dddd
Amazing Grace and PTL Patty
I spent my formative years in a church that considered hymnals a slippery slope towards Catholicism and saint-worship. Thus, through a tiny lyric misunderstanding, I believed myself to be a wrench until Mrs. Arnolds– known around our Christian school as “PTL Patty” (due to her affection for the phrase, “Praise the Lord!”)– kindly took it upon herself to teach all the third-graders timeless hymns. During recess.
I realized my mistake in Praise-the-Lord Patty’s classroom while reading the lyrics of Amazing Grace from a musty hymnal. According to the song I was a wretch—not a wrench. Amazing Grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I gazed out the window, jealous of the second and fourth-graders on the playground, and decided I would much prefer to be a wrench on the swings than a wretch singing hymns. I’d never really understood the whole wrench metaphor anyway, but when you live in a world where angels and demons are warring over your soul, you have bigger things to worry about.
I spent my twenties actively disliking Amazing Grace. (Actually, the hymn got off easy because I was too busy hating all other Christian music, most especially religious-coma inducing praise songs.) “How can you dislike a hymn?” a puzzled reader might reasonably question, if said reader had not spent years contemplating the theology behind the song, which goes something like this: I am a worm that deserves to be smeared on the bottom of God’s sneakers, but He chose not to step on me, Praise the Lord! (Ick.) I had a major problem with a God who created worms then left them wriggling on the sidewalk with the expectation that said worms would then write and sing hymns about the unending love that made him sidestep us. I was not on friendly terms with Amazing Grace.
How interesting it is, then, to reflect on the fact that when I stood in church yesterday morning singing that timeless hymn, I felt tears gather in my eyes. Happy ones. Tears of thanks. Because Grace truly is Amazing. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see. If there any better phrase to describe my winding spiritual path, I would be hard-pressed to find it. In the space between my recognition of worm theology and yesterday, my experience of Grace has changed. The same 360-degree view of God that healed me from Post-traumatic Church Syndrome now informs my understanding of the hymn.
My Faith is no longer linear, an if-then scenario where, if they pray the right prayer, God gives Grace to worms by not stepping on them. My faith is now circular, unending, and Grace is given in a continuous revelation of freedom. ‘Twas Grace that brought me safe thus far and Grace will lead me home.
When we finished singing, I was back in Mrs. Arnold’s classroom for a moment– the journey all still ahead—winking at my younger self, “You’re right about the wrench thing. Faith requires assembly, and no one can do it for you.” I wouldn’t have understood that then, but I certainly do now. Amazing Grace how sweet the sound that saved a wrench like me.
PS: PTL Patty also encouraged us to treat our Bibles like American flags. “Never let those Bibles touch the floor! It is the Word of God, Praise the Lord!” She never did comment on what should happen if our Bibles did touch the floor. I assume she would not have wanted us to burn them, but one never knows…
Swimming the Path of Immersion
This is a guest post I wrote for Andrew Bowen of Project Conversion. First published at www.projectconversion.com
At seven, I wanted so desperately to be a mermaid that I rubber-banded my feet together and enthusiastically hopped into our backyard pool. Flailing about awkwardly (and, given my mother’s shrieks, no doubt looking like a drowning victim!), I remember feeling very disappointed: my toes remained firmly attached and my legs failed to melt into shiny blue fins. Heartbroken, I cried the tears of every child who realizes they can’t grow up to be a princess or superhero.
I think most folks who’ve struggled with faith can sympathize with my seven-year old self. We were all born into a belief ecosystem comprised of family, community and culture; its truths were the very air we breathed; its morality the ground we walked. Then came a day when we realized There’s a great ocean of belief out there, and I want to jump in. But there’s one major problem…we’re not equipped for the swim. So maybe we flail about for awhile, trying to acclimate: maybe some of us even manage for a while . But most of us? We find it easier to simply cry our silent tears, mourning a dream that will not be. Not because it’s impossible, no; because it’s simply too hard trade comfortable beliefs for the unknown.
Then there’s this guy, Andrew Bowen, The Immersionist, a guy with a foot (and a fin?) in both worlds. He left behind what he knew—everything he knew—and dove into 12 belief systems, emerging a year later with a message: it’s hard, but it’s worth it. And now he’s taking this message to the world, leading the charge into uncharted waters.
For me, Andrew’s Immersionism is unique because, by its very definition, it means diving into to something new…for a time. His is not the gospel of forever; it’s the gospel of the now: today, challenge yourself to take a dip in unfamiliar waters. Today, take a deep breath and plunge in: try adopting a new faith system for a day, or even an hour.
If Andrew’s Project Conversion was a year spent scuba-diving from a submarine, my Thirty by Thirty experience (365 Days, 30 Faiths, 1 Chance to Recover Mine by 30) was more like doing hand stands in the shallow end of the pool. But for both of us, our experiences were exactly what we needed: in Immersion we lost ourselves and found our faith. So maybe my mermaid dream wasn’t so far off after all. I may not be able to grow fins, but I can sure as heck wear some flippers and a snorkel! And so can you.
C’mon and join us, friends, in the ocean, the shallow end, or even dipping in a toe. The water may be a little cold at first, but we promise it warms up fast once you start swimmin’
The Power of the Pentagram: Part 2
Continued from The Power of the Pentagram: Part 1
After fourteen days of wrestling, this is what I’ve realized about the Power of the Pentagram:
The Pentagram has no power at all; it only crackles to life when infused with the electricity you lend it.
The Pentagram is like a letter of the alphabet: a meaningless scribble to the illiterate, a building block for a writer, an object of study to the linguist. The letter Z can run in Zebra, shine in Quartz or be ingested as Zucchini. It’s a fraternity (Zeta Beta Tau), the overflowing of a soda (fizz), and terror to a teenager (zit).It’s invigorating (zeal) and horrifying (Nazi): simultaneously unruly (jazz) and staid (Azan-Muslim call to prayer). Without the image you mold it to be, the letter Z is nothing. And neither is the Pentagram.
But.
If, like me, your brain hard-wired from birth for the Cause of Christ and his rule over the Enemy, Satan (who prowls the earth with his minions seeking to kill, steal and destroy—did I mention I didn’t need to fear ghosts? I had real, live demons to be afraid of!), AND the pentagram was held up as a symbol of All That Is Evil by your church and family and culture-at-large, well, that symbol has some serious power. Negative power. Evil power. Possibly even the power to invite demons to jump out of your closet and into your mind. Power you didn’t even know was still there, hiding in your subconscious, like a demon under your childhood bed. One that jumps out to say “BOO!” when you’re 29 and cocky, unafraid of the dark, thinking you’ve ridded yourself of all religious prejudice.
But.
If you aren’t at all like me— maybe you were raised by a Pagan, or the High Priest of a Wiccan coven, or perhaps your family didn’t have religious hang-ups of any kind—the Pentagram could take on all kinds of different meanings: from a Sacred symbol of the Divine, to a representation of the five elements (four physical: earth, air, fire, water, and one metaphysical: Spirit), to nothing at all. You would not believe in the Christian Satan, or his demons, or call upon anything evil. To you, there would ne no such thing as witchcraft in the Abrahamic religious sense.
Perhaps you were even raised with traditional religions but, like me, forged your own path to the Divine, and the Pentagram has become your symbol of transformation.
Speaking of which, I’d like a symbol of transformation. Maybe I will adopt the Venus Pentagram (below). Because for me, it represents a change—one I didn’t even know I needed to make. Stepping up to receive the Pagan blessing, then jumping back, then considering why—that process cleaned out a dark closet of prejudice that I didn’t even realize was there. And for that I will ever be thankful: both to the Symbol and to the people who graciously blessed me, in spite of myself, and accepted me into their circle, without judgment.
So today I lend my own energy to their symbolic circle (which happens to contain a five-pointed star) declaring myself at peace with all its positive meaning(s), and appreciative of the Pagan faiths whose followers showed me such kindness. Though I still respect my decision to step back from the Blessing, (because to me, in that moment, it represented negativity, so it was not appropriate to receive it), I choose to receive it today (albeit 14 days late) with all the beauty and peace it means to your faiths. Blessed Be.
Romans 14 came to mind: One man considers one day more sacred than another; another man considers every day alike. Each one should be fully convinced in his own mind. He who regards one day as special, does so to the Lord.
For anyone who’d like to tar and feather me for this post, please consider the history of the Pentagram and its multiple meanings throughout history including–surprise!–Christian and Jewish usages.
Dating Courage
Imagine two scenarios.
#1 You’re meeting a blind date. Are you nervous? Yes. Uneasy? Sure. But it’s a first date, and the expectations and consequences reflect accordingly. Even if it’s a terrible, horrible, awful, no-good, very bad date, you can still go home, kick off your heels, drink some red wine and call your best friend to laugh it off. Can you even buh-lieve he DID that? OMG! This guy is crazy! You can take him or leave him: no harm, no foul.
#2 You’re meeting The One Who Left You at the Altar (who you are somehow still hopelessly in love with). Are you nervous? No! You’re alternately puking and downing Xanax. Uneasy? Ha, you only wish! Try unbalanced, undone, unnerved…completely unprepared. If this date doesn’t go well, you might spend another six months crying in sweatpants while huddled on the couch with your good friends: Depression, Angst, Ben & Jerry. You can’t take him or leave him, because he’s part of who you are.
So I ask you…which situation requires more guts?
Thinking my crazy adventures take loads and loads of courage, people say things like, “I could NEVER go to a [insert place of worship] by myself!” or “Weren’t you afraid of [insert uncomfortable situation]?”, failing to realize that true chutzpah was only required when facing the familiar.
This is how it went for me, every time I experienced a religion; it was either an exciting first date or a dreaded reunion. There wasn’t much middle ground.
I guess you could say I was brave, but not for the reasons most people think. I was only being courageous when, instead of taking the much easier route of crying on the couch, I walked right up to my former faith and smacked it in the face for leaving me–then began the hard work of trying to get back together—spiritual shock therapy-style.
And I’m happy to say (so far) we’re living happily ever after.
Gangster Modesty
In my year+ of spiritual seeking, I’ve found one inalienable Rebecca-Truth. If I have a severe reaction to something, it’s either A) Spiritual shrapnel that needs to be removed or B) Progress yet to be made. Either way, it needs digging out.
And, in the case of this blog article on Christian modesty “I Was Confronted For Being Immodest” ? It’s shrapnel.
When said post recently went viral, I allowed myself to be sucked into its downward spiral.
(Progression: Read Post. Read comment thread. Get ANGRY. Slam doors. Slam more doors. Read more. Get angrier. Say aloud: My whole damn project wasn’t worth anything! Why? Because I have trouble just saying Live and let live—when a nice young mother–with an innocent heart– if an ill-fitting wardrobe– is being bullied in the name of the Lord for her church-dress choice. And submitting to said bullying without a fight!)
Upon expressing my frustration with the article and with myself, I had this conversation with a friend. Me: Is it judgmental if this post makes me go Uggggggghhhh! ? Friend: Why can’t you just say that’s one way to do it and move on? Me: That’s totally easy if it isn’t personal. Friend: You’re making it personal. Me:UGGGGHHHHH!
I considered his point—albeit huffing and puffing with disdain. I recognized that this post had nothing to do with me. I do not know this woman, nor am I involved in a religious environment that would pass this type of judgment. ( And I highly doubt the all-loving Divine wastes time being incensed over an allegedly improper skirt choice. Isn’t He kinda busy, like, running the Universe-at-large?)
So why did reading this feel like an MRI machine, pulling up bullet fragments from long-forgotten wounds? Why did it feel so personal?Because this post magnetized my every memory of being shamed in the name of God, every time I was bullied for the Cause of Christ. Every time I had submitted to spiritual abuse because I needed to have a teachable heart, and God clearly wasn’t happy with my learnin’.
This article called up a militia of bad memories, ready for action and lined in a neat row stretching back as far as kindergarten. It made my heart do an involuntary quick-draw, pointing my weapon at a viewpoint that had decimated my faith. It inspired me to raise my gun of rationale, wave it in the face of all that hurt, and demand it step aside because You are SO not allowed in my space anymore.
It also caused my newfound faith to briefly falter because due to my past pains, I briefly forgot my belief that there is Truth in all genuine viewpoints. And instead of gently untangling my feelings and simply moving on,—Live and let live–I got stuck in a mental battle, the kind that never has a winner.
This is how it is between me and this viral blog post on modesty. I would much rather have a pentagram drawn on my forehead than have a deacon’s wife bully me about the choiceness of my dress… or let anyone else be thusly shamed. (Hell, I’d rather eat rat meat sacrificed to an idol!) This post and its comment thread? It’s my ex-est of ex-boyfriends, armed with a firearm that’s pointed straight at my temple.
After a few days of mulling over my reaction though, I realized ANY judgmental beliefs, even (and especially!) mine, are like raising a gun to the head of someone else’s worldview. Just take one menacing step towards me, and I blow your brains out, sir.
But for every gun you have pointed at someone else, there’s an infinite number pointed at you. It’s like a gangster movie stand-off, if said gangsters were clad in self-righteousness instead of leather jackets.
For example, if you say a skirt touching the knee is godly, there are a hundred ladies who would declare you immodest. For those who think mid-calf length is appropriate, plenty of sects would tell you that God only approves of ankle-length skirts. And don’t forget the Amish, who believe a woman may only worship in a head covering. There are even religious guns pointed at their bonnets because many think them too religious (bound up by codes that presumably jumped off the deep end when they declared electricity to be evil). This struggle is not unique to Christianity–no– it is pervasive in most faiths, the veritable What Not to Wear of religion.
Today, I’ve decided that if crying about your clothing choices and tossing an offending dress in the garbage makes you feel like a better person and makes you feel closer to honoring your God in spirit and in truth, who am I to say it doesn’t?
So I’m laying down my weapon, kicking it aside, and waving my (possibly immodest!) clothing –depending on who’s judging my sweatpants & t-shirt— in a gesture of surrender. Granted, I’ll still be at the mercy of everyone else.
But at least I won’t be the one with the gun.
Dear FutureReba: An Open Letter
Dear FutureReba:
Chariots of Fire
After Chariots of Fire-esque photo finish last week (minus the race number and bad hair), you’re taking a victory lap, relishing crossing the Thirty by Thirty finish line. Fergie’s Glamourous is playing in the background of your elation, and you’re coasting… happy and excited to take on the Summer of the Book Draft. I hate to wag my finger in your well-earned glory, but someone has to remind you…
There will be days very soon, possibly tomorrow, when you’d rather have your foot run over by a car than continue your life’s work.
You’ll look in the mirror and curse yourself–loudly, in the manner of a sailor overboard– for putting yourself, your heart and your journey out there for the world to pass judgment on.
You’ll want to quit more than a germophobe working in a sewage plant.
In the face of self-doubt and loud protestors, you’ll want to rip off the bull’s-eye that is Thirty by Thirty, and wave it like flag of surrender.
Don’t.
When you look in that mirror, go ahead and curse (because it feels good!). Then remind yourself –loudly, in the manner of a Baptist preacher–that you put yourself, your heart, and your journey out there knowing full well that a few will pass judgment in the wake of many being inspired. It’s just collateral damage, babe, just collateral damage.
Instead of quitting, look squarely at that mess of sewage and rock a cannonball. There’s no way out but through… (the manure).
Then paint a huge bull’s-eye on a sandwich board and suit up. Some offensive arrows will land, but your sign will also give Seekers everywhere a shot of encouragement.
Writing is sometimes awkward, as when you rear-end a guy in the rain and get stuck huddling with him under a small overhang while the waiting for the police. But writing about religion? Other people’s religion? That’s awkward in the manner of wrapping your car around a tree and breaking lots of bones. Just get used to it. Because you didn’t choose it; it picked you. Besides, your fingers will itch forever if you fail to share your journey of transformation…and itching totally sucks. (Recall: the Holiday of Hives.)
And stop crying already; it wrinkles the skin. Do you really wanna be a crying, cursing, poop-covered, oldster-sandwich board in traction? Didn’t think so.
Love,
PresentReba
Find Thirty by Thirty on Facebook and Twitter
And the Award Goes to….Me!
I used to be an Evangelical Poster Child. Today, I am contending for the coveted title of Most Uninspiring Spiritual Seeker Ever! (And? If the Academy was voting this very second? I would totally win. I mean, I’d win hands-down with the most-unanimously-unanimous vote in the history of voting.) I’d be crowned Victor of Un-Inspiring-ness (and Princess of Pitiful, if I had anything to say about it, which I do not) because I have been creatively angling for the title for days.
My winning tactics for are as follows. (They are my gift to the world, and I give them freely–provided I keep the shiny statue upon my victory).
- Contract staph infection which manifests in the form of a strange red walnut on your chest, otherwise known as a 3rd (albeit alien-style) breast. Take two double-strength antibiotics twice a day for 7 days, and wait for the 3rd boob infection to shrink. It does not.
- Severely sprain ankle whilst walking home from a bar, after celebrating the completion of Husband’s 2nd year of law school with too many shots of chocolate-whipped-vodka shots, which should not be taken with double-strength antibiotics. (Achieve this by drinking to excess, wearing heels, then staging a Hostile Sidewalk Encounter. Pain is certain to follow.)
- Wearing Frog Prince Flannel pajamas, lay in bed for two full days. Sleep intermittently and read Kindle between naps.
- After falling asleep while reading, roll over, effectively breaking Kindle’s screen.
- Only when completely necessary (as in the case of actions your Husband cannot do for you, such as visiting the ladies room) hobble about on borrowed crutches (slightly janky but lovingly appreciated!) which feature hand-holds at different levels and a lovely green washcloth taped to (only one) armrest (for comfort!).
- While staring at your bedroom (because you no longer have anything to read, except business reports, which are bor-ing and totally incompatible with pain meds) complain that your space has taken on the distinct look of an episode of Hoarders, minus the dead animals and trash. (Mostly. Dog, still being very much alive, has scattered bathroom trash amongst dirty/clean/unknown-status laundry.).
- After taking brain-addling pain meds, attend bi-weekly conference call which is typically as easy as third-grade math with boss, who, during said call, morphs into a sadistic version of your college statistics professor and gives you a pop exam that you are not ready for, regarding the bor-ing reports you failed to run/read. [Note: I really do love my boss. He is a great guy and will teach me A Lot of Great Business Stuff. Eventually, when I get a warning that the Spanish Business Inquisition is coming.]
- Hang up from Evil Call and dissolve into a mess of tears, which causes two-day-old mascara to run all over your face, in the manner of an angry abstract painting, but not as pretty.
- On the way to the ladies room, glance in the mirror. You will see the reflection of a Winner!
At least I have four days to get my s*** together before Thirty by Thirty is over, and can still hope to achieve Inspirational Spiritual Seeker Status in the future…someday. (But, dear readers, should I become a totally famous author? Please deflate my balloon head by reminding me of this post. XOXO.)– Reba
Itsipi (Sweat Lodge) Ceremony
In the course of Thirty by Thirty, I’ve jumped headfirst into many an uncomfortable situation. But never have I been ACTUALLY afraid, nor reduced to shaking, anxious tears in my car until yesterday, directly before the Nemenhah Itsipi Sweat Lodge Ceremony. In entering the lodge, I would be piling into a tiny space with twenty strangers, plunging into darkness and nearly unbearable heat, and thereby be facing several major fears: claustrophobia, severe heat/bodily pain, darkness AND the unknown. (Points of reference: I once had a panic attack in a small, crowded airplane, and I’ve nearly passed out in hot yoga class.)
Now. With 33 experiences and a thirty-day fast behind me, you’d think I’d be ready. Courageous. Able to face any challenge! And you? Would be wrong. Because I was a sniveling mess: cry-dialing my husband, my mother and my best friend for a pep talk (none of whom answered). So, it was between me and God in the car: with the choice to peal outta there, tires squealing… or face my fears and see what the Great Spirit had to say in the Sweat.
So, I dried my eyes and listened. And I could almost hear the Divine sigh. After this entire year, do you not believe I can sustain you through a little heat? Ok, Ok, I get it. Come to the end of myself (again). Blah,blah,blah. See how You miraculously work. Blah, blah, blah. Ugh! For a person of faith, I certainly lack it and am often in need of a Major Spiritual Attitude Adjustment(MSAA).Which I received… approximately five minutes after slamming the car door and marching my scared self straight towards that lodge.
[To explain MSAA Part 1 , I need to back up and explain this: On Day 29 of my fast, I had a revelation of truth...as a disco ball. (I know, I know, a Divine Disco Ball is a total cliché of the type of vision incited by severe hunger.) In reality, the picture was more like a prism, so not quite so dance-club chic. But for ease of use, I've been explaining this to people as a Disco Ball because it's easier to understand. Here's the short version: God is bigger than any one of us can see, because we only view one facet of Spirit (represented by each little mirror), based on all kinds of factors: birth, family, history, experiences, etc. So what we see? It's all valid truth...for us. But it isn't the full picture.]
So. I round the corner, and what, pray tell, is sitting on the Chief’s blanket-altar? A little DISCO BALL. I could hear the Divine laughter. After this entire year, do you not believe I can sustain you through a little heat? So I laughed too, out loud, and all my fear fled. When I told the Chief my story, and he tossed me the Disco Ball. It’s yours.
Then…the Divine laughter got louder. Because another Chief/Shaman showed up, laid out his blanket altar right next to me, and my mouth dropped open.
[To explain MSAA Part 2, I need to back up and explain this: Last month, I was led through a Native American meditation to find my spirit guide. And in my mediation this guy with long, flowing, silver hair, nearly to his waist, standing in a field: I am here to teach you to heal.]
I’ve been confused, because I haven’t seen him again….until yesterday, in the field outside the Sweat Lodge. Because The Chief? He was totally guy with the hair–a dead ringer. Except, I observed to him after relating my meditation, his hair was a lot shorter now. And he laughed: I just cut my hair…it was to my waist.
Of all the foreign (to me) traditions I have experienced this year, I identify most with the Nemenhah. The sweat called to me; it pulled me; it changed me. So…I was supposed to be there yesterday; it was completely incredible. (All of the above was in the first half hour! I hadn’t even crawled into the Lodge yet!)
So the moral for me, which has been a continuing theme this year, is:
The more afraid you are to do something you are called to do, and the more you don’t want to do it—read those emotions as a flashing, neon sign from the Divine–You need this more than anything else. Do it.
(Note: There is absolutely NO reason to be afraid of a Sweat Lodge as long as it is conducted by experienced spiritual leaders who understand the primary importance of health: physical, mental, emotional and, of course, spiritual.)
–Reba
Thirty+ Visits Complete!
With accidental start and end dates of Pentecost Sunday (’11) and Easter Sunday (’12), I have successfully completed my 30+ visits.But…I’m not done yet! The completed are, in no particular order:
1.Living Word Church (my childhood church) 2. King Ave Methodist (GLBTQ Reconciling) 3. Lake Erie Drive-in 4. Buddhist Temple 5.Pentecostal Mega-church 6.Baptist 7.African-American Baptist 8.Movie Theater Rock 9.Hindu Temple 10.Synagogue 11.Roman Catholic 12. Eastern Orthodox 13.Vineyard 14.Jehovah’s Witness 15.Mormon 16.Atheist 17.Stadium 18.Christian Spiritualist 19.Emergent Independent 20.Quaker 21.Hare Krishna 22.Scientology 23.Unitarian 24.Baha’i 25. Storefront Redeemed 26.Christian Science 27. Stone Village 28.Sikh 29.Naturalist 30.Taize 31. Vertias (church of the boot camp) 32. Seventh Day Adventist
(Note: My blog checklist is typically behind because I have to rely on my web programmer to change it.)
I was heavy on the Christian churches, especially in the beginning, so I am doubling back to attend a few originally on the list and several additions before the 5/15 deadline:
–Native American–Amish–Pagan and/or Wiccan–Kabbalah–Mosque
Though I’ve not had luck locating the following in my area, I am still interested in:
–Zoroastrianism–Tao–Sufi–Xenos–African/tribal–Voodou–Virtual–Rastafaria–Gnostic–Jainism–Confusionism–Shinto–New Thought–Polytheistic (any culture, but particularly Celtic)–Shamanism–Snake-handlers
With continual help from the Spirit, I’ve gone from Post-traumatic Church Syndrome (barely being able to enter a church) to being able, and excited, to attend places of worship of all faiths and even non-faiths. I’ve also completed a Thirty-Day fast, studied Ancient Christian and Buddhist meditation, read extensively on multiple religions, sorted out my own beliefs, found a faith I can believe in, known and seen my God, changed my career, discovered my ministry and calling, started this blog–thanks to the good advice of someone wise, written nearly 100,000 words for the book (probably only 10,000 that are any good!), survived three physical and one spiritual bootcamp & , (surprise!) found a church, and much, much more. But these are stories and conclusions for other days! I still have much more to write about. So, let the quest and the blog continue 
I nearly quit Thirty by Thirty at least a dozen times. So…for all those who have followed and encouraged this journey…thank you! For those who have criticized it…thank you as well. Everyone who has touched this path has helped it toward completion. I’m not done yet. And probably never will be!
All my love–Reba
Follow on Facebook
Secret Project Completed: Thirty Day Fast
And now the Super-Secret Project and reason for my blog hiatus: I completed a Thirty Day total fast (no food, no alcohol) yesterday at sunset. The experience was completely incredible and entirely life-changing. Much more to come in the next month about how and why I did it, why I kept it a secret (even from family and friends!)…and what it did for me. Make no mistake: if you fast for 30 days? God shows up. For now…this is how it went… and how I got through it:
Ten percent Luck /Twenty percent Skill / Fifteen percent concentrated Power of Will / Five percent Pleasure / Fifty percent Pain /And a Hundred percent reason to Remember the Name [Lyrics Fort Minor]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
Super-Husband
+
Bishop Monk
Mom
+
+
+
+
+
+
Comic Relief
+
+
Trashy Comic Relief
+
+
+
+
=
Jesús… Rama.. Krishna… Christo… Abba…Allah…
Allelulia.
Recent Comments