The hardness of farming

I don’t know if sheep have a soul, but they do grieve.

This mama delivered a stillborn today.

I didn’t find it until this afternoon.

The mama had perfectly cleaned the baby lamb. 

She stayed with it until I found her. 

Obviously, I couldn’t leave the stillborn in the field, so I scooped it up.

The mama followed me for a moment but then started running around the field looking for her baby, baa-ing constantly. 

She checked all the other lambs. Sniffing. Baa-ing. Move on to the next.

After she made it back and forth a number of times, she stopped searching, but she kept baa-ing. Alone. No lamb returned her call. 

Farming has so many rewards, but sometimes it can be hard. 

Real hard.

(Written by John)

End of 2025

Once upon a time I stayed alive by being the nicest person I could ever be. And by never speaking truth. And by making sure everyone else was happy with me. 

Do everything you can to keep the person happy. And if, despite these efforts, they are unhappy, grovel. Apologize profusely. Self-deprecate. Apologize again. 

If you've known me long enough, I probably have asked you "are you mad at me?" I didn't know why I did this compulsively. But I certainly do now. Because someone not liking me meant I would DIE. Literally. I could not go on living with someone unhappy with me. Your happiness was a prerequisite for my own. 

I've been on a two-year journey to break all aspects of people pleasing -- I will no longer live to please ANYONE but God. 

If you've loved me and want to keep loving me, by all means please do. But I can no longer pretend to be anything other than a daughter of the King. And I must be truthful.

It's terribly scary to let your armor fall off of you and allow yourself to just stand there, exposed. 

I know the cost. The cost is the very thing I have spent my ENTIRE life trying to prevent: someone not liking me, someone misunderstanding me, someone not allowing me to repair if I do make a mistake.

But I am, in the end, God's daughter, John Kitsteiner's wife, and the mother of my four amazing children. That's it. That's all that matters. 

Your armor may be different ... it may not be keeping everyone happy at your own expense like it was for me. But there is a good chance you have armor in place. Removing it will be the single hardest thing you EVER do. Because in order to remove it, you must look all your fears in the face and then give away the thing that has kept you safe your entire life. 

But oh the Jesus I see on this side. I am experiencing HIS LOVE and HIS GRACE in a whole new way. He needs NOTHING from me. I don't have to pray a certain way or in a certain order or with a certain tone. I simply need to love Jesus! That's it!!! 

I truly am seeing the world in a dimension I never knew existed. It's as if by removing my own armor, I can see others and the pain and coping they are living with -- the armor they've been forced to wear. 

And if I love you, I will tell you that. Because to allow someone to sit in their own pain is just cruel. I will speak honestly to you. I had two friends do this with me in the depth of my dysfunction. They sat me down and said HARD HARD things to me. Painful things. But things I needed to hear. (Trust me. Your dysfunction is probably not worse than mine. My counselor told me that mine was pretty legendary. Ha ha ha.)

I cannot be in deep relationship with you if I am editing our relationship. I won't. Because I no longer can live a lie. I will do what Jesus asked by speaking truth. Or I will allow you to move along and not be in relationship with me.  

Did I really just say those words out loud? 

Indeed I did. Still VERY scary. But there is no doubt Jesus has called me to this. Goodness knows I wouldn't have the courage to rewire my brain and break these generational curses on my own ... thank you Jesus for creating our bodies with the capacity for rebirth and regrowth. 

What an awesome God we serve.

I can feel God asking me ...

 ... to be dead to something I've been protecting. 

(taken from Instagram: walkwithme_tanyalee) 

It's more like a knowing that sits in my chest. 

A sense that something I've been guarding, carefully, faithfully, for a long time, can't come with me where He's leading. 

And the hard part is ... what I've been protecting isn't bad. 

It's familiar. It's competent. It kept me safe when I needed it to.

It's the reflex to stay alert. To manage outcomes. To brace before anything has a chance to hurt. 

It's survival. 

And God isn't exposing it to shame me. 

He's exposing it because it's no longer necessary. 

That's what makes this feel so tender.

Because dying to something that once saved you doesn't feel like repentance ... it feels like grief. 

Like standing at the edge of a season and realizing, "I don't get to bring this version of myself with me." 

There's fear in that. There's resistance. 

There's instinct to say, "But this is how I know how to stay okay."

And God keeps answering, gently, "I know. And you don't need it anymore."

This kind of death doesn't happen in one decision.

It happens in moments.

When I choose not to tighten. When I choose not to control.

When I notice the urge to protect myself -- and pause instead. 

It feels like lowering armor in slow motion. Like trusting the ground before I fully trust myself on it. 

I'm learning that God isn't asking me to lose myself. 

He's asking me to let go of the parts of me that were built for danger, so I can live like I'm actually safe. 

And some days, that feels harder than surviving ever did. 

But I can feel it: this death is making room for something truer. 

Something light.

Something that feels more like home. 

Celebration

Hannah’s Genevieve joined my mom (and dad) and her sister Jan (and husband Ed) for a little post-Christmas meal and game of Hotels. Lots of fun!

Gen’s 12th birthday

Genevieve and Hannah spent the night with Bapa and Grama Jan earlier this week for Genevieve’s 12th birthday. These two have been such good friends since they were three years old! My mom also came by to help with the fun!

70 degree day

I continue to heal and trust and learn from Jesus. And beautiful days like today feel even easier than cold days to do that. 

I am learning SOooo much about how my body works and the bad wiring that used to run my life. It’s a journey. I know someday it will be worth it. Right now, it’s tough!