“Different women, many paths, one purpose: to glorify God where we are.
And we are where you are. Balancing families and finances, homes and hearts, dreams and demands.
But through it all, daily we strive to put on the full armor of God, endeavoring to fight the good fight and grow through the journey.
Our aim with in the Quiver is to come alongside you, our fellow friends and warriors in the faith, to equip and encourage one another, fortifying our quivers through devotions, practical parenting tips, and home ideas.” – in the Quiver
I showed up for Switchboard Operator training, and the first tip she offered was a lesson I never forgot.
“I know this won’t make sense; just trust me. Smile before you answer the call.” Then, she smiled. She continued to smile until an awkward silence filled the air. “Now you smile.”
All she wanted was her butterfly to take flight.
“Honey, it can’t fly. There is no wind. See?” I pointed to motionless trees. She looked at the motionless butterfly.
All she understood was that it was meant to fly.
My emotions fizzed like a sealed and shaken bottle of soda in the noon-day sun.
I’d swallowed lies as truth for too long, and three words broke the seal: “How are you?”
Mercy, how my throat ached while trying to cap my emotions. I prayed amiss when I asked God to help me get a grip.
She laid down her pencil and folded her hands, “Take your time.”
Some seasons of life are unsettling. In a spark of a moment it seems, we exist between a season of defined purpose and a season of unknowns unfolding whether we feel ready—or not. There is nothing easy about these seasons of transition.
Having traversed more than one, I recognized the symptoms when a loved one asked if she could stop by.
True story: I own stretchy jeans that gave up the fight long ago. One good stretch from sitting down to standing is all it takes for the fit to lose its form. Who knew they could only withstand so much pressure?
I won’t ask you to comment on whether you have the same issue. I’ll take one for the team.
But do you ever feel like God is stretching you beyond your capacity to recover?
I have learned that during the darkest of times even the tiniest of lights radiates like a beacon of hope.
Sometimes I give the darkness too much attention, and God is merciful to intervene. A recent DIY project was the setting for one such divine intervention in my life. I am still in awe of how He caught my attention.
I had no clue how God would use sidewalk chalk to release me from the bondage of anxiety.
The picnic shelter was the hub of activity. Children blew through soap-filled wands, and bubbles wobbled until they burst. Balloons tethered to tables danced with the wind. Adults chattered as they stacked boxes of pizza and arranged birthday gifts for my granddaughter. Of all the hubbub and party gear, one item piqued my interest.
An irresistible yearning changed the course of my life.
Brownies. A plate of moist, warm brownies sat on the kitchen counter of our new home, and I was drawn to them like bees to soda. This was no run-of-the-mill craving. There was only one reason I refrained, well, two: My parents were there, and I hated to embarrass myself. I watched from the front door as they left for home, then I made tracks to the kitchen.
Little did I know that as I devoured the mound of brownies, I was a mom.
I am not a superhero—but I used to play one in real life.
That was before I tripped over my cape, so to speak, which was an experience that God used as a warning flag to open my eyes to my self-willed ways.
The times when what I thought was my service to others actually created barriers that hindered them from receiving the help they needed most.
Present in body. Lost in thoughts. Fighting in faith.
Had it not been for a captivating moment that day, the tyranny of my thought life would have suffocated my spirit of ministry to others.
Have you considered the vantage point of a wee child? Towering adults, treats stashed in out-of-reach cabinets, and lofty light switches in dark rooms. The adult world must feel overwhelming at times.
My granddaughter—a.k.a. Little One—taught me a valuable lesson about perspective. She was four years old and barely three feet tall when our worlds clashed.