I am a child.

It's the night before an exam, and I have no business being on the computer. 
But, ahem, here I am. 
I like to think coming to this space and pouring out lessons and dreams somehow keeps me sane. 
I have been battling for quite some time with some pretty serious health issues. I've been in an out of doctor's offices, scheduling procedures, and trying with all my might to get through school at the same time. 
I am forced to have down time. I am forced to sit and be still. 
I have been forced to wrestle with some issues that I had so conveniently stuffed into the junk drawer of my brain. 
We all have things we put away in a nice and neat little mental file which we plan to deal with the day after never. 
But the problem with being laid up in bed for a good portion of summer, and having no choice but to be in bed during many hours of any current spare time is this: there's nothing to do but think. 
If you know me, then you know I am fiercely driven and easily motivated by achievement. Though those are great skills put to use in positive ways, they can also be my greatest enemies. 
I began to seriously think recently about my value and my identity. 
What is a girl who finds her identity in scratching things off her to-do list supposed to do when she can barely keep her eyes open long enough to hold a pen?
*Go find a pillow. Just for dramatics. 
*Cry. 
*Lay in a comatose state. 
*Finally, begin to realize that achievement, success, and completion have nothing to do with my identity. 
This might sound all nice and tidy and boxed up pretty, but I'm just going to document this as my current reality. 
I am a child of God. 
and that title, label, and identity... is more than enough. 
My completion of tasks, my professional achievement, my success in the writing world is as far from my identity as the east is from the west. I could not make my bed for weeks, stumble gloriously as a nurse, and miss a deadline but it will bear no weight on how I am viewed by God. 
If you think this is a license to go all wild and crazy or become a lethargic vat of lazy skin and bones, then you're seriously trippin. 
I've simply come to the conclusion that my value and my identity is not, in any way, hidden in merit. It's not hidden in achievement or success. 
Rather, my value and identity is hidden in the wounded hands of my Savior... who, thankfully, can always hold a pen, can always render aid, can always write my story. 
We can say our identity is in Him. We can sing about our value as He sees us. We can quote Scripture.   But I think the true test is seeing if I am capable of believing the truth when there is nothing else for me to hide behind. 
If nursing school was taken away, if health was taken away, if family was taken away, if financial stability was taken away, if my job was taken away, if popularity were taken away, if sex was taken away, if husbands were taken away, if homes/cars/boob jobs/texting/hobbies were taken away.... 
Would my identity remain? Do I know who I am?
Would your identity remain? Do you know who you are?
Sweet friends, as far as east is from the west, know this: 
Who you are is not what you do. 
... and you are always, always loved.

you just might like it.

Zucchini, bell peppers, onion, and tomatoes, all in a yummy sauce with bowtie pasta noodles, I proudly said as my favorite ten year old paraded into the kitchen asking what I made for dinner. 

I had just come from studying for a good eight hours straight. I spent 45 minutes squeezing in what could maybe be called a workout, hopped in the car and picked up boys from school and struggled through the homework routine. Then I whipped up pasta primavera from scratch in one quick swoop. 

Henry had zero problem removing my stash and crown as reigning SuperNanny. 

Hen, I promise you're going to LOVE it! And vegetables are good for you. They will help you grow.  

Kid, the meal was made with love. and it's been approved by the FDA's food pyramid! Seriously, what more could you want?! Needless to say, it was not convincing him. When I placed his plate on the table, he laid his forehead on the table and begged me with tears in his eyes. 

Alyssa, please. PLLLLEEEAAASSSEE can we have macaroni and cheese?! I am begging you. Begging you!!

By his expression, you would think he was asking for a pardon from life imprisonment. It was vegetables, not a jail cell. 

As I watched him dramatically try to convince me that life as we know it would be infinitely better if I opened a box of Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, I saw my own reflection if his tear-stained face. He earnestly cried out for something different. He begged- no, implored- me to change the setting. As the nanny, I had the power to change it. But his pain and discomfort- whether real or fantasy- was necessary in order to achieve my ultimate goal of the children digesting a nutritious meal. 

Here's what I know: 

1. Regardless of what he says, the vegetables will not kill him. They will make him stronger.

2. I love him too much to give into his wanton desires. 

I sprinkled some fresh cheese on top of his plate as he whimpered lightly, face still planted on the table. I told him I loved him and because I loved him, I wanted the best for him. He picked up his fork and took a bite. and another one. and another one. 

Nannying is weird. It's like living out this magically beautiful screenplay where children sometimes play atheist to their caregiver. A caregiver who wants only the best for them, yet they deny their existence or authority. 

As Henz ate his pasta, I couldn't help but see myself in his reaction. 

Whenever God asks me to do something, I undoubtedly know that it will have a redeeming end (Romans 8:28). Yet still, I beg and cry and plead for something else. Instead of having fresh, homemade pasta, I would prefer a processed, artificial, powdered cheese substitute. 

Here's what I know: 

1. Regardless of what Jesus asks of me, Satan will not win. I will be made stronger. 

2. He loves me way too much to give into my wanton desires. 

Halfway through finishing his plate, Henry looks up, sets down his fork, and sprints over to me. His flailing little arms find their way around my neck and he says, "love you, missy lou." 

In that moment, all was centered in the world. 

Jesus isn't as concerned with your personal liking or preference as He is your personal betterment. 

Enjoy what He serves you. 

You might just find that you like it. 

Hugs.