Hello, My Name is Judas.

Last night, I attended an IF:Pray event at one of the local churches here in Tyler.

 To be completely honest, I was on the verge of skipping it so I could go to the oh so classy East Texas State Fair with some friends from bible study.

I tried justifying it by saying I would be with a good group of people who love Jesus.

Needless to say, He wasn’t convinced.

It’s been a little slow getting back into my prayer life since being home.

I’ve been casually praying for Jesus to light a fire in my soul, to pick me back up and shove me on my way to being an obedient daughter. 

And by casually, I mean I’ll mention it because I feel like it’s the right thing to say, but my heart doesn’t really yearn for the fire to be lit. Not just yet, anyways.

I mean, from society’s standards, I’m living a relatively “Christian” life.

I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in over 15 ½ months. Yay! Pat yourself on the back!

I am no longer spending time in meaningless and unhealthy relationships. Shoot, I can’t even
remember the last time I’ve been on a date. Now THAT deserves some chocolate considering your flavorful dating history, missy.

I am a little over 3 years recovered from an awful eating disorder that controlled my life for way too long. Ok, no chocolate. Maybe some fruit.

And majority of my days are spent teaching Sunday school, helping out with youth group bible study, being a part of a bible study, babysitting, doing some sort of community service project, searching for a new mission trip or anything else that keeps me from breaking any of the Ten Commandments. Whoa, Haley! You sure have changed since your undergrad years of partying, drinking, and too many other unmentionables. Let’s shout to the WHOLE WORLD so you can get recognition for how much you’ve changed!

Ever since I found myself on my bedroom floor crying out to Jesus two and a half years ago, my life has taken a turn for the better. You see, even though it was hard to find new friends, stop drinking, and avoid specific relationships, in the big scheme of things, they were tangible changes that were relatively easy to do when I finally put my mind to it.

Throughout the evening last night, two girls sang a few worship songs to break up the calls to pray. They were about to sing "Oceans" by Hillsong when one of the girls mentioned something similar to a blog I read earlier last week:

“Don’t sing the words until you mean them. They’re easy to sing, easy to want to feel, but please don’t sing them until you mean the words, knowing full well what they could entail.”

If you haven’t heard the song before, I highly recommend listening to it. The song is powerful. The first time I heard it, I had my hands up and my praising Jesus swagger going on. Oh yes, Jesus! You go ahead and call me out on that water! Better believe I’ll go where my trust doesn’t have any borders. You know I’m calling upon that name of Yours, Jesus!

But last night something was different.

I couldn’t find the strength to sing the words. I couldn’t even fake it.

The song was almost over before I could muster the words, “Spirit lead me…” and even then I had a hard time finishing the song.

The depravity of my sin had hit me.

Oh, how I have so wanted to go where my trust doesn’t have any borders, to call upon His name and feel His fingers wrapped around mine.

Yes, I have wanted to be all-consumed by Him.

But I haven’t.

I’ve definitely talked about it. I’ve boasted more than a million times about how good our Lord is. I can’t even begin to count how many times I’ve said, “I’m trusting Jesus on this one.”

But have I, really?

Last night, I felt the heaviness of the “no.”

I’ve been struggling with the whole “abide in Me” aspect of the relationship.

Mr. Webster translates abide to mean: to accept or bear; to stay or live somewhere; to remain or continue.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say all of those apply to our relationship with Jesus.

But I want to focus on the “stay or live somewhere” part.

To stay in Jesus. To live in Jesus.

How in the world am I supposed to live in Jesus?? That’s impossible.

Or is it?

You see, I’m the type of girl who loves big productions. I hate to say it, but I’m a sucker for the big proposals. I absolutely love listening to missionaries who are overseas in the most forbidden land, constantly dealing with physical and verbal persecution. I am all about radical life transformations; you know, the kind that everyone notices and comments on.

Unfortunately, my preference of big productions spills over into my relationship with Jesus. I only want to trust Him in big things, like going to Romania or grieving the loss of my nephew.

Not the little things like deciding between looking at Facebook or spending time in His Word, asking a coworker if they know Jesus, deciding between watching a football game or investing in a teenager who needs a mentor.

If I can’t trust Him in the little, everyday things, how in the world am I supposed to sustain trust in Him during the big storms? Sure, I can make it through the first day, but what if persecution lasts for years? Will the strength of my trust and faith in Him be strong enough to get me through?

When I started focusing on the word “abide” and what it means, I realized that I’ve been using Jesus like an amusement park.

I go to an amusement park occasionally, get a huge rush, possibly eat too much, and then head home to tell everyone about all the crazy rides I went on.

The same happens with Jesus.

I go to Him when I need something big, I do a little mission work here and there or decide to cut out drinking, and then brag to all my friends and family about what all Jesus did.

Then it’s back to everyday life.

Abide: to stay or live somewhere.

I’ve been spending my days thinking there’s nothing I should be praying hard about because there’s nothing big going on in my life.

I mean, looking at my day… it’s pretty dull.

But every time I choose to look at social media rather than spend time in the Word, I’m spitting in Jesus’ face. Each time I stifle the urge to tell my coworker about Jesus, I’m denying who He is. When I ignore the buzzing in my ear to stay quiet and instead try my hardest to be funny to get the laughs of everyone, I’m telling Jesus that He isn’t good enough for me.

I am Peter. I am Judas. I am the rich, young ruler. I am everyone who decided that Jesus was a sinner and deserved to die on the cross.

Heavenly Father, please forgive me. I have done everything but trust in You. Holy Spirit, fill my heart and my life with all that You are. I’m scared. I don’t know what it means to abide in You, Jesus, but oh how I so desire to. My flesh continues to fight against Your words, my mind is filled with demons who are trying to keep me from You. Father, cultivate my fallow heart. Pull the weeds and thorns that have been entangling Your Word from reaching me. Jesus, the little things are just as, if not more, important than the big things. I pray that You fill me with the strength to stay in Your House and not leave the shelter that only You provide. Jesus, protect those who are facing persecution right now. Remind them that You know exactly how they feel; they aren’t alone. Oh Father, in Your precious name, I ask that you continue to bring forth the sins of my heart and wash them away. Let my life glorify You and only You because You are more than worthy, more than deserving. You are God and You are good. Forgive me for believing anything else. 

Hurting Legs and Weary Hearts

It was a cool, January morning and I was awake much earlier than the sun. It was the morning of my first marathon two and a half years ago. I had hardly slept the night before because of my nerves, but the lack of sleep didn’t slow me down when my alarm went off.

Dad was eagerly waiting for me to come out of the room so we could jump in the car and head to the center.

I can still feel the nerves fluttering in my stomach as he dropped me off long before the start of the race so I could sign in, stretch, and get ready to go.

You see, this was the first race where Dad wouldn’t be at the starting line.

This scared the mess out of me.

All through junior high, high school, and even my few college meets, Dad was always there to give me a kiss on the forehead, stand by the starting line and run around to every point he possibly could to cheer me on. Majority of the time, he ran just as much as me.

Back to the marathon.

It was in Houston, a few days after the Olympic trials. I had never run more than 22 miles and the thought of running 26.2 terrified me.

Soon enough, the gun shot and I was on my way.

Around mile 7, an hour or so into the race, my legs started to hurt.

Bad sign.

I saw my dad, mom and boyfriend for the first time at mile 10. I was on pace, but my legs were really starting to bother me. When I told Dad this, I saw the concern in his eyes.

Flashback a few weeks prior to the race. Dad and I discussed the idea of him jumping in during the middle of the race to keep me going. He wouldn’t have a badge, so there would be a possibility that he could get kicked out. We talked about it, but ultimately decided on race morning that he wouldn’t jump in for fear that it could not only get him kicked out, but also disqualify me.

Fast forward to mile 13.

Halfway through the race and my bladder got the best of me. It was my first time to stop and what a mistake that was.

Every two miles after that, I was stopping to stretch or get water.

Mile 15, I hit the dreaded wall.

I wasn’t expecting it to hit me so soon, but then again, I didn’t get the training in that I needed over Christmas break so I shouldn’t have been so surprised.

Mile 18, I was ready to quit. I had already decided that when I saw my parents again I was going to pull out.

My calves were cramped, my legs were in pain, and my mind was somewhere in the dark with no glimmer of light to be found.

Mile 18.5, I saw my mom and boyfriend.

“This is it, I’m out.”

Then, like a scene out of a movie with the Rocky theme song playing, I saw my dad in his running gear trotting towards me until he was finally at my side and in step with me.

“How you doing, Baby Girl?”

“Dead. I want to quit.”

“Haha, yea it’s about that time. Let’s keep going.”

Painfully, we hit mile 20.

Mile 22, the tears started.

For the first time since freshman year of high school, I got mad at my dad for pushing me.

Mile 23, then 24...

With less than a mile of the race left, Dad stepped off onto the sidewalk since the rest of the way was fenced off.

From the corner of my eye, I could still see him running like a crazy man, shouting to me from the sidewalk and through the crowd of people.

Mile 26.

0.2 miles left and I would be crossing the finish line.

The emotions that hit me when I finished were overwhelming.

I finished. I had stinking finished my first marathon.

I had run in honor of my Papaw, so that only heightened the emotions.

I stumbled across the finish line and, like a drunk person, wobbled to the line to receive my finisher’s award.

After what felt like days, I was on my way to meet my parents. I collapsed in their arms.

I was dead.

I was in pain.

I cried when I went to put my sweats on.

But I finished and had it not been for my dad coming to my rescue, I wouldn’t have crossed the finish line.

As I look back now on the race, I can’t help but see how closely it mimics my relationship with Jesus.

I spend months training, reading His word and submerging myself into devotionals.

Sure, I’ll miss a day or two, but it can’t hurt me too much, right?

Then a trial comes along.

At first, I can handle it. It feels a little uncomfortable but I’ll make it.

Then the storm keeps pouring.

Is it over yet, God? My heart hurts. I don’t like this.

I start to give up. The test is too much to handle. The end is nowhere in sight so I’ll just call it quits early.

I stop trusting the training I endured months before.

I’ve finally had enough. I start slowing down, ready to throw in the towel.

That’s when I see Him; our beautiful Savior in front of me, His arms open and ready to embrace me.

He starts whispering Truth in my ear.

Rest in Me. I will give You strength. I will not give you anything more than you can handle.

He takes my hand; He starts to help carry the cross that I built, that only I deserve to carry.

The tears come, the pain worsens.

At the last moment, it seems like He disappears and leaves me alone again.

But I can still feel Him. I can see the end is near.

I can hear His voice in the crowd and, even though it still hurts, I feel peace in knowing I’m not alone.

All at once, it’s over.

I can stop struggling. I can finally rest.

The pain lasts a little while longer, the tears still flow for a while even after it is finished, but oh! How wonderful it feels to fall into the arms of our Father!

Like Paul, I like to think of obstacles as races.

As the years pass, I’m learning what it means to “run in such a way as to get the prize,” (1 Corinthians 9:24); the prize of eternal life with Jesus.

I’m continuing to learn how to “train,” where to train, and with whom to train.

I’m starting the physical training for a marathon as we speak. I know that there may come a time when my body will no longer allow me to run, so I want to use this gift while I can.

But I pray that I never stop training for the spiritual marathon. There may be seasons where I train harder than others and I pray that during the low seasons, I can look up and see our Heavenly Father standing there, cheering me on into His arms.

I pray that my heart never stops beating for Him, that even when times are tough, I can look next to me and see my Daddy next to me, pushing me through to the finish line.

Folks, Mama Haley is back in action.

And all glory goes to the most amazing Coach who never gives up on a poor athlete like me.

“Do you not know that in a race all runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like someone running aimlessly; I do not fight like a boxer beating the air. No, I strike a blow to my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize.” 1 Corinthians 9:24-27

Jesus and Zombies

It’s been almost a month since being home.

I feel like it’s been a year.

I also feel like I’m a zombie.

Scooby Doo, where are you?

If I remember correctly, (which my memory seems to be a bit off lately), the last time I blogged was about a week after being home and I was recovering from dehydration due to crying too much and my tone was about as flat as my feet.

Well, here we are again giving this whole “blogging from the states” another try a few weeks later.

Brief update on my life:

Good things: school, internship and work have started so I’m no longer able to binge on ice cream in bed all day long, Tick and I are adjusting nicely to our typical sleeping arrangement (her in the middle of the bed and me spooning around her), and I have been through two Sunday School mornings without severely traumatizing the kindergarteners.

Bad things: I’ve started running again, along with Crossfit, so I am a giant mass of sore muscles on the verge of cramping at the slightest flex, I can’t seem to fall asleep and when I do, I have unpleasant dreams and wake up millions of times only to fall asleep just in time for my alarm to go off, and my brain seems to be functioning at the level of a 101-year-old.

I’m still trying to use the “jet lag” excuse, but considering it’s been about four weeks since I’ve landed, I think the only reasonable conclusion to my mental status is the fact that this past year has been a doozie and I’m simply going through a season of mental and spiritual exhaustion with a side of grieving.

Shortly after coming home last summer, Benjamin blessed our family with his presence. The morning after he was born, I was heading back to life in Tyler, which happened to consist of the two hardest semesters of my entire life. On a difficulty scale of 1-10, school was about 1,000,000, work was an extremely hostile and chaotic environment and if I wasn’t studying, I was babysitting or doing something besides be by myself and process the summer and loss of Benjamin.

Then this past summer decides to slap me in the face.

I mean, I’m not complaining. Jesus did a number on my heart and in the lives of those babies.

Those babies mean the world to me so if I have to be slapped every single day in order for them to feel loved, well then I guess I better get used to a sore face and bruised eyes.

This past summer I experienced things I never knew existed. The amount of abuse, neglect and poverty still plague my mind on a daily basis.

I will be in the middle of a conversation with a friend when, out of nowhere, my heart breaks and an overwhelming darkness surrounds me. I have pictures of the babies on my wall and on my phone so I can remember their sweet faces.

But sometimes the longing in my heart for them to be in my arms again is more than I can stand.

Big crowds exhaust me, fast-paced overwhelms me, and it takes about 10 times of reading a page before I can finally grasp what the words are saying.

Sometimes I feel like the worst friend alive because when someone starts talking to me, I tend to zone out and start thinking about my babies.

Or sometimes think of nothing at all.

I really do wonder sometimes if this is what it feels like to be a zombie.

I mean, think about it:

I can’t sleep, all I want to do is eat things in an inappropriate manner at inappropriate times (not bodies though), I’m zoned out about 70% of the day, and sometimes I feel like the only thing that comes out of my mouth is weird noises that no one else can understand.

JESUS, WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!?!

Basically what I am trying to say is I’m still not back to “normal.”

It was so bad Labor Day weekend that I called my mom on a Saturday night asking her to drive up the next morning and stay with me until that Monday afternoon.  

I think I’ve asked, “what is wrong with me?” about a million times to my closest friends.

Ok, a million times to my closest friends might be an exaggeration.

I’ve asked, “what is wrong with me?” about a million times to Tick.

There. That’s more accurate.

I’m starting to realize that this is probably going to be the “new normal” for the next couple of weeks and possibly months. This past year has been packed full of difficult events and little time to process it all. I have spent many nights crying out to God, begging Him for mercy right after asking Him why He had forsaken me. He has poured an immeasurable amount of grace upon me, sanctified my heart over and over again, and has made me trust in Him when it was the last thing I wanted to do.

After a season of go, go, go, I’ve now entered into a season rest. My days might be full with work, internship and class, but by 5:00 pm, I’m usually free. It was in those evening hours that I used to fill with activities and service, but now I’m finding myself needing to be alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t necessarily want to be alone. Sometimes I wish I just had someone there that I could touch but not have to talk to.

Sometimes, Loneliness feels like an 80-pound blanket that I can’t shake off.

But it’s in these moments when I’m on the verge of breaking that Jesus comes in.

He removes the blanket, wraps His arms around me, and reminds me that I am His. He tells me that He is my refuge, my shield, my strength.

When insecurities plague me, when nightmares haunt me, when loneliness surrounds me, I cuddle up into His arms and find peace.

When anxiety and panic take hold of me, I reach for His hand next to me and feel secure.

This last month has been one like I’ve never known. I’ve never experienced such grief and heartache, confusion, and loneliness.

But when I think back to why I’m feeling all of it, I realize that I wouldn’t trade this season for anything.

I wouldn’t be where I am today without the grace of our loving Savior.

So if you just so happen to be around me, don’t be afraid to give me a hug.

Hugs are quite nice.

And please don’t be taken aback by my lack of filter, confusing statements, and sudden need to let Tick out- she’s my excuse when I get overwhelmed.

Please continue to pray for the other interns as they adjust back to life in the states. And please, please pray for my babies. I’ve been blessed with pictures and videos of them, all proving the healing power of Jesus.

Oh, how I love Him!

Daily, He saves me and reminds me I am His.

And right now, that’s all I need to be ok.