Anne Marie Miller

Author: Anne Marie Miller

  • Fighting for Our Men: A Challenge to Any Woman for Any Man

    Imagine five women: two married (one with kids), and three single gals. All around thirty, give or take. We’re at the Opryland Hotel, piled on a hotel bed and various spots on the floor, one with legs draped over the side of an ivory recliner. It’s close to midnight. And we’re talking..about guys, of course.

    Recently, it’s been encouraging. Instead of hearing the “There are no REAL men to date. Just boys. Boys without jobs. Boys who play too much Call of Duty. Boys with too many other girls who are friends. Boys who live at home. Boys who don’t open doors,” we had a totally different conversation.

    “Do you think that sometimes guys feel like they can’t be men because we’re always telling them that they’re boys?” asked my friend sitting next to me on the bed.

    Yes, yes, a million times yes.

    Man waterfall

    It is easy to look around and see a world where men are tethered to their jobs, their phones, their parents…whatever gives them a sense of security and identity. Please don’t misread: women are as equally tethered to the things we find our value in. Somehow, we’ve found away, in spite of our competitive and comparative nature, to still champion one another – or at least help each other know we aren’t alone. From my very limited conversations with men, my husband included (who bleeds the desire to connect and grow with other men), it doesn’t happen so easily for them.

    Generally speaking, women wired to nurture. Men are wired to protect. And because so many of us have experienced a man letting us down in our life (a father, a pastor, a priest, a spouse…), we have stepped into the role of protector so that we may feel nurtured. Safe. Free from being let down again.

    If you’ve ever taken a sociology or human behaviors class, you know that once a group of people or culture changes a behavior, in time, that change has a profound effect on future human behavior. Just take a look at gender roles and how they shift with each passing decade. When the women of a culture tell men (by showing them) we don’t need them, it’s completely natural for the men to adapt to not being needed.

    Instead of thinking the men of whatever generation are not men, maybe we can change our beliefs about them. By changing the way we think, I believe it will have a profound effect on how we act toward them – directly and indirectly. 

    Man / Forest

    I know in many situations, I’ve not always believed the best about my husband, Tim…even when one of the (many!) reasons he was able to break into my heart and steal it is because of his strong leadership and desire to protect and care for me.

    We were one month into our marriage and finalizing details for our move to Nashville. We drove from Iowa to Tennessee and stayed with friends as we looked at renting and buying and where we should live. The cost of living in Nashville is about three times as much as it is in the Quad Cities area, so the sticker shock was a lot to take in.

    I really (really, really) wanted to live in one area close to my friends and the community I’m used to living in. We had a little bit of debt to pay off, but we had the money to make the move happen without it stretching us too far financially. I thought it was a done deal until Tim proposed the idea of waiting three more months so that the debt could be paid and we could head into it without the guillotine of interest rates hanging over our heads.

    In the living room of our friends’ home, with them present, I started crying/getting angry/being stubborn/wanting my way/and was pretty much on the border of a temper tantrum.

    “Why don’t you want me to move back and live with my friends?!”

    In one (loving) sentence, he shut my selfishness and my assumptions on his motivation down.

    “The reason I want to wait three months is so I can give you this; so we can do this together, easier, and so you can have what your heart desires most.”

    I see the power of my words, my passive responses to him, and the false beliefs I project on him and how they tear away at his innate desires to care for me and love me. When I show a lack of respect for him or my unwillingness to believe he has my best interest at heart fires away at him with 45-caliber force, I’m telling him I’m strong enough on my own. I can protect myself.

    These things that hurt men, whether we’re married to them or not.

    My friend that asked if sometimes men act like boys because of the way culture tells them to wrapped up our estrogen-filled talk time with a generous and love-filled thought:

    “Whoever my future husband is, I pray he has women around him who are showing him he’s strong, he’s capable, and who are praying for him and encouraging him along the way, no matter where he is in his journey.”

    May we all take on that countenance with the men in our lives: our fathers, our brothers, our husbands, our friends. May our thoughts, words and actions only build them up so they have one less voice telling them they’ll never be man enough.

  • The Fear of Starting Over Again

    For the longest time, I didn’t even have a desk. What I placed my computer on from the time I was 19 until the time I was 30 was a cheap, round two-seater kitchen table. And I use the words kitchen table lightly, as it looked to be something that belonged more on the patio of my grandmother.

    Those were the days before social media as we know it now; they were the days that my biggest distraction was spam IMs from my AOL messenger. But oh, how I would write and write and write until my wrists hurt from the weird angle from which I hoisted my hands over my keys. I woke up in the morning, went to work at my job as a bookstore manager, or non-profit budget coordinator, or marketing associate, or youth pastor, or director of communication, or graphic designer, or project manager, or whatever-my-job-was-those-days, and given any free moment from my duties, it was back to writing. There was not enough time to contain those words.

    Now, I write for a living. I write books. Or, well, I’ve written three (1, 2, 3). I’ve written a bunch of articles for a bunch of places. I write messages for talks I give. Sometimes it’s a joy, sometimes it’s an obligation. Sometimes I put it aside and watch a season of Frasier on Netflix. Now, the challenge of blogging – of not being paid to do something and just doing it because of my love for it, well, I’m a little scared.

    I’m scared I won’t have the tenacity to follow through, and do this – yikes – every day, except on the weekends.

    I’m scared I’ll get disappointed in those darn numbers and say it’s not worth my time.

    I’m scared I’ll…

    Wow, this one’s hard to say.

    I’m scared I’ll run out of good words.

    There is a fear we must face when we do what we truly believe we are called to do: what if I try and fail?

    Then who am I?

    Oh, please remind me that I am a child of the King. A daughter of the One who sees me clothed in righteousness, not mistakes and sin and mud. Let me lean into You, my Father, when I break my own heart by filling it up with the chards of lies and not your soft truth.

  • Slaying My Gods of Blogging of Ego

    Maybe it’s just vocabulary, and maybe I’ve always been “a blogger” (I did have my own AOL member page when I was sixteen, and purchased my first domain where I journaled in 1998). I officially resigned from blogging in 2010 (but kept a website for essays and poetry). Then, when I needed to work on healing the wounds from my divorce, I went dark everywhere – no Facebook, Twitter, website. All the words I wrote were in journals and scraps of paper in my car when the right word or a picture would capture me. I started writing online again this year, but not with any consistency or purpose.

    This weekend, I went to the blogging conference Allume. Not because I wanted to learn about blogging, but because I had the chance to represent one of my favorite organizations, Blood:Water Mission, and in the process, catch up with a lot of friends I haven’t seen in a long, long time. The speakers were phenomenal and didn’t talk much about blogging; instead, they carved out the space around our blogs in which we find the reason and meaning: worship. Writing as a form of art and gratefulness (and therapy)…not how many stats, shares, or likes.

    I was reminded over and over again that is why I started blogging.

    Not because I had a book deal, or wanted one.

    Not because I wanted to build a platform or find people to affirm me or debate me.

    Because I love to write about what God has done and is doing in my life.

    Have any of the opportunities that emerged from writing online helped me find my purpose in life or quench the red fires that burn inside my soul?

    No.

    And at times, I gave blogging too much weight, allowing it to define me or brand me or market me. I’ve let those numbers determine how good I feel about myself or why I do what I do.

    Blogging was the god I prayed to: What should I write? What do I say to please you?

    Instead, it should have been the overflow of my prayers to the One True God: Open my eyes, show me truth. May my words only voice edification, wonder, mystery, love, hope, healing, joy.

    “Remember what it was like in the old days?” an old blogging friend asked. “When we wrote about the things that gave us pain and joy. When we were raw because nobody else was, and nobody else cared?”

    I do remember those days and how being raw is a norm and I am so proud of and grateful for those who speak from vulnerable places and illuminate into dark corners. I ask myself why…why now? Why speak when everyone else speaks and it feels like nobody will hear?

    Because it doesn’t matter who will hear. It only matters that I listen. That I obey. And that I write.

    So, here is to another new season. A season where it is not “Anne Marie Miller” (or “Anne Jackson” or “FlowerDust” or whatever moniker you may have known me by at some point in the last ten years).

    This is a season to write, to create, and to process here…regardless. To trust that God will move His mighty hand in whatever way He likes, as He always has, and He always will.

  • The Sex Cafe: Where Women and Coffee are Sold

    This is reposted from April 2010 while I was in Moldova.

    Thursday morning, our first meeting was with a young woman about my age who, for safety reasons, I’ll identify as L. We met her outside in the middle of the city, where she hopped in our van. I immediately liked her. She was intelligent and witty, and when we asked her where we should go for our meeting, she directed us toward a cafe in a nice part of town and said she had a surprise for us.

    We took seats at a table under the patio as the sun was beginning to warm the new spring air. We ordered a round of espresso (tea for me) and began to make introductions. Tom went first. Then Brad. Then me. Then Simon, as he set up his camera so we could film L’s story and hear about what her organization does.

     

    Our waitress, a young, pretty girl who surprisingly spoke enough English that I could actually communicate I wanted green tea instead of black, brought us our drinks. L. took a sip of her cappuccino and asked us if we were ready for our surprise.

    After a day like we had Wednesday, we were ready for anything.

    “The reason I brought you to this cafe is because there is a story here. When I first moved back to Moldova, I came here with a friend. It seems like a totally normal restaurant.”

    I looked around. It had nice tables and chairs and the shops across the street were for designer clothes. I didn’t feel like I was in a developing country. I could have been on a street in Paris for all I knew.

    “As I spent time here, I learned that this cafe is the main hub for girls that are trafficked out of Moldova.”

    Our team sat back stunned. Even S., who is our driver and has worked in the social sector of Moldova for years, was shocked.

    L. continued to tell us a similar story to what we have heard regarding young girls and the need for jobs. A majority of Moldovans immigrates out of the country for work because the unemployment rate here is so high. Girls out of the ninth grade (the required level of completion) when coming from abusive, alcoholic, or unattended homes, as well as orphans, will look for jobs. Foreigners actually own this cafe (amongst others) and will hire the girls as waitresses or cooks or to clean. They learn just enough of several languages over the course of a few months to a year and are promised promotions or transfers in restaurants in other European countries.

    And they get trafficked.

    I immediately wanted to take our waitress and throw her into our van, knowing what almost certain fate awaited her.

    It’s not like this industry is completely a secret, either. Men, especially foreign men, visit these cafes for a reason. If L. and I wouldn’t have been there with the men from our team, more than likely they would have been offered a girl.

    I lifted the mug of tea to my lips and wondered how many girls had filled that mug before. How many had served tea in it. How many had bussed it off the table and washed it.

    I wondered where they were now.

    L. proceeded to go through a newspaper and read to us ads that are ads that are intended to lure girls in. Ads for renting rooms or apartments often get young Moldovan girls and foreign university students kidnapped when they go to see if the apartment is what they’re looking for. Jobs for nannies who can travel. Jobs for waitresses.

    She even told us her own story – how, when she moved to Chisinau, she was looking for an apartment. Out of the hundreds of listings on the pages, only a handful or so were legit. She almost went to look at one but had a strange feeling about it after speaking with the owner, so she had a male friend call to check on it.

    It was one used for trafficking.

    She could have been a victim herself.

    As we sat around finishing our drinks, we took note of an ever-increasing stream of foreign men beginning to sit at surrounding tables. They came from inside the cafe and sat and stared at us.

    We acted like we didn’t notice, boldly keeping our very large camera out, and kept filming L. and her story.

    Before we left, I saw two young, very pretty girls walking outside the cafe. They were almost too young to be that pretty. One was maybe fourteen – the other one sixteen or seventeen. I was surprised when they walked into the cafe, and later took a seat behind us in the corner of the patio.

    They didn’t receive a menu, but a husky middle aged man with salt-and-pepper hair sat down with them. He discreetly handed the older girl a large sum of money. She looked up to him laughing with flirtatious but noticeably empty eyes.

    We paid our check and left, as the presence of the traffickers got to be a little too intense. L. and I stood on the sidewalk while Brad went in for a moment and we witnessed another young, pretty woman approaching the cafe. The husky man got up suddenly and began yelling at her. She managed to keep her distance on the other side of the patio railing but they were screaming loudly at each other in Romanian. I asked L. what they were fighting about.

    “Something didn’t happen right…something didn’t happen right at all,” is what she said. She nodded over my shoulder.“Those men behind you. They’re not Moldovan. They’re here for something.” I slowly turned around and pretended to look at the cafe door. Two very well dressed middle-eastern men were behind me and seemed to be negotiating with one of the cafe traffickers.

    It was surreal. We were standing in the middle of trafficking deals going down all around us and at the same time, families sat at the patio eating brunch. Maybe some of them knew, maybe not.

    But the darkness that was now exposed to us was almost blinding.

    Here we were.

    In broad daylight.

    In a nice part of the city.

    …buying coffee at the same time girls and sex were being sold.

    We walked to our van talking about how we couldn’t believe what just happened. The five of us said goodbye to L. and she went to wherever it was she was going. What an incredibly brave woman to know exactly what would happen where we would be and to show us exactly what we needed to see.

    We waited a few moments and drove around the block, passing the cafe again. The eight or ten men that had been keeping an eye on us were all gone in the five minutes it took us to circle back. The patio, except for a few maternal-esque women and the family, was empty.

    I always assumed that sex trafficking went on in the brothels and the strip clubs. In Moldova, there are none. When we’d ask around where this trafficking took place, it seemed like nobody knew.

    But when we did find it, it would be like watching a girl get sold outside at a Panera in your nicest suburb.

    As I continued thinking throughout the day, I realized that it doesn’t matter what my perception is on how or where or what sex trafficking looks like. I can pretend to be shocked (and honestly still am) that it happened in such an open location.

    But the bottom line is this:

    We all know it happens.

    It happens.

    It.

    Happens.

    It may have been dangerous for us to be there. It probably would be if we went back. But this is a subject we must continue to stare in the face and say – dangerous or not – this can not happen.

    This cannot happen on our watch.

    Because if we know about it, if it’s happening on our watch, we’re responsible to do something about it.

    Today, we’ll meet a girl who was trafficked from this exact cafe two years ago and is now in the care of L. and her organization.

    I can’t help but wonder if, when she worked in this cafe, she served somebody tea from the same cup I drank from yesterday.

    —

    How can you help?

    Fight Sex Trafficking (Part 1)

    Fight Sex Trafficking (Part 2)

    What Are Some Ways We Can Act?

  • Lean on Me: The Book Cover!

    Even though it won’t be shipping until October 2014, that doesn’t mean my team at Thomas Nelson isn’t hard at work getting ready for the big day. Today, we finalized the cover for the new book, Lean on Me: Finding Intentional, Committed and Consistent Community.

    Lean on Me by Anne Marie Miller

    The first question out of some peoples’ mouths is, “Wait, is this a chick book?” Pink flowers, girly font…come on, Miller. What are you thinking?”

    That was the same question I had as well when we reviewed the first round of book cover designs. Is the book a “chick book?” Not at all. However, the way books – well, my books – have been purchased, shared, and talked about, as well as some other demographics we’ve considered, a vast majority of them have been carried by women.

    Generally speaking, a man is online or in a book store and is browsing books. He most likely purchases a book written by another man…especially in the faith-based market. Women, however, buy from both genders and increasingly more from female authors. And men generally buy more electronic books than women, so a cover doesn’t really apply.

    Regardless of if or how or when you buy this book (I’ll let you know when it’s available for pre-ordering), I am thrilled  with this cover. Knowing the content of the book, the metaphor really captures the message.

     

  • Leading Wise: Setting Goals with Divine Guidance

    When someone invests into the unique call that God has placed on your church, there’s no stopping them. They’re inspired by what the future holds.

    It’s vital to the health of whatever team you are leading to clearly and consistently communicate that calling with your team. God has placed you there for a reason, and He’s placed them under your care because he wants all of you to carry out this calling together.

    Proverbs 29:18 says this,

    “Where there is no vision, the people perish.” (KJV)

    Many times, the word “vision” in this verse has been misinterpreted to mean “goals” or “plans.”

    The word “vision” in this verse actually means “divine guidance” or “revelation.”

    Tree

    And without divine guidance, people will perish. As important as it may be to be on the same page with your goals and your plans, without relying on God for wisdom and guidance that only He can provide, everything will fall apart.

    Matthew Henry’s Commentary says, 

    “How bare does a place look without Bibles and ministers! And what an easy prey is it to the enemy of souls! That gospel is an open vision, which holds forth Christ, which humbles the sinner and exalts the Saviour, which promotes holiness in the life and conversation: and these are precious truths to keep the soul alive, and prevent it from perishing.”

    Without true divine guidance, we scatter. Our unity is broken.

     

  • It’s Okay to Start Small

    For a season of my childhood, we received food from the government. Black and white label five-pound containers of peanut butter. And cheese. I’m sure we got more, but the snapshots of those two items are clear in my mind. At times, we had our own garden and a local farmer would be kind enough to wrap up in butcher paper whatever animal he slaughtered and we’d freeze pounds and pounds of it. Every Tuesday I had a piano lesson and it was a celebration. We had to drive in to town anyway, so after my piano lesson waited a What-A-Burger kid’s meal and Dunkin’ Donuts donut holes for the next morning.

    Overall, my parents did a reasonably fine job of creating healthy children. We were rarely sick, we were extremely active (what else is there to do in west Texas but ride your bike hours on end chasing imaginary drug dealers?) I played basketball until I blew out my knee and when I’d get angry, I’d run a one-mile stretch between our house and an elementary school. I was never overweight…until I moved out on my own.

    In my early twenties, I added a good thirty to forty pounds to my 5’6″ frame. Some people say I carried it well and they couldn’t notice. I look at the few pictures I have from that time and reply that I carried most of that weight in my face. If you read my old blog in those days, it was a weekly weigh-in…and over the course of nine-months, I lost it.

    But then I got diagnosed with a heart condition that prevented me from getting my heart rate over 120, and exercise was out of the picture. I was slim, but I wasn’t in shape.

    Long story short, someone dared me to find a new doctor and get my heart “fixed” – even though I was told it couldn’t be. If it was fixed, I’d have to ride a bike across the country with the Ride:Well Tour. Well, my unfixable heart was fixed and between 2009-2010, I logged close to 5,000 miles on a bicycle.

    Anne Marie Miller Ride Well Tour

    I worked out all the time…until…boom. The heart condition returned.

    Two years went by and I’d try to exercise, to force myself to push beyond my 240+ bpm heart rate (don’t ever try that). I returned to my doctor and had another surgery on my heart in July 2012. As far as we know, it’s still fixed. Hopefully it will stay that way.

    I set a goal at the beginning of the year to run 300 miles in 2013. I believe I’m at 60. I did really well in the beginning (don’t we all?) and then didn’t regularly exercise for, like, I don’t know. Six months?

    My weight is creeping back up into what I consider to be my “danger zone” and I find myself demotivated instead of motivated to do something about it.

    Something about be a perfectionist…

    My friend Dawn is amazing. She lost over 130 pounds in a year by exercising and eating right. Size 22 to size 2. Just like that. No magic pills, no fad diets. Just hard work and self-control. Our society lacks those so much, People Magazine picked up the story because it’s so inspiring.

    My texts to Dawn lately:

    I feel like crap.

    Why do I want to sleep all the time?

    I can’t stop eating cookies.

    And the big one last week…I think I’m medicating my anxiety with food.

    Dawn always graciously replies to make little changes. Tim and I have. We started juicing (again for me – the first time for him). Tim is gluten-intolerant, so I’ve cut out gluten as well (and I feel amazing!) We don’t buy very much processed food…almost everything we eat is fresh (and when we can, organic and local). This week, we’re taking out all meat but healthy fish.

    I tried to go for a run last week and was disappointed that after a mile of intervals, I was done. I used to be able to run four miles just six months ago!

    “What do I do? What can I commit?” I texted Dawn in frustration.

    Her reply:

    Go easy on yourself…even if it’s simply a goal of moving everyday. You don’t need to be hardcore! Commit to taking, at least, a three-mile walk five days/week…at least you’re moving…and your body can learn to crave it.

    It’s hard when I see her flipping tractor tires to accept that, but I know she’s right.

    As a maximizer…as a perfectionist…as an all-or-nothing…I have to admit…

    It’s okay to start small.

    No, really. It’s okay.

    Following Dawn’s advice and some extra encouragement from my husband, I only hit snooze once and I put on my new Reeboks with the hot pink laces and some good music and went for a 2.5 mile walk. I even ran a few times. And when I couldn’t run anymore, I stopped and continued walking.

    I got home, Tim made some kale/carrot/apple juice, I made some healthy scrambled eggs (and coffee…), and I feel good.

    healthy-juice-today-anne-marie-miller

    I still feel frustrated that I’m not flipping tractor tires yet, but if I can commit to even just getting moving five times a week…which I can do even when I travel…it’s progress.

    Maybe it’s not healthy eating or exercise for you. Maybe it’s a ministry goal or something you want to do in your marriage or with your kids. Maybe it’s signing up for online dating or asking your friends to set you up. Maybe it’s reaching out to start a Bible study or a girls’ night. Maybe it’s reading your Bible every day.

    The time you spend in whatever you’re doing will add up over time.

    Skipping a day here and there doesn’t seem like a big deal until six months have passed and you realize you haven’t knocked off one mile (but you’ve slept in an extra cumulative 72 hours during those six months…shudder).

    It’s okay to start small.

    Will you start with me?

     

  • Your Thoughts! What Should Be Included in the Updated Version of Mad Church Disease?

    20130930-093307.jpg

    I’m in the process if going through my first book Mad Church Disease: Overcoming The Burnout Epidemic and am realizing what an important book it truly is. I wrote it in 2007, when I was twenty-seven…and that seems like ages ago. Knowing that, as I flip through the pages I see how clearly God had His hand in the words. This is not some attempt at a false modesty; God just really spoke loudly the message that needed to be communicated in that book. Somehow, I listened the best I could.

    I found out in February that it was out of print – nobody from the publisher told me, nobody offered to let me buy any copies…there were none. How it happened was outside of the parameters of my contract and because of that, all the rights were reverted back to me.

    At first, I was crushed. Then I realized the potential the news brought. With another seven years of life and ministry experience and after talking with literally thousands of pastors and church staff, I was encouraged and inspired to add pertinent value to the book.

    The study questions and burnout assessments are getting expanded considerably. New stories are being added. As ancillary products I’m writing a devotional and creating a plan that can be customized for anyone who’s feeling burned out or on the brink.

    Some of you have read it. What would be helpful for you to have included in this book?

    It’s my hope to begin pre-selling it soon (if you’re on the “extra inspiration” email list on the right side of my blog, you’ll get some pre-sell discounts and free stuff…!) and I’d appreciate any feedback you have on what would help you be a healthier minister of the Gospel.

  • When You Can’t Breathe – Hold On

    One by one I peeled away the sheets and the duvet from my skin, only to walk into the main room of our home and see the curtain pulled back a few feet and a new blanket of soft grey clouds coming toward me, wrapping me up, deceptively sad and cold – they look so soft and peaceful from afar.

    Around my mind and heart they reached with arms damp with regret and fear and worry and yes, even that slightest bit of pain. Like a needle, so small but I’m so aware of its presence, slowly pushing through the layers of tissue around this cross-stitched heart.

    At least I can feel, I think to myself, my mouth twisted and eyes slightly closed, chest expanding with air as I promise myself if I only breathe deep it won’t feel like I’m suffocating. It’s funny what property owners say about open spaces; sure, there may be no walls in between my kitchen, my dining area and my living room, but they don’t tell you that an open floor plan is only as open as the heart of the person moving in.

    So many choices flash through my mind as I ask myself what’s the next right step and try to slough away the clouds from my insides and outsides. Today is a long shower that’s running out of hot water, teasing me with streams of liquid growing colder, subtly, until the chill hits and goose pimples break out and cover me too. I race to find warmth.

    So many things covering me, so many layers that are not my own skin. I want to strip down to dry bones and walk away from the pieces of me that are still warm because sometimes its the living that is so hard. Bones don’t have eyes to see and judge or mouths to speak words that harm or flesh to wound or hearts to feel regret.

    But bones cannot feel joy either. Bones shatter and turn to dust much faster than this body will. Aches and bruises, confusion and chaos, damp clouds that darken a morning. I must keep in mind those mental photographs of the sunsets that take my breath away with colors that have no name. I must remember the early morning light that paints my windows with silver and gold. I cannot forget the sun and its warmth as it soaks into my skin warming away the coldness of moments like these.

    Hold on. Hold on.