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If someone tells you something over 900 times, it stands to reason that failing to believe it means you are remarkably in denial, you are being lied to, or you are ridiculously stubborn. I’m putting myself in the first and third categories because I know my husband is not a liar.

For at least the past 20 years, I have struggled every single day with a thorn in my flesh that I desperately wish I could pluck out. I’m bringing it up here today not to glorify the struggle or to give Satan satisfaction in the battles he has won, but simply to encourage those of you who are facing similar lifelong battles. I want you to know that you are not alone. Your deepest insecurities have likely become a deeply ingrained part of yourself, but I want – need – to remind you that they are not your identity. It can be shameful as a follower of Christ to war so with the flesh, so today I’m issuing a call to other women to fight the battle, verbalize the struggle, and give Christ the credit rather than Satan the shame.

My thorn? I have not once in the past 20 years ever been truly satisfied with the way I look. There have been times that were better than others, times when I did Insanity like a madwoman and had a flat stomach and looked pretty good, but I still wasn’t content. There’s always something I wish I could change. It’s so hard to admit this superficial, unspiritual, un-Christlike struggle that plagues me, but I’m doing it anyway. I could list a thousand reasons why I dislike my body, but the details don’t matter. If you’re a female, chances are high that you have your own list anyway and can relate exactly.

Since I met my husband, he has told me (or shown me) at least once a day (so approximately 900 times) that he loves the way I look, is attracted to me, and doesn’t want me to change a thing. I’ll see from the corner of my eye him looking at me, and when I ask what he’s doing, he says, “Just checking you out.” He touches me when he walks past in the hall, pinches my rear end when I’m cooking in the kitchen, brushes the hair back from my cheek and kisses my forehead. I KNOW that he loves me – and my body. If the man who loves me also loves the way I look, why can I not be secure? Why do I agonize so much about every hair being in place, every muscle being toned, every outfit being perfectly coordinated? I wish I knew, and I wish I could turn off the switch that makes it all matter so much.

There are those who will blame me and say it’s because I don’t read the Bible enough, don’t take Jesus my strongholds to destroy, don’t pray and fast… The fault is my own. Perhaps they are right. I would argue, however, that they aren’t. You see, even in the times I am closest to the heart of Christ, when the air I breathe is the Word of God and the Holy Spirit dwells richly within me, even in those times – I have struggled. Being close to Christ does not eradicate our struggles, and those who say it does are sadly deceived. Nowhere in God’s Word to us does it say, “Come to me and I will solve all of your problems.” Rather, it says things like, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). It says, “Therefore, I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear” (Matt. 6:25). This may seem obvious, but I think He tells us not to worry about these things because He knows that in our flesh we will.

Your thorn may look different than mine. You may wrestle with debilitating fear or grapple with memories of your sinful past.You may lie awake at night worrying about money, praying for a spouse, or agonizing over leaving a job. I don’t know what your lifelong struggle is, but I can almost guarantee that you have one. We all have weaknesses – some immense, ongoing, and brutally incapacitating. We are not always doomed to face them for a lifetime, but sometimes we are. I cannot begin to explain why, sometimes, God does not deliver us from these struggles. The only answer I have is that the struggle is necessary for us to see Him most clearly. He tells us that His power is “made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor. 12:9). If we were strong, we would not see His power. When we are weak, we do.

Please don’t misunderstand. I am not advocating that you remain helpless and resign yourself to a lifetime of feeling inferior and ‘less than.’ I am also not saying that you should look to your thorn as your gateway to God. That is not the point. Fight with everything in you to defeat Satan at his mind games and to gain control of the thoughts you think. Beg your Savior to deliver you from what hurts. But, if He doesn’t, don’t see it as an excuse to live without power. Don’t assume that you cannot be used if you struggle daily. Don’t believe that God loves you less because you have to fight more. See it all as God’s method of increasing your reliance on Him.

Friends, this life is hard, and I’m convinced that it’s harder for those of us trying to live for and through Jesus. It’s harder because the world that is our home really isn’t. The details that consume our days aren’t the reality of our forever. The hardships that we wrestle with often take our focus from our God-given purpose.

Whatever the struggle, no matter the intensity, allow it to turn you to Christ. Demand that it show you His heart. Beg Him to show Himself in it. He is faithful, and your weakness will showcase His strength – and His love.

I am linking up today at http://christianmommyblogger.com/fellowship-fridays-7-2/

When it’s cold outside, school has been cancelled, and you’ve banished the kids to their respective rooms for some much needed alone time, there’s only one thing to do. (After you’ve eaten everything not nailed down, of course.) Look through old pictures. I did that today, and the saying about days going by slowly but years flying by came to mind. It’s so true, especially when you have kids.

I could not believe that the chubby cheeked babies on my screen are the same big kids I can now trust enough to send to their rooms alone. It’s also amazing that I have forgotten so quickly the things that used to fill our days and the chaos that those two could cause!

This picture cracks me up because Will is hugging her, but has the warning hand on her cheek in the event she starts something. His face looks sweet, but his hand is saying, “I mean it. No closer.”

 Oh my word, how I love these two. Even though I’m about to have to stop typing to referee the WWE wrestling match currently taking place in the den. Ahhh, the joys of motherhood.

What must He be thinking, from there? As He looks down on his beloved creation stuck in traffic, wrapping furiously, charging beyond their means, what does He think? Is He disappointed? Is He sad? Does anger burn within?

Does He look within us more than He looks at us, and does He see that the chaos our behavior shows only mirrors the chaos that our hearts cry?

More than $2 billion worldwide will be spent on wrapping paper this year. Wrapping paper. Millions of people are starving, going to bed without food, yet we celebrate the birth of the Bread of Life by spending billions on wrapping paper. It makes no sense.

He came to earth, the cause of our celebration, and said things like, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth…” Yet we shop until the shelves are empty and our houses are full and our accounts are drained.

He said, “Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world.” Yet we leave the orphans in their orphanages and the widows in their empty homes and stain ourselves with the merchandise being panned by the world.

He taught, and we ignore. 

He taught, and we justify. 

He taught, and we continue to do what we want anyway.

What, I wonder, will it take for His followers to obey? To remember that we celebrate the Sacrifice and that doing so does not require us to sacrifice months of paychecks? 

Could we celebrate Christmas with not one gift inscribed with our name? Would Christmas still be Christmas without the parties and baking and shopping and wrapping? Would Christmas be even better if we said no to how the world insists it be celebrated?

What if every believer spent his Christmas budget on caring for the least of these? Spent money on the hungry and homeless and hurting instead of the hype? What if?

When we are urged to be aliens and strangers and to abstain from sinful desires, are times like these what Peter had in mind? Has the celebration of our Savior become sinful instead of sacred?

The Lord Himself says, “If you love me, obey my commandments.” Is it really that simple? Why do we complicate it so?

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. And he will place the sheep on his right, but the goats on the left. Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’“Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ Then they also will answer, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?’ Then he will answer them, saying, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”

Some days, I think my greatest talent is believing Satan’s lies. It comes so naturally to me, happening with no conscious thought and requiring no effort. I have never had to work at it, never needed to force myself to hear his whispers.

His quiet, condemning statements are directed at me constantly, from the moment my eyes open in the dawn to the last moments of consciousness in the dark. Often they come out of nowhere, and I am blindsided by their presence.

“You’re not good at that, you know.”

“You’ll never have the time or money to really pursue your passion.”

“You’re not pretty enough.”

“You’re not enough.”

“You’ll always be left out.”

“You obviously have nothing to contribute.”

“They don’t include you on purpose.”

He whispers in my ear that my efforts will fall short, my feelings deserve to be hurt, my life is insignificant.

He whispers, and I listen. Not every time, of course, but enough to matter. I listen to him the most when I’m with Jesus the least.

And the truth of the matter is he’s right. Without Jesus. Without Jesus, I am not enough. My life will be insignificant. My passion will be unfulfilled.

Satan’s lies, without Jesus, are truth.

But with Him, they are just lies. They are words with no truth to give them any weight, and they are words I can choose to reject.

Just today, Satan began to whisper to me, telling me what he wants me to believe in an area of my life where I am particularly vulnerable. And as I type, I am struggling to reject his words and to choose to believe truth. Believe me when I say it is a struggle, though. It is such a hard one. I have that cry-avoiding lump in my throat as I am typing these words, forcing myself to give reality to the emotions I wish I didn’t have. That’s a large part of the battle, isn’t it? Admitting that there is one? Friends, there is. There is a battle in this girl’s life daily to believe I can be – and can do – something of worth. To believe that I am of worth.

We each live in a battle zone, and I fear that we lose skirmishes unnecessarily because we forget that we can win. That He has won. We lose when we react defensively instead of fighting proactively.

This afternoon, I resolve to fight – and to win – this particular battle. I’m sure there will be more, perhaps even today. But I will not go down without a fight and will not lose what is mine to win. I will fight. And I will win.

My sweet little first grader just had her Christmas program at school, and it was Precious. The capital letter is on purpose there, because those crazy little kids were so cute with their missing teeth and gangly legs that I could have fainted from the sheer amount of adorable-ness in that cafeteria.

(BTW – [see how hip I am there with the abbreviation? Mom, it means “by the way.“] – this is NOT how she normally goes to school. Eyeliner and lip gloss are for special occasions only, like when your class is supposed to look like rock stars.)

I’m telling you. Six year olds dressed as penguins and Christmas trees and rock stars will make you grin like a Cheshire cat and simultaneously thank your lucky stars you don’t teach six year olds who have to dress as penguins and Christmas trees and rock stars.  They were adorable.

But y’all.

The parents.

I have never.

As the program began, the noise level in the cafeteria lessened slightly from its pre-performance roar, but allow me to exaggerate the word SLIGHTLY. There were some loud folks up in there. People behind me were carrying on a full-fledged conversation in normal conversational tones with ZERO attempt to hush their voices. At one point I looked at my husband and whispered (because I have some decorum), “My teacher-self is about to GO NUTS.”

All over the cafeteria there were people who seemed not to care one iota that children – including their own! – were performing a program that had taken weeks of practice, coordination, and planning. These people stood up in the middle of the performance, held iPhones in front of others’ faces to capture shots, scooted chairs across linoleum floors that magnify sounds, and spoke – loudly – to their brother’s friend’s grandma about Lord knows what.

And then, my favorite part of the night.

Mrs. Music Lady, she who had practiced with the children and was trying her best to keep the program going despite the redneckery that was filling the dining hall, stopped. And stood up. And preached.

She let them have it. She said that in 34 years, she had never had to stop a performance, but these children had worked too hard to have their songs go unheard by people who were supposed to know better.

She scared me, and I fell in love with her. I was so proud that for once, someone in education stood up and said, “STOP IT. You should know better.”

I wanted to hoop and holler and do that weird arm motion that Arsenio Hall did.

But I refrained.

That night solidified for me, as a teacher, why we have 96% of the problems we do in education. The trees from which the apples fall. The parental units.

Jim Trelease says, “In one school year a child spends 7800 hours at home and 900 hours at school. Which teacher should be held the most accountable?”

I think I know.

My earring fell out of my ear today while I was in the restroom and nearly landed in the toilet. What is one supposed to do in such a situation? Flush it? Reach in and grab it? Thank goodness I didn’t have to decide. I wouldn’t mind flushing it – it is a cheapo earring, but I would mind ruining the only adult female toilet in my wing of the building. I might never be forgiven.

When my dear husband asked me to marry him and I moved into his house after our wedding, a tragedy befell me from which I might never recover.

I had to switch grocery stores. And not just from one store to another of its kind farther away… No, I had to switch chains. I know – the horror.

Prior to this wedded bliss, I had the great fortune of living approximately 90 seconds from heaven on earth, AKA Publix. For anyone not living in the southeastern United States where Publix fell from heaven like manna, I apologize to you and will remember you on my knees tonight as I implore our Maker to bless and highly favor you with grocery store blessing. In the meantime, allow me to paint with my words a picture of the heaven that is Publix Super Markets.

First, and not to be taken lightly, it is clean. And we all know that cleanliness is next to Godliness. Never have mine eyes seen stains discoloring its tile or garbage littering the lobby. Ah, but no. Publix sparkles. When those awe-inspiring automatic doors part and the aisles appear, stretching endlessly before you are endcaps glistening like teeth in commercials and air so fresh that Febreze wants to bottle it. My children could roll around on the floor in the bathroom and I would watch with nary a word. Cleanliness wins every time.

Also high on my list is the organization and logic with which items are placed. Where is the syrup? Near the pancake mix, of course. Peanut butter? Look no farther than the bread. It’s as if someone thought like a consumer… “I’d like to make spaghetti tonight – so noodles, sauce, and Parmesan cheese should be grouped accordingly.” Logic makes my heart pitter-patter. And not to be outdone – the stocking. High school boys in green smocks descend like locusts and ensure that items are not pushed to the backs of the racks, but are blocked, pulled flush with the front so as to be easily accessible to the mother with the toddler on hip and infant screaming in buggy. It’s the little things, people.

Customer service is the priority at Publix, and its baggers seem hurt if you tell them you can take your own groceries to the car. Come rain, wind, or snow, they tell you that carry-out is their pleasure. Mine too, dear Publix. Mine too.

My husband makes fun of me to the point that I’ve developed a complex, but I cannot change my heart. I am just a Publix and Target kind of girl – one that he says is snooty. (Said with nothing but love, I assure you.) Try as I might, I cannot break my heart’s will and force it to become an Ingles and Walmart lover. It’s not who Jesus created me to be, and I will not change my identity. I will pay ten percent more – gladly – to have a pleasurable shopping experience, and nothing makes me happier than my dear, sweet Publix. Except for maybe my husband. So Publix, I’ll be seeing you. But don’t forget me. I’ll be back.

At first I didn’t understand her question, her face looking at me expectantly from around her computer’s monitor.

“What state is Germany in?”

I’m sure my eyebrow lifted as I contemplated what she meant. State? Germany?

It suddenly dawned on me that she wanted to know where in the United States Germany was. Germany, the country, in the United States.

Her neighbor looked at me, too. She had already asked him, and he wasn’t sure either.

I gently (I think – I tried to be gentle) explained that Germany is its own country and that it is located on a separate continent from the United States.

I write this not as an indictment of this particular student (or her neighbor) or in a mocking sort of way, but rather as a very serious, contemplative question that must be posed in every educator’s mind.

What in the world does this mean?

When two students who have made it to high school do not know that Germany is a country, we must take this seriously. If they do not know where Germany is or that it is a nation, they must not understand exactly what happened in the Holocaust or the implications of that event either. (Am I right? Is this too great a leap for me to make?) If they do not know of the Holocaust, they do not understand the conditions that allowed it to occur. If they do not understand how it happened in the first place, they do not know how to prevent it from happening again.

It’s so much more than just not knowing geography.

Every day that I am in my classroom, I see students [some, not all] not knowing what should be basic knowledge for a well-educated student. They do not know how to find information without Google, they do not know that “it’s” means “it is,” they do not know the governor of our state. They do not know know the basics of the United States Constitution.

Here’s what is sad to me – these are smart kids. They are bright, witty, and have unlimited potential. They are so much to fun to be around, but something stands in their way. Is it our system of education? Is it our culture? Just what is it?

I teach the 9th grade, and I have students who do not know (or perhaps just do not follow) the rules of grammar, such as the rule that states each sentence must contain a capital letter and have punctuation at its end. (To be fair, texting is teens’ primary mode of writing, and it does have different rules. I get it. But don’t they need to get that there is a time and place for it, and school assignments is not it? Why have they not learned this yet?)

 It disturbs me that they do not follow the rules (perhaps more than if they did not know the rules), because if this is the case, someone has allowed them not to do so. I am a tyrant when it comes to simple grammar, and my students fuss often about my deduction of points. Why am I a tyrant? For this reason and this reason alone – details matter.

When did excellence become irrelevant? When did it become acceptable to have access to information but no first-hand knowledge of it? Why is it not an issue when conventions exist but are habitually broken?

I am the first to champion technology and its place in education. The world is, literally, at our fingertips. But I fear much more is slipping away. We are a global society, but our citizens cannot locate major countries on a globe. Progress has begun to show its cost. Simple communication skills are suffering greatly; people do not know how to express themselves unless it’s in 140 characters or fewer.

Without emoticons, people are losing the ability to express emotion through words.

Maybe I’m just a Chicken Little sky-is-falling kind of person, but things like this matter to me.

Perhaps I am to blame. I teach, and there are probably students who leave my classroom not knowing what others think they should. I don’t know exactly where the blame should fall, but I suspect it’s probably not just on one set of shoulders. Mediocrity has become the norm, with excellence the exception.

I just read a fascinating book by Malcolm Gladwell entitled David and Goliath, and he discusses how characteristics that begin as benefits over time can become liabilities. After a certain point, the cons begin to outweigh the pros.

His example – the influence of money on parenting. Too little money increases the difficulty of being an effective parent, but too much money can also increase its difficulty. He refers to this phenomenon as an inverted U-curve. (If you struggled in statistics, hang tight. I’m making a point.) He says, “Inverted-U curves have three parts, and each part follows a different logic. There’s the left side, where doing more or having more makes things better. There’s the flat middle, where doing more doesn’t make much of a difference. And there’s the right side, where doing more or having more makes things worse” (54).

I think we might be on the right side of the U-curve. We have more, but it’s making things worse.

How many of you have tried to have a conversation lately, only to become exasperated as the other person pays more attention to his phone than you? How many hours have you wasted on Facebook and Pinterest while the real-life relationships you hold are struggling? Our more is costing us dearly.

The vast majority of Americans are wealthier than the vast majority of the world, yet we constantly want more. More than enough is just not enough.

Maybe I should just relax and stop reading so much into the trends I see. The sky might not be falling, and we might not be making things worse.

But I can’t help but wonder, “What if we are?”