“You Can Deal With These Lions”


a lion family

You Can Deal With These Lions

by: Levi Fitzgerald

Lions eat meat.  They are called carnivores.  We should be careful around them.  They live in grassy lands in Africa.  They are nocturnal which means they come out at the late time so the animals couldn’t see them.  A group of lions is called a pride.  The males have a lot of hair around their heads called a mane that protects them when they fight.  Baby lions are called cubs.  A female lion is a lioness.  Male lions protect the family.  They roar very loud.   You can hear it 5 miles away.  The female lions hunt for meat.  Lions sleep all day.  Lions are mammals.  They can be 10 feet long and can be 550 pounds.  Lions are golden.

bacon!


I’ve picked up a few things regarding health and nutrition that have completely changed the way I see food.  Granted, I will probably come back to this post in the future and laugh at myself for any number of erroneous statements.  But I am learning.  Not that I chose this for my life.  Heck to the no!  I liked being able to buy a frozen lasagna for dinner or drive through the Mickey D’s for lunch.  HoneyNut Cheerios with 2% milk is a healthy breakfast, right?

Turns out not all food is created equal.  And that the American diet is killing us off.  I could go into controversial topics.  I could talk about corn being genetically modified past its existence as a food and into mad science territory.  I could talk about the acidity of our beloved processed foods and the things the human body will do to alkaline itself.  I could get into the ramifications of soy and what the estrogen overload is turning us into.  Since it’s in almost EVERY SINGLE FOOD WE EAT.

Nah.

But I will say that dairy was turning my poor babies into oozing, weeping bundles of eczema.  And all the doctors wanted to do was prescribe steroid cream after steroid cream and special baths in cleansers that were too harsh for the face but apparently not so for the rest of my tender toddlers’ bodies.  Which were covered in angry red patches that ran into each other.  Did I mention that?

After giving birth to Molly after Emberleigh after Levi, in a 2 1/2 year period of time, my innards revolted against me.  I began to notice an number of reactions to a variety of foods and the post-baby recovery was still dragging its heels at the 1 year mark.

Really it came down to being open to learning from other people about things that I thought were ridiculous.  And starting slow.  If I’d jumped in with both feet, I’d be a fat, sick, lost cause right now.  I limit myself to one change at a time, and merely stopped replacing certain foods when they ran out once I’d learned of their effects or discovered a healthier alternative.

I laughed at people like me.  Charlottesville is full of crunchy granolas.  Heaven forbid I ever!  As if!

The month that I began to read the labels and forego those with any mention of soy, I lost 12 pounds.  Not that I was in it for the weight loss, but I certainly wasn’t happy with the health of my entire body.  Once I cut out dairy, 75% of my chronic cystic acne resolved itself.  Eliminate dairy for the kids and the eczema cleared up sans medication.  Throw in the 48-hour fast I endured and my seasonal and fresh fruit allergies began to lessen.  And he doesn’t necessarily agree with me/believe me, but I’ve observed that Jim is less fatigued during the day now because he’s sleeping better at night.  Because I make him eat healthy.

It took a huge shift in approach to mealtime.  I grew up with the 4 food groups mentality: it’s a complete meal if there’s a meat, a dairy, a fruit or vegetable, and a starch.  I had to learn what to eat instead of _________.  Dinner used to be “what meat will we have that I can plan side dishes around?”.  ”Veganism isn’t good for you.”  I’d heard and said it so many times.  But the problem with most veganism, I’m discovering, is that if you’re vegan because you’re morally opposed to eating animal products, then nutrition isn’t the focus and probably not as balanced.  It’s not that I don’t eat animals.  It’s that I eat a plant-based diet.  With the occasional organic grass-fed burger when I’m out on a date.  And I have been known to drive by a fast food window if I’m in a time crunch with a van full of littles on the verge of mutiny.  Also, who can resist the “Magic Julie Sandwich” at your local Sticks Kebob Shop.  (not available in all locations under this name)  

It doesn’t seem a big deal now, but if I compare our food consumption and eating habits with those of, say, 3 years ago, I’m almost overwhelmed.  Until I remind myself that I did it slowly.  And it’s either that or spend the additional time… indisposed…

White sugar is not allowed to cross my welcome mat.

  • The amount of fruits and vegetables we eat could probably cure scurvy in an entire fleet.  Every other day or so, I mill wheat and bake a loaf of bread.  Coconut oil is a staple.  I now know the meaning of the word ‘quinoa’.  There is an entire shelf in my pantry dedicated to various varieties of beans.  And I’ve learned to befriend the spice cabinet.

New is no longer wrong.  Or right.  I’m studying and researching.  Talking to people who are knowledgeable.  Adding to my store of information.  Getting healthier and happier as a result.  Since an additional, unexpected side effect is improved mental health.

I’m not a weirdo.  At least not because of the food I eat.  There are other factors to consider in that arena.  I still love bacon.  Eggs are actually a staple in our house.  We just pay a little more for the organic free range ones.  But as a whole, I try to feed my family based on what our bodies need and not what they’ve been programmed to crave.

hephzibah


I write and don’t write for the same reason.  There’s too much to say and I have no idea where to start, or middle, or end.  And these days, I speak little besides the toddler dialect.

The Breaking Free study I participated in came to a close.  I feel a little out to sea.  Before you lob the “Jesus is your best friend” bombs at me, please understand that going through this study has opened my heart to knowing Christ in a way I’ve never been able before.  The noise in my head has been quieted by the voice of God.  This is new.  This is exhilarating.  And terrifying.  I’ve been embracing a fallacy for most of my adult-ish life.  With arms and legs wrapped tightly around it as my identity.  With an extended family full of emotional and mental turmoil, and the self-propagating cycles of abuse and religious oppression very real factors in my existence, I was paralyzed by both the knowledge of them and the inability to change anything.

I fully believed my mind and heart had been irreversibly compromised by the things said and done to us as children and into the teenage years.  That my mind was damaged.  That I was unable to love God.  To know His love in a life-changing capacity.  To experience the boundless joy of genuinely believing He delights in me.

‘Never again will you be called “The Forsaken City” or “The Desolate Land.”  Your new name will be “The City of God’s Delight” and “The Bride of God,” for the Lord delights in you and will claim you as his bride.’  (is 62 2)

I embraced forsaken.  I identified with desolate.  There would be moments of delight.  Brief windows into His adoration, but so fleeting I was convinced I’d all but imagined them.  Every time I opened His Word, I heard echoes of the voices I’d grown up hearing, of the negative God we have.  Of judgment.  And punishment.  And withholding to teach a lesson.

I call “Bullshit!”

His goodness leads to repentance.

We love because He first loved us.

The pain that permeates our lives comes from sin.  Comes from untruth.  From pride, which, simply put, is seeing ourselves in any light contrary to the light of Truth.

Yes, there are consequences to being outside of Him.  To living at odds with His perfection.  But they are mostly the natural results of said disconnect.  In fact, more often than not, His vast mercy spares us from the full decimation our desperate humanity would have wreaked upon ourselves.  And at times, when He allows this cause-and-effect to knock us down, it is His perfect longing for us pleading with us to return to the safety and wholeness of His sheltering wings.

Anything that dims the truth of God’s boundless, obliterating, restoring LOVE is not from Him but from the enemy of my soul.  It is a lie that could derail me yet again should I choose to reach out and take hold of it.  The thoughts of despair, of less worth, of crippling fear: they may occur to me.  They may pause in my mind.  They may scream in my face.  But oh glory!  I now know what they are!  They are not for me.  They give Him another opportunity to remind me that self-doubt is not humility but the sin of unbelief.

I am a new creation.

I am a branch of the Vine.  The pruning of the Gardener causes pain to the Vine.  Because I am attached.  Because my roots are in something much bigger and stronger than me.  Because I am part of a living, nourishing Life.

So call me Hephzibah.

Because He delights in me.

“God settles the solitary in a home; he leads out the prisoners to prosperity, but the rebellious dwell in a parched land.”  (ps 68 6)

Wednesday Things


There are things everyone should know.  Because you care about them.  Really.  I promise.  Even if you don’t yet realize it.

I believe in the depths of my soul that all children, especially of the princess gender should spend the cold winter months cut-and-pasting from old magazines to construction paper.  Mood boards are very important to the small fashionista.

Coffee should be black.  Unless it’s a magic concoction created by the wizards at Milli Joe‘s.  Aside from said exception, if God intended the nectar of life to be defiled with run-of-the-mill creamers, creamer plants would grow alongside the coffee bean, or perhaps tiny cows.  And sugar cane.

Carnations are not flowers.

I used to hate slipcovers, but great technological strides have been made in this field enabling the finished effect to more closely resemble a sofa than Quasimodo draped with a king-sized comforter.  For my discovery of this, I thank my new friend, Becky.

Jim corrected my mother’s grammar on the phone the other day.  That shiz is hot right there.

I’m allowing my children to believe that they are allergic to fire.  They came up with it, but I’m not telling them they’re wrong.  It gives me piece of mind.  It truly gives me a little back.  I have very little left.  I’ve given up on peace of mind.  I have small kids.  I know better than to set my expectations that high.

If you listen to the barking of a lab/hound puppy in a confined space for any length of time, your soul will simply cease to exist.  You will be but a hollow shell of what was once human.

Walls should not be white.  You should all contribute to my painting fund.

Happy Hump Day.

Amen.

In my cardboard gift box


A cloud rolls into my sky
Into the sky of those I love
And I’m longing for my true home.

This world I know is crumbling
A world in pieces from my birth
And I’m longing for my true home.

Connections I’ve made are tentative at best
With other broken humans like me
And I’m longing for my true home.

My pieces are being put together from the ashes
The new me is at odds with the original
And I’m longing for my true home.

He’s letting me stumble about in His grace
As I’m likely making others stumble
And I’m longing for my true home.

The crumbling, healing me is not capable of this longing
Yet He holds me together by hands that I pierced
As I’m longing for my true home.

my love is a fist


i feel it

the knife in your back.

i see it

the tears in your eyes.

i hear it

the ringing in your ears.

i know it

the crushing weight of judgment.

and i’m holding your hand.

~

it’s real

the knife in your back.

they blind

the tears in your eyes.

it deafens

the ringing in your ears.

it suffocates

the crushing weight of judgment.

and more real is His love.

~

you are His

a masterpiece in progress.

you are His

a poem lived out loud.

you are His

a fragrance from the crushing.

and He is never letting go.

~

you are mine

i’m watching Him rejoice.

you are mine

i love you as a sister.

you are mine

for such a time as this.

and it’s really too bad violence isn’t the answer.

National Fear Day


My Twitter tells me things.

There’s a ‘trending’ area below the spot telling me who I’m supposed to follow.  Twitter, you don’t own me.  You aren’t the boss of me.  You can’t tell me what to do.

It tries to.  All day.  But I am the boss of Twitter.

Then it’s all, “This is trending.  Be sucked into the vortex.”

Like this Bruno Mars song.  Or Justin Beiber is here.  Today is National or International Blah Blah Blah Day.

I’m down with Pancake Day, S’more Day, Answer the Phone Like Buddy the Elf Day.  Yes.  It’s a thing.  Get on board.

But today, in all its sunshiny glory, with the crisp fall edge and color resplendent leaves, is National Fear Day.  Or so says Twitter.  Which doesn’t really know anything.  It’s like a 140 character Wikipedia.  People make it up.

I digress.

Twitter told me to quiver in my boots.  Shake in my slippers.

Or tell you what I’m afraid of.

So, apparently Twitter is the boss of me anyhow.  Since I’m telling you my deepest darkest fear.  Because Twitter told me to.

The rebellion is that 140 characters ended a long time ago.

It’s getting old.

That’s it.

What I’m most afraid of.  The world passing me by.  Time being gone.  The hourglass emptying.  That the time I have left is shorter than the time I have lived.  Which, in my intellect, I realize is a foolhardy fear.  My mind, tho, the place where my thoughts spin around, holds on tenaciously.

Things in real life aren’t anything close to the way we’ve imagined them.  They aren’t glamorous.  Or perfect.  Sometimes we even have ideas of things that are so vague and fuzzy that even if we experienced them, they would still pale in comparison, because we don’t even know what it is to which we were looking forward.

Perhaps that is because we were made for Glory.  And because that is never fully realized here since we are a perpetual craft project of His.  This is how I justify my need to make stuff.  I’m made in His image, right?  And He is the Creator.

Tangent.

So, I’m terrified that there will be no time left to live.  To love.  To experience.  To have a moment of perfection which has been preconceived by my immature and inexperienced juvenile mind.

The human of me embraces this fully.  The spirit of me knows that it is all a matter of perspective, but as you well know, me: human, is very loud.

There is freedom happening.  There is courage growing.  There is strength of spirit over noise of human.  Slowly.  Progressively.

The moments of perfection are so much grander than the inconclusive dream we use as a measuring instrument.  I would much rather be here than where I was, with all that time in front of me.

Truth is, no one knows where they are on their timeline.  Truth is, the after is better than the now or the before.  Because the after is outside of time, with Him.  Truth is, my humanity is afraid of its own impending end.  Truth is, by faith, my spirit embraces with open arms the wholeness of being done with a planet full of pain.  A world that breaks everything that it touches.

Happy National Fear Day, Twitter.  You suck.  And I read the end of the story.  The last chapter.  You lose.  He wins. So I win.

Suck it, old age.

Suck it, tomorrow.  Because He is there. He goes there ahead of me.  He goes there with me.  And He is there when tomorrow is over.

 

indeed


I don’t not blog because my life is boring and I have nothing to say.  I don’t blog because something is always up and I have so much to say that the thought of sorting it all out and putting it down seems like more effort than I have the energy for.  Or, I’d never be able to shut up.  I know.  I ended a sentence with a preposition.  Get over it, Katie.

But, so much…

Like my son getting in trouble at school because he growled at the teacher.  And threw himself on the ground.  And ran away.  From P.E. class.  What is this kid I have?  From P.E. class?!

Like my husband going out of town for a conference and being gone a week.  I’m blaming that for my son’s behavior.  Who cares if that’s why?  It works for me.

Like crying in the nail salon because Dr. Phil was on TV showing video of a girl being beaten by her parents.  And it all came flooding back.  The weekend we were moving into our new house.

Which we lived in before it was officially ours because, after living out of boxes for the entire summer, there was a technical difficulty with the builder’s bank, or something.  It’s mine now, and seems insignificant, but I’m telling you, in the middle of it, I was growing ulcers on my ulcers.

Turns out, I never really admitted that I was abused as a child.  Not without trying to excuse the behavior of my biological donors (read birth parents).  It never occurred to me that I didn’t deserve it.  Which I don’t understand.  Because I knew there was crazy.  All over it.

That’s what I get for doing a women’s Bible Study every other Tuesday night.  Deeper Still with Priscilla Shirer, Beth Moore, and Kay Arthur, yo.  Opened up all these things.  What was I thinking?  Jesus always comes in and cleans house if you leave the front door open.  Or leave a key under your welcome mat.

And then, when He turns you inside out, and you go back for more, well, that’s your own fault.  Raise your hand if you know that I’ve tended to avoid “women’s” things like the plague.  It’s more fun to put up a fortified picket fence, with bullet proofing and infrared security cameras.  And by fun I mean safe.  Which is a lie.  Because it’s scary in here.  In my head.

And I melt down when things could possibly go wrong.  And what if’s are everywhere.

So my mama did what any good mother should do.  She gave it to me straight.  ”You hold on too tight.”  And I do.  This is what wouldn’t get through my thick skull.  I gots me some captivity.  And it’s called fear.

Growing up, everything was avoided like the plague.  Because once an article was written about something and somebody got hurt.  So no learning to swim.  If you go near water, you might drown.  No going to school.  You might learn something.  No being friends with people.  They might know something about Jesus you don’t.  Don’t wear pants.  Someone might know you have legs.  Don’t go to the doctor.  God might realize you don’t have the ‘faith’ to be healed.  On and on the list goes.  We could be here all night.  Don’t tell your kids about sex.  Ever.  They might have it someday.

No really.  The encyclopedia acquainted me with the notion when I was 15.  At school.  Because all the reference books at home were censored with a Sharpie.  I wanted to take that 5 minutes back, I tell you.

So I fear everything.  Except zombie movies.  Which are strangely liberating.

And this fear keeps me from knowing God.  And opening His Word.

I had to purchase a new Bible in a new translation.  NLT instead of anything remotely sounding KJV-ish.  Because every time I opened the Bible, I’d hear Judy’s voice telling of judgment and failure.  The day I read a verse in Proverbs saying the Lord “delights” in something, I nearly had a stroke.  I’ve heard God is good.  I’ve even seen Him be good in my life.  But I’ve never thought of something causing Him to glow with gladness.

Did I mention I thought that my daughter had drunk Hydrogen Peroxide the other day? While her daddy was out of town?  And every mom I knew was in a movie, had no cell service, etc?  And that my pediatrician’s receptionist couldn’t care less.  I had to Google Poison Control’s number myself.  And that guy barely cared either.  Molly said it tasted like chocolate milk.  Which tells me she didn’t even taste it.  The bottle is brown.  But there is no chocolate milk in there.

I should brace for the next thing.  It’s what the track in my head is saying.  But I’m not even close to being there.  The truth makes me free, free indeed.

Our women’s retreat was on suffering.  And the Lord, our Fortress.  Psalm 31.  The fear in me says, “O, crap!  This is to prepare you for a really bad thing that’s about to happen.  Brace yourself.  Batten down the hatches.  Storm’s a-comin’!”

It might.  Sometimes, the shit does indeed hit the fan.  And we’re covered in poo.  Which stinks.  Pun intended.  (insert Jesus Juke about being washed in the water of the Word)

But I feel like I’m holding the keys.  You know, on the big iron ring.  Like in Pirates of the Caribbean.  Or Regina’s key ring in Once Upon a Time.

That Jesus has started to set me free.  and, pain be damned, I’m going for it.  I don’t like this place I’ve been my whole existence.  It hurts.

Like child birth.  Without an epidural.  Which I’m starting to look into.

The crunchy has taken over.

Run for your lives, people.

Run.

For.

Your.

Lives.