The Reality of Being Poor

I used to hide my money in my socks.

It was maybe the year I turned 10. Young enough to still receive mostly gifts on my birthday but also old enough to begin to marvel at finding $5 bills in a card from my grandma. I received some money that year, and I decided the safest place to stash it would be a pair of red socks I had.

It was a great idea, until it came time to go shopping at Target (true story), and I couldn’t remember where I had stashed my birthday money. I remember throwing a fit. I remember thinking I had lost it forever. Until I remembered the socks sitting on the shelf in my closet.

I never hid my money in my socks again. (Sorry, I misled you from the beginning. I hid my money in my socks one time and never made that silly mistake again.)

My husband and I have been poor for all of our marriage. It’s the downfall of marrying at the age of 20. I see little baby 20-year-olds now and think, “Well, you’re an infant,” and wonder how on this entire earth we got married so young. (For the record, I would never take it back in this or any lifetime.)

I remember when we bought our first TV after we had been married for a few months. We used up half of our savings, as I said to Evan, “Honey, this is WHY we have a savings account. So we can save money to buy nice things!” True, young Janelle. Also, so incredibly naive. But, hey, you only live once, right?

As the years have gone by and our life has drastically changed, I learn. Mostly by no desire of my own. Instead of having conversations about the vacation we’ll take this summer, we have weekly, sometimes daily, conversations about the money coming in this week or the next, where we will allot it, and how we will stay afloat. It isn’t easy or comfortable living our life. But we choose it. Which might seem pretty stupid.

Last week I talked about how it is our weaknesses that make us usable, not our talents. The places we are weakest are the places God is strongest. My weakest place? Finances. Money. The comfort money can provide. The safety I feel with a full bank account.

Unfortunately for me, I married a man whom God has placed, dedicated, and allotted for freelance. It is inconsistent. The safety of a full bank account does not often exist when I cannot reliably say when my husband will be getting paid this month.

And I am tested. Daily.

And every day, every week, God works regardless of me.

You know what I am known for around here? I am known for crying, blowing my top, and saying a lot of things I don’t mean when we have no money. I spend time stewing in my thoughts, and I stress out over being poor.

I hate the appearance of being poor. I hate the feeling. I hate the restrictions it can have on the “things I need”. I hate feeling like a slave to something that seems so stupid. And truthfully (if you hadn’t already gathered), I just hate it.

But God works regardless of me.

I am weak. I am not able to sustain my game face when I am terrified. I struggle to trust that God is my provider, even after all this time when He has never failed us.

He is strongest right here. He proves Himself every single time right here in my incredibly weak place of money.

The Father doesn’t promise us comfort. He didn’t promise me a life of luxury when I decided to marry Evan. He didn’t even give me a pair of red socks to stash my money in, because obviously that didn’t work that one time that I tried.

When I trust Him, God does not fail. When I give Him room to be immeasurably strong in my weakest places, He gets glory that I could not give on my own. He shines brightest when I am pushed to the side. He is seen when I am bowing low to His faithfulness.

This all isn’t about me, or us, or the money.

Lord, if I am poor, it doesn’t matter. If I have all the money in the world, it simply doesn’t matter.

I am rich when I am with you, Father. Rich in joy, love, grace, and the promise of eternity. And if that’s true, in this life, I’ve never been poor.

Even when I trust a pair of red socks to hold my money.

2016: What Worked & What Certainly Did Not

You may remember back in November when I wrote about my constant eye twitching. I tried to relax a bit, sleep more, and give myself space to rest, but truthfully, none of those things really happened. I had a twitch in my eye up until Christmas Day.

Yesterday, I got real with myself. I decided I needed to sit down and evaluate how 2016 was great and also really hard. If 2017 was going to be better, if I was going to grow, I needed to know what worked and what didn’t.

Here’s what didn’t work for me:

  • Eating fast food more than once a week and neglecting to meal plan.
  • Never asking for help.
  • Trying to work whenever I got the chance, and never really resting from it.
  • Being busy instead of intentional about my time.
  • Spending money unnecessarily (this goes with fast food!).
  • Ignoring my stress rather than facing it.

Phew. Just getting those things out of my head felt like pulling my own teeth. I didn’t want to admit that I had stumbled a lot, especially in the last few months of 2016. My eye twitch, although really not that detrimental, felt like a constant reminder of failure.

There were some great things about this year, too. I certainly can’t overlook them.

Here’s what did work:

  • Doing yoga after my boys were in bed.
  • Flossing everyday.
  • Waking up early to get with God.
  • Using several different calendars/planners to arrange our family schedule.
  • Going to bed early (on the rare occasions it happened).
  • Drinking a liter of water every morning.
  • Telling Evan how I feel, even if it feels awful.
  • Budgeting before the month begins.
  • Putting my phone away. Resting with Evan & the boys. Giving myself space to enjoy my people and not give a care about what the rest of the world is doing. AKA, vacation time.

This past week, I decided to do a lot of the above. I decided to pick up the stress I’ve been carrying and just look at it in the face. Writing can wait; this blog can wait. I needed to rest, disconnect, and let the world go on so I could collect myself again.

Today, I started reading about Saul in 1 Samuel. I read about the part where Samuel is about to introduce the new king to all the Israelites, and Saul is hiding in the supplies. I’ve read it a handful of times, and it always makes me giggle a bit because the guy is so huge. He probably stuck out like a sore thumb.

Except this time, I felt like Saul. I get it now, knowing God has called you and feeling absolutely afraid and unsure. Wanting to hide from everything.

I went on to read the Bible commentary about Saul, and it says this:

From Saul, we learn that while our strengths and abilities make us useful, it is our weaknesses that make us usable. Our skills and talents make us tools, but our failures and shortcomings remind us that we need a Craftsman in control of our lives. Whatever we accomplish on our own is only a hint of what God could do through our lives.

I mean. Yes, Lord, to that.

I’ve been looking back on 2016, what worked, what didn’t, what I struggled through, what felt good and purposeful, and this feels like my anthem for 2017:

It is my weaknesses that make me usable.

How often I have read 2 Corinthians 12:9 that says “…my power is made perfect in weakness” and never fully understood. I take God at His word but never absorb the truth behind it. His power is perfected in MY weakness.

So, 2016, you’ve been real. You’ve been hard. You’ve taught me many things about myself and about what God can do, and for that, I am thankful. I’m gathering up my stress, my stuff, and my work, and I am going to lug it into the next year anticipating God to perfect His power in the places I am weakest. I want to move, one foot in front of the other, towards the goal of doing more for His glory, less for my own, and with more intention.

What worked for you this year? What didn’t work?

I’m using Cultivate What Matters 2017 Powersheets to start off the year. I can’t recommend them enough!

I’m also using a planner similar to this one for work, family, and personal obligations.

I also have a wall calendar similar to this one hanging in our kitchen that lists bill due dates, meetings, family obligations, and other important church, ministry, or people-centered occasions.

The Gospel in Her Face

Before I started writing here and digging deeper into purpose and identity, I spent a lot of time reading blogs. There were a couple that I frequented more than once a week, and I learned about these women and their families. I wanted to live the life they lived. They seemed to have a lot of wisdom, something that I also wanted to flourish in my own life, and they seemed to have “it” figured out. They were the women I modeled my Instagram posts after, and even my own blogging.

Soon enough, those women became authors of great books, and they started traveling all over the country speaking at different women’s events. I stopped watching them from afar because I was jealous of their life. Truthfully, I always had been. They made it look easy.

Last night I laid in bed after spending some time praying over my goals for the next year. I never thought I would be one to set goals, let alone actually stick to them, but it’s a bandwagon I’m willing to jump on if God gets the glory. I was thinking about the women I see each week, and I realized that my perspective had changed. For a long time, I looked on at the lives of women I had never met. It wasn’t bad; I don’t think I would be doing what I do with such bravery if they hadn’t modeled it for me first. But my perspective is not the same.

At one time, I was looking around at the big, wide internet and all of its people, and I felt like I was seeing the world and God’s big picture. But I was woefully disconnected from my community, my women who were right in front of me. As time has changed me, I’m looking less and less at the big, wide internet and all the women I want to be like, but don’t actually know. My vision is getting smaller as God’s vision in me is getting bigger. I realize I’m longing to see the Gospel come alive in the faces of women I know deeply. I don’t just want to meet the women I have longed to emulate in the past. I want the Gospel to be real right here. I want to stop looking at everyone else thinking God is more alive elsewhere. The same God in them is my God, too.

And so I ask myself: What does it mean for the Gospel to come alive in the women I love?

It means that I have to be willing to let it come alive in me too. The reality that I can not earn grace, but that it was gifted to me. The truth that Christ pardoned me when I deserved nothing, and yet He gave me everything. The anthem that I am free from any expectation here in this world; I am free to be a woman of God.

It also means that everything in my life is going to feel messy. I think that’s the hard part. It’s humbling to admit that this is not pretty. I will put on makeup for it to run off my face, and I will curl my hair for it to flatten by 3 PM. Those things don’t matter. What matters its that Christ gets more glory today than He did yesterday, and I serve Him hard. It means knees to the earth when it’s a mess, and hands up in the air acknowledging that He has got it all.

The Gospel coming alive means that our vision is small and God’s vision is huge. We fix our eyes on our people right here, and we let God dream the big dreams and plant them in our hearts where He needs them to grow.

I am thankful for women who have gone before me, women who walk with me, and women who are coming behind me. Walking with you is a prize in itself. Your God is my God, sister. Looking forward to raising our hands to victory, together.

 

December 5 – Janelle’s A Mess

I went into this year more excited than ever. But right now, I feel like I’m hobbling to whatever finish line we’ve got here. With my hair in a ponytail that resembles a bird’s nest, holding my aching sides, looking around waiting for someone to just grab me a wheelchair. Where is it?! Why hasn’t anyone brought me a wheelchair?

When I was in high school and envisioned myself playing soccer, I remember a day at camp when we had to do sprints. By the second time through, I couldn’t keep the pace. I watched my teammates go by me, and I knew it right then that I wanted to quit that day. So I went home, and I quit. I never went back. I hardly even looked back.

Quitting feels like something I want to do right now.

Last week, my body literally “could not even” anymore, and I got sick. While I was holed up in my room in my bed, forced to sleep more than I have in a long time, it kept going around and around in my head: You’re failing. You’re failing. You’re failing. Like a carousel that plays terrible music.

I’ve made it here, to December 5, and I just knew this was coming. Seasons ebb and flow. I entered into this one on cloud nine, but I knew that cloud nine does not last forever. Eventually the cloud comes back to earth, and things get hard. Interactions with people become more difficult. Stress invites itself in at some point, and instead of enjoying the work that’s in front of me, I’d rather hide from it. I grab my sides in exhaustion and look for that place to lean, and I realize it isn’t there.

This is the moment when I want to quit:  When it gets difficult.

When the “high” ends and reality hits. When someone has an issue with me. When roadblocks arise. When people stop showing up. When I feel like I’m standing alone, caring about all of my things, and no one else seems to be standing with me.

I don’t want to be the one with the mess, but I am. I am a mess today. I don’t want to look at my email or my text messages or my Facebook messages or my voicemail. I would rather hide. I don’t like the hard parts of being involved in things that I love and care about. If it could only be all the great and wonderful parts, sign me up for THAT. This feels like business and adulthood and hard work.

(Do I sound like a millennial yet?)

Glory comes from the dirt. The flowers grow through the soil to reach the sunlight.

The sun feels farther away today, as though dirt is on top of me, and I can’t quite reach the warmth. Like a flower that is slowly, ever gently, maneuvering its way through to get to the sun. To the glory. That’s where I feel like I am. There’s a lot of muck and seeming disorganization and cluttered thoughts, but Lord Jesus, You are not a God of mistakes.

It is December 5, and I am a mess, but thank you Lord that I get to grow through the dirt. The sunlight is coming, and just as I am anticipating another heaviness to overthrow me and keep me from seeing Your face, You make a way to me.

This is hard. This is not easy. But You, sweet Father, You didn’t promise me only easy times. You promised to be right by my side in every second of every day of every moment, mess or not.

Hobbling. Messy hair that I don’t want to talk about. A tired body.

Lord, You are my crutch that holds me up. I don’t have to wait for anyone else to come and keep me walking. You already do. You already do.

Rally: The Longing for Connection

Nine years ago I sat among my peers talking about life. Our youth group met in our youth pastor’s home, so we were gathered in a circle in their living room. We were talking about seasons of life, and I knew that I needed to share. My pounding heart and twisted gut prompted me. So I sat there, among peers who I didn’t know at all, dishing out my story.

It was a long time, a lifetime ago, even. I’ll never forget it because it was a turning point in my life. My vulnerability gave others the permission to do the same, and we connected in a way that I have never connected with anyone before.

Last night I sat among my peers, women like me in some way or another, and spoke life into each other. We called each other up: the act of telling each other the great things we see in one another. It was awkward and funny, but I instantly was brought back to the moment in my life nine years ago that changed me forever. And I saw the eternal value of this thing He’s created in Rally.

We started Rally, and I didn’t realize it would bring out a longing in me that I forgot I had. I longed for the connection I experienced when I was in high school, sitting in circles with my peers, discussing life. Marriage, kids, work, and responsibilities became my most important duties once adulthood hit, and I forgot just how much I loved talking with other people.

We created Rally for everyone else, to get connected to other women, and to know that we are all valuable in the Church. We want to bridge the gap so that we aren’t all so disconnected. We wanted these women to know each other as more than just Facebook friends or Instagram followers.

Ladies, I didn’t know how much I needed you all, too. Being part of a group of women who can talk about God and who He is to us and laugh the entire time? It doesn’t get better.

I’m rallying women, and I want all of those women to begin to rally others, too. We call this thing Rally because it’s  a call to action. We’re not just meeting to dish out what our weeks are holding. We’re meeting to call each other up, to remind each other that we’re in this together, and to be a safe place for everyone to come, drink coffee, and enjoy a small and laughter-filled disruption in our daily life.

If you’re reading this, and you need the connection like I need it too, please come. We’re not all dolled up. We arrive just as we are, after whatever kind of day we’ve had, and we dig into life together.

Plant your feet here with us, sister. We want you here.

Retail Therapy & Misplaced Joy

As a fifteen year old, I had a collection of handbags and purses. I bought them all the time, as though “collecting” were the only appropriate way to shop. I had too many to count, and I was rather proud of it. I have always loved shopping. It’s on of my favorite past times. (I know, what a past time, right?)

Today is Cyber Monday, which is so fun. Shopping from my couch? I’m in. Last night I laid in bed perusing all the great deals, scheming up a way to come up with…oh, $200 in extra cash. Just somewhere. But then I close all the tabs and come back to reality after riding the high of a full shopping cart and incredible savings.

I’m a pretty basic 20-something, in that, I go to Target for therapy. I drink Starbucks while I’m there and always, without fail, buy more than I should. I can’t resist clearance end-caps, and saying no to a great deal? I’m horrible at it. I love a great deal. I love seeing that I saved $30 in one trip and only spent $30 (that happened two days ago). I walk out of the store feeling like even if everything else in my life is chaos, at least I can rock a great deal.

I can’t believe I’m even writing a post about this. This seems futile. Retail therapy? Who cares! What a real trying time of life, Janelle.

Phew.

Can I press into that for a moment? I think it’s the little, futile things that slowly destroy us. I think it’s in the little things, the places we say, Well, it’s just $20 on a bunch of stuff, who cares? It’s just a little lie about how long this took me, who cares? I only pretended not to receive that text so that I wouldn’t hurt her feelings, so who cares?

It’s easy to look around at everyone and their big problems and think that we have it pretty great when our problems are how much money we spend irresponsibly. I do that. My life is not hard, truly. But how fully am I living, if I’m stashing away futile, misplaced joy? How fully am I living in Christ if I’m lying about small things, without anyone telling me I’m wrong?

I misplace my joy. I put it in my clothes, the great deals on home goods, my Kylie Jenner lip kits, spending money left and right to give my children the greatest gifts on Christmas.  It seems futile. It makes me cringe a tiny bit, because there are greater issues in the world, right? But I don’t want to live half-heartedly in the gospel. I want the gospel to pervade the places that I’m misplacing my time, my energy, my joy. I want the gospel to cleanse my futility.

I’ve been working on this for two years, at least. Since Evan began freelance work, our money situation is consistently unknown each month. We live week by week, month by month. Some days I envy those who have salaries and consistent paychecks, but God prompts me often to look back and remember what God has done in us all this time. I know Him better now than I ever have, and I don’t think that would be true if we stayed in the place we were. I hate that it has taken me years to work on this. That I have been misplacing my joy for this long, that I have to keep working on it, and that God has not fixed me just yet. I press on and keep praying Romans 12:2, Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

Keep renewing me, Lord, so I can see Your will. Your good, pleasing, and perfect will.

 

What Happens When You Jump

When I jump (which is hardly ever), I always come back to the ground. We have dance parties in our living room, and I jump around, but I never just float in midair. My feet always find their way back to the earth. I jump knowing the safety of steady ground awaits me.

This was always how I saw my “walk with God”. I invested limited time to our conversations, and I walked next to Him, not giving much attention to what He was saying. I was more worried about where we were going. And when He asked me to jump, I would say, “Yes, Lord!” and always, without fail, jump up to only find my feet back on solid ground again. I was obedient so far as saying yes, but that’s as far as my obedience took me. After that, I doubted like Thomas and like Peter walking on water. I found myself quickly grounded by logic. Floating for only seconds.

The scariest part is standing out there on the water, away from land, prone to sinking. Or it could be the thought of jumping and falling, continuously, with no ground to catch the fall. Regardless, the faith it takes to remain lifted, floating..it feels enormous. Unattainable.

I know I’m not the only one. I give up on taking leaps of faith. The saying itself drives me crazy. I don’t want to leap. I don’t want to take a chance and look stupid. If I’m basing the chances of success on my past “leaps”, they haven’t changed the world. They weren’t what I thought they would be. So I don’t leap. I don’t risk it. I take small jumps that give me a taste of the feeling of flying for seconds, and I come back to earth.

A couple of months ago I tried something new. I began to introduce myself to people as a writer, I spent nights working side by side with my husband, I chose to devote more and more of my time to ministry, writing, and women, because I didn’t want to float for only seconds anymore. I wanted to believe that the old saying, “Take a leap of faith!” was actually sound advice, and that I could live a life that was truly one reflective of Christ’s work. Not my own.

In months and years past, I jumped believing more in my ability than God’s. I laughed a little at the thought of really listening to Him, because how can we hear God? He’s invisible. He speaks to only those who are so obviously closest to Him. Not little old me. Until I read scripture, and I believed it for myself. I started to believe that the same God who crumbled the walls of Jericho was, in fact, my God too. That the God who defeated army after army in the name of Isreal’s victory is my God too. That the God who came down to earth to a pregnant Hagar and told her to return home, that is my God. Story after story recalls what God does, not man. Every book in the Bible is a display of man’s obedience to His words, and the work that comes from Him.

I can jump. He can make me soar.

I can hear the wind whipping past my ears at the thought of Isaiah 40 and soaring on wings like eagles. It is a freedom that I cannot fully fathom, but one that I know that I can have. I don’t have to jump and hit the ground every time. The trying isn’t a waste. The waste is believing that the trying and failing is all there is. The waste is thinking that I am not as equally qualified as Hagar, Moses, Joshua, Paul. The waste is thinking that I need to keep myself flying. I cannot. He can.

There isn’t a man in the world who can stop God. And I’m on His side. I want to go wherever He is, and I want to work wherever He calls me to work. The fear of sinking in the water dissipates over time. Soon enough, the flying and walking on water feels safer than being on solid ground. Sometimes I’m looking around wondering if I’m even doing anything right, if God actually wants me to do anything I’m doing, if I’m truly qualified. I start to sink. But He’s right there, with arm outstretched, speaking constant reminders of truth over me. I get back up. And I jump again.