why you started in the first place. Why are you homeschooling? Why does homeschooling seem like the best option for you and your child? I made a list of all my reasons before I started some four years ago. I still pull my list out about 2-3 times a year when I find myself extra weary. My reasons have inspired me to rethink our days and shove off some of the have-to’s in favor of the get-to’s. I am having Addy write her own reasons she likes homeschooling this year so I have her reasons to inspire me as well. 

3. Find people

Join a co-op. Create a monthly homeschooling moms’ dessert night. Participate in learning-center or charter-school enrichment classes. Find support from fellow homeschoolers. There is absolutely no need to join a homeschooling island where everyone who doesn’t homeschool is banned from your life. (Don’t do that.) But it is really good for both you and your kids to find the people whose lives look similar so that you can learn from one another, know you aren’t alone, take field trips and do projects together, and make the most out of homeschooling.   

4. Homeschooling will not look like traditional school.

You can’t make homeschooling look like traditional school, because it’s not. What works in a classroom won’t always work in your home. Your child will end up with different memories of school than kids in traditional school—not bad different; just different. In homeschooling, the lines between education and home blur and your home will become a learning environment even outside structured learning time. You won’t be both mom and teacher—juggling between the two roles. It’s that now mom means teacher also (and I would argue mom has meant teacher all along). You don’t need to stress about the lack of a “classroom” or how you would really rather not have educational posters in your dining room or how you have no clue how to stretch out your school time to six hours or if you should stand in front of a white board and teach. (And by the way, all of those things are possible, but certainly not necessary.)

5. Pick a curriculum that gets you and your kids excited about homeschool.

Um. Have you looked into curriculum yet? There are SOOOO many options. And it’s completely overwhelming that first year. It’s a great idea to check out the vendor tables at a homeschooling conference or ask a seasoned homeschooler if you can visit her house and see what she uses. But really, since you are the teacher and your child is the student, choose for the both of you. Pick the one that jumps out at you and looks like fun.

And one more bonus tip: If at all possible, try to get a full-grade package curriculum for your first year (meaning it has all the subjects all included). You certainly don’t have to, it’s just that the first year is overwhelming, and the number of curriculum options is daunting. Every year, you will feel more confident and will likely start to branch out into what fits you and your child best. But do yourself a favor that first year, keep it simple. (If you need a place to start: Sonlight, Bookshark, My Father’s World, and Bob Jones University Press. These all have full-grade packages that I or my closest friends have used and loved.)  

6. You aren’t deciding your whole life. You are deciding one year at a time.

When I first thought of homeschooling, I wanted to look way off down into the future, like I was deciding my whole life from when my oldest started kindergarten till my youngest graduated high school. And it was daunting. Can I gently submit this: it’s not only hard to look out that far ahead, it’s also presumptuous of us to pretend to know what God wants us to do ten years from now. Most schools and curricula work on a school-calendar- year span… treat this decision as a year decision and come back to it every year in the spring. You aren’t deciding your child’s whole life. You are deciding this year.

7. Here is what you say to everyone who asks you, “What about socialization?”

“You’re right. Somehow between the co-op classes, the enrichment classes, AWANA club on Wednesday nights, Sunday school, our community group, soccer team, karate, playing with neighbors, and spending time with family and friends, I forgot to take socialization into consideration.” Okay. Maybe don’t say that. I’m being snarky. But you get the idea. You will hear this. A lot. You might even feel worried about it yourself. Let this encourage you. You don’t have to live or homeschool on an island. Simply stay connected.

I’d love to hear from you! Is this your first year? Let me know so I can remember you in prayer. Or are you a seasoned homeschooler with anything to add to my list?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

How to Host a Stranger

Her name was Mariam. And everything she had in this world fit into my minivan. Two little girls—three years old and eighteen months. Four suitcases—only two with working handles and none with working wheels. A few bags of diapers, lots of basmati rice, and a stroller.

Maybe it was because I had brought my Sam and my mom with me, but she must have felt safe enough to get in the van. After all, we were all just mothers and children in there. She even let me put the girls into donated car seats—they had never in their life been in a car seat. And let’s not talk about whether or not they had ridden in cars, mmm-kay?

As we drove, I listened to Mariam try to calm the screaming one—three, thick black hair and wide bangs, and so much life. She gave candies to keep the peace—apparently Afghan moms aren’t above bribing either.

The eighteen month old had curls that lifted away from her head right above her ears and big almond eyes, a dark-haired baby doll if I ever saw one. She made loud noises as she tried to wiggle free of the seatbelt harnesses. My Sam returned her grunts and yells with his own mimicked sounds.  I laughed at the seeming communication. We all start out speaking the same language of hunger and need. 

When the car hit the mountain pass, I thought of how crazy this must be for her. I was transporting her entire life to somewhere she had never been. She had no choice but to trust me. She didn’t fully understand where we were going or what was going on—how her spot at the shelter needed to be filled by another broken mother, how her case was being transferred to another non-profit, how the funds got delayed so she had nowhere ready for her, how people had scrambled to make a temporary place for her, how she had to spend the day in my home before going to another home that evening. 

Her husband had created an impossibly high wall of American bureaucracy when he abandoned his refugee wife and children and took all their documents with him. Did he know when he walked away—daughter screaming for him to come back—that he had taken with him the legs they might stand weeping upon too?

We got to my house at noon. I opened my fridge door and stood there awkwardly wondering what I could prepare for lunch. I picked up the box of lunchmeat—ham. The other box—ham. The one thing I vaguely remembered about Moslems—they don’t eat pig. I found a can of chicken in the pantry and threw together a chicken salad sandwich. I was determined to be a decent hostess (I was also starving). Mariam gently asked if she could whip up some over-easy eggs instead. Perhaps, eggs were the one thing that looked familiar in my American kitchen.

Later that afternoon, we were sitting on the living room floor, Barney entertaining her girls. I probably misspoke when I asked if she had family here. I don’t know a thing about Afghan culture.

Her sentences came out broken and all the harsh American “’a’ as in a-a-apple” sounds were softened to the schwa—“Ә”—like the last “a” in Amanda.

“No. No fuh-mily. Husbund leave.” Tears pooled in her brown eyes. I now know that a husband gone, no matter who is right or wrong, is shame and estrangement.

“Husbund leave. Farah cry, ‘Stay, please stay!’ Farah, cry, cry, cry. Husbund leave me, Farah. Maliha, only baby; nine months, like you baby.” She pointed at Sam. A few tears escaped from where they’d pooled in her eyes.

“Husbund… papers.” She made a shredding gesture as she said this. “Husband no call. No call. Nine months. No green card. No medicul. No food.” Mariam was distraught. I saw in her a desperate mother, a desperate woman, weary from the battle of survival.  I saw the pain of abandonment. I saw the worry and the fears—and while I would never compare my struggles to hers, I recognized something in her—something I have in my own self.

I grabbed her hand into mine. I am not a very touchy person, but compassion can move beyond language barriers and a simple touch can speak louder than any words ever could.

“You are safe here. We will take care of you. It will be okay, Mariam. You are safe.” I squeezed her hand and looked her right in the eyes. I said the word one more time because it really is the deepest longing of our mother hearts for our children. It’s the deepest longing of our own hearts—for deep down in us is this place that forgets the age we actually are because it goes right on feeling forever young—forever small and childlike and in need of care.

“Safe.” 

You are safe here. We won’t abandon you, because He will never abandon you.

When I had tucked my kids into bed the night before, I told them that we were going to be missionaries. They were so excited. They asked what a missionary was. I told them a missionary was someone who shows people who don’t know it yet the greatness of God’s love for them.

So the next day, while Mariam napped with Maliha in our big comfy chair, Addy and Jed built a blanket fort for Farah. They ran and laughed and tried to coax Farah into the fort. In the midst of this, Jed grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “Am I doing it, Mom? Am I being a missionary?”

“Yes, baby. You are doing it just right.” Sometimes, sharing the love of Christ looks like ordinary acts sprinkled right through with the gold magic of God’s love. As mothers, our big job and high calling is sharing that love story with the little people being raised up under our roofs. It might look everyday ordinary until that one moment when your child looks up at you and asks the deep question, and you see the magic that’s been there all along.

Last week, I discovered that showing the love of Christ to strangers—my kids right there with me—is the same thing as showing the love of Christ to my kids.

When I dropped Mariam off at the host family’s house, she hugged me touching her cheek to my cheek and kissing. I smiled and said, “Friend.” She smiled back and said, “Sister.”

“Yes.” Clumsy and American and a fridge full of ham, but I welcomed her anyways and she called me sister.

The thing I have known about missions since I was twenty-one and interning at a missions base, it’s not just about how you could bring the gospel to someone, how their life needs changing. No, that’s the thing about the gospel. For whoever would carry that timeless gospel message will find herself changed as well.

“’For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me.’ “Then the righteous will answer Him, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry, and feed You, or thirsty, and give You something to drink? ‘And when did we see You a stranger, and invite You in, or naked, and clothe You? ‘When did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?’ “The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me’.” -Matthew 25:35-40

I’d love to hear your stories too, have you ever welcomed a stranger into your home?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

**all names have been changed to protect those involved.**

P.S. Remember Mariam and her two girls in your prayers as they start all over again in a new city this weekend?

P.P.S. All I did to get involved was make a simple phone call a few months back to ask my local World Relief office what I could do to help with the refugee crisis. World Relief is a Christian non-profit that partners with the local church to establish incoming refugees here and show them the love of Christ. You can check to see if you have one close to you here--->WorldRelief.org/us-offices

This post is in no way endorsed by World Relief, though I did ask permission before publishing.


Sharing in this beautiful community of storytellers.

How I Know Postpartum Anxiety Is a Thing

I need to tell you about something. I don’t really like talking about it and I’d rather just pretend it didn’t exist.

I much prefer writing on the other side of messes or at least writing my way out of the mess. I don’t want to write where it’s messy and still messy.

{Deep breaths} Here goes:

In the days following Sam’s birth, I felt icky-anxious-raw.  I couldn’t handle loud noises, I was easily overwhelmed, the chaos I used to live in and be fine with seemed to scream at me—every pile, every misplaced toy, every dirty dish. Even the suspense contained in Jed’s favorite show, Octonauts, was too much for me. I couldn’t turn off that part of my brain that could imagine all kinds of worst case scenarios happening to my kids. I got all weepy and crazy-mom over the passing of time and trying my darnedest to soak up as much of each moment as I could. Time seemed to be a purse-thief and I was holding on and tugging back not wanting him to snatch anything from my hands.

I wondered if it was the aftermath of four subsequent miscarriages and then childbirth that left me with raw, exposed nerve-endings to all my emotions. I felt everything more deeply, more sharply, more loudly.

I’ve experienced the postpartum hormonal crash with each child and told myself that I just needed to survive the next two weeks. Those two weeks went by, and I felt better.

But here’s the thing: it’s been nine months, and I have yet to re-emerge as the Amanda I remember.

I’ve been waiting for it to get all-the-way better. In the meantime, I’ve been watching myself cave into myself.

Anxiety will rob you of your life—it will.

A few months ago, I fought off a panic attack while driving through traffic—so I stopped driving in traffic. I stopped going unfamiliar places.

I had this conversation with an almost stranger and brought up something that made her uncomfortable. I knew it was her issue and not mine and that I handled it with grace and sensitivity. But I couldn’t turn my brain off. It kept replaying that scene over and over. I felt physically ill with this deep down shame and dread. So I stopped small-talking with strangers and resolved to meet no one new.

My husband and I have always enjoyed going to the movies together—it’s like one of our things. And I haven’t been able to do it. I tried once—Star Wars, The Force Awakens. It took all my energy to keep from having a panic attack right there in that theater. When we left, all the tension I had from two hours of flashing lights and loud noises and all the suspense-building typical in action movies, well, it all came tumbling out through my tear ducts right outside the downtown IMAX theater.

I have struggled with anxiety before. In fact, I feel like I might be an expert at smothering a panic attack before I need a paper bag. But since having Sam, I am living here, not just visiting. I’m not the same. I can’t deal with messes or noisy kids or the volume on the television being above three-and-a-half bars. (Let’s watch with subtitles, guys. It’ll be fun. A dose of reading with our watching.)

It’s affected my motherhood, my marriage, and my friendships.

I got my thyroid tested and actually wished for something to be wrong because a thyroid issue just seemed to be a more acceptable problem. My pride can deal with a physical problem with a direct solution. Mental illness is so much harder to talk about.

The test came back negative. So I am over here, praising the Lord that nothing is wrong with my thyroid and refusing to believe that something is wrong with me. My sensitivity shall become my strength. My fears shall be my places of bravery. And maybe for the overwhelming things, like dentist appointments and movie date nights… maybe it’s okay to ask for help with those right now.

I am learning to not compare myself with anyone else. My struggles might not look like your struggles and my victories might not look like your victories, but that doesn’t diminish the strength it takes to overcome. Overcoming is overcoming. Period.

My life is slowed down. I can’t move fast. I’ll break. And as much as I hate to talk about this part because it makes me leak tears: I’ll break others—especially those dearest and closest to me. I have had to say no to the things I really want to say yes to. I’ve taken extra time for things like long showers, books, photography, nature walks, and journaling. I have one ministry, yes, and it’s here writing. And I can’t help but see the holy nod of the Lord. Yes. This is where I want you. Maybe your heart bleeds for other things too, but so does Mine. And I’ve got it covered.

Sometimes all this self-care feels selfish. So, listen to this, because anxiety struggle or not, all the women pouring out to their families and communities the whole world over need to know this: Self-care and selfishness are not the same thing. They’re not. Selfishness comes from a place of longing to puff your own self up for your own self’s sake. Selfishness takes and gives nothing back. Self-care comes from a place of longing to be whole so you can wholly love others. Self-care receives so that it has more to give.

I can tell you that I am making baby steps forward. Therapy has been so helpful. Avoiding fears only makes them bigger and stronger, but small victories lead to overcoming. It might be a slow work, but the rhythm to it is grace.

So, yeah. I have postpartum anxiety. I had no idea it was a thing. It might be a temporary struggle, it might be longer. But I am leaning.

And listen to me, dear sister, I’ve said this before: you might feel all super weak tied up with whatever struggle you are facing, you might feel like you are failing at life. But real strength is really in Christ. You don’t have to be strong enough to overcome. You only have to be strong enough to lean on the One who already overcame. 

Dear anxious heart, lean on Him. And you shall be called an overcomer yet.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


P.S. In the coming weeks, I will be moving my site to a better program and a better host. It will be a slow process (see post above) and could likely mean a few days of mess on this site. But, if you hate the mobile version of this site as much as I do, hold on. It's gonna get better :)

When You Feel Crowded Out by All the Beautiful Amazing People

Almost three weeks ago, I headed to a writing conference. I went with a book proposal packed in my bag and a body packed with so.much.nervousness. I had this memory playing on repeat in my mind; the one from the night before my wedding where I showed up to my rehearsal and retched in the bushes right as my now-husband went to greet me. Jesus, I will be obedient. I will go. I will try to share what You’ve put on my heart. But, please, please, don’t let me throw up on or near anyone. Amen.

The thing about writing conferences, is that it is easy to feel small—really small—when you are surrounded by people with speaking schedules and their names on the jackets of multiple books.

You can walk into that dining hall where agents and editors all host tables and the hum of conversation can feel like a deafening roar of “See me.” “Publish me.” “Here’s my story.” You can feel like shrinking into the corner and letting everyone else do all the talking because, in all the noise, why would anyone need to hear your voice too?

You guys, when I arrived at this conference, I looked at myself and the message I struggled push onto paper, and I compared it to all the amazing writers who surrounded me. Without realizing it, I was telling God, “I’m not good enough. They are all way better. Why would You need to use me when You are already using her and her and her and her…?”

I came back from that first dinner and cried to my mom (Yeah, I brought my mom with me. I told everyone that I brought her to watch my nursling, Sam. It might have been for me too.) I knew I had to walk up and ask for an appointment with each agent and publisher. But I felt so unqualified, like I already knew their answer… and even more than that, like my book proposal and pitch would be a giant waste of their time. I wasn't just scared of being rejected, I was afraid I was going to be told I was foolish for even trying.

As I shared these fears with my mom, our conversation landed in the parable of the talents.

Some days, I look at myself and see all the cracks I bear—the anxiety, the messy house—my overusage of adverbs and my frequent run-on sentences—I see the way I can barely find time to post a blog, the homemade website with the bathroom selfie picture on my sidebar—I just want to bury the talent and the dreams I have because I don’t think it’s good enough. I don’t think I’m good enough. I think what I have is small.  

I wonder if the guy to whom little was given in the parable of the talents did that. If he looked at the larger portions his colleagues got and thought, I didn’t get as much, so I can’t do as much. My colleagues will do great things with theirs anyways. I’ll just keep mine safe and out of the way.

If you read the passage in Matthew 25 and look for the one reason the one-talent man gives for burying what he has, it might feel really familiar:

“And the one also who had received the onetalent came up and said, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow and gathering where you scattered noseed.And I was afraid, and went away and hid your talent in the ground. See, you have what is yours’.” (v.24-25)

He was afraid of failing. He was afraid of disappointing. He was afraid to risk, because he was afraid to lose. 

Here’s the thing though: the servant recognized the greatness of his master. He knew that whatever his master touched multiplied, that the master got a harvest out of nothing.

Maybe we do that. Maybe we hear God pulling us in a direction, calling us even. And then we look over and see how it works, or how unqualified we might be, or how amazing the people already doing that are. We can over-think and scaredy-cat ourselves right out of what God has asked of us.

Maybe we know that God can do much with nothing, but we fail to include our little bit in the equation of God’s abundant grace.

We can quote that grace is God’s unmerited favor, but, man, do we ever live like we need to be more qualified before we can receive it.

Dear sister (or brother), don’t let fear hold you back. Don’t hide the gifts, the passions, the talents in you. Knock off that whole comparison thing.

Jesus told His disciples, “In my Father’s house are many mansions…I go to prepare a place for you.” I love that, because the thing about mansions is that they contain many rooms and plenty of room.

He’s made plenty of room for you, dear heart.

You don’t have to hide out or step aside. Just follow Him.

Listen, when you presume to know that God doesn’t need you because of what others around you are doing, you are presuming to know the mind of God. And you’ve made a serious error in your judgments because you’ve missed one of the most amazing things about God and His great love:

God doesn’t need you. He wants you.

{I mean, let that truth linger a bit: God. Wants. You. !?!}

He longs to partner with you, walk with you, be more than enough for you.

And If He is full in you, He can be full through you {and every single gap and crack you bear.}

Amen.

Shine on, sister.

I’d love to hear from you! Have you ever felt like this: crowded out and not quite good enough for the dream in your heart?? (Or maybe just tell me what you've been up to, I've missed this place and the people who visit here.)

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

P.S. I am back to writing over here after a long break. I am super excited to connect with you all again!! I am looking forward to this and to sharing what might be in store for this humble little space on the interwebs. :D

-->My favorite way to keep in touch through the week is on Instagram. Want to be insta-friends? :D 

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So excited to get to be apart of this lovely community of storytellers again.

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