tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73837639007732117092024-03-13T14:35:15.688-04:00[hello.]chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.comBlogger355125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-20940658297396052272014-12-29T11:30:00.000-05:002014-12-29T11:31:18.943-05:00again.for any of you that may for some reason still stumble across this blog, I have started on BlogSpot again.. blogging at this address: <a href="http://chelseamichalwrites.blogspot.com/">chelseamichalwrites.blogspot.com</a>... come join me! :) chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-73845514545493090532013-11-18T12:16:00.002-05:002013-11-18T12:16:09.243-05:00This blog is coming to an end.I have put this off because it is a little bit sad to me.<br />
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because I have been posting here for years. and by years I mean... years.<br />
<br />
but it is time.<br />
<br />
I am not longer chelsgentry@blogspot.com<br />
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my last name is Chelsea Garter now and I think that that means that most things have changed.<br />
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and so should this blog.<br />
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So, I am inviting you to follow me in my writing journey, and to my new little writing corner. Because I love to write, because I believe that God has given this desire and this life to write about. Because I want to share the gospel with you. Because I love you and I feel loved and fed when you read and question and talk to me through my blogs. Because I feel like it is a space to share my heart. because Im so thankful that I still have the freedom to speak brazen and bold about what I believe and what I think.<br />
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because tumblr allows people to ask questions anonymously, and I've had a heart for awhile to have a space where people// teens// kids can ask and where I can answer to the best of my ability. Because I know someone who asked once and now walks so close to the Lord<br />
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because if even one person is changed by a blog all of my writing is worth it.<br />
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Cant wait for you to join me.<br />
<br />
Click the link below, and if you want, add me to your blog lists of reads.<br />
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<a href="http://chelsmichal.tumblr.com/">chelsmichal.tumblr.com</a><br />
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<br />chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-10072411597626198632013-10-13T07:29:00.001-04:002013-10-13T07:29:14.201-04:00JesusI wish I could make you understand that I'm not sharing with you because I'm religious. More than most things, I don't want to be religious. I share bc I care about you. <div><br></div><div>I see so many people push away this life and answer because they've had a bad experience with people who've shared this truth wrong. </div><div><br></div><div>I remember the day we put our hands on you. It was upstairs by the window and you were sobbing and bleeding and hoping it was different from last time. You heart was soft and open then. And God heard us. And now you have a lil boy. </div><div><br></div><div>Jesus. The name people cringe at and silence. Jesus the one who can set us free eternally. Jesus who took all of your bad on himself and died and burried it so you could be free. Jesus who knew God the Father and knew his love for us and knew we must come to him clean and without sin. Jesus who agreed to love you enough to die for you and leave bliss to walk with us and teach us how to love each other and the world and not throw the first stone. Jesus. The name who taught me about no matter what kind of love. Jesus who paid for me so I'm a daughter of a King not a slave to this world. Jesus who taught me what humility truly is. Jesus who I want to follow. If you don't know who he is, ask. Search. Seek. He name is not appalling, it is life.</div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-37829502219252710342013-10-12T16:07:00.001-04:002013-10-13T07:17:16.796-04:00Dear worldPlease understand something. This may sound cynical but it's meant to be funny. <div><br></div><div>Your hairstylist cannot read your mind. She also doesn't have the capability to make your head grow hair so that it has the amount of hair needed to make it look like that picture you brought in of some airbrushed Hollywood figure with extensions. She also cannot make your dress look any different because of your hair. And you should probably wear some makeup when you get your updo done because if you don't you'll feel very unimpressed at my skill of making you look like you did 20 years ago.</div><div><br></div><div>Your hairstylist is also not a magician. If you are twenty minutes late for your appointment she can't put 139 foils in your hair and mix your color and find out what you want and put on a glaze, get you coffee and file your toenails in the 10 minutes before her next client. </div><div><br></div><div>Also she can't shampoo blow dry brow wax and style your monster amount of hair in 10 minutes so please be on time. I don't want to make you cry and turn you away. It's just, I simply don't have the time if your late. It's not that I don't want to do your hair. I did want to, 20 minutes ago. its just, i don't want to fry my clients hair either who I have to shampoo in, now that you went to the bathroom while I looked for you, 5 minutes. Don't take it personally. Kisses! </div><div><br></div><div>Our job is to color your hair and find the best match for what to put in your hair to make that color you want happen. It's not my fault though that you've bleached your hair to death and expect it to grow 6 inches in 2 weeks when all you want to do straighten it. I'm sorry. And if you used boxed permanent color im not going to be able to turn the orange red of your hair neutral blonde all today. I don't know how your hair will respond to the color since everyone's hair is different. And no I can't take you from a level 6 to platinum in one try. I can do it in one day if you'd like to pay me 400$ and hang out with me all day. That'd be fun. I'm fun. And ill give you coffee. </div><div><br></div><div>Also. I offer you deep conditioners because they are good for your hair and I get them done on myself because of the difference they make. I'm not money hungry. </div><div><br></div><div>Also. This is how I make my money. This is my job. Please don't come expecting me to change everything about the way you look without expecting to pay something. I'm not going to overcharge you.</div><div><br></div><div>Remember, I do love you. I love doing your hair. If your reading this your probably not one of the people im writing to. But the above is a day in the life of a stylist.</div><div><br></div><div>Love, </div><div>Your hairstylist. </div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-83382686563809299962013-10-07T09:09:00.001-04:002013-10-07T09:09:46.966-04:00I listen to<div>Quite a few people</div><div>Remember the person I was</div><div>A fire ball, full of passion, respected, alive</div><div><br></div><div>It's true. I could write great things when I was lonely and sad and unsettled</div><div>And full of passion because passion was my husband then </div><div>The inside of me though</div><div>It many times felt hollow and panicked</div><div>But I didn't share that </div><div><br></div><div>I don't know quite how to resolve. I worry, am I now too comfortable basking in Gods steadfast love?</div><div><br></div><div>I don't read as much as I did bc then i thought i must read countless hours and be on my face. i dont pray as much. Or go as hard. Or write as much. </div><div><br></div><div>But on the inside </div><div>I am well</div><div><br></div><div>Where before I was always searching</div><div>Anxious</div><div>Unaware of rest true rest</div><div><br></div><div>I have changed. I don't feel as passionate. I feel more introverted. More happy. More calm. Not as willing to go finding tornadoes to write about. They are more exciting garaunteed</div><div><br></div><div>Believe me when I say I want more</div><div>I'm trying to get back to a middle ground where I'm calm and yet passionate</div><div><br></div><div>I want to feed the orphan still</div><div>I want to pour out and into these little faces Gods put in front of me</div><div>I want to love my husband </div><div>I no longer feel strained to change the ENTIRE world though</div><div>I am sure before that made me look like a person set apart like a person to follow like a champion</div><div><br></div><div>But then I was using my own strength and not Gods. </div><div>Though</div><div>He carried me. </div><div><br></div><div>And he carried me here in his tight shepherd arms. He settled my heart enough to hear his true vision and now, now the journey is outward. Hawaii taught me this. To open my hands and to fill need where I can, so here I am Lord, send me, because you are the Savior now. I see that. Not me. </div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-85056232847019805552013-10-01T15:25:00.001-04:002013-10-01T15:25:31.330-04:00Muskegon in OctoberIt was a crabby morning. Was it me, Over sensitive or just menstrating or he offended about nosehair...? we split (hate the word) after coffee and I cleaned the home while he sold a home.<div><br></div><div>He kisses me quickly and I touch the wetsuit while the waves roll and call him and beckon. October one and I dig my heels in the sand for one last beach day and watch my man who is now a kid dive under the icy cold water and join the kite surfers, five magic flags dancing about, the walkers of water. </div><div><br></div><div>I feel the sun burn my back and remember to thank God, me in October, how could i have chosen different, i remember this afternoon, grumbling as I tried to decide to stay home or join my husband in this adventure</div><div><br></div><div>Now, blanket unrolled, shirt off, bathing suit on, wind unfolding over my left shoulder, stash of pecans of chocolate, wave wave wave wave wave wave wave wave the place we are both most content. What a gift, what a gift, what a gift and when I count and count and count all this grace the anxiety dissipates ( the dirty house at home can stay that way), the anger escapes ( my man is awake), and with all this joy that only a Holy Spirit in me can breathe out, I am content, reborn, alive.</div><div><br></div><div>The Lord is good. <br><div><br></div></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6NTwft_B_rI531hXeNy6wk-XYxAVlLHSIH3g3z46kMtfRY-p2vGclSPE_3L0-MkCVC7yCIn0ZRcy7fnXJFQo-nebgYNc4GGlrxsWEGXoGbSXCa93dWWvUDaPCp5RY503Ar6yNEhjgJ0/s640/blogger-image--917906527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6NTwft_B_rI531hXeNy6wk-XYxAVlLHSIH3g3z46kMtfRY-p2vGclSPE_3L0-MkCVC7yCIn0ZRcy7fnXJFQo-nebgYNc4GGlrxsWEGXoGbSXCa93dWWvUDaPCp5RY503Ar6yNEhjgJ0/s640/blogger-image--917906527.jpg"></a></div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-13304209707129749202013-09-22T13:26:00.001-04:002013-09-22T13:26:47.125-04:00I don't write to make anyone jealous or to puff myself up or make my life seem extraordinarily better than anyone else's. I write to say my husband rocks. <div><br></div><div>I went climbing into marriage a year ago, tentative, unsure of what adventure lied ahead, ready for the battle the uphill struggle the hardships.</div><div><br></div><div>It has not always been easy. My best friends can attest to this, but, it has been good. I have learned to enjoy life, to be grateful, to rest, to have fun, to communicate, to listen to God when he gently instructs, and to trust max. </div><div><br></div><div>I am still sensitive, emotional, and fearful. But the waves have slowly rolled over and over my jagged edges, and with My Savior working through Max I have become more peace filled. More smooth.</div><div><br></div><div>He planned this weekend, a tiny time that we had together to rekindle and remember our vows we made to each other a good long year ago. </div><div><br></div><div>He had actual luggage this time, which he never does, and so I knew he had something up his sleeve. When we arrived at Frankfort he made me wait in the car and so when we entered our suite, room 207, the room we shuttled off to the night we were married...</div><div><br></div><div>when he escorted me in I found a bath running and candles lit, fragrance ready to pour in, wine poured, and my man grinning.</div><div><br></div><div>Ill spare you details. </div><div><br></div><div>Thank you babe for being mine. For taking me in and being a big strong wise goofball. Thank you for again expressing your commitment to me, to us.</div><div><br></div><div>Thank you Lord for loving me through Max. I don't deserve the love you pour out on me. All is grace. All is grace. I'm swimming in your goodness, Lord. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-49615888145892840622013-09-06T12:00:00.001-04:002013-09-06T12:00:05.059-04:00On possessionsI was recently asked what a healthy amount of stuff is okay for a Christian to have. Is it ok for a Christian woman to have things? To decorate her home? <div><br></div><div>I answered yes. I was surprised to see the responses that came from the conversation... Many women struggle with the desire to HAVE and with guilt that theyHAVE and WANT to much. </div><div><br></div><div>R, made a great point, that we are to be seen as generous, women of good works. Despite the constant fight to not do good deeds as a way alone to win favor with God, we are instructed as women to constantly do good deeds and good works with our lives for The Lord. I love this. This is supposed to come ABOVE decorating our home. </div><div><br></div><div>I think though that we need to see our homes as a way to pour out, a safe place for others. God has so given me a desire to be hospitable which I believe means that my home needs to feel comfortable and safe, a haven for others. I try to be frugal. Our bed was given to us, and we slept on a mattress on the floor for the first year of marriage. I bought our comforter on sale. I have a sweet pottery barn rug that just gives our living room the "ahh" that it needed, but God blessed us with it for a mere 27$!!!! I think we need to spend wisely in making our home a space of comfort and safety. But it is, I believe written in us women to make it beautiful and full of color and life, and I believe I our homes aren't in order it means there maybe something out of order in other places of our lives. We need to have time to care for and steward the things God has given to us, and if we do not have time for this, or if our homes are taking over our time more than they should perhaps we need to get rid of some things and check our hearts. </div><div><br></div><div>The proverbs 31 women looked well to the way of her household. She made sure her family were clothed well and ate good food. She was wise with her earnings and investments. </div><div><br></div><div>I often look as well to the widow, who any of us could someday be. Paul instructed this woman to be cared for if she had: been hospitable, faithful to her husband, well known for her good deeds like having people into her home and having children and washing the feet of the saints and helping the troubled, devoting herself to "all kinds of good deeds." He instructs younger widows to manage their homes. (1Tim5) </div><div><br></div><div> I'm not a widow but someday I might be and these are the things that God sees as important as a woman of God. And those of us that have alot... We are asked to not put our hope in that, but to put it in God who RICHLY provides all things for us... To be generous, rich in good deeds, willing to share... Why? "Lay up treasure for (ourselves) as a firm foundation for the coming age..." (1tim6:17-19) </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-28727570331300358012013-09-03T13:22:00.001-04:002013-09-03T13:22:18.870-04:00Mom called while I mopped. Jamin had another siezure while at meijer gas station. I've never seen one so I can only picture the flailing arms, shaking body, mind unconscious. I don't particularly like to think about it, or the faces of those huddled around him fumbling for 911. His body a specticle. <div><br></div><div>I'm so angry. I went outside barefoot across the grass, greasy hair, sweatpants with hole in the knee, and the lawn mower halted when i rounded the corner and max held me while I cried. Asked me if he could do anything besides what he was doing with his two rust colored sweaty arms. Nothing else. I told him. </div><div><br></div><div>Bravely I breathed and went back inside and picked up the mop and yelled. </div><div><br></div><div>"Will he ever be ok? Will he ever be happy?" I yelled up to God because I knew he could handle it. My grief. My mourning. My doubt. My faith. I jammed the mop onto the bucket in frustration at depression, the demon that yanked joy out of his eyes, manipulating his thoughts and food habits. Even though those have been better, the voice is still often strained, the eyes dull. The body stained forever from anorexias impact. </div><div><br></div><div>Then it passed, my anger. Because I do still believe that God is in control even when it seems he isn't. Even when depression seems to plague me as well. I will continue to believe that he is still good even if I am angry with him because this life? It is short. And He is forever. </div><div><br></div><div>And He is good. </div><div><br></div><div>But will you pray for me , for him today?</div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-18648824116602083052013-08-29T11:24:00.001-04:002013-08-29T11:24:22.253-04:00"David Cope just retired." She told me after she asked me to cut her hair into a "v" in the back and I began to whittle. <div><br></div><div>I remember David Cope. Generally scatterbrained. Sometimes he wore shorts in the strangest season with tennis shoes and high socks and hairy, very hairy legs. </div><div><br></div><div>He taught me to write. He said things like set each word like gold and write a picture and I'd write. He made me feel like I was a good, a very good writer. Maybe he made everyone feel that way but it didnt matter.</div><div><br></div><div> Holding my colored red folder in his cluttered office, he would process each word intricately and speak through his poorly trimmed facial hair and say things like, "I've never read a manuscript quite like this one." I felt like I had just gift wrapped the statue of David and handed it to him for observation.</div><div><br></div><div>Maybe he made everyone feel that way, but it didn't matter. </div><div><br></div><div>Sometimes he'd put objects in front of class or send us out into the streets of Grand Rapids along the gray cement and past the academic buildings into steepled stale churches where we would put our hands on pianos and ask to use the sanctuary and even though the energy for the room cost the church 100$ an hour they would let us sit in the pews and write. </div><div><br></div><div>She told me something I never knew of David, that he had started at grcc by dusting the wood and mopping around students with sludgy shoes and careless feet. You take classes for free if you work there. This is how he began an soon he became a professor who kayaked and had hairy legs and put me on tv while my hands shook and i read poetry. Id meet fellow students at coffee shops and pick apart work and edit poetry and choose which ones could make display magazine and they called me the poetry editor.</div><div><br></div><div>I write this to say not that I am a great great writer or that I'm in love with David Cope or good at cutting hair into a v. I wrote this to say that you can start out a janitor and become someone who changes people. And that even if you have hairy legs and a disheveled appearance, your words and encouragement can make someone feel able and empowered. And. Like a good, good writer. </div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-73438649605139193982013-08-18T14:42:00.001-04:002013-08-18T17:10:00.761-04:00DadI remember the first time we danced together. I think my mom must have bribed him to take me, or maybe it was because one of his friends was taking his daughter. It, the daddy daughter dance, was led my the guy who wrote the song Butterfly Kisses, which i always thought was a touch too emotional since my childhood memories were trying to braid my dads armpit hair early in the morning when we all climbed in bed together and naming his moles, because like me, he has a few. There was no eyelash kisses. sorry. <div><br></div><div>The guy made us hold hands during his speech and I could feel the rough callouses that had hardened over the years on the front of dads hand as it, sort of, clasped mine. I knew, even at that age, how awkward he felt since he didn't really know how to hold me or my hand... It had been since I was so small. Probably the last time was when I'd pretend to fall asleep as he read the Holy Word to us at night as a family. I'd pretend to fall asleep because I wanted him to scoop me up. To let my head fall on his shoulder. For him to carry me up the stairs that curves like a canes handle at the top and put me in bed like in the movies. I don't remember if he'd kiss my forehead goodnight or pull the covers to my chin. I know he didn't whisper "I love you." <div><br></div><div>At age 18, I decided it wasn't normal. Startling him one day, I yelled it out as he left for work. The words came out like stickato, he hadn't said them in years. Not to me. Not to my brothers. Not to mom. I decided it was going to become normal. I forced him to hug me by hugging him in a way that to others it looked normal. I plopped down on his lap like a daddy's girl and I could feel him not know really what to do with his hands. He'd tap me with his palm when I hugged him like he was typing the morse code for HELP. </div><div><br></div><div>It is normal now. To say I love you. </div><div><br></div><div>He hugs me first. He mentions getting coffee or coming over for a beer. The words I love you are still hard for him unless I've said them first. But I am glad. I'm glad that I forced myself through the walls and made them crumble. I'm glad I yelled at him an challenged him and begged him to tell me WHY hadn't he ever told me about how God loves me. I'm glad he said sorry to me for a few things. For not hugging me more. I'm glad when we danced the day that he gave me away, the second time he danced with me that I said thank you to him for not letting me marry the wrong men. For being a great, the best dad. For giving me away to the right one. </div><div><br></div><div>He still didn't know what to do with his rough hands and kept laughing awkwardly because he had no words to say back. He never really was a man of many words. But. He said I love you. And " yeah...." Over and over again, awkwardly. His back was stiff. He patted my back when I hugged him because he never really was a very touchy affectionate person. </div><div><br></div><div>I guess I'm writing all of this because it helped me to know when we step toward someone or something that feels out of our reach, we might find something beauiful. And even though my dad never knew quite how to express his love for me with words or affection the way I needed it, he does it now by texting me every Tuesday asking me if I'm out drinking coffee because he knows I love coffee. Or by calling me and asking max and I over for a beer that he's brewed himself which doesn't have enough carbonation it in yet but we tell him it's good because it is, and bc it is more worth making his eyes light up and enjoying his company and his stepping toward us/me than wishing anything were different. </div></div><div><br></div><div>[and God can bring redemption.]</div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-68118101706325080302013-08-06T11:59:00.000-04:002013-08-06T11:59:02.682-04:00Yesterday<i>morning our SAC club met at the wealthy street bakery and God laid out a theme</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>transparency. </i><br />
<br />
hiding, I have learned is something Christians are quite good at.<br />
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My best friend, Jana has taught me so much about this word. (You can find her blog in my blog list under Bengali Mama.) This, transparency, the only way that we as people can offer ourselves as real, whole, valid to other people.<br />
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and what are we if we cannot offer ourselves to other people.<br />
laying out our person, our humanness, our weakness<br />
the things that make us most human, needy for people, for help, for a rescuer<br />
<br />
(for God.)<br />
<br />
Transparency, the thing that you sense or do not sense in a person when you first meet<br />
are they hiding<br />
guarded<br />
fake<br />
trying to prove something<br />
the uneasiness we feel around a person that we cant quite put our finger on<br />
<br />
the thing that allows us to be comfortable in our skin, and makes others comfortable around our skin.<br />
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(may I interject, I do believe there are places to be guarded, to hide, to not share intimate details with everyone. just for clarification.)<br />
<br />
I realized after our conversation how little I confess. I keep the dark dirty the ugly parts of me hidden and only exposed to a small crowd of people I call family or friends.<br />
<br />
but I am learning, only in my confessions can people relate. only in my hardship and the muscle I gain through hardship makes me relatable to another person in their struggles. it allows me to step down and look them in the eye and know and see in my humanness that I am just as they are.<br />
<br />
<br />
"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; line-height: 23px;">with humility of mind let each of you regard one another as more important than himself" phil 2</span><br />
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To regard another as more important than myself I must become comfortable with the fact that I am flawed. nobody wants to expose themselves around someone who is not exposed and unwilling to be so.<br />
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I want to be relatable. I want people to know that I am as you are, I am less than you are. I want to be small as Jana says. I want people to know what I have struggled with and gone through so they know that I can be a voice of encouragement as God has carried me and continues to carry me through these things.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br /></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Did you know? I've struggled with thoughts of suicide. I've struggled with a raging problem with anxiety and depression and take something for this. I was ashamed to do this. It has helped me. I want to go off of it but I'm afraid to feel that way again. I fight everyday to believe that when tragedy comes upon me, I will be fine and strong and able to survive. I've been angry at God. I've wanted to leave Him behind. I've not understood Him. I've yelled at Him. I've had random questions go through my mind, like, "WHAT IF IM A LESBIAN!?!" (I can assure you, I am not.) I have struggled in my life with fears that I am bipolar, Schizophrenic, possessed even. I thought Id never marry. I just in the last few years have received the truth of the gospel even though I grew up in the church. I am insecure. I question myself constantly. I have coveted other peoples houses, lives, possessions, even husbands though I love my own life, my own husband. I have made vows that I will never be able to fully keep. I asked God once to make me perfect. it didn't work. I cry. I cry a lot. My car is messy constantly. I'm afraid of mice and I complain. I obsess sometimes about my husband or my mom dying and always fear I will not be able to handle it when it happens. I'm afraid I would not take the bullet if ever asked if I love Jesus or die. I hope I do. I've had panic attacks. I have pride. I've wiped boogers on the underside of my car seat. I'm afraid that someday I'll be crazy. or that I am already.</blockquote>
<br />
come, sit on my couch. i'm very human.chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-57936278432519669062013-07-21T19:23:00.001-04:002013-07-21T19:23:15.556-04:00I asked God to show me once how much <div>How much</div><div>He loves me</div><div><br></div><div>He showed me a picture of bushels and bushels and bushels of apples they didn't stop coming they filled up the house </div><div><br></div><div>I asked him again how much how much he loved me </div><div><br></div><div>And there I was in a field running trying to find a hole somewhere in the ground in his love some hang up that might keep my out but the land the field kept rolling it never stopped and that was a picture of his great love for me</div><div><br></div><div>I asked him for another picture of his great love for me</div><div><br></div><div>And it was I basking in the ocean I could not see the shore the waves could have swallowed me whole yes this</div><div><br></div><div>This was a picture of his great love for me</div><div>And now I take him at his word</div><div>I hold him to it </div><div><br></div><div>I am so undeserving and yet his promise remains</div><div><br></div><div>I believe. </div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-4899739671999507002013-07-21T02:26:00.001-04:002013-07-21T02:26:44.956-04:00I lay across his chest<div>Hearing the thump thump thump of his heart be be beating and I am amazed at the structure of our bodies </div><div>The blood flow lungs breathing beating of our heart that we since birth take for granted </div><div><br></div><div>His breath becomes longer and his hands twitch as he falls into slumber </div><div><br></div><div>And I thank God for this minute everytime I hear it swell and thud and I thank God for this gift of max this life in him breathing life into me </div><div><br></div><div>It is all grace </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-82049934008335644682013-07-20T19:56:00.001-04:002013-07-20T19:56:39.237-04:00Jude was right I guess<div><br></div><div>She felt God was showing her my future was like bacon popping in a pan</div><div>Whatever she saw heard felt made her smile and laugh and swing her head back </div><div><br></div><div>This, this is joy and I keep waiting for it to break </div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-34851464526766385272013-07-15T13:23:00.001-04:002013-07-15T13:23:48.324-04:00When we began I moved in driven to never pick up dirty underwear or dirty dishes and I learned something <div><br></div><div>He's worth picking up after sometimes. </div><div><br></div><div>He works so hard for our life that God is showing me it's okay to cook amazing meals for him and fold his tshirts so he can find them. </div><div><br></div><div>He is so worth it. </div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-84697895908920934352013-07-15T00:44:00.000-04:002013-07-15T01:06:25.711-04:00Dear...<br />
I watch you from afar, the quiet retreating<br />
the bend to be social,<br />
yet you avoid my eyes and turn your face away when you talk to me and yet<br />
you casual side hug and tilt your head<br />
I have seen you from when you first started this journey, a boy following the men<br />
v-neck tshirts and madcap coffee<br />
you held your head high<br />
a position that hid how you really felt<br />
you come from and through<br />
pride, you stumbled into a friends words that pierced and felt your wings move<br />
you stood, hands shaking in front of a crowd and shared your addiction and you got low<br />
I applaud.<br />
you stand tall, still<br />
stand among us<br />
stand in front of us<br />
stand behind us<br />
though, there are a few who know what it means when you stand the way you stand<br />
I only judge and skepticize, I barely know the tone of your voice and yet I recognize your insides<br />
you do not always feel the tall and strong that you wear<br />
I have been where you are<br />
alone, you are one of the few left<br />
isolated, you stand for so many and yet the shadow next to you is undisturbed<br />
afraid,<br />
of commitment?<br />
I fear I knew years ago that you'd be where you are now<br />
you sat on that couch and I had words with your silence and you took the steps I thought you would and we never talked about it again<br />
I shake my head at you yet I know the journey and wish I could scream loud enough for you to understand ahead of time so that the breaking won't hurt so bad and even if it does<br />
still I know that God has a good plan for your life, for her<br />
her with you<br />
the her that will come after you have been broken.<br />
the her that will work for you because she loves God and loves you not because she is so special that only she can unlock you. you will just learn how to decide on her. and she will be well for you.<br />
there is sadness in your eyes at times<br />
breaking does this, this I know<br />
even this can only be taught by our Teacher who knows the strings of our insides<br />
and just what tune to put in us and how to break us kindly<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-35457107791800300832013-07-12T09:39:00.001-04:002013-07-12T09:39:28.736-04:00Ode to my beloved Westside.Overpass<div>Rain</div><div>Overpass</div><div>Rain</div><div>Carpenter on the corner of lane and 2nd without work</div><div>Eyes bloodshot</div><div>We give him hope, he never calls</div><div><br></div><div>Brooke nurtures her children behind the hedge </div><div>Waves</div><div><br></div><div>"Hey I like your boots"</div><div>I thank him, my eyes rolling in my mind at his swag his flattery his shaky hand because I know</div><div><br></div><div>"Hey can I ask you a question?"</div><div>Is coming next. It does. </div><div><br></div><div>I hurry to the Secretary of State the stale building on fultons corner</div><div>And watch him stumble off with alcohol feet</div><div><br></div><div>Two months ago a firebomb broke into a glass window on 6th street</div><div>Shattering safety</div><div>Some gang member intent on destruction</div><div>The ten people who lived inside have evacuated and now remain somewhere, traumatized. The abandoned home boarded up, smells like smoke. </div><div>I can almost see the house from my front door. </div><div><br></div><div>I hear an engine fumble slowly by straining for movement and watch his lips part</div><div>His tongue is pink</div><div>I hear a dog whine </div><div>Whine, </div><div>Whine </div><div><br></div><div>He looks me up and down behind his sunglasses I can tell by the smile the slowed gas pedal</div><div>I feel i have naked legs yet no skin shows </div><div><br></div><div>Plant pees slowly onto the concrete as I scurry inside </div><div><br></div><div>The dog whines and with it whittles the westside neighborhood a song </div><div><br></div><div>They find a native american indian </div><div>joe black</div><div>His body on the train tracks Wednesday mornin</div><div><br></div><div>Questions are asked why was he there passed out? Asleep? How could you not hear the roar in the afternoon or hear the train engineer struggle with the breaks to stop it rolling </div><div><br></div><div>The homeless mourn and drink and remember his long black ponytail and corny humor </div><div><br></div><div>Chelsea tells me he always used to say when asked "how ya doin?" "Oh just hangin out like a wet booger." </div><div><br></div><div>The city places a bright orange sticker too securely on the spray painted neon green Herst parked across the street from our home. Two woman live there, the one putters around in the garden and parks obnoxious vehicles along our street. A manican stands tall under fluorescent lights against the wall through their window, I can see it from my porch</div><div><br></div><div>A white dog whines and whittles the neighborhood a song</div><div><br></div><div>My plant pees.</div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-56917736297607496752013-06-24T12:41:00.001-04:002013-06-24T12:41:44.163-04:00"Those who are wise will shine like the brightness of the heavens, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever." Daniel 12 <div><br></div><div>I pondered this verse. How do I lead people to righteousness? </div><div><br></div><div>The answer came quickly. </div><div><br></div><div>"There is no one who is righteous on earth." </div><div><br></div><div>And I realize, again, how very quickly my</div><div>Mind diverts to works to gain righteousness </div><div><br></div><div>The best way for me to lead others to righteousness is to proclaim that we will never be righteous. Ever. Jesus is righteous for us, took our sin from us, burried it with him, rose again in perfection so that we can be called perfect as our Father in heaven is Perfect. </div><div><br></div><div>Once again. </div><div>The gospel. </div><div><br></div><div>I cling to. </div>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-53604177937363299262013-06-17T15:10:00.001-04:002013-06-17T15:10:11.876-04:00If you want more nutrition from your veggies when you cook them, cook them in larger chunks. The end. chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-86792192312781410122013-06-14T15:02:00.001-04:002013-06-14T15:32:18.985-04:00Doubt<br />
Is what I find in her face as she fumbles with the shoulders of her jacket<br />
<br />
Last week, there were germs, germs, germs in her hair and could I get them out could I fix it<br />
<br />
Lifting her fragile arthritic fingers to her bang she said so dry so dry something's not right she's confused I must be the wrong person are the germs gone<br />
<br />
Beverly. Red haired Beverly who used to "i thank you I thank you!" So pleasantly left for Florida and the dementia the medicine the combination of both have disturbed her into more confusion wandering around the retail room unsure of how to find the word goodbye in the file of her brain and instead just said "yes yes" with the worry on her face <br />
<br />
Beverly who used to explain how curly she had to have her hair because its just not curly like her sisters hair this Beverly who now for split seconds knows exactly what she wants and forgets in the middle of her sentence explaining it <br />
<br />
The lines on her face are turning into worry and mistrust because the dementia is taking over like cancer in her mind and it is showing in her tiny blue eyes. <br />
<br />
I rub her head and slowly work out the dry from her ends with string conditioners and tell her yes I've got the germs out all of them and everything's going to be fine, just fine <br />
<br />
I curl her hair under tightly and cover that spot I know she doesn't like to show off in her bang and I use strong hairspray the one with the purple cap so that next week it will still look somewhat put in place still even after 6 nights of sleep <br />
<br />
She does not thank me and she barely smiles now but I know the other Beverly who used to exclaim "oh my husband must come see you!!oh thank you thank you!" Over and over she'd say the same thing whether it be from the stroke or the dementia, I'm not sure but she was a sweet, sweet woman. I know she still is. <br />
<br />
I respect her. A teacher once. A mother. A wife still. I know her husband likes bacon and that he takes her for breakfast before her appointments and that he tells her whatever you want honey get whatever you want done. and i know that he is a good good man. She used to always tell me that. We don't talk about that anymore. Just the germs and I must remember the hearing aids at the shampoo bowl and to not hold the curling iron on her ends to long bc they've been destroyed from perms. <br />
<br />
I know that someday it might be me. And I believe the way you treat others is the way you will be treated. You do reap what you sow. <br />
<br />
And who knows? She may be an angel in disguise and I am just not aware. <br />
<br />
"Do unto others as you would have them do to you." <br />
chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-31456414315163152992013-06-12T09:55:00.001-04:002013-06-12T09:55:16.628-04:00I'm learning to hear Gods voice. <br />
<br />
I used to think I knew it, I think it was more I assumed that I knew what he would say to me. It was usually heartless, challenging, promoting movement, and I usually felt fear. People would tell me this was not Gods character. But I was doing my best based on what I knew of God. <br />
<br />
It was scary, as I've said before, to decide to change my view of God. Or to believe as I stood there in church that it was his voice that said "you are my child. And you are forgiven of all your sin." <br />
<br />
I decided to believe that that is what his voice sounded like. It was not me saying this to myself. And since then it has been such a journey of learning Him. And oh, he is kind. And oh, he is good. <br />
<br />
I saw the same fear in a friends face recently. "How could he send someone to hell if he's good?!" These are good questions, they are. "Why do good people die and bad things happen?" These are good questions they are. And doubt gives you a good education. <br />
<br />
I've questioned God like this. But if I had not first heard his kind voice... Or felt him at times in the room smiling at me or seen him standing in the doorway admiring his kids, or watched Him glad over and proud of His children's names or really believed that his love was enough that he paid for all my sin with his sons death... I would not have believed that this God cries with me when there is death... But oh how he loves the death of his saints!! And hell? He wishes no man to perish... When I see my god through this lens then I can have faith in him and rest in his gentle arms and see him there on the throne, His first words to John as he falls before Him, "fear not." <br />
<br />
Oh my God is good. He is love. And how I love Him so. <br />
chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-36587975721218377352013-06-10T00:34:00.003-04:002013-06-10T00:34:57.597-04:00Holly. You will be missed. Thank you for your testimony, you sweet, sweet lady.<a href="http://player.vimeo.com/video/51296282?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&color=ffffff">http://player.vimeo.com/video/51296282?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&color=ffffff</a>chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-82610535279183998182013-06-01T23:22:00.001-04:002013-06-01T23:22:09.665-04:00Every good and perfect gift is from God.... All is grace. <br />
<br />
I am so blessed beyond belief and so protected by The Lord and I receive so much for which I do not deserve. <br />
<br />
I hear her strained words and I remember <br />
<br />
I remember being Without a DAddy. Just serving a God who was angry and condemning. <br />
<br />
Each movement strained, her beautiful face so deliberate and set. Each word thought through and set. Servant, yes. Daughter. Lover. Little one, child? No. <br />
<br />
it is at times fearful to let go of my first view of God. To rest in him as if he is such, abba, Father, daddy, Papa.. But he ASKS us, commands us even to be come as children and refers to his face as Father<br />
<br />
I have learned the words "abba, daddy" in the last few years and they have saved me. To need, to search, to weep, to be dependent and unable on my own. These words and knowing their meaning, they've saved me. <br />
<br />
He can be strong when we are so weak. How he loves his children. <br />
<br />
I depend on his words <br />
Nothing can separate me from his love<br />
He's removed my sin from me<br />
As far as the east is from the west<br />
His mercies are new every morning<br />
He forgives all my sin<br />
His love is everlasting <br />
<br />
I at one time challenged his promise. His gospel. I set aside all the rules I had created for myself to be a good Christian and I let myself be a child. I asked God to show me that he still loved me even if I had let go of all duty and simply clung to his promise and His son.<br />
<br />
I learned that to read the word and to pray, to fast, it is secondary to receiving the love of Abba freely. <br />
<br />
And then I was free to pursue my DAddy Abba without it being with intention to win his love<br />
<br />
And<br />
<br />
That changed me. chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383763900773211709.post-45653021203666706102013-05-29T22:55:00.001-04:002013-05-29T22:55:52.391-04:00My faith may be at times weak. But with faith comes doubt. Why would I pray if I did not in some way believe? <br />
chelsmichalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16711946306932233081noreply@blogger.com0