Yah, Let’s do THAT.

At church on Saturday I was reminded of the triumphant story of GIDEON and his seemingly ill-equipped self and just a few dudes willing to fight with him. So much goodness from all of it,  but there’s THIS that just won’t go away…

…and put trumpets into the hands of all of them & empty jars & torches….  [judges 7:16]

Gideon was a scared-y cat, a runt, an unlikely pick to lead an army.  He answered God’s call to defeat the enemy.  Through a drastic selection process, of sending the scared home, and watching how each of them drank water, God dwindled Gideon’s army down to 300. Through major showing off-because God does that- he handed Gideon and his soldiers

  • trumpets
  • empty jars
  • torches

These were their weapons, their tools…well those things and a great faith.  Then Gideon instructed his army, to blow their trumpets, to smash their vessels, to hold their torches high. And they were to shout…

For God and for Gideon

I’ve spent most of my life as one form of Gideon’s soldiers. In His process of selecting me, God has tested my vision, my focus.  I have willingly left in fear. I have done it wrong and was sent home.  I have been handed tools, but instead of great faith, I have compared myself to what my enemies hold, as well as my allies.  I have complained and sulked and whined.

I sat in church wondering how many other woman have done the same. How many of us have discarded what God has given us as not worthy to win the battle?

So often we wish we could be artists, or writers.  We desire perfectly clean houses, and God-fearing children and a husband who is bound to be called into full time ministry at any moment because of his stellar spiritual leadership.

We hold our trumpet–our noisemaker–and instead of a weapon to slay the day, its sounds more like fighting children, siblings who seem to hate each other. And a snoring husband, who falls asleep before he prays with you.

And we stare at our dishes in the sink for two days & we can’t remember the last time we washed our hair (true story).  We don’t even write down our grocery list, much less the next best seller at all the Christian book stores, that all the mom’s who have THEIR *ish together read between yoga and playdates at Chik-fil-a and putting something in the crockpot for dinner.

And we sit and think of the degree we should have finished, and about that other lady at church who leads so well and started her own non-profit and in her first day got 3,000 likes on Facebook, which is weird because there are only like 85 people at your church.

And we want that families income, and her house, and her wedding ring, her job and her self-discipline to wake at 5 am and drink a cup of coffee from the Keurig before Crossfit.

Only to be left to become the noisemaker ourselves (as we yell at our kids) and utterly empty.  An empty vessel, nothing left to give. nothing. Hand us a torch, and we will burn it all down, just so we don’t have to do laundry.

But there must be a time — a time in our life — in my life–like now.

Yeah, a time like now.

To rise up, gripping whatever God has handed us…

All of our beauty, all of our flaws, all of our giftedness…

The gift of rocking a baby or saving an animal…

We must embrace our weapons, of kindness, of patience, of love…

Holding tightly to the gift of organizing, or multi-tasking, or encouraging or serving, or just making it through another Monday…

We have weapons of forgiveness, and a clean car and shaved legs…

All of them exactly held by the exactly right person.

We are not noisemakers! 

We are trumpets, sounding loudly to drown out the voice of comparison, rejection, shame, self-hatred.

We are not empty vessels!

We are merely poured out in total surrender, daily being filled by living water so we may thirst no more.

We do not live in darkness! 

We have a torch to carry, to usher light into the darkness that surrounds us.  This torch is to be passed on to the very bratty kids we raise, the ones that hate each other.

All of us, in this camp together, can sound our trumpets, fill our vessels and proudly hold our torches, and we can all shout together

For God and for [insert your name here].

We can defeat this enemy that daily rises against, whispering that we aren’t enough, that we don’t have enough, that we don’t do enough.  When we do this, we don’t have to be afraid, for the Lord is with us….

And God’s presence is enough.

Humans of New York published a photo of a lady in the subway, who is a Christian, planting churches in New York.   I see these in my Facebook Feed, anyone can subscribe, which means anyone can comment. And people are mean, and hateful and tell you that your trumpet is useless and your vessel is ugly and your torch isn’t Scentsy so it’s not good enough.  Boldly she proclaimed the Gospel, and then said, “Feel free to share it. I won’t be reading the comment section.”

So let’s do that.

Let’s not read the comment section.

Instead, let’s live in obedience, and the safety of God’s gifts to us and his calling to use them accordingly. His gift of humanity, of being real and imperfect, Let’s stand with our different versions of trumpets and should with confidence and peace, because he assures us that it won’t kill us.

Those 300 of Gideon’s men were victorious with what God gave them, because of the faith to do what he instructed them to do. We can, too. They won. We win.

FOR GOD AND FOR TIFFANY

This Time, It’s Different

My house is drenched in Lysol and the scent of every possible Scentsy bar I could find in my drawer. The stomach bug is being passed around in my house like good weed at Woodstock. (Probably bad weed, too). Either way it’s not pretty, or fun. We are just making bets on who is getting it next, who will have it the worse, and who will sleep the longest. Thank goodness we are past the age of, “Mommy, I didn’t make it to the bathroom!”

lysol

I will not let this horrible little prick of a virus stop me from writing. Even if I only get a paragraph or two out of myself between picking up sick kids from school, buying ginger ale, and spraying down every light switch. I am receiving so many stories: heartbreaking, cries from the soul, triumphs of strength. I’ve cried reading every one…EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

I am writing this book…and I’ve started writing books before, but not like this. This time, I swear it’s different. I’m certain you’ve heard that before…I know I’ve told myself that. Oh this job will be different…this boyfriend will be different. But for real this time. It’s like when I married Michael, it was just different–and right. For some reason, this time when I sit to type it just all flows out…and no only does it just flow out of me, it actually might make sense when I’m all done.

If you have “daddy issue” stories, please keep sending them. If you need some questions to help you get started, I have a few. Or if you just want to tell me your story, how you tell stories, I’m listening (and I will then proceed to cry). And if not, pray for me. I believe God will use this thing I’m doing in some small way, to make some huge difference in some jagged corner of this round world.

And just keep doing your thing, loving God and his peeps!

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I NEED YOUR STORY

No reason for me being MIA on my blog, except for my laziness, and internal battles, and pizza eating. I’m working on something very cool, something God put on my heart to write years ago, but for some reason now is when it makes sense.

It’s Big.

So Big.

And so important.

And it is so much of not just my story, but of me.

But it wouldn’t be really me if it didn’t include YOU. People make me who I am. Your lives and struggles challenge me, encourage me and change me.

I want you to be a part of this project.

father daughter

Here is the deal:

If you

1. Grew up a majority of your life without your biological father,

2. would be willing to answer a few questions about your life

3. would be willing to possibly have part or all of your story published as told by me, but would remain completely anonymous —

then send me an email at tiffany@tiffanycrawford.org.

You will be contacted BEFORE using your story in anyway to give full permission.  If at anytime you wish to back out, then I will honor you completely. And any information will be kept completely confidential until we agree that your info can be used (anonymously).

I want to know your story.  I want your voice to be heard. I want the world to be impacted by YOU.

EMAIL ME TODAY. tiffanycrawford.org

and SHARE THIS SO THE WORD CAN GET OUT!

I’m so excited at what God is going to do!

Love God and His Peeps,

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The Harvest IS Plentiful… You Got This!

 

Move God’s love.  You don’t need to fly across the world to make a difference. People right here, in your country, your state, your city, your hood need love and prayer and someone to really see them.

 

Looking forward to to hearing your stories on MONDAY about how God used YOU –yes YOU– to love someone this weekend!

 

Read this fantastic post by a fellow blogger…be inspired! Do something with your life!!!

The Harvest IS Plentiful

 

LG | LP

Tiff

That One Time We Sold EVERYTHING

“I think we should just get rid of it all.”

He looked at me and said, “I was thinking the same thing but was afraid to tell you.”

We were moving back to Texas, and had a house full of “stuff”. A 2800 square foot house full of “stuff”. Toys, clothes, shoes, things to dust. Boxes and boxes of stuff.

And we hauled it all into our front yard, posted the signs and sold it. Well actually, we gave most of it away…and the rest, we might as well have.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Not just because it was me, but because I had to stand along side my kids while they learned the difficult lesson of materialism.

We loved our stuff. We attached ourselves to our stuff. Those are “my” dishes I bought in Mexico. Those are “my” legos. That’s “my” bag. Mine. Mine. Mine.

We kept a few things. I had a few pieces of furniture that have been in the family. I kept our memories, and school stuff from the kids. Those are still piled in my best friend’s garage in Florida. ( and I can’t wait to go back and dig through my boxes and get rid of more).

We came to Texas, all five of us, with just some clothes and shoes(and deodorant).

We call it “being in transition” but really we were technically homeless. So we shacked up with my bro and his fam for a few months until we could figure things out. Michael was waiting for his job transfer to come through from Florida to Texas, and I was figuring out how to organize the four of us in a few rooms, while feeling guilty for kicking my nephews out of their rooms.

We finally moved into our own space with still nothing but our clothes. We didn’t have a huge hunk of cash, so we financed mattresses, a fridge and a couch and dining room table (which we are still paying on a year later…smack me in the face).

My room has a bed. Yes just a mattress on metal slates. I have a broken tower fan in the corner by my side of the bed, just for the noise–it doesn’t stand on it’s own, it just leans in the corner.

We have the minimal of everything. And have now for a year.

And it’s absolutely freeing and amazing, and I love it!

Well, sometimes….

Sometimes I get caught up in the materialism of the city I live in, because believe it or not San Antonio, Texas is a town that likes stuff, likes to buy stuff, and wear new stuff, and spend a lot of money on stuff.

But most of the time I stay pretty grounded, because none of the “stuff” matters.

That one time we sold all of our stuff changed me forever. Not just on what I should own, or what I buy for my kids. No just about living minimally (Because ladies if you have to clean all the time, you need to get rid of it!) But about so many other things in the world.

I find myself sometimes sickened by the materialism in America. Not just because other countries are in poverty or need. Not because I’m on some high-horse, filled with pride about being able to simplify.

The reason I get sickened is this — people don’t even see what materialism, and wanting stuff, and taking things for granted is doing to them. People don’t see how it completely blocks a flow of the Holy Spirit into their lives. People fight for the wrong things, and work for stuff that doesn’t matter. People ROB THEMSELVES of joy and peace and love because of their Americanized perspectives.

I know, I know. Not you.

It’s just me.

This has been my soapbox lately. This idea of wastefulness and taking things for granted. This soapbox standings is probably why I got in a few heated discussions over the Ice Bucket Challenge for ALS awareness and fundraising.

Maybe it will pass, this feeling of being disgusted by our world’s selfishness and willingness to just accept things as they are.

But I hope it doesn’t.