Tag: promocave

When Your Passion is Their Passion

August 9, 2017 / Chiara

“My mom is an author.” “My mom writes stories when we are sleeping.”

Ever wonder what your kids really think of you in terms of what you do? Your actions definitely speak louder than words.

From the moment your child enters this world, you are constantly scrutinized, judged, watched, and studied.

Knowing that notion can make one self-conscious, threatened, embarrassed, or feel holier than God himself.

Think about it. Their influences, ideas, and likes and dislikes, stem from you, their parent. It’s been said many times over; there is no greater job responsibility than child-rearing.

And, your actions have consequences and those consequences can set a path for your child to potentially follow if they can’t discern right from wrong.

So, if you want your child to see you in a particular light, model a righteous role. Set the example. Your joy will overflow when you see your children succeed in all that you’ve sowed for them.

I heard this recently and believe this quote sums it up:

“The wealth of a mom and dad lies in the quality of their children.”

~Author Unknown~

Until next time…

Be well. Be safe. Be happy.

There Goes My Life

September 2, 2016 / Chiara

“…There goes my life, there goes my future, my everything…”

It’s that time of year again. Summer is winding down, the weather is changing, fall clothes are already in department stores, and many kids are in school already, or returning back to school this week.

Another grade, another year of growing, and another year of homework. Ugh…

Some parents are breathing a sigh of relief; their children needing routine and discipline after a summer of freedom and fighting.

For me, the worries are just beginning. Call me a “mother hen” but I’ve felt the most secure while my girls are in my care.

Yes, I need time for myself. Who doesn’t? The noise of life and children’s chatter can overwhelm anyone.

However, I know my kids better than anyone and I pray every day for their well-being and safety, as well as for those teachers and grown-ups who are taking care of my loved ones during the day.

Nowadays, the world is not as safe as it once was. And maybe, we weren’t as safe twenty, thirty, or even forty years ago, as we thought we were.

For those short hours that I am alone, my little girls are never far from my thoughts. Yes, I have more time to write and take care of me, but still…you know…

For every picture drawn…there goes my life
For every tear shed…there goes my life
For every giggle…there goes my life
For every silly story I am told…there goes my life
For every tantrum…there goes my life
For every hug and kiss…there goes my life
For every single “I love you, mama”…there goes my life

Cherish them while they are little.

Cherish them while they are older.

Give them guidance while you can because life is fleeting, so I’m told.

Lord, protect your precious treasures…please keep all the kids, your children, safe during this school year.

Until next time…

Be well. Be safe. Be happy.

Today’s inspirational song: There Goes My Life, by Kenny Chesney. You can click here to see the video. The lyrics to the song are below.

All he could think about was I’m too young for this Got my whole life ahead Hell I’m just a kid myself How’m I gonna raise one

All he could see were his dreams going up in smoke So much for ditching this town and hanging out on the coast Oh well, those plans are long gone

And he said

There goes my life

There goes my future, my everything

Might as well kiss it all good-bye

There goes my life

A couple years of up all night and a few thousand diapers later

That mistake he thought he made covers up the refrigerator

Oh yeah…he loves that little girl

Momma’s waiting to tuck her in as she stumbles up those stairs

She smiles back at him dragging that teddy bear

Sleep tight, blue eyes and bouncing curls

He smiles

There goes my life

There goes my future, my everything,

I love you, daddy goodnight

There goes my life

She had that Honda loaded down

With Abercrombie clothes and fifteen pairs of shoes and his American express

He checked the oil and slammed the hood, said your good to go

She hugged them both and headed off to the west coast

He cried

There goes my life

There goes my future, my everything

I love you

Baby good-bye

The Night She Gave God Away

June 28, 2016 / Chiara

It was a starry Tuesday evening in June. My family and I were at an outdoor venue. It was Country Music Night in the Park with fireworks afterwards.

The lawn area and sidewalks were jammed packed with families and couples relaxing and enjoying refreshments from local vendors. Children danced and summersaulted to the echoes of banjos and tambourines. Everyone seemed to be having a real great time.

As I looked around though, I noticed the very visible police presence. We had been to this venue a few times last summer, and I could swear there weren’t that many cops around. Ah, but that was then, and things have changed. Increased random shootings and “terrorist” attacks have become the norm in this world. The most recent in Istanbul, Turkey, and Orlando, Florida.

I wondered to myself about the potential threat here. We were in an open area. Just sitting ducks. While the young singer on stage belted his last song, Tim McGraw’s “Something Like That,” I kept my eyes fixed on the law enforcement.

When the concert was over, and we started packing our things, my two daughters who are almost eight and six asked if it was okay to go and say thank you to a group of officers standing under a lamp post. You see, my youngest has recently declared she wants to be a Police Officer when she grows up. I could tell the thought of being near an officer thrilled her.

She twisted about, excited, “Yes, please Momma. Can we go by the officers?”

I nodded. What a nice gesture. “Sure. Why not.”

My oldest turned around. “Wait! We should give them something. What can we give them, Momma?”

Caught off guard, I chuckled. “Ah, I don’t know.” What could we them? A bottled water? I didn’t know what she meant.

Her eyebrows crinkled. She was deep in thought.

I drew the purse strap over my head. “Listen, you don’t have to give them anything. Go over there and say thank you for keeping us safe.”

Suddenly, my eldest jumped up and down. “I have an idea. How about this?” She pulled a blue plastic bracelet off her arm, the one she received this week from Vacation Bible School; it read…WATCH FOR GOD.

My younger daughter squealed. “Yes! That’s perfect. How about that?”

I shrugged. “Well…”

My insides churned like a blender blade on “Chop” mode. One side of me felt joy. This is cool. My kids have such a pure rooted love for God. I couldn’t be happier. But, the other side of me was a little leery. We have become a society where talk about God and religion is frowned upon. What if they told them to beat it? It’s just a bracelet. But, it says GOD…

They waited for me to answer. Their eyes glowed with happiness. They were standing up for their faith. It’s what I’ve been teaching them all along. And, they wanted to share that and say thank you to those who put their life on the line every single day. It was the right thing to do.

I smiled and took both their hands into mine. “Okay. Remember though, you won’t have a bracelet anymore. Are you sure you want to give it away?”

My oldest grinned. “I’m sure, Momma. It’s good to give God away.”

Joy filled my heart like running water into a jug.

And with that, my two sweet babies dashed over to the group of officers. My oldest eyeballed the clean-cut, dark-haired one with the dimpled right cheek, whom by the way was very cute, and I heard her say thank you as she handed him the bracelet.

He smirked, might have been slightly embarrassed but then took the bracelet anyway, just as the girls turned and ran back to me. I crouched down and gave them both a big hug.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about that officer. What did he end up doing with the bracelet? Did he put it on his wrist or shove it in his pocket? Did he toss the bracelet in the nearest garbage can? Did he even take it home? Regardless, I prayed for him.

Because in the end, all I know is that…”It’s good to give God away.”

#thankanofficer, #policerock, #giveGodaway, #PrayforPolice, #PrayforPeace, #Pray, #amwriting, #writing, #promocave, #raisingkids

Somewhere on a Beach

June 10, 2016 / Chiara

It’s after five. The sun still burns bright in the cloudless Florida sky where the temperature is a cool 99 degrees. In this kind of heat, the air is heavy with moisture, the salty wind softly glides across your constant perspiring face, and the ocean is like a wavy steam caressing your skin.

I can sit here on a tan lawn chair, under a blue umbrella, number 519, forever, while watching foamy-white waves cuddling the sand, listening to excited giggles of children and deciphering the multi-cultured languages of the surrounding adults.

I don’t want to leave here. I just want to stop the time and live in this wasted moment. Yes, wasted moment. Moments that I’m not rushing to check off “to-do lists”, laundry, grocery shopping, and rearing two very energetic little girls. Oh, not to mention, writing in the middle of the night.

I’ve been waiting for this recharge all year-long, and now, I know it’s going to end. Soon, I’ll be heading back to my “normal” hum of life. And I’m okay with that, slightly, even as I push my feet deeper into the sand, letting the granules massage my toes.

With every blink, I am visually snapping images of this place and locking away the sounds and smells of the ocean. So, at any given time, whenever that be, I can close my eyes, and come here in my mind; this God-created and awe-striking nature, where the Earth and the Sea hold hands somewhere on a beach…

Reaping What You Sow – Young Authors Program

April 19, 2016 / Chiara

Last week, our elementary school where my two daughters attend, hosted an Arts and Literacy Night. Part of the event was a Young Authors Program. An opportunity for all students, Kindergarten through Sixth grade to write and illustrate their very own books. Out of 425 students, 341 participated in this program, and I was the coordinator who led this incredible initiative.

It has taken the last three months of preparation and organization to get this program off the ground. I’ve had the backing of the Principal, and wonderful support of all seventeen teachers in the school. Most importantly, it was the children’s enthusiasm that truly made this a fantastic experience, not just for me, but for everyone involved.

As a published author and voracious reader, this program was near and dear to my heart when I was asked by our PTA committee, to run it. There was no doubt in my mind that I wanted this project to happen.

During the pre-launch, I felt it was important to encourage the kids and get them excited, so I made it my priority to visit each and every classroom and share with the students how I became a writer. It all started in elementary school when I first read the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books. From there, I took a try at poetry writing. In high school, I discovered Danielle Steel and immersed myself with all her novels. My poems became longer, and more complex, and suddenly, I was writing short stories. I did this for a while, until I started writing a very “long” short story, which finally became my first published novel. It only took nine years to write a novel, which included tons of editing and re-editing, three title changes, and twenty-seven versions of the same story. I’ve kept all my hardcopy versions too—in an extra-large plastic bin. Yep, the kids got a kick out of that one. Poor trees.

Blank booklets were ordered and I distributed them to the classrooms. In the meantime, the students began writing a rough draft of their stories with the teachers overseeing the task. I checked on all the classes two weeks later, some students had already finished and were transferring their content over to the booklets, and some hadn’t even started. I talked to the kids about procrastination and distraction when it came to writing. No one person is immune to that, one just needs to sit their butt down and well, just do it.

A couple of weeks later, the students saw me again in the hallways. I was starting to become a recognizable face. This time, I picked up all the completed booklets from the teachers.

From there with the help of a couple other moms, we organized the booklets by teacher/grade, and utilized one mother’s graphic artist talent for a poster and communication flyer to the families regarding the Arts and Literacy Night with the Young Authors Program.

Throughout the process, I communicated regularly with the teachers via email on next steps and expectations.

I distributed Certificates of Completions and Excellence stickers to the teachers. Then, it was the day of the event—organizing the booklets on tables for display. The families and students got a chance to view and flip through all the beautifully created books. It was a sight to see. The families were pleasantly surprised and the children were very proud of their efforts.

And, when it was over, I picked up all the books, reorganized them again, and then the following day, passed them back to the students in the classrooms.

It was a team effort all the way the around. I’m grateful for the support of the school. And, I’ve just learned through the grapevine my new name is “Mrs. YAP”, short for “Mrs. Young Authors Program”.

As a writer, we get consumed in our daily writings that we forget to share those gems of experiences to others who are just as enthusiastic about the written word, as you might be. Community involvement is not as difficult as one would expect. All you need is a little bit of creativity and a desire to pay it forward. After all, who knows where our next best seller will come from?

Until next time…

Be well. Be safe. Be happy.

A Brave New Year

January 10, 2016 / Chiara

A brave new year.

I’ve spent the first week of this month pondering my New Year’s resolution. Honestly, I haven’t had a resolution in God knows how long. I don’t keep them and it always ends up not reflecting what I intended at the time I made the resolution.

Two years ago, I incorporated a “New Word” of the year. Everyone was doing it and so I tried it too. You know what happened? Nothing. Six months later, I forgot the “Word”.

“Resolutions” and “Word of the Year” don’t work for me.

On recent afternoon while on Christmas break, my daughters begged me to go outside. They were bored of staying in. It was a cold day, so we bundled up and headed out. They wanted to romp around and make snow angels as well as play explorers on a mission. As I observed my kids, it dawned on me—my wish for 2016. They were living in the moment, exploring their surroundings, solving made-up problems, braving each step ahead of them with a curiosity to reach an intended goal—the other side of the driveway without getting eaten up by giant polar bears.

By taking one step at a time using a jump rope, two shovels, and one pail, they were deliberate and intentional with their decision-making process. Their comments and responses to my questions as to the “whys” and “how” they were going to make it to the other side—alive and not frozen in the deep snow where wolves and vultures would come and suck out their blood, was amazing. Children are so keen on finding simple solutions to difficult tasks.

Each of our so called “resolutions” and “one word(s)” should include all of what they experienced…for our whole year and every year after. It’s a lifestyle and mindset change. Taking a risk, and living the life of an adventurer because you just never know when wolves and vultures will deter you…

The Rainbow in the Clouds

December 16, 2015 / Chiara

www.chiaratalluto.com

“A joy that has been hidden will always resurface.”

Even before she stepped off the bus, I noticed her downcast eyes and slumped shoulders. The brown-eyed, double-hair-braided little girl trudged on the cold, wet sidewalk dragging her pink-colored UGGs.

I treaded cautiously toward my seven-year-old. My heart in a worry. She had either gotten into a fight with another child at school, or didn’t pass her spelling test that she was scheduled to have earlier in the day.

I exhaled loudly and met her at front of our house ready to embrace her with a loving mother’s hug, hoping to wash whatever she was feeling away. After all, it was my job to carry the sunshine even on those gloomy days.

However, before I even had a chance to open my arms, she jumped into me, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“She’s gone, Mommy. She’s gone,” she cried.

I was caught off guard. Who? “Who’s gone? What happened?”

Sniffling, she looked up at me. “Oh, Mommy. I told you already. Why don’t you listen to me when I talk?” She stomped away toward our door and turned. “Melissa, that’s who. She moved.”

The screen door slammed behind her. I straightened just as my neighbor walked on by with his daughter. He smiled. A look that said he understood. He had two daughters of his own and he often recounted the drama in their household.

“Rough day, eh?”

I nodded. “Apparently.”

I went in and looked for her. She lay face down on top of her bed. I settled quietly on the edge of her comforter. Not sure what to say, but remembering several weeks ago when my daughter had mentioned that her best friend, Melissa, was going to be moving. Not just moving across town, but out-of-state, and out of the country. For good. I brushed it off then. The little girl lived in our neighborhood, our girls played together most days. I spoke with the parents, her father, on a regular basis at the bus stop. Surely he would have mentioned something. I scratched my head. There was no For Sale sign outside their home, either.

I leaned over and encircled my arms around my baby’s tiny frame. “Can you tell me what happened?” I whispered in her ear.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Melissa wasn’t on the bus this morning.”

“I know. I was there. Maybe she was sick.”

“No, Mommy. She wasn’t. She came later. And, she walked in our room with Mr. Gratson (the principal).”

She paused. I caressed her arms.

“Mr. Gratson told the classroom, Melissa was leaving to go out of the country and they were cleaning out her desk.” She huffed. “Mommy, he asked us to hug her and say goodbye. She looked so sad. Why would her Daddy take her out of school?”

I didn’t know what to say. “Well, maybe she’s going on vacation.”

She glared at me. “No. No, she’s not. She left. How many times do I have to tell you? Now, I have no best friend.”

I closed my eyes. Images of the last two years flashed in my mind of their many playtimes. Melissa was a dark-haired, dark skinned, quiet little girl. Her eyes were large, and she always had a smile. Together, the girls enjoyed wonderful dress up games, Barbie playing, and giggles, lots of giggles. My daughter looked like a light had gone out. Her eyes were puffy and swollen. Her whole world had just come crumbling down.

I knew the pain she was feeling. I remembered too when my best friend, Richard, a plump, rosy-cheeked, blondish-haired boy who lived several houses from where I lived, had moved when I was nine. We did everything together. Played cops and robbers, attended the same grammar school, did our communion together. Both parents joked we would get married someday. That summer when he moved, I was completely devastated. In fact, it was long summer.

I stroked her hair out of her eyes, and brushed a tear that was making its way down her face. “I’m sorry, Melissa left. I’m sorry you are sad. I am too. She was a very nice girl.”

Burying her face in my chest, she shook. “Who will be my best friend now?”

I could have easily responded, “Don’t worry, you’ll find more friends.” But, that would have sounded so silly, and so cliché. My daughter didn’t want a solution. She wanted comfort. We all do at some point. Comfort that whatever we are going through will eventually fade. I knew she’d slowly get over this. It would take time. For now, I would let her grieve in her own way.

I sighed. I wish I could keep her little. This was a huge problem for her.

Someday, she’ll be a teenager and the issues much more complicated. As a parent, you wish you could take away all your children’s fears, pains, and sorrows. But, the truth is, you can’t. It is how they learn to deal with the life curves that will come their way.

This world is not easy. There are big problems and small ones. But, I believe they are there to give us hope for a better tomorrow. A piece of innocence to hold onto. A joy that has been hidden will always resurface.

I prayed. Silent thoughts to well-wish Melissa on her new life adventure. A wish for my daughter to savor the wonderful time she had with her friend, and to look for new friends to share one day when she was ready.

I kissed her forehead. “Hey, guess what I saw today?”

She looked up. “What?”

I smiled, recalling the wonderful image. “A rainbow.”

My daughter straightened. “How? It’s been cloudy all day.”

I laughed. “I guess it was God’s way of shedding some color in the midst of today’s dark circles.”

Her frown became a grin. “I like rainbows, Mommy. They bring brightness to the sky.”

I nodded. “Yep. So do I.”

Thursday’s Thought Provoker: Writing Scenes and the Common Seasonal Cold

November 5, 2015 / Chiara

People often ask me if it’s difficult or easy to write scenes in a novel. I tell them it depends on the scene and what I want to accomplish to move the story along.

Some scenes can be summed up like this:

The character’s demeanor clearly pops in my mind, the dialogue is impactful, and the description is vivid. It is a euphoric sensation and I’m writing it all down by hand in a $.99 cent notebook as fast as I can. Yes, I write everything on paper first and then type it. Call me old-fashioned or just plain weird, but I have to see and feel the scribble of the pen beneath my left-hand fingertips. All of it, and every time. It is only then that it becomes real to me.

Everything is flowing, flawlessly and effortlessly, and then, BAAM…I’m there, on a patio, sitting on a beige wicker chair, arms resting on a frosted-glass round table facing a vast blue-green ocean. Listening and watching as the waves are coming up on the sand, sipping a tall sweet tea with a large lemon wedge, and eating a turkey and cheese rye sandwich with sprouts and a generous amount of Grey Poupon Dijon Mustard. Wait? What? Grey Poupon? Really? Yes. See what I mean?

And then other scenes can be summed up this way:

All your ideas are squished up in your brain itching to come out—nervously shaking the fence that they have been trapped in. Pounding and pounding on the chain-link like a migraine headache because they have been engulfed in a veil of fog way too long.

I can visualize the scene but it is so blurry that my eyes are burning. And the more I’m trying to write, the more the whites of my eye balls are getting redder. I’m hyperventilating and perspiring, cursing myself to push out the jumble consuming my thoughts, but I can’t. My ears are piercing like a constant freight train rumbling through, jarring and jilting my ear drums. I can’t breathe, my airways are blocked, and any dialogue or description I’m feverishly trying to put down into words is constricting my throat and rapidly I’m painfully swallowing the ideas away. They are disappearing, oh no, rolling down the esophagus with my saliva.

It’s not working. I need to step away from the notebook, or just surf Facebook for a bit. Until then, I’m blocked. Blocked like the fever, sinus infection, swimmer’s ear, and sore throat which I currently have. Ugh…the sick season has arrived. Is it November already? Of course it is.

For me there are only two kinds of scene writing and it is described above. Until then, I’m out of commission. I am crawling back under the covers for some recover. Be back soon.

The Cross at the Crossroad

October 22, 2015 / Chiara

With outstretched arms, it called to me, urging me to fold into its safe and comforting embrace.

“Leave your troubles here,” it whispered.

If you happen to be driving north on Interstate-57, located along the side of the road, near Effingham, IL, you can’t help but notice a monstrous structure. This awesome man-made sight warrants putting that foot on the brake and slowing down just bit, or pulling over all together because you’ll want to stare at this gleaming white piece of metal glistening high above, almost reaching the clouds. What is this structure? A giant cross. A beautiful, towering, holy mass.

Completed in July 2001 at a cost of over one million dollars, it stands 198 feet high. The cross arm spans 113 feet long. Nearly 34 tons of reinforced steel footings along with 848 cubic yards of concrete make up the foundation. There is almost 181 tons of steel in the structure.

My head whipped around. Looking out my car window, I couldn’t believe how gigantic it was. I suddenly felt very small and could only imagine how much smaller I’d feel if I was standing right next to it. It beckoned me to come closer. I turned my steering wheel toward the side of road along the white line, and braked.

“Leave your troubles here,” it whispered again.

I was in a zone. The only noises vibrating within the confines of my vehicle were country music and unfiltered thoughts spiraling in my brain. I-57 is mesmerizingly mundane, so it’s pretty easy to let your imagination get the best of you. There are two-lanes on each side. Tall trees provide a border to farmlands hidden from view until the next town where it usually opens up to small manufacturing plants, a few businesses, and fast-food restaurants. Until then though, it’s your car, your reflections, and the concrete pavement. The cross took me completely by surprise. I welcomed the distraction.

Whether you are spiritual or religious, it was a surreal site to say the least, even if it was a few minutes. I envisioned the cross bending forward, wrapping its arms around all those who are suffering, and gathering them up in the cavity of its breast. Loving all the people carrying gigantic burdens on their shoulders.

No human is ever without pain, anxiety, or problems on this good earth of ours. It’s called life. When you’re alive, you’re traveled, bumped, and sometimes bruised. It’s in the comfort of others, a simple touch, a smile, and/or chocolate, that can often help soothe a broken spirit.

With one final glance over my shoulder, I accelerated and got on the road again. I did what came naturally to me. I prayed. I prayed for our nation, our leaders, our schools, my neighbors, my friends, my family, and even myself—to stop the momentum of dark words and malicious actions. It was a lot to pray about, but I felt convicted to do so. Did it change anything? I’m not sure. Maybe that one person I was thinking about had a fleeting moment of peace in their chaotic life. If so, I will never know. And that’s okay. It was a release, and I left my own troubles at the foot of that cross.

I know who I am. Who are you?

July 14, 2015 / Chiara

This is dedicated to all the young girls who have felt they are not good enough.

You are worthy.

You are beautiful.

You are loved.

Loved by the one true God who created you in His self-less image.

On afternoon as I sat in my office staring at a blinking cursor on the computer screen, my eldest, almost seven-year-old daughter approached me.

“Mommy?”

Caps lock. SHIT. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

Sitting back, I let her fall into my arms. Stroking her hair, I noticed she wore a long face, and her big, round brown eyes held a reservoir of sadness.

Sighing, I asked. “What’s the matter?”

In a rush of tumbled and twisted words, she blurted. “I was in the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I don’t like the way I look Mommy. I look ugly.”

Huh? Where did this come from? I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

Shaking my head, I finally responded. “Wait. What?”

I was caught off guard. My head was in a whirlwind. The truth was, I was in a self-loathing mood. It was my birthday. Yippy! And I felt like crap. I had been trying to write a blog post for my website for weeks and frankly was having a mental block. What kind of writer am I if I can’t even come up with anything to write?

Plus, I was having one of those summers. Too many family distractions were pulling me away from what I loved to do—writing. I frantically searched my mind for something profound to say and still nothing. I was tired and burnt out, and understood her sadness. Like my blank screen, I had nothing to offer her. Just fear. Fear of my inspiration drying up. Fear of the realization that my first born and her younger sister could be influenced by a world that puts stipulations on everything. From weight, height, hair, etc., and then pollutes their minds, persuading them to think they are not worthy.

It’s heartbreaking to see how things are enfolding in this life, and knowing that you may not have control over them, either. People have become so consumed about the flesh that they don’t look at the heart of a person—the emotional tracker of all humanity. But I am still hopeful. I still pray for that silver-lining of parenthood to help me teach my girls how not to be so worried about what others think.

She repeated, “I’m ugly, Momma.”

Holding her close to my chest, I prayed. What can I tell her God? Please, give me something.

And just like that, coming from our stereo, we heard these words from new Christian Artist, Blanca:

Another voice, another choice To listen to words somebody said Another day, I replay, one too many doubts inside my head Am I strong, beautiful, am I good enough

Do I belong after all, that I’ve said and done Is it real when I feel I don’t measure up Am I loved

I’m runnin’ to the One who knows me Who made every part of me in His hands I’m holdin’ to the One who holds me ‘Cause I know, ’cause I am I know who I am I am sure, I am Yours

Turnin’ down, tunin’ out Every single word that caused me pain Unashamed and unafraid ‘Cause I believe You mean it when You say I am strong, beautiful I am good enough And I belong after all, ’cause of what You’ve done This is real what I feel No one made it up I am loved

I’m runnin’ to the One who knows me Who made every part of me in His hands I’m holdin’ to the One who holds me ‘Cause I know, ’cause I am I know who I am I am sure, I am Yours

Fearfully, wonderfully, perfectly You had made me

I’m runnin’ to the One who knows me Ya-a-ay I’m holdin’ to the One who holds me Holds me holds me-e-e-yay

I’m runnin’ to the One who knows me Who made every part of me in His hands I’m holdin’ to the One who holds me ‘Cause I know, ’cause I am I know who I am I am sure, I am Yours Oh, I am Yours I am sure, I am Yours And I know who I am

I rocked her in my arms to the melody of the music, and when it was over, I said: “I love you and your sister so much. Not because of your messy hair or sauce-stained shirt, or bruised up knees, but because of who you are. And, to whom you are. You are His.”

Wide-eyed, she stared at me. I hugged her closer. As much as my child needed to hear these words, I think I needed to hear them too. No writer is perfect. No writer can write awe-inspiring and profound prose all the time. It takes work. Lots of work. I just know that…. I’m holdin’ to the One who holds me, to guide and direct my steps every day.

Thank you, Blanca for making this song a mantra for those who are lost, and all those who suffer from low self-esteem, as well as casualties of bulimia, anorexia, obesity, and bullying.

Believe in the power of love and encouragement, and then pass it on.

Check out Blanca’s wonderfully, uplifting video here.

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