Category Archives: Freedom

Laughing. At the Future.

Every September, I ask for a word for the upcoming year.

I usually do it in the fall around the Jewish New Year, give or take a few days. I measure time a little fuzzy.

Last year, the word was “Healed.”

Incidentally, last year, I also tore my ACL, broke my leg, had problems with my gallbladder, and got a wart. On my face.

Needless to say, I felt a tiny bit confused.

As of this writing, I’m happy to announce that all those things are healed now, or at least well on their way to healing. So in that way, I guess the word held true.

Needless to say, I felt a tiny bit confused.

 

But. It was a long way around on a bumpy road.

This year, I considered not asking for a word. Maybe I just don’t want to know.

I held off for a month.

Lord, have mercy. Keep that word to yourself.

Physical pain and sickness and injury–these things mess with your mind. Pain is a head game. You win if you don’t let it get in your head, if you choose to live every moment like the world isn’t falling apart. It’s a kind of personal terrorism. You can’t give in, or the injury wins.

As my physical therapist says, “Suck it up, Buttercup.”

I should know this by now. A body goes through a lot in forty years.

Maybe the most disappointing thing about hurting my leg in the spring was the way I lost my joy. Fast. And it stayed gone. I could reach and grasp and drag it back, but it was a shallow thing. The tiniest upset caused me to lose it again.

I thought I had more joy. I needed to know this about myself.

The joy of the Lord is my strength. The joy of the Lord is my strength. The joy of the Lord is my strength.

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

 

That’s my verse. My life’s motto. How could I let it go so easily through the greatest challenges?

I’ve listened to hours and hours of instruction on healing this year. I’ve talked to my friends and listened to their advice. I’ve had hours of prayer.

The thing that keeps emerging for me is joy.

I heard Bill Johnson share the many ways that healing comes. Of course, it can come through prayer, but he has seen so many people healed. Some have been healed just by walking in the door during worship. Others spontaneously felt heat or tingling. Others were healed sometime during a service but didn’t even know it until later when they realized they were doing an activity that they hadn’t been able to do for years, lifting a box or moving a table.

One story he shared stood out to me as confirmation of joy. A man was given four months to live. His doctor laid down the files and paperwork and said, “Do you want to know what I would do if I were you?”

The man said, “Yes, of course.”

The doctor said, “If I were you, if they told me I had four months to live? I would go home and rent every funny movie I could find. I would start to laugh, and I would not stop.”

So the man did. The next time they tested him, the disease had gone. No evidence of that disease anywhere. He was cured by laughing, cured by joy.

I would start to laugh, and I would not stop.

 

Sometimes we are so darn serious. It’s such a drag, and there is no breakthrough because our own heaviness holds us down in one tiny spot.

So many things happened this year. And I struggled to hold on to joy.

Every person I talk to starts to laugh as I tell them the crazy things that have happened. Because, for some reason, one terrible thing is not funny. It’s just terrible.

But a whole bunch of terrible things piled up on top of each other? Hilarious.

I think it’s the absurdity of it. Like, that’s not real, right? You have to be joking.

No. I’m not. But maybe life is.

I finally got up the courage to ask for my word for the year.

The Spirit had been holding his breath, waiting for me to ask. Almost even before I finished the prayer I heard my word.

“Laughter.”

Great. Sigh. I’m not going to ponder on what that means.

You have to be joking.

 

I keep thinking about the Proverbs 31 woman. How the scripture says, “She laughs, without fear of the future.”

I’ve always read that passage a certain way. Like, it’s a defiant laugh. Like, “Haha, Future! You can’t catch me!!!”

But lately, I think she’s actually sincerely laughing. Like she sees things that are funny. She’s cracking up, enjoying life. She is overwhelmed sometimes by all that she manages. That lady is no joke, but her life kind of sounds like one. Every person I know that manages that much stuff feels crazy at times. The ones that don’t quit are the ones who know how to laugh at the craziness. How to take it all in stride. How to make the messes and the unresolved areas and the failures, because she surely had all of that, how to make it all a joke.

I’m praying for more laughter. I’m watching videos and playing more. I already feel better. I’ll get to the future, but right now I’m laughing at the past, this year of “Are you kidding me, Lord?”

I think He is.

Lol.

Laughter. It’s the word for the year.

***

She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future. Prov 31:25

 

The Day I Wrecked My Bike, or, Paul Revere’s Ride.

I love the US.

I love American history. I love our flag. The Fourth of July, Mom, and apple pie. Love it all.

On Easter Sunday, we celebrated the weekend with a bike ride from Lexington, Massachusetts, where the first shots of the American Revolutionary war were fired, to Boston, Massachusetts, and then back again to Lexington.

Yes.

On Easter.

We are rebels.

Appropriate, I think.

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The Battle Green in front of the Old Meeting House in Lexington, where the first shots of the Revolutionary war were fired on April 19, 1775.

 

When we parked our cars in Lexington, I picked up a few leaflets announcing Patriot’s Day activities. I was thrilled to find that a reenactment of Paul Revere’s ride into Lexington would be held in town that very night.

I get more excited about a Paul Revere reenactment than any band live in concert that I can think of.

I am a patriot and a rebel.

And a nerd.

I announced to my family that we would be staying in Lexington after our bike ride until 11:30 pm to witness this exciting event. Much moaning and groaning commenced, but I was not deterred.

“Hush,” I said. “We are staying, Paul Revere is going to be here, and you are going to love it.”

More groans.

The bike path in Lexington is an award winning Rail- to-Trails path. If you are a biker and ever visit there, it’s a great ride. Only about 12 miles to Boston through beautiful communities.

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Along the way, it occurred to me that our return would mirror Paul Revere’s famous ride from Boston to Lexington.

I prayed for our country as I rode. That the original godly plan for our nation would be realized. The Land of the Free. Home of the Brave. Justice. Liberty. The pursuit of happiness.

It was our first real ride of the year. A high sun and a cool breeze. People everywhere with spring fever smiles, and a city planning to celebrate its patriots.

We rode through Arlington and on to the Charles River across from the Harvard campus in Cambridge. We stopped to rest by the water. Boston was just a few stoplights around the corner.

When we jumped back on our bikes, I started praying again. Angels for our country. Freedom and peace.

My kids swerved left in front of me, and as the last one cleared my view, I saw the cause of their changing course. A man was running toward us with no sign of turning. And I was riding straight for him, a pedestrian game of chicken.

I made a decision in a split second. I pulled my bike on to the pavement from the soft shoulder to avoid hitting the runner. When I did, the front tire caught on the edge and then went full-on serpentine. The path was full of people, and I didn’t want to hit them either. I thought I could brake the bike, and it seemed to be working, so I put my foot down.

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Never do that.

When I planted my foot, the bike was going too fast for me to stop. I saw the bike swing forward and then swerve left in front of me–with my right leg still on it. It twisted my whole body forward around my left leg, and I felt more deep pops in my knee than I could count. The bike threw me back, and I landed on my hip and then bounced over onto my shoulder. I was in so much pain, I think I left my body for one flashing second.

If the runner stopped to see if I was ok, it was in that second. As far as I know, he ran on.

But Good Samaritans are alive and well. The runner did not stop, but he was only one who passed me by. So many people took time to help me.

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The banks of the Charles River, across the street from Harvard in Cambridge, just a few minutes before the accident.

 

I prayed before I hit the ground that I would not have a serious injury.

But I confess that, as I went down,  actually two thoughts went through my mind: One, an arrow prayer, “Oh! God! No injury!” And, two, this gem, “Dangit!  I’m not going to get to see Paul Revere!”

Priorities, people.

A few minutes later, I tried to stand on that knee, and it buckled under me. The ambulance came soon after, and my rescuers lifted me onto the stretcher.

Delirious with pain and adrenaline, “I like your moons,”  I said, pointing to the lunar phase tattoos on the arms of the shaved bald beautiful girl that buckled me into the stretcher straps.

“Why would I want to spend the day with Paul Revere when I can spend the day with you guys? First responders, my heroes!” I said to the guy that rode with me as I patted his knee and prayed for his safety. He smiled at me, only slightly patronizing, looking as young as my daughter.

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Six hours and nine X-rays later, I left the ER with an extension knee cast and a pair of crutches.

My kids pushed my wheelchair out the front door as my husband pulled the van around to pick me up. All day, I had been watching the clock creep toward evening. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, now almost ten. I was holding out hope that we would be in Lexington  for Paul Revere’s ride and that, since I was injured, my family would do whatever I wanted.

I was not wasting this incident, I can promise you that.

When we got in the van, I said, “I really wanted to see Paul Revere.” Sigh.

Silence.

I said again, “I just so really wanted to see Paul Revere.” Sigh. Sigh.

Silence.

I waited a minute.

Then, “Well, so sad. I guess I won’t get to see Paul Revere.”

 

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Paul Revere’s house. Boston, Massachusetts.

 

My husband’s turn to sigh. He said, “I think it’s crazy, but you are the one who got hurt. You can decide if you feel like waiting until ELEVEN THIRTY at night and then driving home.”

Yes.

I felt like it.

I felt like I had been run over, but I felt good enough to wait for Paul Revere.

We got to Lexington to pick up our cars. My husband stopped by the pharmacy, and I waited and watched the clock. I became aware of fatigue, along with a little nagging sense that this might not be my best idea ever. But I wanted to see Paul Revere. So, so bad.

 

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I wanted to live in a moment of pure passion. To put myself in the place of flawed men of the past and catch the vision they had for our future.

Yes.

It is worth it to me to stay up late and hobble to a restored historical site. To stand on the same ground where blood was shed for my freedom, for our country’s freedom. To catch a little glimpse of what it really meant and what it really means now to be a Patriot, someone who believes in freedom enough to be willing to die for it.

I wanted to stand there for one moment among the minutemen and peer through the shadows at history. I wanted the strength and the courage and the fierce honor to fly through the air and hit me with the force of centuries.

 

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One if by land, two if by sea. The belfry tower of the Old North Church where the lanterns hung to tell Paul Revere of the British approach.

 

Paul Revere was also interrupted on his ride to Lexington, a part of his story that we rarely hear. He was captured by the British in between Concord and Lexington, and I’m sure, for a moment, that he wondered if he would be able to complete his mission. John Hancock and Samuel Adams were waiting for information in Lexington so that they could determine their next move.

The British soldiers weren’t sure what to do with Paul Revere. Apparently they decided he was harmless and took him back with them to Lexington. After a short detainment they let him go, presumably with orders to stop being so rebellious.

Unbeknownst to them, they delivered him to his exact destination.

 

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The house where Revere met Hancock and Adams in Lexington.

 

After his release, he rode straight to the Hancock house to warn John and Sam that the British were in town with warrants for their arrests. He helped them escape just a few hours before the troops marched into Lexington and the first shots of the war were fired.

My family thought we could drive in closer to the house, so I would only have to hobble a few feet. But the streets were blocked, and the guardians of the event were not impressed with my injury. We would have to “pahk in the pahking lot” and walk the quarter mile with everyone else.

We tried to access the house from every possible angle. My family looked earnest in their desire to humor me, and also earnestly exhausted. And the more we drove, the more fatigued I felt. My head hurt. My leg hurt.

“Ok,” I said, “You’re right. I know. We tried. We should go home.”

Back to the parking lot we went for our other car and left the city, my husband in his truck and me driving my van like a tin man, stiff legged and far away from the wheel.

As we drove away, I thought I might cry. I had missed my chance. I might not ever come this way on Patriot’s Day again. I had ridden from Boston to Lexington, raising up a prayer of freedom for our country, a prayer of all that was intended for this nation from the beginning.  And I wanted to end it with the breathless sight of Paul Revere leaping off of his horse, interrupted but unstoppable.

We pulled to the last stoplight on our way out of town, minutes before the great event. I was fighting back tears, and then, out of nowhere in the dark, there he was.

Striding down the street in his long blue coat and tricorn hat, manly ponytail bouncing and dramatic.

I’m sure he saw me. And I’m pretty sure we nodded to each other, a dignified patriotic salute.

***

Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. Jn15:13

Through all our history, to the last,

in the hour of darkness and peril and need,

the people will waken and listen to hear

the hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

and the midnight message of Paul Revere.  

~ Longfellow

Written on Patriot’s Day, 2017.

The Revelation of Memory: A Process of Emotional Healing

Some things stick so sharp in memory, like blades thrown hard in a turning board.

And those memories reveal more than just the details of an event.

Memories reveal truths about the person remembering them, things we need to look at in ourselves. Rather than make accusations, or lay blame, or look to others for resolution, when a painful memory arises we have an opportunity to see something that has been hidden.

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My earliest memory always troubled me. I saw home videos of myself as a child, giggling and playing. So I know that I had those moments, but that is not what I remember early on.

My first memory is of a family altercation that left my mother in tears.  I remember feeling angry and protective of her, as little as I was, around three years old. That memory would come up at random times and stab away at me again.

I shared the story with women friends last week. We were praying for each other and agreeing with one another’s desire to go to a new level of health and strength. They asked me if I wanted to pray through the memory with them.

“Of course,” I said. “I want to be done with this.”

I have recommended a book several times on this site, and it’s becoming a staple around here. Praying Medic’s book, Emotional Healing in 3 Easy Steps, is so simple that it seems like it can’t be real.  But it works.  I’ve used it alone, with others, and now I’ve had friends walk through it with me.  It’s powerful and deceptively simple.

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My friends were familiar with the book and started praying and talking through the method with me.

It really is three easy steps.  The book is more thorough and gives anecdotes and testimonies, but, basically, you bring up the memory in your mind. You share the emotion that you feel when you focus on the memory. And then you give that emotion to Jesus.  Repeat the steps until there is no negative emotion left, until you feel peace.

When I first focused on the memory, I felt anger. Absolute rage. I remember taking a box of tissue to my mother and being furious that someone would be so mean to her to leave her crying like that.tissues-1000849_640

I saw Jesus standing there.  I gave the rage to Him.

My friend Ginny said, “Ok, now go back to that memory. You are standing by your mother. What do you feel now towards the person who hurt her?”

Disgust. A wave of disgust that felt like it could knock me over. Horrific gobs of disgust.

“Ok,” she said. Give the disgust to Jesus.”

“Ok.” I gave it to Jesus.

“Now go back. What do you feel now?”

Still disgust. Not surprising, really. There was a lot of disgust.

“Ok, that’s ok,” she said. “Sometimes you have to give it to Him more than once. Just say, ‘Jesus, I give you this disgust.'”

And I could not do it.

I’m not even kidding. I could not do it.

It surprised me. I am an emotionally aware person, and I wanted to be healed. But I could not let it go. It was a physical sensation even, a tightness in my throat.

Why would anyone want to hold on to it?

And I didn’t really, but I couldn’t let it go.

The women prayed, and we just waited. I couldn’t say the words. Did I mention that it was 3 am?

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Perfect love doesn’t watch the clock.

It was like digging out a dandelion root. The Holy Spirit was leading me down and down and down to something so deep that I didn’t even know it was there.

I have been to more counselors and pastor’s meetings and prayer groups than I can count. I have read books on healing and had multiple experiences with deliverance in many forms. I have forgiven much. And I am so much stronger than I was. None of it was wasted, and I have been healed of so much pain.

But I was confused that night because I was looking for more pain at the roots of these old things. I thought that when I let go of the disgust, I would feel more pain. But pain and hurt were not present. I’ve been healed of so much of that.

When I finally was able to choke out the words, “I give You the disgust,” it felt like some great covering was wrenched from me. I felt wide open, exposed.

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My friend said, “Ok. You are back in the room. Now what do you feel?”

I thought I would say “pain.” But it wasn’t that.

It was fear.

A sharp and bright little burning flame of fear. A child’s world rocked to the core. It scared me so much, the screaming and the crying. And as a child, I guess I went straight to disgust and anger to protect myself. And then carried it all around for years like a shield.

I think the pain actually came later, as the implications of the problems became more clear, the waste and the disappointment. But in the beginning, it was just simple fear.

Fear is at the root of so much of our junk.

“Ok,” Ginny said. “Give Jesus the fear.”

So I did. That part was easier. But I guess that fear and I go way back. Further than I even thought. It’s a battle I’ve fought for a long time. And the Lord spoke “Lady the Fearless” over me when I asked Him the name of this blog.  He meant it.

He’s speaking “Fearless” over you.

And He means it.

We are getting healed. Together.

***

When you remember something that stabs at you, what is the heart, the soul, the spirit within you trying to say about the past and what needs healing and release?  

Praying Medic’s book can help you.  Find it here.

Perfect love casts out fear.  1John4:18b

And a thank you to the women of Facebook at Lisa Palieri Perna’s Daddy’s Girl conference. You know who you are. May you be richly blessed.

Calling All Daddy’s Girls! Conference in Review.

When you have a vision and talk about it, it has the potential to come alive.

Lisa Palieri Perna of Touched by Prayer saw that happen last week.

Lisa had envisioned a gathering of a group of women, many of them encountering God in an intimate way for the first time.  She prayed over it.  She spoke to other women about it.  She asked for God’s help and for a team to support the vision.

And it happened, on March 17, 2017, just like that.

It was an honor to be there, to watch the women experiencing God’s love and receiving inner healing, finding freedom.

So many women, coming together, just to love.  Maturity, wisdom, generosity, kindness.  And with none of the games that often go along with gatherings of women.

No competition.  No cattiness.  No cliques.

Just love.

When you encounter love like that, Holy Spirit love carried to a certain depth, there is an indescribable peace that fills the room, the interactions, the atmosphere.  A peace that says, “You are accepted.  You are safe here.  You are free here.”

It makes sense.  Perfect love casts out fear.  It brings peace.

The relief that comes along with that kind of peace, it’s also indescribable, I think because we encounter it so rarely in most group settings.  It’s something I pray we will see more and more in our lives.   It’s a kind of permission to be ourselves. It’s something we are all longing for.

Many thanks to Lisa an to all the women who came to serve.  I’m so blessed and encouraged and inspired.

A vision realized is a beautiful thing.

***

The planning for the next Daddy’s Girl conference is already in the works.  Follow Lisa at Touched by Prayer on Facebook to get the deets as soon as they are available!

If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.  Matt 21:22

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L-R.  Lisa Perna (Touched by Prayer), Margie Moorman (speaker), Mitzi Hanna (writer).  Photo used with permission.

Why Vault 7 is the Most Sherlock Thing to Ever Happen in Real Life

Just so you know, I get that this is serious.

But honestly, it’s also a rush.  After so much opinion and spin in the news, the transparency from WikiLeaks is somehow, at the same time, both terrifying and reassuring.

Whatever happens, whatever the debate, there is no doubt that these are exciting times.

And more than anything, I appreciate WikiLeaks for being one of the few places in our modern media that isn’t talking down to us.  Kind of like Sherlock.  Julian Assange is a Sherlock fan, I’d bet my pipe on it.

Love, hate, or just don’t care about WikiLeaks and the CIA, this is the work of brilliant men, criminal masterminds, heroes, & villains.  And there is a lot of debate about which one is which.

If you haven’t been following the recent (practically nonexistent in the MSM) news about Vault 7, here’s the short version.  This story is the most Sherlock thing I have ever heard in real life.

In February, Julian Assange, founder of the controversial Wikileaks organization, announced the release of new information coming on March 7, 2017.

Some have said that Vault7 got its name from the release date, but I’m sure there’s more to it than that.  Assange loves to speak in clues and riddles.

Assange went dark in October of 2016, not long after the release of the now infamous Hilary emails.  He was presumed dead by some followers, after all, how many high profile people must desperately want to see this man put out of business?  However, Assange has made allusions to a “kill switch” on WikiLeaks.  In other words, he has suggested that there exists an understanding between unknown members of the Assange network, so, were anything to happen to Assange, incriminating files on some world leaders would be released.

This is strange to us who live in a 9-5, bread-and-butter world.  But, to the players of chess in politics and leadership, this is business as usual.  It’s just that, now, it’s finally in the open where we can all see it playing out, thanks to the transparency provided by Wikileaks.

Back to Vault 7.

On March 7, Wikileaks tweeted this encrypted image.

 

 

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And the next morning, the password to decrypt it, “SplinterIntoAThousandPiecesAndScatterIntoTheWind.”

Like all things WikiLeaks, the password has more than surface meaning.  It is an excerpt from a larger quote by JFK referencing the need to dismantle the CIA, which he believed was gaining and abusing power.

That was in the 1960s.

Decrypting the photograph then revealed an image of a piece of artwork covered in phrases in many different languages.  Link to more images and details about clues here at heavy.com.

If the riddle interests you as much as it does me, you can read about it at the link above.

One image after another, hinting at the contents of the Vault 7 release.  A seed vault.  A mailbox.  A jet engine hush house.  Nazi gold.

Now we know that the documents in Vault 7 contain a volume of evidence showing that the CIA has been hacking government and private citizens all over the world.

Some were disappointed that this information was the subject of the anticipated release.

In the current climate, many people consider some measure of surveillance to be expected.  It has been normalized through years of seeing ourselves on recorded video–in stores, elevators, our own phones and devices, etc.

We have been conditioned over time to accept a scenario that was regarded as sinister and unlikely in the famous novel, 1984.

But it appears that there is more evidence in Vault 7 beyond what has become ignored and dismissed as garden variety surveillance.  Evidence that the CIA has overstepped in ways that would trouble even the most jaded and overexposed.

It remains to be seen.  I’m watching for the big reveals.

But it’s clear, if it wasn’t before, that we are in a war.  Whether it feels like it or not.  An information war.  A war that is being fought on the internet, in the media, in entertainment, and technology.

Amid all the noise, Wikileaks’ strategic moves are quietly epic.

The response will, no doubt, be the same.

***

The greatest battles are fought in the mind.  ~Casey Treat

And you will be hearing of wars and rumors of wars; see that you are not frightened, for those things must take place, but that is not yet the end.  Mt24:6