Hello, I’m January
Inspiration and thoughts on God and faith, written by a simple human, navigating life through the messy and sometimes chaotic.
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Waiting for the harvest
I remember all too well the day I had to make peace with a plant. I also remember the day I wanted to slam that same plant against a wall. Watch it fall to the ground in tiny pieces.
I sat in an empty room, realizing that in order to have peace in tough circumstances, I had to make peace with a plant.
Not really the plant, but the process of growth.
Meanwhile, friends, wait patiently for the master’s arrival. You see farmers do this all the time, waiting for their valuable crops to mature, patiently letting the rain do its slow but sure work. Be patient like that. Stay steady and strong. James 5:7, MSG
Farming. Sowing. The harvest. It’s not an overnight process. The time between planting the seed and gathering the harvest can take months.
Months and months of growth.
And growth takes patience. Waiting. Continuing to nurture even if you don’t see the harvest right away.
Growth is painful. For both the plant and the sower. Because if conditions aren’t right, and the soil isn’t fertile, it is likely those seeds will never sprout.
And watching that can be heartbreaking.
Growth takes perseverance.
Even if the farmer strikes out on the first crop, because the rain never comes. The seed withers. Maybe some mole comes along and wreaks havoc on the farmer’s hard work.
The farmer doesn’t stop sowing. No. He (or she) tries again. Waits for the right conditions. Using the most nourishing of soil. Waters and waits. Again and again.
He makes peace with the growth.
So at just the right time…a crop of beautiful buds will burst forth.
Buds (or even people) who were loved, nurtured, and cared for by a farmer who never gave up.
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Please don’t ask me to drink
Sometimes you can be the loudest, funniest, and coolest one at the party, and at some point still feel all alone. Still be the one feeling like “Baby” stashed in a corner, behind a plant…trying to figure out where you fit in. Hoping no one asks if you want a drink. Please. Please don’t ask if I want a drink.
That was some random thought I had written down. At a party. Where maybe one or two folks I actually knew were present. Where the majority of them were on the dance floor. Drinks in hand. All seeming to be having the time of their lives. While I sat behind a plant. In a corner. Wondering if a drink would make me feel like I belonged.
I wasn’t always this way. I was for a good part of my late teens (yes…late teens) and well into my early 30s the one dancing. With drink in hand. Maybe even on a “good” night, two in hand. And…if I was really slick. I could hide them just enough so any picture taken? Yep. No one would know.
I was the mom who downed a bottle of wine before her kids were off the bus. Knowing I had enough time for the buzz to wear off before the hubs got home. Figuring the kids were too young to notice.
I broke things after drunken wine festivals. I justified my long days spent “out” to my love-“I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
I planned entire weekends around my next drink. And my Sunday’s around the bathroom.
I needed to escape. I wanted to fit in. I wanted to forget all the junk. Even if for just a little bit.
I was the life of the party, because for those moments I could forget about all that was life.
I was the life of the party, yet still so lonely.
And so I get it. I get why people become drawn to food. To booze. To drugs. To drown out those feelings of loneliness. Inadequacy. Overwhelm.
They are the reasons I started drinking. They are also the exact reasons I stopped.
Because I didn’t want alcohol to be the fuel that drove me to make a connection with someone. Because I didn’t want my social interactions to be obscured by cloudy judgment. Because, if I’m honest…my inability to feel like I belonged in those spaces made me overcompensate. I was downright obnoxious. Loud. And rude.
I didn’t want to feel like I needed a drink to be accepted.
I didn’t want to numb feelings that would still be there when I woke.
Because I finally started to see that the end of the bottle was not the end of all my problems.
And it took me some time to get to the point where I can walk in a room, and own the place. Water bottle and all.
Yet, there are still times I don’t. Still times I feel so, so lonely.
While my choice to not partake makes me seem like a prude to some. May have people looking sideways at me because, my goodness…you don’t have a cocktail after those crazy days you have??? (Nope. Nope. I don’t). May have others believe I am silently judging their choice to do so.
It’s simply not good for me. And what’s not good for me shouldn’t leave me feeling lonely.
So, keep inviting me to your parties. To happy hour. To your wedding with the open bar.
Just be OK with me if I decline, because the temptation to take the edge off the “social jitters” may be too much. Or if I show up and only order water. Please don’t convince me to have another drink. Because I know I can’t stop at one.
Please help me to feel accepted in that corner. Behind that plant. While I tap my foot, just trying not to dance.
Please invite me out on that dance floor.
Just please don’t ask me to drink.
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Praises in the dead of night
I hadn’t been there in a while. Netflix and a young boy who wouldn’t leave my bed had kept me from using the space.
Until for 3 straight nights I was woken a little past 2am. Trying desperately to get rid of all the thoughts flooding my brain. 2am. Then 3am. Then, this gentle whisper: “You have that war room. Use it.”
My war “room” is more like a wall in my bedroom closet. It’s not extremely comfortable in there, but it has seen a number of tears. And plastered on its walls are a number of prayers I spoke over and over.
“Go. Go to your room.”
I knew what I would find there. I didn’t find the answers to all the burning questions rattling through my brain. I didn’t find some profound thing to say in conversations I was replaying and rehearsing.
But I did find prayers I had written almost 2 years prior. Tear-stained prayers. Plastered to a wall. Prayed over and over, with desperate pleas for Him to please answer.
And though I had not sat in that exact same spot, I hadn’t stopped choking out those prayers. Prayers for protection. Prayers truth would be revealed. Prayers that relationships would be restored. That trust would be rebuilt. That healing would take place.
Every single one answered.
And I knew in that moment why I was up at 2am in my war “room.”
I was called here from my wayward thoughts to look back on all He had done, and to thank Him for it.
To remind me to never give up.
To never stop praying.
To believe He will fulfill promises, and to thank Him when He does.
To never stop praising. Even if it just so happens to be 2am.
My life is an example to many, because you have been my strength and protection. That is why I can never stop praising you; I declare your glory all day long. Psalm 71:7-8
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How much more?
How much more God? How much more do you want me to take?
As I struggle daily with actually carrying out what He has asked me to do, I wrestle frequently with wanting desperately to just give up. Asking Him to just send someone else, because surely I must not be it.
As I sit here feeling this way again, I am reminded of what Jesus said to God in the Garden of Gesthemane, surely at a point of wanting to give up: “My Father! If it is possible, let this cup of suffering be taken away from me.” (Matthew 26:39). Surely wondering why he had to suffer for good.
And at the end of that heart to heart with God, he also said this: “Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.”
That will also included me. The will that died a gruesome death on a cross, and poured out love for me.
Who did what it took to reach me.
Putting people in my life to speak truth to me, even if I didn’t listen. Providing hardship after hardship, so I would eventually fall on my knees and seek Him. Who forgave. Loved. Forgave and loved again. Even when I didn’t show the same to Him.
He took as much as it took to reach this one.
So how much more God?
As much as it takes to reach that one.
As much as it takes for someone to feel love.
As much as it takes.
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A friend to the lonely
“I don’t want to go to school! I.Dont.Want.To!”
This wasn’t a cry I hadn’t heard before from this child. In fact, it’s often uttered daily. He doesn’t want to get dressed. He mumbles and grumbles many days all the way through the morning routine.
But this cry was different.
It was a gut-wrenching cry that woke this little one from sleep.
“I can’t make it! I can’t do it all day. I can’t!”
And why couldn’t he? Because his friend on the bus was mean; and Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s were the only days he didn’t play alone at recess.
Daily I am the one folks come to for answers to these type of school woes. But today? I had nothing.
Nothing to calm his anxious spirit. Nothing to convince him to go to school. No solution for the loneliness he felt on that playground.
Sure. I could provide the reassurance that God was most certainly with him at recess, but he knew this already. And while it is nice to know that God sits with us, it is also no secret that a 10 year old, 5th grade boy also desires that someone else will sit with him in his lonely places. To invite him to play. To help him not feel left out or different. Especially when he can’t play basketball or football.
All my little guy wanted was someone to play tag with him. To understand that his clumsy, little legs…they just couldn’t do sports.
And it’s what I wanted for him, too.
Today? If your heart is breaking for your lonely child? It’s what I want for you and yours, also.
Today, I pray that God is not only with your lonely and hurting child, but that He sends someone.
He sends someone who sees their own brother or sister sitting alone, and invites them to be their “friend” for the day (Proverbs 18:24). That someone will go outside their circle, show hospitality, and make yours feel like an “insider” (Hebrews 13).
Ask a lonely soul to play.
Tell them, “It’s ok. I’ll teach you.”
Or drop the football, and simply stop to play tag.
I pray your little one is sent a friend to the lonely.
About Me
I am January! Wife, mother, meemaw, pastor, and mental health provider who makes it through the day with my coffee, my journal, and my God; and I am also on some days a hot mess. A simple human, navigating life through the messy and sometimes chaotic.
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