Spiritual Fatigue and the Prodigal’s Brother

 “Bone-tired,” she said. “I sense a deep, deep tiredness.” The spiritual director told me during a four-day retreat.

Although I had been sick this year more than ever, it wasn’t just physical tiredness. Although my mental health was nose-diving, it wasn’t just emotional strain. It was deeper. That place beyond, a spiritual fatigue I didn’t want to admit. But I was in grave need of that soul-deep rest. My bone-tired body needed restoration of the Gospel. What IS the good news? Had I forgotten? I didn’t think so. But to have good news, we first need to acknowledge the bad news. What was my bad news I had been trying to avoid? That I can’t save them. I can’t prevent them from pain, suffering, or making choices that will lead to slavery. That I can be good, but never “good enough.” That I can’t fill that hole or fix that space in people’s lives or even my own heart. That no matter how hard I work, there will still always be work to do. And I cannot do it on my own.

I don’t doubt the Lord’s love, power, sovereignty; I trust Him completely. I’ve seen Him do miracles and I know He’ll do them again. I watch as He welcomes back the prodigals and celebrates them and I rejoice, too! After all, they are also my children, too. I cry and weep for joy, I thank God. But at the end of the day, when the lights are out and darkness settles in, and the house is quiet except for the hum of solar batteries or my noisy fridge, and I go into my bedroom and find a scorpion on the floor, or a cockroach, or I leave my bathroom light on because even though I’m a grown woman, sometimes I’m still scared…My tears turn inward, from sorrow and a deep yearning, not from joy. From a deep cry of wanting the fattened calf slaughtered for me, too. I start to tailspin. God, when will you do something for me personally? Who will you send to take care of me? When I am weary, scared, weak, sick? Who will carry this burden with me? Why do you send me out among the wolves, to do battle for you while I’m just as important as the prodigals, too?

(And He says, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” -2 Cor 12:9)

My spiritual fatigue had twisted the Gospel. I saw God not as a loving Father or best friend, but as an army commander, giving me instructions that I obey because I love Him. (You see that shift? The hidden pride and misinterpreted Gospel? I love God, not that He loves me.)  Someone asked me, “Are you sure that’s God you’re hearing/obeying? Are you sure it’s God giving you those commands?” Or is it my own demands masked as God, or worst yet Satan, the wolf in lamb’s clothing, making God look like a sheep in wolf’s clothing?  

And then the Prodigal Son story hit me all at once. I am still the brother, asking the Lord, “In all my faithfulness to you…all I’ve done for you…the good, the obedience, my loyalty and my love…. And you kill the fattened calf for the one who betrayed you? I’m fine celebrating those people, but what about me?” And just as the father had to remind the son, God reminded me, “I don’t have to kill the fattened calf for you, because all that I have – is yours. Kate, all that I have, is yours. You have access to ANYTHING and everything you will ever need. Because you’ve been faithful and loyal, I have put in you charge of my household and land, not just to work it but to ENJOY it! It is YOURS.”

This ministry is not just to work but to enjoy. In my fear of not being cared for, I got swept away by anxiety. But when has God ever failed me yet? Has there ever been a time I was sick and not cared for? Sad and not comforted by a hug or even a kind comment from a stranger? Struggling and not prayed for? Frustrated and not encouraged, by random donations or words of encouragement? I mean, honestly, there has never been a time in my entire life where I was left unaided. [A recent story: A woman I don’t know donated on our website and left a note saying she was praying for us and my name came specifically. As she prayed for me, she felt God tell her He wants to give me a book. She thought maybe there was a book I really wanted but wasn’t able to buy, so she then donated money but sent, “God wants to give you a book!” What she didn’t know is that I’d been so discouraged in finishing my second book, that I was giving up. I was worried about what people are gonna think, it’s not perfect yet, maybe it’s just for me and I don’t need to publish it, etc. And then here God is, across an ocean, encouraging me through a complete stranger to finish my book, that it’s HIS desire to give it to me.]

No, we are not given escapes from pain and suffering – no matter how “good” you are, no one can earn their way out of pain. But we are given graces for EVERY SINGLE MOMENT we face, that we may not only endure it, but that we may be transformed through it or aid others in their own transformation journeys, too.

Sometimes, it feels easier being the prodigal, wandering off but coming back home, knowing the Father will never reject you – rather than the one that stayed. Maybe the Gospel seems easier to comprehend that way. Maybe the prodigal’s brother didn’t understand the gospel like his lost-and-found brother. Sometimes it’s easier to forget the Father’s love when you’re the one who stayed. Because sometimes staying is boring or monotonous. And then we forget…the entire Gospel. We forget not just who we are or what we already have, but we forget Whose we are, and we forget the immeasurable gifts of our inheritance as sons and daughters of the King of Kings. We don’t have to lose it all to find it again, like the Prodigal Son. We can rejoice that we never have to trade it in. Because Jesus already traded His own life for our inheritance. The prodigal son learned the hard way, but so did the prodigal’s brother.

 

Let it Fall: A Beautiful Death

How can a season of "dying" be so beautiful?

I was walking while Benji was biking. The sidewalk paved perfectly under a canopy of trees, colors so bright and beautiful, not even the best camera could truly capture its perfection. I had a sudden urge to pick up a leaf beneath my feet. I second guessed the urge, thinking it childish. I’m a grown adult, I don’t need to be bending over and picking up leaves like a little kid, I thought. But the urge didn’t go away at my chiding. I sighed and hoped no one watched me crouch down to search through a pile of leaves for one I wanted. Not one was perfect, but each was absolutely unique. I picked two, smiled, twirled the stem in my fingers and walked on. Benji, who had stopped a couple times on his bike for me to catch up stopped again. He put out the kickstand and parked his bike on the corner, not to wait for me, but to pick up his own leaves. A huge smile swept across my heart. I guess someone did see me after all. When I approached him, I expected him to show me the leaves he wanted to keep. Instead, he extended his little arm to me as if presenting me a rose, and said, “Here, I got this one for you.”

He turned away without a second thought and rode on ahead of me not knowing the impact of this gesture to me.

What are you telling me, Lord? I whispered with tears glistening, knowing very well where He was taking me with this. I had sensed it was the Holy Spirit urging me to pick up the leaf to begin with.

I had been feeling defeated. So deeply defeated this year. Like anything I tried to do whether to help my girls or help myself didn’t work. Because creative writing is my best expression of human experience and emotion, I wrote a poem in my journal earlier this year, and here's an excerpt from it:

The amount of “life pearls” I’ve offered this year that have been traded in for lies instead - is gutting actually. I mean like, life-saving, keeping-you-out-of-destruction and hope-securing advice, but it fell on deaf ears. I felt frustrated with God, too, like, why give me all this wisdom and love to not be able to use it and instead watch them hurt, fall, break, devastate. I asked God on the plane ride home, “Can I just not care so much anymore? It hurts to care this much.” And He said, “What if you could still care as much as you do but not worry instead?” 

Thanks, God, but easier said than done.

So He showed me instead. With a leaf. An image I used earlier in the year when writing in my journal. 

God spoke to me now through Benji, redeeming this image of a leaf. With a dying leaf that was nothing but extraordinary. Colors so vibrant a grown woman had to bend over and admire a pile before choosing one, unique in its imperfection. Just like God’s children. All of His children. Every single one of us. Dying can be beautiful. Death of control-seeking, self-protecting, letting go. Caring just as much, but worrying less by letting the leaf fall, because it’s beautiful that way. God is in control of not just the leaf but the seasons, and the tree, and me. So I can release myself from the pressure of being perfect, from saying the “right” words… If only she would have listened! If only I would have said it this way instead…

And then God steps in to remind me: “You see, Kate? He picked up the leaves because he watched you do it. Not because you told him to. You are so frustrated about the words of life, the warnings, the advice and protection you offer your daughters and they reject or ignore it. But keep living. Keep picking up the leaves like a little kid. You are MY daughter. And it is My pleasure that they model after you. They will hear you speak and the enemy will twist your words; they will hear you speak and throw it back at you; they will hear you speak and ignore it. But they will see you forgive and they will, too; they will see you admit when you’re weak, and they will ask for help, too; they will see you pick up a dying leaf and call it beautiful, and they will see beauty from ashes, too. They watch you, my child, and they see Me. That’s ALL I have ever asked you to do.”

A leaf. Free. Free of worry and control. Free to fall, free to die to self to provide something beautiful. Oh yes, death can be beautiful when it gives true life.

“Truly, truly I say to you unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains alone, but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” -John 12:24

“But I have come that you may have life, and have it in the full!” – John 10:10

You're Gonna Get Wet

 The expectation that we can be immersed in suffering and loss daily and not be touched by it is as unrealistic as expecting to be able to walk through water and not get wet. ~ Naomi Rachel Remen

It’s the middle of the week, and I’m nearly drowning. Taki agrees to take the kids for me for a few days – my first answered prayer. I return to my house, alone, and love the stillness of it, the quiet that I’ve been starving. I go to my bathroom and through the window I hear someone crying really loud. Well, what I thought was crying. The sound continues and my heart starts pounding as thoughts race, Who’s hurt? Is someone being beaten? What’s the emergency this time?

I rush to check and there is none. Come to find out, two girls were laughing. Somehow, my brain registered it as crying.

I start cooking dinner, looking up a new recipe, thoroughly enjoying my time alone. I check back on the recipe on my phone and find 3 missed calls from the house mom. (The girls have all gone to a Wednesday church service.) My heart thuds again and I go into panic mode, immediately assuming something happened at church, someone manifested demons, or someone else ran away. Come to find out it was the house mom just asking for advice.

And then, while waiting for dinner to finish, I’m listening to a prayer on my phone. My phone starts buzzing repeatedly as if someone keeps trying to call and call. I try to ignore it and keep praying but my mind racing won’t let me focus. What if it’s Taki? What if something happened to the kids! Did Lucia run away!?

I check my phone in physical panic and find it wasn’t Taki at all but a friend on deployment who had sent me a ton of pictures of his base, most of which were beautiful sunsets!

And then it all hits. No wonder why I can’t get rest. I sink down on the kitchen chair and weep. Pent up tears unleashed from a year that I tried so hard to compartmentalize the negatives and stay strong and “be happy” for all the others. I weep because I know what this means. My brain and body in such a hyperalert state and trying to self-protect means I’m not okay and I finally have to admit it. I’m broken and there is going to be no quick fix for this one.

Thankfully, I have been trained in vicarious trauma and recognized the symptoms, and I contacted my counselor immediately and talked about ptsd symptoms. I also sent an SOS prayer message to my prayer team and Mom and was covered quickly with prayer, Scripture, things that made me laugh and smile while still giving myself permission to be what I felt: sad.

Never before in the history of Hosea’s Heart have we had so many run aways in one year. We had five in less than nine months. And these are some who’ve been with us for nearly a decade! Glory be to God, all have returned except the one. Not only that but my personal plans, goals for the year were frustrated and seemed like nothing worked. I’m supposed to have already published my second book, for example, but I got so frustrated with it, I nearly quit (and it’s in the last small stage of final comb through edits). I felt like the more I tried something, even personal habits or professional growth, the more it eluded me. And then when I sat at the at kitchen table and I wept, I gave up trying so hard. God’s funny like that – I asked for joy, that I wanted people to be able to describe me as a joyful and happy being and then it was like a hundred sad things happened, too. (Granted, I'm not discounted the incredible positive, that was in the previous blog.) But it was also about personal attacks on my worth and identity. The more I “tried” the worse it got. Same thing with patience. The week after my meltdown I said Screw patience! I’m tired of it. I don’t have time for patience in this season! So what happened? 

I was at a lunch date (at my favorite place, thinking it was going to be joyful) with Aya right before my U.S. departure, and it was jam-packed with groups from tourist buses and the waitress and service was the worst ever. We waited forever to order and forever and a half to get the food and then forever plus another for the check. I finally went up to the desk and demanded to pay there because I wasn’t gonna wait one more second. I even told myself, Well they’re not getting ANY tip! And then God did what He does… He whispered right at the end when I was grabbing my cash to pay, “Give them the 200.” It’s a 200 rand bill ($12) and I was like, “You’ve GOT to be kidding me right now. You choose NOW for the time to ask me to be generous?! I will NOT give them anything.” And it was like I could almost FEEL Him smile at me while throwing my tantrum about patience and generous-shmenerous! And without even knowing I was doing it, I gave them my 200 bill and the look on the two waitresses faces – I’ll never forget it. They knew they didn’t earn it. They expected me to be mad. The shock on both their faces and mine was like God playing a joke I didn’t know I needed. I left feeling the lightest and best I’d felt for the entire week!

I realized later (much later) God was actually doing it for me, not to take something away from me. He wasn’t asking me to give away something to make me feel loss or to suffer (since it was the last of my cash at the time). He was doing it to remind me how good it feels to show love (kindness, generosity) expecting nothing in return. And He did it to remind me that He does this to me so often, a gentle reminder that I don’t need to earn His love. He was giving me love by asking me to give something away.

And that’s it isn’t it? I’ve been mad at God all year because giving didn't feel good. It feels like loss, it feels like defeat, it feels like failure, it feels like my heart gets ripped to shreds and He does nothing. It feels like He asks me to keep giving instead, but I’m tired. I’m tired of giving and getting nothing in return. I’m tired of being the one who initiates humility and compassion and grace when in return I get blame and rebellion and rejection. I’m tired of hearing over and over how I will never measure up because I am simply not biological mom. I’m tired of having their own hurt and hatred from their parents projected onto me and me becoming the bad guy. I am SO tired of being the bad guy over and over by pouring my heart and soul out for them. I’m tired of having my words being twisted around and thrown back at me, tired of being “wanted” when they want to cry on my shoulder but “rejected” with attitude when they receive my discipline. It’s like they want to cut me into pieces and keep certain parts that suit them and throw away others. Oh my gosh, it’s exhausting. Their expectations of me are impossible. The expectations of myself are impossible. The crazy thing is, He expected none of it. He was simply waiting to give me the 200. 

There is no way I can ever earn “acceptance” and yet I got caught in the enemy’s hamster wheel of trying to. I am not loving in order to be loved back, but it IS my human need to be loved. I am not giving in order to be given to, but it IS my womanly nature to want provision and protection. It is said that pain can make one temporarily selfish. Indeed, because when all you see is your pain, you forget to see purpose, vision. I was looking at the wrong things. I wanted to hold back, give up, protect what was left. So how ironic that in my weakest (and trust me, you do NOT want to hear what was going through my head about people I actually love) God asked me to give. And I still gave.

In that very moment, He was restoring me in His own way. Showing me how lovable I still am even when I’m angry and bitter and smoke is coming out of my ears. Showing me that HE who is in me is GREATER…than any other emotion, thought, lie, behavior, belief, etc. (1 John 4:4)

I can almost feel Him say, “Have you seen my daughter Kate? Even in the dark, she is still My light.”

When I arrived in the U.S., my friend Michelle paid for me to go on a women’s retreat. Best gift ever. At the retreat, a trio of women prayed for me. They only knew my name because of an introduction. They know nothing about Hosea’s Heart, nothing about me personally, or my journey this year. But as they prayed for me, they prophesied and spoke incredible words and prayers over me. One looked me in the eye and said, “You are a light in the midst of darkness.” She spoke about seeing a physical heavy and dark cloud over me but after praying said, “God wants you to know this cloud is not there by your doing. [releasing me from this fear/lie that I’m doing something wrong, not enough – my soul needed that!] It is planted there by the enemy. Satan is trying so hard to cover that light. But he cannot!” and they continued praying. Another one said, “I sense God saying, ‘You don’t need to make your light any brighter; you are already LIGHT!” [releasing me from the lie that I have to strive harder to prevent failure].

And finally, like a grand finale, one read to me a prayer from her journal that she felt the Lord asking her to share. That morning she had watched the ducks on the lake, and there were three stubborn ones that stayed on the bank and wouldn’t get in the water with the rest. Then in flew a flock of geese landing gallantly on the water, sending ripples and a beautiful entourage. The Lord said, “If you are so fixated on the ones that left, that stayed behind, that refused to get in the water with you, you’ll miss the amazing things still coming!”

And that released me from the pressure and lie that it is my job to keep the flock together, that yes it’s okay to feel loss and sadness for the ones that run away, or leave, or won’t get in, the ones that will refuse to truly join the family or take the journey with me, but to keep moving forward, fixing my eyes ahead so as to not miss the BEAUTY and JOY that surrounds the small piece of SAD. You can be both sad and happy, and it's okay.

The fact that I was putting so much pressure on myself made me realize the weight of this quote: “The expectation that we can be immersed in suffering and loss daily and not be touched by it is as unrealistic as expecting to be able to walk through water and not get wet.”

Well, I guess it’s time to jump in and watch the gallant geese that are coming. The season of harvest is here. It’s time to embrace the wet.  

Make a Wish

“Make a wish!” They cheered me on before I could take a bite of a scrumptious bouquet of handmade, handfrosted cake pops.

“A real wish!” TJ, our case manager, interjected right as I was about to indulge. How did she know I was cheating and didn’t really make any wish ‘cause I just wanted to take a bite?

“Just one?” I joked. I thought about the pilot and the helicopter ride. I thought about my perfect man. I thought about asking for a husband in the next year of life. I thought about the Toyota Fortuner, 7-seater vehicle I’ve been wanting, I thought about the places I’ve visited this year and the dreams that came true with my travel and adventure desires. All of it was wonderful. All of it will be wonderful if I ask for it. But in that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than just one thing.

It’s You, I whispered to my Prince. It’s always been You. I just want You.

With a wink to the “audience” that was waiting for me, I took a bite and tasted heaven. I mean like seriously. I have never tasted something so wonderful in all my life. (Thanks, Hannah, for the homemade cake pops!)

 This year has by far held some of the highest highs and unfortunately also the lowest lows. My physical and mental health have both taken quite a beating this year. I’m used to the spiritual battles by now, but this has been all out war. Like Trojan Horse, sneaky, slimy, hit-you-when-you’re-already-down kind of blows. But those stories are for another day. 

This year has also held some of the most breath-taking moments of my life. Dreams I’ve had that I NEVER thought would get fulfilled were dropped in my lap this year. Felt like anytime my enemy would throw something at me, my Father would counter it. Like, “Oh you wanna do that to my daughter? Watch this, Sucka!” 😉

“Watch This” I sure did! I saw with my own two eyes some of the most famous sites in the world! After a conference in Spain, my beloved friends who lived with me my first year in Swazi in 2010-11 were getting married in Scotland, so I stayed after the conference and traveled Europe to “kill time” until the wedding. One of my best friends Hannah flew out and joined me for our once-in-a-lifetime trip! I enjoyed France WAY more than I thought I would. LOVED the food. Lol. Adored our stay in Paris, and enjoyed, among many other things, a sunset boat cruise near the lit-up Eiffel Tower, went UP to the TOP of the Eiffel Tower, and went to Versailles Palace.

Hannah and I also spent time in Frankfurt, Germany, where we had a really hard time finding “brats” until we were finally corrected (with annoyance) that we were actually looking for “bratwurst.” Our Wisconsin bad. In Spain, I enjoyed three different cities, Alicante, Madrid, and Barcelona. Unfortunately, Barcelona was freezing and rainy. We had to ask our hostel front desk for a heater, of which they were first shocked and second, annoyed. (Hey, just because it was “spring” there doesn’t discount that we were from the African heat.) 

My favorite location by far was Italy. I could go back and spend the whole two weeks just in Italy. One night we wandered into a live street concert which was fantastic! The food was incredible, one of my favorites was a wine-tasting and charcuterie board with the sweetest Italian lady who had no problem making sure we drank more than necessary! We enjoyed walking (several times) The Floating City, Venice, and also seeing it from a gondola. We of course spent plenty of time in cathedrals and basilicas where I had some incredibly intimate moments with Jesus.  But one of my favorite locations was the Roman Colosseum. If anyone’s read Francine Rivers’ Mark of the Lion series, it was like I could relive it. Terrifyingly marvelous. Such a blood-soaked place of Christian martyrs of our past is now home to the Head of the Church around the world. 

That was the trip of a lifetime, right?! Crazy thing is, that wasn’t the end of my adventures this year! Prior to covid, my friend Kellye and I had planned and prebooked a southern African tour, crossing multiple countries in one trip. Four years later, post-covid, we finally took our trip and added two friends, my brother and Hannah! Multiple stops in Botswana included seeing wild elephants and giraffes along the rode side, camping out in the Salt Pans with just a sleeping bag and the MOST miraculous sky of stars I’ve ever seen in all my life. It still is my favorite experience, seeing nothing but stars from horizon to horizon, like a dream. Hiking Victoria Falls was breathtaking and we even captured the rainbow! But the best view and exhilarating experience was the helicopter ride over the Falls! (And the pilot was breathtaking, too, hehe). One of my longtime dreams came true and I got to touch, feed, brush and elephant named Themba, and he also kissed me. 

Imagine all of that in one year? Pinch me, am I still alive?  And yet… all of that… can’t compare to God. I think these highs of the year are going to stay the best highlights of my life, and I’ll relive them as much as possible. But that’s all I can do. Relive them in my memories. The thing about moments of ecstasy like these, they can’t produce the same pleasure after the experience is over. Joy yes, but pleasure is felt in the moments and pleasure therefore doesn’t last. But He does. His Love lasts. His provision lasts. His blessings last. His happiness is the kind that lasts. 

And that’s why when I was asked to make just ONE wish…all I could think of was Him. He spoiled me this year when my heart felt trampled on. He provided for me in ways I wasn’t being otherwise cared for. He saw my vulnerability and my weakness and instead of taking advantage of it called it Blessed. In one of my most difficult years yet, the valley after the mountaintop, He has been my reason to not give up. Oh, how could I ever want anything more? Only Jesus.

My armor is cracked

But you’re still standing, kid

I’m too tired to walk

But you’re still standing

My heart is too heavy for my chest

But you’re still standing

My weapons are broken

But you’re still standing

I’m weak and afraid

But you’re still standing

 

It’s not as bad as it seems, Beloved,

Because you’re still standing

-1 Cor 15:58

Ah, yes…this is why I follow Jesus.

He’s not just the Prince of Peace,

He’s the prince of me
I’ve enjoyed the world, but it couldn’t fill me
the way you love me Lord
There is no compare, nothing that trumps You
You are, you were, you will always be
More than enough for me
You are my Husband, my Redeemer, my Master, my Best Friend

The Journey Was Never Easy, But My Yes Has Never Been Hard

I’ve been trying for the last two days to put into words what the last decade has meant to me. But I couldn’t. And it’s frustrated me. So I finally decided, I’m just gonna write anyway. Whatever comes, come. I mean, how can I even begin to share the testimonies, the pictures, the miracles I’ve witnessed in ten years? I can’t find the words to describe the tumultuous journey of the shocking disappointments mixed with the miraculous surprises. The ones who I thought would stay, thought they’d be around for the long haul but are long gone. And yet the delight of the ones who spat insults from day one, thought they wouldn’t last yet they are the ones still at my side. The journey has never been easy, but my yes has never been hard.

There is no way to describe what I do or who I am outside of Jesus. He is my easiest Yes, my every day Yes. He is faithful, He is Hosea, He is my Savior, Sustainer, my Builder, my Husband Redeemer, and my Best Friend. In ten years, look what He has done! And He’s allowed me to keep my pretty hair color (the stress of 36 children hasn’t given me too many grey hairs yet! Ha!), keep me young and full of youthful adventure, and give me children – on loan and for forever. I didn’t carry anyone for 9 months, but I’ve carried some of them for over 9 years+! I’m at the close of one decade and the start of another, of new dreams and new people to carry those dreams, too.

 Acknowledging the new dreams means giving thanks for the first dreams. The dream that took a small-town girl from Marshall, WI to Eswatini, Africa!

 A dream that impossible from day one.

“You won’t find her.” But I did. He led me right to her at the exact second when our two worlds collided as she drove by in the back of a truck at the exact moment I crossed the sidewalk.

 A dream that took the form opening the home in 2013, and getting the call in 2014,

“This is a house, not a home. There is no heart here. If you don’t want to see your dream collapse, you need to move here.”

So I did. I packed up my life and moved into a house with cockroaches so big that they made noises at night as they scurried across the floor and I thought it was mice. Rats and snakes were other worries, too.

“She won’t last,” betraying words from a friend whispered behind closed doors.

But I did. He was my reason, not human praise.

“I’ve never seen a home like this one. Please build more,” the social welfare visitor blessed us and asked us to expand.

And we did. It was always His plan from the beginning, and He only allowed me to know it one step at a time.

 “She can’t do it,” words were cast over the dream the transfer our home to a rural area after we bought 7.5 acres of our land. We were building and raising funds. We moved into a place with no electricity and no running water. We used a handmade “outhouse” for our toilet and had to order water trucks from the city.

But we did it.

He provided, step by step.

“Hosea’s Heart won’t last beyond this,” the doubt continued from those even in my circle.

But we did. We not only lasted, we prospered.

I remember the day when someone confessed to me bluntly, “I’m surprised Hosea’s Heart is still running,” as if my leadership was so poor it was going to devastate the entire ministry.

There were times when I felt so alone, I didn’t know if I could last. Not only had I been betrayed by my inner circle, but my children, too. There was a season where they turned on me, ignored me, rejected me, used me, in acts of manipulation to get what they wanted or to get back at me for decisions I made that they didn’t like. But I pressed on. Few remained at my side. I had my Ruth who stayed faithful and was my Hosea story. I saw Jesus in her and was reminded that you don’t need a sea of people, sometimes you just need one. I could be distracted by Judas or be grateful for Ruth. I chose gratitude and pressed on.

 “You’ll never find water here. It’s too rocky and dry.” Two bore holes were dug but empty. Indeed dry land.

But we found water. Water from a rock! Today, we have a borehole that supplies us with well water!

 “They won’t be successful after Hosea’s Heart,” people said about the precious children God gave me. Watch the mama bear come out!

College degrees, diplomas, full-time jobs, a marriage, good mothers, calling to check on me, advising younger sisters, pursuing personal ambitions and making choices (good and bad) – and that alone being a win, the freedom to make choices for their own future, fully capable and responsible for the consequences. And God didn’t spare consequences and He didn’t spare my mother’s heart. A sword has pierced mine, too. But most of all and above all, every single one of them knows Jesus. Every Single One.

And at the end of the day, after all is said and done, all that matters is their last breath is “Jesus.” There is nothing more “successful” than eternal life. And I haven’t missed the opportunity to introduce Him to even one.

I remember the day we lost on of ours to the world. She was young but promised hell if we didn’t let her leave. We called the social worker and the social took her back. She had refused to believe that the 38-year-old man who had bought her and convinced her that she was his wife from 8 years old was an abuser. He had been arrested and she placed with us but at 14 years old, she had already endured so much trauma and manipulation. She thought we were the abusers, because with us she lost her “freedom.” But one year later, she called crying. She said she messed up. She didn’t know but now she knows. She said the man she is now with abuses her and she knows that’s not love. She actually said, “I know now that’s not love.” Even if we can’t “keep” them all, the ability to show them love – it changes everything.

 So love continued to be our dream and as our wait list piled up, the dream to add more homes surged to a priority.

 “You’re crazy. That’ll never work,” they said about my dream to bring our dance and music production to the U.S.A. “What will people say? Won’t people think you’re just making excuses to get girls to America?”

But frankly, at this point, I didn’t care what people thought about me. I learned that the hard way. As a leader, caring too much about people’s opinions of you will only always bring you down. I answer to One at the end of the day, and His opinion is all I cared about. And I knew it was His dream.

I was listening to music one day, and a whole vision unfolded. The storyline to our production, the dancers, the music. Then I started writing the pieces that would accompany it for the spoken word portions. It was His from the beginning.

So when they said, “That’ll never work,” God winked at me and said, “Watch this.”

It was like a reward for being a girl with God-sized dreams. It blew me away. It still feels like an actual dream that we got to bring a group of girls to the U.S. and travel around Wisconsin, performing and multiplying souls, being witnesses of God’s healing power and hope even in the darkest moments.

And now it’s 2024, and my dream life is Lucia, almost 13 now, still snuggled up next to me but making the same sassy face from when she was two; Benji still giving me sweet kisses on the cheek and knowing every time I’m not okay, the same sweet smile and eyes of that baby boy I used to rock to sleep. It’s the girls taking turns to help clean the house or give me a massage after they can see I’ve been stressed or overloaded. It’s the messages from the grads checking in on me. It’s the best sound in the world – every day: their laughter. I could bottle it up and sell it, no joke. It’s the best feeling in the world – their hugs, tight and wrapped like the arms of an angel. My grandbaby squeezing my finger and giggling at me. It’s the best sight – their gorgeous, jaw-dropping smiles. Watching her love her child in a way she was never loved herself at that age. It’s the best smell – walking into the kitchen on a bad day, and suddenly life makes sense again! And it’s the best taste – a wedding cake, cut and shared in the presence of the entire Hosea’s Heart family, the wedding of our first child, taking place in our own home; eyes full of tears but heart full of swelling gratitude. This life – it’s bread from heaven, a provision only God can give.

A dream fulfilled at the close of one decade.

And a new decade

giving birth to the dream yet to come.

 

My Stomach Sinks but My Heart Swells

            Parent-teacher conferences, especially for a young teacher, were always a bit daunting. Though I got to know the students very well, it was usually the first time meeting the parents, and I never knew what exactly to expect. I was surprised one night when a burly man with a gruff voice introduced himself impatiently, looking like this was the last place he wanted to be.

“You Miss Martin?” he asked but it sounded more like an accusation.

“Yes?” I should have been more confident, but I wasn’t. When he shared whose father he was, my insides quivered because I had just reprimanded his step-son, who was always a bit naughty, the other day.

“My son says you told him he has a good reading voice,” he cut into my thoughts. “That’s the first time he’s come home to tell me he had a good time at school. And that a teacher complimented him.” I couldn’t believe it, and yet I could. He seemed to hate school. “That meant a lot to him. Just wanted to say thank you.” He turned and left me with my jaw half open.

“My son says he likes you as a teacher because you don’t have favorites,” a mother wrote me over email while apologizing for not making the conferences. “That’s the best compliment I think a teacher could get.” I was surprised, again, by who the son was. He was quiet, reserved, hardly got any attention in class because he was content in the background. Apparently, my praising him for his high reading scores made him feel seen and valued just as much as the others who talked and volunteered and soaked up classroom attention.

“You’re the reason my daughter wakes up in the morning to go to school,” a shy mother said with a shaky voice. With an intense look in my eyes, it’s like she was communicating something beyond words. Tears welled in my eyes at her intense gratitude, and I felt more seen and appreciated in that moment than maybe ever.

So it was to my utter dismay that in February 2014, I got the phone call that changed it all.

“Kate, this is a house, not a home. There is no heart here.” A friend in Swazi had called me about the challenges we had been facing from the NGO we had partnered with in running the home. They had opposite ideals, money was going missing, the girls were going without food and school shoes, and they were all still without a mother.

When I hung up the phone, I began sobbing. Not because I didn’t want to go. I’ve always wanted to be in Swazi. But my La Crescent students and parents, staff and community, had changed my life. It was my dream job, and I was more than content staying in it. I had poured my life into my students, loving them into life and providing more than just an education; I wanted to be a light, to be Hope in the flesh, and resurrect self-worth wherever it lacked in those I taught/coached/mentored. I had actually started believing I could live in both worlds; I even secretly had talked to the Superintendent and asked if it was possible that I teach half a year and do my other half in Swazi. He actually gave me his blessing, no joke. 

But when the call came, it wasn’t about half here, half there. It was all and it was now. They deserved a mother, not just a bed to sleep on (the first bed some of them ever had); they deserved the home I dreamt for them.

“Ms. Martin, do you have to leave us?” one of the shortest boys in the back of the room had raised his hand. He was smart but pretending not to be and was very shy, rarely speaking in class. I was actually shocked to see his hand go up. And devastated at his question. It wasn’t long, though, until the students got on board and supported my move to Swazi. They actually threw a goodbye party for me. They filled a notebook (that I STILL have) with notes and encouragements to me. They sent packages once I moved and sent Christmas letters. My basketball girls sent videos and kept me updated on all their happenings.

And now, ten years later, I can’t help but wish I could hug and thank EVERY single one of them AND their parents. They changed me. They charged me. They enabled me to do what I was called to do. God knew what He was doing, and He knew why He had me at La Crescent for those few short years. Few but mighty. Unforgettable.

In fact, I still have all their class pictures on my wall in my War Room. I pray for them. I think of them. And my spirit lifts. They gave me the greatest gift: an eternal smile.  

And in celebration of this eternal smile, I could write about all the incredible students I had, from my student teaching group with Ms. Sandy, to my seventh graders, eleventh graders, and ninth graders, but the one pinnacle moment to symbolize my career at La Crescent would be my “last act” with the freshmen I had in 2014: the English Oscars.

You wouldn’t believe what a group of 15-year-olds did. But I believed. I believed in them from the beginning. I believe that our world can be changed by the youth of these young teenagers who have so much to offer our world. And they didn’t just prove me right, they blew me away. When we began planning this huge end of year production, some of my colleagues even laughed behind closed doors. “They say it’s going to be a trainwreck, Ms. Martin,” one kid told me one day of his teacher’s remarks about our big production. “Don’t worry,” I smiled. “They won’t know what hit them until it does,” I winked.

And it was a smashing success. So wildly incredible, that after it ended, I sat on the auditorium stage and cried. I was so depressed it was over.

Do you know what they did?

These 100 FIFTEEN YEAR OLDS planned and executed an entire production THEMSELVES: they manned the stage lights, the audio and microphones, the decorations, the video and presentations, they made the video clips for “And the Nominees are…” in each category, some of the guys hand-made the awards in their welding class, they were the MCs, the speakers, the performers (dancers, musicians, spoken word artists), the red carpet models strutting down the aisle, the stage crew, and the program and production crew. 

They were REMARKABLE. It still amazes me. How did a bunch of 15-year-olds pull that off? AND they packed the auditorium with their family and friends who witnessed the most memorable event of my teaching career. (Where are they now that I need a production crew for our Scars: Up from Ashes dance and vocal crew in Swazi, 😉)

They left me devastated. How ironic. While it was the best moment of my professional career, it marked a depressing moment of my personal life. I had to say goodbye to my dream life. What awaited me in Swazi, I will never regret. It was the right time and the right move. But it still came with pain, with a cost. Probably one that most won’t know or understand. For, while my students moved on and in the past ten years have grown and graduated college, started families, moved, or pursuing other goals, my heart is still with them. I think of them and pray for them. I am still their biggest fan. Even if they don’t know it ten years later.

Ah, Lord. What a decade. Tomorrow we will celebrate my arrival in Swazi, what You’ve done in the last ten years, but today. Today is for my students. Today is for the sinking feeling in my stomach as I reread my journals and look back on the life I had in La Crescent. My colleagues who were my besties, my colleagues who I looked up to, my colleague whose daughter had become my very best friend and I frequented their house as if I were a member of their family. You can’t make this stuff up. Today is to count the cost and honor the ones who live in my heart forever. To you, La Crescent community, Danita, Amy, Shelley, Peggy, Melanie and Colleen and Janet, Rick Walter my principal, and the whole LaC staff, the Conways, Kelly, Sarah, and all my students, my student-teaching ones who were barely younger than I was at the time, my seventh graders who drove me crazy but were still so lovable, my eleventh graders who tested me but made me better, to my basketball girls, and to the Classes of 2015, 2016, and 2017: Cheers to an incredible next decade of your lives, that you may be filled with the fullness of Hope, Love, Mercy, and memories of a life once lived as a teenager in LaC. God bless you all.  

Darkness of Soul

          My soul in anguish

My heart, taking a beating

The whips in the hands

of my own

Lashes from within

Voices mocking

Cutting off my life supply

Closing in on all corners

Jesus, why are you far off?

 

Am I Job being stripped?

Doors slamming in my face

My plans frustrated

What I attempt, it fails

My worth tattered like a discarded blanket

That my child trades in for something “better”

Am I the brown pastures

Where they want green?

I am a fall leaf,

only worthy for a season.

Accepted, then discarded.

Over and over, a cycle.

They're hurt by others,

then it’s thrown on me

When will it stop?

When will the sky lift?

Lord, who?

Who will you send for me?

I found a seat a sat down for dinner. On each of our plates lay a unique handwritten note from members of a church in Seattle. Every note had a different message. I was stunned when I read mine.

“You are on the front lines of a spiritual battle…Keep fighting the good fight. The enemy can only be defeated by love.”

I looked up, looked around. Looked at other people’s notes. Each one was different, and there was only one message meant for me, the one “randomly” lying on my plate.

I believe there are plenty of coincidences in life, but more than that, I believe God handcrafts certain moments that are tailor made, just for us. As if His angels were the ones not only writing the cards but also handing them out, placing one on each plate, knowing ahead of time who was going to sit where. There couldn’t have been a better message for me. I was on the front lines of a spiritual battle. I was being targeted, hunted, attacked. Battered and bruised, I was in anguish. I was tired. Tired of loving.

Since January of this year, I started experiencing something I can only describe like Mother Teresa once did: a darkness of soul. My external circumstances were nothing to complain about really, but my internal anguish was like a deep, unreachable wound. Like I knew something bad was going to happen, but I couldn’t stop it.

In fact, I did know and experience this. Several of my girls had gone home for a week over the Christmas/New Year holiday because they had earned it. However, not all of them were able to have safe visits. Knowing this, I practically begged one of the girls not to go. I gave her other options, I gave her ideas, and I told her exactly what would happen if she went where she was not supposed to go. And I asked her to reconsider the week she earned. She’s of age and earned it, so I couldn’t remove the privilege just because I was worried. But it’s like my spirit knew. She made me promises we both knew she wasn’t going to keep. She believed her biological mother was suddenly, miraculously a new woman and was safe. To withhold her from being with her bio mother would simply be cruel, and yet, I knew. I knew the devastation that was about to hit. Sure enough, she broke her promises, she went where she wasn’t supposed to go, her mother wasn’t who she was supposed to be, and horrible things happened to her frail body in just a week’s time. She came back, and I tried. I tried so hard to help her put the pieces back together. But she was already gone. Her body was there, but she had never returned.

A depressing chill fell over the place. A strange shift in the atmosphere. We were battling spirits, now. A power of darkness. One of the youngest said she’d rather be a queen in hell than God’s angel because, well, Queens are better and have more power. Suddenly girls were talking about running away or killing themselves. A spirit of death. The thief had entered. A physical thief had broken into my home two years ago, but now it was an unseen one. Some of the girls who had gone “home” for the one week holiday had come back with the very demons they were once delivered from.

I wrote:

It really felt like suddenly the enemy was within. A darkness of soul, a thick, suffocating blanket. Prayer seemed to help, but it was like momentary relief. I poured out my unshed tears, dried up from the shock of runaways and the hatred that seeped from deep corners of their abusers still whispering over them.  

So I did the one thing I know how to do best: write. I prayed and wrote and filled my journal with prayers, pleas, and prophecies that flowed. And this is one that spilled out onto the ink of my pages:

“Attack her heart,” the enemy ordered. “I have tried for ten years and failed. There’s no way to get her from the outside. We must plot from within.

I will put an enemy inside her walls, Masked as a support. She will lean on the supports after I’ve beaten her down as much as I can.

And then I’ll pull the support out from underneath her. What she thought would be for her, I will use against her.

They will reject her, betray her, mock her. They will play with heart like a bouncy ball until her spirit is broken.

Yes, it’s her spirit we must break. We’ve broken her heart but He just keeps mending it. Now, we crush her heart until her spirit breaks. And the only way to her heart is through the very ones she gives her heart to.”

I still remember the way my heart jumped to the roof of my head and got knocked back down to my toes. “We can’t find them. Their cell phones are gone. They ran away.” In the cover of darkness, they slipped under the fence, took their early inheritance, and ran back to bondage. My daughters, gone.

And right before my conference, too. So I went to the conference emotionally exhausted, spiritually dry, and physically stressed. Dr. Becca Johnson reviewed the warning signs for burnout, and this time I knew how to respond, how to protect my hope. Thanks to the entire Atlas Free network (men and women from over 23+ different countries around the world all in the same fight with me), I felt supported, encouraged, inspired, and my hope reignited. I received needed advice. “You are enough. What you’re doing is enough. You’ve given them the greatest gift: the opportunity to choose. They may choose wrong, and some will and it will be devastating, but even so, you gave them a gift they didn’t have before, and that’s enough.” I also reconnected with old friends and met brand new ones. I felt cared for, intentionally noticed, seen, and appreciated. I was prayed for, and I felt held. Held together. So to see the completely “random” hand-written note by a “stranger” sitting on my plate on the last day of our conference, I was struck. Hope Surged. Healing Began. Someone sees me, sees my battle. And sees the love I have is enough. Love wins. Love defeats the enemy. 

And my prayer journal reflected exactly that. God responded to the revelation of Satan’s plan to attack my heart: 

“Attack her heart,” he ordered

But I say, “The more cracks, the more light you let in.”

He knows he has no access.

He can only pierce the surface

His weapons will never touch the heart of the heart, your spirit!

He only thinks he’s clever,

Planning a downfall like the trojan horse

But he forgot in his prideful foolishness

Whose palace he put the trojan horse into

Bait for bait.

I baited him.

It worked.

When the supports fall, it will fall on him.

What he seeks to crush will be the very thing that crushes him.

So, take away the fool. He cowers in the corner,

But you can find him by the sound of his chains shaking

In fear.

It is finished, Satan. You with your trojan horse crushing your own head, are defeated.

I AM has spoken.

Kate, I Am here.

 

If you missed my previous blog similar in theme but centered on forgiveness, check it out here: "Take Me Down" 

The Love of a Mother

I remember the first time I had a personal encounter with role of Mary Mother of God in my prayer life. It was back in 2010 when I was desperately trying to convince a 14-year-old that there was a way out of her bondage as a victim of trafficking. Things had been going well up until this point, but we seemed to have hit a wall and try as I might there was no way through. She turned to ice at my fingertips and a dark spirit was nearly palpable. I had tried everything, prayed till I didn’t know what to pray anymore. And that’s when my childhood Catechism rhetoric came back. I didn’t know how to fight this battle anymore and I didn’t have any words for this 14-year-old in front of me but who became someone I had never known that day. Desperate for help, I closed my eyes and said, “God, I got nothing. What do I do?” And the words came back to me. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”  With my eyes still I closed, I repeated it without effort or thought, like it was a part of me. I didn’t know what I was doing or why I was even praying it. I said a decade, which felt like more than enough at that time when I thought Catholics were way too crazy about Mary; then, I opened my eyes. I was shocked at what I saw. I wish I could have recorded it. I wish I could have even watched it for myself. But something happened unseen in the timespan it took me to pray one decade of the rosary. The dark mask that had overtaken the 14-year-old had disappeared. Her skin was lighter and there was life in her eyes again. She looked at me as if I was the crazy one and took my hand saying, “Come on, let's go.” The ice had melted. Like a snap of a finger. That’s the first time I wondered…maybe these crazy Catholics know something I don’t know.

Now to be clear, I was Catholic. But I had my concerns. And Mary was one of them. Why did it seem like they worshipped her? I wasn’t for that. At all. And I didn’t like repetitive prayer, like the rosary, as it somehow felt unholy and certainly not personal. Yet, I couldn’t explain away the power of praying even one decade of the rosary. It took me about ten years from then to learn and understand what I now know.

Having to learn how to navigate spiritual warfare I never knew existed and encountering demons (yes, they’re real), I learned real quick I needed spiritual assistance. When the body of a frail 16-year-old becomes stronger than four grown women and one grown man put together, you know the battle isn’t again flesh and blood but against the powers of darkness. [No, it’s not a mental illness (we have those ones, too), it’s the Satanic cult she confessed to giving her soul to.] It was like the line between the physical realm and spiritual realm became so thin, I could see the battle between angels and demons. (Yes, angels are real, too.) And Mary is the Queen of angels. If we believe in angels (and demons), then why is it so hard to believe Mary is also on the front lines of our battles as our Spiritual Mother? What I experienced with that 16-year-old was remarkable. When we had been praying for almost two hours, I finally fell to my knees and started praying the rosary. A vision unfolded as I prayed, and I saw this glorious Mother come to me and wrap me in her arms, and then she absorbed me. She became me in the vision, kneeling and praying for this 16-year-old like it was her very own daughter. At that very moment, the aggressive spirits vanished, the chaos subdued, the violence ended, and the 16-year-old crawled onto my lap as I still knelt in the midst of this vision, and the moment she touched me, she started weeping and returned to consciousness. (Someday, I’ll write a book of all these encounters, because honestly there is so much more to tell, but we’ll wait for the right time.) Ah, the love of a Mother, especially when this girl never experienced love from hers.

What I came to appreciate deeply about the Catholic faith is not that they worship Mary (that would be idolatry) but I came to appreciate God the Father so much more for giving us a Spiritual Mother. Not an idol; a gift! A mother on the front lines of our spiritual battles, the prophecy over her that “a sword shall pierce your soul, too” referring not just to Jesus her son, but us, her spiritual children, if indeed we are “heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ” (Romans 8:17).

So, in lieu of Mother’s Day that recently passed and today’s celebration of Mother of the Church, I want to thank our incredible Father who in His genius plan gave us His Son through a woman, a mother. Where Eve, who was the “mother of all the living” (Gen 3:20) failed, Mary, the virgin betrothed to Joseph became the new Eve, the Mother of Christ, our mother, too. “How does it happen to me that the Mother of my Lord should come to me?” (Luke 1:43). Is it really that outrageous to repeat the words of Scripture when the angel Gabriel came to Mary saying, “Hail Mary, full of grace! The Lord is with you!” and Elizabeth, who being filled with the Holy Spirit said, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!” (Luke 1:28,42)?

They say that experience is life’s greatest teacher. And my experiences have taught me that giving honor to our Blessed Mother does not diminish the ministry of Jesus, it magnifies it! So, Jesus, I, too, will follow your instructions to the Apostle John, “Behold your mother” (John 19:27).

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

Image by: Sr. Grace Remington, Mary and Eve, 2005

Interview of the artist: Mary Consoles Eve by Sr. Grace Remington and Joy Clarkson (plough.com)