https://www.loriawilson.com/blog daily 0.75 2022-05-15 https://www.loriawilson.com/blog/blog-post-title-one-nw9kd monthly 0.5 2021-12-12 https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2 daily 0.75 2025-06-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/a12c798c-472c-4b90-879e-d05c08ee0777/Blog+page+pic2.jpg Blog - But life with Jesus is far better than living without Him. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/e51e484c-1a2b-4742-a38b-0570ee5df4b6/Blog+page+pic3.jpg Blog - He never said it would be. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/add21a88-e684-4c13-8ff5-7b017095f4ba/Blog+Page+pic1.jpg Blog - Following the Lord is not easy. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/thegodwhosees-6-23-2025 monthly 0.5 2025-06-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Part IV: The God Who Sees - “Come to Me.” I was eight years old when I first heard the voice of Jesus. His Words were more of a beckoning than a command. His voice was strong like thunder and gentle like soft rain. They permeated my tainted body and seeped into the darkest part of me. The place that was fastened with silence and shrouded by shame. His Words penetrated the lockbox where the secret lay. The one I was told to keep after ‘the monster’ did unfamiliar things to me. Jesus had been there. He heard the screams lodged in my throat. He saw the confusion washed over my face. He witnessed the ugly way innocence left my body. Now, His invitation to draw near testified to my young soul that He had seen… me. I don’t believe Jesus ever stopped seeing me. I’ve felt His unmistakable presence in my life since that day He called out to me as a child. Whether I wisely followed Him or foolishly turned away, I knew He was there. Yet, when deeply grieved by the loss of my parents and brothers, I sought solace in others. I longed for a tangible, physical presence. I wanted to hear stories laced with lessons like Dad told. I needed the sage guidance and gentle reassurance that my Mom had always provided. I longed for my brothers, Stan and Kenny, who could personally understand the pain of losing our parents. But my efforts were pointless. I learned that grief comes with an expiration date for some. For the bereaved, no; for those less impacted, certainly. The average human capacity for long-suffering lasts about as long as a cup of coffee stays hot in a snowstorm. The world moves on quickly. It would be a while before I could. The past held history; my family was there. The future after this life was holding promise, and there too, my family. I was suspended in purgatory, stuck between these two realities, praying to be purged from the pain of now existing where my family did not. Eventually, I came to the end of myself. There, Jesus was waiting. Exhausted, I collapsed and cried, Lord, I am tired. I don’t want to do life my way any longer. I surrender. You said in Your Word: “You will keep in perfect peace those whose mind is stayed on You, because he trusts You.” Jesus, I choose You, this day, for real. I choose to trust You. Please tell me, where do I start? The inaudible voice of the Holy Spirit flooded my consciousness and whispered, “In the Beginning.” Drying my eyes, I focused on my Bible before me and opened it to the first page. This time, I would stop searching for myself in every passage, and instead, look for the One who created me. “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth,” Genesis 1:1. God, the beginning of what? I asked. You have no beginning, You have always existed. So what beginning are You referencing? “Time.” So You created time. This means that You exist outside of time. There was silence. I sat with this revelation until it gave me a headache. I had always assumed time existed. It’s the mechanism by which we measure our existence. To consider a Being with no beginning, no end - One who lives simultaneously in the past, present, and future - was just mind boggling. Curious, I continued. God, just who are You? Tell me more about Yourself. What pleases You? What angers You? And just what is this Perfect Plan of Yours that my brother Stan repeatedly professed while dying of cancer? The Holy Spirit whispered, “You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with your whole heart.” Hungry, I studied my Bible for hours on end everyday. I devoured verse upon verse, savoring every Word. Unlike eating fish where we chew the meat and spit out the bones, God wastes nothing. There was meaning and underlying messages in every passage, like treasure hidden in a field. The more I searched, digging deeper into the Word, the more the Lord was revealing Himself to me (James 4:8). The Lord used His creation story to tell me about Himself. Though I had read it many times, I never studied it until now. The Holy Spirit began showing me God the Father, the first Person of the Holy Trinity. The Living God who is all powerful. The Creator who, in the beginning, commanded, “Let there be,” and it was so. The One who surgically configured worlds with His Words. The Grantor of life who made all living creatures of the air, land, and sea, who said, “Let Us make man in Our image,” then formed man from dust (which He also created). The Life Giver who blew into Adam’s nostrils the breath of life, causing him to live. The First Anesthesiologist and Surgeon, who placed Adam into an induced coma, removed a rib, used it to create a woman, then sutured him back together. The Developer who took note of His handiwork, and declared it both good and very good. The Manufacturer who determined identity, purpose, and responsibility. The Laborer who toiled, then rested from His finished work. The Provider who supplied all needs. The Father who established protective boundaries and lovingly forewarned of the consequences of disobedience. The One True Living God who proved Himself as Faithful, Trustworthy, Righteous, and Holy. I could hardly believe my eyes! There He was, hidden in plain sight. I was actually seeing the One who sees me! And the Holy Spirit was just getting started. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/goodgrief/may-21-2025 monthly 0.5 2025-05-27 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Part III: Good Grief - March 10, 2020 Noooo, God, pleeeease! I’m not ready. I am not ready. I pleaded with the Lord incessantly, whether silently or aloud, I do not remember. What was clear - Dad was gone. His body lying lifeless in bed was a stark contrast to the vibrant, tireless, giant I deemed my hero. The man who was undoubtedly the smartest and wisest person I knew. Our family’s superman. He could do anything, until now. The following day, the World Health Organization declared the novel coronavirus (COVID-19) a global pandemic. You have got to be kidding me. The world was in a tailspin as the virus was spreading rampantly. It was crippling respiratory systems and killing people at a staggering pace. Schools, businesses, flights, and entertainment events were shutting down across the country. People flooded grocery stores to stockpile water, toilet paper, and other essentials to hunker in place, indefinitely. People were scared for their lives. Nonetheless, I had more pressing matters: laying my father to rest. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Or could it have? With the country told to isolate and lock down, Dad never would have conceded. There were many ways he’d spent his time, but being sedentary and secluded was not one of them. Death would be the only way Dad would relent to being confined within four walls. And God knew it. Dad’s funeral was as surreal as the pandemic. A mere ten people were permitted to attend his service. A far cry from the crowds drawn to my gregarious father. This time there were no public officials, no community colleagues, no co-laborers in Christ, no extended family, no friends. No pomp and circumstance. Just Dad, dressed in his favorite charcoal suit, lying prostrate in a sleek black casket, accented tastefully with grey. There was the preacher. One musician. Nine immediate family members, not including Mom and my brother Stan as they died, and me. It was different. And difficult. Thereafter, the world moved on. But I didn’t, and Kenny couldn’t. Kenny was my older brother by four years with special needs. Despite his mental disability, he was highly independent. Even so, it was understood that my humorous brother who loved sports and had beaten stage 4 cancer years ago would never live apart from our parents. His world was anchored in routine, tethered to security, and in them he had both. When Dad passed at the cusp of the pandemic just months after we had lost Mom and Stan, Kenny snapped. I saw a side of my brother I had never seen. Uncertainty infiltrated every crevice of his life and stripped him of peace, joy, and freedom. The pandemic made the world into a hostile place for Kenny, and with his severely compromised immune system, it was potentially deadly. Without our family, sporting events, and the friendly banter with neighbors during his daily stroll in the community, he was lost. His world no longer made sense. Profusely frustrated, he retaliated like a maimed wild animal, lashing out erratically at the very hand that offered help. By default, I bore the brunt of his aggression. I was here. Everyone else was gone. But I, too, needed help. A reprieve to grapple with my grief. Not selfishly, but out of necessity. Mom’s death nearly sucked the life out of me. Weeks after her passing I would lie in bed wishing for eternity to arrive. Now with Dad’s unexpected death, I was drowning, treading in a cesspool of suffering. Like Kenny, I was adrift and required a lifebuoy to be pulled to safety. I signaled to others for aid but it never came. I suppose Kenny and I had traveled too far to be reached. Or perhaps just beyond the capacity of those we sought for assistance. Nearly everywhere I turned was barren. Long-standing Christians offered nothing tangible, only excuses as to why they were unwilling to help. It was the pandemic, a lack of space in their homes, the distance. But mostly it was a resounding no, followed by the cliche, “The Lord won’t put more on you than you can bear.” Our grief was daunting and messy and burdensome and raw. No one was willing to risk themselves for us. Kenny’s uncharacteristic behavior and my anguish were foreign to them. Fearful, it was safer for them over there, far away from our pain. Whatever Christianity these folks were a part of, it was ill equipped to handle the realness of life. Oh it looked the part, but it was as fruitless as the fig tree Jesus cursed in the Bible. Just when I thought I had reached my lowest, the bottom fell out from beneath me. On April 24, 2021, God plucked Kenny from my arms. The Lord rescued my brother from his misery when he died from pneumonia, a complication of COVID-19. Frankly, Kenny stopped breathing long before he contracted the deadly virus and drew his last breath that day. Now he was freed and free. At Kenny’s service, the people did what they customarily do at homegoings. They came. They recited the scripted words vowing to be ‘just a phone call away’. Then they left. Thankfully, the Lord had not. In the abyss, the Holy Spirit gently and tenderly, did for me what only He could do. In His kindness, He literally loved the hell out of me, changing my life, forever. Good grief. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/churchedandunchanged/may-14-2025 monthly 0.5 2025-05-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Part II: Churched and Unchanged - Mom carried me up the steep stairs that led to a set of wooden doors. Where atop the entrance was an ornate cross embedded in stained glass. She took me inside through the vestibule into the sanctuary. It was the first time I attended church, but I don't remember it. I was told that organ pipes filled the room with a melodious sound. Once the music stopped, uncontrollable decibels rang from my newborn lungs. Being an infant, it was understandable that I was unfamiliar with the rhythm of religion. The ebb and flow of morning worship. The moments where sound was anticipated and silence expected. As I got older, I came to know the faith-based culture in which I was indoctrinated. I learned what to say and when to do it. Like when one professed, “God is good!” I answered, “All the time!” Or when the choir director revved up the music, I knew to rest on my feet to lift my voice. When a preacher's message landed on an eerily quiet congregation, I would cheer “Preach!” to acknowledge that the Word had reached a person with a pulse. I read Scripture, recited religious mantras, and sang hymns from memory. I even became a committed tither. A Sunday morning saint. I was busy doing church, week after week, month after month, into an eventual lifetime. By the world’s standard, I was a Christian. But that measure left me churched and unchanged. Camouflaged to the appearance of Christ but boldly living in self-absorption, I flaunted the deception in plain sight. With the advent of social media, there was my hypocrisy publicly documented with each story. There, splattered on the page for consumption was the condition of my heart. It reeked of pride and vanity as I posted about concerts, excursions, and happenings I experienced. When I joined my now former sorority, pictures of my raised pinkie flooded my timeline to show my allegiance to it. When my discontentment for others festered, it seeped onto the page and cowered behind silly memes. And when grief held me hostage after the loss of my family, I shared transparently with the unreasonable expectation that a bankrupt world would pay my ransom. I lived with one foot in church and the other firmly planted in the world. From my mouth, I both praised the Lord and entertained gossip. I declared God as my Creator but embraced astrology to inform my identity. I claimed to believe God’s Word, yet supported world views that clearly contradicted His commandments. I vowed to love Jesus as He instructed; with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength. However, I knelt in submission and swore an oath to a sorority whose pledge required that I do the same unto it. I straddled the fence. Being neither hot nor cold, I was a lukewarm Christian. Unwittingly, I presented a form of godliness all the while impotent (2 Timothy 3:5a). Like Superman crippled by kryptonite. Powerless. Churched, but unchanged. Not surprisingly, I noticed the sin I saw within myself also in many professed Christians. Jesus said, “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks” (Matthew 12:34; Luke 6:45). And social media was buzzing from the pulpit to the pews. Professed Christians posted themselves in nearly nude photos, idolized celebrities, offered unfiltered opinions, and spewed hatred and unforgiveness. Many endorsed comments antithetical to Scripture. Some flashed earthly treasures and attributed them to God, as if He were a genie who supplied trinkets on demand. Others self-promoted accomplishments and showcased community service deeds under the guise of humility. All the while, clergy and parishioners boldly blasphemed God by audaciously celebrating secret societies (fraternities and sororities) in the House of the Lord. If it felt good and seemed right, it was on full display. I could not distinguish the difference between the saved and the lost. From we who worship the Living God, to those repulsed by the thought of needing to. I expected people of the world to resemble Satan: “Whoever makes a practice of sinning is of the devil” (1 John 3:8). But I didn’t expect this from the children of God. We were to behave differently. We are supposed to be different (1 Thessalonians 4:7). Yet my timeline displayed the carnality of many professed Christians. They partook of a Christianity that cradled sin and coddled biblical illiteracy. Their Christianity placed greater emphasis on “the culture” than on the Kingdom. They were content with a superficial Christianity that kept themselves as its center instead of Christ. They were frauds. Counterfeit Christians. And there I was, right there alongside them, looking more like the world, than the Savior who died to rescue us from it. The unnamed author of the Book of Hebrews gives a scathing indictment to the Christians he addressed in his letter. The writer had been explaining weighty matters about Christ’s priesthood in the order of Melchizedek. He wanted to delve deeper, but interjected that these followers had become lazy. “Dull of hearing… you need someone to teach you again the basic principles of the oracles of God. You need milk, not solid food” (5:11b-12). Ouch. These believers were still in the crib. They failed to grasp the building blocks of the faith: “repentance from dead works and faith in God; teachings about ritual washings and laying on of hands; the resurrection of the dead and eternal judgment” (Hebrews 6:1-2). The tenets required to rightly distinguish between good and evil. A sure understanding necessary to transition from milk to solid food; from spiritual infancy to maturity in the faith. Despite sound teaching these seasoned followers had become lax in their application of the Word. Their spiritual lethargy caused their developmental delay. Stagnant, they required remediation. They needed to relearn the basics. Tragically, I was no different. So elementary in the faith that I lived in utter deception with an inability to discern good from evil. Sure, my moral compass was intact. I knew the obvious sins like murder, adultery, fornecation, stealing, lying, dishonoring your parents. But when syncretism cleverly disguised itself as things we consider good or harmless, my barometer was off. Way off! For instance, I thought I could be a Christian and identify by my zodiac sign, not realizing that I was engaged in divination. I saw no harm in serving Jesus and a Greek sorority, not discerning I was practicing idolatry and witchcraft. I celebrated the Most High God and listened to people who encouraged me to channel the ancestors, oblivious that I was teetering with necromancy. Being spiritually incompetent, I had not the faintest clue just how deceived and lost I was. That is until all hell broke loose, and I was forced to grow up. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/youllsee/may-6-2025 monthly 0.5 2025-05-14 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Part I: You’ll See - “Hey, when did you give your life to Christ?” I asked my brother Stan. “Oh, a little over twenty years ago.” “Wait. What? But you were baptized as a child!” As children, my two older brothers and I had been dunked in a small pool of water in our local church’s basement. It would signal the public declaration of our acceptance of Jesus Christ as our Savior. Stan, who is seven years my senior, was now fifty-four, and the math wasn’t adding up. “Yeah, but that was out of pressure. Everyone was doing it.” “Hmph. Really? Well, it wasn’t like that for me.” I shared. “I distinctly remember hearing Jesus say, ‘Come to Me,’ so I did. For me it wasn’t a fad. I heard Him! And I responded.” Stan paused. The silence over the phone grew. Knowing my brother, he was contemplating his response. The wrong words would render me defensive, but the right ones would peak my curiosity. I wanted to continue my rebuttal, to share how I knew it was the voice of God calling me at the age of eight, but the quietness felt necessary. Besides, I was on an assignment of which he was unaware. He was terminally ill and I needed to garner information to succinctly write his obituary. The stillness lingered a bit longer, and now I was curious. Finally he spoke, softly and with care, “You’ll see.” Perplexed, I said nothing. Neither did he. Until his words broke through the silence once more. “You’ll see.” Three weeks after that conversation, Stan died of cancer. Over the next forty months, the rest of my family followed suit. Year after year, God called for Mom, Dad, then lastly my brother Kenny. Then God stopped. Instead of calling me Home too, He left me. God chose to leave me here, on earth, without the sanctity of the family He’d given me. Without the comfort they afforded me. Without the security of their presence, which I failed to realize how desperately needed it was. Until they were gone. Navigating life without the people I trusted left me petrified. Mom and Dad had been there, always. Now with them and my two older brothers gone, I was lost. Thrust into unfamiliar terrain, the road was dark and murky. Disoriented, I had only one thing remaining: my faith. However, I needed help. A trusted hand. Someone to assist in picking up the remnants of my life. To salvage what remained and aid with my reconstruction and re-emergence. I had no shortage of options. After each funeral, friends, acquaintances, and a plethora of extended family vowed their support. Their concern seemed genuine, though their words were scripted. Customary and rehearsed, I heard the same sentiments repeatedly: “If you need me, I’m just a call away.” Caving under the crushing weight of grief, I conceded. I picked up the phone. In search of a lifeline, I called fellow Christians. I believed those of the faith could offer more than what the secular world had. Those without Jesus lacked hope. But not the believer. Be it a word, a prayer, or the ministry of presence, we knew what to do in times of bereavement. Or so I thought. In the pit of despair, while at my lowest, the unfathomable happened. In nearly each instance, on the other end of the line, professed Christians gave no more than the world: shallow platitudes and tenuous words. No sagacious guidance. Little empathy. No reminder of the assurance of Jesus Christ. Instead, they talked. A lot. About themselves. Full-on, incessant, self-centered ramblings about everything and nothing. I heard but didn’t listen. Their words were like power tools with drained batteries. They lacked the substance required to break through the impenetrable pain. Despondent, I ended each call silently wailing, until it was safe to do so aloud. This made no sense. How could a faith that sings of the neverending power of the blood of Jesus be so impotent? How could worshippers claiming the Living God to be their all-in-all have so little of Him to share? And these weren’t novice saints; they were seasoned. The Holy Spirit drew my attention back to my conversation with Stan. Then He exposed the lie. A deception so cunning that only the Hand of a merciful God could reveal it: carnal christianity, and its membership was massive. This cleverly disguised counterfeit masqueraded as the real thing. Designed to the appearance of Christianity, but grossly faulty. The Christianity I knew, was a part of, and now relied upon, wasn’t Christianity at all. Just when I needed it most, this imposter revealed itself through the ineptitude of broken promises. I had fallen prey to the very thing Jesus profusely told us to guard ourselves against: deception. Duped, I was on the path Jesus warned of; the broad road. A route congested, scenic even, that ultimately dead ends at the Lake of Fire, leaving its inhabitants eternally separated from God. However, there was more. The Holy Spirit revealed that I was culpable and complicit. Being spiritually lethargic, I was susceptible to the devil’s schemes. But my Bible was far from dusty, I used it. I believed I was a practicing Christian, a follower of Jesus Christ. I resembled the real thing to the world and myself! However, identifying a fraud has never been difficult for an omniscient God. Though I’d been hanging around Jesus for decades, learning about Him, and giving parts of myself to Him, God knew my heart. It was wishy-washy. A telltale sign of fake christianity. The Holy Spirit made it clear that I did not truly know the Lord. Further, He was far less interested in anything I had to offer apart from my total surrender and obedience unto Him. He wanted my whole heart. He required my life. If I were to be His disciple, for real, it had to be on His terms and not mine. It was time for me to grow up by growing in the full grace and knowledge of Jesus Christ. Stunned. I wept. Then wondered: Lord, how could I spend most of my life in church and still miss You? My late brother’s words resurfaced. ‘You’ll see.’ Instinctively, I knew those words had only been spoken through Stan but were not from him. You’ll see. And now, I was about to. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/gohome-6-2024 monthly 0.5 2025-04-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Go Home - When the Lord called my entire family Home, I was angry with Him. My brother Stan, who committed most of his adult life to Christ, died at the age of 54. Mom, our nucleus and wonder, who showed us what it is like to truly follow Jesus and not simply render lip service about Him, battled not one, but three primary cancers. She succumbed to two of them fourteen months after Stan passed. Dad, the pillar of our family, who tirelessly served others, was heartbroken. He slipped away peacefully in his sleep after whittling to half his size during the thirteen months he lived without his bride of 60 years. Then my brother Kenny, who captured many hearts with his infectious personality, died thirteen months after Dad. Though Kenny had beaten an aggressive stage-4 cancer diagnosis at 40, his compromised immune system was no match for Covid-19. He too was 54. Forty months. That’s all it took. Just forty months for life to irreversibly change. For everything familiar to become foreign. For the world to feel lifeless. For existence to become questionable. I was angry with God. But not for the reason one might suspect. God methodically plucked each member of my family, year after year, one by one, until He reached me. Then He stopped plucking. God, why would You leave me here? Was His great cloud of witnesses too full? Had I not loved and served Him enough to be done with the cares of this world too? What more did He expect to squeeze from my painfully traumatic life? A life in which childhood memories are void of innocence because of the repeated molestation which seized it. Irreparable damage caused at the hands of those who mishandled me. My path altered. A life lived filtered through pain. I was angry. God, why would You leave me here? As the youngest and sincerely introverted member of our tribe of five, it seemed cruel to be left behind to fend in this world. In a country intensely consumed with itself. Where predators prey. Mockers mock. Where many professed Christians are lifeless. A place where platitudes of comfort from well-wishers materialize as lies. Where narcissism cares more about its recognition of doing good than with the anonymity of being useful. No one was here. Not a soul present to occupy the empty space so deeply embedded within me that even I failed to reach it. Lord, why would You leave me here?! I am not the only one Jesus left behind. I imagine the demoniac who lived in the region of the Gerasenes felt the same way. This man with unclean spirits in the synoptic Gospels bears only the name of the demons which possessed him: “Legion, because there were many” (Mark 5:9b). Shunned by the people, his people, the man was banished to live on the mountains amongst the tombs. Tormented and naked, his wailing cries heard from a distance were ignored (Mark 5:5). But the demoniac’s story does not conclude with his ostracism. Mark’s Gospel account declares the man, in his fallen state, recognized Jesus in the distance exiting a boat. The boat Jesus was just on when awakened from a catnap by distressed disciples who feared death amid a raging sea storm. The storm that the disciples watched Jesus calm with His Words (4:35-41). Had the demoniac witnessed the submission of the wind and waves, and hoped that Jesus would stop the storm raging within him? The text is unclear. But what is plain was the man’s position, his response, and Jesus’ identity. Neglected and separated from society, this man’s ostracism perched him at the perfect vantage point to see Jesus. Then the man and the unclean spirits controlling his life ran. The Legion of whom no chains or shackles could retrain, ran. The Demon who was unsubdued by the repeated best efforts of man, ran. Not from Jesus but to Him, then knelt before Him all before Jesus uttered a single word. The Demon within the man rightly addressed Jesus as the Son of the Most High God. And having recognized His deity, the Demon begged Jesus not to torment him (Mark 5:7). The rest of the story is equally fascinating. Jesus commanded the unclean spirit to leave the man. It did. But only after Legion pleaded with Jesus to allow them to remain in the region and enter a herd of pigs nearby. Jesus granted the request. Once the demons left the man and inhabited roughly two thousand pigs, the herd rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned. The men who tended the pigs witnessed what happened and ran straight into town and the countryside and reported the breaking news to the locals (5:10-14a). Curious, folks ran to see what happened. What they found frightened them. There, next to Jesus they “saw the man who had been demon possessed, sitting there, dressed and in his right mind, and they were afraid” (5:15). They had heard the second hand account of the changed man’s story and now had seen his transformation for themselves. And they were terrified. Go figure. They were scared when the man was demon possessed and they were scared now that he is not. And what instead was the concern of the people? Pigs. They were outraged at their loss of a pack of pigs. The death of the pigs meant enormous disruption to their revenue. The pigs were their means to economic stability. These folks showed greater concern over their loss of pigs than with the Man responsible for the drowned demons within them. No jubilation for the restoration of the pitiful man’s soul. No gratitude that Jesus had made the man well after his life had long been disrupted by demons. Instead, the locals were outraged that now their lives were interrupted. And the townspeople wanted this Disrupter to get on the boat and go. Leave, Jesus, before You cause us further losses. Have you ever felt this way? Like the townspeople, yes? Prioritized the pigs in your life? So content to wallow with the idols erected in your heart, that you would rather have them than Him. Likely we all have. We have misplaced hope, searched for identity in things, and placed our security in stuff. From the people in our lives that we make our world, to the unrighteous organizations we join, to the material items we accumulate and hoard. Why do we do it? Why do we cling to things? Could it be that we fail to understand what the changed man realized? That our hope, identity, and security can only be found in Jesus. That His power is greater than the raging forces working against us. That “He can do exceedingly abundantly above all that we can think or ask” (Ephesians 3:20). That Jesus is enough. So much so that while the townspeople implored Jesus to leave, the changed man pleaded to be with Him. Jesus addressed both requests. To the people, He honored their choice. He left. But once Jesus entered the boat, He heard the earnest cry of the cleansed man. This man, now clothed and in his right mind, gave the only appropriate response to Jesus. To the Messiah who came to a foreign land to save him. To the Son of the Only True Living God that spared no expense to rescue him from death. To God the Son, who did for him what only He could do; covered him and made his fractured life whole. The changed man surrendered his life to Jesus and prepared to abandon all he knew to follow Him. Yet, “Jesus did not let him but told him, ‘Go home to your own people, and report to them how much the Lord has done for you and how he has had mercy on you’” (5:19). Jesus said no, and sent the man back to the family and friends who ridiculed and bound him. To the neighbors who gossiped, shunned and discarded him. To the community who placed greater value on a pack of pigs than his well being. Really, Jesus. Why would You leave me here like You did the changed man? Then command me, as You did with him, to go back to a callous community. To return to the people who gave greater attention to the detail of funeral plans than for my bereaved heart. Really, Jesus? You want me to go back to them? To the people who cursed me and profaned my name? To the people who claimed to know You yet failed to reflect You? Really? Isn’t that just like Jesus? To send us on the road less traveled. Against the grain. The narrow path. Empowering us to face our afflictions squarely. Equipping us to minister to the very people who would just as soon have us board a boat with Jesus and leave. Go home. “Report to them how much the Lord has done for you” (5:19b). Sometimes Jesus will not change our environment, but He will transform our condition. That’s why He sent the former demoniac back. It is the same reason He left me here. And perhaps you also. To show the very people who are most familiar with our traumatic past of the transformation that occurs when we truly meet Christ. The home folks know our pain. The pig people have witnessed our predicament and some have even contributed to it. Yet Jesus sends us back to them to testify of His goodness. To a community who may never know His mercy otherwise. To go and bear witness about the Messiah to the very folks whose harmful actions helped posture us for our encounter with Him. Go! Go back to those enslaved to this world and tell them what the Lord has done for you. “They were all amazed”(5:20b). That was the reaction of the people once the changed man returned home to share what Jesus had done for him. They were amazed. The Scriptures do not tell us if the people were loving, welcoming, or if they even changed. All reasons that might give us pause for going back home. Jesus knows the pig people hurt you and me. He understands the marginalization and rejection better than anyone. He endured an entire humanity of pig people when He bore the punishment of death on the cross for our sins. He didn’t want to die. He asked, “Father, if You are willing, take this cup from Me” (Luke 22:42a). But His Father told Him no, then sent Him to demonstrate the Father’s goodness and mercy through His (Jesus) death. So it’s okay to feel apprehensive about facing the people who hurt us. But like Jesus, we must not allow our feelings to negate the commands of God. Jesus endured the greatest hardship in history when He died for you and me. All to save us from the eternal damnation due us because of our sins. Can you imagine our hopelessness if Jesus had rejected God’s Will for His life? Our greater concern should be the same. Where will our family and friends spend eternity? Sacrificing our egos and feelings is a nominal price to pay in light of the fate awaiting those who reject Jesus. So let’s do the hard things. Let’s face the folks who caused us pain. Let’s talk to those who criticized and ostracized us. Let’s go back to the people who placed greater value on the pigs in their lives and proclaim to them the Good News. Let’s offer them hope by showing them Jesus! And pray that they too have a true encounter with the Messiah and be changed and follow Him. So that one day, we can all go Home! https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/sorornomoreseries-part3-theunfathomable monthly 0.5 2024-06-21 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Part III: The Unfathomable - Choose Whom You Will Serve God, why does an upstanding citizen die senselessly? With fatherlessness prevalent in America’s Black community, why would You allow Carl’s two young sons this plight? What caused the argument that preceded his death? How does an armed neighbor walking his dog encounter my former student in the middle of the night and kill him? The Lord was patient with my barrage of questions. I was struggling with Carl’s death. The circumstances surrounding it caused me deep trepidation. I was grappling for understanding and God knew it. None of it made sense. Yet it all made sense. God tells us that the secret things belong to Him but the things revealed belong to us and to our children forever, that we may follow all the words of this law (Deuteronomy 29:29). But despite this, I remained unsettled. Turning my attention toward action, I posed my final question. Lord, will You use me? Carl is gone, but others remain. What more can I do to bring people to the full knowledge of the hope I have in You [Jesus Christ]? Breaking His silence, He revealed my next step by placing uneasiness within me about my membership in Alpha Kappa Alpha (AKA) Sorority, Incorporated. Uncertain as to why, I wondered, what does one have to do with the other? I was perplexed yet pliable. Soon an anomaly on my social media feed garnered my attention. As an infrequent user of social media, this post from an acquaintance stood out. Without much detail, he casually mentioned a Christian who renounced her membership in AKA. It was enough to plant a seed. When I logged onto my Facebook page three weeks later, it happened again. This time from another follower of Jesus whose substantive posts I read. He referenced a YouTube video posted by another Christian renouncing her membership in AKA. Receptive; the planted seed was germinating. My senses heightened from curiosity to urgency as I scoured YouTube in search of Thee Woman’s (her channel name) video. What are you telling me, Lord? Within minutes I was glued to her testimony as she shared a story which resonated with me from the beginning. She thoroughly explained the appeal of secret societies; methodically dissected the AKA rituals; and rightly divided the truth according to God’s Word. Planted at my dining room table, I watched her entire two and a half hour proclamation exposing the deception of AKA. Then came the remembrance. I was transplanted back to the hotel conference room where I was initiated fourteen years ago. I saw myself kneeling in submission to pagan gods and dead founders as the Chapter’s Basileus (president) stood before me reading Scripture. It was just as it was during the initiation ritual on May 31, 2009. The only difference being the words were now amplified, mirroring the internal heaviness I bore fourteen years prior when she recited that same passage: YOUR PEOPLE SHALL BE MY PEOPLE AND YOUR GOD MY GOD! (Ruth 1:16b) The Lord showed me the lie. AKA had misappropriated His Word for its own aggrandizement. I had been deceived. But He would no longer use me if I remained in covenant with these demonic pink and green gods since being made aware of the truth (2 Peter 2:21-22). Choose ye this day whom you will serve, God proclaimed (Joshua 24:15). Now I was grieving the way I had grieved The Holy Spirit. Tears fell uncontrollably. Sobbing, I was convicted. The deception was unfathomable. I had betrayed my God by idolizing another. The veil was now removed from my eyes (2 Corinthians 3:16). I repented. Then renounced my membership in AKA that very moment. Grateful for The Lord’s grace and mercy, I resolved to demonstrate my love for Him by obeying His Word (John 14:15). After regaining a modicum of composure, I typed my renunciation letter to AKA. Then I cleaned house. I removed my work keys from the customary AKA lanyard that faithfully adorned my neck since crossing over to the dark side. I contemplated the young people I had influenced to follow in my footsteps. Anguished. I was sickened while continuing the arduous task of gathering all the AKA paraphernalia I had amassed in fourteen years - securing it to burn. The following day, I had my renunciation letter notarized and mailed. Liberated. A heaviness lifted as I exited the mailing center. FREE reverberated boldly within me. While walking to my car, an unfamiliar gospel song began playing spontaneously on my phone. Its lyrics captured my attention: Tested but committed to staying with You. Ignoring thoughts that make me doubt You. Life says look at what’s wrong, but faith says stand and be strong. In the darkness I’ll still declare that You will bring me through. I will keep my mind on what You are able to do. I will lift my eyes, for my help cometh from You. I’m depending on You (Depending on You by Gene Moore). No longer deceived. The tears fell once again. No longer grieved, I knew The Lord was pleased with my obedience (1 Samuel 15:22). I had courageously and wisely chosen Jesus Christ. But as for me and my house, we will serve The Lord. - Joshua 24:15 https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/sorornomoreseries-part2-thefallen-mp58d monthly 0.5 2024-01-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Part II: The Fallen - The Inevitable Appointment My heart raced erratically. Knees buckled. Anguish flooded my body. His death created discord within me. I am generally composed when encountering unwelcomed news, but this time turbulence found me on the afternoon of May 8, 2023. Unnerved. I was dumbfounded as to why my former high school student Carl, 30, had been shot and killed. The strikingly handsome, athletic youngster I knew had morphed into a robust man. At first encounter, his infamously thick black hair and timid smile greeted me. He was kind and respectable. But it was his ability to see me that resonated mostly. With eyes capable of piercing the soul, it rattled me that we were now left in this world without his. Carl is but one of many students lost to gun violence during my twenty-nine years as a public educator. Yet his death struck me profoundly. Pondering life, I reflected on my significance in the lives of those entrusted to my care. Then I began assessing how I show up in the world. Ask any educator of their ultimate desire for their students and invariably the answer rests on helping them realize their full potential - being globally conscious and responsible citizens who effectively impact the world for better. For decades, I have committed to this goal. But after Carl’s death I began to wonder, is this enough? Like many of my colleagues, we extend ourselves tirelessly to ensure that our students are well equipped for this life. And sometimes we are blessed to witness the fruit of our labor. As with Carl, who was doing all the right things - an eight year veteran of the fire department and a devoted father to two sons. So when his young life ended tragically, my soul grieved for his. With death being the gateway to everlasting existence, I wondered which eternal destination awaited him. Death is not the worst thing that can happen to you. It’s where you are going that can be. - Unknown As a follower of Jesus Christ I have a responsibility to spread the Good News (Matthew 28:19-20). To inform others of the hope I have in The Lord (John 3:16). Which is the gift of salvation free to all, who by faith believe Jesus to be the Son of God. The Savior who bore the sins of the world to atone for our iniquities with His death on The Cross. Then rising three days later with all power. I shudder to think Carl may have failed to know of this hope I have. But when we work in environments that make allowance of everything but the mention of Jesus Christ, what are we to do? But God thought of this too! He says, show up in love. By this everyone will know that you are My disciples, if you love one another (John 13:35). Often [His] love means going against the grain. Living life contrary to the world’s way. Living in Truth. So when others use their words to destroy, we speak life. Where some withhold mercy, we are merciful, offering grace when undeserved. But it is not always easy to demonstrate the love of Jesus. The Holy Spirit must reveal areas within us that are contrary to His Word and awaken us to Truth, thereby enabling us to mirror the life of Jesus to others. Now with Carl’s death causing deep consternation, I contemplated reengaging with the sorority I had stopped actively participating in for better than a decade, despite remaining in good financial standing. By aligning with the enormous membership of Alpha Kappa Alpha (AKA) Sorority, Incorporated, I believed they could help spread The Gospel of Jesus Christ to the masses. But unlike before when I made moves without seeking The Lord, I prayed about this first. Asking The Father to reveal my shortcomings and remove anything or anyone failing to align with His Will. Be careful what you ask God for. You just might get it. What He revealed was pretty unsettling. It left me clutching my pearls. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/sorornomoreseries-part1-thefallacy monthly 0.5 2024-01-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Part I: The Fallacy - PNKNGRN Growing up as the only girl in a family with two older brothers, I longed for sisters. A sister with whom to build, share, and keep the deepest of confidences. To foster that special bond afforded to women. I witnessed it between my mother and her sisters. And Mom wanted the same for me. But when severe morning sickness wreaked havoc during her pregnancies, Mom was resigned to her two boys and a girl, despite desiring another daughter. As such, I sensed my parents compensated for the void being sisterless created in my life. Albeit by far less substantive means, I still relished in the tangible ways it showed itself. Like when Mom and Dad allowed me to choose the paint color I wanted for my bedroom walls. Thrilled, the first color I chose was pink. When Dad repainted a few years later, I opted for green. My love of pink and green bloomed early. Fast-forward to adulthood, and the appeal continued. Fancying an organization adorned in those vibrant colors, I longed to immerse myself in its exclusivity. With admired relatives, church mentors, and notable women being a part of the perceived illustrious Alpha Kappa Alpha (AKA) Sorority, Incorporated, I wanted in. Though its colors were a lure, I believed AKA facilitated good in the world and fostered sisterhood. With my longing for sisters still strong, coupled with an unfocused undergraduate experience, I was ecstatic when the opportunity to join AKA arose through a graduate chapter in 2009. As an adult, I was not concerned with ‘being made’ through unauthorized hazing practices found on some college campuses. With a string of traumatic encounters stemming from childhood, the last thing I was interested in was being beaten, mocked, and ridiculed. I felt the three-week graduate process would be different. And it was. It helped cultivate the unique sisterly companionship I craved. Learning new things, studying, and forging a bond with eight other women was just what I hoped for. We laughed, cried, and shared testimonies of our desire to unite with AKA. There was not one ounce of misappropriation of power displayed by our mentors in this small graduate chapter. No, these women were by the book, faithful members of AKA. The process was fine until it was not. Adrenaline pumping. On initiation day we were giddy with excitement positioned behind those closed doors which secured our entry into the sorority. Walking into that solemn darkened room adorned with sacred ritual stuff sent me into a trance, literally. There were candles, an altar, things positioned on said altar. Those same upstanding chapter women were now clothed in uninterrupted white attire and encamped about the room with stoic faces. I failed to register the magnitude of what was taking place. However, the feeling that something was off weighed heavily. But I dismissed my suspicion because selfishly I wanted this. So much so that I placed more trust in the women in that room who had gone before me than I did my own gut. Surely they would not lead me into anything wrong. The rituals during this culminating step remained a mystery until the events unfolded before us. In hindsight I understand the wickedness. The unthinkable things said. The rituals rooted in sorcery. Words pledged to dark spirits. Kneeling in submission to and bowing before idol gods and dead founders. And most damning, the misappropriation of Scripture. But this organization is far from Christian, because the Word is being adulterated. I knew this to be the case while on my knees in that darkened room kneeling before the Chapter’s Basileus (president) when she read Ruth 1:16-17. But Ruth said, “Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried. May the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you.” Madam Basileus was not referring to The Only True and Living God. She was referencing AKA and its dead founders. But in actuality, the Prince of Darkness was exploiting God’s Word for his own demonic plan to steal, kill, and destroy God’s people one by one (John 10:10). It was precisely at this moment that I felt an internal heaviness and prodding to leave. But I dismissed it. Once I did, I knew my actions had grieved The Holy Spirit. But it did not matter. Because I was blindly selfish and sincerely clueless. My decades-long wish of uniting with AKA was being realized. My desire was overriding God's plan. I had invested my time, learned the organization’s extensive history, and spent the money required for membership. And now I was going to finish what I had started. So after rising from my knees, I became a full-fledged Soror of The Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated, and never looked back. Until fourteen years later when the death of my former student rocked my entire world. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/sorornomore monthly 0.5 2024-01-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Soror No More - When I joined Alpha Kappa Alpha (AKA) Sorority, Incorporated in 2009, I faithfully wore the letters and colors which represent the organization. For years, a pink and green AKA lanyard religiously adorned my neck, and I asmassed enough of the sorority’s paraphernalia to never repeat an outfit twice within a year. When I relocated to another state and my new permanent license plates arrived reading “DST-622,” I immediately requested vanity tags boasting “PNKNGRN” to replace them. Proud. I wanted everyone to know that I was an AKA. And not one person ridiculed me for my overt declarations - ever. Today I am sharing my exodus from AKA with that same confidence - by boldly professing my love for The Lord, for I am not ashamed of the Gospel of Jesus Christ (Romans 1:16). On October 11, 2023, I repented of my sins before The Lord and renounced my membership in AKA. The following afternoon I mailed my notarized renunciation letter to AKA Headquarters. A month later, I received their response. They inactivated my membership, giving me until June 1, 2024 to reassess my decision before they vote on my expulsion during the 2024 summer Boule. But the devil is a liar (John 8:44). They may have left the door open for my reconsideration, but it is shut. Just as I made that unrighteous covenant with AKA over fourteen years ago, by the power of The Holy Spirit I severed it. So whom the Son sets free, is free indeed! -John 8:36 My decision to renounce and denounce AKA is simple: it is in obedience to The Lord. To learn more about my journey into and emancipation from this unrighteous covenant, read my series of blog posts entitled Soror No More here on my website. So everyone who acknowledges me before men, I also will acknowledge before my Father who is in heaven, but whoever denies me before men, I also will deny before my Father who is in heaven. -Matthew 10:32-33 https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/back-to-school-psa-august2023 monthly 0.5 2023-08-25 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Back to School Public Service Announcement - My heart collapsed. Yet instinctively I held it together. Being a school counselor, we tend to do so in times of crisis. Taylor needed me. Her voice still cracking from blurting out news that neither of us could fully comprehend: Carl is dead. Her high school classmate and my former student, an eight year veteran with the fire department, was killed during an alleged domestic dispute at the age of 30. Tragically, Carl’s death is not an isolated event. As local media report the latest tragedy, I wait with bated breath for the victim’s name. Lord, please don’t let it be another one of my babies. My hushed prayer releases automatically while peering at the television. I don’t want it to be anyone’s baby. Sadly, this one is mine too. Kevin, 33. Gunned down in the street. This scenario replays itself almost daily. A surge in crime among the youth has resulted in more lives succumbing to gun violence. Everyone wants answers. Pleas muffled by sobs while unrestrained anger lashes out in desperation: The schools need to do more! The Mayor needs to fix these streets! The cops ain’t doing nothing! It’s social media! It’s the parents! The convenience of a scapegoat lessens the blow of responsibility. Finger pointing serves only to abdicate accountability. While we are playing the blame game, tragedy continues to strike, and more lives are lost. I’ve lost count of my students who have been murdered. But their faces and vibrancy remain etched in my memory. I did not imagine it would be like this when I entered the field of education twenty-nine years ago. And for a while, it wasn’t. But this is my reality now. And one far too common for many educators, particularly in urban settings. I am sick of it. And this is precisely why I am still in the game, fighting alongside my colleagues every day. Devoted tirelessly to young people, educating and nurturing budding minds and hearts. The work is hard. Taxing and exhausting. Our sacrifices are unquantifiable. We give. Pouring from every fiber within us. Our students matter and the work we do is paramount. But the responsibility of our children belongs to all of us. Each of us shares the charge of caring for one another. Whether one works directly with children or not, everybody can make a difference in the life of a young person. We can start by getting back to basics, by engaging in positive conversation. Speak with children, not at them. Ask about their day and listen without distraction and interruption. Children are impressionable and attuned to everything. The language and behavior they hear and see is often replicated at school. We should always be mindful of our language and actions, knowing that one day we will have to give an account for every word and deed (Matthew 12:36). So why not make it count for good? As followers of Jesus Christ, we understand tragedies and calamities are inevitable. That in this world we will have tribulation (John 16:33). Yet Jesus never intended for His followers to be useless. We know we live in a fallen world and eagerly await our Savior’s return. But in the meantime there is work to do. We are called to stand firm and not be shaken, to always keep busy working for the Lord, knowing that everything we do for him is worthwhile (1 Corinthians 15:58). So as children and educators embark upon a new school year, do something. Thoughts are appreciated. Prayers are wanted. Action is needed. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/intentional-gratitude-03-31-2023 monthly 0.5 2023-08-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Intentional Gratitude - On Valentine’s Day, a cloud of grief consumed me. My mind was replaying the scenes that led to Mom’s death, four years prior on this date. These unwelcome thoughts broke through the barrier I had placed around them, much like levees being compromised by a force greater than they can withstand. Anguish gushed powerfully. And with Dad’s death anniversary and Mom’s birthdate fast approaching, I believed the pain would rise in the ensuing weeks. Much like those who complain about Mondays, I found myself audaciously dreading days that were not even promised. Lonely. Agony manipulated me into isolation, pulling me into the abyss of despair. Too weak to engage the world, the companionship of my tears won over. The tighter I latched onto my soiled pillow for comfort, the more the enemy sought to wreak havoc in my mind. Consumed by thoughts of those who had taken residency in my heart but betrayed my suffering with their abandonment. Then I was taunted by thoughts of insignificance. I wondered if I mattered to anyone as much as I had to Mom, Dad, and my late brothers Stan, and Kenny. But God. Clean off Your Mirror! The Holy Spirit reminded me, drawing my attention back to The Truth of who we are in Christ Jesus. Clean Off Your Mirror is a blog posting I had written nearly a year prior. Re-reading, I was now ministering to myself as I meditated on the scriptures therein. Concluding my study session, Numbers 23:19 spoke to me: God is not a man, that he should lie; or a son of man, that he should change His mind. Has he said, and will he not do it? Or has He spoken, and will he not fulfill it? Audaciousness presented again. This time gripping firmly every Truth God says about us. The deeper His Word burrowed itself into my heart, the cleaner I became. Praising God, I cried for mercy. How could I allow the primitive opinions of those who merely know of me to override The Truth of The One who created me? Determined to thwart negativity, I set out on a journey of intentional gratitude for thirty days. I reflected on God’s faithfulness, His promise to provide for His children (Philippians 4:19), and on what Jesus said in Matthew 5:4, Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. I knew God keeps His Word. Now I just needed to remind myself, daily, of the myriad ways in which He does so. During the month of March, I celebrated women whose influence helped me through the hardest season of my life. A period where my parents and two older brothers were stricken with sickness and died within 40 months. I began surveying God’s faithfulness unto me and posted about my revelations daily to my social media accounts. Beginning with my Mother, taking note of her belief in God. Through her obedience, I first became acquainted with Jesus when she took me and my two older brothers to church every Sunday. Mom, who sang continuously of God’s goodness, also served as the catalyst for the women in my life whose influence served me well. These inspirations include grandmothers who relied on The Lord for sustenance. A great grandmother who defied odds with fortitude and perseverance. The aunts, providing a mosaic of experiences that nurture and enrich lives. A faithful few who grip tightly, no matter what transpires. The encouragers, cheering from the sideline to unassuming women tarrying about their day. I began to take note of everything. The majestic Hand of God is continually at work. His goodness in our lives can be found everywhere. His blessings abound. But the enemy is ruthless and has a way of weaponizing life against us. If we are not intentional, we can become filled with grumblings. Ungrateful and hardened hearts manifesting bitterness toward the very God we believe to be sovereign. Thinking life should occur as we see fit only boxes God in. Our parameters serve only to restrict us from the abundant life He promises His children. So pay attention to everything, being thoughtful not to overlook the small stuff. When we are faithful with little, we can be trusted with much (Luke 16:10). I appreciate that I am not everyone’s assignment, nor are they mine. Much like pressure, death exposes the best and worst in us, revealing what is in our hearts. For those who have harmed me, using the words of Oprah I have learned to say, “Thank you for that experience.” Without rain, not much grows in life. Even when it poured, God shone His Light on the multitude who have been standing in the rain with me. Some carrying umbrellas, others ushering me onto drier ground. Still, I have yet to encounter one person capable of eradicating the pain of grief. But I did discover who can. Through my relationship with Jesus Christ, I have an unspeakable peace and joy. And as special as He makes me feel, I am keenly aware that this feeling is available to everyone. Remove the barriers. Dismantle your expectations, intentionally seek Him, and dwell in the goodness of God. With a grateful heart, you will find yourself just as I did, with more blessings than a mere thirty days can hold. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/assignment-understood/february-22-2023 monthly 0.5 2023-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/b24be020-8a8d-409f-8dd4-9678e3e808ad/66BBB6CE-F9A0-44D6-8ACD-674BCE05B2CF_1_201_a.jpeg Blog - Assignment Understood - The wind whispers through each strand of her freshly groomed hair. Swaying gently, her long silky tri-colored mane sweeps the ground. Standing tall on the modest front stoop, she carries herself massively, contrasting reality. She is one foot tall, weighing six pounds soaking wet. Gazing intently about the street, her head oscillates, taking it all in. Studying the neighborhood block that her tiny canine frame dominates. She is calm and intentional. She is beautiful and she owns it. Sasha. Sasha! I call to her from inside the partially opened glass storm door. Her erect triangular ears pivot slightly. She hears me but fails to acknowledge my summons. She is fixated now on something I cannot see. It was during that final Thanksgiving visit to Florida that I recognized Sasha’s compassion. There, my brother Kenny and I sat reminiscing with our terminally ill older brother in his cozy Florida home. Stan’s body, now wrecked by cancer, lay in bed with his head propped upon several pillows. Despite the warmth and layered clothing, his body shivered. Kenny sat in the black leather chair to his right. I occupied the dark worn sofa butting against the bed on his left. Sasha stood on the couch’s arm observing Stan. They had never been particularly close; she seldom paid attention to him. But now she was deliberate, studying his every grimace. While we laughed and cried, her petite legs shuffled with interest. Composed, she gingerly stretched for the bed before leaping to join him. Concerned her movement caused Stan additional pain, I lunged for her. Unfazed, she dodged my attempt, carefully inching her way closer to him. She nestled her body beside his, then rested her head on his swollen stomach. All while never breaking her stare into his eyes. Later that evening Stan was rushed to the hospital. Doctors cited internal bleeding within his abdomen. He died one month later on December 21, 2017. Mom had been battling her own illness. Drastically shrinking before us, her weight plummeted for reasons unknown. Worsening matters, she suffered intense toe discomfort which failed to respond to surgery. With Mom in chronic pain, Sasha refused to leave her side. Whether Mom was seated with others around the dining table conversing or resting in bed or on the sofa, Sasha snuggled about her feet blanketing Mom’s toe with her head. But sometimes she insisted on being in Mom’s lap. And on numerous accounts she would vacillate between Mom’s feet and abdomen, appearing unsettled as to where to devote her attention. With each passing day this pattern intensified. We thought it the strangest occurrence, witnessing Sasha debate between Mom’s feet and stomach. That was, until we learned a couple of months later that Mom had a very rare cancer spreading throughout her intestines. Five months after that diagnosis Mom received another devastating blow. Brain cancer. An unrelated finding to the cancer in her intestines. On November 8, 2018, she had brain surgery. At home later that night while holding Sasha in my arms, her body began to shake violently. Sasha’s involuntary movements continued for nearly two minutes. She was having her first seizure. The next morning, we learned that Mom had complications after we left the hospital the evening before - a mix-up in medication causing adverse effects. A check of the nurse’s log showed the medicine was administered the same time Sasha suffered her seizure. Mom passed away three months later, on February 14, 2019. For several weeks Sasha refused to enter Mom’s room. Their connection seemingly broken. That bond was not the only thing shattered after Mom’s passing. Her death weighed heavily on Dad. Married for over sixty years, the separation was taking its toll on him. Dad, viewed as a pillar of the community with the stout frame of an aged former athlete, was no match for grief. Brokenhearted, he began wasting away. His longing for Mom was evident even in moments of silence. That was when Sasha stepped in to serve as his companion. Growing up Dad tolerated our dogs, frequently referring to the previous six all by the same name: Dog. He treated Sasha no differently. Move out the way, Dog. Time to eat, Dog. You want to go outside, Dog? However, there was something special about Sasha that softened Dad, eventually winning him over. Once Mom transitioned, Sasha focused on Dad fiercely. When he would lie down, she made her bed securely beside him. If he sat at the dining table gazing out the opened front door, she positioned herself alongside him piercing in the same direction. And when he planted himself on the sofa or enjoyed the warmth of being outdoors, she was right there. The two were inseparable, providing Sasha respected his boundary by not attempting to kiss his face with the lick of her tongue. While chauffeuring Dad back from a trip to North Carolina, we chatted quite a bit. Appearing restless early into the drive, Sasha frequently switched positions from resting on the floor mat between Dad’s feet to his lap. Eventually we were forced to stop. That is when I witnessed both Sasha and Dad’s most unusual behavior. Sasha, stretching upward from Dad’s lap, raised her mouth toward his, then Dad lowered his head to meet hers. She kissed him squarely on his lips! Not turning away, Dad smiled and softly said, Sasha, while petting her petite head. Early the next morning on March 10, 2020, Dad passed peacefully away in his sleep with Sasha by his side. Just as with Dad and Sasha’s embrace, his unexpected demise left us in shock. Now Kenny and I were left with grieving the losses of our parents and older brother Stan, all within a span of twenty-seven months. Kenny, the constant jokester, struggled in our new world void of laughter. Born with special needs, he thrived in predictability and consistency, both of which were gone. Nothing was the same for us and a global pandemic exacerbated the matter. Our days were challenging, and it was difficult for him to express himself appropriately. Yet Sasha knew just how to lift Kenny’s mood and brighten his spirit. Sasha began her own comedic version of trick or treat with Kenny. Laying at the foot of my bed, she housed her treats within paw’s reach, keeping intense watch over them. Whenever Kenny walked by the room, she barked incessantly: her invitation to play. He would stop in his tracks, tilt his head to the right, and say, Whaaat? His drawn-out probing signaling the acceptance to her invitation. Game on. He approached slowly. Her barking settled. The two now engaged in a fierce stare down. Silence filled the room. Sasha studied his eyes. He held back laughter as he continued cautiously toward her. Her angst then manifested a baritone growl. She surveyed his every breath, anticipating his next move. Her docked tail wiggled profusely. Suddenly, his right arm extended toward her treats, hoping to capture just one from her custody. She lunged toward his hand and snapped at the air with a high-pitched YELP! He retreated with laughter, empty-handed. Round one: Sasha. Sasha and Kenny’s daily play ended abruptly when he entered the hospital on March 12, 2021. He remained there, isolated for six weeks until he lost his battle to COVID-19 on April 24, 2021. Upon returning home that afternoon from my final visit with him, I approached the house to find Sasha visibly absent from her usual watchful place: the living room window sill. Inside, laying in the hallway in front of Kenny’s opened bedroom door she fixated on something in his room. Peeking in, I noticed one of Sasha’s treats on the corner of Kenny’s bed. Final round: Kenny. By God’s Grace, Kenny’s demise was not the end of Sasha’s beloved game. Though she became sick with pancreatitis and heart disease a year later, she picked up trick or treat with her Daddy (my husband Ed), developing an even deeper bond with him. Her sassiness would summon me to the bedroom (she only played the game if I was in bed) just to await the moment Ed walked down the hallway. That tiny tail wagging in anticipation so rapidly it generated a breeze. And once he was finally within her sight, it was game on, just as it had been with Kenny. Sasha demanded her daddy-daughter time in other ways. Though her tiny frame should have been eclipsed by his tall, muscular build, it was Sasha who dominated their daily walks, leading Ed the entire way. The car rides where he would secure her tightly, allowing her face to kiss the wind as she leaned out the window. Yet mostly she longed for the day's end when he rubbed behind her ears until they both fell asleep. Just as Sasha was protective of her time with Ed, she guarded me ferociously. Anyone within arms distance of me caused her to bark loudly and continuously until they retreated. Friends approaching for a fist bump were to step back. Family going in for a hug needed to step off. It did not matter the perpetrator, she established a boundary concerning me which was to be respected. When bearing witness to my tears, a manifestation of deep-seeded pain, I sensed she understood more than I realized. She saw me clearly and was determined not to let anyone hurt me, ever. Her intense beautiful eyes constantly engaged with mine signaling she had me covered. Providing for my needs, she often sealed her love with a reaffirming kiss and immovable presence. Trustworthy, Sasha lived fully in my moments, doing so as recently as the last two months of her life. She had one final earthly assignment before she would rest: my well-being. I was scheduled for major surgery in October, and she pressed on to see me through it, just as she had done with my four previous surgeries. But this was different. With my late parents and brothers visibly absent, she stepped in to help Ed care for me. If I was out of bed too long, she ushered me back to the bedroom. When approved for short walks, she abbreviated our strolls, sensing I had done enough. And if I sat too long, she ordered me to move. Sasha remained vigilant for six weeks until I was cleared to return to work in early December. Sasha literally took on our pain. She suffered from chronic knee difficulties like I did, a partially collapsed trachea which made breathing a challenge, just as Kenny’s bouts of pneumonia had caused him, and like my Dad, she also developed heart disease. She began having seizures a few weeks after Mom first had hers, and just as Stan and Mom battled intestinal issues, Sasha developed pancreatic problems resulting in nausea and vomiting, the same symptoms they endured. But even still, she forged on, ensuring we were well cared for. Sasha. Sasha! No longer ignoring my summons, she turned to enter the propped storm door. Her eyes, souring of pain, slowly met mine. There is a sadness about her. She looks tired. She misses life as it was. The longing is evident in her eyes. And though Mom, Dad, Kenny, and Stan are removed from my sight, I believe they remain in hers. Her distant stare now frequent, I sense them calling for her, and I wonder how much longer she has with us. Two days later with her eyes fixated on ours, Ed and I watched as Sasha’s piercing gaze slowly faded away. She died peacefully in my arms on December 9, 2022. Sasha was fourteen years old. Sasha was no ordinary pet. She carried herself more like a furry ambassador of Jesus Christ. A true companion and constant comforter, she accepted her earthly assignment and executed it with fidelity. Packed with a powerful personality and an infectious sense of humor in the tiniest frame, she epitomized the meaning of her name by fiercely defending our family through the toughest of battles. Undaunted, she boldly stared down our trials and hardships with confidence, offering compassion and love until the work was done, and teaching me to do the same. Sasha never abdicated her responsibilities, remaining true when we needed her most. I am certain she knew that with the worst of my storms over and brighter days now within my gaze, she could accept her ultimate assignment to rest eternally. Well done, Sasha. Assignment understood. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/pain-relief-january-23-2023 monthly 0.5 2023-02-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Pain Relief - For years I suffered from knee pain that grew progressively worse. Unstable in its ways, my left knee made navigating stairs a chore, walking hardly bearable, and running out of the question. Inflammation was chronic and swelling evident. My knee was notoriously clicking, locking, and popping. If the rhythmless nation were a club, my knee secured membership. But when a cane and crutches became a necessary means of mobility, I knew something had to give. After an initial consult with my doctor yielded no resolve, my journey grew discouraging. I saw physician after physician, being misdiagnosed repeatedly. Doctors were simply perplexed. My knee had become an anomaly and relief seemed unattainable. With walking compromised and pain at an all-time high, my frustration swelled. Then, just when I wanted to give up, I had a breakthrough. Sometimes life is the same way. We find ourselves in painful predicaments with seemingly no relief in sight. Hope diminishes with each faltering attempt and we’re apt to throw in the towel. Mental illness grips and downward spiraling ensues. We come to crossroads uncertain which route to take. And though life is hard, most of us manage to wade our way through despite the pain. But what about those for which life becomes unbearable? When the weight of the world refuses to relent. When trauma, tragedy, and sickness are no longer the exception. When the thought of ending life seems mercifully humane. You would be surprised by how often I think about suicide. After sharing this fact with a friend, she was baffled. You seem so strong and so poised. At that moment I professed aloud: Oh but I am strong, and I am poised. Having thoughts of suicide does not make one weak nor flustered. As one with a trail of traumatic experiences, battling Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and bouts of deep depression is no easy feat. To stop the hurting, suicide often means the last-resort for relief. A desperate plea to end the torture. It is indicative of a person encountering so great an intense pain that the prospect of ending life is, falsely, thought to offer the only escape. Yet still, exposing oneself to be in need of help can prove daunting. Especially if uncertain where to turn or when previous attempts at support have fallen short. Sometimes one’s suffering is not so much silent as overlooked. We’ve seen the declarations posted after suicides of known people: You never know what people are going through. He didn’t seem depressed. She seemed so happy and full of life. He was just out here faking it. They hid depression so well. Such generalized rants often follow these tragedies coupled with that infamous mantra, check on your strong friends and loved ones. Still, we must be honest with ourselves and question if our assumptions have become barriers to recognizing warning signs. Thoughts that anxiety, depression, and other mental illnesses have a familiar appearance is presumptuously ignorant. And frankly, we must do better. We have to lift the blanket of universalism to better understand that mental illness and episodic crises can present in a plethora of ways. So what really happens when the wave of social concern washes ashore then retreats to inaction? When checking on strong people produces silence. Or when the promise of a listening ear betrays because a spewing of self-absorption hijacks the conversation? Life is what happens. The suffering, limping through life with smiles of forced strength, can grow weary. Leaving one clinging to life by a thread. Hope for the Hurting Start with God But there is hope for the hurting and it starts with God. Where man falls short, God reigns. His promises are true. For God is not a man that He should lie, or a son of man, that He should change His mind. Has he ever spoken and failed to act? Has he ever promised and not carried it through? (Numbers 23:19). God is faithful, and He can be trusted. Seek Him first, relying upon Him, trusting in His faithfulness. In dark moments (and all moments), learn to turn to God first. When my mind wanders to dark places, The Holy Spirit reminds me of Isaiah 26:3-4: You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you. Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord God is an everlasting rock. When the pain of grief rattles my foundation, I land on Psalm 31:2: Incline Your ear to me; rescue me speedily! Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me! In times of uncertainty, I turn to Proverbs 3:5-6: Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on our own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. When my soul is troubled because hard things happen, I find comfort in Jesus’ declaration recorded in John 16:33, I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world. Seek Trusted Assistance Not everyone is created equal when it comes to offering support. Trust me. Far too often when turning to others, the conversation shifts to self-centered ramblings, leaving the helper feeling accomplished but further exacerbating the need for release and relief for the hurting. Instead, ask the Holy Spirit to reveal the person(s) meant to help you during times of crisis. Ask for guidance to a mental health therapist who can assist you in navigating the terrain of your life without dumping useless baggage along your path. Just because we all have a mouth, does not mean it should be used in every circumstance. And once you have identified who your person or people are, stick with them. According to licensed New York mental health counselor Aaron Sternlicht, Counselors can provide support and guidance and help to identify triggers, cope with negative emotions and reduce symptoms in order to improve the individual’s quality of life. If uncertain where to turn during a suicidal crisis, immediately contact the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988 by phone or text to connect with a mental health professional. For non-urgent therapy services, a good place to start is with your primary care provider who can assist you with a mental health referral and additional resources. If you prefer the privacy and convenience of seeking help from your home, consider an online therapy service such as www.betterhelp.com. Often online options are more affordable if paying out of pocket, though many do not offer medication services should you need them. Also, consider asking a trusted friend or family member to aid you in your search for professional help. Resources are available. With prayer and your diligence, you can get the help you need. Suicide Safety Plan A suicide safety plan is a list of prioritized coping strategies and sources of support that can be used before and during a suicidal crisis. This individualized plan can be created on your own or in conjunction with your therapist. Developing your strategy with your therapist can provide for additional resources and help you adhere to the plan. Online templates are readily accessible and can be found at www.mysafetyplan.org or through a simple online engine search of suicide safety plan. Do not wait until your dark moments to seek help and develop a suicide safety plan. And no matter what, always reach out for help during a crisis. Again, call or text the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988, available 24 hours, 7 days a week. Stay with God Do not underestimate the power of Jesus Christ. His loving-kindness and mercy offer healing and comfort that are both real and available. And He works in myriad and mysterious ways. A week before the death of my brother Stan, both he and Mom were hospitalized at the same time. Stan was in Florida and Mom in Virginia. Both their conditions were dire with Stan’s being imminent. As I arrived at the hospital to be with Mom, I ran into Ms. Delores, a family friend and fellow church member, exiting the hospital lobby. Unaware that Mom was admitted, I updated Ms. Delores on her condition during our brief encounter. The following morning Ms. Delores returned to see Mom. When I arrived at Mom’s room hours later, I noticed a slip of paper on her bedside tray with a telephone number and the name Monica written on it. To my knowledge our family only knew one Monica: a beloved family friend for decades which my family had lost touch with over the years. Monica, Stan’s first love and the trusted big sister I longed for as a child. Monica, wife of the Pastor who officiated my wedding ceremony nearly seven years prior. I knew it had to be the same Monica. But how had her number landed on Mom’s hospital tray? Dad would later share that Ms. Delores told Monica our family’s story the evening before, and left Monica’s contact information during her visit. What was seemingly a chance encounter with Ms. Delores was actually a Divine intervention. My reunification with Monica would prove to be an ordained blessing, undoubtedly appointed by God to assist me through the worst season of my life. The deaths of my parents and two older brothers in forty months. Monica was the trusted voice I needed. A woman of God I could rely upon, whose wise counsel continually ushered me directly to Jesus. Don’t Give Up Wrapped in layers, a purse draped diagonally across my chest, I hobbled defiantly on crutches from my car through the parking lot to escape the chilly air. Checking in for another specialist appointment, pain in tow, I wondered if this doctor had answers. With preliminaries addressed, the nurse led me to the sterile room and directed me atop the examination table. I wish she had offered the armless black leather chair with sturdy metal legs to my left instead. Hurting. I wanted to collapse into the nearest seat. Yet somehow I managed to crawl up the thick padded table as directed without uttering a word. The silence interrupted by crinkling thin white paper, a protective barrier between me and the cushioned slab. She left. I groaned. Waiting with the agony of hope. He entered the exam room. All of his face is a blur except his mouth. I fixated on his lips because staring into his eyes might prove disappointing. He spoke. Tell me what’s been going on with you and your knee? Starting from the beginning, unleashing years, I emptied myself. And he listened to every word. He listened with acknowledgement and without interruption. My eyes, glossed over from tears, intercepted the warmth conveyed by his. Feeling seen, I silenced my words giving him permission to speak. This olive-complected unassuming man with encouraging eyes spoke definitively: I am almost certain I know what’s wrong with your knee. Pigmented Villonodular Synovitis, or PVNS: a rare benign tumor that is degenerative but treatable. Perhaps you have encountered your own hardships: a debilitating physical condition; gripping mental illness; unrelenting grief; agonizing trauma. Experiences that make you stumble and crawl, pressing onward in search of relief, even when the easier option of quitting appeals. Your faith flourishes and falters. You want to believe that hope will eventually prove itself, all the while grappling and questioning God’s whereabouts. The weight of circumstances so crippling you are reduced to your knees. Life’s challenges are inevitable. Jesus even told us as much (John 16:33). But just remember this prone position of suffering offers us the opportunity to seek The Father and stand upon His promises. Jesus is faithful and He will provide all of our needs (Philippians 4:19). No matter how you are stumbling through life, don’t give up. Your Divine encounter is near. Your breakthrough is closer than you think. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/hello2023/january12023 monthly 0.5 2023-01-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/8c6c277d-dad1-47a8-a7fe-6bd97607548c/IMG_1988.JPG Blog - Hello 2023! - We have been awaiting your arrival. Perched with eager anticipation at your doorstep, in hopes of goodness. Desirous of better. As if by the stroke of midnight on January 1, your state of being will prove different. Your predecessors left feelings of inspiration and the bitterness of disdain, proving transformational, hard, and everything in between. Some experiences we welcomed; others, not so much. Each experience carefully crafted to bring forth its intention, to draw us closer to God. Ironically in you, 2023, we see the same potential and newness as with years prior. The promise of hope. The expectancy of renewal. We dance in the haze of amnesia, longing for a string of endless feel-good encounters, because we care not to recall the painful past. We hope for mercy. We pray to saunter in the grace of which your predecessors fell short. Yet, we are grateful for each year before you. The impeccable timing of their lessons serve purpose. And though many of us just assume we forget the embedded scars their marks left, we cannot. Such damning blows acquaint us with the truth of who we are. We hope you will be different. But somehow we aren’t convinced. Perhaps this too is your genius. Provoking with energizing promise while keeping us grounded. A waltz of audacity and practicality. We wonder, will you eventually settle us in the annual ritual, where we find ourselves readily dismissive of you during your final days in December as we have been of your predecessors? Where you cause us to wait with expectancy of the hope offered in yet another new year? Where you too, as in years past, refuse to relent until your brilliance rests upon us, intentionally causing us to pause and ponder. Reflecting. To grapple with ourselves. To sort experiences, securing lessons intended for our continued journey while purging what no longer serves us. To do more than bid riddance to the set of months which justly worked to better align us with God’s Will. To fully embrace the reality that nothing will be different unless we, ourselves, are different. 2023, may we both prove faithful. With you, following in the footsteps of your predecessors, granting opportunities which challenge each of us to live authentically. May we, in turn, live life fully, purposefully, and in accordance with the Will of The Father. In gratitude for the past, with thanksgiving for what is to come, beginning with the change within us. Our hope must be tied to the unchanging promises of God. - Lysa Terkeurst https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/a-leap-of-faith-september2022 monthly 0.5 2023-01-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - A Leap of Faith - Decades ago, on my twenty-fifth birthday, I was gifted a skydiving venture. Now a bona fide adult, I was dually ecstatic and apprehensive. Excited to mark this milestone with an opportunity to boldly stare down fear and overpower it. To soar heights unimaginable. To freefall and recover. But soon the excitement wore thin. Thoughts inundated my mind with every negative circumstance imaginable. What if the plane crashes? What if the parachute fails to launch? What if I wind up in water instead of land? What if I break my legs once I hit the ground? What if.. what if.. what if… Yet despite these legitimate possibilities, I decided life’s view from a greater perspective outweighed my fears. The risk was worth it. So, I listened and adhered to my instructor’s directives, then suited up. Prior to takeoff I practiced with my teacher, ensuring our movements were synchronized for the tandem jump. Then I set my sights on greater heights. Literally. September marks Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. It’s a sensitive subject and deeply personal for me. It warrants attention. With a strong tugging at my heart to address this matter, as with my skydiving adventure, I have conflicting emotions. Humbled and hesitant, I am grateful to God for using my pain for greater purposes. But sharing such a deeply personal experience is more frightening than jumping out of a perfectly good airplane at thirteen thousand feet. People can be cruel and awfully judgmental. Some seek opportunities to prey and pounce. Some misconstrue words to fit neatly within the confines of their perception. Yet, pushing past my reservations and sharing my story is no different than taking the leap of faith out of that airplane at thirteen thousand feet. Pulling my parachute after an initial freefall, I found the view from a greater altitude offered clarity and perspective. If my story lends hope that stepping out on faith in Jesus does the same for them in life, the risk is well worth it. Traumatic Freefall At the age of six, a world void of sanctuary crashed upon me. Threatening my existence, seizing my innocence. Primary years are supposed to be innocent. Safe. But that changed with his first touch. Being molested is damaging and perplexing. What is happening to me? Why is this happening? Why can’t I tell? Why the secrecy? Shame showers. Remnants pool and settle like dirty residue inside a bathtub. As a child, incapable of addressing the filth, the stain remains, building upon itself with each repeated encounter. Soiled by trauma, my tender soul fails to grasp the degree of damage. I land on feelings of which my limited vocabulary can find no words. I suffered silently for years until my cry manifested in an attempted suicide. He told me, don’t tell. And I didn’t. Wanting desperately to eradicate myself from the stench his torment left, a month shy of my twentieth birthday on the night of June 8, 1990... I. was. done. I was taking his shame and my suffering to the grave, even if it meant killing me in the process. My attempt at suicide is an isolated event. But the thoughts which drove that decision remain. Sometimes the memories haunt, and occasionally, spiraling ensues. This is hard. It hurts. People offer their support, but then don’t listen. A vomiting of useless words smell of manure leaving a vile aftertaste. I didn’t know it was that bad. As if there is some level of molestation that isn’t that bad. All we can do is pray. As if prayer is a last resort instead of the first option. They don’t understand. The pain is unrelenting. A never-ending battle that breeds desperation and understanding. Why am I this way? Will I ever get over this? Am I destined to a life of suffering? The damage is immeasurable. A tender brain permanently altered, stripped of its ability to develop naturally, is forced to function with disability. Trust destroyed. It views the world through tarnished lenses. Everyone and everything is now suspect and the self-erected barrier of protection forms. Life is consumed by mental and emotional distress. And it feels awfully jacked up. Pull the Parachute Be it child molestation or whatever the ordeal, trauma is real, and its effects are ravaging. Navigating life amid its aftermath is difficult, and at times just living is the challenge. The pain weighing so heavily that thoughts of suicide flirt with my better judgment. A trigger sparks hostile memories and emotions swell. We don’t get over it any more than we get over losing a loved one. And like grief, trauma’s pain subsides but it fails to dissipate. It is exhausting. Coupled with an unsympathetic world, the pain is enough to propel one to tap out. When the world says, “give up,” hope whispers, “try it one more time.” - Unknown As with skydiving, I find life’s freefall doesn’t have to be fatal if we learn to pull the parachute. I sometimes jokingly share I’d be in a straitjacket be it not for Jesus. It’s not a lie. My laundry list of trials baffles: repeatedly molested as a child; held hostage; sexually assaulted as an adult; a prior marriage riddled with domestic violence; divorce; miscarriages; health concerns; the terminal illnesses of my parents and two older brothers leading to their successive deaths within just 40 months. How am I still standing? At the young age of eight I heard The Sweetest Voice and felt a gentle nudging within. During a revival service, The Lord whispered, Come to Me. That evening, I pulled my parachute by stepping out of the pew I was sitting on alongside Dad. Walking down the right-side aisle of our church’s sanctuary, I gave my life to Jesus. Instantly I knew I was going to be ok. God takes care of His children. The support system that He has encamped around me is small and powerful. And though my most trusted confidants now occupy a greater realm, I am learning to liberate my silence by speaking out. Out against child molestation. Out against trauma and its stigma and shame. As a counselor degreed in Clinical Counseling, I believe in what I do. Over the years I have sought mental health professionals to aid in my healing. There is safety in unpacking baggage with a professional trained to listen, sort, and guide toward healing and recovery. It takes time. It requires work. But gliding toward wholeness is worth it. Speak your mind even if your voice shakes. – Maggie Kuhn Landing Healing is in reach for all of us. I have no magic formula. No gimmick to propose. I have learned to plant my feet on The Word of God. When I keep my mind focused on Him, I have peace (Isaiah 26:3). I choose to trust God. I choose to take Him at His Word. I choose to believe everything He says about me. My faith destroys doubt at its core. It wasn’t always this way. Sometimes the ground beneath me shakes, sending disparaging thoughts. But a review of all that God has brought me through is proof that He is real and that centers me. I offer my life as a testament to His goodness. Who else dares speak life into broken pieces and make them whole. Who would cradle an anguished abused girl, healing her broken heart and binding up her wounds (Psalm 147:3). Who, but God, would whisper to a tormented soul; I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not harm you, to give you a future and a hope (Jeremiah 29:11). Who but Jesus could counter the question of unfairness with reality and hope: In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world (John 16:33). Who but a loving God could stand in the gap when exhaustion declares, I can’t make it another day. The Lord will fight for you; you need only be still (Exodus 14:14). When I am scared and weak God reminds me: So, do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand (Isaiah 41:10). But Father, I have been through so much, my life a mosaic of misery and mistakes. And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28). Lord, sometimes I just want out. I don’t know that I have anything left to give, but then I hear His voice, sometimes as a whisper, sometimes as a roar, reminding me... I so loved you that I gave My only Son, believe in Him and you will not die but have eternal life (John 3:16). Since God gave His all, His only son Jesus, who died for me and you, the very least I will do is press on and live for Him. If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me (Luke 9:23). I will not take my life, but I give it freely to God through Jesus to use as He pleases. He has never quit on me, and I refuse to quit on Him. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/it-was-my-time/signs-and-wonders/72022 monthly 0.5 2022-07-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - It Was My Time - My late brother Kenny was special, in every sense of the word. Born with an ably different mind, he moved to the beat of his own drum. He had a fondness for numbers, and birthdays. Once he learned of your birthdate, he never forgot it. And none was more important than his. He shared with everyone; my birthday May 15… that’s five one five. Learning to mark events by numbers and birthdays, he found this to be a bridge to communicate and connect with others. A true extrovert, the effects of the pandemic had a profound impact on Kenny’s mental health. When the country shut down in March 2020, he was at a loss. Having lost Dad just days prior to the shutdown, while still heavily grieving the recent deaths of Mom and our older brother Stan, he was devastated. His job shifted to telework, further exacerbating his isolation and disconnect from the world. So, when he pleaded to let him visit relatives in February 2021, nearly a year after the pandemic had begun to isolate us all, I conceded. In preparation for his trip, I loaned Kenny my computer bag for his laptop. I watched him slowly pack the bag with his laptop, power cord, and his temporary security card required to access his company’s secure network. The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen. - G.K. Chesterton Shortly after Kenny’s return on February 27, 2021, he fell ill and was admitted to the hospital on March 12. Stricken with COVID-19 symptoms, he fought hard to overcome the virus. Health problems weren’t foreign to him. He had beaten stage 4 Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, several strokes, pneumonia, kidney issues, and even a blood clot in his heart. We hoped this battle would be another victory we could shout about. As the weeks passed, Kenny’s condition vacillated between improvement and setback. But even still, one question loomed for him; you think I’ll be out of here in time for my birthday? Providing him with optimism I always replied; Yeah, I’m sure you will. And on many occasions it looked as though it would be true. My brother lost his battle with COVID-19 on April 24, 2021, just 21 days shy of his 55th birthday. For weeks Kenny’s passing bothered me immensely. We had tried tirelessly to protect him from ‘The Virus.’ Isolating for nearly a year, careful not to expose him unnecessarily due to his underlying medical conditions, and vigilant about not entertaining house guests. Keeping contact with the outside world to a minimum, we did it all. But to no avail. A few months passed, but the weight of Kenny’s death failed to lift. I spent weeks questioning my judgment. Could I have done something differently? Perhaps I should have postponed his travel until later? Deep within I felt responsible. Though he’s four years my senior, it was my job to care for his well being and protect him. The torment was getting the better of me and though I prayed, the heaviness remained, until one day in July when my husband Ed and I escaped to the beach. With bags packed, we were ready to hit the road. I only needed to grab my computer bag I’d loaned to Kenny in February. Notorious for being messy, I cleared the bag of its clutter, taking note of a white slip of paper in the side pocket. I had never seen it before. But today it was glaring. The note, in unfamiliar handwriting, held Kenny’s temporary security card’s access pin and expiration date, which read: 04/24/21. I could not believe my eyes. The temporary security card that was reissued to Kenny less than six months prior to his passing was to expire on the same date of his death! I felt an overpowering peace wash over me and a small voice say, “It was my time.” Ed and I talked about this discovery during our drive to the beach, arriving just in time to avoid the impending storm. Hurrying to our room, I opened the curtains wide to partake of the ocean view. But what I witnessed was far more beautiful. Propped in the sky was an enormous double rainbow! I glanced at the clock on the nightstand and immediately wept. The time was 5:15. Kenny’s birthday. I felt an overwhelming reassurance from God that Kenny’s life began and ended just as God had purposed. From that moment, I have held the sweetest peace knowing it was indeed his time. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/you-can-trust-the-father/62022 monthly 0.5 2022-07-02 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - You Can Trust The Father - In the late 1960’s, a white landowner sold my parents a plot of land in a segregated, all-Black community. As part of the deal, he would relocate a brick house from another neighborhood to their vacant lot. It was this modest style rancher that became our family home, and the one I now occupy. Dad must have told me this story a hundred times. Admittedly, I probably scratched my head a thousand times. How does one move an entire brick house? I’ve watched enough HGTV to know it’s possible, but I don’t recall them ever moving a brick house. Yet, I know my dad well enough to take him at his word because of who he is to me. This is just how it is when we have a relationship with God the Father. When we cultivate our connection to Him through Jesus Christ, we learn His ways and track record, enabling our trust to develop. And because of who He is to us, we learn to take Him at His Word, even when it seems illogical. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. -Isaiah 55: 8-9 There have been myriad occasions when my life simply did not make sense. Molested repeatedly for years beginning at age six; an attempted suicide at nineteen; a tumultuous marriage riddled with domestic violence in my twenties; the recent demise of my whole immediate family within forty months; and a host of poor decisions along the way that I would just as soon forget. I struggled. Suffering for decades. Unable to deduce the meaning of it all. I had given my life to Jesus at eight, so why was my journey so jacked up? Or was it? As often as I wrestled with Dad’s account of our brick home being transplanted from another neighborhood to ours, I believed him. Though plausible, it appeared unreasonable. Yet, I trusted it because Dad told me so. As with my life, I have learned to trust God, even when it’s been unfathomable and especially when it’s been difficult. Recognizing His love for me, because of our relationship, I can take Him at His Word. His character is proven trustworthy and unchangeable. Numbers 23:19 tells us, God is not a man, that He might lie, or a son of man, that he might change his mind. Does He speak and not act, or promise and not fulfill? God always does what He says He will do, and He has witnesses who can attest to His truth. Upon returning home from walking my dog Sasha recently, I noticed an elderly Black gentleman on a stroll nearby. As he got closer, he stopped to ask if I was the daughter of the late Wilsons who used to live here. Confirming, he then stared at the house and shared, I still remember the day when your house was moved to this plot of land. Then he proceeded to tell more of the same history about my home that Dad had done on numerous occasions. And though the notion of moving an entire brick house still baffles me, my trust in Dad’s word was validated. This is just how it is with our loving Lord. We may endure trials that cause great suffering and struggle, experiences that just don’t make sense. But then later in life, someone comes along, notices our fortitude, and testifies to when our life was in disarray. They witnessed the unthinkable moments. They saw the pain. But seeing how God transformed our lives from trauma to triumph, they attest, “God did just what He said He would do!” Genesis 50:20 tells us, As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today. So be not dismayed by the turbulent circumstances of life. God has a perfect plan just for you and me. It may not make sense now, but with God, it always adds up! https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/how-quickly-we-forget/mental-health-awareness monthly 0.5 2022-05-30 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - How Quickly We Forget - I talk aloud when no one is around but my dog Sasha, in hopes she’s listening. Both she and God collect my secrets and unfiltered thoughts. But this evening, I sat in silence for hours. It felt like days for the adrenaline to wear off after I was groped. That’s when a trifecta of intense feelings emerged. I became angry, aggravated, and annoyed. The violation exhumes unwanted familiar feelings from childhood and causes newfound damage. Struggling to reclaim my peace and simple freedoms, the air feels dirty. I don’t move without caution. New memories haunt me. Trust destroyed in seconds. I want the place where awkwardness doesn’t reside, and pain fails to resurrect. I am angry, aggravated, and annoyed for being in this space. The world validates my contempt. It’s easy to bathe in justified rage. But its stench fails to find my target, instead, boomeranging squarely upon me. I am angry and rightly so. Yet I feel a tug on my heart and that whisper in my ear; how quickly we forget. Let all bitterness, anger and wrath, shouting and slander be removed from you, along with all malice. And be kind and compassionate to one another; forgiving one another, just as God also forgave you in Christ. -Ephesians 4:31-32 I met with the man that groped me. Our meeting, a mutual request, was strangely unawkward. Well, perhaps not initially when he entered the room gingerly, seemingly tiptoeing as if he were carefully avoiding a potential land mine. He was feeling me out, no pun intended. Sitting across from me, he looked nervous. I asked: Do you mind if I pray first? Not at all, he said. While no one would fault my disdain, I can’t live there. Turning to God, I am reminded, be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger (Ephesians 4:26). Anger in itself is not a bad thing. But how we choose to respond to it can be. I had offers to hurt the man that offended me. But violence solves nothing and I wish him no harm. For God’s Word is clear; Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord” (Romans 12:19). God has a way of dealing with us far better than we can one another, particularly when we fail to repent and turn from our sins. God is true to His Word, therefore, I rest in the assurance that He will deal with my violator justly. With the help of the Holy Spirit, I forgave the man who violated me, and released him to The Lord, believing His Word to repay. I pardoned him without condoning his actions, just as God does with me and you. This walk with Christ is not for the faint of heart. It requires actions contrary to what the human condition desires. The world’s method fosters pain, harm, and distress. But abiding in God’s way allows for healing, peace, and reconciliation (which does not always equate to reunification). Because of my history with trauma, I understand healing begins with forgiveness. And while battling Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) makes it more difficult to eradicate painful memories, the power of God makes it possible to release my desire for retribution and count the whole ordeal as joy. God wants you to be delivered from what you have done and what has been done to you. Both are equally important to Him. – Joyce Meyer https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/the-darkness-before-dawn-mental-health-awareness-part2-w8327 monthly 0.5 2022-05-30 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - The Darkness Before Dawn - The Storm Frozen under perversion. Defiled in the name of self-serving pleasure. Objectified and disrespected, I am paralyzed for minutes with only the movement of my tears. I see my younger and older selves at the hands of my perpetrators. Reliving in vivid detail the events which fractured me. Frozen. My heart racing frantically, breathing uncontrollably, body tense, and head bounding. Nauseous. I feel their touch, but I can’t stop them. My voice silenced with only audible whimpering. I am back there again. Unable to halt the memories, they control me until I miraculously utter, Lord help me. My request granted, I somehow find myself at the nearest door gasping and inhaling fresh air until my lungs are full. The Aftermath There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds. -Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral’s Kiss It had been nearly five years since the traumatic memories of my childhood tormented me. Today they returned with vengeance. Memories of the molestation and recent groping were sparked by his lingering scent after he walked by. Only they weren’t memories but flashbacks. I was a little girl, faced down. And now a woman, sandwiched between a door and his body. The flashbacks, a symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Once the dust settles from a traumatic experience, the pain infiltrates. Then the uncomfortable work begins. The world says I should hate, but I can’t. The gripping traumatic memories consuming too much space in my heart won’t allow for any additional hurt to reside there. I am full, longing to be emptied. I wonder what is broken within my offenders that they found it necessary to cause damage within me. I forgave them, yet the remnants of their acts fail to let me go. Life moves about but I feel stuck between was and is. My interstitial existence wants reckoning and to be reconciled to the place where the agony no longer resides. This is the aftermath unfelt by violators. They move on much like twirling tornadoes, unaware of the damage they’ve caused. Leaving everyone in their wake to clean up the mess they made. After all, when a stone is dropped into a pond, the water continues quivering even after the stone has sunk to the bottom. -Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha Yet Still This is an ugly truth of trauma, the darkness before dawn. It isn’t pretty. Yet even amid trials, I am continuously learning to count it all as joy, knowing the testing of our faith produces steadfastness. And steadfastness in its full effect will ensure that I am perfect and complete, lacking in nothing (James 1:2-4). Anchored in faith, I will not lose my grip on God. His promises provide the assurance needed to press on toward the mark (Philippians 3:14). With His mercies new every morning (Lamentations 3:23), I rest upon His plans to prosper me and not harm me, giving me hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11), with His guarantee to use it all for good (Romans 8:28). https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/ugly-truths-trauma-and-mental-health monthly 0.5 2022-07-17 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Ugly Truths - I like t-shirts with a good message. It’s kinda my thing. When your voice is silenced by trauma, you find ways to lift it. If this post were one of my t-shirts, it would be entitled: I won’t be quiet so you can be comfortable. I wrestle with sharing parts of my story. Weighted by shame, stigma, and separation, it’s an uncomfortable subject. But every time I learn of a person dying by suicide, I’m compelled to move beyond my fear to courageously share my truth. I hope my story helps dispel the stigma surrounding mental illness and provides the hurting with a voice. You don’t have to hurt forever. I can tell you without reservation, you can move beyond the pain with Jesus. The Trauma Trauma is perhaps the most avoided, ignored, belittled, denied, misunderstood, and untreated cause of human suffering. – Peter Levine I battle Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). A diagnosis earned due to being repeatedly sexually molested as a child. For decades I carried this enormous burden in secret. Ashamed by the act imposed upon me. Numbed at the tender age of six, I didn’t have the mental capacity to fully comprehend the violation. But I knew it was wrong because I felt afraid, confused, and scared. My abuser told me not to tell and I didn’t… for decades. By the age of 19, the pain was overwhelming, the weight taking its toll. I began crashing. Spiraling. My life was a complete mess. Suffering in silence was suffocating the life out of me. I was hurting and so tired of the pain. Exhausted, suffering, and alone, I didn’t see any other way out. On the evening of June 8, 1990, I attempted to end my life. But God had greater plans for me. I am grateful for His intervening power and gentle whisper: I will use it all for your good. I was transplanted back to that little girl when I was sexually groped recently. Like her, I was confused. Like her, I was not boisterous in my protest. Like her, I felt small, worthless, used, disposable. Like her, I sheltered my violator because like the one who molested me as a child, I witnessed their worlds prop them on pedestals while methodically tearing down their pawns. But unlike what that little girl understood at the time, I reminded myself to Whom I belong. Cleaning off my proverbial mirror, I began to see just what makes me so strong. I owed that little girl the power of my voice she struggled so hard to find. I owed it to every tear I cried the past forty-five years because of what that little girl endured. This time forging an alliance with courage, I spoke. Real talk. Can you stop touching me. He nodded to the affirmative and said, yes. Can you stop putting your hands on me. Again nodding, he said, yes. They weren’t questions but directives. I turned from him and walked away. Not upset but understood; not powerless but empowered; not invisible but now seen. My voice was heard. The little girl within smiled in gratitude. I thanked the Holy Spirit. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/god-wont-throw-you-away monthly 0.5 2022-05-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - God Won’t Throw You Away - We spend weeks on end preparing for the arrival of holidays. Christmas merchandise graces store shelves well before Thanksgiving dinner tables are set. Before we are accustomed to writing the new year on documents, Valentine cards and chocolates appear just days after the New Year ball drops. As Easter approaches, we spend forty days fasting and praying leading up to Resurrection Sunday only to move on quicker than we can celebrate the empty tomb. Then we are swiftly onto the next one, discarding holiday hype and meaning. We have become a culture that does the same with one another. We are quick to throw away our love for people. But is that really love? Today, if individuals do not measure up to our standards, we react hastily with condemnation. When others don’t respond the way we wish, if things don’t go our way, if confronted with the truth and unwilling to receive it, we are likely to take offense, dismissing and canceling people from our lives. Cancel culture has become a real thing. Just scroll social media feeds. They are riddled with mantras about unforgiveness and the termination of relationships. We have become the cowardly-courageous keyboard stroke woke folk who haven’t the faintest clue about love. And it’s revealing of our walk with God. In John 13:34-35 Jesus said, “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” While cleaning out my late parents’ attic, I was surprised by some of my discoveries. I unearthed letters sent to my parents along with their recorded responses, spanning decades. No matter the contents of the letters, their reply was always the same, countering with grace, mercy and extending a love that covers and bears all. There were some letters in which their flesh would have been justified by reacting to the contrary, but time and again, they responded with love. My parents lived out their faith. By no stretch were they perfect. In fact, Dad readily boasted of his imperfections citing, “Now, I’m not perfect; none of us is.” I believe it’s this awareness that keeps one humble and rooted, extending grace and mercy, recognizing because God grants it freely to us, then so too must we eagerly give (it) to others. And that is precisely what I witnessed my parents often doing. As with our preparation for holidays, we invest months, even years, with family and friends developing our relationships. But sometimes at the first sight of friction, we are ready to throw in the towel, leaving the relationship behind as cavalierly as we discard the reasons why we celebrate our holidays. Have you slandered someone’s name because you didn’t get your way? Have you confronted someone about their offensive actions, only to have them stop speaking to you? Perhaps you ridiculed and canceled a celebrity for a mistake they made? If we are honest, we have all been the recipients of and the contributors to such harmful assaults. And the further our distance from Christ, the more evident it is by our actions. Leading by example, “As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (John 13:34b), Jesus is the measuring stick. Knowing his ascension back to The Father is drawing near (John 13:33), Jesus gives his disciples this new directive during his final teaching. The command to love is not new. The Old Testament law is essentially summarized by two commandments: to love God with all your heart (Deuteronomy 6:5) and to love your neighbor as yourself (Leviticus 19:18). But here, Jesus emphasizes a new standard by which we are to love others: Himself! He raises the bar significantly from loving others as we love ourselves to loving them as he loves us. Therefore, to follow this order, we need to understand how Jesus loves. Jesus loved us enough to die for us. That’s radical. And his death on The Cross proved it. Jesus, being both fully God and fully man, died a most humiliating, agonizing, and shameful death to atone for the sins of humanity. He literally exchanged his perfect life for the sinful life of yours and mine on The Cross. He took upon himself all the punishment and wrath from God that we rightly deserve for our sins, sacrificing his life to place us in a right relationship with God the Father. He didn’t want to do it (Luke 22:42) but he did it. His love was not predicated on his feelings, but rather his submission and obedience to God the Father. He did it because God told him to. And a heart that loves God desires to please him. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/clean-off-your-mirror-26mar22 monthly 0.5 2022-04-30 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Clean Off Your Mirror - My late brother Stan always carried a small pocket mirror. He could often be seen checking himself out. This habit continued as he neared death. I was surprised when just days after a lifesaving procedure, he requested from his hospital bed, “Lori, get my mirror out my black bag, please.” But he did. I suppose he was wondering why doctors and nurses kept commenting he looked good for a dead man. Taking the mirror, he wiped it off, ensuring he’d get a clear picture of himself. Have you ever noticed how quickly mirrors get clouded with dirt, film, and debris? Residue settles from dust, and particles stick from myriad matter. It’s a natural occurrence, leaving the view we have of ourselves obscure. In much the same way, the grime of the world finds us, plastering its scum squarely on our beings. We are born into the world brand new. Divinely created for purpose, gifted with unique ability, and impregnated with dormant possibility, awaiting maturation. Yet something happens along the way. Life’s trials and trauma impact us. Someone bullies us as a child, and we become self-conscious. We grow up without our biological parents and develop abandonment issues. We become addicted to drugs, then ostracized and gossiped about by the very folks who should be embracing us. People can be cruel, hurling insults. The matter is worsened when the lies, betrayal, and pain come from loved ones and the body of Christ. But it happens, subtly and overtly. And the filth leaves its remnants. Sadly, it can be this messiness through which we customarily view ourselves, distorting reality, and failing to understand who we truly are. The evidence is glaring. It is witnessed in our speech and the pattern of our behavior. We walk with a defeatist mentality: I’m worthless because nobody wanted me as a child. I’m not as gifted as she is. We put ourselves and others down. We get caught up in the monotony of life’s rhythm and neglect to live a life of abundance, using our life circumstances as shackles. This hazy view causes us to move out of alignment with the truth, and in turn, we hurt ourselves and others. But 2 Corinthians 5:17 states, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” As Pastor Tony Evans puts it, “God has brought about a spiritual transformation from the inside, and your identity is tied to your new birth.” In other words, as believers, we ought to be walking differently. But it’s hard to walk in newness when lacking clarity. So, what do you do with a distorted view of yourself? The same thing Stan, you, and I would with that mirror when the haze becomes too dense. Reach for a bottle of trusted cleanser, spray it on, then quickly wipe away the mess. And voila! The view is as clear as it should be again. It’s time we do the same with the muck the world’s left on us. Turn to God’s Word to get a clear picture of the truth of who we are. What better source is there? We wouldn’t read the instruction manual of a microwave to understand how to operate a Mercedes. Instead, we would turn to its manufacturer. We must stop allowing others to influence how we perceive ourselves and look to the One True Source who knows every intricate detail about us. Reach for the trusted cleanser, The Word of God, and clean yourself off, Child! The Father sees us for who we truly are. He doesn’t devalue us because we didn’t do things His way. He doesn’t talk about us because we missed the mark on perfection. He won’t walk away because we failed to live up to His standard. Our loving Father, Creator of you and me, is the sole author of and authority on who we are. His definition of us is the only label we need to carry. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/what-makes-you-so-strong monthly 0.5 2022-03-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - What Makes You So Strong? - When people hear my story the words, you are so strong, follow without fail. Uttered so frequently they have cadence, marching rhythmically in much the same manner my family did as they passed away, year after year. Remaining, I stand firm upon a blanket of hope tightly gripping memories, fearful any release might cause them to dissipate just as radically as my loved ones’ physical presence. I have cause for weakness. Losing my whole immediate family within forty months would justify psyhological bankruptcy. The hideousness of death’s institution is enough to drive one to their knees. And frankly, that’s precisely what it did. I do not have it all together. Most mornings I spend battling incessant thoughts before my feet even hit the floor. I struggle. Daily. Grief’s warped sense of humor plays occasional tricks during optimistic moments. It rears its treacherous head with resolve, determined to douse flickering happiness. My smile easily masks the pain. The gloom couched in optimism. And grief is ever flirting with the little piece of sanity I have left. A careful study of my eyes reveals what my lips often won’t. I miss my family. A longing so heavy within I feel its physical manifestations. Chest pains, palpitations, squeezing and tightening. It’s an enormous multi-layered agony. I can’t make sense of the chaos, so I concede to its torture, opting to ride its ebbs and flows squarely. https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/Blog Post Title One-2wj2p-5dcrt monthly 0.5 2022-01-31 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - Peace In The Valley Life is hard and it can hurt. Every day we face challenges and sometimes the encounters can be overwhelming. Having suffered through more ordeals than one can fathom, I understand firsthand: the struggle is real. A laundry list of hardships dating back to early childhood that altered the trajectory of my life in unimaginable ways. Sadly, my personal traumas aren’t unique. We’ve all got something. Unexpected health issues, financial difficulties, betrayal by trusted folks. We lose loved ones. We can be dealt one devastating blow after another. Life’s trials and tribulations are painful, and this daily walk can be discouraging. But it doesn’t have to be. As Jesus neared His date with The Cross at Calvary, He had some final words for the disciples. In John 16:33, Jesus shares straightforward and comforting words: “I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace. You will have suffering in this world. Be courageous! I have conquered the world.” Jesus doesn’t sugarcoat what lies before us. We will face some tumultuous times. The world is a fallen place, and sin abounds. Trouble is everywhere; you can count on it. In many instances, you don’t have to go looking for it. Danger will find you. But thankfully God loves us too much to leave us destitute. He offers what the world cannot amidst suffering and pain. He offers peace. For the believer in Christ Jesus, we have a guarantee of peace. A peace during suffering that far exceeds our understanding (Philippians 4:7). A peace that can only be found in Him. Far too often when we’re downtrodden, we turn to vices that offer temporary comfort at best to soothe our ails. Alcohol, drugs, gambling, shopping, or family and friends, to name a few. Their short-lived relief offers the perfect setup for our setbacks. But Jesus grants what the world cannot give (John 14:27) and what the world cannot take away. Peace in Him. As we spend time with Jesus, in His presence, abiding in His love, with our minds focused on Him and not our circumstances, He keeps us in His perfect peace (Isaiah 26:3). As my brother Stan was battling bile duct cancer, my brother Kenny was recovering from a stroke and nursing a blood clot in his heart. At the same time, Mom was wasting away before us, unable to keep food down due to a blockage in her intestines, all while Dad was having fainting spells due to his heart condition. My entire immediate family was in the throes of sickness and suffering. But by God’s Grace, I remained healthy during this time. Incessant medical appointments, emergency room trips, and hospital admissions ruled our lives. On most days we didn’t know if we were coming or going. However, I knew whom to turn to in our suffering. I wish I could tell you the road was easy, but that wouldn’t be truthful. It was painful, and extremely rough. Yet through it, the closer I drew to Jesus, the more peace I was given. Not one thing changed about my family’s circumstances, but my outlook did. I found joy in moments of sorrow and incomprehensible peace. And I attribute that to Jesus’ final declaration in John 16:33, “I have conquered the world.'“ https://www.loriawilson.com/blog-2/Blog Post Title One-2wj2p monthly 0.5 2022-01-31 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2f2a690e-1e9c-43f6-ac97-8274b0a8fc96/IMG_1988.jpg Blog - The Plans I Have For You I’ve started this post a half dozen times. In every instance, believing I knew just what I wanted to convey until I began writing. A thick blanket of fog would cloud my thoughts, leaving me confused, frustrated, and ultimately wandering aimlessly thinking, but I have so much to say. That’s how my life has felt the past five years. Well-intentioned plans overshadowed by a force far greater than anything I imagined. I’ve asked myself repeatedly, how in the world did I get here? Fractured, hurting and alone; separated from my parents and two older brothers by death. Losing them within forty months all the more agonizing and undeniably devastating. I didn’t envision my life this way. It was going to be different. Or so I hoped. Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails. -Proverbs 19:21 God has a peculiar way of altering our plans. And boy did He ever switch things up on me. I never imagined I’d be left behind at the age of fifty by those who played the most significant role in shaping my life. But I have. And I believe God has a purpose in all of it. As I journey on with life in search of discovery and meaning, so much has changed. Pursuits that once prioritized my to-do list have fallen by the wayside. Death has a way of clarifying what’s important and sifting through nonsense. I no longer entertain that which negatively contributes to my wellbeing; the pull is a great expense to bear. I’m now intentional about my time. It’s sacred. I was reckless with it before. Failing to fully grasp how precious a commodity it is. Yet, I have no regrets. Life’s a teacher. The world its classroom. And I, a devout student. My life’s experiences served enough pain to harden my heart and create a bitterness that bites. And that’s precisely what would have happened if I hadn’t heeded the call at an early age to follow Jesus. I know I’d be one miserable mess, stuck in self-pity, blaming everyone in my path for where I am. But life with God is different. It’s liberating, rewarding, and comes with enormous responsibility. 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Welcome to the Lori A. Wilson website! Whether you have come out of curiosity, are familiar with my story, or want to become better acquainted with it, I’m glad you’re here. Perusing the pages, you will discover renderings of prose, poetry, and my blog, all of which expose the rawest moments of my life. I have gone through a lot. But I have also grown through much, by the Grace of God. I hope that by sharing my story, you are moved to tell yours. Join me on my journey. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/30e1bad3-c024-414f-9fe5-20fe1e9b3afb/sixteen-miles-out-_A2W6kE_jEE-unsplash.jpg Home - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.loriawilson.com/meet-lori daily 0.75 2025-05-21 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/f94ea3d6-f3f6-4ae3-80a1-d0f246dd93d8/You+Got+This+Young+Lori.jpg Meet Lori - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.loriawilson.com/my-story daily 0.75 2024-03-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/2fff1294-5431-440d-a6de-b7825a00a752/Go+Be+Great+Young+Lori.jpg My Story - Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go. — Joshua 1:9 https://www.loriawilson.com/my-family daily 0.75 2021-12-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/cfc04533-1a86-4063-a82e-1a00897878c3/The+Wilsons.JPG My Family https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/df4233cf-4748-4ec7-a844-99d7fcc43fc8/Mom+and+Dad+in+white.jpg My Family - Mom & Dad My parents, Frank and Bessie Wilson, were married for sixty and a half years before death separated them on Valentine’s Day 2019 when Mom passed. Dad joined her thirteen months later in March 2020. From their union, they were blessed with three children: Stanley, Kenneth, and Lori. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/e5bc577b-10bd-4c04-8997-eaaab266ed3d/Photo+May+06%2C+4+18+44+PM.jpg My Family - Stan My brother Stan was the first born from my parents’ union. He loved sports, played the drums, and had a penchant for words - big words. Even more so, his true love was God’s Word. Stan, 54, was the first in our family to die. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/addc7920-a485-4400-add2-584184586e92/Kenny+all+in.jpg My Family - Kenny Born three years after Stan, Kenny was gifted with an ably different mind and an impeccable memory. He enjoyed spending time with people and loved to talk. Arguably Washington, D.C.'s biggest sports fan, he watched all the local teams at every opportunity. Kenny passed away just over three years after Stan’s death. Like Stan, Kenny was 54. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/56af7d6b-fffd-4983-a387-ea482f09401e/IMG_5904.jpg My Family https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/10317fe5-198a-4b8e-a62d-44ccb78c49e4/Photo+May+19%2C+3+21+39+PM.jpg My Family https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/1639001950920-OWENI819WP76K68K0UYI/IMG_2163.jpg My Family https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/3794ba18-d4e5-411c-849b-07a2351a34f5/Siblings_Mom%27s+favorite+picture.jpg My Family https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/557b516a-27e9-4735-a358-4047051bb79c/Mom%2C+Dad%2C+and+Me+Last+Reunion.jpg My Family https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/61f04acb-1d64-4c76-89a5-92895a61504f/Photo+Jul+28%2C+1+07+03+PM.png My Family 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your story online can make all the difference. https://www.loriawilson.com/kenny-obit daily 0.75 2025-03-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/bbbc791d-92f4-4afd-916f-7c0d07c748e9/IMG_3900.jpg Kenny Obit - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.loriawilson.com/mom-obit daily 0.75 2025-03-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60faf9d566bca526fe665136/ed685691-aa40-4eab-93d1-12f8e97da2c8/Bessie+Wilson+Obit+Website+Pic.jpg Mom Obit - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.loriawilson.com/empty-spaces daily 0.75 2021-12-16 https://www.loriawilson.com/iamconvinced daily 0.75 2025-02-22 https://www.loriawilson.com/time-to-live-again daily 0.75 2025-02-22 https://www.loriawilson.com/kenny-video daily 0.75 2021-12-12 https://www.loriawilson.com/stan-video daily 0.75 2021-12-12 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