Door 2 - Buttons and Prayers

Door 2 - Buttons and Prayers

Growing up in a Christian family I was blessed with the gift of being surrounded by many who loved the Lord. A large majority of my extended family are believers, my parents are believers and I grew up in an atmosphere that put Jesus first, and even for those in my family who don't consider themselves Christians - they still loved excellently. My maternal Grandmother (Grandma Connie) is the Matriarch of our family at large. She's the middle child of her 9 siblings and has seemingly been the glue of the family since her adolescence. Spending time at grandma's it was normal for people to come and go. Great aunts and uncles, 2nd, 3rd and 4th cousins hanging out for meals and game time. There were no lines drawn in my family that depicted the distance that is generally between a 7yr old and her 4th cousin. That's just grandma's side... you go to my maternal grandfather, and his family was around the house all the time too. Same exact story,  great aunts and uncles, 2nd and 3rd cousins, all at grandmas. In fact, to this day, there are people I grew up around that I know are family... but I still couldn't tell you how we're related. We just are. I could probably pick almost any one of my over 100 family members on my mom's side and tell you a story that I would consider to be a door for me, tell you a lesson I learned from their existence in my life and memories.

However, there are two individuals that I loved deeply that many kids never got to know of their own.

My great grandmothers. There was "Grandma Purchase" and "Great-Great" and they helped make me, me.

The crazy thing is, I knew great-great until I was 10, and grandma Purchase until I was 13.

Great-great lived just around the corner, in the same apartment complex I grew up in. If momma and pops needed a break - they'd send me over to her house. Great-great was a beautiful woman. She was short, her silver hair up in perfectly coiffed bun, wearing conservative outfits and large glasses. She was a seamstress in her prime and she quilted. Once I saw a quilt where the squares had hearts inside them, and since I couldn't have that exact blanket, Great-great decided to make a pattern from scratch and make me a quilt where each heart was a piece of clothing from my mother, aunts or uncles childhood. Every time I would go to her house, she would teach me something about sewing. We stated with buttons. She'd thread a needle for me and give me a show box lid full of buttons of every shape, design, color and purpose and tell me to "make a necklace." I learned how to thread the buttons through, then she taught me how to sew them onto fabric, then she'd let me use the sewing machine, how to darn a sock, how to take in and let out clothes. She sparked an interest in me while I was young that has continued as what now seems like a rare gift to mend, tailor and create clothing and quilting when necessary. I remember how much I loved to make her laugh. Her laugh was the kind that couldn't be fake or cordial, if she was laughing she was full of joy and I loved being the reason she was laughing. I loved sitting in her small living room with a needle and thread, trying to make straight lines with my stitches for practice. I had a sweet relationship with her, one that taught me practicality, taught me to say what was on my mind all the time, and taught me the value of using something until you literally cannot anymore. When she passed away, I certainly tried to hide how broken I was. But I remember as soon as people started telling stories about her at the service, I ran out of the sanctuary and hid in the church basement crying. I lost a friend. Someone who taught me so much. Someone who loved me. And it was the first funeral I had been to for someone I had a deep love for. Great-great opened a door for me, with the Lord, that taught me about being a thankful, strong, practical woman.

Grandma Purchase was another woman entirely. Firm, intuitive, sometimes strict but so irresistibly loving. I used to visit with my grandma or mother while she lived in senior housing, I'd pull the emergency string in her bathroom and the firemen would show up. She had salt and pepper hair until the day she died, She was tall, and almost always wore a dress. Being put together and looking her best was always important to her, even after she lost her sight. As she aged, she lost her ability to see and she had fallen, so grandma and gramps moved in with her to take care of her. And when they needed to go out, we would babysit each other. We'd sit together and talk, listen to radio shows, I'd read out loud to her - usually the bible or a simple devotional - we'd just be together. And occasionally I'd try to sneak onto the computer to play solitaire while I was over, but she could hear the gentle hum of the electronics and would pull out my full name "Jacquelyn Joy, I am much more important than that stupid computer. Come talk with me." She taught me to value people over things, to be present in conversation and to care. But one of my favorite things about her, was when she would go to bed. Not because I was done dealing with her, but because that's when she would pray. Grandma Purchase prayed with a faith and determination and perseverance I've not yet seen again. I'd sit on the floor outside of her bedroom door, and she wouldn't know I was there... but I'd just listen to her pray. Going name by name through her children, their spouses, her 50 grandchildren, their spouses, and their children. Having a prayer and blessing for each of them. She prayed with an earnest heart that was incredible. When I remember her prayers, even just before meals, sometimes it brings me to tears. Every prayer meant something. Every word spoken was worth the time it took to speak. And prayer took priority over everything else in her day. She loved the Lord, and her gentle and quiet passion for Him opened the door for me to understand what a lifetime with Jesus really means and looks like! 

These two women taught me allot and my life was greatly improved upon just by the mere fact that I got to know them. Not just as a far off relative or a granny I saw once in a while. But as consistent and large parts of my life. It's been amazing to see how I still carry their voices in my head, their instructions in my heart and their memory with me always. People talk about having strong female role-models. In my life? I've hit the Jackpot. I've got a mother, aunts, grandmothers, and great grandmothers that poured their all at the feet of Jesus and took me with them to learn.

This door, is a Victorian wooden door, covered with little buttons and old tattered pages covered with prayers. It hangs right next to the Golden door, worth just as much. Holding it's own endless stories to tell.

Open Doors

Well, my dearest blog readers. It's time to end my hiatus and re-enter the online world with my small presence. I've been sitting on an idea my mother actually threw my way quite a while ago, and I think it's time I do it. Open doors. Documenting my life through the perspective of telling the stories behind the doors the Lord has opened to me. Don't you worry your little Christmas carol filled head, though. I'll be breaking it all up into pieces. Door by door how'd the Lord bring me to where I am? We'll find out. If you want to join me and read along, you're welcome to. It's just a way for me to highlight the faithfulness and goodness of the Lord through my life despite the pain and struggles. If you want to hop in and out or ignore the posts to follow all together, that's fine too. I just feel it's time to re-tell His glory over my life.




Door 1 - The Foundation Of Gold

My parents are so obviously my first door. The circumstances in my mother's life certainly didn't plan for my conception. Dropping out of college and having a baby as a single mother were certainly not on her to-do list. But she always wanted me. I was never unwanted by her. Her unexpected motherhood wasn't a chore nor did she look at it with disdain. My biological father didn't want me, but that wasn't much of a surprise with his track record. My mother is my rock. She could have given me up, she could have "gotten rid of the problem"... she had options. She chose me and the day that she did she built a door with the Lord. One that would wait for me to come through it the very moment I was born. A door from unplanned, unexpected, potential single-mother horror story to a life of being wanted, cared for and loved by a family that loved and supported my mother AND me.

Then, walks in my poppa. He is very literally my best friend. He went on an awkward date with a pregnant girl, her parents and His own parents... and he chose her. Fresh out of the Navy, new to the Lord, he chose a woman who came with "Baggage" and he chose to love it all. He's always been the only dad I needed or wanted. He is everything a girl could dream of and more. He taught me everything I know,  including the fact that we really know nothing. He was a stranger to parenthood. Still, again, he choose it. And when he chose it, he built a door with the Lord that would open for me to pass through the very moment I was born. A door from fatherlessness, confusion and lifelong searching for significance to a life of love, acceptance, understanding and worthiness.

I was born October 31st, 1991. I was a healthy weight and length, though my mom had been very ill throughout her pregnancy AND I was born early. She was supposed to be on bed rest, but she went to the mall to go gift shopping for my poppa, whose birthday was also the 31st. In the words of my parents "God chose the best gift to give." (I hope you can feel my adolescent eye roll here). Poppa and momma weren't married yet. But I was born and immediately cried my way through two of the biggest doors a girl could have. I had a poppa who adored me, a momma who desired me and parents who loved each other.

4 months later, on leap year day, my parents tied the knot. Apparently I was a fussy brat during the ceremony and though proud grandma was trying to comfort me, she gave me over to the only solution mid-ceremony. She brought me right to my poppa, I shut up, and they finished the ceremony with me in his arms. It was "unconventional" by traditional standards, but it was absolutely perfect for us. When my parents said "I Do" they solidified a door to a golden foundation for me. The rock on which my life would be built. They opened a door, that all three of us walked through. I had family, I had parents, I had married parents, and I had a firm and solid family life. I had a marriage to look up to, I had a teacher and mother who loved me fiercely and a best friend who taught me to be tough and let me explore every bit of who I was as a child.

God could have given me to any family. He could have put me in any living situation, and while many may sit and ask "Why not give me more?" I often sit and wonder at the fact that God gave me ALL of this. He gave me a family who chooses. A family that has taught me radical love, bravery, pushing through my limits, the importance of standards and morals, the importance of caring for the underdog, how to stand in the face of adversity, creativity, musicality, my love of history and literature, and most importantly they taught me how to build myself in truth of the Lord.

Of all the doors that could have been opened, the Lord opened a door to a  shimmering, golden foundation. Still in need of purification and in need of being perfected, just as any piece of gold. But solid gold, just for me, none the less. My story and the many stories of God's faithfulness to me would be all for naught if it weren't for the foundation of family I was given through two unsuspecting individuals who CHOSE ME.

My First door rests in a gallery in my mind. It's old, and worn down and it's been dipped in gold and it sits under a banner that reads "Chosen Child"

And this miracle of family is only the first of many doors to come.

The lie that changed it all...

Thanksgiving. Christmas. The ever so glamorous "Holiday Season!"

A time where community gathers together and celebrates, fellowships, experiences each other through a new lens of celebration.

I used to pride myself in the community I had. Through a large majority of my life I've felt surrounded, supported, never alone and the truth was, I had the best people in my life. Living in a bedroom with 3-4 other girls and sharing 3 showers with 15 girls, never having my own kitchen, knowing how to navigate the potentially testing waters of tight community living were all things I felt I knew well. And I did.

Now, I would say pretty much none of that is the case. Moving to Vegas 4 years ago was the unfortunate beginning of friendships I had held near and dear to my heart my whole life fizzling into casual likes on fb and once a year "happy birthday's"... if that. And in the process of those friendships seemingly passing away, I clung to the community I had around me at YWAM. Even though that community turned over every 6 months or so, there was at least always someone I could connect with and be close with. When I finished my time of ministry with them, most of those relationships became obsolete. Casual "Hellos" and "It's been forever since I've seen you!" but nothing more. My church here in Vegas started an AMAZING season of worshiping in a different  venue, and as much as I adored our new vision... we lost our family feeling. We aren't really behaving like a tribe anymore, we're just a gathering place. I've walked into a new work situation, and I LOVE IT. It's my dream job. And my co-workers are some of the biggest blessings in my life. They constantly remind me that it's safe to let them in, and I still constantly sit in fear that i'll believe them... and then I'll be wrong. Just like I have been so many times lately.

Now, I honestly don't believe that any of these people who were once close with me have changed all that much. I don't think anyone has iced me out or forgotten me. But everything has changed.

A lie changed everything. The simple words whispered in spine chilling tones "You're not worth the effort to know."

I mean, clearly... he had to be right. Why else would everything fall apart so easily? I feel as though I've tried. I've put my all into some relationships and they still flutter away.  As soon as I was taken out of someone's daily space, and communication became work, things dissipated. I was allot of work wasn't I? People are too busy, they don't have time, I'm too needy, I want too much from people. My work schedule throws a wrench in the system. Working over nighters, every other night. Not the normal job for anyone else my age who exists in my vicinity. That makes me hard to love too, right? ... all reasons to excuse myself from the table of God and lock myself in the basement.

Now, I'm not proud to say, I've begun isolating myself. Spending almost all of my free time in a bunk bed, in an empty dorm room, living back at the YWAM base, feeling out of place and unimportant to anyone. I spend my time trying to fill the silence by reading books out loud, watching netflix and hulu, sleeping unhealthy amounts and pretending like it doesn't bother me. I'm living the dream, it's clearly the good life.

It's pathetic, honestly. And it's frustrating for me, being an individual who loves to proclaim people's worth, and being someone who understands allot about psychology and such things and not being able to fix myself. Knowing that there are solutions, but not being able to see or practice them. I feel trapped.

As much as I would love this to be a blog that ends in triumph. It's not. At least not yet. Currently, I'm a slave to the lie, to the insecurity. I break out of my chains around every other day and then I come back dragging my feet, head hung low, wrists presented muttering "You were right, freedom is too much for me to handle."

We're meant for community. And I'm wanting to fight for it, but honestly, I'm tired of fighting to be loved. And I'm tired of believing blatant, evil lies. So, I'm working on it. I'm not complete. I'm not finished. And that's okay. 

Beauty In The Breakdown

I am someone who loves to be strong.
Though life has thrown more than it's fair share of curve balls my way, I've always had this sense within myself that I needed to be able to handle it all well. My personal standard for my own emotional and mental strength has always been extremely high. For most of my life, this ended up looking like stoicism or disinterest, perhaps even a complete lack of compassion or understanding. I grew up pegging tears as weakness, showing too much emotion in the face of trauma or hardship was a huge no-no, and forget admitting when I was just too tired to function as an average human. I couldn't tell you one or two specific things that taught me this, it's just kind of what I had always thought. This isn't to say I wouldn't break down, because Lord almighty were the boundaries of my bedroom filled with cries and questions, my pillow stained with tears, my journal covered with expressions of every emotion... but no one was allowed to see any of that.

Granted, as a teenager, I was battling an addiction to pornography, extreme loneliness, depression, suicidal tendencies, the deployment of my father, and some major- life changing health issues. So, I felt allot of things all the time. But the devil had hold of my ear and told me things like "no one can know, no one wants to be friends with a depressed girl."  "just smile, don't let them see your hurt." and "something's broken inside of you that you're not happy as a christian"  Unfortunately, this was reinforced by the stigmas the Church had attached to depression, addiction and health issues. Satan sounded allot like "Christian" culture to me, so I didn't see the falsehood in NEEDING to be strong.

I even remember on 9/11 sitting on the couch in our basement-family room, watching the news, knowing exactly what this all meant for our military family. I was 9 years old, and as I wiped the silent tears from my cheeks I remember thinking "Don't let momma see you cry, this is harder for her than you. Be the strong one."

Now, I'm quick to admit my emotional tendencies. There's been a great freedom and release in feeling openly. I'm known to say that "Emotions are an extreme sport, that I always win!" Overall, I'm not ashamed to feel each emotion with the zeal, passion and intensity that I do. It's just a part of the person I am. I'm firey and passionate, it only makes sense that I would feel emotions intensely. It'd be fair to say that, most times, I feel free. I feel released from the bondage of the lies of "I have to be happy" or strong, or feel any certain way... ever. The old "Church culture" that used to induce my self shaming no longer has holds on what I feel. It's not that my identity is found in my emotions, my relationship with God is not purely based on emotions, nor is every decision made with only emotions. But now, I'm comfortable voicing that I have emotions tied to to those things. If I was as stoic now, as I used to be... I don't think I would recognize myself.

And just when I thought I had dealt with everything, I broke down.

Dealing with a sensitive issue within my calling of abolition, I stood strong. I brushed it off. Then I got into my car and I sobbed. My first thought? "You're not good enough for this calling if you can't hold yourself together!" But that was just it, I DID hold myself together. In my line of work, it's necessary to control your own emotions around the girls be it in a restoration home or on the streets. You express the feelings later. That's exactly what I did, so I was fine. It wasn't out of line at all. It was the thought "You can't do this..." that came with the breakdown. Why? Why do we shame ourselves for allowing the spirit to continually break us?!

I texted my bestie, and she is one of the few who I first exposed the fullness of my feelings to at a younger age. This friend understands more about me than I do myself some days. And she reminded me, that there's beauty in the breakdowns. I accomplished what I needed to do, and the moment it was just me and the Lord I let down the boundaries and wet the clay of my heart with tears as the Father molded my heart to look a little bit more like His again.

So, while this isn't something I've got down pact, I'm choosing to move forward.

With true joy in my heart, hope glimmering in my eyes and the heartbreak of humanity catching my thoughts... I'll embrace the beauty of a breakdown! I'll mourn the injustice, let me weep over broken hearts and forgotten people, I'll break into tears and realize that MY strength is NOT ever going to be enough. Let me sob alone and realize that this is weakness, and His strength is made perfect in it. Then let me sit in the serenity of a calmed storm as Christ comes to mold me, and I realize there doesn't need to be shame, there isn't failure attached to this moment. But rather, it's a Holy moment. A moment of feeling just the smallest fraction of what the Father feels for this world, a moment where I don't have the full capacity to "hold myself together" under the pressure of the glory of heaven and the weight of my Papa's heart.

And I invite you to join me. Decide that there is beauty in the breakdown, and stop being ashamed of what you feel. Let's be honest about these holy moments. Not to consistently talk about how horrible things are, because... actually, if you have the Papa's heart, you see the hope in it too.

I don't know if any of this made sense, but I felt the need to write it out. So here it is. 

Underestimated.

Underestimate:
To roughly calculate or judge something's value as smaller or less important than it is.

This may be "odd" but today's post, is a letter to myself that I felt worthy of posting. Maybe you needed to hear it too? This letter isn't a cry or plea for encouragement, just the fleshed out conversation I've been having with the Lord in letter form. It's something I'm still learning, but I've also come a LONG way from the self hatred I used to live in. I'm proud of myself for that.


Dear Jackie,
     Stop underestimating yourself. Why do you equate your value in life to your education or accomplishments? You are so much more than a piece of paper that says you're smart enough to graduate college, you're more than your ministry, more than just your calling, more than what you think you are. You've spent so long going to bed defeated, your mind screaming at you for not doing "Better" or "more". The perfectionism you judge yourself with, isn't cute. The standard is not perfection. You're not Jesus and you're never going to be able to save every girl caught in captivity. You're not going to do everything right, but you know what? That's okay! His power is made perfect in your weakness. It's not even about your capabilities in the first place, it's about the allowance and space you give the holy spirit to move in and through you.

     Did you know others don't see your faults like you do? Nobody cares that sometimes your prayers are short, or that sometimes instead of "amen" you say "Jesus you're pretty cool, we should get coffee sometime." Nobody thinks you're failing because you haven't saved every girl caught in captivity that you've come in contact with. Why'd you put that pressure on yourself in the first place?! Who told you that the weight of the world was yours to carry? Because they were wrong. People are championing you on, they're cheering for you as you do everything within your power to shine hope in dark places.

     Did you know people look up to you? Did you know you're admired? Stop pushing people's words aside as "opinion" when they compliment you, encourage you and build you up. Believe people. Trust them when they say "WOW! you're beautiful." or "You're so brave for doing what you do!" I need you to be okay with celebrating yourself. Celebrate your accomplishments, it's okay to say "I did a good job, I did my best!" without following it with "I could have done more, though." STOP negating your wins with your own harsh self estimations.

You are worthwhile. You're good enough. You're equipped. You're called according to a purpose. You measure up. You are worthy of celebration. You're doing a good job.

     Here's what I need you to do. Celebrate when you've done your best. Acknowledge when something good happens, and stop thinking how you could have done better. Stop cringing every time you don't harmonize perfectly. I need you to surrender your perfectionism. The model citizen that you've made up in your head, that you need to measure up to... get rid of it. Speak life and love and hope and truth over yourself. Not YOUR truth, not YOUR reality. God's truth, His reality. The way he see's you is... beyond description. If you would sit down and shut up long enough to listen to the Lord you'd hear the song He is singing over you, it's Beautiful!

   Remember when He called you "little lion girl"... that still applies. You still have a voice that roars with influence, authority and love. You still have strength that can lead a pride. You still have a sound all your own, and most of all... your still HIS little girl. Get up off the dirty ground where you've thrown yourself with your words, and stand on the Rock of salvation. Stand, and look over the hills... do you see Him? He's calling for you to be fully you.

    Because you were made for such a time as this, and being made for something... means you're good enough for it.

Don't underestimate yourself. Don't estimate yourself at all. Let God sing your worth to you nightly.

You're going to make it, you always have before.
You're just learning.
- Jackie