Author Archives: karenkeegan

Codependency and the Relationship Pillow

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, Inner Healing, Journaling, Peace

Journal 2019

I read recently where a therapist placed three pillows on the floor and instructed her two clients to each pick a pillow on which to stand. “Your own pillow represents your soul,” she told them. “It belongs to no one else but you.” Next, she explained the middle pillow. “This one is called Relationship. Each of you may choose to go to the center pillow and discuss what you want out of the relationship, but at no time may you step on another person’s pillow. It is creepy and codependent to try to control somebody else’s soul.”

I started to explain this concept to a client one day when she was struggling to let go of some codependent relationships, but the Lord gave her a different visual. Jesus had been meeting with her in a small cabin (representing her soul) that was decorated exactly as she wanted it with warm cozy colors, a fireplace, and a comfy chair. She had also invited her adult children into her cabin and was not willing to send them out into the cold, even if she herself had to sit on the floor. “I’d do anything for my kids,” she declared.

The problem was that she was running out of food to feed those adults while her own soul was starting to shrivel and starve. Jesus explained to her that her children had their own cabins with plenty of food in them, and she was doing them a disservice by insisting they live with her. “Your cabin is unique to you,” He explained, “and you can’t fully grow into who you were meant to be if you share the space with others.”

“If I let them go,” she wondered, “does that mean I never get to see them again?”

“Oh, no,” Jesus replied. “You can always go visit them on their porch or they can come visit you, but you must not move into each other’s cabins to live.”

As I trace the steps of my own story, I can see how often I allowed others to take up residence in my cabin or on my pillow. Unwise and unhealthy choices stunted both of us. Through my processing, I’ve discovered that the more I keep healthy boundaries, the faster their healing occurs. It’s easy to say I wish I’d known all this at the beginning of my life, but in truth, knowing something and acting on it are two different things. I knew these truths on the left side of my brain, but right-side emotions kept jumping in and taking over. It feels like a long, slow process to get where I am today. Some days I wonder if I’ll ever learn the lessons God is trying to teach me. But as I read back over my journals, I discover that what used to trigger me no longer has power over me.

Living in peace is superior to living in pieces!

Feasting and Fasting

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Peace, Scripture

2009 Journal.

Once more as we stuff the turkey, open the can of cranberry sauce, and bake the pies, I wonder if this Thanksgiving feast is a waste of our money. Could we not choose to eat simply and give that money to the poor? Do I need to feel guilty over our indulgence? Christmas can also be tricky. Should we give all our gifts to charity? Always? No, I don’t think so. Should we spend all on ourselves? Again, no, that wouldn’t be right either. Somewhere there’s a balance.

There is a time and place for feasting as well as fasting. God commanded and scheduled Jewish feast days. In Luke 6, Jesus is caught attending a party, a feast, and His disciples are accused of not fasting like the Pharisees.

When you’re celebrating a wedding, you don’t skimp on the cake and wine. You feast. Later you may need to pull in your belt, but this isn’t the time. As long as the bride and groom are with you, you have a good time. When the groom is gone, the fasting can begin. (From The Message)

We need permission to feast.

We need persistence to fast.

The Banquet

Posted on by under Emotions, God, Quotes

“But I’m not . . . special,” Bailey says. “Not the way they are. I’m not anyone important.” (Erin Morgenstern in The Night Circus)

My mind won’t stay still enough to focus on the Word or prayer this morning. When this happens, writing helps slow my brain. There’s something about the physical act that’s connected to my mental thoughts. Yet even as my hand puts thought to paper, my mind flies in another dimension—a dissociation of sorts. Why does my mind go on tangents, cover the days’ schedule, rehearse conflicts, recall history, and plan for future goals, instead of staying present with the Living Lord Jesus?

I see a Gatekeeper Guardian silhouetted in a doorway with heaven’s brilliant bright light behind her. Why won’t she let me get past her?

“Because your heart is not ready or prepared yet,” I hear her say. Apparently, she can read my mind. (Oh, wait, she is my mind!)

“So how do I get ready?” I ask.

“You just did,” she says, smiling and pointing inside. My eyes try to adjust to the blinding light. I can hear laughter and the clinking of glasses and utensils. It seems there’s a party going on.

“Come on in!” I hear a voice calling out.

I step forward, groping, uncertain. An angel appears by my side, takes my elbow, and guides me to a bench. I find myself seated at a lengthy table and join the revelers. I don’t know who these beings are. Angelic hosts? Parts of my heart? Or those loved ones who have gone before? I can only see the table area directly in front of me.

Suddenly, I see God the Father “up front” wherever we are in this banquet hall. He’s introducing His Son. The hall erupts in cheers and hoots and hollers and wild clapping. I stand to join them and clap politely, but I don’t know yet what we’re celebrating. When the noise subsides, He approaches the podium.

“Thank you all for coming to my banquet,” He begins.

My mind starts to wander as I look around, my eyes adjusting to the light, able now to take in more of the scene. There are rows and rows of these banquet tables, but I still can’t make out the attendees or why we’re here.

And then I spy them—different Parts of my heart are all gathered together for a great feast. I decide I better refocus on Jesus.

“And so in conclusion . . .,” He says.

I’m chagrined. I’ve missed the whole speech!

People start clapping and I do, too, till He descends the platform, takes my hand, and leads me to the front. Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?

“Everyone, thank Grandma today for coming. She’s led you well.” Jesus has a twinkle in His eye. He knows good and well I’m here because of Him. He chose me from the foundation of the world. He wooed me and kept me and pursued me. I wouldn’t be here except for Him.

“Don’t be so modest,” He responds. “I didn’t force you to come. You chose well. You have a hard time accepting praise.”

“Because I don’t deserve it,” I think. I know my heart and its potential for pride and arrogance.

“I want you to see yourself as I see you, Karen. Are you willing to do that? That’s not pride. That’s honesty.”

And so I agree. Of course I agree. How can I oppose God? “Ok, Lord, fire away.”

Canons of confetti pop and spill their contents into the air, and the crowd cheers and roars.

“That’s my girl!” Jesus exclaims. “I love her so much. She doesn’t know how much. I’m so proud of her.”

I’m blushing bright pink. I throw my arms around Him and sob. Why tears? Why now? He may have chosen me, but I chose Him!

I see the scene in Secondhand Lions when the character Walter chooses to leave his irresponsible mom to go live with two eccentric old uncles. He’s found love, acceptance, and stability. There’s no pride in his choice. It’s a response to love.

“You bet I choose Jesus!” I shout. “He loves me! He died for me! Why would I choose the unloving, unfaithful, self-centered, wounded parent (the world, the flesh, and the devil) when I can have the real thing? I’ll choose love every time.”

“Come here, Children!” I cry, and the whole room rushes toward me for an embrace.

“Thank you for choosing Jesus!” they call out. There’s laughter, love, and delight. Dancing breaks out and raucous music surrounds us. Some return to quiet conversation over their wine.

One shy little girl approaches me, and I bend toward her. “Yes, Little One?”

She stretches on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, “I love you.” I’m not sure of her identity, but she’s a pretty little thing, a cutie. And off she skips to play.

I glance over at Jesus.

“Aren’t you glad you came to the party?” He asks.

“Yes!” I shout to the skies. “Yes!” I’m grateful for the invitation. And we join the dancing and the merriment. It’s pure joy.

It’s time for me to start my earth day with its food preparation, exercise, emails, housework, and praying with people, but I have an open door in my heart now where I can see a party going on, and I can join in anytime I want to.

That afternoon when I gave a gift to a friend, she said, “I don’t deserve it.” Ouch! Didn’t I just say that to Jesus?

Schedule Conflicts

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God

Journal 2017

I feel conflicted about my schedule. I have not built in enough margin, enough down time, enough me time. My fault, I know. It feels overwhelming to think about all my relationships, responsibilities, commitments, and projects. There has to be a balance somehow. Life is messy and moves from day to day whether or not I plan or organize or prioritize. And I can make all the plans and goals I like, but they get interrupted on a daily basis.

My heart relaxes with this visual: All the parts of my day and my life are pieces on a spinning pie chart. But if God is in the center, there’s stability and peace.

Hiding Who We Are

Posted on by under Emotions, God, Inner Healing, Motherhood, Peace, Scripture

Journal 2017

In the Good Friday service tonight, I saw a visual of a thin waif. As we partook of the elements of communion, I shared them with her and she revived.

“Who is this, Lord?” I asked.

“She’s the young mom you were, trying to raise your daughters, mistakes and all. You’ve not been kind to that self.”

And as we sang, I helped the waif nail her shame, chains, and guilt, regrets, disappointments and should-haves to the cross, and I forgave her for being “less than.”

Looking back, I wonder how different I would have been as a wife and mom had I known then what I know now. I would have stayed more present, rather than hiding my true self. I kept her safe and hidden for almost 20 years, and another 10 before she fully came back to life.

I can hide parts of my heart from myself or from others or even try to hide them from God. But God knows each part intimately and wants connection with each one.

Check out these verses on hiddenness.

Times are not hidden from the Almighty (Job 24:1 KJV).

Thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom (Psalm 51:6 KJV).

And God who knows the heart . . . (Acts 15:8 ESV).

Reflection of myself, 1978

Memoirs

Posted on by under Journaling

Journal 2017

Every life is both ordinary and extraordinary—it is the respective proportions of those two categories that make life appear interesting or humdrum. (William Boyd, Any Human Heart)

At funerals, we may read four-paragraph summaries of people’s lives. Families and friends may recount a few stories, and that’s the end of the tale. Most people don’t get written up in history books, and the few that do lived extraordinary lives with interesting stories to tell. And even then, one 300-page book hardly does justice to 90 years of daily living.

A story can camp on one picture, teasing out all the minute details, turning over each leaf to examine what’s underneath. Or a story can gallop through facts, summarizing large chunks of time. Ground view or bird’s eye view, the Bible has both. We get details of some individual stories of Jesus’ miracles but only summaries of other ones. Same with the Apostle Paul. We quickly sail with him through a list of cities and then stop still to examine one incident.

A new acquaintance recently asked me that cringing question, “Where are you from?” My answer often depends on how long I want to engage in the conversation. An hour later, after answering her many questions, she exclaimed, “You have to write your story!” I just shook my head. My childhood sounded foreign and exotic to her, but normal to my MK community.

My girls have also asked me to write my story. I’ve written in journals for 50+ years, but that’s not what they’re interested in primarily. They want to know the details of my childhood, before I started recording, but I’m old enough now that the memories are fading. Only a few snapshots remain, some recorded on film. I’m a big-picture kind of person and not into details. If I wrote a memoir, I’d want to focus on the defining moments, incidents, or epiphanies that changed the course of my life—and perhaps that’s what I accomplish with this blog.

A 2023 Update. My Assistant Editor and friend Dan Elyea, who passed away this month, spent years trolling for memories from his parents, his siblings, and his own life and recording them for posterity. It takes time, intentionality, and perseverance. Sorry, girls, but I’m not sure I have the time or interest to follow in his footsteps. I’m too busy living in the moment. Just grab a few copies of Simroots and you’ll find out what life was like for me growing up in a boarding school overseas.

Inconvenienced

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, Inner Healing, Peace

Journal 2017

My mom had just flopped onto the sofa in the living room when I came to the locked screen door near her and demanded to be let in. She told me to go around to the unlocked kitchen door. I refused. I wanted my own way. I persisted until she gave in, too tired to argue with me or to stand her ground.

The moment she gave in, my seven-year-old self felt something shift inside. I had gained a little power—but at the cost of my self-respect and my mother’s disgust. It didn’t feel good even though I’d gained the victory. I guess I felt guilty.

I repent, first, of my stubborn heart and, second, of my insensitivity toward my mother’s weariness. I recognize that my actions were less than stellar, but I want to thank the Lord for putting such a strong spirit inside me. Mom always said I had a stubborn streak, but if that spirit could be channeled right, it would be a good thing. Thanks, Mom, for believing in me.

So, what is this wanting my own way, not wanting to be inconvenienced, to have to walk a few paces to enter another door. Was I lazy? Self-centered? I think at the time it was driven by tiredness. I think. But, of course, that’s no excuse.

Visual: This stubborn part of my heart looks like Gimli in Lord of the Rings: strong, stout, grumbly, gruff, and tough, but determined to finish his quest. Jesus invites him to chat, but Gimli mutters under his breath. He doesn’t care much about leaving the body (the hurting part of my heart) outside with a sprained ankle. But he comes in and plops down on a chair across from Jesus who is lounging by the fire. (Mom is still sitting on the couch, oblivious to the conversation that’s about to commence.)

“Drop the ‘tude!” I want to shout at Gimli. “You have strength already without it.” (I can see the wheels turning inside his head.)

“This is just who I am,” he says. “Get over it.”

Whew! He’s a tough nut to crack, Jesus. Good luck with this one!

Jesus gets up to tend the fire in the fireplace, and somehow this action begins to melt Gimli’s gruff exterior.

“I’m sorry, Jesus. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. I don’t know to be any other way.”

“You’re changing right now . . . “

“Well, yeah, you sorta have that effect on people.”

He smiles. “What’s on your heart, Gimli?”

Gimli looks down toward his chest. He may be a literalist, but he knows what Jesus means.

“I dunno. I just want my own way.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels good. It feels strong. In control.”

“I see.”

“You see what?”

“I see where you’re coming from.”

“You do?”

“Uh huh.”

“Then figure me out!”

“You’re doing fine yourself.”

“Okay, I suspect You’ll ask me next if I’m willing to give up control? And the good feelings . . . “

Jesus nods His head slightly. “Go on.”

“And I need to find a good reason to do that.”

Jesus waits.

“Well, aren’t You supposed to show me something?”

Jesus throws His head back and laughs. He’s enjoying Himself. Apparently He knows that I know that I’m doing it again—maintaining control of the conversation.

“All right, already. I know what I have to do. I’m just not sure if I know how. I trust You. I do know that.”

Chris Tomlin’s song “I lay me down, I’m not my own, I belong to You alone, lay me down . . .” pops into my head.

Comically, this literalist Guardian, who’s as wide as he is tall, climbs out of his chair and lies on his side on the floor.

“You know I’ll have a hard time getting up,” he grumbles.

Again, Jesus laughs out loud. He loves this character.

“Okay, so now what?”

“Now what, what?”

“What do I have to do next?”

“Nothing!”

“What!? I can’t stay like this all day! I’ve got work to do.”

Jesus heads over to the couch, gets a cushion, and places it under Gimli’s head; then He retrieves a blanket and gently drapes it over him. “Rest well, my friend. You’ve earned it.”

In seconds, Gimli is sound asleep, snoring loudly.

Next, Jesus goes to the screen door, unlatches it, picks up the tired and hurting body and carries it into the room. He tends to the ankle first and then invites the body to rest. She knows Jesus will never leave her side.

Gimli opens one eye. “Jesus?”

“She’s okay. Fast asleep on the couch.”

“Okay.” And Gimli drifts back to sleep, dreaming of wars and battles and victories won. But today was his greatest victory of all.

And what of my mom? She’s curled up in her chair, also fast asleep. And through my haze, I can hear Jesus softly humming, “I lay Me down . . .”

Thank You, Lord, for laying Yourself down. You sacrificed Your body, broken and bruised, for me. How can I do any less when You ask me to sacrifice MY body for others who don’t deserve it.

The Sacrifice of Intercession

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Prayer

Journal 2017

In the book Rees Howells-Intercessor, the author Norman P. Grubb says, “This is the law of intercession: that only so far as we have been tested and proved willing to do a thing ourselves can we intercede for others. Christ is our Intercessor because He took the place of each one prayed for” (p. 93).

The thought here is that we cannot intercede for someone unless we are willing to answer the prayer ourselves. Rees prayed that God would spare the life a woman who was dying; but if she died, he would have to be willing to care for her children since the father was out of the picture. When she died, he was prepared to take up the slack, but her sisters stepped in at the last minute. His intercession included being willing to lay down his life for another.

Regarding medicine vs. faith for healing, he was not opposed to medicine and would recommend it. His prayer for healing was usually applied to those for whom medicine had failed—and only after he was SURE that God had told him that the person would be healed. He didn’t pray for it or believe it unless the Lord told him what to pray for.

Always, always do what God says, even when it feels bizarre. He seldom works the same way twice. Only once did the children of Israel march seven times around a city. And when they tried to conquer Ai, they failed because God didn’t tell them to do so.

Rees Howells had a policy of “First need, first claim.” Whenever he had money, he’d give it away to whatever need presented itself to him, believing God would supply his own need when the time came.

The ultimate test came when God asked Rees and his wife to leave their son behind so they could go to Africa to become missionaries. We read this today and shake our heads. Some of the Gowans Home* kids might disagree that the sacrifice was worth it. Some would protest that God wouldn’t ask a person to do that (though He did it Himself when He left His only Son to die on a cross).

I think God calls certain people to an exceptional life of faith. When He has an extraordinary job for them to do, their testing is also extraordinary. God had a special hand on Rees and on George Mueller and today on Angus Buchan (Read the book or see the movie Faith Like Potatoes).

Are we all expected to make sacrifices in our intercessions?

*GH was a home in Canada for missionaries’ children in the 40s and 50s. It was not safe in those days to take children overseas to disease-ridden countries or during wartime, so missionaries left their children behind for four to five years at a time.

Courage and Fear

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, Scripture

Obadiah (not the Minor Prophet) is an Old Testament character who gets overshadowed by the prophet Elijah, King Ahab, and his wicked wife Queen Jezebel.

Obadiah was in charge of Jezebel’s palace and he “greatly feared the Lord” (I Kings 18:3). This intrigues me. How does he maintain his integrity while living in the midst of extreme wickedness? And why does the king retain him in service? Perhaps he is trusted and faithful and humble. Who knows. I think of Joseph and Daniel who were also placed in positions of authority under not-so-nice rulers.

When Jezebel murders all the prophets she can find, Obadiah secretly hides one hundred prophets of the Lord in two caves and feeds them bread and water. Meanwhile, Obadiah knows that King Ahab is furious with Elijah, blaming him for the drought. (Typical to blame someone else for one’s own sin choices.)

One day while Obadiah is walking along a desert road, Elijah suddenly appears next to him and tells Obadiah to inform the king that he (Elijah) is here.

“No way!” says Obadiah. (Apparently, someone had reported to Jezebel about his hidden prophets, and he’s afraid for his life.) The king has been searching the land for Elijah and made the nations swear they had not found him. Obadiah has heard the threats against Elijah, so if he tells Ahab that Elijah is here and Elijah disappears again, it’s off with Obadiah’s head!

Obadiah reiterates that he’s feared the Lord since his youth. He’s obviously on the Lord’s side. But Elijah assures him that he won’t leave, and so Obadiah agrees to deliver the message.

Both Obadiah and Elijah made courageous choices–Obadiah hid true prophets, and Elijah confronted false ones atop Mt. Carmel. Both also experienced fear. Elijah turned and ran for his life when Jezebel threatened him. And both faced their fears in the end and became victorious.

What gives a man courage? What causes him to doubt and fear?

Prayer Shame

Posted on by under Emotions, God, Inner Healing, Peace, Prayer

Journal 2017

I’ve been on a journey all my life to discover the secret of prayer. When I read others’ stories, they don’t match mine. I shift between guilt (not enough) to apathy and forgetfulness, from rote to relationship, from works to worry, from self-condemnation to self-awareness.

I’m reading the biography of Rees Howells who discovered that prayers were best made when they were God-directed. For example: don’t pray for healing unless God directs me to. Yet I do pray for healing of my every ache and pain as well as for everyone in my life who is suffering. But I don’t really expect Him to heal, or I’m so surprised when He does.

Today, Lord, I want to listen, wait, and ask for what is on Your heart. I want to be a prayer warrior.

“Hmmm,” says Jesus. “What does a warrior do?”

Well, he fights—fights for truth, fights against an enemy, defends himself, defends the weak. The weapons of warfare are spiritual, not physical. I know I’m supposed to just stand once I’m fully armed. So I guess the first step is to make sure I’m fully armed. You’re faithful to point out the chinks in my armor. And I know how to stand . . .

“But . . . ?”

But I don’t know how to use words. I don’t know what to say or what to pray for.

“Then why don’t you repeat after me?”

Huh?

“Like when you learned your ABCs or the prayer I gave the disciples or The Lord Rebuke You prayer or . . .”

So it’s that simple? Repeat after You? I can do that. Okay, I’m listening.

“Dear Lord,” He begins.

Wait a minute! You’re sitting right here with me. Why do I need to address You? When I’m talking to my husband, and he’s the only one in the room, I don’t have to say his name to get his attention—unless he’s not listening of course. Do I need to start “Dear Lord” every time?

He laughs. “No, of course not,” He teases. “I was just seeing if you were paying attention.”

Very funny. Ok, try again. I’m listening.

“Hi, Karen.”

Hi, Lord.

I wait. He seems to be thinking. (God has to think? Doesn’t He always know exactly what to say?)

“Okay, repeat after Me:

            I, Karen, do solemnly swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me, God.”

This is not funny! What kind of prayer is that!?

“I like honesty. I want you to tell yourself the truth as well as to Me.”

Okay, I’m all in.

“Good. Now tell Me the truth. What’s in your heart?”

Well . . . I’m worried that . . .

“Choose your words. Take your time—and be honest.”

Okay . . . I’m worried that I’ll be judged for how little I pray.

“You mean little in chronos time?”

I suppose.

“Who’s keeping track?”

I suppose I am, for one.

“And?”

And . . . I feel guilty if I neglect to pray, to ask for favors, to cover people with the prayer of protection, to intercede for their needs.

“Intercede . . . ooooh that’s a big word.”

You’re teasing me. (I’m feeling petulant.)

“What do you want, Karen?”

What do I want? What do I really want? I want a heart that is so connected and in tune with You that conversation (prayer) flows as naturally and comfortably as breathing. I want every thought I think and every breath I take to be in sync with Yours. I want our conversation to feel natural, not formal; intimate, not forced or stilted. When I pray for people, I feel like I’m straining to think up stuff to say, but I’m not always sure what to say or if that’s what their true need is. I also want to know how often I should pray for someone. Expectations are daily, and somehow if I miss a day, I believe it’s my fault if they fail or are vulnerable to Satan’s attacks. How’s that for being honest?

“That’s better. What else?”

There’s more?

“Oh, yes. Dig a little deeper.”

It’s about me, isn’t it? It’s about pride. What if someone should discover what a fraud I am? That I don’t spend x number of hours a day on my knees. Or I can’t say with sincerity, “I prayed for you today.” How would that feel? Shameful? Embarrassing? Guilty? Or, since we’re being honest here, how I look compared to so-and-so. How sick is that?

“Anything else?”

Oh, I think that’s enough shame for the moment.

“Okay, what do you want to do about it?”

Me? I thought it was Your job to lift shame and give me truth and offer something in its place.

“Why should I? I didn’t put it there!”

Then who did? Oops . . . I guess I did. Help me, Lord, please. I want to give it up. I really do. But self-shame and blame is too heavy a brick to lift by myself.

(He hands me a sledgehammer.)

I smash the brick into smaller pieces, small enough for me to carry. What to do with them, though? It seems we’re building a brick wall for some sort of dwelling. I’m not sure I understand the significance yet, but brick now feels useful—like it’s serving a purpose.

Oh! I see it now . . . I think we’re building a house of prayer. Okay . . . but still not sure about this.

“There’s more to come,” He says. “For now, let’s stop and get a bite of lunch.”

Sounds good to me!