This Undeserved Life {A Give Away}

This Undeserved Life {A Give Away}

There are parts of my story that I may never post to the interwebs for all of the world to read. There are moments in my history that have caused the scars I sometimes notice on my heart. Most of the time, I forget they're there, but there are those days when I remember. When I remember how I got them, and how far Father has brought me. 

I've always been the "pick yourself up by your bootstraps kind of girl," mostly because I was forced to be. I would experience trauma and move forward without truly feeling the weight of the blow. Then before I knew it, a new trauma would occur. It was like an unending cycle. I just had to keep moving forward, it's how I survived all those years.  

Right after I married my husband, I came to the realization that everyone didn't live that way. I was constantly waiting for the bottom to drop out and dazed from shock. I was safe and I started to grieve. It was hard, very hard. And painful, so painful. But I slowly started to heal and those open wounds began healing and eventually became scars. 

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I Don't Have It All Together.

I Don't Have It All Together.

It's easy to peek into someone else's life and imagine theirs to be much easier than yours.

Like that mom at the preschool who always has makeup on and her hair fixed. Or that girl on Instagram whose life looks perfect in those tiny squares. Or the girl at work who always is on time. Or the couple in your community group who has the perfect marriage. Or the friend who always remembers your birthday AND buys you a present. Or the girl at church with the cutest clothes. Or the friend who gets pregnant when her husband looks at her. Or the family at the restaurant with the most obedient children. Or the couple who never worries about money. Or the friend with the best family. 

I'm through believing the lie that they all have it together. 

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Unseen. {A Book Giveaway}

Unseen. {A Book Giveaway}

I first felt it when I was a junior in high school. In the middle of our routine at half-time, I would glance in the stands, searching for both parents to be there, cheering me on. Only to be disappointed.

Then again, early in our marriage, when we were trying so desperately to communicate with one another. We would leave our conversation both feeling misunderstood.

A few years later, I found myself sitting in a room full of women with happy faces, holding up tiny outfits and talking about their pregnancy stories. I sat with a plaster smile on my face, praying they wouldn’t ask me, holding it together until I made it to the car.

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