I am saved.

That’s my powerful testimony.  A wretch. Saved. Me.

As Christians, those 3 words which consists of 8 letters are priceless.  I look forward to the day that I will soar on eagle’s wings and be in the presence of the Master that rescued me from an eternal fire pit.  Me.  He found ME worthy.  I can’t grasp that.

I absolutely love sharing this journey that God and I have been on since He created me in my mother’s womb. The first 25 years were rather boring, but the last 22 have been action packed.  There’s a truth in the saying that being “saved” does not make you immune to trials.  The trials will and do come.

In a few weeks,  I have the privilege to go and share with my friend, Tonja’s, women’s ministry.  I get to share the miracles that I’ve seen.  I get to talk about finding God in a hospital.  I get to talk about the power of praying women.  I get to talk about one blessing after another.

Exciting, right?

Nope.

Satan has been on attack at every corner.  He’s reminded me of the time I saw a social media post from a family member that said I wasn’t the “saint” I have portrayed myself to be.  He’s reminded me that I’ve struggled with anxiety and found myself wallowing in self-pity. Ol’ Lucifer reminded me that I’m deaf.  I have no business speaking in front of others and will make a fool of myself.  He’s reminded me of how someone had negative things to say about how I go to church every time the doors are open because I’m a goody-goody.  He has reminded me of the ugly thoughts I’ve had against my co-workers at times.

The old slitherer had me so worked up that I reached out to Megan.  I shared with her that I felt like I needed to cancel my speaking engagement. The old crow “ripped me a new one” as we say in the south. She told me I needed to get my “crap” together.  She reminded me that this isn’t about me , per se.  It’s about being real and raw.  No masks.

I’m no saint.  Far from it. I’m the scum on the bottom of a true saint’s shoe.  I’ve yelled at my kids.  I’ve yelled at the car in front of me. I go to church every time the doors are open because I need it.  It keeps me focused on the Master and not me. I don’t always like people. I’m deaf, but the good Lord gave me eyes to hear.  I struggle every single day of my life.   I’m a mess. But I’m HIS mess.

After the crow was finished with me, I didn’t  send the message to cancel.  You’ll find me at Frontline Biker Church sharing this journey that God has chosen me for.  I pray that he’ll use me to give another sister hope:

I know he’ll be right by my side, as always.

Ain’t God good?

The Beancounter.