tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9924767074944248482024-03-13T04:11:54.529-04:00Becoming Me Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.comBlogger328125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-15190371852979341422012-03-18T20:30:00.001-04:002012-03-19T20:52:20.570-04:00Are you still here? I'm not.I've moved to <a href="http://angelanaworth.com/">www.AngelaNazworth.com</a> please come over to see me.Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-20791474541071232812011-08-24T22:14:00.000-04:002011-08-24T22:14:48.590-04:00Womb Woven and Wonderfully MadeI am letting go of Becoming Me ... and now writing at my <a href="http://angelanazworth.com/"><b>new blog</b></a>. I hope you will stop by and see me and learn why I have ... <i>transitioned</i>. Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-85071665158615827842011-07-15T06:35:00.000-04:002011-07-15T06:35:47.518-04:00Drinking SunshineI know that I have not been around here much lately...there have been a lot of changes in my life and more to come. I'm excited to share details with you and will very soon. <a href="http://www.incourage.me/2011/07/drinking-sunshine-smelling-roses-and-kissing-ladybugs.html#comments">My latest post</a> is up at (in)courage. I hope you enjoy it.Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-49706762087298362632011-05-16T10:50:00.000-04:002011-05-16T10:50:56.623-04:00Recovery and PunctuationJust a few weeks after my blog comeback, I started to experience excruciating pains in my neck and arm. Long story short, I am now in bed recovering from neck surgery. The spinal surgeon did a great job and I am healing. God has shown me so much during the past few months and I cannot wait to share with you. Hopefully I will be writing soon.<div><br />
</div><div>You can find my latest post over at <a href="http://www.incourage.me/2011/05/the-comma.html#comment-85751">(In)Courage</a>. It's about the comma and spiritual growth. Odd combo, but I think you'll like the message. </div>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-42555091085253614922011-03-23T21:33:00.000-04:002011-03-23T21:33:32.672-04:00Take Fear Out of the Equation<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSDDLfazAp293ISRL9Spt9tHHaEdKwV_nqZbqYvI8ORJWCqtXRrpGn5UQ8E27J01ORQj0KhX4KtNbxT7U_9SdvhbzHQFi7tFHiLUoqSNMmXe5zH_6G0DxATivxbly71IEO9LwJShV22s/s1600/KID905SpreadYourWings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSDDLfazAp293ISRL9Spt9tHHaEdKwV_nqZbqYvI8ORJWCqtXRrpGn5UQ8E27J01ORQj0KhX4KtNbxT7U_9SdvhbzHQFi7tFHiLUoqSNMmXe5zH_6G0DxATivxbly71IEO9LwJShV22s/s320/KID905SpreadYourWings.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tradingphrases.com/">http://www.tradingphrases.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The stress of the unknown weighted me anxious. I had an opportunity to pursue...a decision to make. A stirring deep within concocted a desire to explore. I didn't know why, but I knew that I must.<br />
<br />
I knew that good would come from the exploration. Earth-shattering change was not eminent. Altering my life was not required; but inspection, scrutiny and analysis of situation and self demanded action. Yet, I froze...suspended in a nebula of confusion and fear.<br />
<br />
Questions that I did not want to answer hovered. Undesirable scenarios loomed. A visual of potential hurt feelings flashed in my mind's eye. Threats of failure danced around me. Doubts circled and sang <i>what-if</i>?<br />
<br />
I locked eyes with a Godly friend and whined<br />
"I need someone to make this decision for me. Tell me what to do and I'll do it."<br />
<br />
"Explore it," she decided...quickly.<br />
<br />
"I was hoping for a different answer," I sighed.<br />
<br />
Then, she offered instruction. "Take fear out of the equation. Now, what do you want to do?"<br />
<br />
I smiled. "I want to see what this is really about."<br />
<br />
She returned my smile with one of her own, "Then, that's what you do."<br />
<br />
So I explored. And I learned. And I grew.<br />
<br />
In its unhealthy form, fear is, at best, an obstacle...at worst, it is an agent of paralysis and atrophy. When removed from the equation, fear is left without power and the right choice rises to the surface.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark%204:39-41&version=NASB"><i><b><span style="color: #0c343d;">"And He got up and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, 'Hush, be still.' and the wind died down and it became perfectly calm. And then He said to them, 'Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?'"</span></b></i></a><br />
<b><span style="color: #0c343d;"> -Mark 4:39-40</span></b>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-50003538677032387902011-03-20T21:38:00.001-04:002011-03-20T21:42:41.585-04:00Being an Encourager<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr></tr>
</tbody></table> (Warning, this is another one of those posts where I just "talk" to you)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from Show Off Arts - Dayspring. com</td></tr>
</tbody></table> It was my first day on the job as the corporate communications specialist for a well-respected community bank. Two hours after I arrived, my new boss, Laura, announced that the bank's president and CEO had resigned that weekend. Fortunately, the resignation was not tied to even a scent of a scandal, which came as a relief to this public relations gal. But still, a rather monumental change in leadership had occurred and I felt uneasy.<br />
<br />
Adding to first day nerves, the interim president and CEO summoned me to his office to discuss an upcoming publication. Laura volunteered to accompany me to the meeting and I accepted her offer in an instant. I can be brave and independent, but at that moment I reeled with insecurity. I remember very little from that meeting, except for me trying to sound intelligent while I assessed the situation and proposed an idea.<br />
<br />
On our way back to the marketing department, I asked Laura if she was fine with the way that I expressed opinions during the meeting ... remember, my tenure was all of four hours old.<br />
<br />
Her sincere reply instilled me with confidence and became one of the most influential compliments I have received.<br />
<div style="color: black;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i>" Angela, you did great. You just make things better wherever you go."</i></div><br />
Laura is an authentic encourager. <b>That is how she works, leads and lives.</b> Although our roles have changed and she is no longer my boss, she remains a friend and an inspiration.<br />
<br />
The New Testament Greek word for encouragement is <b style="color: #0c343d;">parakaleo, </b><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="color: black;">which literally means</span></span> "to call along side." It was often used when writing about battle and meant to strengthen someone by bringing them the appropriate aid.<br />
<br />
<br />
It is my heart's desire to encourage a wounded world. But, to be brutally honest (and I need to be), my motivation for encouraging others is sometimes blurred by selfishness and pride. Sometimes I encourage with the intent to receive some sort of emotional accolade in return.<br />
<br />
Most of the time, I am genuine in my efforts. But there have been moments when encouraging felt like hard work ... and times when encouraging did not bring joy to my heart. I now know that if encouraging someone else does not bring joy to my heart (and I mean joy, not bubbly, syrupy, happiness - although encouraging others can lead to that as well) and if it makes me feel burnt out, then I am simply<b> not doing it right.</b> Oh, I may be doing and saying the<i><b> right</b></i> things, just not with the right motives.<br />
<br />
<br />
The purpose of true encouragement is to affirm, console and challenge others to keep going forward. As a Christian, I am called to encourage others in the faith. Spurring someone on so I can garner feelings of value is not how Paul intended his words written in Hebrews to be interpreted. Instead, I must humbly put the needs or others before my own ... love them ... and then inspire them as they continue the journey.<br />
<br />
<i><b>"Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful; and let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds, not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another; and all the more as you see the day drawing near." Hebrews 10:23-25 NASB.</b></i>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-49762854484264061552011-03-19T21:55:00.002-04:002011-03-19T22:09:28.186-04:00Feel Me Better<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lxFU5KXyNKaIEP3rrglBP-hMr-rvx8X7ML1DhnmdY-ygs4SgFlE_AMnxLZNMOXknB3PFpIWR-fnk0wdyBIeVE-x-b-U2LlJjQGi2hH-FEccfQERujsH5IjpX_NYP5RKoi5AVT4OQia4/s1600/minor-cut-first-aid-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lxFU5KXyNKaIEP3rrglBP-hMr-rvx8X7ML1DhnmdY-ygs4SgFlE_AMnxLZNMOXknB3PFpIWR-fnk0wdyBIeVE-x-b-U2LlJjQGi2hH-FEccfQERujsH5IjpX_NYP5RKoi5AVT4OQia4/s320/minor-cut-first-aid-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
He ran ferociously: elbows bent, fists clenched, feet flying and Batman cape flapping. Just inches from catching up to his big sister, a crack in the uneven sidewalk knocked him to the ground.<br />
<br />
His jeans tore and his breath left him until his scream found voice and filled the air.<br />
<br />
My knees were on the ground a mere second after his fall. He hoisted his body into my lap and open arms. Then, he wailed a solitary demand:<br />
<br />
"Feel me better! Please, please feel me better, right now!"<br />
<br />
I had not one item in my purse to help him...not a time machine, band aid, ointment or even a tissue. So I held him tight, wiped away the tears that trickled down his plastic mask and whispered that everything was going to be O.K.<br />
<br />
His pleas continued. "It hurts...please do something to feel me better."<br />
<br />
I reached into my mind's files of "Useful Mommy Tools" and pulled out numerous kisses that I applied to his quivering chin, muddy palms and bloodied knee.<br />
<br />
He sniffed, gulped air, sighed and exclaimed, "You did it mommy! You feeled me better! - But, I don't want to run anymore, I just want to walk beside you."<br />
<br />
Then, with his hand in mine we walked slowly home. My boy felt better. He also felt safe.<br />
<br />
<br />
As I held my little man (who will be four next month), I remembered so many of my past falls... so many wounds that stole my breath and pinned me to the earth. I remembered the times that I pleaded for God to take the pain away and make me feel better.<br />
<br />
I remembered the times when the pain remained...even grew despite my begging. But I also remembered being held close in the arms of God. I remembered the balm of His comforting truth and steadfast love bringing solace to my stinging, scraped spirit.<br />
<br />
And, I remember those times of healing...of gingerly walking forward while clenching His hand; feeling safe...feeling loved...feeling better.<br />
<b><br />
<i>"All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ." - 2nd Corinthians 1:3-5 - NLT <blockquote></blockquote></i></b>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-63290072558007141942011-03-17T22:30:00.000-04:002011-03-17T23:42:46.519-04:00I am...I am not<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXgU2ZUI9KeXpgi5vk_bTE_NS2H64a7Px4ySWp3FVbOJlJWiBspgJz4SPsm3RuE3Rdi1yK3WTwgZbKJfASYAGcc2nK9nDLiVeABB_Nksd2TMVrxOr_5GIb-jFjOfXNy3dTdatoBew6qgE/s1600-h/dreamstimefree_2190652.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326952178256218658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXgU2ZUI9KeXpgi5vk_bTE_NS2H64a7Px4ySWp3FVbOJlJWiBspgJz4SPsm3RuE3Rdi1yK3WTwgZbKJfASYAGcc2nK9nDLiVeABB_Nksd2TMVrxOr_5GIb-jFjOfXNy3dTdatoBew6qgE/s320/dreamstimefree_2190652.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 155px;" /></a> <br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> (This is an updated version of a post I wrote in April, 2009)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">During this process of becoming, I have found it helpful to enter a spirit of reflectiveness and take note of who I am at this moment and who I am not. The list is a hodgepodge of sorts...some of it humorous...some of it deep...all of it honest.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am flawed; I am not hopeless</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am competitive; I am not cunning</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am weak; I am not too weak to admit my mistakes</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am in love with my husband; I am not always kind to my husband</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am a mother; I am not always skilled at mothering</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am encouraged when I remember that Christ is more than enough; I am not suppose to be enough for anyone</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am heartbroken for those who suffer; I am not going to deny the existence of hope</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am sometimes jealous of others; I am not going to thrust myself into the spotlight</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am contemplative; I am not shy</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am joyful; I am not always happy </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am stubborn; I am not unyielding</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am cautious; I am not against spontaneity</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am unintentionally quirky; I am not funny unless I am not trying to be funny</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am in my thirties; I am not able to metabolize food like I did when I was in my twenties</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am adventurous; I am not careless</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am a writer; I am not a singer...or a dancer</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am cute; I am not glamorous or traffic-stopping beautiful</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am fine with the fact that I am not traffic-stopping beautiful; I am not interested in plastic surgery</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am a work of art made by the creator of art; I am not ashamed of my Creator's design</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am loyal; I am not afraid to establish boundaries</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am committed to taking care of our planet; I am not one who worships the creation instead of the creator</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am understanding; I am not going to ignore truth</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am compassionate and merciful; I am not always a good listener</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am emotional; I am not irrational</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am talkative; I am not always going to know the right words to say</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am forgiven; I am not able to forget my wrongdoings</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am gifted; I am not able to do all that I desire</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am a member of the body of Christ; I am not meant to live life just for myself.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am loved...I am chosen...I am the daughter of the King of Kings; I am not going to hide my true identity.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Who are you? Who are you not?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><blockquote>“<span style="font-size: 100%;">Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a man's gift is prophesying, let him use it in proportion to his faith. If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach; if it is encouraging, let him encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let him give generously; if it is leadership, let him govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let him do it cheerfully.” Romans 12:4-10 NIV</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: 100%;"></span>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-58534975229645981952011-03-11T20:55:00.000-05:002011-03-11T20:55:45.435-05:00Stuffed up and wound tightNothing makes me face my humanity as quickly as a common illness. When sickness fogs my head and lungs causing my temperature to rise above 100 degrees (and I'm normally a 97.5 girl), I tend to melt into someone more fragile than I like being.<br />
<br />
I have not brushed my hair in more than two days and have worn the same pair of flannel pajamas since 11:00 a.m. Wednesday. I am not a pretty sight to behold. I am, however, thankful that I am finally feeling strong enough to shower without fainting. That's a sign of recovery.<br />
<br />
One of the biggest obstacles I face when I am sick is not the stuffy nose and other irritating symptoms that take over my body. It's my inability to accept that my body needs to heal that holds me back. Sickness makes me feel weak...needy...wimpy...and guilty. I like to believe that I can think myself well and push through the pain...do and be all things.<br />
<br />
It doesn't work that way. And because it doesn't work that way, I tend to allow frustration to fester until I'm not just stuffy...I'm uptight and stuffy. That's not a fun combination.<br />
<br />
As I was reading through Scripture verses tonight, I came across Psalm 131:1-3 - A song for pilgrims assembling to Jerusalem.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> <i style="color: #741b47;"><b>L<span style="font-variant: small-caps;">ord</span>, my heart is not proud;<br />
my eyes are not haughty.<br />
I don’t concern myself with matters too great<br />
or too awesome for me to grasp.<br />
Instead, I have calmed and quieted myself,<br />
like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother’s milk.<br />
Yes, like a weaned child is my soul within me. </b></i> </div><div style="color: #741b47; text-align: center;"><i><b> O Israel, put your hope in the L<span style="font-variant: small-caps;">ord</span>—<br />
now and always.</b></i></div><br />
In my moments of wanting control and feeling weak when I'm not at the top of my game, I am reminded that pride is my enemy. I can call it "being strong," but I know better. It's pride...and it's both silly and dangerous for me to hold on it. I need to echo the prayer above and not allow my heart to feel proud and instead be quieted and calmed by truth and grace.Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-33720672505674740092011-03-10T20:50:00.000-05:002011-03-10T20:50:15.526-05:00Critical Eye. Gentle Heart.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiya5xIXMKPtFgig2QzQeFa5C4hy8pq54Uhfg8DB8AtTdjtDWyMh8ims7GR7aig8xGTLzB_0sclaKC0jjbWqs92zt5qwaAcaJX3m0XCUIqvW955ftETtNUrQmm2Q3Dtz2OnkorY1Mh1Do8/s1600/lavendar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiya5xIXMKPtFgig2QzQeFa5C4hy8pq54Uhfg8DB8AtTdjtDWyMh8ims7GR7aig8xGTLzB_0sclaKC0jjbWqs92zt5qwaAcaJX3m0XCUIqvW955ftETtNUrQmm2Q3Dtz2OnkorY1Mh1Do8/s400/lavendar.jpg" width="266" /></a> </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #674ea7; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(photo, "Sweet Lavender" by Jennifer Bowers at <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/sycamorelane">Sycamore Lane</a>)</span></b></div><div style="color: #674ea7;"><br />
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</div><div style="color: #674ea7;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">When I am at work, I keep close company with a red pencil and my Online<a href="http://www.apstylebook.com/"> AP Stylebook</a> subscription. Oh, and just in case you are wondering how I feel about <a href="http://www.grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/">Mignon Fogarty of Grammar Girl</a> fame...I love her. A lot.</div><br />
I am a writer, an editor and a public relations/corporate communications guru. A critical eye is an essential tool of my trade. I am quick to draw slashes through comma splices, misplaced quotation marks and 99 percent of exclamation points. If there is a typo to be found...chances are I'll find it.<br />
<br />
Unless (ahem), the typo generated from my fingertips. It is amazingly difficult for a writer to catch her own gaffes. At least it is for me and every other writer I personally know. There is just something about being too close to one's own work to truly see flaws. Often, when editing my own work, my eye reads what my mind knows <i>should</i> be there than what is <i>really</i> there.<br />
<div style="color: #674ea7;"><br />
</div><br />
Yesterday, there was a typo in the title of my blog post (gasp). Chances are you caught it before I did. In fact, had it not been for <a href="http://www.givinguponperfect.com/">Mary</a>, my fabulous friend, (In)Courage sister and fellow grammar snob (I consider grammar snob to be a compliment), "Reflection" may still be spelled as "Relfection." <br />
<br />
Mary, very sweetly sent me an e-mail noting the error. And I was so happy that she did. Not only did she save me from more potential embarrassment, she gave me an idea for this blog post.<br />
<br />
Regardless how Mary would have pointed out my mistake, I would have changed the error. It needed to be fixed. But the way Mary went about the correction went beyond helping me remedy a mistake, it truly blessed my heart. She didn't publicly chastise me in the comment section of the post or via Facebook. Instead, she gently and humbly brought up the typo because she knew that she would be helping me by doing so. She didn't create a "gotcha" moment. She came to me because she would want me to extend the same courtesy to her if the table turned. She also admitted to making similar mistakes of her own (I have trouble believing her on that one). Mary didn't get a sense of joy from telling me I was wrong, but she did feel the joy that comes from helping a friend. <br />
<br />
The same type of syndrome that causes writers to be mildly oblivious to mistakes in their own essays is also common in other areas of life. Sometimes we are too close to something to really see that we're messing up. Trust me. I've been in that boat too. And when I'm in that boat, I've noticed that there are three types of people who come along. Type one passes by and ignores my mess. Type two lunges toward me and delights in sharing my mistakes with me and all who are in earshot. Type three is like Mary. She quietly comes beside me and whispers truth in my ear, laces it with encouragement and hopes for the best.<br />
<br />
Personally, I learn the most from the Marys I encounter throughout life.<br />
<br />
<i><b><span style="color: #660000;">"Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love." - Ephesians 4:2</span></b></i>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-3232712046375130072011-03-09T05:00:00.008-05:002011-03-09T19:52:39.434-05:00Lent - A Time For Reflection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5gxWWLQRizCL57DluaFvrcFE69zReuUSOtUNsYYF05te3GVbkdc8191J6M7uBVCGnKVz9RoeW0drJsHe3d9fbE0WPpBwvXEjVPOtQjVMiHJ3cFsljQUetrLaoUF5egCU-fyraB0PI1E/s1600/open-hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5gxWWLQRizCL57DluaFvrcFE69zReuUSOtUNsYYF05te3GVbkdc8191J6M7uBVCGnKVz9RoeW0drJsHe3d9fbE0WPpBwvXEjVPOtQjVMiHJ3cFsljQUetrLaoUF5egCU-fyraB0PI1E/s400/open-hands.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
In all of my 37 years of life, I have never observed Lent. Or at least I have never faithfully observed the season of Lent. There have been a few times when I decided to <i>give Lent a try</i>, but I never stuck to it. I never purposefully set aside the 40 days preceding Easter as a time for reflecting upon Christ's life, sacrifice, suffering, death, burial and resurrection. That confession may shock and sadden some of you. It saddens me.<br />
<br />
My reasons for avoiding Lent ranged from <i>not being Catholic</i> to being highly <i>cognizant of legalism</i>. I also associated Lent with giving something up as a way of acknowledging all that Christ gave up for me. While that is not necessarily untrue, that line of reasoning made it difficult for me to submit to a 40-day sacrifice of my own.<br />
<br />
Here's why.<br />
<br />
I thought that giving up something as insignificant as...let's say...dark chocolate to remember and honor Christ's willingness to submit to a torturous death cheapened Good Friday. Anything I considered giving up was downright puny in comparison to what Jesus gave away for me. So, being the good perfectionist that I was...I nixed the idea of observing Lent every time I heard someone reference abstaining from something beloved to them. <br />
<br />
Several days ago, I began to think some more about Lent and, once again, thought about "trying it." And then, once again, could not think of something valid to give up. The more I pondered, the clearer the truth resonated. As a follower of Christ, I am called to sacrifice. But I am called to give up something far more valuable than caffeine, sugar or Facebook.<br />
<br />
In Matthew 16: 24-26 Jesus said "If anyone wants to follow me, he must say no to himself. He must pick up his cross and follow me. He who wants to save his own life will lose it. But he who loses his life for me will find it."<br />
<br />
I am commanded to give up myself. And not just for 40 days.<br />
<br />
I am asked to give away<br />
<br />
<i>my time</i><br />
<br />
<i>my energy</i><br />
<br />
<i>my selfish wants</i><br />
<br />
<i>my love</i><br />
<br />
<br />
You may now be thinking that I have decided (once again) to not observe Lent, but I actually came to an different conclusion. Although I will not be giving up an item, I will be giving up (or trying to give up) parts of myself that prevent me from clinging to Christ. I plan to observe Lent as a season for reflecting specifically on Christ's life, death and resurrection and on ways that I can better love Him and others. For the next 40 days, I am committing to writing a blog post here that focuses on the season (I have found that I spend more time in scripture when I blog than when I do not). The posts may not be profound or well written...but they will be intended as a way to keep me accountable as I strive to spend more time learning how to give up me.<br />
<br />
<i>(Please know that by writing this post, I am not in anyway chastising you if you have chosen to give up something for Lent. I completely respect how that doing so is a way of worship for many...and I think that is beautiful. I encourage everyone to draw close to God and take time to reflect upon the sacrifices made by His only son.)</i><br />
<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-64156251947363227972010-10-04T19:46:00.000-04:002010-10-04T19:46:19.176-04:00How to BE CommunityThis past August, my husband and I celebrated our eleventh wedding anniversary. <strong>In eleven years of marriage we have lived in ten different homes, in eight different cities, in six different states, and in three different geographic regions of the United States.</strong> In short…we move. A lot. No, we aren’t in the military. And no, we didn’t want to make all those moves to quench a thirst for adventure. We desire stability. But for one reason or another we have lived a nomadic lifestyle of sorts for the past eleven years.<br />
<br />
The packing and unpacking brought with it highs and lows. Saying goodbye hurt. Saying hello to the new was both scary and exciting. Each time we moved, I remember praying for community. <strong>I wanted to find a group of like-minded friends who loved Jesus, adored their families, and were committed to serving others. </strong>Often, my prayer was answered the way I wanted it answered. I moved, I went searching for friends, and I found them. Sometimes, it wasn’t so easy. But then it hit me…life is not high school. There is more to living than fitting in. If I really wanted to be a part of a community, I couldn’t just look for it.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>I had to BE Community.</em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>To read about how I learned to BE community, please click <a href="http://www.incourage.me/2010/10/be-community.html#comments">here</a> to head on over to (in)Courage. </em></strong>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-4263314993726943872010-09-21T23:14:00.000-04:002010-09-21T23:14:58.444-04:00A Woman Knows What She Wants<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_8WgtyG2RKhTVO-iu5bypxwl6zRDHMdZJrtm1JU_RptZ6C5Sllhtata9yGdJQPOCEGlBWq8InXEgYVJ1YHGbBWbmxmYRweXePHQMejxsoWk4Ym_HTO_08F92aBoaZmUpQzxSLu9502U/s1600/happy-confident-woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_8WgtyG2RKhTVO-iu5bypxwl6zRDHMdZJrtm1JU_RptZ6C5Sllhtata9yGdJQPOCEGlBWq8InXEgYVJ1YHGbBWbmxmYRweXePHQMejxsoWk4Ym_HTO_08F92aBoaZmUpQzxSLu9502U/s400/happy-confident-woman.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>I'm glad my husband keeps me informed regarding the cute things my kids say while I'm at work. Today I learned that my three-year-old son handed him a naked Barbie doll and said, "Daddy, here's a naked girl for you!" And I also heard that my six-year-old daughter exclaimed that there was no need for her to try squash because..."A woman knows what she wants." <br />
<br />
My girl is not 100 percent wrong. Nor is she 100 percent right.<br />
<br />
There are times when I just know something is wrong for me. For instance, I've never set my hair on fire, but I know it's not something I want to try. When I was younger, I wanted to get my belly button pierced, but since I have this thing against unnecessary pain, I knew that a naval piercing wasn't for me. I also know that many people consider chocolate-drenched grasshoppers a delicacy. I'll pass. If I want some crunch to my chocolate, a small pack of Peanut M&M's will do just fine.<br />
<br />
Sometimes the situation is less obvious, like when I have the opportunity to use sarcasm as a tool to subtly attack someone. Or when I am tempted to tell a "little white lie" to get myself out of a jam or a potential embarrassing situation. In those situations it isn't so much a gut feeling as it is a lesson already learned...but still I can recognize the early warning signs.<br />
<br />
Sometimes a woman just knows when something is wrong. And then there are times when a woman knows what she wants, but doesn't quite understand what she needs.<br />
<br />
My daughter's body needs the vitamins and minerals that accompany each bite of a fresh vegetable. So one could argue that she needed the squash. But she didn't want it. She didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to smell it. She didn't want to get it near her mouth. And she sure as sugar is sweet did not want to eat it. She's a girl who knows what she wants...and by default, what she doesn't want. However, had she given the squash a chance, she may have found out that she truly liked it. Eating squash may have become a want of hers. <br />
<br />
As I reflect on this simple example of typical kid-ness, some self observations jump to mind. As a strong-willed woman, I often know what I want. At least, I think I do. But when I take the time to examine my wants closely, I discover that they don't always line up with my needs...and in fact, some of my wants conflict with each other.<br />
<br />
I want a healthy body. I want to eat whatever I want to eat whenever I want to eat it. Conflict.<br />
<br />
I want my marriage to thrive. I want my own way. Conflict.<br />
<br />
<br />
I want a clean and organized home. I want someone else to be responsible for the cleaning and organizing. Conflict.<br />
<br />
I'm learning, at a rate that is both slow and sure, that in order for me to choose the right<i> want</i>, I must first understand what it is that I truly<i> need</i>.<br />
<br />
When everything else is stripped away, one need remains at the core...one need fulfills all others.<br />
More Jesus. I am a woman who needs more of Jesus and less of herself. I am a woman wants more of Jesus. And I am a woman who sometimes forgets that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote> "The LORD is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion. The LORD protects the simplehearted; when I was in great need, he saved me. Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you." Psalm 116:5-7 (NIV)</blockquote>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-74381707270947202792010-09-19T21:20:00.000-04:002010-09-19T21:20:55.811-04:00Hello AgainLet me start out by stating that it does not take much for me to get a song stuck in my head. Before I wrote the a-i-n of "Again" I began channeling Neil Diamond...and now I cannot stop singing the words "Hello, my friend, Hello..." But it is sort of appropriate.<br />
<br />
See what missing two months of blogging has done to me? I now digress while writing the first sentence of a post. I have a point for posting tonight...I promise.<br />
<br />
As many of you know, this past year has been a whirlwind of sorts. In fact, I did some double checking down memory lane and realized that each year of the past decade came with at least one major life stressor for my family - job loss, death, relocations, new job adjustments, births, PPMD, more job loss, more relocation, etc. Some years contained multiple issues...some just one.<br />
<br />
Last December, we learned that <i>The Professor</i>'s job with the college would end in May. It had looked like a move would be inevitable. Then after months of him job searching, <i>The Professor</i> and I decided that it would be best for me to go on a job hunt as well. We were looking mostly for jobs in the DC area, but wanted to stay put, so I looked locally as well.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I did not hold much hope for either one of us finding a job in our area of Ohio. Especially in my field of Public Relations. But the unexpected happened...I found a job. And with a bank of all places. I don't even have to tell you that the fact alone that a financial institution hiring a PR professional during a RECESSION makes me feel as if this opportunity was much more than coincidence.<br />
<br />
<i>The Professor</i>, whom I am going to have to rename in this blog since he no longer teaches, and I have swapped roles. I work in an office from 8 to 5, while he works here at home raising our three-year-old son and six-year-old daughter. His job is harder than mine. And I'm not just saying that. It is.<br />
<br />
The transition from "stay-at-home mom" to working-full-time-outside-the- home-mom" has not been easy for the entire family, but in all honesty I must admit that I think I have been transitioning quite well. I'm being paid to communicate. I also work with a team of amazing professionals who are as warm and caring as they are brilliant. And I know that while I am at the office, my children are being loved and cared for by the only person who loves them as much as I love them.<br />
<br />
I hope to not stay away from here so long though...because I have missed all of you very much. And I've missed writing for me. I've missed writing for Jesus. I've missed writing about all that God has been teaching me.<br />
<br />
And I'm going to end this post unusually...I'm ending without an ending...because I just cannot think of one, but know that I need to hit publish. Ohhh, I know...I'll end with some Diamond. Why not?<br />
<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OFbX7uBkQV4?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OFbX7uBkQV4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-10636861002877727122010-07-01T12:29:00.000-04:002010-07-01T12:29:53.088-04:00Drowning in Guilt - Repost from 2008<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8JZN2OYNV_9Ud0tVTk7C5lE1edQ3-rFYN_-Km_vDm6aTOS_KU3SzjGb-me7duRnHEzDW_6wHhsOp_KcwH5THchltVQkm6qnjQTmxwme8dhb7vbYeglypF2z9jVH8gkjgtpDAtFx_wKo/s1600/ingroundkidney_268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8JZN2OYNV_9Ud0tVTk7C5lE1edQ3-rFYN_-Km_vDm6aTOS_KU3SzjGb-me7duRnHEzDW_6wHhsOp_KcwH5THchltVQkm6qnjQTmxwme8dhb7vbYeglypF2z9jVH8gkjgtpDAtFx_wKo/s200/ingroundkidney_268.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i>I originally wrote this post two years ago as part of my Postpartum Mood Disorder Journey. Carrying around guilt....both real and false, can increase the intensity of a mood disorder and have adverse effects on one's emotional and spiritual life as well. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>With the recent <a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/sports_blog/2010/06/randall-cunninghams-2yearold-son-dies-in-hot-tub-accident.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+LAT_Sports_Blog+%28The+Fabulous+Forum%29">drowning of the 2-yr-old son of former NFL star Randall Cunningham</a>, this incident with my then two-year-old daughter crashed freshly against my heart.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Although the story below is real, I changed the names of the other "characters."</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>Drowning in Guilt - June 7, 2008</b></div><br />
Guilt. It is invisible, yet weighs heavier than a stack of cinder blocks. And when placed on a soul, it can immobilize body and mind. Have you felt this weight? Do you carry it today? Those of you who are not new to my writings know that I once believed many lies. One of those lies was that carrying around the cumbersome baggage of guilt was a consequence for my mistakes. Ever hear the phrase, “you made your bed, now you have to lie in it?” Yeah, I bought that one too.<br />
<br />
<br />
There is truth in the fact that we do face consequences for our mistakes and that we may even be reminded of those consequences often, if not daily. However, if we accept the freedom that is offered through Christ, there is no condemnation. We’re forgiven. Christ remade that bed. Choosing to live with guilt is the same as living a lie.<br />
<br />
<br />
And to reiterate, I lived that lie for years. Much, much longer than I lived in the truth. I’ve harbored guilt about things I did, things I didn’t do, and things I could have and possibly should have done. I first collected those trash bags of guilt as a young lady. But the most repugnant, heaviest bags I picked up came after I became a mother. The guilt started with my miscarriage and continued with both of my children. I foolishly viewed myself as the only one responsible for their well-being. I feared that any mistake I made could mess them up for life. I didn’t only collect those trash bags, I decorated with them. I allowed them to define me.<br />
<br />
<br />
And while I felt guilt about over many mistakes, there was one mistake, one fleeting moment that nearly destroyed our family as we knew it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Pumpkindoodle</i></b> was two-years-old and I invited my good friend Kim* and her three kids to swim with us. A very cautious <i><b>Pumpkindoodle</b></i> was satisfied sitting on the gradual steps that doubled as the pool entrance. I stayed close by her. Kim’s youngest child, Danielle*, sat with me and <i><b>Pumpkindoodle</b></i>, while Kim took her four-year-old boy to the deep end. Danielle, a precocious daredevil, took that opportunity to explore. She jumped up and darted around the side of the pool, ignoring our warnings. When she decided to reach for a leaf that was floating in eight-feet of water, I sprang into action. I told<i><b> Pumpkindoodle</b></i> to stay still and I started to swim toward Danielle. I knew that with a four-year-old attached to her, Kim would have trouble getting to her daughter in time. My girl, never before moved from the steps, even with my coaching, so I felt confident she would be safe.<br />
<br />
<br />
I reached Danielle in time and as I did, I heard a sputtering sound. I turned around and saw my baby girl face down in the water. I’m not a strong swimmer and I although I was moving as fast as I could, I felt like I wouldn’t reach her in time. I screamed and another lady dove in and saved my <i><b>Pumpkindoodle</b></i>, who quickly expunged the water from her lungs.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sobbing, I held my toddler tight and whispered, “I’m sorry,” over and over again. I felt as though I was the one struggling for breath as a million thoughts swirled through my mind. “You should have got out of the water, you’re faster on land.” “Why did you endanger your child’s life?” You should have put your daughter on a lawn chair and then ran to save Danielle.” “You are so stupid, so careless, you don’t deserve this child.”<br />
<br />
<br />
Within minutes, <i><b>Pumpkindoodle </b></i>recovered undramatized, and we went back to the pool, just the two of us, the next day. I smiled, played with her and laughed as if nothing happened, but in my mind I saw two little girls… one in my arms wearing her pretty princess swimsuit and one, wearing a bright pink Dora suit, floating face down in the water, splashing helplessly. The image tattooed itself on my brain with the words “her mommy is a failure.” I couldn’t sleep at nights. The incident invaded my dreams.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>The Professor</b></i> tried to rescue me from my pit of self-loathing and guilt, “Stop thinking about the ‘what ifs’. You had a split-second decision to make and you went to the aid of the child you thought was in the greatest danger. If you hadn’t have reacted, maybe Danielle would have ended up in the water, maybe she would have died. <i><b>You need to let this go</b></i>.”<br />
<br />
<br />
He was right, but I still couldn’t get past the pain, the regret. In fact, it took me nearly two years to get past the what ifs. What a waste of time! Two years. Christ forgave me instantly. In fact, my husband may be correct in that there was nothing to forgive. I’m not sure. But who am I to chain what Christ had freed? He died for each and every one of my sins. <b><i>Not accepting His forgiveness for that error in judgment is like telling precious Jesus, “I’m sorry, your blood was not enough.”</i></b><br />
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Please know, that His blood is more than enough. That there is nothing, I mean absolutely nothing that you have done or will do that will take more than the blood of Christ to cleanse. Forgiveness is yours. Toss out that guilty baggage. It stinks and it will just weigh you down and hold you from your purpose. Oh how that delights our enemy. And how it pierces the heart of our Savior.<br />
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<i><b>Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. </b></i><br />
<i><b> Romans 8:1 (NIV)</b></i><br />
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The Message version is also too beautiful not to post.<br />
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<i><b>With the arrival of Jesus, the Messiah, that fateful dilemma is resolved. Those who enter into Christ's being-here-for-us no longer have to live under a continuous, low-lying black cloud. A new power is in operation. The Spirit of life in Christ, like a strong wind, has magnificently cleared the air, freeing you from a fated lifetime of brutal tyranny at the hands of sin and death. Romans 8:1-2 – The Message</b></i>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-17052527871848618872010-06-28T10:49:00.000-04:002010-06-28T10:49:30.432-04:00ContradictionI once wore a veil of rejection. Sometimes, I am foolishly tempted to put it back on...even though I know how beautiful the view of life is without it.<br />
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You can read the entire story at <a href="http://www.incourage.me/2010/06/contradiction.html">(In) Courage</a>... you may even see glimpses of yourself.Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-26243961554139510232010-05-11T13:57:00.000-04:002010-05-11T13:57:55.371-04:00I'm OK...I'm Just Waiting...<blockquote><b style="color: #990000;">"I have been deprived of peace;<br />
I have forgotten what prosperity is.<br />
So I say, "My splendor is gone<br />
and all that I had hoped from the LORD."<br />
<br />
I remember my affliction and my wandering,<br />
the bitterness and the gall.<br />
I well remember them,<br />
and my soul is downcast within me.<br />
<br />
<i>Yet this I call to mind<br />
and therefore I have hope:<br />
<br />
Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed,<br />
for his compassions never fail.<br />
<br />
They are new every morning;<br />
great is your faithfulness.<br />
<br />
I say to myself, "The LORD is my portion;<br />
therefore I will wait for him."</i><br />
<br />
The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,<br />
to the one who seeks him;<br />
<br />
It is good to wait quietly<br />
for the salvation of the LORD."<br />
<br />
</b><span style="color: #990000;">Lamentations 3: 17-26 NIV (<i>Italics,</i> mine)</span></blockquote><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
What happens when one who blogs on a daily basis suddenly drops out of sight for a few months, then returns for a time or two, then disappears again with the exception of a few sporadic reposts?<br />
<br />
Said blogger recieves many kind e-mail messages asking her if she is OK.<br />
<br />
And then said blogger makes things worse by not responding...I know...Not. Cool.<br />
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Here is a snippet into my life right now...I write this snippet not to complain or to vent, but rather to explain the cause of my extended absence. <br />
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<div style="color: #990000;"><b>Since our ten years of marriage, <i>The Professor</i> and I have lived in:</b></div><br />
<ul><li><i>10 different homes </i></li>
<li><i>8 different cities</i></li>
<li><i>6 different states</i></li>
</ul><div style="color: #990000;"><b>The Professor has been employed in visiting positions in:</b></div><br />
<ul><li><i>5 different colleges/universities</i></li>
<li><i>5 different cities</i></li>
<li><i>4 different states</i></li>
</ul><br />
<div style="color: #990000;"><b>Our daughter is six-years-old and she has lived in: </b></div><ul><li><i>6 different homes</i></li>
<li><i>6 different cities</i></li>
<li><i>5 different states.</i></li>
</ul><div style="color: #990000;"><b>Our son is three-years-old and he has lived in:</b></div><br />
<ul><li><i>4 different homes</i></li>
<li><i>4 different cities</i></li>
<li><i>4 different states</i><b><br style="color: #990000;" /></b></li>
</ul><b><span style="color: #990000;">We move...A lot. And through each move we have learned quite a bit about: </span></b><br />
<ul><li><i>God's faithfulness and provision</i></li>
<li><i>Commitment to marriage and family</i></li>
<li><i>Our physical limitations</i></li>
<li><i>Our emotional limitations</i></li>
<li><i>The kindness of others</i></li>
<li><i>Various cultures</i></li>
<li><i>Creating, building and maintaining friendships</i></li>
<li><i>The consequences of living above our means</i></li>
<li><i>The struggle and joys that come with living within and below our means</i></li>
<li><i>What we truly need</i></li>
<li><i>How to start over...and then over...and then over again...repeat and rinse</i></li>
</ul>There have also been many other valuable lessons along the way. In short, much good has come from the many moves. <b style="color: #990000;">However, we also long for:</b><br />
<div style="color: #990000;"><br />
</div><ul><li><i>Stability</i></li>
<li><i> More time with the fabulous people we meet</i></li>
<li><i>A break from the chaos and economic strains of annual moving</i></li>
<li><i>More opportunities to serve the communities where we live</i></li>
<li><i>A hiatus from rejection </i></li>
</ul><br />
<i> </i>When we moved to our current city less than ten-months ago, we felt as though we had finally landed in the spot where we would plant our roots and grow for at least a few years. Yet once again we are most likely facing another move to an unknown (to us) destination. That's another aspect of our moves... we rarely know where we will go next until a month or so before we have to move.<br />
<br />
In December we learned that the position my husband had here would not turn into a tenure track job and that it would end in May (it has ended). Currently he and I are both on the job market. There is a slight chance we could stay here for another year or so, but it is looking more likely that we will move to either the Washington DC area or to a capital in a state where we have friends and family close by.<br />
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<div style="color: #990000;"><b>Right now there are many unanswered questions and I feel as though I have various full-time jobs. I am:</b></div><br />
<ul><li><i>A Mother</i></li>
<li><i>Responsible for running my household</i></li>
<li><i>A PTO volunteer </i></li>
<li><i>Conducting a multi-state job search</i></li>
<li><i>Trying to establish an on-line presence, which is vital for my line of work (Public Relations, Writing,Social Media)</i></li>
<li><i>Preparing for a massive yard sale and probable relocation</i></li>
</ul><br />
Again, I write all this just to share my heart and to explain what is going on in my life. I am quite aware of my many blessings and my heart is full of joy...but I am also learning that joy and sadness can mingle...it does not mean that I am a weak or pathetic Christian because my heart is breaking...it means that I know I need comfort that comes only from my Saviour.<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i><b style="color: #990000;">Without a doubt I am confident that God will make this good. I am convinced that these experiences will draw me and my family closer to Him. And I am certain that my Father knows best and that His best will prevail.</b></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: black;">Am I feeling overwhelmed and frazzled?</span></i><br />
<b><span style="color: black;">Yes</span></b><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: black;">Weary?</span></i><br />
<span style="color: black;"> </span><b>You bet</b><br />
<br />
<i>Slightly irritated with the situation? </i><b><br />
</b><br />
<b>AB. SO. LOOT. LEE!</b><i></i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Hopeless? </i><br />
<b>Not. A. Chance.</b><i></i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Thank you so very much for your love and concerned and for your willingness to keep stopping by this blog even though I rarely have something new to share. Please know that I am OK, but would appreciate your prayers.</i><br />
<i>I will keep you posted.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Cradled in His Palm,<br />
<br />
Angela<br />
<br />
This song by John Waller, "While I am Waiting" fills me with gratitude, hope and love.<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Bb7TSGptd3Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Bb7TSGptd3Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-24603822028894493722010-04-04T00:00:00.000-04:002010-04-04T00:00:03.213-04:00Because of the Cross<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLbALjf0n2JH87ZMENOllEI6V26n_zUIoC87xIiXb8dKF4XRafZeNAnWD7BDUPHw__H6QVyrmAY4ae_oDM6VYrqVNkCC1EF3EvdILofaLoo_VIvuppwrZjcLwFiwKZwtVx8js9kUoank/s1600/Disciples-visit-tomb+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLbALjf0n2JH87ZMENOllEI6V26n_zUIoC87xIiXb8dKF4XRafZeNAnWD7BDUPHw__H6QVyrmAY4ae_oDM6VYrqVNkCC1EF3EvdILofaLoo_VIvuppwrZjcLwFiwKZwtVx8js9kUoank/s400/Disciples-visit-tomb+(1).jpg" width="303" /></a></div>The cross was intended to stop him. The religious leaders wanted the man who threatened their grip on power eliminated. They wanted a Messiah who would quell the mighty Roman army with a single swipe, ending the oppression that had been known for nearly a century. They wanted their world to change dramatically for the better without altering their way of life. What they did not want was some poor carpenter from Galilee crashing their turf. They claimed to be righteous and holy men who lived to serve God, but they lived only for themselves; and Jesus was about to ruin everything.<br />
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Obsessed with silencing the voice of the man they labeled as a lunatic and blasphemer, they appealed to their governing authorities...with persistence. And when the decree sentencing Jesus to death by crucifixion was announced, they sighed with relief and smiled smugly. They got what they wanted. Finally, after of trying to get rid of the captivating teacher who spoke in parables, they won. Or so they thought. When I researched the meaning of the word Pharisee, I was stunned at the irony I found. <b>Pharisee is derived from the Hebrewפרושים perushim from פרוש parush, which means separated. Those claiming to be men of God, could not have been farther from Him. They separated themselves from truth. </b><br />
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Jesus was captured, stripped of his clothing and his dignity. Spit from filthy mouths stained his holy face. Whips tore skin off his back and legs. Vicious, hateful words intended to break his heart were flung into the ears of God's son. Battered and bloodied beyond recognition, Jesus carried the heavy crossbeam until he broke underneath its weight.<br />
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When he arrived at the site of his execution, soldiers roughly restrained him and nailed his body to a cross. <b>A cross that was most likely already stained by another's blood. To those carrying out the sentence, Jesus was just another criminal to use as an example. </b>The cross was then erected. There Jesus hung until his lungs exhaled the last of their air. After Jesus uttered the words “it is finished,” those who had been waiting for that moment felt victorious. God's enemy, satan, probably cackled and howled with delight, because God's son who was sent to save the world was dead. The cross had changed everything. Evil triumphed, or at least it would seem that way until...<br />
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<b>On the third day, Christ seized complete victory.</b> His heart began beating again, his lungs took in air. He shook off the pounds of burial spices, unwrapped the linens from his once tattered body, moved the boulder that blocked entrance to his tomb, and walked out of that grave alive and whole. The cross could not silence the His voice.<br />
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My heart aches when I think about the suffering Christ endured on that brutal Friday. Yet my soul rejoices in the victory of Easter. I am a woman covered with flaws. Next to God, I would appear as grimy as an earth worm...<b>because of the cross, I am forgiven</b>.<br />
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Because of the cross, sin's curse has been crushed. Because of the cross, lies have been revealed and truth offered. Because of the cross, my puny existence has great purpose. Because of the cross, I can hold my children tight and assure them that no matter how ugly this world gets, there is hope.<b> Because of the cross, I know that the most glorious moments I have been given in this lifetime will pale in comparison to what lays ahead for me in the next. </b>Because of the cross, I can choose to have love, peace and joy present in my life every single day without exception. There is a second chance for each human being...all because of the cross.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>"You were dead because of your sins and because your sinful nature was not yet cut away. Then God made you alive with Christ, for he forgave all our sins. He canceled the record of the charges against us and took it away by nailing it to the cross. In this way, he disarmed the spiritual rulers and authorities. He shamed them publicly by his victory over them on the cross." (Col. 2:13-15-NLT)</blockquote>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-22977585777336895932010-04-02T11:40:00.000-04:002010-04-02T11:40:44.781-04:00Ugly Cross Beautiful Savior<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5S1yikwcx0wrA4wIt6TzMJ5tWP4aEGK1x5qLiH8EJbBAj7S4NzYNZJzek4qIKmA5oOA7F3lkIxQ1q1woT_Thlm0fbUAWt4A61idBy2D3jqX72UMrlOePOVnlyzGstLdReK1ZwFsjfJE/s1600/800px-Papal_Cross.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5S1yikwcx0wrA4wIt6TzMJ5tWP4aEGK1x5qLiH8EJbBAj7S4NzYNZJzek4qIKmA5oOA7F3lkIxQ1q1woT_Thlm0fbUAWt4A61idBy2D3jqX72UMrlOePOVnlyzGstLdReK1ZwFsjfJE/s320/800px-Papal_Cross.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>My grandparents once lived in the beautiful and historic Brandywine Valley. I enjoyed walking down Briton Bridge Road with my PapPap and marveling at the picturesque countryside complete with rolling green hills, sprawling estates, and inviting orchards. Even an old, dilapidated barn appeared lovely amidst the gorgeous landscape.<br />
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Once, after at least six months had passed since our last walk together, PapPap excitedly whispered, “Wait until you see what they did to that old barn.”<br />
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The revelation was jaw-dropping. The rundown, rustic, stone barn, had been converted into an elegant guest cottage. I still wish I could have had a peek at the splendor I'm sure existed on the other side its front door.<br />
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As Easter approaches, I reflect on the similarities between that once old, yet refurbished barn and the cross on which Christ died.<br />
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I consider how ugly and rough the old wood must have been, and how its image invoked feelings of terror, shame, and outrage. I tremble when I think that two bloodstained, repellent, accursed wooden beams, wore beauty on one dark Friday in Golgotha more than two thousand years ago. Yes, even though hatred swarmed rampant, teeth gnashed, voices growled, blood flowed, garments tattered, and anguished cries bellowed throughout Calvary, beauty was present. Beauty hung on that soiled cross in the form of the pure, sinless, lamb of God. The cross was hideous, but because of who it touched, it was lovely at the same time.<br />
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Even though the actual wooden cross on which Christ, and most likely other men died, is long gone, its meaning has been forever changed. What was once the harbinger of hate is now the symbol of love, hope, and peace. What once provoked shame, now promotes glory. And what was once a cruel agent of agony and death, is now the emblem of eternal life.<br />
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Oh, how beautiful Christ made the cross when He victoriously conquered death. How even more glorious is the transformation he can make in the lives of all trust and believe Him.Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-45649267082473603972010-03-25T00:08:00.001-04:002010-03-25T00:08:00.239-04:00Managing Postpartum Mood Disorders - Not a One-Size-Fits-All Option<ul><li><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjYMnaUTB2ROefhnb383RsoyvI92zUI0uW0j7o0zHuJhxWDYssAI-gNR6t5bcUjCrCrNHfJ4wyJnK4E7s3IkxT6WtQAZmlfe3n44X5B3PSdfB1cyRT1lToeaQzzejDjL7DjLVhhSBckSk/s1600/dreamstimefree_506769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjYMnaUTB2ROefhnb383RsoyvI92zUI0uW0j7o0zHuJhxWDYssAI-gNR6t5bcUjCrCrNHfJ4wyJnK4E7s3IkxT6WtQAZmlfe3n44X5B3PSdfB1cyRT1lToeaQzzejDjL7DjLVhhSBckSk/s400/dreamstimefree_506769.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I have a cute and comfortable nightshirt that my mom sent me. It is bright and pink and the tag on the back reads "one-size-fits-all." And, it is about two sizes too large for me. I still wear it...like I said, it's comfy, but despite the claims on its label...it is not for everyone.<br />
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When it comes to treating Postpartum Mood Disorders (and other types of mood disorders not related to pregnancy for that matter), there is not a simple one-cure-for-all option. Every person is different in both appearance and personality and everyone walks a different journey. What worked for me may not work for you. Or all of what worked for me, may work for you...or perhaps just some of it will work for you. Please keep this in mind when you read the list below of methods that helped me cope and heal from Postpartum Depression, Postpartum OCD, and Postpartum Anxiety Disorders.<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Also note that I am a PPMD survivor, but I am not a medical professional or a clinical counselor. Please only take the following as an opinion.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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<ul><li><b>Medication</b> – At first I was resistant to the idea of taking medication. I nursed and was afraid it would hurt my baby; and the idea alone of medication made me feel like a weakling. But, the more I learned about the chemical causes and effects of PPMD, I realized that I needed the medication to help me during this period and I worked with. There are side effects to taking some medications. I worked with a psychiatrist to help me find the proper type and dosage for me. At one point, my dosage was actually too high. Once the medication was regulated, I began to feel better.<b><i> Not cured. Just well enough to cope and take the next steps. </i></b>The types of medication vary and I recommend that it is monitored by a psychiatrist. Last year with a doctor's supervision I weaned off my medication. All went well for quite some time, but I noticed that about a week before each of my menstrual cycles I felt as though I was having mini bouts of PPD. My anger and irritation was back at levels I only knew soon after my children were born. Under a doctor's counsel I opted to take an antidepressant just 15 days a month. It has helped tremendously.</li>
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<ul><li><b>Christian Counseling</b> – If you read my earlier segments about PPMD, you know that medication alone did little to help me. I went that route with my first bout. Christian counseling had a tremendous impact on my life. Led by Biblical principles, my counselor never doubted my PPMD. In fact my first Christian counselor is the one who diagnosed me as suffering from a form of OCD brought on from pregnancy. She understood how the hormones wreaked havoc on my system. <b>She also knew how to find some of the core issues that troubled me and we dealt with those issues.<i> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">For me, guilt, feelings of inadequacy, my false perception of my value to Christ, perfectionism, and fear reigned supreme.</span></b></li>
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<ul><li><b>Diet/Lifestyle Changes </b>– If you love your Starbucks like I do, I’m about to deal you a punch to the kisser. Or should I write pallet? <b style="font-weight: bold;">Eliminating caffeine</b><span style="font-weight: bold;"> from my diet was crucial.</span> Not all women have to do this, but as I kept my mood chart (see below), I noticed a direct correlation between agitation and caffeine. My demeanor changed for the better once I weaned myself from java and my beloved fountain Pepsi, which I didn't even consume all that often. Two years later, I do have 1-2 cups of coffee a day....but even now there are some days when that is too much.</li>
</ul><o:p></o:p><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p></o:p>Increasing my intake of <b><i>Omega 3 fatty acids</i></b>, and <b><i>adding an additional vitamin</i></b> supplement designed to help my body better absorb my antidepressant also added balance and relief. More <b><i>sunshine</i></b> and <b><i>exercising</i></b> helped me as well. Honestly, I’m not much for structured work outs. But the days I dance with my kids, go swimming, or take extra long walks are usually “good” days.<br />
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<ul><li><b>Support Groups</b> – Talking to other women who were also experiencing PPD was medicine for my weary heart. A support group provided me a safe place to open up about my issues without anyone looking at me as if I grew an extra head out of my armpit.</li>
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<ul><li><b>Praying Scripture</b> – There were so many days when I felt as though I just did not have enough of me to benefit anyone. I began the habit of praying scripture over my life and loved ones. A friend of mine sent me a few scripture cards from a Beth Moore Bible study. For example I prayed that the Lord would love my family through me (I Cor. 13). It not only deepened my relationship with God, but it helped sink in the point that I was not in control of my life. I was not responsible for the happiness of everyone else. I was to strive for excellence, but not perfection and lean on the understanding that God is more than enough for me and my family.</li>
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<ul><li><b>Keeping a Mood Chart</b> –I chose to see a psychiatrist to manage my medicinal treatment because I felt it important to trust a biochemistry expert with my chemical imbalance. I wanted to get better and was willing to listen to his advice. However, I was not resigned to being a guinea pig. I knew that there could be side effects with medication and also knew that finding the right medications can be more of an art than a science. When my psychiatrist hypothesized that I could be bi-polar and suggested a few medications to try, I put on the breaks. I was not in denial. If I was bi-polar, I wanted to know about it and treat it. However, I wasn’t ready to try medications for a maybe diagnosis. My doctor suggested that I start a mood chart. My mood chart indicated that my mood swings at that period of time were situational. Once I kept track of what was causing me the most stress, I was able to work through those issues in therapy sessions. My honest assessments also gave my doctor the confidence to say “you are not bipolar.”</li>
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</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><ul><li><b>Listening to my Body -- </b>My recovery pace quickened when I let go of misplaced feelings of guilt and shame and listened to what my body needed. In addition to suffering from PPMD, I have a condition known as <b><a href="http://www.medicinenet.com/raynauds_phenomenon/article.htm">Raynaud's Phenomenon</a></b>. This condition made breast feeding my babies unbearably painful. I met with lactation specialists and even took prescription medicine, but the pain did not lessen. I decided to stop breastfeeding my son when he was six-months-old. And I struggled with that decision. I wanted to press onward and bare the pain so that he could consume the healthiest diet possible. But a mommy with PPMD and chronic pain is not a healthy mommy. And that is not the healthiest option for the baby. I know what I wrote is controversial, but it is a decision that I do not regret.</li>
</ul><br />
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</b></div><div>I also listened to other things my body was telling me. I rested when my children were resting, even if that meant leaving dirty dishes in my sink. During the worst of the OCD I could not do this, but as the medication kicked in I was able to force myself to rest. The benefits were staggering.</div><br />
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<ul><li><b>Support Plan</b> – PPMD can overwhelm a life. I needed to get to a place where I could accept help not only from the medical community, but from my own family and friends. My doctor required me to make a plan to ease back into my life. My plan included my husband helping out with some additional chores, cleaning only one room a day, and having sometime to my self to read, pray, and write.</li>
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<ul><li><b>A Support System</b> – I am so blessed to have had and still have wonderful people in my life who love me and helped me through this time. My family helped me tremendously when I went to stay with them, but since they live far from me, I also asked help from my friends. Asking for help was not and still is not easy for me, but help is something we all need from time to time. Whenever I asked for help, people came to my aid and often before I asked, they came to me. After my recovery, so many people actually thanked me for allowing the to assist my family during that time. Helping others is a blessing. </li>
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Finding a local <a href="http://www.mops.org/">MOPs</a> group or <a href="http://www.momsclub.org/">MOMS club</a> is a wonderful way to gain a support system. I had just moved to a new city and state while suffering with PPMD....women from the local MOPS group who barely knew me pitched in to help me complete daily tasks such as preparing meals, grocery shopping, and light housework. After I recovered, I was able to bless other women in this way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
<o:p></o:p><b>The combination of elements listed above were invaluable to me</b>. Again, what worked for me, may not work for you. And fighting PPMD takes time. However, it is a battle that can be won. And one in which there is more than a solo solider.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p></o:p><b><i>Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken. My salvation and my honor depend on God. He is my mighty rock, my refuge. Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge. Selah. Psalm 62:5-8 (NIV)</i></b></div>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-78323445735435648512010-03-24T00:00:00.000-04:002010-03-24T00:00:01.351-04:00Not Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAYQRlfbk2kMKJrZ6SA8ipXtwp8_cKiKKE38M6LG-2EBe9LQKtvp3SAV2GOnJvwf9LVz-VSeG7wfDNHChpS5CWUw0t6VHjK3-Roau8zS7XnKHMZPUK9jsTYB3aBbNRb_F6OYjLjDxzVc/s1600-h/dreamstimefree_272932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAYQRlfbk2kMKJrZ6SA8ipXtwp8_cKiKKE38M6LG-2EBe9LQKtvp3SAV2GOnJvwf9LVz-VSeG7wfDNHChpS5CWUw0t6VHjK3-Roau8zS7XnKHMZPUK9jsTYB3aBbNRb_F6OYjLjDxzVc/s320/dreamstimefree_272932.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Yesterday, I shared my experiences with Postpartum Mood Disorders at <a href="http://www.incourage.me/2010/03/battles.html">(In)Courage</a>.<br />
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It is so important to understand that not every woman is the same....not everyone suffers the same symptoms...or for the same amount of time...or in the same manner. We are all different.<br />
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It is also important to understand that while there is not a mass-produced one-size-fits all enchanted antidote for Postpartum Mood Disorders<br />
(oh wouldn't the big pharmaceutical companies love that?), there is HOPE. Those who suffer are not alone and need not anguish silently. Here are my two favorite resources that I recommend you check out if you or anyone you know may be experiencing a Perinatal/Postpartum Mood Disorder. There is also a resource link on my blog header. I chose to highlight only two for this post because I remember how easily overwhelmed I was during my battle.<br />
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<b><i><a href="http://postpartumprogress.typepad.com/">Postpartum Progress</a> </i></b>- Postpartum Progress is the most widely-read in the US regarding Perinatal Mood Disorders. And for good reason. Katherine Stone keeps her finger firmly attached to the pulse of issues, treatments, and legislation surrounding depression and anxiety during and after pregnancy. This site is a wealth of knowledge and I highly recommend it for health care professionals as well as those experiencing a Perinatal Mood Disorder. Four very important articles are located under the "<b>Six Things"</b> section of Postpartum Progress that can be found on the top left area of the blog.<br />
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<b><i><a href="http://www.christianppdsupport.org/">Out of the Valley Ministries, Inc</a></i></b>. - I am blessed to be the real life friend of PPD survivor and Out of the Valley Ministries founder, Tara Mock. Out of the Valley Ministries, Inc. is a non-denominational Christian ministry designed to lovingly support women and their families experiencing perinatal (pregnancy and postpartum) mood disorder<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">s.</span></span><br />
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</span></span>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-18980259178108251042010-03-23T09:27:00.000-04:002010-03-23T09:27:51.883-04:00Postpartum Mood Disorders - My StoryI survived terrifying struggles with Postpartum OCD, Postpartum Depression, and Postpartum Anxiety Disorder. I have written about my here before...recently I wrote a consolidated version of my stories for (In) Courage. You can read it <b><a href="http://www.incourage.me/2010/03/battles.html">here</a></b>. Throughout this week I will be posting more information about Postpartum/Perinatal Mood Disorders. Please be encouraged to know that there is HOPE.Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-91744077713459809052010-03-22T16:53:00.000-04:002010-03-22T16:53:04.924-04:00A Little Nervous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wcHYJ3wCdfgqCqHH0K8wKHKR8q6wha_BDGwSPsACD07WbzIojMQaDVlMc1V0j7qp17r-DGA4rw-N1jEHPQqiOVa-Q9ArPOCcBddpX6vQlXwIw1pmeGX0Wvk2fG7Ef8SyBUTlWy2qXFs/s1600-h/dreamstimefree_4755387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wcHYJ3wCdfgqCqHH0K8wKHKR8q6wha_BDGwSPsACD07WbzIojMQaDVlMc1V0j7qp17r-DGA4rw-N1jEHPQqiOVa-Q9ArPOCcBddpX6vQlXwIw1pmeGX0Wvk2fG7Ef8SyBUTlWy2qXFs/s320/dreamstimefree_4755387.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
Sharing about my battles with Postpartum Mood Disorders felt like the natural thing to do right after my recovery two years ago. A passion for instilling hope in others who suffered compelled me to share my message without giving much thought to how others may have perceived me.<br />
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Now that those days seem far behind me (even though, it was not that long ago) sharing my story has become more challenging, and I cannot pin point the reason why.<br />
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<b>I think one reason is fear.</b><br />
When I shared my story in the past it was either with people who already knew me before or during my battles started, or it was with members of the blogging community. But as my family and I continue to move from city to city and state to state (as it seems will be a continued pattern for us) and I meet people for the first time, I tend to shy away from having them know that part of me.<br />
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Introducing myself as "Angela, the woman who suffered such a severe case of PPMD that her psychiatrist seriously considered committing her to mental health hospital" isn't necessarily a healthy conversation starter. And then I too worry about being labeled as unstable...of having my present condition judged by my past.<br />
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<b>Another reason is the temptation to bury that part of me. </b><br />
<b></b>Stating that I was "not myself" during my seasons with PPMD would be a monumental understatement. It was a time filled with pain, irrational choices, confusion, anger, and frustration. Revisiting that place feels somewhat similar to visiting a loved ones grave. I know that when I go there....something...someone is missing. And a dull sensation of agony covers me.<br />
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Yet even though sharing my story now makes me nervous, I still think it is important to tell others about my difficult journey because...<br />
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<i>I was not alone</i><br />
<b><i> </i></b><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>PPMD is a real medical condition that is often misunderstood</i><br />
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and<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>There is HOPE for those who suffer from PPMD</i><br />
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In order for me to share the hope I know and to help others learn more about PPMD, I need to share my story. So this week, I will be sharing more resources about PPMD here and my full story will be posted on <a href="http://www.incourage.me/"><b>(In)Courage </b></a>tomorrow morning.Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-40277820359879812342010-03-18T13:24:00.001-04:002010-03-18T13:33:10.186-04:00Jagged Edges<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5I0RNx1oMYuAWuas6Ci5LwGAmb5hPAN4IAxaMFV0AsrZhhtEMe27MtGfrF2xYU_dDWTCNcaVvNwddCSbS4IXjuPbNsT2NiiGa0g1awJemKgmASQeTmBYtBXSmNwL2ITuP1f783r-P6M/s1600-h/broken-glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5I0RNx1oMYuAWuas6Ci5LwGAmb5hPAN4IAxaMFV0AsrZhhtEMe27MtGfrF2xYU_dDWTCNcaVvNwddCSbS4IXjuPbNsT2NiiGa0g1awJemKgmASQeTmBYtBXSmNwL2ITuP1f783r-P6M/s400/broken-glass.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The top of his head does not reach the kitchen sink, but he has a good arm and is determined to put his dirty dishes where they belong. As I watched him heave his hard plastic bowl into the sink, I saw the impending disaster, but did not have enough time to stop it. <br />
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<b style="color: #990000;">Crash! </b><br />
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The bowl chiseled a crescent shaped chunk off of the glass during the instant of contact. <br />
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<b style="color: #990000;"><i>Clink.</i></b><br />
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The crescent of glass snapped backward hitting what remained of its broken form causing yet another break, which then resulted in several hairline cracks. As I removed the shards of glass from my sink I thought about the sight I witnessed and what humans have in common with the broken object.<br />
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I remembered times in my life when an outside force took a piece of me clean off. I'm not writing about broken bones or torn flesh...emotional breaks is the pain to which I infer.<br />
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<i>Hurled insults.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Crash!</b><br />
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<i>Failed attempts. </i><b style="color: #990000;">Crash!</b><br />
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<i>Unrequited love.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Crash!</b><br />
<i><br />
Promises pulverized.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Crash!</b><br />
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<i>Honesty hidden.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Crash!</b><br />
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<i>Trust snapped.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Crash!</b><br />
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<i>Security betrayed.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Crash!</b><br />
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<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="color: black;">When a person suffers a break in her spirit or heart, the jagged edges left from the initial blow often become agents of additional damage.</span> </span> It is human nature to want to either fight back or build a protective covering to decrease the chance of subsequent attacks. Sometimes both. And sometimes....most times, these instinctual human reactions cut deeper than what was first dealt.<br />
<i><br />
Lies believed.</i><b><i> </i><span style="color: #990000;">Clink.</span></b><br />
<i><br />
Revenge plotted.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Clink.</b><br />
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<i>Walls erected. </i><b style="color: #990000;">Clink</b><br />
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<i>Slanders spread.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Clink</b><br />
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<i>Self-hatred permeated.</i> <b style="color: #990000;">Clink.</b><br />
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How easily damage begets damage. Brokenness begets brokenness. Pain begets pains.<br />
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As I look back on my life experiences two feelings overflow from the container that was once broken: Compassion. Gratitude.<br />
<b><br />
<i style="color: #990000;">Compassion for broken.</i> </b>Compassion toward those whose wounds were self inflicted. Compassion for those whose jagged edges are causing hurt to others. Not excuses. Not a free pass. Not an endorsement. Not inaction. But compassion.<br />
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<i style="color: #990000;"><b>Gratitude to the One who heals</b></i><span style="color: #990000;">.</span> To the One who seeks to restore the shattered. Gratitude to a loving and just God who is the only one with enough power to repair the damaged vessel. Gratitude to Jesus who allowed the outside world to break Him but did not allow those breaks to undermine His power, love, and authority. <br />
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<span style="color: #990000;">Gratitude to He who smooths the ugly jagged edges into beauty.</span></b></i><br />
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<blockquote><blockquote><b>“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name. Great is our Lord and mighty in power; his understanding has no limit.” Psalm 147: 3-5 NIV</b></blockquote></blockquote>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-992476707494424848.post-80924488677992107132010-01-25T00:13:00.004-05:002010-01-25T00:28:49.487-05:00She Sees Beauty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKUL3Tp8MOCFqRqGqCYrGU0Uhj3fNJTAFC0anEWUqiadRnmyWMJiU1ExAxWgrwhUag1U3cU27fc9L3yuT6sfEPWSVpcwuHJUgCQ2BUjaF6e9R9_A8De1_3bAtfharAN_aNZ3rpcjAWM8/s1600-h/Xbutterfly.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKUL3Tp8MOCFqRqGqCYrGU0Uhj3fNJTAFC0anEWUqiadRnmyWMJiU1ExAxWgrwhUag1U3cU27fc9L3yuT6sfEPWSVpcwuHJUgCQ2BUjaF6e9R9_A8De1_3bAtfharAN_aNZ3rpcjAWM8/s400/Xbutterfly.JPG" width="360" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">She sees beauty in this world and in the worlds her mind begets.</span><br />
Her eyes spot gems among a driveway of gravel. To her, holey leaves are amazing…not damaged. If you ask her why, she’ll say it is because those are the leaves that shared with the caterpillars. When it rains, she pulls on her pink and leopard printed boots and dances through puddles. Should a ray of sun cut into a cloud, she searches for a rainbow… if we find one, <i>she is the first to proclaim it beautiful.</i><br />
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<b>She sees beauty in people.</b><br />
Everyone she encounters is, in her eyes, a new friend. Age, gender, cultural differences and physical maladies are not discriminating factors she employs. Instead, she chooses her friends based on their smile…or sometimes their lack of a smile. She climbs up her great-grandfather’s lap and envelops his neck in her arms. His wheelchair does not bother her…nor does his paralysis, or lack of speech. She sees him with the eyes of her heart. <i>She sees that he is beautiful.</i><br />
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<b>She sees beauty in her flawed mother.</b><br />
I love her. I have always loved her. I wanted her before she was made and I wanted her even more when I watched the image of her peanut-sized body fluttering on a monitor. When her first cries rang louder than my tired moans and her pink and perfect body squirmed in my arms, I felt as though my heart would expire from sheer exhilaration. I love her…yet sometimes I fail her. But when I ask for her forgiveness, she never hesitates. Instead, she hugs me. She says that she has the best mommy in the world. <i>She tells me I am beautiful.</i><br />
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<b>She sees beauty in giving.</b><br />
Money slipped out from the birthday cards that arrived in the mail. With excitement she gasped, “This is so wonderful! I can use this money to help others…maybe I can buy food or toys for children who do not have anything.” Sometimes, the simplest gifts from others bring her the most joy…a drawing from a friend, a paper star from her teacher, and a “moon rock” she found with a classmate are among her most cherished possessions because they are from people she loves. They mean something. <i>She thinks they are beautiful.</i><br />
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<b>She sees beauty, <i>because she is beautiful.</i></b><br />
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Today marks the beginning of the sixth year that I am invited to revel in her beauty. Happy Birthday to my daughter…the owner of a most beautiful soul.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>"How beautiful on the mountains </i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i> are the feet of those who bring good news, </i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i> who proclaim peace, </i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i> who bring good tidings, </i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i> who proclaim salvation, </i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i> who say to Zion, </i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i> 'Your God reigns!'"</i></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>-Isaiah 52:7 NIV-</i></b><br />
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</div>Angela Nazworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949844180291293484noreply@blogger.com25