Call Upon Me (Part One)

When you can't write your own story... where do you turn?

I always wanted to be a mommy when I grew up. Not a fireman, or an astronaut, or even a doctor like my first-grade classmates. Just a mommy.

At twenty-eight, my dream came true. I was pregnant with our first child. Twenty weeks into the pregnancy, I knew my blessing was a baby girl! A girl! And I would name her Meagan. I would finally enter into my most anticipated joy and the greatest blessing of my life.

That would be if we could write the story. Labor wouldn’t hurt. The baby wouldn’t stop breathing. The wrapped bundle would snuggle into our arms and come home in three days. Not six months. Not with the battle wounds of scars that told the tale of a life nearly lost. No. Not our story. Not that way.

But what if we can’t write it? What if it goes another way? A way that brings us to our knees. Tears out our heart. And leaves us with nothing left to cling to… but Jesus.

It had been a heat wave. The worst NJ had seen in years… decades. I felt miserable and canceled all my appointments for the week. I woke one morning early, 4 am, with the worst headache I had ever experienced. On top of that, I was edgy—like I needed to climb out of my skin. I couldn’t settle. Couldn’t stop the pounding in my head. By 6 am, I woke Peter and told him I needed to get out of the apartment. Anywhere. My parent’s house, I decided. I needed to go there.

Before we left the apartment that morning, Peter handed me a pack of scripture cards sitting on the counter. He said, “Pick one. Say it over and over again. It will help get your mind off your headache.” So I picked. More to get him off my back in that moment, than to find comfort in God’s word. I picked, and I read:

Call upon Me in the day of trouble. I will deliver you, and you will glorify Me (Psalm 50:15).

I never knew what that day would bring. The day I needed to call upon Him. The day of trouble. How I would visit the doctor that afternoon. How he would tell me that my baby… my baby who still had 8 weeks until full-term… would need to be born that night. How I would teeter on the edge of a coma and my little girl would be delivered by emergency C-section, weighing only 2 pounds, 15 ounces. How she would enter this world fighting for her life… six months of fighting in a Neonatal Unit. How she would endure needles and tubes, surgeries and beeping noises. Harsh lights and severe touch. How I would drive home, alone, without my baby. And wonder why the world kept going.

Was that how it ought to be? How being a mommy ought to be? Is that how it would have been if I could write it myself? Only I can’t. None of us can. Instead, we hold on. Hold on to His promise. His sovereignty. His goodness. Because even in that, even in the doubt and the pain, He is good.

This was His note to me. His personal note. Before it all began. Before I would walk through the fire. And this is His note to you...

Call upon Me in the day of trouble. I will deliver you, and you will glorify Me.

The Switch!

I’ve shared this story before, but it’s one I need to be reminded of often.

It was the morning of our fall kick-off for our horse ministry at the ranch in Mexico. I had spent hours throughout the week preparing and training my new batch of leaders. I had decided, too, that this was the year, the day, the hour that we made the switch.

Our piloted program the year before had focused on our churched kids. Every Saturday morning we sent vans to our church and picked up 20-30 kids to spend the afternoon with us and the horses. This year, we were making the switch. Not that churched kids didn’t need to hear about God’s love, but the clear mission of the ministry was to reach the children in the nearby colonia, Marquez de Leon. To reach those kids in an area of great need who had little to no chance of hearing the Good News. 

I woke that morning, anxious. Had we communicated enough with the village families?  Had we prepared our leaders sufficiently for the change… will their hearts be open to kids who might not behave or react the same as our children from church? How will the new kids respond to the program? Would they even come? And would they mix well with the kids who came each week? Maybe we’ll start out slow. Keep the kids from church coming and add maybe a handful of kids from the village. Little by little make the change.

My devotion that morning was from Jesus Calling.  It said, “Leave outcomes up to Me. Follow Me wherever I lead, without worrying about how it will all turn out.” As I stood watching the vans depart from the ranch, one to the church and one to the village, as my new leaders gathered around with anticipation to pray and wait, as the horses were prepared and readied, those words echoed in my heart… Leave the outcome to Me. 

As the van from the church returned twenty minutes later, God said, “Leave the outcome to Me.”

Because He knew. He knew how I would feel when the doors to the van opened and no one came out. No one from the church had come. No one. There was some holiday I had not counted on and none of our usual 20 or 30 kids that made up the ministry, that made it worthwhile for my leaders to give up their free day, got off that van… not a single child.

I could hear the audible gasp of the leaders behind me. I could hear their questions, their perplexity, their disappointment. But I could hear God louder. Leave the outcome to Me.

The second van arrived. The one from the village. And it arrived in grandeur… like the nets in Peter’s fishing boat. The ones he cast out even when it made no sense. Twenty-five kids in a 15-passenger van! (Travel takes on new meaning in Mexico ;). Village kids flooded out and were met by the loving hands of my team and the unconditional love of the horses. We were amazed! Shocked even! But God wasn’t. He had been carrying out His plan all along. I just needed to rest in it! And I stood in awe at our loving God who prepared my heart in gentleness but an hour before.

God's outcome was far greater than I could ever imagine!

Where are you today? Do you question the events going on around you? The trials, the hardships, the unknowns? He knows your heart, your struggle, your prayer. He knows it intimately. And He will meet your need in His time and in His way. Trust in that. Rest in that. And leave the outcome to Him!

I’d love to hear from you! To read your ideas and thoughts. For that reason, if you leave a comment on my blog or Facebook I’ll put your name in a drawing for a free book give away. If you share my blog on your page, I’ll put your name in twice. November’s free book is:

Kim Meeder is the founder of Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch in Oregon-- A ranch of rescued dreams. She and her husband Troy were our inspiration for our own horse ministry in Mexico. Their ranch pairs broken kids with rescued horses. Blind Hope is a true story about a young woman who reaches out to save a dog in need, and soon realizes that the dog was rescuing her.

Of Course I'm Right!

I’ve been a parent for almost a quarter of a century (sounds more impressive that way!) and I’ve gotten lots of parenting tips throughout the years from many different sources.  Books, TV, friends, my own parents … of course scripture.  Some I’ve followed wholeheartedly.  Some for a season.  And some not at all. 

I remember when my boys were young, I was adamantly opposed to guns.  Real, imaginary.  It didn’t matter.  Swords were okay.  But guns… they were just a slippery slope to violence.  Right?  Well, for those of us who have boys… it doesn’t matter if you take the toy guns away, they will find a way to reproduce them!  Sticks, crescent-shaped rocks, Legos… you name it.  The imagination is limitless.  By the time I made it to number five child, it didn’t matter anymore.  And I must add, they are all well-adjusted and not prone to violence despite the use of cap guns, pellet guns, paint guns, and air rifles ;).

We learn early on in our parenting to "win the battles," then later to "choose the battles wisely to win the war." And all along our poor husbands are unaware that for hours each day we (the moms/wives) are honing and perfecting our skills in debate!

As missionaries AND homeschoolers through most of our kids’ growing days, we were always together.  Mostly together in the car driving for miles on end. Sometimes in a 15-passenger van that gave a little more elbow room, but usually in a 7-passenger SUV, scrunched together with pillows for napping and a dog in the middle.  

The road stretched out before us and, for Peter and I, it became the best time to talk.  And with that, occasionally ;), a time to argue.  Friendly crossfire.  Hot debates.  And a few knockdown, drag out matches.  And many times we didn’t even realize how quiet the car had become when we got really personal! 

Ears perked up!  And they listened.  They listened to everything.  And one day someone passed on to me the best parenting advice I ever received… the one thing that stuck, even when we broke it: 

As parents, it is better to be united than to be right.

That one can set you on a tailspin ;).  How often we want … NEED… to be right!  I know I do.  It is my Achilles’ heal.  The thorn in my side. 

The day someone shared that truth with me was the day I realized that it was better for us, Peter and I, to be united together, especially before our children, than it was for either one of us to be right, to win the battle, to prove our point. That was the moment things changed for me. 

Sounds simple enough.  But it’s not.  Some days it takes a Holy Spirit-enabled humility to step down, to walk away, to annihilate the drive to win.  Even with silly things like which way is the best way home or how to prepare the roast. To relinquish my need to be right for the higher calling… unity.  And lots of days I fail. 

But this is my goal.  This is my desire.  And it’s worth fighting for.  For the battles... And to win the war :).  Because, for my children, to see us united, bound together in one spirit despite our differences, invests a far greater treasure in their lives than to know which parent can out-talk the other!

I therefore, a prisoner for the Lord, urge you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace (Ephesians 4:1-3).

I would love to hear from you.  Do you struggle with the desire to be right? What helps you?  What is the best parenting advice you've ever heard? 

Share with me! And if you comment or email, I will put your name in a hat to receive a new book. If you share this blog on your Facebook or webpage, I will enter your name twice. This month's title to win is:

Helping Your Daughter Become the Woman God Wants Her to Be.

Who Do We Listen To?

Peter and I were engaged to be married. Ours was a brief courting (a month or two ;) and now we were excitedly awaiting our wedding day. We were in marital counseling with our pastor and he told us that the top four reasons people get divorced are: Money, Sex, Religion, and In-Laws (sorry guys).

Peter and I conflicted on each of these in some way and it brought tension into our newly forming bond.

The hardest, I think, was religion. We couldn’t seem to find a common ground. We were both Christians and loved Jesus. We both wanted to follow Him and serve Him with all of our hearts. But I grew up in a conservative Bible church. He had been saved two years earlier in a small charismatic church in the woods that I lovingly coined a cult ;). And why? Because it was different and I didn’t understand it. They worshiped too long (Two hours before moving on to the sermon) and hung around afterward to pray. Then everyone went to get something to eat. A full day of fellowship… not the hour from start to finish, smile, go home, I was used to. It made me uncomfortable. I didn’t fit in.

So, we argued about it. Not just about how long we needed to spend our Sundays with those strange people ;), but on a deeper level. Which manner of worship was right? Which honored God more? Certainly how I had been doing it, how I had been raised and taught was right. Right? 

On one such evening, we had argued ourselves into such a fit, that I had gone to bed quite mad and quite sure I could never marry this man. We were just too different. Did he even understand me?

At 4am, before the dawn, before the world stirred, I woke to the sound of a mockingbird outside my window. And I listened. With my eyes on the ceiling of my dusky room, I listened.

For those who don’t know the mockingbird, he has a very distinct call. But not because it is his own. He does not sing his own tune. He does not have his own unique voice. Instead, he mimics the sounds of other birds and strings those together to make his song. Thus giving him his name.

I laid in bed and listened. And through the quiet listening the Lord spoke.

He said, “That is you. And Peter. You are taking the songs, the opinions of others around you and stringing them together to find your voice. Stop listening to the views and judgments that clamor for your attention. Stop trying to build yourself and your faith on what others say and do. Stop. And listen to Me.”

“Stop. And listen to Me.”

In a world where the clamor is loud, who am I listening to?

Who are you listening too?

No Mistakes!

Coco at sunset

You’ll hear talk of the ranch from me. I can’t escape it. That’s how it is with things indelible. They become a part of you and never leave you. Rancho el Camino is like that.

The ranch was a God-calling. One of those rare moments when you know He is speaking directly to you and there is no going back or to the side. Only forward. Into something entirely unknown. Radical. Without borders. You move forward because in your heart you know that, with Him, you are in the best place you can be.

Without Him. Who wants to be there?

That’s how it started. Before it was a calling. Just He and I in a cement dorm.

We had been on a short-term trip to Mexico. Peter, myself, and a team of youth group kids from NJ. It was July. And it was hot. I mean really hot. Tip the scales hot with 100 percent humidity. I was seven months pregnant with my youngest and blessed to wear those medical stockings that take hours to get into on a dry day. I was an emotional basket case even before the fever hit.

Our team got ready for the morning—a day of evangelism in a mountain village. When the man in charge heard me tell Peter I couldn’t go, he said, “Buck up. Get out there. No one stays behind.” I cried on my husband’s shoulder until I got to stay behind.

There I sat. Alone. Tired. Hot. In a cement dorm room with bugs as big as my fists. Feeling quite the pitiful sight. Telling God how wrong He was to bring me here. How I wasn’t a missionary. How I wasn’t an evangelist. How I didn’t like being in foreign countries. How I was sick and pregnant, and couldn’t He see how miserable I was?

In that room I wrestled with my failures and my inadequacies. As a wife, and mother, and even deeper, as a believer. I grumbled and thought, how will I ever be used by God? When everyone else is excited about missions and I don’t even want to be here. How can I even call myself a Christian when I feel so spiritually weak? When I’d rather hide. When I’d rather be alone.

It was in that dorm, in that moment, He gave me the scripture that He would use to call us to full-time missions in Mexico. But He gave me something else that day. Something that transcends where I am or what I am doing.

He said, “Child, I did not make you to be someone you are not. I did not make a mistake when I knit you together. You may never be an evangelist or a missionary ;)" (Hah, Ten years, baby ;) - watch out for that one!) He said, "You are uniquely you. Not to be altered or changed by what others think you should be. By your own estimation and judgement. Only to grow closer to Me. To know who you are and who I made you to be. To be transformed by ME.”

I learned in that place, that if I am available to Him, He will use my passions and gifts... those things already a part of who I am and who He made me to be. For me it was my love for horses. My love for art. And now, my love for writing. Who would have guessed that I could be just me and still be used by God! 

Remember, you are exactly who you are supposed to be. No mistakes. You are NOT who your neighbor is, or your friend, or your husband or wife. NOT the one who looks like they have it all together (which they don’t) or the one who seems to juggle everything with perfection (which they can’t). You are you… fearfully and wonderfully made… child of the King.

Be okay with YOU today. With the beautiful way He has made you uniquely you. Bring Him your gifts, your talents, and your passions, and watch Him do the miraculous!

My Writing Journey

My writing journey began oddly enough. I never aspired to be a writer, nor particularly enjoyed the task. I did it when I had to. Never did I journal or hope to be on the school newspaper. English was not my major in college (rather, Psychology) and only once did I get stuck in a graduate assistantship in the English Department— not by choice.

After 10 years in church work, my husband and I felt a very strong calling to serve in Mexico as missionaries. We packed up our five children, our dog, our travel trailer, and everything we could fit inside and on top, and drove the 4,000 miles from New Jersey to La Paz, Mexico.

There we developed a ranch (Rancho el Camino) that reaches kids in impoverished villages. We served nine years there and many, many stories were birthed. But those early days were painfully difficult. We lived off the grid (no electricity), in the middle of the desert, in a cement structure that had been abandoned for 50 years (Lots of things move into an abandoned house). We lived with a pump for our water and a generator for our lights. We had scorpions and rattlesnakes, cowbells and coyotes. We also had gorgeous sunsets and the brightest canopy of stars at night. Those were the beginning days. Those, as someone once said, were the glory days.

We used horses to share God’s love with the village kids. Amazing how walls are torn down with unconditional love. You would think we would learn better from our animal friends. But those are stories for another day. My writing journey began with a pitchfork in hand and the smell of sweet hay and dust swirling at my feet. The story just came. Unexpectedly.

During our first few months in La Paz, my daughter and I had been riding near the Mexican Charro (rodeo) within the city limits (pre-ranch days). To make things more interesting, we chose a labyrinth of footpaths barely wide enough for us, let alone our horses and journeyed in a tangle through fields of wild desert brush until we had become delightfully lost.

In the middle of the bramble, my eye caught sight of a backpack. Just a backpack without an owner. Not discarded… but dropped or left, maybe. The pack was fairly new and seemingly stuffed with important items… books for school, I imagined. Even on horseback, we couldn’t see over the bushes to look for the pack’s owner. So we continued, hoping whoever had forgotten it would find their way back to it.

A few twists and turns following, our path was suddenly blocked by a very large Mexican man. My horse startled. I waved a pensive hello. The man did not move. Nor did he smile back. His scowl said, “Leave… leave now.”

My daughter and I turned our horses around and rode back faster than we had ridden out. My thoughts gripped my heart. What if there was a child? What if something bad had been happening? What if I had been the only hope of stopping whatever it was?

When we reached the road. I noticed a policeman standing by his car. I should tell him, I thought. But what are the words? How do I even say backpack in Spanish? (Mochila, I know now). But then? How would I make any sense that would be understood in my broken Spanish? What if I was making the whole thing up in my mind?

So, I did nothing.

But the scene never left me.

And one day, in the corral, I had a story. Not a story about the Mexican man and the backpack, but one of my own. One that allowed the fear and confusion to have a voice, and the story to end in victory. One that redeemed the oppressed and freed the exploited. Fiction, but oh so real. Because in each of us, there is a freedom waiting. A victory to hold onto. A redemption to unfold.

The story is in all of us. Every day that you wake… every day you have breath in your lungs, you have a choice. To believe in the brokenness that tries to define you. The labels. The titles. The inadequacies. Or to believe in the victory. The truth that is real. The identity that is beyond you. Not determined by who you think you are, but by who you truly are. A child of the King.