Falling Down.

                  “He has chosen not to heal me- He has chosen to hold me” 

                                           Joni Earekson Tada

I still recall vividly the snow falling, hauntingly, upon my face as the firemen and EMT crew worked collectively to carry me up the side of the ravine.  Strapped to a backboard I could only look up into the silent descending snow; each individual journey of ice seemed so methodical within the chaos, thousands of flakes, dropping quietly in unison, brightly defined by the flood lights set up to locate the crumpled vehicle and cold teenagers in the darkness below. As we surpassed the ledge of the mouth that had swallowed up my security, the world turned the sound back on. The sirens, flashes and shouts all surging in, clamoring for attention, the ambulance racing against my pulse, an oxygen mask catching my breath for me, and of only two things was I certain; I had fallen, and I couldn’t feel my legs.  

It’s a simple road home from Tennessee; 40 East turns in to 81 North/ follow that until 322 East on your right, which takes you to Route 11, the main road of a town named after one Daniel Montgomery. A town with parts half asleep, and parts waking new: a place where you can sit on the hot pavement of Mill Street between the post office and town pharmacy and watch fireworks illuminate the Susquehanna River. It’s 604 miles from Neyland Stadium all the way through Bristol, past Hungry Mother State Park, cutting between the stunning Virginia ridges and farms, running alongside the convocation center of James Madison University and the white stone replica of The Statue of Liberty outside the waters of The Keystone Capitol. 10 hours, 5 states and that hallowed threshold called, The Mason Dixon Line.  Separating the lanes of Interstate 81 are generally wide patches of grass, with occasionally clusters of vibrant wildflowers casting a harsh contrast against the dark weary pavement rivers on either side. Yet a few mile markers before Winchester, Virginia; these highway lawns begin to stretch and gape and yawn; and the grass islands become grass canyons; too deep to see the depths from the road above. Sometimes even roads and rails slide underneath this steading churning chute between The North and The South.

I remember the sensation I felt as the vehicle thudded through the guardrail of one of these particular ravines, and argued angrily against gravity. Asleep in the backseat, knees curled up to my chest; I felt my legs slide dramatically downward and my body lift suddenly. Then, my thin airborne frame violently slammed against the right door and handle, pushing out a scream of agony I can still hear to this day.My name was shouted: Sarah. Voices thick with fear, saying my name reverently wrapped with desperate prayers. My chest was instantaneously pulled and then twisted around, my head cracking against the left window as my arms reached out anxiously for an anchor to keep me in. March 16^th, 2007, four days shy of two decades old and I was a marionette, suspended and without control, shoved against matter, momentum blocked by mass.

An eternity passed. The vehicle stopped. 

I leaned my forehead against the seat in front of me; 

salt and fear mingling in the tears on my trembling lips,  

my back wildly gnashing its teeth,

and my legs

numb from 

the hips

down.

Until today I have never spoken or written publicly about the accident, though injuries remain and the pain reminds. Writing of it now offers me a release of tension, flexing an atrophied muscle to knead out the moments that sometimes find me inside nightmares or backseats. After stretching, and icepacks and gifted chiropractors have alleviated all that they can, the only therapy left me, are words. Within writing, I always find what I want to say, between the apostrophes and alliterations and allusions there’s always a point; my Fathers grace. God has been gracious and of two things I am certain; I am so thankful that I am alive, and I am so thankful to walk. I’ve never presumed I had a right to include the accident or pain in the pages or speeches of my story, largely due to the unique perspective my job has given me. A job I’ve held since late in the same year of the accident, it has put me on the sidelines of incredible individuals and sweet children who will spend the majority of their lives bed and wheelchair bound.  How dare I grumble at the aches when before me are others aching at a far greater level... I know sincerely that I very well could have been a young woman that people talked around, and not to, someone who required 24/7 nursing assistance or a machine to breathe. The Lord sweetly took away a voice that may have complained incessantly about a fire that still laces down my neck and spine, by giving me eyes to see the raw pain in the rest of humanity and the resilience with which they thrust their faces into the ash. Women like Joni Ereakson Tada and Robin Roberts. Men like the father and son of “Team Hoyt “, Kyle Maynard and Christopher Reeves. There are literally thousands if not millions of individuals with disabilities and difficulties far outweighing the scope of any physical or emotional pain I have ever known. I regained complete feeling in my legs, I didn’t have to learn to walk again, and I spent perhaps not even a total of 4 days in a wheelchair, Joni Ereakson Tada has spent, to date; 16,790. And yet she has said “This paralysis is my greatest mercy”. Her faith is undeniable, her joy in the Savior unrelenting. In comparison, I willingly dilute my own experience to simple discomfort, and what is discomfort if not something to be grateful for? A throbbing reminder that I am not of this world, a pulsing affirmation that strips me of any pride that would tell me my own physical strength allows me to rise up against challenges. No, it is the strength of Jehovah Rophe, The God who Heals. It is the sustaining power of a Father who concerns Himself more with the health of my soul, than the shell that carries it.

Among the goals I can only hope this shell can breathe into its' soul; are to hike the Milford Track in New Zealand, and find a cup of coffee while trekking through the Swiss Alps. Then there’s the most formidable of my mountain destinations; Mt. Kilimanjaro, the highest point in Africa and the highest freestanding mountain in the world. I know it will be difficult, I know it will be incredibly painful, but if Kyle Maynard; a congenital amputee can find it within his will power to summit that peak, then so can I. Every time I move forward I have something to be thankful for, every time my brain communicates to the rest of me and I respond; I have a gift that so many others do not. I am such a fortunate young women, and even you, reading these words; you’re reading, you’re doing something that 785 million adults in the world; can. not. do. I don’t have the solutions or the answers for why they can't or how they'll be able to, or why bad things happen to good people, why some people are born into certain cultures or classes; why the medicine stops working or the procedures come too late. I can’t provide an articulate sentence that will alleviate the pressures of this fallen and broken world. What I do know and believe and trust, is that God is good and Jesus heals. Even if the healing does not occur in our physical bodies; Jesus, through His own pain and suffering, through the agony of the cross, through His nail scarred hands; He healed the innermost places of sinful souls, bound up the brokenhearted, sought out and redeemed the lost and made a way of forgiveness for all mankind. Though many walk through mountains of suffering, and there are those who fall beneath the weight of their struggles; there is One who calls us to raise our eyes to heaven, to look up and see the sovereign hand of a merciful God reaching out, as a Father unto His child. I reach back out to Him, like the women in the Gospels, who knows if she but touches the garment of Jesus’ robes; she will be healed. I  reach out, and I am renewed. I climb the mountains, and at the summit views; I understand the rocks I stumbled upon and the falls I took, all the beauty and all the injuries that mapped out a journey for my good, and for Gods glory.

                                http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czXTkNyzF98

 I’ve included the ESPN video link that shares Kyles incredible life story and his hike to the mountain top of Kilimanjaro. I invite and recommend that you watch this moving and inspiring climb to the top.

Breathing In.

When going to write I feel very much like an architect walking up to her drafting table, rolling out the blank parchment; formulating a blueprint that will then culminate into a structure. From vision to form. Idea to function. Dream to visible beauty.  What drives me to my draft is the idea, a desire to lay lines on a page that will become a structure of thought, a completed piece of artwork. What can stay the process and stop construction is when I “lose the fish”. What I mean by fish is, this silver piece of life; yeast that holds within it the sustenance and growth of an entire litany of words and worlds. I’ll be ensconced with my daily routines when the “voice”, or the perfect sentence or flood of descriptors will flash through my mind the way the sun reflects off the fish in Lake Loudon when Valerie and I throw our lines off the dock while the heat throws itself around our necks. If I don’t write it down on a napkin or squish my own ink around the lining of a book page- I let it slip right on through and the words are never written, the image never found again and the house is never built. Very much like that time you didn’t say what you needed to say and can’t find the words to say it again. For instance, My Best Friends Wedding; Julia Roberts is about to tell Dermot Melroney how she truly feels and you can tell he’s anticipating the truth but she hesitates, and they slide under the bridge and the moment is gone entirely; it fell into the water, and fell away. Or it’s like that time, when looking back you realize you shouldn’t have said anything at all, but you did, and you lost the beauty of the silence, and it can’t be recreated or reclaimed. Now clearly I lose the fish a lot judging from the date of my last blog post and the fact that I’m racing towards 30 and haven't crossed “Become a NY Times Best Selling Author” off my Bucket List. Yet sometimes I am successful in the catching the fish- but then, I throw it back. I have a tendency to start projects and if within the first two pages I haven’t created The Taj Mahal I lose interest and send the fish into the “Documents” abyss, a pool teeming with cleverly titled ideas on white screens that have 4,000 words, and nothing more. It’s almost as if I want every sentence to have the same effect of; “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” When it doesn’t, I release it. Though I was kindly reminded that A Tale of Two Cities is one of the best English works of the 19^th century, if not history. But have you ever known me NOT to have lofty aspirations?! In all seriousness, it’s a challenge I need to overcome if I ever want to sincerely see my words bound up and built up; given a spine and a life. I need to start laying foundation upon foundation if I ever want to build my castle in the sky. It means writing sprints to prepare for the marathons, catching little blue gills before heading off to spear the white whale. It means writing about the every day, ordinary pieces of life. It means capturing Gods provision and love for me inside the sticky fingers of my nephew or the flowerpots overturned by bladder challenged puppies. It means putting my poetry down line at a time, because even “Midway upon the journey of our life” had to be written before the author finished at “The Love that moves the sun and stars.”

Now, I could and would never presume to possess the prowess of Dickens and Dante, and I am fair content to simply be a reader of words and sit quietly at the hearth of giants; but it seems that even to withhold even the simplest, haphazard of prose would be unsettling. There’s almost a strain of anxiety that’s laced within the locking up of words or an artist ceasing to paint. So write I will; of sunsets that slice behind the Northern mountains and moons that reflect off of arctic cold lakes and a niece with eyes brown as coffee beans and taking sips of coffee when it’s already turned ice cold, or getting the worlds worst haircut a day before the worlds best date. It means painting and sketching and framing the simple musings of what might have been, what is, and what will be. 

Over the past year God has been teaching me to trust Him with the “what will be”- when I wandered in the desert places He was gracious to send manna. When I searched for the ram in the thicket He was clear to reveal that it always was, and always has been His Son.  In this past year He has knocked through walls in my heart; implemented more of His lines and functions; bringing His vision into form and crafting more of the women He’s designed. He has asked for sacrifice, He’s called me to speak the words He’s given. He’s made dreams come true and altered destination courses. He’s taken away and He has given. Recently He’s gifted me with the wonderful opportunity to work for my company remotely- I absolutely love my new job and I am so thankful and excited for all that this team will develop and change. The fact that it allows me to spend the most time I’ve spent with my older sister in the past 5 years makes me overwhelmingly lucky. Not to mention that closing down the laptop and picking up a niece or nephew is a treasure. Even when I don’t understand exactly what Eva means when she yells at the remote while we’re watching Cinderella or Liam flips himself over in the midst of changing an intensely saturated diaper, spreading out its warm contents with splendid flair. There’s something I observed spending time with my niece and nephew. I noticed that it’s not the tears of the child that’s so bad as much as the pause right before the cry; the quiet before the squall. When their expression is altered to one of betrayal, color floods their cheeks and they begin to pull in all of their breath to let out a cry. It’s the anticipation of the wailing, and the understanding that I caused their distress that’s more upsetting to me. More often than not they’re crying over something you did or didn’t to them that they don’t understand…and they definitely don’t see that it was for their good. Eva’s indignation that I would dare pull her away from the porch ledge overshadows the reality that the barrier had fallen down and needed pushed back up. My intense love and care for her prevents me from giving her what she wants, in order to save her from falling down 18 white wooden steps. I pondered this as Eva curled back up into the nape of my neck- when there is an ache I don’t understand do I pull in my breath to let out a whimper? or to pray?  Does my face reflect betrayal when it should project trust? Is my reactive moment to collect all my misgivings and expel them in anxious pleas….or do I pause in wonder at sovereignty…..

I reached out and placed my finger on the pulse of the moment; finding in it the design of a Creator and words from a holy Carpenter saying “if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him.”

 The Scripture presses in, leaving the yoke a little lighter; “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?  Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

Here was a reminder of a Father who knows exactly why the foundation is poured a certain way, because He is building something to behold, a vision that is beautiful and good. Here lay affirmation that I can live each day holding on to the words that were written for sustenance, bread kneaded with yeast and promise, a daily nourishment; “And we know that all things work together for good for those who love Him….”

I inhale.

Worked together.

I exhale.

For my good.

There may be many moments of weeping in my life- and certainly, in a world and society marked with tragedy; with bombings and protests and murder and war. When mothers weep for starving children, sisters breathe off of machines and young widows stand as a soul silhouette aching at the loss of her other half- I know there will be moments of justifiable grief and disappointment over unanswered yearnings. Yet as He is here in simplicity, will He be there in complexity. As He reigns in the rejoicing so will He draw near to us in the groaning. When we find ourselves looking up at the open skies or cathedral ceilings wondering what we will have; the merciful answer we find in the Voice older than time itself rings out; “you will have Me.” When I pass over the waters of what I don’t understand, might I be given the strength to draw in my breath and from my depths, whisper a prayer of faith. To hold on to the Savior and with my voice emanate those precious words; “When peace like a river attendeth my way- when sorrows like sea billows roll- Whatever my lot, God has taught me to say; it is well. It is well with my soul."

For Such A Time...

Heather French Henry sat directly to my right, our knees almost touching; the way schoolgirl friends sit and share secrets together on the school bus. The murmur of the room was very much like that of students cajoling with one another on the first day back from summer vacation, friends who haven’t seen friends since this adventure or that mishap and retell the tales each longs to hear of the other. These here, in the Miss America Suite, are adventurers and warriors dismissing distances and reuniting with their sisters; all beneath the glamorous lights that have bonded them together since 1921. They speak of the future and of their history, of how the Miss America crown has evolved and changed from the Lady Liberty type headdress to the glittering icon I was able to wear on my very head. I was still, a silent observer among the legends, drinking in the experience like a beautifully aged glass of Cabernet, breathing in the moments slowly in hopes that it might never pass away.  Lee Meriwether stood to my immediate right, a glass of wine in hand, exuding elegance in her bare feet, speaking of her Habitat for Humanity endeavor earlier that day. Jackie Meyer worked diligently in the windowsill overlooking Las Vegas Blvd. compiling the paperwork for this years Quality of Life recipients. She celebrated her 50^th anniversary of being Miss America that week, and shared on stage her powerful life story of teaching herself to speak again after a devastating stroke; letters becoming words and words into sentences again. All week long I was given moments of interaction with these Miss Americas; Lauren Nelson and Jennifer Berry hugged me as though I was one of their own, and though I held my composure when I met Heather Whitestone, the only Miss America who is Deaf, upon exiting the Miss America suite I cried tears of joy and admiration. During the Miss America Luncheon I was seated next to the inspiring Donna Axum Whitworth and we discussed her work with The Womens Auxiliary of Texas, and as the Miss Americas were introduced, they highlighted one sisters triumph that year: defeating brain cancer.  Yes, once Miss America, always Miss America. These women do not relinquish the strength that brought them to the crown once they place it on another’s head. These women continue life long legacies of changing the world, and overcoming obstacles. They singularly represent, in their daily lives, a collective commitment to perseverance, strength, “world peace”; and undying and unwavering support of scholarship, style, success, and service. The four points of the crown are more the beating of their very hearts than the delicate Miss America pin worn directly above it.

My temperament is disquieted to know that some would see a woman wearing a crown or hear the title of beauty queen and instantly resign and dilute her to their own understanding; found in poorly given stage answers, scandalous controversies and the go-go juice of Honey Boo Boo. Not to dismiss the existence of the latter, for it is an apparent reality, but to declare that to be a woman who truly represents what Miss America is all about, is to promote awareness for Autism, Alzheimers, Heart Disease and Childhood Cancer. It means packing 45,000 backpacks to do your part in ending childhood hunger or creating an animal program for special needs children and wounded veterans. It means taking your glittering sparkling crown off of your own head and placing it on the bald head of a little girl; her body riddled by chemo treatments but her heart now elated by how you have made her feel beautiful, maybe even invincible. Our current Miss America, Mallory Hagan is herself a champion for the disavowed, broken and abused in her cause to End Child Sexual Abuse, on top of which she is the Ambassador of the Childrens Miracle Network, she promotes women involvement in STEM programs and represents Joseph Ribkhoff and Artistry Beauty.

Educated.
Calculated.
Emboldened.
Compassionate. 

Such are the descriptors of America’s queens.

For a brief moment in my timeline, in one of the most precious adventures of my lifetime; The Miss America Organization gave me the incredible honor of feeling exactly like I had become Americas queen. I presented at The Neiman Marcus Luncheon to Miss Americas and members of the Board of Directors, and again on Thursday evening I spoke on the Miss America stage in the Planet Hollywood Resort and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. When I concluded my words, the audience rose to their feet. I was awestruck, starstruck, shocked, and humbled. As tradition goes, you only stand, for Miss America herself. Joy flooded me, gratitude overwhelmed me- What could I do? But say an inaudible thank you to the masses- raise my hand in love into the lights.

Afterwards pockets of people would tell me that the very first to leave their seat, was Katie Stam Irk, seated in front at the celebrity judges table. An honor given by the honored. I watched Katie Stam sing Via Del A Rosa and win Miss America 2009 sitting in my living room, by myself, cheering for her as loud as I could for no one to hear. And here she, a woman I so admired for so long for her grace and faith, had cheered for me. What kindness of the Lord to show me such favor! I returned to my seat, breathless and slightly stunned, I looked about the audience around me, thinking…there wasn’t a single father there who wouldn’t have given everything to make their daughters dream come true, to become Miss America, and my Father did that for me, in His own way and His own timing, for His own glory. He said, yes My princess, I will fulfill the desires of your heart, and you will bring honor to My name.

If you stripped my Las Vegas experience of everything; the beautiful Bellagio, the candlelit dinner at Top of The World, if you had to take away breakfast in the Paris Casino and the dresses and the royal treatment, the little girls asking for photographs and autographs, the Directors of this and that asking me to speak and speak again; if you took it all away except one moment, I would still be as overjoyed and enamored and thankful for this experience.  This one moment occurred during my Thursday Night speech, well aware of all that was happening outside of the confines of our stadium of dream makers and dream believers, one of my lines in my speech was as follows:

“And all of those tomorrows have led me to right here, and right now. Where I will testify that I would not be the women standing before you tonight, if not for the Gospel and the grace of Jesus Christ.”

The crowd erupted in cheers.

I was startled for a moment, it was a reaction I hadn’t expected or planned for in my calculated pauses of speech practice. But oh, what a reaction to receive! YES! My heart thought! Yes! This is why I came- this is what I stand for and why I have been given something to say- Thank Him for what He has done! Honor Him with thunderous applause. I am so humbled, thankful and in awe that God would take a broken vessel and redeem her, for such a time as this; that in the heart of “Sin City”; the name of Christ would be praised.

I rested my head against the window as my limo headed to the airport at the end of my adventure, weaving through the streets where vagabonds and kings nightly meet, where people walk till the morning gold spills about their feet. “Are you Miss USA or something?” my driver asks through the open windowed partition pulling me out of my quiet thoughts “No no I’m just a regular girl” I replied. “Well okay, then why all this?” he motions his hand around the large vehicle. I explain to him how the Miss America Organization provided this amazing experience for me as their guest and how I was able to speak and share my faith on their stage. “Your faith?…what’s your faith?” he asked.

I moved forward to the front of the seats to be closer.

Because, I have something to say about faith, and why was I sent, if not for a moment such, as this.

First and Foremost

 I stood in the narrow filthy bathroom hardly large enough for me to stretch my arms from wall to wall, the floor encumbered with laundry, old newspapers and the faintest scent of cat urine. A mother’s shouts echoed below my feet, a stepfather’s cigarette smoke drifted through the open window. I stared into the faded and cracked mirror above the sunken peach colored sink; two of the florescent bulbs had burnt out so only one weak yellow light cast any ability for me to see my wispy reflection. I rolled my tiny shoulders back, my collarbone prominent in my thin disposition, I grasped a hairbrush in my hand; and that is where I would practice on more than one occasion, my future Oscar acceptance speech. Inside the dreams of my young mind, my surroundings faded away; indeed they melted into the shimmering applause of the most prominent thespians as I graciously thanked The Academy. Perhaps in Wednesday’s speech I would be sharing the stage with Julia Roberts, maybe on Saturday; after rushing through my lunch at the soup kitchen in the church with white columns, I’d be holding hands in anticipation with the likes of Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly. I lived inside my mind a lot for a child, fabricating stories and dreams that seemed more beautiful to me than the truth. Yet always, was there a truth inside the fairytale. A truth that made my heart flutter with expectation, a beating belief that I was meant for more. That I could be brave enough to dare to think I could make something of myself despite societies expectations of a girl like me. And always was there a truth in that speech fashioned long ago by a grinning youth in valiant defiance. The first words I always spoke and the only words I could recount to you today were as follows:

“I would like to thank, first and foremost my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ without whom this would not have been possible”

Always.

And now, years from then and a week from today; I will board a plane for Las Vegas, and be escorted to Planet Hollywood. A prominent makeup artist will spin me in a chair to face a clean glass mirror framing the face of a 25 year old woman polished and coiffed in a sparkling emerald dress. I will stand beneath hundreds of bright lights, and deliver a speech to thousands of guests at The 2013 Miss America Pageant, including Olympic Gold Medalist McKayla Maroney and legendary journalist Mary Hart. I will not be receiving the crown of Miss America, but I will be sharing with everyone the journey of how I came to stand upon that stage and how the crown of salvation has been given to me through the gospel and the grace of Jesus Christ. And as I marvel at how my Father has brought this dream of "standing on the Miss America stage" to fruition in a tremendously different way than I ever could have imagined; the truth remains the same.

“I would like to thank first and foremost my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ without whom this would not have been possible.”

Who would I be without Christ? Absolutely nothing.  My story does not start in the grit of child's determination, it begins at the Cross; the power of my story is not found in a woman’s strength, but on Calvary. There would be no woman of perseverance if there was no Savior of peace. This opportunity to speak is one of the greatest gifts and opportunities I have been given in my life thus far; and my aim is not to craft words that glorify myself, my intentions are not to place my name in the starring role of a rags to riches story. I am speaking the words of His story, and how my Jesus redeems lives, hearts and futures with His grace, His love and His providence. I rejoice that I am not the leading lady, I am proud to be a mere extra, part of the crowd of faces, and collection of stories that enhance the One at the center of it all. My God. And it is He who is worthy of thundering applause.

My speech length is 4 minutes and 30 seconds; a mere 270 seconds to capture a quarter of a century of brokenness, redemption, Gods love, and motivational mantras. Therefore I know the music will sound long before I will have been given the chance to adequately thank all of those who played a role in this amazing moving picture. So here, I will try to express what my speech of gratitude would sound like if I had all the time I needed to say what needs to be said. Yet, here too, will I forget some name and someone just like those who are rushed off by a symphony’s start and for that I apologize in advance and urge you to know my heart swells at what all of you have done for me. And again another disclaimer, this is not even an exhaustive list of all who have touched every aspect of my life in a special way and poured their heart into my own, for that would be hundreds of pages long; so here, you will find those I feel necessary to thank for their role in this scene, my moment on The Miss America stage.

“I would like to first and foremost thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, without whom this would not have been possible." I would like to thank my mother, who despite it all, never once told me I could not become anything I wanted to. To my older sister; you were my shield and defense and now you are my best friend, an amazing mother of two and more to come, and I love you. To my brother Samuel, you are a gift to me, you have taught me patience and sacrifice and more country music lyrics and sports stats I could ever hope to need. I will love you more than you will ever know for the rest of your life. To my adopted Mom and Dad and brother and sister, you are the arms I reach for and the lifeline I am anchored by, thank you for rejoicing in the dreams of the dreamer. An enormous thank you to Leslie and Andy Nack, Stacy and Scott Ruggles, The Bethel Bible Village Community,The Schollaerts, The Koboldts, Andrew McDonald and others; I see your faces when I look back over my journey with Sam, our “Buddy”. God assured me I would never walk alone, and then you showed up. To Jimmy Exum, Jane Alderson, Paige Burcham Carlton and the entirety of The Miss Tennessee Scholarship Program, I am grateful for every single pageant I pursued within this system, I hold on to the treasured bonds I have formed with every single person involved, I am overwhelmed by your faith in me and I will forever cherish the family I have in “Team Tennessee”.  Thank you to my pageant sisters in Christ and cheerleaders; Ashley Cole, Kaley Schwab, Wendy King, Kendall Shulz, and Chandler Lawson, and it’s here where I know I will leave out many names of gracious fans, supporters, encourager's and sister queens. Know I love you and I have felt your love for me. A special thank you to Chelsea Jensen Koerten who followed Gods lead to tell a story and shine a light on Him. To my beloved friends; the ones who have been with me since 6^th grade, or have become like sisters to me in the short time of knowing you; the girls who prayed for me, believed in me, fasted for me, the ones who let me raid their closets, came to my luncheons or my competitions, made sparkly banners and always encouraged me to choose the brussels sprouts; you are all princesses to me and I have found favor among women to be blessed by your lives. Thank you to Sam Haskell, who heard me speak once and enabled me to speak again. Thank you to Art McMaster, Marc Angeli, Laura Gallagher and the entirety of the Miss America Organization for graciously hosting me on that stage and letting me share my heart in my very own Miss America moment. Thank you grace, Thank you life, Thank you Christ."

Cue the music.

Wave like a princess.

Give glory and honor to God.

THE END.

Sarah

And So We Meet Again...

I am floored that it has actually been over a year since my last post! Which echoes well with my mothers sentiment; "you are far too distracted by so many things to just simply be a writer..." Though that very well could be my writers interpretation, when what she really said was "Sarah you are way too ADD to quit your job and just write your book..." No matter how Robin said it, she is quite correct and I am so excited about all my lovely distractions and can only hope they aid in the completion of all my books! I have actually been writing elsewhere. In November of 2011 I had the privilege of becoming a contributing author for WOGmagazine.com! I've included links to some of my very favorite articles below and am looking forward to sharing with all of you soon my newest article: The Sovereignty of LUCK!

My article on CAMBODIA

My article on Children with Special Needs

My article on My Testimony

I am so grateful to my editor Trillia Newbell for her continued faith in me and for the opportunity to be a part of such an exciting online publication, now well into our second year! I will continue to write for WOG as long as I am welcome to do so, and will also be writing on this blog more as well. Though in fair warning I will abandon it yet again upon the launch of my official .com website! Yes folks, that's happening and you will love the new site even more than this blog. 

My first official Surrendered Crown post of 2013 coming soon! 

In Him

S.

Band of Brothers

A post on the 3 young men the Lord has placed in my life as brother; and the 3 very different ways He did so.

On Friday my younger brother (I am forbidden from calling him my “little” brother) will get on a plane for the very first time, and I will experience heart palpitations and pace back and forth until he’s in New York safe and sound. I will have him call me the second he lands, and yes I have called US Airways and arranged for someone to escort him from gate to gate on each flight. I can’t help it, my entire life I’ve felt the need to protect Samuel; ever since I held this mammoth 10lb 8 ounce baby that took up almost the entirety of my 4 year old self, since that moment he’s always been my Buddy. Maybe I just knew that’s what sisters were supposed to do for their younger siblings; my older sister had always protected me so there was no hesitation that this was what I was to do as well. Yet, I was never the cool older sister; I was the constant nagging voice; "Sam do your homework, Sam tie your shoes, Sam don’t talk with your mouth open, Sam don’t say aint. "(He hates that one.) I don’t know if he ever saw through the layers and realized that I was hard on him because I loved him, and I don’t know if he ever will. I can only hope the times when Sam and I would play basketball or throw a football at the park spoke louder to him than all the motherly requests I gave him. There were times when I would physically put myself between him and whatever struggle the world had given to us to take, and then there came a time when our relationship would be altered and I would literally be asked to guard over him. I remember my prayers so vividly from that time in my life; I asked the Lord to remember His promises to His children and to not forget Samuel. I would do whatever my Father asked of me, it didn’t matter. And as it is with our Heavenly Father; He did not leave, He did not forsake. God transformed my heart and placed inside of it a love for someone greater than my own life, God changed my dreams filled with successes and changing the world, to dreaming of a place of refuge for my baby brother and having his world forever changed. God then put people in my life to walk that road with me; I never walked alone, and I can never pour out enough gratitude to the people that came alongside me and helped me to bear my burden of grace. On Saturday, Sam the Man; a good bit over 6 feet these days, will turn 20 years old, and my prayer for him is this. "Dear Father I thank you for what you have done in his life, and how you have displayed your grace. I praise you for the people who genuinely care for him and are invested in his future. I pray for his future, that he would be given a drive and discipline to succeed at whatever You call him to do. I pray that you would utilize his intellect and love for reading and sports. Just as Hannah in the Bible, I give Samuel up to you. I surrender my worry and my anxiety and my fears for Him to you and will trust that you will continue to move mountains for your son. Amen."

Up in Pennsylvania there is a young man that I knew long before the Lord would graft him in to my heart as brother. I remember when Nevin and Robin Gorki decided I was finally old enough to babysit their children, I was so excited, they were such good kids at church and I was drawn to their parents and looked up to them in their walk of faith. Jared, their youngest, was always such a great kid. He said please when he asked for more macaroni and cheese, was always a joy to draw treasure maps with and play hide and seek, karaoke, and HORSE on long hot summer days. As I grew older, Robin and I got closer; to this day I still curl up on the stool over the kitchen island and pour out my heart to her. So, when my home no longer became my home, it was the Gorkis who opened up their doors to me. I already had a fierce love for their family and now by Gods grace I was a part of it. I’ll never forget when Kylie, their oldest, introduced me to some of her friends as her older sister and I can't tell you how much it means to me to see a photo of me on the wall. Jared and I have a sweet relationship, see we play checkers and I let him win every time......actually, truth is I’m terrible at checkers and no matter how much I practice or how many trick plays I memorize off my I-phone; it’s Jared who wins. Hands down. He even HELPS me and I lose. Whenever I call him he always asks me if I'm ready to come home and lose. I try to leave a letter on the table every time I leave home, I sign it; “All my love, forever and always” and that’s true, I will always love all of them with all my heart; Kylie will always be my sister, Jared will always be my brother. It’s hard to believe that the little boy I watched run up and down the tiny soccer fields is now a tall, kind hearted freshman in high school, and my prayer for him is this. "Dear Father, thank you for the incredible gift  of family you have given me with my Gorki’s, thank you that I have a sweet brother in Jared. I pray that you would bless him these next four years of high school and cultivate his heart for others into the leader of men I know he will be. I pray that you would give opportunity for him to share your love and gospel and he would continue to grow in wisdom and stature. Amen"

 

When I was 17, I had a paternity test that ruled out Option Number One of who my father could be. It’s results left me with the information that Option Number Two was indeed my biological father. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find him or not, the story I had been given was that he hadn’t wanted anything to do with me. I questioned why I would want to track that person down and ask them to want me again. I decided I would at least find as much information on him as I could, and like every other high school senior with a question at hand; I turned to Google. I googled his name and a phone number and address came up; I wrote it down on a piece of paper, there in my hands was the X on a treasure map of a lifetime of searching. I didn’t call it for the longest time, to be perfectly honest I was scared a little girl would answer the phone and tell her daddy that there was strange girl on the phone for him.  Yet sometime when the season turned colder and I was at my mothers house by myself, I called the number. I asked for him using his full name, thinking the middle name would indicate I had definitely found the right one. “This is” he said. I asked if he remembered my mother, calling her by the name he would have known her as. His voice slowed, it was full of questions. Finally, very calmly I stated; “ I’m your daughter” The first thing he said to me was; “ You have a brother”. "Yes, yes I do" I said, "his name is Samuel." He then went on to explain that no, he had a son, so I had yet another brother and his name was Leland and was 10 years younger than I was. Since that phone call I have spent time with Leland twice, it’s hard because he lives out West and I live down here in Dixie. Leland is a sweet boy who at 14 is already heads taller than me. He asks grown up questions and seems like a very serious, mature boy. He is my little Leelee and my prayer for him is this. Dear Father, thank you for giving me the courage to pursue a truth that scared me which ended up giving me another little brother to love. I hope that I can be a good example for him and that we can grow up the rest of our lives together even though we are far apart. I pray that you would reveal your truths to him and that you would walk beside him. Bless him Father and remind him that he is never alone. Amen"

I am a very lucky big sister, to have been given three boys who look up to me, whose bonds with me are so very different; our DNA is nothing alike, we share only parts of each others features, yet I love them all with an unconditional compassion and they each bless me with their unique hearts. What a beautiful reminder that though each of us in this world are so very different; we should love one another just the same. The man sitting across from you on the subway or in the next cubicle is your brother. The woman who just lost her husband or is checking out your groceries, she’s your sister. Your fellow man is someone you should love and protect, cherish and encourage. Our Father said to love one another as He has loved us, and has He not welcomed us in to his family, adopted through the precious blood of His Son making us all brothers and sisters in Christ. His prayer for us is this: "I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me. I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one I in them and you in me—so that they may be brought to complete unity. Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me."

S.

Que Sera Sera

My dear friend Annelie lives out in Oregon, today she called and told me about this crazy ”cliff jumping at night under the light of a full moon”; it sounded all together amazing and terrifying. I imagined what it would be like to throw myself off in to darkness, seeing nothing beneath me but the black of night and looking out over the expanse of mountain peaks outlined by moonbeams. It caused me to think about the pieces of light and truth God has been sending out for me, like lamps unto my feet in this sometimes-dark path.

Within all my anxiety, He whispers: TRUST.

Within all my doubts, He whispers: I PROMISE.

Within all my unanswered desires, He whispers: WAIT.

I’ve never been very good at waiting; as a little girl I would stay up reading a book until the sky had turned royal blue and the morning chorus of birds had started it’s melody outside my window; I hadn’t been able to wait until the next evening to finish the story; I wanted to know the ending NOW! I never savored Christmas stockings like my sister either; she would take each item out, that my mother had gleaned over the past year so painstakingly, one by one and praise and thank my mother for her forethought and fortitude. Not me, I poured that sucker out on to the floor, examined the treasures, deemed what I thought was necessary and tore in to the juicy traditional Christmas orange that was always in the toe of the stocking. I’m also a horribly impatient driver, people who know me well have seen the flares of my road rage and know that I will drive in the wrong direction and take the long way round if only to avoid waiting in traffic. So the Lord must find it deliciously ironic that he led my mother to bestow upon me the name that she has; three of my names are biblical women who the Lord called, to wait.  Yet my name is so much more than ironic, it is deep rooted in the sovereignty of God just like every other portion of this beautiful life I have been served. I have always been aware of the meanings of my names and have tried to live up to the woman it proclaims me to be, but until recently I have overlooked how I could be taught and served by the stories of my namesakes.

Sarah-I was named after Sarah in the Old Testament, Abraham’s barren wife. My mother was very adamant that I instruct people that I was Sarah “ with an H” as opposed to Sara.  She explained the meaning behind how God changed Sarai to Sarah, and how to her, the H signified the breath of God. In Hebrew times someone’s named being changed was also symbolic of a covenant; you see God changed her name when He promised she would bear a son and Abraham would become the Father of Gods chosen people. I find a lot of hope in Sarah; you see she laughed at the Lords promise that she would bear a child, I mean, wouldn't you if you were around 90 years old?! But God responded: “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” So even though she had laughed and doubted, even though she grew impatient and took things in to her own hands and created an “Ishmael” the Bible tells us that God was gracious to her and fulfilled His promise and she had a son, on occasion of which she said: “ God has brought me laughter”. What sweet joy to be had in the fulfilled promises of God.

Elizabeth- Elizabeth means “ consecrated to God”. I am humbled that one of my names would possess such a meaning; to be chosen, to be set apart. Only by Gods grace can I sing praises to my King, only because He has chosen me, adopted me in to His family. My Elizabeth comes from the New Testament.  She and her husband Zacharias were righteous followers of God, but Luke tells us that they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren. Yet in her old age God gave her a baby who would be known as John the Baptist, the voice in the wilderness, proclaiming the Messiah. Elizabeth waited her whole life to feel a life inside of her, the bible says that Zacharias prayer “had been heard”. Upon seeing Mary, who at that point was pregnant with Jesus, the baby inside Elizabeth leapt for joy and Elizabeth identifies Mary as the mother of her Lord.  Elizabeth not only waited for a baby, she waited for the Messiah and God gave her both.

Ruth- The name Ruth was originally intended to be my first name and I was supposed to live out my days known as Ruth Adele Stonier, named after my mother’s dearest cousin and mentor Ruth Adele Link. I wasn’t too young to still posses memories of this Ruth, always sitting with a blanket over her legs; her hands were as soft as butter, with large protruding veins and she only had one eye. I would often stare at the empty socket on her face but would soon be distracted by how she still dressed herself like a proper lady and had a different lapel broach for every occasion. I can see why my mother upon deciding she preferred her daughter to be named Sarah Elizabeth, would not want to risk hurting the feelings of such a remarkable woman and would squeeze on to my birth certificate: Sarah Elizabeth Ruth Adele Stonier. The name Ruth means friend, and is synonymous with mercy and compassion. I treasure the name Ruth because she is in my top five of favorite biblical women. If you haven’t before I urge you to read the book of Ruth in the Old Testament; Ruth, gave up her people and culture after her husband dies to follow the One True God of her mother-in-laws people. She chose to trust and follow God, she waited at the feet of Boaz and she was ushered in to the lineage of Jesus Christ. To me Ruth emulates humility, joy and grace; on Ruth and her circumstances the commentator Matthew Henry writes: “God wisely orders what seem to us small events; and those that appear altogether uncertain, still are directed to serve his own glory, and the good of his people.”

Adele Now, unless there’s an Adele hidden somewhere in the Book Of Chronicles in the many verses of “whom begat who” that I skip over; Adele is not a biblical name. In fact I can only think of two Adele's; Jane Eyre's charge in the classic Charlotte Bronte novel and the incredible singer performing next month in Atlantic City. There are no deep stories of faith for me to derive inspiration from but I can’t very well withhold it from a blog post structured around my name! However the name Adele is worth noting because it also holds a beautiful meaning; noble.  To me, noble has never represented wealth or aristocracy, noble was that rare quality that peered out from the woods like a flash of a cardinals wing in the snow. Noble was something I searched for, like a woman staring out in to the harbor waiting with the wisest discretion for her ship to come in, instead of rolling in the deep.

My names without Stonier, spell out SERA, it wasn’t planned that way but when I was little I recognized my initials in the prefix to another word found in Scripture; Seraphim. The Seraphim's were angels, and I was reading in the book of Isaiah when I was struck by the connection, more powerfully so did I see that the seraphim were singing; “ Holy, Holy, Holy, is the Lord, GOD Almighty; the whole earth is full of His glory”

Wow.

And so, this impatient. anxious. imperfect. heart belongs to a girl whose very name reminds her to wait upon the Lord and to praise His name. On Sunday, we had a wonderful sermon from Psalm 27. Our pastor Bill Kittrell did an incredible job at breaking apart the words of David and reminding us that as we wait upon the Lord, we would see His goodness in the land of the living. We’re all in different seasons of our lives; some are waiting for that proposal and ring, while others have yet to find someone at all. Some are waiting for their child to go through chemotherapy treatments, while others are waiting and hoping and praying for a child to bare. Some are waiting for grades to come through, or a promotion conference call to be had. Some are waiting for prayers to be answered, and some still have to wait to see why the prayer was answered the way it was. Yet, our God gives us so many examples of His faithfulness that we can draw near to Him and not fear that his love may be conditional, not expect to be let down or cast aside. He will not reject or forsake us. While we wait, let us wait in joy. While we trust, let us trust in thankfulness. While we remain confident in His promises, let our lives be known as a song that is filled with proclaiming the holiness and glory of our God.

In Him,

Sarah

The Arc of Triumph in Paris, France