Finishing Well



On my second to last day on the job, I came upon Ms. Ruby* who was anxiously trying to get out of her wheelchair.  In the twelve years I had worked in this place, I can honestly say I had never had a conversation with her.   She was going to be 104 on her next birthday and I assumed her secret to longevity was simply staying away from people-she was not a talker and with her no-nonsense look, she an ability to send people from her room faster than a bullet leaving a gun.

“What is it Ms. Ruby; what do you need?” I asked.

“My bed.  I’m tired.”

I gently placed her tiny frame on her bed and helped her to lay down yet she remained anxious, again trying to get up.

“I need to read a chapter.  Get me my book, I gotta read a chapter.”

I reached for the only book on her table, her Bible.  Milky white cataracts had replaced Ms. Ruby’s once sharp eyes, and I knew she couldn’t read it herself. Surprisingly she accepted my offer to read to her and settled back onto the bed.  Holding her hand in mine until she relaxed, I marvelled that her dark skin was soft like that of a newborn.  Strange that after twelve years, I was just now seeing the “softer” side to this centenarian, I thought.

“How about a Psalm, Ms. Ruby; Psalm twenty-seven?”

“Ah, yes,” she smiled at the ceiling.

I began to read and was instant moved as Ms. Ruby began reciting the psalm along with me practically word for word.  When we got to the forth verse I was in tears.   I struggled to continue, but with a strong voice she continued from memory.

MsRuby“One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life , to behold the beauty of the Lord and to enquire in his temple.   Oh yes, Lawd!”   A wide grin spread across her face as her unseeing eyes gazed towards the heavens.

I was finally able to rejoin the recitation and I couldn’t help but think that God had planned this grand finale Himself.  One of my favorite psalms, steeped in promises of God’s goodness and faithfulness,  recited by a woman who like the author, was someone after God’s own heart and who would no doubt finish well as the author had.

Peace, Be Still

Three words.  Peace. Be. Still.

Enough to calm a storm and put a few frightened disciples at ease,  these are the words that I breathe.   In….peace…..And out… still…..



I don’t know what you, the reader, are going through right now, but for me and others near and dear to me, it’s been a season of white-knuckling it to stay in the boat.

In my first week in a new job, my manager announced to the entire staff in a group email, “Monica will be filling in for me while I’m away on vacation and will be happy to help in any way she can.”  Huh?   Monica would simply have been happy to know beforehand.  But instead of going into panic mode, I decided to meet the challenge head-on and use it as an opportunity to prove my competence and integrity as a leader.

The first days had been anything but promising.  Rumors of how long this one would last had already been whispered around the department and I was asking myself the same question in light of the hopeless atmosphere in which I found myself.  Still,  I was determined to be like Caleb; one of the ten spies who chose to be strong and courageous and see hope and victory while the others saw defeat.  Like the ancient Israelites, I was viewing the giants blocking entrance to the supposed promised land.

As if this transition wasn’t enough to throw me off course, the winds changed direction; this time coming from the west.  My children who had left Ontario for the promise of new beginnings and adventure in British Columbia, were being hit by the gale-force winds of deception, betrayal, and loneliness.  More bad reports from the remaining eight spies.  Pftt.

Add to this a random shooting in a part of our city that left two dead and thirteen injured, a friend in California who was forced to evacuate her home because of the devastating fires, and another acquaintance whose son is on life support following what should have been a routine surgery, I was left feeling like the disciples in the boat, shaking Jesus awake, demanding,  Don’t you care if we die?!

Turns out, He does.

The first life-preserver was tossed into the female staff locker room of all places.  I was just about to walk out when one of the staff members of whom I was “in charge”  stopped me to announce that she needed the following day off.

“I need to be off Thursday–possibly Friday,” she began, tears rimming her eyes.


“My husband and I are going for IVF.  I’m scheduled to have my eggs harvested,”  her lips trembled and tears began to flow in earnest along with the stress that each tear contained.

“I’m a praying mama,” I heard myself say, much to my own surprise.  “Would it be okay if I pray for you?”   Not answering in words, she put her arms around me and tears fell upon my shoulder as I spoke life over her barrenness and asked God to open her womb to receive a baby.  At the writing of this post, it’s too early to say what the result will be in terms of a little one entering the world, although thus far, things seem to be going in a positive direction.  Regardless of the outcome, I do know a seed of another kind was planted.  New rumors are being spread about me, and as spoken of in a previous blog,  Reputation vs. Character I’m totally okay with that.

From the west, the winds of reconciliation have been blowing.  Once determined that she didn’t need a mother–specifically me– my daughter called me in tears.

“I’m so sorry mum,” she sobbed.  “I got a taste of how badly I have treated you and when I realized how much I must have hurt you, I felt awful!”

“I’ve already forgiven you,” I assured her.

“Yeah, I know you’re all over this forgiveness stuff, but I just needed to say it.”


While I haven’t stepped into the fullness of my Promised Land, this is a good start.  Like the disciples of Mark 4:39 this season has been about trusting God in the storms, and there have been many, it would seem.  In all of it I’m realizing that there is nothing I can do in my own strength.  There are no variables that can be manipulated in any of the situations that I, or those I care about find ourselves in; there is no “Plan B”.  I either place my trust in God or I don’t.   Over and over again, I’m discovering that the best strategy it to take shelter in the secret place.  Sometimes it’s a time of quiet reflection, meditating on His promises with hope and renewed faith.  Other times it’s more of a battle; contending through declaration and decrees of what He has already promised. In the midst of it all, I choose to remember the story of some new believers in the middle of the sea with a storm blowing around them while their only Help slept, seemingly oblivious.  When He awakens to their cries, He simply raises His hand to the wind and commands, “Peace–be still!” and the winds stop immediately and peace is restored.  He asked them then, as He asks us now, “Where is your faith?”  If we truly believe that He is in us and we are in Him, we  can raise our hands to the storms around us and make the same command, believing as Hebrews 13:8 says:

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever. 

As I’m learning daily to put my trust in Him, He has shown infinite patience with me in the process, reminding me that I am His kid and He loves me Today I went to the post office to pick up a prize I had won in a group on social media:  20180728_182506.jpg

Coincidence?  I think not.

I’d like to think that I am the shell nestled in the centre of this art work.  A little ragged from being tossed about in the sand of affliction, but smoothed by the waves of His mercy washing over me again and again.



Yes and amen….

Finishing Well

On my second to last day on the job, I came upon Ms. Ruby* who was anxiously trying to climb out of her wheelchair.  In the twelve years I had worked in this place, I can honestly say I had never had a conversation with her.   She was going to be 104 on her next birthday and I assumed her secret to longevity was simply staying away from people-she was not a talker and had an ability to send people from her room faster than a bullet leaving a gun.

“What is it Ms. Ruby; what do you need?” I asked. “My bed.  I’m tired.”  I gently placed her tiny frame onto her bed and helped her to lay down, yet she remained anxious, again trying to get up.  “I need to read a chapter.  Get me my book, I gotta read a chapter.” I reached for the only book on her table, her Bible.  Milky white cataracts had replaced Ms. Ruby’s once sharp eyes, and I knew she couldn’t read it herself.  I offered to read for her and to my surprise, she agreed, settling back onto the bed.  I held her hand in mine until she relaxed.  Her dark skin was soft like that of a newborn and she relaxed into the mattress as softly, I caressed the back of her hands. “How about a Psalm, Ms. Ruby?” “Ah, yes,” she smiled at the ceiling.  MsRuby I began reading and then Ms. Ruby began reciting the psalm along with me almost word for word.  When we got to the forth verse I was in tears.  Moved by witnessing this side of Ms. Ruby and her love and passion for the Word, I struggled to continue.   But with a strong voice Ms. Ruby continued from memory:

  “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life , to behold the beauty of the Lord and to enquire in his temple.”

 ” Oh yes, Lawd!”  With a toothless grin, she smiled towards the heavens. I was finally able to rejoin in the recitation and I couldn’t help but think that God had planned this grand finale Himself; sweet words from King David spoken by a woman who would no doubt finish well as the author had.

Yes and Amen.

*Ms Ruby’s name was changed to protect her privacy.

Whether to the Left or to the Right

RightLeftI’m in a season right now where I have no flippin’ clue where I’m headed.   It’s like hopping in the car with a full tank of gas, no GPS, armed only with instinct and faith.

Let me explain how I got there:

A number of years ago, a resident in the nursing home where I worked sensed a dissatisfaction and sadness within me.  She knew it had nothing to do with her or any of her fellow residents, but saw it for the workplace frustration that it was.   She would comfort me with one of her bear hugs, but would still implore me not to leave her.  To put her at ease, I assured her that I wouldn’t leave until she did.  We joked that hers would be a more permanent move, even laughing about it.  But this past December, she made her move surrounded by her family and my own words came rushing back to me in an instant.  I had inadvertently created a self-fulfilling prophecy with my promise and a restlessness settled in almost immediately.  I had to prepare to live up to my end of the bargain.

I had been told that seeing the number “1” in multiples signified transition and transformation and all of a sudden, I was seeing this number everywhere.  When I looked at the clock and it would be 11:11.  A glance at the microwave while heating something up would show there was 1 minute and 11 seconds remaining.  Even my health tracker would announce that I had walked 11,111 steps and had been active 111 minutes.  Coincidence?  I think not.  The past year has been all about transition.  But with transition comes trust, and with trust, tests.

We can easily say we trust God when there’s nothing we’re contending for, but when the smooth sailing is replaced by choppy waves and dark clouds, we discover where we’ve truly placed our trust.   While journalling one morning, God showed me a picture of a sapling when it’s first planted. tree-stake-400x600 On either side are guiding wires and stakes to ensure it grows straight, leaning neither to the left or the right.  When the tree becomes strong enough and its roots are firmly attached to its foundation in the earth, the stakes and guiding wires are removed.  I didn’t even need to ask God was He was getting at with this image.  I already knew that He was warning me that my “supports” were about to be pulled.

The whole idea of actually leaving a job of twelve years where I had become comfortable in a dysfunctional sort of way left me second guessing.  Should I?  Is it really that bad?  I have friends here.  I have Christian friends.  I love my residents and they love me.  Then one day while flipping through my old journals, I read an entry where I had quoted from the movie, Queen of Katwe:  

Just because a place is familiar doesn’t mean you still belong there .”   

A day later. The leader of my cell group was speaking to us on being authentic Christians and the challenges of showing love in the workplace.  He said, “Sometimes the most loving thing we can say is goodbye…”  With this confirmation, I had made my decision.

Here I am a couple of months later in my new job.  I like to say, same church, different pew  because the work is essentially the same, but the culture of this new community is so different.  I know that I made the right decision, but admittedly, there are times when I long for the familiarity of the previous twelve years.  Like an abused woman who struggles to leave her abuser;   I’m strangely drawn to the predictability regardless of the pain involved.  In those times I just stop. Even in a stairwell, I’ll stop and get in God’s face:  Show me something.  Throw me a bone.  I need to know why I’m here.  What’s Your plan for me in this place? I trust You, but I can’t see anything yet…    Isaiah 30:21:

“Your own ears will hear him. Right behind you, a voice will say, ‘This is the way you should go’ whether to the left or to the right….”

This is a season when I’m really learning to trust in many areas of my life. When I look with natural eyes at change, lack of change or any period of waiting, it’s easy to become impatient or discouraged.   I’ve discovered that my view of having my supports–environment , friends and culture removed, couldn’t have been farther from the truth.  In this place of vulnerability, He is revealing Himself as the only support I truly ever had.  In the meantime, I’m leaning in, trusting Him to show me which way to go and grow.

Yes and amen.

Reputation vs. Character

In the last while, I’ve had plenty of opportunity to reflect on the difference between these two concepts- reputation and character.  During a season of transition that seems to have stretched on forever, I’m slowly coming to the same conclusion as John Wooden, who penned the following adage:

“Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are.  The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching”

It’s very easy to fall for the desire to be a people pleaser, especially in the workplace.  Eight hours out of five out of seven days are spent with co-workers and employers; more time is spent with them than family in some cases.  In a sense, they can become like a second family, albeit a dysfunctional one in many cases.  We fight and we make up.  We laugh and we cry.  We gossip and sometimes we’re fodder for the gossip mill.  Some relationships are strengthened by overcoming differences while others remain strained, never to be repaired by human efforts.  As emotional beings, we find ourselves striving to be liked and seeking the approval of others.  But when going with the flow and adopting workplace norms begin to chip away at your true identity, it’s time to take a step back. This is what has led me into the season I now find myself.

Choosing to please people more than God was eroding my foundation, making me cynical and sapping me of my joy.   I was forfeiting my character in favor of my reputation. These things ought not be so.  Blogger Donald Miller says,

“God rewards character, not reputation.  To care about your reputation means you care more about public opinion than the opinion of God”

I don’t want to desire man’s approval more than Gods.   I am acutely aware that in some circles I don’t have a good reputation.  I’ve been accused of being too outspoken, too abrupt, and quite frankly, too Monica.  But as Wooden says, your character is who you are when no one is watching.  God is always watching, and He’s assured me that He has seen my true character when no one else has and He is pleased.   If God is for me, who indeed can be against me? Instead of allowing my reputation and the opinions of others to define me, I’ve allowed God to use it all as the sandpaper to smooth out my rough edges. That’s how God builds our character–He truly is a master Carpenter.

As I write this, God is reminding me of a time in my childhood when I was running through the neighbour’s barn and I tripped.  My outstretched palm landed on the sharp edge of a molasses tin lid, splitting my hand open. Bleeding and crying, I ran to the house.  The farmer took me into the bathroom and sat me on the toilet seat.  Grasping  my little hand in his much larger weather -beaten one, while holding a bottle of iodine in the other, he warned,  “This is gonna hurt, hon.”

Howling and squirming, I tried to break free of his grasp as he poured the orange liquid onto my wound.  And then it was over.  The bleeding had stopped, the wound was cleaned and patched with a fresh a bandage.  It had still stung, but I had survived the ordeal.

Screenshot_20180623-204908_Google.jpgEven as big kids we squirm and cry  when God wants to heal our wounds. ‘No, it’s gonna hurt!!’ We insist.   But He loves us too much to leave us with gaping wounds.   We condemn ourselves for our perceived flaws but God convicts and corrects our character so we can better reflect His glory.

So in this season of change and transition, I have allowed the Father to tend to some open and tender wounds.  Some of it has hurt–a lot in fact, but I’ve learned to trust Him.  He knows me better than I do, and in the season of leaning and learning, I have discovered that I am much more confident in who I am, and more importantly Whose I am.

Yes and amen.




The Secret Place

When I was a child, there was a field behind our house where the earth had yielded what I called, The Gigantic Rock.


When the busyness of growing up in a house with seven kids got to be too much, I would wander through the field picking clover , nibbling on the sweet tubular flower until I reached this huge stone. Climbing up, I’d just sit, looking out over the fields listening to the breeze rustle in the long grass. Sometimes hours would pass by, just thinking, talking to myself, and imagining what life held in store for this youngest of five girls.

My mom once commented that when she’d go to the back door to call me in for dinner, instead of looking for me in the obvious places like the swing set or the garden, she’d first look up to the sky and find me perched high upon a branch of the huge maple tree in the back yard.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Nuthin’,” I would truthfully call back. I was doing nothing. I was simply being.

Perhaps my penchant for solitude and contemplation as a child was preparing me for learning to hear from God as an adult. I didn’t have such spiritual awareness at the time, but I can’t help but think now, that the first dreams I had sitting in the trees or on the gigantic rock were really Him whispering purpose and destiny into my young life.

Now, some forty years later, I struggle to justify just being. In a world where our worth and value is determined by what we accomplish and how productive we are, both in the workplace and in the home, it somehow feels self-indulgent to take time for yourself.

But I need that time. It’s not simply time by myself, for myself, but to talk to God and more importantly–hear from Him. I need that one on one time to know His voice so I will recognize it in the busyness of the rest of the day. John 10:27 says:

“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow me.” (NLT)

I want to be like the sheep. When I don’t know where a situation is headed, or when things aren’t happening in the way or at the speed I anticipated, I want clear direction from the One Who knows the beginning from the end.

The bible speaks of a secret place. In the psalms, it is referred to as more of a spiritual place of rest:

“He that dwells in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty” (Psalm 91 KJV).

In that secret place where it’s just Him and me, I can be vulnerable and honest in a way that I cannot with another human being, no matter how close the relationship. There are no efforts to mask the parts that I want hidden from the world. It has been said that if we want God to show up for us in public, we must show up for Him in private and that means being transparent and honest with Him. It’s not like we can hide anything from Him anyway, but He wants us to be able to articulate our truth openly and honestly no matter how messy.

In Matthew 6:6 we are given a more physical example of the secret place:

“But when you pray, go into your private room, shut your door, and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” (CSB)

Although a prayer closet, or a war room as the movie of the same title depicts, is not necessary in order to have time in the secret place with Abba, having a consistent place dedicated for meeting with Him creates an open invitation for Him to show up. That space becomes sanctified and wholly set apart for that one purpose. For the longest time, I seemed to encounter God in my kitchen while listening to worship music as I cooked. As weird as it seemed that He would show up there, it kind of made sense too; all through the bible are accounts of fellowship with Jesus that took place over a meal.

Resting in the Lord is not a passive activity but it’s rather actively tuning into the heartbeat of God. In his book, Abba’s Child, Brennan Manning re-tells the story of an older gentleman nearing the end of life. Manning had gone to visit and pray with him and he noticed a chair already placed beside his bed. Assuming the chair was placed there for his visit, he was surprised when the dying man told him that the chair was actually for Jesus. He told him that he had placed it there so he could envision Jesus sitting there as he poured out his heart to Him. When the man died, his daughter found him with his head resting on the seat of the chair– on Abba’s lap. What a profound image of tenderness and intimacy this story creates.

Recently becoming an empty nester–again (sometimes they come back!) I was faced with the decision of what to do with a newly vacated second bedroom. This was a no-brainer. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and like a teenager giddy with the anticipation of having her own dorm room for the first time, I began moving furniture. Book shelf, recliner, guitar; only those items that would make this space simple and sacred would make the cut .

I am very intentional when it comes to this space. Some might think I’m a little weird, but I don’t see this room as mine, but rather Abba’s. I enter the room like I’m the one being invited in. It is wholly set apart for His purposes– for studying, journaling, reading the Word, and most of all, just being in His Presence. No cell phones allowed. It’s difficult to explain, but when I’m in His space, it truly feels different from the rest of my home. Some days, I go in feeling exhausted and beaten up by the day. I simply curl up in the easy chair and pour out my heart and frustrations. Other times I sit in silence, like the days on the gigantic rock or up in the tree. And I wait. And I listen. It’s an exercise in patience sometimes, but I feel that is what God is really trying to cultivate in His children–the ability to wait and keep a good attitude while doing so. Psalm 37:7 reminds us.

“Be still in the presence of the Lord, and wait patiently for Him to act.” (NLT)

I continue to let Abba have His way in this space. Choosing to submit that little room to His purposes will produce sweet fruit and yield a bountiful harvest; it’s all in the waiting.


In the meantime, I have borrowed from the story in Abba’s Child. Another chair sits across from mine for Jesus to have a place to sit during our chats.

Yes and amen.

Under the Wing

Our team huddles around a table at Tim’s, sipping coffee and munching on a breakfast of muffins as we lay out our strategy for the morning’s events. We review formation; what circumstances would warrant the diamond, box or the arch, and where the main exits in and out of the building are located. Our discussion over strategy abruptly comes to a close as the young woman enters the restaurant. Dressed in a modest grey dress, nails newly painted a metallic purple, and her auburn hair pulled back to reveal the bluest of eyes, Meaghan approaches, smiling nervously at our group. We’re all on our feet.

One by one, Meaghan meets her team. In her short life of nineteen years, she probably could never have imagined having an entourage, and certainly not under such circumstances.

Meaghan is neither the kingpin of a bank heist nor a sought after celebrity. She’s a survivor of Human Trafficking and this day marks the first day of the rest of her life. It’s the first day of preliminary hearings to see her trafficker be put behind bars and we, her entourage, are there to make sure she has the support and protection to see it through from beginning to end.

While certainly not veterans, mainly because human trafficking trials are relatively new to Ontario courts, we have had some exposure to the scare tactics used to silence a young survivor .


Experience has shown us that it’s not always who is in the courtroom that poses the threat, but who’s outside waiting. A simple trip to the bathroom can turn into a confrontation with the pimp’s ‘girlfriend’. Lunch break might find a not-so-inconspicuous articling student for the defense sitting in the booth next to you in an attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation. Running the gauntlet through the parking lot after a day of testimony is no easy feat as the trafficker’s cronies hurl abusive epithets from different posts along the path to the car. While a guilty verdict can be satisfying for a young survivor, the process it takes to get to that point can be traumatizing. Hence learning the different formations. Diamond for close quarters, box for a larger spaces, and the arch for those times when you literally find yourself with your back against the wall.

Initially, the whole prospect of being escorted is exasperating to our young charge; who wants to pee with someone standing outside the stall? Who can pee with someone standing outside the stall? But once in the courtroom seeing the accused escorted to the prisoner’s box in handcuffs, staring menacingly at you changes everything. Suddenly having a few strangers in your corner seems like a pretty good idea after all.

We’re not there to intimidate or threaten the accused or his gang, (although we have some pretty big dudes on our team that could certainly do just that) we are simply a silent barrier and covering to ensure she can do what she has set out to do–put a predator behind bars. Initially, the investigating officers and crown attorney’s office are not thrilled. Convinced that we’ll be more trouble than we’re worth, they try to dissuade the group from following Meaghan into the courtroom. Their arguments are respectfully heard, but the teams resolve remains. What the Crown and the officers witness has them recanting. Now they want the team cloned. They spot the reaction of the accused immediately. The cocky swagger of the accused as he’s escorted into the court room is quickly replaced by a look of confusion which turns to fear, which turns to eyes staring at the floor. ‘Who are these people?’ You can see it playing over in his mind.

So who are we?

We are the brain child of a seasoned street youth worker who saw too many young women fleeing the stand for a feigned bathroom break, never to return. Twenty minutes on the stand with the trafficker’s lawyer trying to shift the blame on her is enough to break a young woman whose painful experience has already broken her into more pieces than a guilty verdict can put back together. Many of these young survivors have no support, whether it’s lack of family, or a supportive family, given the delicate nature of the circumstances. Friends are unheard of; their years in The Game (the term for working in prostitution) has alienated them from developing normal relationships and eroded existing ones. Alone, she sits in the witness stand, staring out at a sea of judging and accusing eyes with a defense lawyer chipping away at her last shred of dignity. Tears and confusion are his/her goal; if they can get her to choke completely on the stand, all the better. The Crown Attorney, while working with the survivor, is ultimately concerned with getting a guilty verdict. There is neither time nor desire for friendship. Likewise with the investigating officer(s) and the VWAP (Victim/Witness Assistance Program) worker. This is business for them, but for her, this is her life.

That’s where we come in. The goal is not to become bosom buddies with Meaghan, but develop a trust and rapport that helps her to feel genuinely cared for and protected. She can look out at the crowd from the witness box and connect with a friendly face, an imperceptible smile that says, ‘You’re doing great; you’ve got this!’ When she’s done in the courtroom, then we are too. In one fluid motion, we drop into formation, surrounding Meaghan like a hen covers her chick with her wing. As a group of Christians, we cover her in prayer too. Meaghan isn’t sure how she feels about God or Christians, and that’s okay; we’d still support her if she announced that she worshipped gummy bears. She accepts the prayers and the protection that comes from us and from above, whatever that looks like to her. Our goal isn’t to make converts, rather our mandate comes from the book of Isaiah 1:17:

“Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.”


Meaghan’s journey is far from over and will continue long after any verdict is handed down. In the meantime, she will be our little chick, safely hidden under the shadow of our wing until justice is served.

Yes and amen.

(‘Meaghan’ is not the witness/survivor’s real name.The author has changed her name to protect her identity)

For the One

Sasha from  Jesus Loves Strippers  is at it again.

“Why are you even wasting your time in that place?  They don’t appreciate what you do; they’re just a bunch of nasty hoes!” she insists.

She’s referring to the other women in the strip club where she works, and the one that I frequent as part of an outreach ministry team.  As I’ve quickly learned, this place, and others like it, are definitely not sororities. The women who work here are not sharing beauty secrets, vacation pictures, or adding one another to their Instagram or Face Book accounts.    They neither trust nor even like one another; they whisper their God-given names to me so the other girls will not know who they really are.

This time Sasha has stood me up because she’s had her money stolen from the change room, been tricked into accepting a ride from one of the other girls “friends” and has been thrown out of his car in the middle of the night, over 30 miles in the opposite direction of the club.  She recounts it matter-of-factly and is more upset because it means that she’s had to cancel plans with me for the second time in as many weeks.  I’m less surprised anymore  by her all in a day’s work attitude and wearying of the frequently cancelled plans.

She says I’m “cute” and “naive”,  for what she believes to be an innocent belief that I’m doing any good in going into the club.  I smile and wait for her to come up for air from her tirade.

“So,” I finally manage to say, “Meeting you was meaningless?  Getting to know you is a waste of my time?”

She pauses ( a first).  “No.  You and I were meant to meet.   I had nobody in that place ’til you walked in that night.  We’re friends, babe.”


Maybe she’s the one that’s naive.  I don’t always feel like I’m her friend, and at times I wonder why our paths did cross in the first place. Her mental health issues make it nearly impossible to have a normal conversation and I wonder how we move beyond building relationship to me actually being able to share the gospel with her.   I struggle to remember the admonition of my mentor/friend, John, who told me that it will be brilliant when I see her blossom and come into the fullness of her destiny.

Sometimes God will give you a picture of what things could look like-if you just hang in there and let Him do the heavy lifting.

Today was one of those days where He gave me a wee glimpse.WaterBaptism

One of my fellow team members has, for months, been sowing seeds of love and time into a young woman who works in another club.  This sweet girl was like a sponge, soaking up the Jesus she was seeing in my friend.  Instead of trying to rescue her, my friend just held a safe space for her; listening to her with her heart, slowly showing her another way-The Way.  Today, Resurrection Sunday, she took the plunge. She came to church and was baptised, experiencing the unconditional love and joy from strangers.  They didn’t know her story, but no doubt it would have made their joy even more complete.  It is said that when even one of God’s lost children comes into the kingdom,  heaven explodes with the sound of angels rejoicing.  I can’t imagine them being louder or more ecstatic than we were today as we watched the new Jennifer ( not her real name) emerge from the waters, leaving the former girl deep beneath the waters of an erased past.

As I watched Jennifer  being hugged and congratulated, I was reminded of the story of the lost sheep:

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” If a man has a hundred sheep and one of them wanders away, what will he do?  Won’t he leave the ninety-nine others on the hills and go out to search for the one that is lost?  And if he finds it, I tell you the truth, he will rejoice over it more than over the ninety-nine that didn’t wander away.  In the same way, it is not my heavenly Father’s will that even one of these little ones should perish.”   (Matthew 18:12-14)    



Later in the day,  I message Sasha.  I  share the good news of Jennifer’s baptism.  She’s curious for now, happy for me.  Silently I pray that God will lift the confusion from her mind  and one day it will be her taking the plunge.

In the meantime, I will keep my focus on this one precious lamb with whom God has entrusted me, and as Mother Teresa once encouraged:

” Do little things with great love”

Yes and amen.


Hell No!

I’ve been really ticked at the devil lately.  Seriously.

For the few months, those closest to me have been plagued by depression, anxiety, fear and helplessness.  Poor decisions made based on these temporary emotions and the confusion that ensues have left me wanting to punch something or somebody.  I know it’s an attack from the pit of hell, yet I struggle to direct my anger towards the real culprit.  For the reader who believes in Jesus but isn’t sure about Satan, let me assure you, he’s as real as Jesus is, but we’ve been downplaying his existence because we’re more concerned that it may make us look fanatical or like we’ve seen too many horror movies.

The book of  1st Peter 5:8-9 assures us that there is a devil.

Stay alert! Watch out for your great enemy, the devil.  He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.  Stand firm against him, and be strong in your faith.

The enemy of our soul does not want us to be content in any and all situations, do good for others, have joy, or be at peace, because those are all indicators that we have Jesus in our lives and he hates that.  He hates Jesus so he will hate us. It’s that simple. But, I hate him more and I’ve had it with him using my loved ones as target practice.

Oh yes, it’s on.

Once of the opinion that you shouldn’t poke at, or even acknowledge the devil or he’d get you,  I was no threat to him.   I’ve since learned that he’s more afraid of me than I am of him.

Once one of the most beautiful angels, Lucifer spent too much time oohing and aahing in front of the mirror, became full of himself, used “I will,” just a little too much for God’s liking, and got himself kicked out of heaven.  Now as believers, WE are seated in  heavenly places. We hold a position that Satan (Lucifer’s new handle) wanted for himself and he’s not a happy camper.

With a fresh revelation of who, and more importantly, Whose I am, I can go into battle with the full confidence that I am not fighting alone.  When I use the word of God, when I apply the blood of Jesus, and do so in faith, I am suited up like a Navy Seal; I’m unstoppable.  FullArmorEphesians 6: 10-17 describes the uniform we are to put on every day whether your battle happens in your home, your workplace, or just walking into Starbucks. I won’t go into a full description; you can read it yourself, but let me just point out that all of the pieces of armor are defensive, except the Word.  Put the letter “s”  in front, and you have Sword– that’s a weapon, my friend.

Recently God gave me revelation of just how powerful we are when we walk in His authority.  He planted a name in my head and I couldn’t stop thinking about this person.  I ended up messaging them to see how they were doing.

“I’m so anxious.  I feel like my life is imploding on me; I’ve never felt so awful and I can’t stand it much longer.”

Satan loves to attack where he thinks people will be too embarrassed or ashamed to speak of their battle; mental health seems to be his weapon of choice lately.

I could have just messaged back with “Keep your chin up,” or offer a benign”I’m praying for you,” but I’d had it.   This roaring lion was about to get de-clawed.

When I talk to God I may be on my knees or even on my face.  But when I’m yelling at the enemy, I’m on my feet.  This is not to say that I’m some super-spiritual wonder woman, but rather that I don’t believe that God responds to a posture of pity, but one of power.  We are His creation and He didn’t create us in fear or timidity.  I’m convinced that  if we could see what happens in the spirit when we are doing battle, it would blow our stinkin’ minds.spiritualBattle

We are told in Luke 10:19:

“Look, I have given you authority over all the power of the enemy, and you can walk among snakes and scorpions and crush them.  Nothing will injure you…”

So what was my battle plan?

Well first, I cranked up my worship music because 1.  Worship is warfare in and of itself–the devil hates to see us worship the Lord! And 2.  The neighbours won’t hear me yelling at an invisible foe- not that I really care once I get going.  I began declaring every one of God’s promises that came to my mind: this person was created in a spirit of love, power, and of sound mind ( 1 Timothy 1:7)  No weapon formed against her would prosper (Isaiah 54:17)   and anything not planted by the Heavenly Father would be uprooted. (Matthew 15:13) just to name a few.    Now, I know that I’m not allowed to give commands to angels–they are only permitted to answer only to God, but I can ask Him to send a bunch of kick-butt angels to protect and fight for my friend, so I did.  I pleaded the blood of Jesus from the crown of her head to the souls of her feet. I broke off:  Fear. Confusion.  Anxiety. Depression.   I spoke over her: Life in abundance. Peace. Joy. Clarity.  And I told the enemy to take his filthy, stinking paws off of my friend in the Name of Jesus.  This all sounds like stuff I did, but in reality, it was what I activated.  I activated faith by speaking God’s word. I affirmed the finished work of Christ on the cross when I applied the blood, I acknowledged that there is no name higher in heaven and earth when I asked Him to dispatch His angels.  In all of these steps, I walked in my authority, believing as it says in Philippians 4:13:

“For I can do all things through Christ Who gives me strength…”

Even though I broke this down into steps, the beauty of it is that it all happened naturally. I wasn’t holding a cheat sheet “on “How to kick the devil’s butt.” It was a natural response to an attack, my immediate go-to.  When you truly grasp that you have Jesus on the inside of you, nothing seems impossible; you know it’s Christ in you doing the heavy lifting.

Oh, and the best thing?  I checked in on this person just the other day, firing off a message to see how she was doing.  The response was so good and so God:

I’m out of the woods.  Made it to the other side, thank God…. I don’t know what you prayed, but something magical happened. Thanks for going through it with me”

My friend doesn’t have a relationship with God-yet.  But she does know that she was healed by Him, even if she doesn’t understand it yet.  In yielding to the nudging of the Holy Spirit and being willing to suit up and go into battle, a seed was planted.  I have no idea know who will water it, who will help the Son to shine on it.  That’s between her and God, but it will be a beautiful flower to watch grow no matter how long it takes.

God will use us friends, cracked pots and all.  He’s not looking for a perfect person, but a heart turned perfectly towards Him.   He responds to our faith, even if it’s only the size of a mustard seed.  When we partner with Him, He will do exceedingly and abundantly more than we could ever ask for.

Yes and amen.

A Servant’s Heart

washingfeetToday was a truly blessed day.

In my workplace, there is a gentleman who works under my supervision. He’s jovial even when he’s exhausted, tells corny jokes, despises paper work, and tolerates working in a female-dominated industry without a single eye-roll.   In the years that I’ve known him, I’ve discovered that he truly believes in honouring women on International Women’s Day.  He grew up in a culture that doesn’t necessarily make big deal out of Mother’s Day, however March 8th is one that he is very intentional about observing.

I was at the end of my workday and he was easing into his shift. After the workday on Thursday afternoons, a few of us hang back to do a boot camp of sorts, congregating in the fitness room to exercise.  I had changed into my workout clothing, and my running shoes were encrusted in the mud from a previous almost-spring- run through the neighbouring park.

I was ready to get down to business, when, motioning to a chair, this gentleman said, “Monica, sit down.”  I had no idea what he was up to, I thought perhaps he was going to give me an exercise to slog through. As our informal in-house fitness instructor, he is generally the one putting us through our paces, but he had other responsibilities to tend to, so I wasn’t sure why he was telling me to sit down.  He donned a pair of disposable gloves and grabbed a tub of antimicrobial wipes.

“Give me your foot.””

Obediently (which is a change for me, being his supervisor, after all) I lifted my foot.  He took my foot in his hand and began wiping the dirt off of my shoes.  First the left foot, and then the right.  In that moment, I began to think of Jesus.  How He had, during the Last Supper, washed each of His disciples feet–even Judas’–knowing that within hours, he would be betrayed by the very one He had humbled Himself before.

I thought about how short-tempered and sometimes downright rude I can be to this gentleman, and there he was, in essence, washing my feet.  As much as it makes me cringe to admit that I don’t always model Christian attributes, I know that I don’t stand alone in this, but I am willing to ‘fess up.  My poor behaviour that I sometimes display, often unwarranted,  was no deterrent to his kindness and that made it all the more difficult for me.  I inwardly squirmed as  I remembered how Peter argued with Jesus, stating, “No, you shall never wash my feet!”   Jesus told him that if He didn’t, he (Peter) would have no part in Him.  Jesus was essentially giving him and the other disciples a template for how to demonstrate a servant’s heart. Unless they learned to serve, they would not be able to carry out the great commission He had in store for them. (Paraphrasing of John 13:16)

So as I allowed my filth to be cleansed, my mind returned again to how Jesus took our filth upon Himself and allowed it to plunge  Him into the grave.  I reflected on how undeserving I am of the grace Jesus showed by taking on my sin, and how undeserving I was to have this man clean my shoes. My inner-witness slowed the proceedings like it was happening in slow motion.  I watched as he modelled humility; it wasn’t a show for those around who witnessed this act, rather it was a humble gesture of kindness and an intentional demonstration of honour and servitude.

Perhaps he meant it simply as a gesture of showing honour to his “boss” on International Women’s Day, but the message I received was so much more than that.  I was reminded that in heavenly realms,  there is no distinction between “boss” and “employee”.   Ultimately, we all have the same Master to Whom we are both accountable . While my shoes still show tell-tale signs of miles trudged through the mud, the rest of me has been cleansed white as snow.   I am eternally grateful that while my filth carried Jesus to the grave, it was His grace and love that brought Him-and me- back out again .

Yes and amen.