In Which I Struggle With Anxiety and Find Rest

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Last year, my husband who knows me well could see me struggling and told me he didn’t want me to lead anything in ministry.

I knew he was right even though I didn’t really like it.

And then the opportunity to lead presented itself. Perhaps it was the desire to have a clearly defined place in my world that seemed flipped upside down. Perhaps after years of leading bible studies, and internships, and children’s ministries, I just missed doing the work of the ministry. Perhaps, I struggled with pride and in my deepest heart of hearts, no matter how right I might have known my husband to be, I wanted to prove him wrong.   

Whatever it was, I chose to take the position.

{And okay, I did sit down with my husband first. He listened to my heart, told me he didn’t think it was a good idea, but that if I really thought I was ready, he would support me.}

I was to be the home groups’ coordinator. I made a video announcement, I recruited hosts and facilitators, I had a plan and a vision, I shared my heart for it in front of the church.

One week before the launch date, I felt crippled beneath anxiety and panic. It was the final push before the start. And.I.could.not.do.it.

Anxiety is like this: Imagine you have someone actively hunting your life. You are on the run. You operate under a heightened sense of awareness, every sound, every change in the atmosphere, a sign you’ve been exposed. You struggle with sleep because it’s when you are most vulnerable to attack. And now imagine this isn’t true. There is no need to be ready to fight or flight at any given moment. And you know it, but your body doesn’t. And so, panic is just under your skin ready to erupt into a fit of heart-racing, rapid-breathing fight for your life. Sleep eludes you. Shame and embarrassment are your prizes. 

Exactly six days before the launch, with meetings to have, details to nail down, phone calls to make… I found myself smack dab in the middle of one of the worst battles with anxiety I have ever had. I think if I was car, I would have been a car on the side of the road, with my tires blown, fumes coming out from under the hood, my timing belt off, and my engine fallen out some 200 yards back. This was not a patch job: you know pray, ask some of your closest to pray and keep going. Oh. No.

I was a mess.

Confessing that I could not carry those small groups to completion was one of the hardest and most humbling things I have ever done. Sharing the reason why was even harder: I was that broken, the struggle was that deep, and this supposedly seasoned leader/Christian was barely treading water. I wish I had the foresight to know that I couldn’t do it (I wish I had trusted that my husband did have that God-given foresight.)

After I sent that email, heartfelt and broken, I waited for a response. A prayer. Someone to tell me I was okay… that it was okay.

But no one did.

The only way I knew anyone had received my email was that the secretary called asking for my notes. I sat for a month with silence. They could have been angry. They could have been praying for me. I didn’t know. I only had God and His Words to comfort me.

Looking back, I am grateful for the silence no matter how it hurt. I had this unhealthy need for approval, this fear of failure. I got this chance to hear God’s heart for me without the competition of a person’s approval. I found that He could love me even when I failed miserably, even when I deserved judgment. Truly there is one voice from Whom we need to hear, “You are okay.” Only one voice that truly satisfies that deep inner longing for approval. God—Our Father.

I found myself like that banged up guy on the side of the road (Luke 10:30-35), overlooked by those who should have cared, and taken in by Jesus himself. The Best Neighbor. He bandaged my wounds and let me stay and rest—to take all the time I needed (and still need) to be made whole.

Truth is, God had been asking me to rest for a while. But I didn’t want to because it meant facing pain and brokenness. It meant stopping, slowing down. It meant coming face to face with this sinking fear I have always had that maybe God doesn’t really love me. That maybe my worth was in what I did rather than who I am, and, if I stopped doing, no one would see me.

My approval-hunt had led me to squeeze out the very last bit I could offer. And when I had nothing left, I found He was more than enough. And that He loved me still and He loved me big.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back talking a little more about this rest journey and reviewing a beautiful book and rest resource. I like it so well, I really want the chance to give it away to one of you, dear readers. Say it with me: Giveaway!

{You can click on over HERE now to read the Finding Spiritual Whitespace review AND to ENTER the GIVEAWAY)

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


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If You've Ever Felt Your Dreams Crush Against Disappointment (Part 2)

This is that continuation I promised from the last blog post I did. You know, two weeks later than planned. ;)

We were sitting outside the hospital cafeteria in the sunshine, the air uncommonly sticky for California. My husband and I were trying to keep busy, to do something besides think and feel. My eyes were swollen, evidence that I was not as collected or as calm as I might have looked sitting there skimming through my phone.

Just fifteen minutes prior, I watched my almost-three-year old get wheeled towards the operating room. And even though it was a minor outpatient procedure, I am not so sure any procedure feels like a minor amount of weight on a momma’s heart.  

It made me think of how when us kids would talk of leaving home or of grand global adventures, my mom would wrap us up in her arms and with both laughter and sadness in her eyes she would declare, “Oh, no. I don’t think I can let you do that. My apron strings just don’t reach that far.”

The gorilla-sized tears and the ache in my stomach seemed to indicate that my apron strings didn’t reach operating rooms. The nurse had told me not to worry, that Jed was in good hands. But the truth is, I wanted Jed in my hands.

While we were sitting, waiting, Mike was listening to an interview of Jim Caviezel on accepting the role of Jesus in the Passion of the Christ. I wasn’t paying much attention. I may have even thought to myself what a random thing to listen to at this exact moment. Wasn’t that a decade ago?

But then Jim Caviezel said something that settled on my ears and demanded my attention.

“We all want resurrection; nobody wants suffering.”

Five minutes later, my husband got a call from the doctor. He asked for us to return to the room.

Somehow Mike instinctively knew to go without me. He insisted that I stay and that he would call me if I was needed. I sat attempting to write about Caviezel’s truth nugget, but really all I could think about was Jed.

Mike came back after the longest ten minutes. While prepping Jed for surgery, the doctor discovered something else that needed surgery… something that was more important and pressing than the original procedure for which we had scheduled Jed.

So, in total, my baby got three procedures done in one surgery. Three incisions, three bandages, three wounds from which to recover.

{In case you’ve been counting, that third one was a minor one that they asked if they could do when we first arrived, and another story altogether.}

I felt grateful that we had taken him in and that Jed was being spared from a much bigger problem later on all because of this doctor’s keen eye.

I wanted Jed better. But I didn’t want him to suffer.

But even my momma heart knew that I had to let him go, that the better meant the suffering.

Because it’s true: “We all want resurrection; [but] nobody wants suffering.”

I don’t fully understand suffering. I have a really long list of questions for God about suffering that begin with the word “Why.”

But Christ, he suffered. Lashings, beatings, thorns scraping skull, nails like railroad spikes into wrists and feet, and then he died. And when the stench of death would have just began to take him, when hope would have seemed lost, when resignation would have held Christ’s followers… Jesus resurrected.

Like the barley kernel at the back drop of the story of Ruth: cut down, trampled under the feet of donkeys, and crushed under stones, and just when the barley kernel might have felt like it’s purpose was done for, like it was crushed beyond recognition, the harvester threw it into the air and a beautiful usable kernel fell to the ground to be carried off to the mill for flour.

Because God plants beautiful purposes in chaffy human hearts.

It is through trials and pain and times that feel hopeless that separate the kernel of purpose from the human shell it lies in. And God doesn’t abandon us in our hardest times, he is waiting for that separation of chaff and dream, of human and spirit so that He can raise back up to life. Crushing and raising up are both important processes and equally dependent upon the other. Crushing seems cruel without the raising up; raising up is pointless without the crushing.

Perhaps, we would like to think that our holiness is wrapped up in substance of our ideals, our dreams. I remembered being a rosy-cheeked newlywed full of “holy” dreams, of two sharing the gospel together, of raising children, of a house that could be full of God’s love. But our holiness is something that comes about in the refining fire of when our reality and our dreams don’t match. Holiness is wrought in the struggle, in the surrender, in the telling God that I choose Him over all of it, even over my best-intentioned dreams. That I want Him and all of Him and there isn’t a thing here in this life that could possibly compare to the goodness of simply knowing Him. That He is God and I am woman and while I don’t understand His ways, surely I can choose to accept that I won’t comprehend them but that I can TRUST Him.

This is probably not the most fun material to read. The truth is, it’s not just suffering that proceeds resurrection; it’s death that proceeds resurrection. And this is hard. It’s hard to listen to, and it’s a thousand times harder to walk through. But I can say when you surrender, lay that dream on the altar, I do believe I can echo Paul with absolute certainty: God is exceedingly and abundantly able to do above and beyond all that you ask or think…. And that no human heart can conceive the things God has prepared for those who love Him. (Ephesian 3:20 & 1 Corinthians 2:9)

Amen.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

If You've Ever Felt Your Dreams Crush Against Disappointment (Part 1)

I think it was hot. I sat on the porch swing watching my baby girl put two hands on the cement and one diaper butt into the air. She steadied herself in her newfound independence. One chunky-thighed leg in front of the other and she was wobble-walking towards me. 

Contentment was full in my heart. And then the phone rang.

I could hear it in Mike’s voice. Discouragement. Shame. “Amanda. I—um—I’ve been separated. I couldn’t pass the test.”

I can’t remember what I said. I probably offered some kind of encouragement, asked a few questions, told him we would get through it. I do remember what I did when I got off the phone. I wept.

Life had looked bright. A year prior my husband had lost his job and struggled to find steady work. And then he stumbled into law enforcement. He was one of seven chosen out of well over a hundred applicants to be put through police academy. He was paid, he had benefits, and he was doing well in his studies. It seemed like the pain of losing had found its purpose in this opportunity. Mike thought he had stumbled into his calling. And then, three weeks shy of graduation, he hit one too many cones on the emergency driving course. Just like that, he was out.

Before coming home, Mike drove himself to the men who had always encouraged him, always pointed him to God. There he heard these words: “Truth be told, Michael, I never saw you as a cop.”

Though those words were spoken as comfort, I think they crushed my husband.

I cried for Mike. For his dreams that felt lost. For how he must have felt like maybe he was less of a man for all the hard blows that seemed to keep him from a good job. I felt that deep hurt from so much hope dashed and that unshakable question word: Why? Why!? Oh God, Why?! I wept for how the future was so uncertain. I wept for the way our dreams of children and a home to raise them in seemed impossible.

Our dreams died that day.

A few years later, Mike was still talking about law enforcement. I told him to try one more time. I could sense the worry in him, worry that he would again fail. This time, he worked full-time while going to academy full-time. He was dad to two children, husband to this wife, full-time student and pest control expert. And somehow after over nine months of a crazy juggling act, he graduated at the top of his class. He received an award for perfect attendance. 

At the end of the ceremony, they read off one award--integrity befitting an officer--the recipient chosen by peers and instructors. When they said my husband’s name, I wept. Because there it was, what I always knew to be true, what Michael had doubted and questioned and struggled against-- yes, we see it, you are a man of character. You are fit to be a cop.

You’d think at some point it would have been smooth sailing, but sometimes our dreams are something we actively fight for, something we have to keep God’s promises stuck to… and we have to be crazy enough to believe He means what He promises, no matter the setbacks.

While Mike was in the hiring process, he was removed from his favorite department’s list for an integrity issue. He was discouraged, he wondered if he would ever realize this cop-dream, but instead of just letting it go and hoping another department would hire him, he challenged it. He submitted letters with his integrity award attached. He put on his nicest suit, pushed his tie to his neck, and met with the hiring captain. That captain gave him another chance.

If you read here you know, Mike's been working at that department for a year and a half. And, yep, it's the same department he worked at five years ago when his dreams felt crushed beyond hope.

I think of Ruth in the Bible. It's probably my favorite story.

Ruth—who must have dreamed of children, of a home full of love and of growing old with a husband—in one fell swoop, she loses her husband and everything she dreamed with him.

And then Ruth does something bold. Truth be told, I have no clue why she does it. She clings to this God she did not know and follows her mother-in-law back to Bethlehem… when she could have just started over. Perhaps, she knew she couldn’t go back, that you can never really go back, you can only move forward. Perhaps, she just wanted know this God--this God woven into the roots of her husband and his people.

Whatever the reason, Ruth arrives in Bethlehem—which means house of bread—as sickle met barley stalk. She goes to Boaz’s field to glean the grain dropped in the harvest, and there she finds favor. At Naomi’s encouragement, Ruth goes into the threshing floor on the night of the winnowing, when barley had been crushed and then raised into the air so chaff and kernel could separate. Ruth lay herself at the feet of Boaz.

Ruth—of crushed dreams—lying on the threshing floor.

And Boaz—he raises her up and promises to see her redeemed.

As I sit in a house that I never thought we could have and send my husband off to a job he never thought he could have, I marvel at this God we serve.

We serve a God who, when hope was all but lost, raised His Son from the dead. A God who saw Ruth and redeemed her brokenness. A God who lifted her up, breathed life into her long dead dreams, redeemed her long-passed husband’s name, and gave her a rich inheritance in Bethlehem.

God raises the dead to life.

The God who made the dormant seed to erupt from the dark confines of soil, knows how to resurrect dreams from disappointments. He can raise the dreams that seem impossible, the ones that maybe you are throwing your fist in the air crying at God over, the ones that sit in the pit of your stomach and leave a hole in your heart, the ones that make you ache.

He is the God of resurrection.

I don’t know what devastation you face. What dreams you are holding onto. What dreams have died. I am standing here heavy-hearted knowing there is someone who needs this message; knowing that as some of my dreams I dare not even commit to print lie waiting, I need this message too. I am reminding us that God is faithful. That sometimes dreams get crushed, but we serve a God who knows how to bring them back to life. I am standing here with you, brother or sister, praying for you, crazy enough to believe that God can and will redeem what seems lost.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

I think*** I will be back tomorrow (or Monday) with a continuation of this post, because I have so much more to say on this. But truth be told, we've just moved and we’ve had another major change happen in our life unexpectedly, so I can’t promise. You will love me anyways, right? And maybe keep us in your prayers? Thanks, friends.

Also, is it okay to mention, that if you want to make sure you never miss a post, the best way to do that is to subscribe to this blog’s email list? It is only used to send you posts. I never share your email address and it is super easy to unsubscribe. Just click-->HERE.


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To the Momma of Little Ones

A few weeks ago, my son started stuttering. It came on sudden, so sudden I may have panicked and thought there was something seriously wrong and called the doctor. As it turns out, stutters are quite common at Jed’s age. It’s even common that they appear suddenly.  There is nothing wrong with my boy, it’s just a matter of his mind moving faster than his mouth can.

Here’s the thing about stutters. The best way to talk to my son is slow and clear (not obnoxiously slow, perhaps just slower this Californian tends to speak). The best way to deal with the stutter is to allow him to take his time to say what he wants to say, to complete his own thought himself. To hurry his words is to hurt him. To apply too much pressure to him to complete his words is to risk a lifetime of difficulty. To complete his thoughts for him is to stunt his growth.

Is it okay to admit that there are times when it takes everything in me to not rush him to the point of what he’s trying to say? Sometimes it’s hard to be slow, to stop and listen, and to listen well.

But the hurrying hurts. It pressures and it crushes. It binds up in fear. It lies and tells us accomplishments make us matter, make us enough. Hurry misses what is right in front of us. Hurry denies us the pleasure of the gifts of today. Hurry places greater value on the next thing rather than the now thing.

And that’s the thing about these small years, is it not?

The days are long and the work mundane. We do things like sit under children, like clean messes while another one is being made, like brave ten minutes of finger painting for a half-hour of clean up, like try to be healthy and take walks… while pushing a stroller, hollering at the one kid riding off down the street, and reminding the three year old to not pick someone else’s flowers or walk out in the street or to leave the roly-poly alone and to keep walking before sister gets too far ahead… (basically you move REALLY slowly through the neighborhood).

It’s slow work. It seems like small work.

I think it’s pretty normal to feel restless, to want to hurry it, hurry our kids through it, to feel like maybe you aren’t enough and maybe you need something else to show for who you are. Maybe it even feels like some of you is buried underneath the cheerio messes, the bottom-wiping, and the clothes-folding. Maybe you feel like your life is on hold and you wonder if it will ever move forward again.

I’ve mentioned this Indian proverb before: Children tie the feet of their mother.

And they do. And if you try to run through this season…try to do more than you are appointed to do in this season, you will feel yourself tearing against the taut rope of a momma’s and a child’s love, you will trip, you might even fall, and maybe even crush those little ones at your feet.

The best way to walk, and perhaps it’s the most unnatural way for a post-bra-burning western woman… Walk Slowly.

I think it’s important to recognize the season through which you are walking. I think it’s important to know that God works in seasons, and these small years… it is a season of seed planting.

You are doing the grueling work of tilling the hard ground of strong wills, of mine-mine-mine and me-me-me, and of temper-tantrums in public places.

You are planting the seeds of God’s love, self-worth, and hard-work. You are planting seeds in your kids that will one day bear fruit. And what you do now and how you do it… matters.

You are surrendering some of the dreams in your heart to the soil to lie dormant for a season, trusting that one day God will resurrect them from the ground.

I think it’s needful to be able to say with absolute certainty, “I am a mom” and to be able to stick a period at the end of the sentence. For those four words to reverberate inside of you with truth, that yes, there is absolutely more to you than being a mom, but being a mom is glorious and important and along with a handful of other things, what you are called to do.

I think there is something hard but freeing about walking slowly, realizing so many things can and will wait, and embracing with fullness this season.

We are moms. And right now, that’s enough.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


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One Good Simple Thing: Balsamic Honey Caramelized Onions

I have this cooking philosophy: sometimes all it takes is one special thing to take a basic meal to the next level.

These caramelized onions do that.

They are sweet, tangy, and have that caramelly flavor you can only get when you cook onion slices for a really long time.

And on that note: yes, these do take a long time. BUT (and this is a pretty great but) they are easy to make and you can make them in large batches to last you a few meals.

Honest moment: these are what I make for special occasions and a few random weeks when I am feeling especially fabulous; not every week to always have on hand. (Ain't nobody got time for that ;))

For instance: I might use them for my husband's birthday dinner of top loin steak served with parmesan mashed potatoes and crisp asparagus... all topped with this candy for your savory food. 

Or maybe I use them for that special get-my-girlfriends together lunch. I make these onions, grilled chicken, and pesto-mayo the night before. The day of I pull out a fresh loaf of dutch crust bread, cut it length-wise, spread it with pesto-mayo, put sliced chicken breast, thick tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, arugula, and these onions on top, and cut into sandwich sizes. On that day, I spend very little time in the kitchen busying about and a whole lot of time enjoying the company of my friends (and eating sandwiches that taste very "grown-up"... because that's all a mom really wants after a week of pb&j).

The rest of those kind of weeks, I use the remainder of the onions to top a "build your own pizza night," make tastier sandwiches for my husband's lunch, throw into some pasta primavera, or make an omelette with whatever's still in the fridge plus these onions.

Okay. So I know it's just one simple little thing, but one good simple thing can totally change a meal.

I like simple... and Lord knows, I like good food. 

Bon Appetite!

Balsamic Honey Carmelized Onions

(click here for a handy printable version)

Ingredients:

2 large yellow onions

2 TBS of olive oil

2 TSP of honey

1 TSP of balsamic vinegar

Directions:

1. Halve onions and cut in thin slices.
2. Heat skillet on medium/medium high heat. Add oil. Spread around pan. Add onions. Cover and cook, stirring occasionally until they are limp, 10-15 minutes. Uncover, reduce heat to medium-low/low and cook until onions are golden brown and sweet, 35-45 minutes, stirring frequently. 
3. Turn heat up to medium, drizzle honey into pan and cook for another 2 minutes. Add balsamic vinegar and cook for an additional minute.
4. These may be used immediately or stored in fridge for a week to add to various dishes.

By Grace,
Amanda Conquers

When God Leads You Onward

At the very beginning of this year, God led us out of our home church.

There’s a very good chance, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve walked through. At least right now, it feels that way.  

I mean, it’s the church I went to right after I gave God all of my life. It’s where I learned how to follow Christ, how to do ministry. It’s where I met my husband, it’s where we dedicated our kids. It’s the place where I connected with so many of the people who have been pressed onto the pages of my life’s story.

About a year ago, my church had moved from the small town I was raised in to a larger city a half hour away and merged with another church. My husband and I felt like we were supposed to make the move. And while we could see God’s hand in it and how He blessed the church and the pastors, I struggled to see where I fit in it.

In looking back, I know God had us stay for a reason. In the aftermath of all the change in our lives, I found myself battling depression and insomnia. Our marriage was a struggle those first months adjusting to Mike becoming a cop. We needed the people who had been praying for us, supporting us, encouraging us for years and years to keep on doing that. I am so glad God had us stay through the move.

And then at the start of January, in the middle of praying and making the longings of my heart known, clear as crystal and quiet as a breeze, God said, “Okay, you can go now.”

I was stunned. I probably spewed a stream of questions at God, but He was quiet on all the details.

So when the next Sunday came, I visited a new church. And the next Sunday, and the next Sunday… and in setting out, I wanted to go back. I wanted normal and safe and to know which seats I could sit in and to have familiar faces saying hi. I didn’t want to let go of the relationships I considered most dear, the people who had been there on my worst days and my best days. How do you leave when you genuinely like and care about everyone? But I just knew, like knew knew, God was leading us on, and I was not to go back.

I had always imagined that when we left, there would be tearful goodbyes, meaningful thank-yous, and prayers for blessings in our new season—a send-off of sorts. But that's not how God works sometimes. And I find that hard.

Truth be told, right now, I dislike Sundays and getting two kids up for church and trying to navigate my way through kids check in, seat-finding, and small-talk with strangers. I have no idea where God wants us, but I get the distinct feeling He has us in transition, and we might be here for a while.

I don’t have the words to describe the way God is working on me, the way He is so near. I see how weak I am, the way I want to back out, Can I just go back to the way things were?!… but I also see a braveness rising up. Maybe I have to talk myself through anxiety and push back tears, but I go every Sunday, usually without my husband… and I go clinging to Jesus. I know my kids need to be there, they need to see that we value community, worship, and God. I know I need to learn how to trust, how to live in the in-between.

It seems like it isn’t really taught in church how to transition, how to leave. 

I was raised believing, though it was more implied than taught, that church-hopping was what people did who weren’t fully committed Christ-followers. People who left seemed shunned. There might have been reasons that were an “acceptable” reason to leave, but all I got was, just don’t leave. Somehow I missed that faith is always first an inward thing, a God-with-me, more than it was how I appeared or where I belonged. I thought spirituality could be measured by one’s level of plugged-in-ness, involved-ness, and how many times one showed up at the church each week. I didn’t realize spirituality could mean that God could call you out unto Himself in the still, quiet, unconnected, land of in-between.

I mean, think about all the stories in the Bible where people were in-between, waiting, connected only to God. Abraham’s journey to the land yet to be shown to him. The Israelites in the wilderness. David’s time of hiding from Saul. Elijah in seclusion being provided for by ravens. How about the passage in Hosea: “I will allure her, bring her out into the wilderness and speak kindly to her…” (2:14).

Sometimes God calls us out into the in-between.

But I do believe it’s always full of such purpose. Perhaps it’s so we can really know Him, know His character, know His voice. Perhaps it’s that the God who knows all and cares deeply longs to protect us from some unforeseen danger. Perhaps it’s that He longs to work some miracle, some kind of surprise. I am not sure what God is doing, but I do know it’s what God is asking of me. 

And really, that’s enough for me.  

So, right now, I am finding such value in this blogging community, my mom's group, and my good friends. Even in my "unconnectedness" I have found I am still connected to the body of Christ. Community comes in all forms. And it's so valuable.

I have found that because it is completely exhausting (and probably asking too much of me and the kids), it's okay to find a place to transition. We have been mostly going to a sweet little church until God directs us somewhere else, or tells us that's the place He wants to plant us.

I would love to know if you have ever walked through this? How was it difficult? How did God show Himself faithful? I’d love to hear from you. (Also, if this is something you are going through, I’d love to hear about it, in the comments or by email at amandaconquers at gmail dot com. Pray for each other?)

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

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So I Married a Cop

I had once upon a time written down professions I did not want to marry into. I have to admit I was one of those girls who had a sheet of paper (okay, it was probably a good five pages long) of qualities I wanted in my future husband. I had a subsection for what I was not looking for. Amongst two other professions, I had scribbled the word COP.

It wasn’t that I didn’t value the profession. I just didn’t want all the struggles that I imagined went with the job. I knew it would be difficult. (Also, I was like 17, so give me a break).

Guess what?

I’m married to a cop.

I joke and say God tricked me because cop was nowhere on Mike’s radar when we got married.

Thing is, I had always thought I would marry a pastor.

When Mike and I first started seeing each other, I have journal pages full of my questions for God. God, he’s not a pastor. God, he doesn’t look anything like I thought he would. God, it’s Michael. Are you sure? Before the thought was even fully formed, I could hear the quiet voice of God, “Shhh. Trust me, Amanda.”

I did. And I fell in love. Madly. Deeply. Truly.

Truth be told, I thought God telling me to trust Him meant that He was going to change Mike, that Mike would have some kind of God-encounter and decide to go into full-time vocational ministry.

Through our times of lean finances, Mike did encounter God. And God faithfully led him into law enforcement.

I am not so sure God actually changed him though. Refined him, sure. Completely changed his gifts and talents, no.

But God did change me. He changed the way I see.

Because from where I stand, on the arm of cop, I see a broken world. A world of prostitutes, meth addicts, mentally unstable, repeat DUI offenders, dysfunctional families, broken marriages, abusers and the abused, teenagers making stupid decisions. My husband works in a world where he’s called horrible names, where threats are made against his life simply because of the badge he wears, where he has to be alert and ready at all times. I see men (and women) whose every day is everyone else’s worst day, bearers of bad news, the first to hear the wails of a momma who’s lost her son, who witness the crumbled heap of man who’s lost his wife.

Cops are on the front lines.

Photo Credit

I have discovered that I am, in fact, married to a full-time vocational minister. Because in the midst of unspeakable tragedy, I can’t imagine there being a better person to have to pick up and carry someone’s devastation. Someone who could be more gentle. Someone who could be strong enough to not crumble under the weight of it. In the midst of the hopelessness and bad decisions, I can’t imagine a better cop car to be in the back of than the one my husband is driving. Someone who bears both Truth and Hope. In the midst of a fallen world, I can’t imagine a better person to carry the ministry of justice. Humble. Respectful. Strong.

(I am just a little proud of my husband.)

So I am thinking perhaps next time you are in are in the Chipotle lunch line and the cops walk in, tell them thank you (because like seriously… is it just me or is the Chipotle burrito the new donut?! HAHA) Maybe think of what cops face and pray for their lives, their families and their souls?

(Anybody else now have the Cops theme song in your head??  “bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you…” If not, your welcome.)

I’m wondering how you view cops… in a positive or negative light?

I’d also love to know if anyone else that reads here has a LEO in your family? Let me know in the comments.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

I may be writing a little more on this subject. I don’t want to write for cop’s wives because like seriously, rookie here. That’s like getting parenting advice from the first-time pregnant girl whose read all the books; just stop. But I do want to write about the journey. Because truly, I am learning a lot here about things like prayer, spiritual warfare, and how to keep growing in love in your marriage when you are changing… and just simple things like what it’s like to be married to a cop.