Stepping Into My Characters’ Shoes

On October 25, 2016February 2, 2017 By shellilittletonIn Confidence, Doubt, Encouragement, Faith, Fear, Hardships, Hope, My Novels, Writing8 Comments

God, what are you doing with my life?

“Do you want to go?”

“Yes, of course.”

My curiosity soars. My novel, work-in-continual-progress, has a scene in this very location. I’d love to go. I need to go. I need to get inside my characters’ heads more, know their hearts. Plant my feet where they planted theirs.

We pass Greenville, Texas, heading into Commerce—my novel’s setting and the city I have grown to love. “There’s Karalee’s school,” I say. Wonder where she’s at? What’s she doing? Hard to believe my oldest daughter is there and I’m here. This thing called change is interesting. Our hearts are so intertwined that I feel present with her all the time. Rejoice when she rejoices. Cry when she cries.

We proceed out toward the state park, passing farm after farm. Beautiful Texas, always beautiful to this Texan.

I gasp. A city limit sign announces “Posey” … Posey, Texas. My heart claps. That’s part of my itty-bitty character’s nickname. I missed that detail on Google Earth. Wow. Unbelievable.

Believable.

God, you’ve got this thing covered. I know you do. And you’re showing me the signs. Thank you.

We park the vehicle.

My youngest steps out, branches out, and begins exploring. The one who’s seen devastating hardship. My cancer survivor. She’s discovering shells along the water’s edge. She’s found her niche.

Have I found my niche? I think so.

My feet hit the ground. I pivot, absorbing the surrounding beauty, standing right where my characters stood. Building their imaginary lives has been sweet. They’ve so obediently taken each action I’ve required of them. Walked when I needed them to walk, erased what I needed them to erase, built what I needed them to build.

God, you stood right where I’m standing. You made all things, and you came here—living, serving, loving, building, accomplishing, finishing—to know me inside out. To know your creation, your people.

“I could stay here all day,” my daughter says, beaming.

Stay here all day. That’s it. I made the connection.

God, sometimes I’m slow, but I made the connection.

Walk out on the water. Go exploring. Discover the growth. Through the difficult, the scary, the times of ease, the times of beauty, times of uncertainty, times of seasonal change …

When you don’t know what God is doing, do what you love.

He’s given you love. O Soul Within, find what you love. Do what you love. Continue doing what you love. He gave you a heart, to please, to love, to obey, to build, to follow, to lead, to accomplish, to do the thing He’s called you to.

Step in character with whom God made you to be, into the very shoes He designed for you.

Change is never easy … but proceed.

So ask the hard questions. Get inside God’s head. Yearn to know His heart.

You are His and He is yours, intertwined. He’s where you are. He rejoices when you rejoice; He surely cries when you cry.

Find that place—with Him—where you could stay all day. The place to do the living and dying. The place to type—The Beginning and The End.

Do you want to go?

~~~

How has God been speaking to your heart?

A Prayer For A Persistence That Will Stand

On October 11, 2016February 2, 2017 By shellilittletonIn Encouragement, Faith, Hardships, Hope, Photography, Prayer Requests, Writing10 Comments

The truck veered off the busy county road.

My eyes widened. Really? I’ve been wanting to take a picture of this for forever. A warm smile spread over my face on this beautiful autumn day.

“Watch where you put your foot.”

“I will.” I opened the door, stepped one foot out. Just tall grass. And honestly, I don’t care. You know that car pulled over, someone taking a picture on the road-side? Yes, that’s probably me. I’ve suffered swarms of fire-ant bites to feed baby calves. It’s irrelevant.

There she stood. Tall, broad, but rusty and weary. Falling to pieces. Watching her, I could imagine the groans on the inside. But she’s still standing. The most beautiful barn I’ve ever seen. Well, not quite. I guess that position will always belong to the barn on my grandparent’s property. But each barn is so beautiful to me.

The timing, the setting=perfection. The tall grass wavy in the breeze. A perfect pond set in front of the masterpiece. A clump of old logs sat piled off to the side.

I rested my arms over the gate, steadying myself for the perfect photo. Something to capture what only my eyes can fully embrace.

Got it. Well, maybe.

Only then did my eyes shift past the beauty to the busy interstate beyond. Cars, trucks zooming by. Businesses, billboards, and clutter lining the background.

I released my held breath.

Lord, give me persistence to endure this life, this writing life, this family life, this walk of faith, this daughter life, this mother life, this sister life.

Keep my eyes focused on you, on the beauty, for forever.

I thought over my first published article, 2007, like the moment was yesterday. I pressed the answering machine to hear the recording. “Congratulations, Shelli. Your persistence paid off.” Tears streamed. Joy filled my heart. A characteristic some would loathe took me one step further down the road I so love.

I snapped picture after picture.

Rested my arms again.

Father, you know my inward pains and groans. You know my heart. Give me what it takes to persist. Use me. Gift me. To gift others. Let my resolve be strong.

Let my foot keep stepping out in spite of the surrounding fears, in peace. This little girl from Texas, the one who sweat bullets to stand in front of others. The one whose greatest fear in life was an oral book report. The one who ducked down low in her seat to keep from reading aloud, praying the teacher’s sight would pass me by.

Father, how you can take our greatest fears and turn them into our greatest dreams is beautiful. Breath-taking.

Keep me standing. Keep my resolve tall and broad through the rusty and weary moments. Because the rusty and weary add character and beauty to my life’s picture. The clump of old logs that seems a hindrance to the photo adds beauty. Vintage beauty to a life.

Help me to embrace, utilize, and see with your eyes all that is before me—the encouraging friends lining the view whose support and nourishment seems miles deep, those continually waving me on.

Allow my persistence to be beautiful to someone. Let my resolve persist like an old Texas barn, still standing after all these years. Because Father, your timing, your filter, your setting equal perfection.

Do you have a heart request? How may I pray for you?

And I have an article in October’s issue of WMU’s Mission Mosaic magazine and a cover story in November’s on missions in Philly.

God Uses The Broken Teacups

On September 13, 2016February 2, 2017 By shellilittletonIn Christian, Encouragement, Faith, Hardships, Hope, Shelli's Scribblings15 Comments

Company would be arriving soon.

I evaluated the dishes through the dirty glass. Evaluating my options, I saw the good, and I saw the broken. Through my distorted lens.

I opened the door and reached inside the cabinet.

My fingertip circled the the porcelain edges, settling and lodging into the chipped surface, and I thought not to use that piece. Another dish had been pieced and glued back together. No good.

Cracks and lines showing. Stained.

They weren’t good enough to use. They weren’t presentable. I’d been told that all my life. Someone could get injured. Someone would be embarrassed.

Use the good. Use the best. Act as though you’re serving the King.

My heart sank low. What if God never used the broken? What if we embarrassed him? What if He kept the damaged hidden away? Because of the way that it looked or the way that it felt.

What if He had the mind of man? My heart sank lower.

I’ve felt it all my life—I’m fake. I’m not whole, not good enough, not proper enough. I’m not deserving. I’m an embarrassment.

To those who aren’t broken.

Don’t pick me. Don’t use me. Don’t raise your hand. Don’t share your faith. Don’t put her on display. She’s broken. You’re broken.

Shelli, you’re broken.

Your family can’t be this or can’t be that because … you’re broken.

She might hurt others. Being rough around the edges could hurt someone, inflict slight injury. They might think it’s okay to be broken.

But He has the mind of God. Glory. My heart began to rise. And He whispered to my heart—I’m the glue that binds you. I’ll break you, but I’ll bind you. I’m the glue sealing you together. I’ve settled and lodged into you. Because I’m your all. Does that not make you special? Valuable? User-worthy and user-friendly?

Like me.

Fractures and chips chisel character into your life, like a vintage home’s crown molding.

And If the cracks cause others to bleed, maybe they need my broken and binding, too. You leave that to me. God whispered—maybe I know what I’m doing.

O Soul Within, who are you to judge who can and can’t be used? Don’t judge yourself, Shelli. Don’t bully yourself.

God sees all. The glass is never too dirty for Him to see. He’s sees the broken and unbroken.

And He reaches for you.

He sees you from a distance, and He sees you magnified. God sees the whole picture.

He sees the lines, He feels the cracks, and He still takes you by the hand.

Because what is real? Real is what you have to give. What I feel … what I see … me.

When the brokenness causes a resemblance to Him—broken like Jesus—place out the fractured, chipped, and the glued. Set the table.

His is the company we seek to please. We’re serving the King.

Gratefulness in my heart had awoken.

We serve a God who uses the broken.

Scraping Certain Memories Out The Back Door

On August 26, 2016February 2, 2017 By shellilittletonIn Christ-esteem, Christian, Christian Growth, Encouragement, Faith, Hardships, Shelli's Scribblings12 Comments

My grandmother never wasted anything, not a plastic butter container, not a milk jug, not a scrap of fabric. What didn’t clutter her kitchen counters, cluttered her storage spaces. She didn’t throw away anything, not even leftover scraps from a meal. Surely a sheer reflection of the Depression. Because a scrap of fabric could be used to make a quilt, a milk jug could store water for electrical outages.

Watching her scrape off the plates, all extra food going into a tin plate, is a sweet memory. “I’ll throw it out to the dogs,” she’d say, and wipe her hands on the front of her flour-covered blouse. When all the plates had been cleared and washed, the counters and tables all cleaned, we’d take the tin plate, heaped with food scraps, and head to the back door. The screen door would screech open, and the dogs would come running. There was no disguising or mistaking her scrap-pile… the dogs ran to it and so did the swarming flies. Stomach-turning remnants covered the ground.

Memories—it’s what we bring into the storehouse of our hearts and minds. It’s a precious commodity, something we keep. Something we hope to hang onto all our lives, until our last breath.

But we have good, and well, we have bad.

And sometimes it seems like the bad just grows and grows, like yeast has been added to the disagreeable ingredients. Just gets fatter and fatter, busting and bursting out the doors and windows of our minds and hearts. The guest overstays his welcome and takes up too much space. The guest gets bossy and decides who’ll eat where, who’ll sit where, who’ll sleep where, and who’ll need to make accommodations for the night. He pushes out all the good.

And he just eats and eats away at your nerves, your confidence, your faith, even your memory of good.

And we look around and see that our counters are covered and cluttered with leftovers, dirt and grime, and a stench that can’t be described, unworthy of description. Even the cow-trails remaining are threatened. Leftovers needing to be thrown out to the dogs and the flies.

We can’t always choose what comes in and out of our lives, but we can choose what stays, what stays inside. We can choose what needs to be thrown out.

Like standing at my front living room window, at only eight years old, watching my daddy drive away … away forever from my family. Tears pouring out my eyes, I cried, “Daddy, Daddy, I love you.” Oh, my daddy.

Like feeling the sting of rejection. The 8th grade boy who walked by my middle-school desk and said with a scowl, “You have long, skinny fingers. And your hair looks like Medusa.”

Like grieving over a huge mistake. Only a kid and ruining my life.

Those are leftovers, throw-out memories. Not throw-away, just throw-out. We’ll never be entirely free of them. But our good memories don’t deserve to be pushed out the door. Our good memories deserve the guest of honor place at our table.

And O Soul Within, some ground-breaking news, that’s what we’ll make up our mind to do. We have to be intentional in this life, tend to the memories, because another has unhealthy intentions for us.

O Soul Within, gather those leftovers, one by one. The ones that stink and destroy. Scrape them into the tin scrap bowl of honor. Because that tin bowl deserves a place of honor, too. It’s the temporary storage that keeps our counters—our hearts and minds—free and clean. Free of all the dirt and grime, leaving room for all the clean—the China, the teacups, faith, Christ-esteem, space, lovely space.

Take those steps, one by one.

Open that back door and bask in the beautiful sounds of the screechy screen—the gatekeeper to our hearts, the one that stays closed and only opens when you choose. Only opens when the bad needs to be thrown out or used … blessedly used for good. Not used for bad. And that’s why they aren’t throw-aways because sometimes God uses our throw-outs.

Scrape it out, sweep it out, let it drop, let it fly. Toss it to the bottom-land, like nobody’s business. Let it stay. Let the dogs come, let the flies swarm. Because that’s the back door. The scrap pile. No one else needs to go there, because it’s nobody’s business. Only your selected few come through there.

And then you smile, walk back into your clean kitchen, take a deep breath, and bask in the wonderful sights and smells of the new, the apple pie scent wafting, the fresh bread baking, the sun shining in through the front window, rays so vivid and beautiful you could reach out and touch them—

Like knowing your daddy loves you with all his heart and remembering how he tells you often, how you’ll always be his little angel no matter how old you get.

Like being named Homecoming Queen your senior year, and the one who called you all those names wants to escort you.

Like feeling the tiny fingers and toes of your newborn, 18 years ago, and counting them one by one. And knowing your mistake may very well have led you here, to this child, to this beautiful place.

Like knowing with all your heart that God knows what’s best and directs your steps, and even uses your past.

Prop open the front door, and hang the welcome sign. Bring out the white, clean tablecloth, unfold it a tad, and thrust it out. Open wide. Spread it out over the dining room table in your spacious heart, and place the best China because … well … it’s time for a new meal, for a real meal, for a feast. A beautiful, clean, new feast. With guests of our choosing. Only guests of our choosing. Welcomed guests.

With remnants of love, blessing, and honor.

~~~

Do you have difficult, painful memories? Have you struggled with letting them keep a prominent place in your mind and heart? Do you have any thing you need to toss out?

Gentle Applause To A Generation Not Crippled By Acne

On August 9, 2016February 2, 2017 By shellilittletonIn Acne, Christ-esteem, Confidence, Encouragement, Faith, Fear, Hardships4 Comments

Daughters, I’m so impressed with you. I want to be just like you when I grow up.

Standing at the glass back door, I overlook the shimmering water in my swimming pool. Perfection. I can’t believe I have that in my backyard. I’m so pulled to open that door, step outside. Oh, how I’ve longed to take one of those pictures of my feet propped up at the pool on a hot summer day. But one has to be outside, in the sun, by the pool, to do that.

One day, Daughters, one day.

One has to slip on the bathing suit, the horrid reminder. Of all those years of pain, of fear, of embarrassment. The reminder of imperfection. Of being different.

What happens when you wish your self away? The very skin you’re in.

Sometimes you were publicly exposed to insult and persecution; at other times you stood side by side with those who were so treated. You suffered along with those in prison and joyfully accepted the confiscation of your property, because you knew that you yourselves had better and lasting possessions. So do not throw away your confidence;<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-30169BO" data-link="(BO)” style=”box-sizing: border-box; color: #783f04; font-size: 0.625em; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;”> it will be richly rewarded.

You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised. For,

“In just a little while,
he who is coming will come
and will not delay.”

And,

“But my righteous one will live by faith.
And I take no pleasure
in the one who shrinks back.”

But we do not belong to those who shrink back and are destroyed, but to those who have faith and are saved. –Hebrews 10: 33-39

Do you hear that, Daughters?

Years spent wishing away acne-prone skin, especially on my back, can cripple a person. My confidence, confiscated. The lack of confidence still follows me around today, like a shadow. Go away, shadow.

Years thrown away.

I’ve shunned the outdoors for years, only able to bear it with joy alone. We have the most amazing swimming pool, with a hot tub and even a fireplace. The view is incredibly beautiful and serene. We’re so blessed. Who wouldn’t long for that?

Who wouldn’t long for freedom?

I slip into my memories of yesterday. But some reminders are not longed for in the heart.

Starting in high school, for years, I didn’t want my bare back revealed. Being in the drill team made that extremely difficult. Going to my changing area, I’d try to hide, hurry to change, cover myself. Cover my shame.

Keep your back turned from everyone. Don’t let them see.

A visit to the dermatologist for slight facial breakouts led me to the threshold of help, but I was too embarrassed to tell them about my back.

“Do you have any other problem areas?”

“No, I don’t.”

Fear and embarrassment, even youthful foolishness, lingered.

I’ll never be free.

In my very own prison. The prison that moves when you do. Secret miseries running deep through your pores into your very soul.

I hated to wear bathing suits, tank tops, bridesmaid gowns. No, don’t make me put my hair up. Torture. The beautiful topknot with ringlets hanging down only reveals my ugliness. Let my hair hang long, covering my back. Covering my embarrassment. Covering my shame.

Don’t see. Don’t look at me.

Shrinking back. Destroyed.

And who knows the pain of acne? Like needles sticking into my back. The slightest touch brings pain, to my back, to my heart.

Years of on and off antibiotics, only to have it come back once off the medication. Persistence could define me.

Ushering out my appendix, along with an ovary, ushered away acne. Praise be. After all these years, praise be. After 30 years, I finally love the skin I’m in.

My daughter fights the same thing. How amazing that even though she’s adopted, God made her just like me. She comes to me. Her dress is gorgeous. Zipping up her dress, I notice the speckles of acne on her back, her shoulders. Acne that persists once off antibiotics.

“Daughter, do you want to wear a light jacket? To cover the bumps?” My handicap trying desperately to cripple her. Generational bondage. Bondage that yearns to imprison others. I think I’m trying to help.

“Mama, I don’t care about it. All kids have it.” She smiles. She even beams. She doesn’t care. Well, okay then. Her confidence is like the dawn of a new day.

Daughter drags little sister to me. “Mama, look. She has her first bump on her face. Isn’t it the cutest thing?” Both girls are giggling, unencumbered, unembarrassed, unafraid. Beaming.

I’m amazed.

Fearless. Flawless. Free.

Go therefore, beautiful girls. Love the skin you’re in. Don’t take 30 years to go out in the sunshine. Throw open wide that door, release your hands, and embrace life. Do not throw away your confidence, sweet girls. Remember the One you belong to, Beloved of the Living God. Go out into this world. Persevere, Daughters. Prop up your feet. Live and love. Bring pleasure to your King.

I Ripped My Pink Panther: When Your Kid’s Attitude Calls For A Tickle and Talk Session

On July 26, 2016February 2, 2017 By shellilittletonIn adoption, Divorce, Encouragement, Hardships, Raising Children, Raising Teens6 Comments

“Yeah, one day I’ll be able to tell you all the issues I have with you, Mom.” My daughter chuckles. “I can’t tell you now because I have to live with you.” She sinks into the couch, laughing herself silly.

“Get over here right now.” I giggle, moving to the edge of my cushioned seat and pointing my finger to the hardwood floors in front of me. “Right now.”

No movement from daughter. Just more giggles.

I jump up, run to her, and tickle her till she cries.

She gasps for breath, still chuckling. “I’m just pulling your leg,” sputters out through more giggles.

Uh-huh. Oh, I know, Daughter. I know exactly what you mean. Because I felt those very things as a young girl. The only difference—unlike you, I voiced many of my thoughts aloud.

The whirlwind of my parents’ divorce left me tied in knots, feeling pulled apart. One arm held by my daddy, the other held by my mother. My grandmother held firmly to my leg. I didn’t know how to feel about everything or anything. I didn’t know how to express myself. I didn’t know what was normal, what was right. I felt crucified, tormented.

And there was my mama.

I didn’t love everything about my life. I just wanted my mama and my daddy back under the same roof, tucking me in bed at night and reading nightly devotions to me. Bitterness, in the awful form of anger and what felt like hatred at times, welled up inside and drizzled out.

On life’s fragile edge, I grabbed my Pink Panther stuffed animal that I’d gotten at Six Flags, that I adored. Taking its right arm in one hand, its left arm in my other hand, I pulled. Its little insides oozed out. So much misery. I injured the very thing I loved.

I felt so ripped to pieces. So I’ll rip this to pieces.

I loved my daddy. But I was in this city, and he was in that city. I was in this house, and he was in that house. I lived with my mama, and she took the brunt of all my painful trying-to-figure-out-this-situation.

Sitting in my room, I mourned my hate-filled words to my mother. My heart mourned that I’d injured the very one I loved. Because I loved my mama. I hated the situation. But I was only ten. What did I know then?

And just look what I did to my Pink Panther. I cried.

Grown-up stuff is too hard to contain inside a child. It will spill.

My pillow—the catcher of all my tears. God—the storer of all my tears. And I gave God a tremendous amount of tears to handle. Like rain.

Life is hard. Life is hard to understand. So we trust. Trust God. It’s all we have, Daughter. And it’s more than enough, Daughter.

At only ten, I reached over and took hold of the Bible that I’d been given by my Sunday school teacher. Given just in the nick of time. Given just when I’d needed it. And God showed me that He could be my all. He should be my all. He would be my all. I couldn’t place my faith and trust in my mother or my daddy—I could only love them. I had to heap all my faith and trust in God, my heavenly Father, the only one who could be the perfect parent.

God—the restorer of my life. The one who takes all our confused and broken pieces and makes us His restoration project. The one who stitches together our torn pieces now. The one we can spill our insides to now. The one we can entrust with everything now. The one we don’t have to be fragile with now or ever. The one who takes every tear and stores it now.

When we want to ask all the questions that so often go unanswered—

Why?

Your pillow’s stuffing will hold your tears until God can gather them, one by one, in His safe-keeping. Your tears haven’t dried, they’ve just been collected, sweet one.

Because I know you have more questions than you’re asking, Daughter. Questions only God knows the answers to, and that seems so unfair. I know. Questions I’ll never be able to pull out of you because maybe you think you’ll injure me. Maybe you think I’m fragile. Maybe I am, but I won’t break. I’ve already been broken, baby. This mama is tougher than you might think.

Because when you want to take this side of life in one hand, take the other side of life in the other hand, and pull—

Remember that in between lies the body of Christ—the one broken for you.

And comprises that beautiful Body of Christ—someone will remind you of that Scripture just in time. Someone will text you encouragement just in time. When you forget, someone will point you to Jesus just in time—

His one arm stretched across one side. A nail pounded. His other arm stretched across the other side. A nail pounded. Take His hands. Pull and pour your heart out on His hands.

Because mercy and grace pooled and spilled out, trickling down on you … the crimson turning the darkness of pain and confusion all white, all pure. All for you.

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

On July 19, 2016February 15, 2017 By shellilittletonIn adoption, Christian, Forgiveness, Hardships, Life, Purity, Raising Children, Raising Teens16 Comments

“Mama?” The one word that changed everything for me.

“Yes.”

“Mama, I heard that women pilots in our nation’s air force have really struggled with this issue. They can’t fly in this condition, so some choose this course.”

Oh, Daughter.

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

I had just been in church, the pastor’s words on freedom had taken my heart and mind soaring straight to this topic without him ever mentioning a single word about it.

Why? I don’t know. God in me, it had to be.

Because I have no personal experience with this topic. I bear many regretful choices from my teenage life, and I’m thankful this isn’t on my list of regrets. But it could have been. Easily. So easily.

Oh, Daughters.

I felt a whisper over my heart, “You better be brave, and bold, and obedient.”

I’ve hemmed and hawed around ever since, in a feeble attempt to be brave, bold, and obedient. Weeks have passed. Writing and talking it out turns my legs to jello, my insides to mush, tears me apart, rips my heart apart. So please know I’m not judging, but breaking.

I thought over it all.

Oh, Daughters, I need to tell you something. Because some things one never forgets.

That picture that sits in my bathroom, on the side of the tub? You know the one. The sole purpose of that picture was decoration. Me, the amateur photographer, imagine that. Some fifteen years ago. It seems like yesterday. The day I sat you girls in a bucket for a picture. The dog’s water bucket, no less. You were in your pink swim suits, in the bathroom. Watermelon and polka dots. Cutest things.

One goes in the bucket, then the other. Big sister’s legs are getting long. Just drape them over the side. I position those tiny legs and feet. “Smile for me. Say ‘cheese’ …”

Big sister, make sure little sister …

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Some time after, my friend who owned an adoption agency wrote to me. “Shelli, watch this video.”

Most people recycle plastic—milk jugs, sacks. Buckets, buckets, and more buckets.

I bend over, peering into the plastic to see something precious …

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

Beautiful eyes, beautiful skin.

Little tiny baby legs, feet, arms, hands …

And then my eyes become so clouded with tears I can no longer see.

My heart gasps and the sound spills out with my breath. My living breath.

Oh, Daughters.

What could he have been? What could she have been?

Google “baby in a bucket” … then Google “aborted baby in a bucket” … one tiny word changes everything.

And just allow those images to sink in, into the marrow of your bone, your soul.

One baby is sitting joyfully with a smile, covered in feathers or covered in a ballerina tu-tu, tulle ruffles, all pink. Happy. In the other picture, the baby is doubled over. Pale. Legs displaced. Organs displaced, delicate and private parts that should be covered. Crimson paints the body. The baby in a bucket, like something you’d only see in a prison encampment. In a horror film. That baby never had the chance to know happy on Earth, to be snuggled, to wear a onesie, to be burrito-wrapped in softness.

In a bucket. Some things deserve a beautiful burial.

Oh, Daughters.

That young woman thinks she’s ejecting to safety, freedom, normalcy. And maybe she doesn’t realize that though she’ll be free of a live baby, she’ll be placing herself in enemy territory. I won’t pretend to know, but I hear it, read about it constantly—the pain, the torment, the regret.

No, don’t Google. Don’t allow those images to sink in. Because we get so accustomed to seeing the bad … and then it means nothing to us. The images don’t stir our heart, don’t make us sick, don’t break us, don’t make us gasp, don’t tear us apart.

The images should place our minds in a prison encampment forever. Maybe they do. Maybe they will.

Oh, Daughters, your sweet baby faces come to mind.

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

And I thank God that two women gave you girls life. That they placed you girls’ tiny infant feet and tiny chunky legs on the side of life. These two precious women, who weren’t ready to be mothers, allowed someone else to be a mother.

Me.

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

Because that baby in the bucket could have completed someone’s family, someone’s life, made a family of three, given a sibling … could have changed everything for someone sunken low in the pit of infertility.

Maybe the sole purpose of the situation is to keep another from loneliness, to bring life to the dead, to decorate someone’s life. Only God knows. But know this—

One’s desperation could end another’s desperation.

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

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I know life is messy, complicated, but it’s worth it. The situation can’t be kept a secret, but all secrets come out eventually. The closed always becomes disclosed.

Oh, Daughters, I pray you never have to choose. I pray you always make wise choices. I pray you never hold a list of regrets.

But placing a baby is a critical choice. Fill arms, Daughters of this world, Daughters of the King. Fill empty arms. Place that living, breathing child in living, loving arms, not plastic. That bucket—I pray you never allow to be on your list of regrets.

I pray you recognize there is no choice.

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

Because some things should never be recycled.

Oh, Daughters, freedom of choice is not free. It’s never free to the one whose life was taken. The one who couldn’t choose. Life or death. The one who can’t speak “Mama” yet certainly can’t speak “life” yet.

What could that child have been? The bucket child. Could that tiny, beautiful baby have filled the position of our nation’s first woman president? Just think of it. Can you imagine it?

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Oh, Daughters. Where would I be without you?

And I know you. But what kind of mother would I be if I didn’t say—

Choose life. Choose adoption. Choose family.

Always. For Life.

Choose …

One tiny word changes everything.

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

Dear Me, Please Love Me For Me

On July 12, 2016February 2, 2017 By shellilittletonIn Christ-esteem, Encouragement, Grace, Hardships, Shelli's Scribblings18 Comments

Dear Me.

I wake up feeling a frazzled mess. I look a frumpy mess, too. Hair going in every direction. My part off. Oily feeling. Bad breath. No make-up. Pale as a ghost.

I see you notice me.

You watch the way I chew my breakfast—my “Mama cereal” as the girls call it, with fiber—probably thinking I’m chewing all wrong. I know I’ll never get that tooth straightened out—the one I can barely chew on because it’s so sensitive. I really can’t help it. No, I don’t have perfect teeth. Yes, thank you for reminding me that I ate too much sugar in my younger years. I regret that now.

You notice every new wrinkle. And you even have the audacity to say something to me about it. “Look at that new engraved wrinkle under your eye.” You point at it, touch it, probably measuring it.

Why are you so hard on me? Oh, Me.

I’m not young anymore. I’m standing in the middle of the road. I deserve to have a few wrongs that are right. They are right. God made me, so they must be right.

From my head to my toes—you know. Nothing escapes your scrutiny. Do you not have anything better to do? Why do you care so?

You notice my every gray hair. I had a breast cancer scare just weeks ago, afraid I’d lose life and all my hair to chemo. And you’re worried about gray hair? You even run your hand over my new ones, pointing them out. It kind of crushes my heart. You even encourage me to use black-and-white photos so that my gray hair doesn’t show as much. I just had my hair highlighted for the first time in my life, thanks to you. $$$ I’m trying to cover the discolored. But to be honest, I’m thankful you don’t pull my hair out anymore. That really hurt. My daddy’s hair is totally white. He used to pull out his gray hairs, but he had to stop that or he’d have gone bald. I know the thought of my hair color permanently changing forever hurts the heart a little … but if you pulled my gray hairs now, I’d be partially bald. So really, I’m glad you stopped that. Thank you very much.

Oh, Me. No, I’m not going blind. Well, yes, my eyesight is getting worse. So I guess technically I’m going blind. But readers are cute, right?

My nose? No, it wasn’t broken. The x-ray showed it wasn’t broken. And no, I don’t have nose cancer like Ma-Maw thought. Yes, I did fall out of the bed once when I was a little girl, but honestly, do you think it’s possible that my nose profile is the way it is because that’s how God made me? I know that one profile side is terrible. I know. You really don’t have to remind me. No pictures taken from the right side. I got it. I see you throw away pictures that accentuate that side profile. How do you think that makes a person feel?

My slightly deviated septum? Really? You’re actually gonna go there? You see me use nasal spray most every morning. No, I can’t help it. Yes, I have allergies.

That one dark hair that keeps popping up above my lip? No, I’m not growing a mustache. I’m a girl. I try to keep it pulled. But I just forget about it. This is all new. I’ll remember. I’ll try. I’ll get it pulled and any friends that try to accompany it in the future. Yes, I’ll try not to embarrass you.

My teeth. No, they aren’t as pearly white as they used to be. I know. But yes, I’ve started using whitening toothpaste, and I even stopped drinking Diet Coke and coffee. What else do you want from me?

My neck. How could you point out the wrinkles on my neck? Aren’t they beautiful? No, my skin isn’t as firm anymore. But yes, when I hold my neck a certain way, the wrinkles aren’t as visible. I’m trying.

My back. Crooked spine, I know.

No, my skin isn’t creamy smooth like in years past. Yes, my arms are speckled like bird eggs, like my grandmother’s and my mother’s. News flash: it’ll only get worse from here on out. We have fair skin. And maybe we spent too much time in the sun. I had a few brown spots removed the other day, causing sores temporarily on my arms. Face it, you didn’t like me with the spots or with the sores.

And I’ve been working on my biceps and triceps. I’ve improved. I’ve gone from lifting 2 lb weights, to 3 lbs, and now up to 5 lbs.

My pectorals? Now that’s just cruel. But just between you and me, maybe the weightlifting will improve that, too. I’m trying to remedy the sagging. Stop nagging.

But could you just make up your mind about me?

Could you just love me for me?

Don’t you dare look at my stomach. No. Don’t you dare. But you do. Don’t you? I’m not slim enough. When I eat anything with fiber, you comment on the pooch. And maybe there’s a pooch without the fiber. Okay, I’ll be honest. But why? Why do you always have to look and comment? Can’t you just keep quiet? Keep your thoughts to yourself? But no. And then you tell me not to wear those shorts or that skirt because they make my tummy look poochy. Really? Yes, I’m working on my abs. Haven’t you seen me doing tummy crunches? I ride the imaginary bicycle most every night, on the closet floor.

Don’t you dare say something about my thighs. I know you’re dying to. I don’t know how to fix the dimples there. If I run, I’ll just end up needing knee replacements. My grandmother needed knee replacements, living years in pain. My mama had knee replacements. Bad knees run in my family. I’m walking. I’m trying. I’m trying to age gracefully.

Stop looking so closely at me.

Stop inspecting me.

And my glutes … stop it. I’m not 18 anymore. I know I wasn’t very consistent with the squats. I tried to be. I really did. Six months or more. But clearly, you didn’t notice an improvement anyway.

Stop it. Stop it.

Dear Me. And you wonder why I have so many headaches.

My feet? Really? I can’t help it that a toenail got crushed years ago. My baby dropped her full apple juice cup … it’s a sweet memory. My body is like a photo album full of memories. So stop picking on me. I keep my toenails painted in red to hide that nail. Ugh. What else do you want from me?

What? Is the roughness on my heels so horrific to you? So you bought me a sander. Stupid me … I grew up thinking only wood needed sanding. Thank you. I’m trying. And I sand my feet Sunday mornings so I can wear my sandals … maybe not as often as I should, but I’m trying.

Can’t you just love me for me? Please?

Me, you are so hard on me.

God wouldn’t be.

Dear Me, please love me for me.

~~~

Do not turn aside from any of the commands I give you today, to the right or to the left, following other gods and serving them. —Deuteronomy 28:14

Do to others as you would have them do to you. —Luke 6:31

You were ready to pummel “ME” for me? You were, weren’t you? Thank you.

How do we remain content with ourselves, when the world tells us we should look this way or that? Because how can we possibly accept others if we can’t even accept ourselves? Regardless of our size, shape, status, or color, we all need to be loved. But loving others begins at home.

Loving and accepting imperfect others begins with loving and accepting our imperfect selves.

Failing My Mammogram and Pansy Prayers

On June 28, 2016April 20, 2017 By shellilittletonIn Cancer, Doubt, Encouragement, Faith, Hardships12 Comments

I never arrived. But there I was.

I don’t want to meet hardships. But when the insufferable hand is extended, I want to offer a firm handshake. Who offers a pansy handshake? But I may never get there.

I had a huge scare this last week. I received a notice after my mammogram saying I needed to come in for more testing. Diagnostic testing. Another mammogram. Ultrasound.

My mother is a breast cancer survivor.

Panic overrode my peace. That simple. That difficult.

I stomped my foot at myself. Shelli, you know you can trust God.

My mind and my spirit know the right things. This is what I know–God has me covered. There is nothing that happens to me that isn’t allowed by Him. In the surrounding heat, God holds out His mighty hand and covers me. The hand continually covers me. But because we just can’t seem to stay in His intended protection, since the beginning of time, we get burned anyway. Things happen. Disease and bad things exist. If my 13-month old daughter had cancer, I’m certainly at risk.

Fear wrestled with my faith. In my dreams. In my daydreams. I thought of every “what if” scenario.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Accusations. You were late for your mammogram. How can you remotely encourage others through hardships if you can’t handle this?

I went in for my second mammogram and ultrasound. “We need a biopsy.”

I cried out to my dear friend from childhood. She’d been praying for me since I found out. I told her I’d been sick, dizzy, sleepless. Where was peace?

She said, “No more pansy prayers from me, Shelli. I’m praying seriously for you.”

Much needed laughter penetrated my chest cavity.

A week I wait for the biopsy.

“This looks like a fibroadenoma type mass. Benign. Tiny. But we can’t be sure.”

Hope springs alive in my heart.

My gut feels pierced, my insides covered in pain. I so failed. Man’s word gives me hope. What about God’s word? Hope eternal.

I grab on to His hand that covers me. I peek up at Him. As He lifts me up, my feet flip-flop around barely touching the ground. “God, I trust you. I do. Forgive me. Help me. Let me be okay.” I pray on my face.

The Spirit within says to me, “Say it, Shelli.”

“I don’t know if I can. How did you say it, Lord Jesus? How?”

“Say it, Shelli.” I wrestle with the Spirit within.

I don’t know. “I don’t know that I want to give you approval. I don’t think I can.” I love my girls, I want to be a grandmother one day, and I’m not that tough. I toss and turn in bed. Tears soak my pillow.

“I don’t need your approval.”

I want to pound the pillow. Four mighty words seep out of my mind and heart and mouth, as I choose surrender instead. “Thy. Will. Be. Done.” Tears flood.

Just because you’re covered doesn’t mean you won’t feel the heat. Doesn’t mean you won’t get stings, scrapes, and bruises on your ankles. Doesn’t mean you won’t get beat by flying debris. Doesn’t mean you won’t get wind-burned. But you can believe–it’s a heap lot cooler in the shade of God’s hand. Bearable. You are covered, Shelli. Covered by the blood of the Lamb.

But no more pansy prayers, Shelli. The way you beg for life … you beg for others.

The phone rang today. “The results are benign.”

All that flip-flopping around for nothing. Pansy handshake. Faith over failure, Shelli. Not failed faith. How on earth will you survive when you get bad news? One day again, more than likely, you’ll receive bad news. That’s life. But it’s the how. You’ll survive on earth or in heaven because God has you covered. But it’s the how.

You’ve arrived because of Jesus. But you haven’t arrived. How will you survive? In the now? How? Will you trust? It’s not really for nothing when your flop flips to the In God We Trust side.

No more pansy, Shelli.

“I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of my hand—I who set the heavens in place, who laid the foundations of the earth, and who say to Zion, ‘You are my people.’” Isaiah 51:16

Thank you, Julie Garmon, for the reminder of this beautiful Scripture.

When You Are Living A Nightmare And You Desperately Want To Wake Up

On June 15, 2016February 2, 2017 By shellilittletonIn Disney, Encouragement, Hardships, Hope5 Comments

This day didn’t happen. This didn’t happen. I close my eyes. Darkness. I toss and turn, distressed. The sweat breaks out.

I heard the news report. Desperation flooded my soul. The baby had been dragged into the water by an alligator. At Disney World, the best place on earth.

How many times have we played on those beaches? How many times do we dip toes near to danger? How many times do we dig our toes into near-terror?

Little kid buckets, shovels, rakes.

Footloose and fancy-free.

Year after year since my girls were eight and six. The beautiful beaches. The water you’d never go far into. But the beaches that you’ll run along the shore … the ones that aren’t marked: “Caution: Alligators” … The water’s edge you’ll sit by. Feed the ducks by. Throw out bread. Soak your feet in on a hot day, while taking a break from the rides and the park thrills.

My heart cries out for those parents. The parents who tried to grab that baby. The ones whose strength was no match for the beast. The ones whose hearts sank lower than anyone can estimate. The ones who will have to fight to recover their own hearts.

A dream come true turned nightmare.

The weight attached to my heart sinks deeper in the mud and mire.

The eyes of our children sinking to despair, to tragedy, to disease, to cancer, to pain.

The last breath.

Say something.

The eyes begging for relief, help, mercy.

And through a strangled cry, we beg God–take me instead.

How? How do you press on after a loss like that? After swallowing a defeat so massive?

Some things we never get over. We never quite recover.

You’d have to tell your story. Through tears and heart-shredded insides, you’d have to open your mouth and tell what you witnessed. Tell what you did right, to no avail, and what you did wrong. Tell what you wish you’d have done. Tell what you wish you hadn’t done. You wouldn’t even be allowed a chance to hide, to dig into the mattress and cover yourself with feathers, fear, fault, agony, failure, fury.

A chance to cry out–“Oh, God … why?” All alone.

But then you get alone. And you cry and cry and cry. You sleep and sleep and sleep. You wish away time and time and more time. You wish to never wake up. You wish to wake up and find it all a nightmare.

But one day, you’ll open your eyes from the deepest of sleep. You’ll find the sun shining slight rays again. The waters won’t look so murky, you’ll see blue. You’ll see the ducks and not the deep. You’ll see the glory of the waters and not the gore.

You’ll forgive yourself and forgive others.

You’ll know you’re forgiven.

You are forgiven. Forgiven by yourself, by others, by God.

You’ll accept that we don’t know everything, we can’t see everything, we can’t understand everything, we can’t be everything. We’re fallible, human, faulty, frail.

And a thing called hope will flood your soul. It’ll reach out and grab hold of you. And you’ll allow it to soak you in. Take you under. Deep. A new day.

You’ll look into the eyes of those remaining, of those you love, of those who love you, of those who don’t want to live this life without you.

And you’ll realize you have something to offer once again.

Things will be different. But it’ll prove the best place on earth once again.

It will.

Trust it will.

Shelli Littleton

Category: Hardships

Stepping Into My Characters’ Shoes

A Prayer For A Persistence That Will Stand

God Uses The Broken Teacups

Scraping Certain Memories Out The Back Door

Gentle Applause To A Generation Not Crippled By Acne

I Ripped My Pink Panther: When Your Kid’s Attitude Calls For A Tickle and Talk Session

Oh, Daughters—She Could Have Been Our First Woman President

Dear Me, Please Love Me For Me

Failing My Mammogram and Pansy Prayers

When You Are Living A Nightmare And You Desperately Want To Wake Up

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