tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16954636425268090062024-02-20T10:04:06.343-05:00Pearls and Picket FencesGrateful || Imperfect || LifeLaura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.comBlogger170125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-40092200651403559822020-10-19T13:13:00.001-04:002020-10-19T13:14:15.601-04:00SOFTLY & TENDERLY...<p><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Hoefler Text"; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUjVvlcoyiz4Rb8CL8YEuRwzPJWwLkAwRcTk8txGo_4cPkwzybpl68Dfn7X5qCI2bGFX50GdYin3z2jQRT4svor8-tUYQIlKtP7JD93L8NZd5lmKfR6O-afboCu2RtKG2xYzpqwz2jE8/s564/cf5b0dfba2c004c5485c6a413e07310c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUjVvlcoyiz4Rb8CL8YEuRwzPJWwLkAwRcTk8txGo_4cPkwzybpl68Dfn7X5qCI2bGFX50GdYin3z2jQRT4svor8-tUYQIlKtP7JD93L8NZd5lmKfR6O-afboCu2RtKG2xYzpqwz2jE8/w200-h200/cf5b0dfba2c004c5485c6a413e07310c.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The thing about grief is that it’s invisible.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span><p></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">No one can see how your insides are so torn apart. </span>No one can see what feels bloody and raw deep inside. No one can see through your tight smile and tired eyes all that you can’t bring yourself to say. And the thing with grief, in addition to being invisible, is the invisible timeline that you constantly feel you’re rubbing up against. Shouldn’t you be crying less? Shouldn’t you be at peace? Shouldn’t you not feel like bawling when everyone else is laughing? Shouldn’t you stop posting about it on social media by now? Shouldn’t it stop cycling so hard through your brain?</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Unless you are full out crying and unless someone has the brave compassion to ask you about it, the majority of your grief goes unnoticed and unacknowledged.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I thought about this today when I went to get a cup of coffee from one of my favorite little local shops. I decided to try something new, I mean, why not on this rainy October day.<br /><br />It's awful. I mean, there’s not much I don’t like, but it’s really not that great.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And my grief made noise about it in my head. Today is a rough day, doesn’t anyone see that? Today is heavy, can’t anyone tell? I need something to go right and how hard is it to make a cup of coffee that isn’t disgusting? I wasn’t insanely irate, but I was disappointed. And what made it even louder between my ears was the fact that I have tiny fractured bits of my heart floating around inside of my chest. That’s how grief tells it’s story; <i>“Of all days!” </i>it cries. Of all days you get stopped by a train, get more bad news, get handed a cup of weirdly mixed coffee.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zi1AnWK3SkgDo61bPf30BMqpBFQbcncnXW6nBRtBRMNUgprkyebpLaYSokBOxyDGNY95fdmKwvjAO9jO0EOTcLE93yGXh3TZPm8FytesNLc0AKlFmfRjc-PZ7sjguBVy8OnZXsLbdyM/s704/eb3cb5095a74dedd206f0b052ee0689b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="564" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zi1AnWK3SkgDo61bPf30BMqpBFQbcncnXW6nBRtBRMNUgprkyebpLaYSokBOxyDGNY95fdmKwvjAO9jO0EOTcLE93yGXh3TZPm8FytesNLc0AKlFmfRjc-PZ7sjguBVy8OnZXsLbdyM/w160-h200/eb3cb5095a74dedd206f0b052ee0689b.jpg" width="160" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Grief isn’t rational. It’s also not linear. You can bounce all around in a single day when it comes to the myriad of emotions. You’ll be up and you’ll be caught low. You’ll be compassionate to someone else or an unpleasant circumstance (like a yuck coffee) and other times it’ll cause you to spiral. Nothing goes right. Everything has gone horribly wrong. Even the coffee in your hand says so.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Autumn is my favorite season. It’s been my favorite forever (maybe because I don’t like extremes: being too hot makes me cranky, too cold gives me a tension headache). It’s also the season that I got married, and so the start of the month brings back all of those pre-wedding emotions and all the hopes and dreams we had (and still have). Losing people you love in the midst of your favorite season feels really cruel.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">How am I supposed to enjoy this <i>now</i>? How am I supposed to be carefree about hayrides and pumpkin patches and cider slushies when I’m carrying around this massive backpack of loss? How do you reconcile a season you love when it becomes a season your soul kind of wants to avoid? It’s so wonderful and it hurts so bad.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was sharing this with a friend and she made a comment that started spinning a web in my head. She said how interesting it was (and ultimately, kind) of God to comfort me with my favorite season - my favorite tastes and scents and sounds - in the midst of heartbreak and grief. I listened to her message and stood outside swinging Henry on our playset and I felt the shift. I looked out over the painted trees against a blue sky, felt the cool harvest wind in my hair and I thought wow, yeah. It feels like I’m really loved right now. It feels like I’m really seen, really cared for.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Wildly comforted.</i></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">How intensely kind of Christ. How so like Him to make a way when there doesn’t feel like there could be one. How like Him to show Himself to be serving up provision in the most comforting and touching way possible to my one (but not the only one) broken heart?</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">All weekend at my Mom and Dad’s over Fall Break, I wore it around my neck, a gold bar with the Hebrew word, HESED which is translated loosely into<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>the “loving-kindness” or “steadfast love” of God. His supreme grace and mercy towards humanity. It appears 246 times in the Old Testament alone. Before we left, it’s the one piece of jewelry I packed. I fastened it around my neck just before walking out the door, saying to myself, <i>“I need the kindness of God this weekend.”</i> I needed His nearness. His compassion. His loyalty and provision. I needed to be reminded of His intentions towards me... towards us all.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am reminded as I glance despairingly at the inferior coffee to my right of what Job said in chapter two: <i>“Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?”</i> Are we so entitled to a good cup of coffee, a wedding day without rain, always a good outcome on the test results?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">How can I accept that God cares for me in good times and then doubt that He cares just as much about me in the bad? How can I sense His nearness in worship at church, in a well-timed note from a friend, in a breathtaking sunset, in good news that floods my inbox and my social media feed, but then not also find and warm to His kindness in those cool, damp days that seem to leak into my bones? Those days when nothing ever goes right. The days the unimaginable becomes reality? The days I am disappointed, or ignored, the days my grief isn’t comforted, the days my prayers aren’t answered the way I had prayed them to be.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsr6lk5W8Ml93I3EXUOAc0aEBSCIQ-AeBpYnIlhuESYDaxDxG7fQslXeGhxP8iru51WsRoky2K2dM2sglC9oJSb4eNF4F6pXQLlmW6F1uMwUgss3p-3gmlJEPSOUOtaBy_a-8iBksLzw/s640/52b31d291533de2265d1131195ff5ad5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="428" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsr6lk5W8Ml93I3EXUOAc0aEBSCIQ-AeBpYnIlhuESYDaxDxG7fQslXeGhxP8iru51WsRoky2K2dM2sglC9oJSb4eNF4F6pXQLlmW6F1uMwUgss3p-3gmlJEPSOUOtaBy_a-8iBksLzw/w134-h200/52b31d291533de2265d1131195ff5ad5.jpg" width="134" /></span></a></div><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">What then? Is He done being kind, then? God never changes. He is the same yesterday, today and forever. His character is steadfast, His compassions never fail and so the Bible says, His mercies are new every morning. So, what then? If all that is true of Him then... and true of Him now... then it is true of Him on the glorious, joy-filled days and it is true of Him when we are souls are so low to the darkness that there are no shadows.</span></span><p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s hard to accept comfort. Another funny thing with grief. We want so badly to be held and our hurt to be acknowledged, but we also try to hold all the shards in our open hands and pretend to not bleed. There’s been so many times when I am emotionally not able to hold it together and my friends see it in the moisture in my eyes and the tightness of my lips and they say, “<i>Are you doing okay?”</i> and I blink rapidly and say, <i>“Don’t be nice to me right now.”</i> I want so much to fall apart and be comforted, but just like we sense that imaginary timeline telling us we’ve cried long enough, we also feel like we’re supposed to stay strong. So we tell our friends to not be kind to us.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Because kindness is our undoing.</span></i></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />We wait for it and long for it. On the way home from my niece’s funeral weekend four years ago, I stopped by a Chic-Fil-A for lunch. All because I wanted someone to be really, really insanely kind to me. I knew they would be so patient, so over the top nice. And I was so raw, that that’s what I needed. And then I was bawling in my waffle fries, because they really had been that kind and the comfort turned me into a puddle.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The kindness of God is important to Him.</i> I think it’s important to Him that we know it. Not that we simply experience it or talk about our <i>“God winks”</i> ... but to really know that in the depths of His heart He is massively, incomparably kind. It’s easy to think that in the midst of death, in the middle of an unexpected chapter, when the phone call comes through and it’s exactly the thing you’ve always dreaded... it’s easy to think that in those times He has gone to sleep at the wheel. It’s easy to think He simply must have turned away or that He got this all wrong.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZmjdwae6A5KgyyqK_TiqfXFrdPwc0NkymxQbDGnJLbWaOAgXGrNiIj6wzjafphiCjAj6qgHlRrEMtJfVXWYMOuY4iMKZESfgt6ruoUCMHAKmqdLX_ybIAZURGBvT48G58MoAxZXNqo8/s696/7a59976bdb8f0710820812946b484609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="696" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZmjdwae6A5KgyyqK_TiqfXFrdPwc0NkymxQbDGnJLbWaOAgXGrNiIj6wzjafphiCjAj6qgHlRrEMtJfVXWYMOuY4iMKZESfgt6ruoUCMHAKmqdLX_ybIAZURGBvT48G58MoAxZXNqo8/w144-h200/7a59976bdb8f0710820812946b484609.jpg" width="144" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">This world is so badly broken. This isn’t the Eden He created. This isn’t the euphoric beauty He brought the first man and the first woman to. <u>This is not what He wanted for us.</u> This is not what He designed for us. A life where we bury too soon? Jesus stood outside the tomb of His friend, Lazarus and broke down and cried. He must have said the things we say. <i>“This can’t be happening. This wasn’t supposed to be this way. How is this real?”</i></span><p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And as my bottom lip trembles and my eyes fill up, I think how that’s how He got to the cross. Because it wasn’t supposed to be this way. And we know it and He knows it and all of creation knows it. The wrongness of this side of the garden took our Jesus to the cross. And it drove Him to the depths of darkness to take back the keys. Because He knew we would sit here and shake our heads and cry and cry and say, <i>“It’s not supposed to be like this!”</i> And He agreed. Because He is too kind and too full of love for us to not see this.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Heaven is not just the ultimate kindness. The ultimate resolution. The tender love is found in the story we know right now... <i>because we already know the ending</i>. We aren’t left wondering. We aren’t left with our hearts in our throats, hanging onto the edge of a cliffhanger by our fingernails. God didn’t just give us the redemption of Jesus. He didn’t just give us a way to Him through the priesthood of His Son. He gave us the end of the story. He didn’t leave us in the dark. He didn’t leave us guessing how things would go. He didn’t leave us wondering<i> if</i> He would come or redeem things.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We can live with the ache that feels abnormal, because it is. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. We can handle the unacceptable cup of coffee, the unfair circumstance, the loss we can’t comprehend, because of the very kindness of God to not keep us guessing. To not keep us spiraling. To not keep us looped into our broken tracks.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Is it hard? Yes. Is it difficult to reconcile in our minds? Yes. But the difficultly of the middle part of the story doesn’t take away the truth of the final chapters. The middle only magnifies the grace to come. The hard stories only serve to make the truth of the goodness of God that much more lovely. He knows this is hard for us. We don’t have to square our shoulders and turn away before He sees the tears burning in our eyes and say, <i>“Don’t be nice to me right now.” </i>He has already been so impossibly “nice” to us, that it cannot be undone. The truth of what He did on the cross stands. The true story of Him taking back the finality of death, stands. His promises are true and His work on the cross finished forever for us the wondering and turmoil.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6cys68qbCTznpQAxMHL7WjnICcCZ1WKlnBB62TLEIFnZo_z4qsMKQEYqzJwVipCtYEqdA7HQDcf8fQIDehALk6DpgzkmxFnBOYaX5JI3tV01CDgSYsJhhjK-OqMr8HvD5MLTnaO5HOSM/s564/dff61323ff5c1a920bb8181aa268b9cd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6cys68qbCTznpQAxMHL7WjnICcCZ1WKlnBB62TLEIFnZo_z4qsMKQEYqzJwVipCtYEqdA7HQDcf8fQIDehALk6DpgzkmxFnBOYaX5JI3tV01CDgSYsJhhjK-OqMr8HvD5MLTnaO5HOSM/w200-h200/dff61323ff5c1a920bb8181aa268b9cd.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">He loves you and me too much to play games with us. He’s not setting us up. He’s not trying to get good ratings on the streaming show of your life. He’s not trying to get people hooked, only to leave them hanging until a new season arrives. He has given us the entire story of His goodness. Of His kindness that never, ever, ever changes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><p></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><i>It was true of Him then. It is true of Him now.</i></span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There will be the awful cups in your own hands to drink. But the story doesn’t end there. I am so grateful and so breathless with how good, tender and close He is. He is full of comfort and continued provision. He makes the bitter things sweet and will make every cup we’ve had to drink or witness others taking, a lullaby of His kindness....</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be the glory in church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.” ~ Ephesians 3:20-21</span></i></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Amen.</span></span></p>Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-68209745291038236102019-10-31T14:43:00.000-04:002019-10-31T14:47:47.443-04:00ALL THE STARS WE STEAL FROM THE NIGHT SKY<style type="text/css">
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Something about it reaches out and snatches my attention.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Kind of like when you’re walking by a storefront and you feel your attention grabbed by the display, by the reminder of a gift you should by, by someone’s face who sparks familiar. Just a little something that draws you in and makes you feel like you just have to pay attention.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I wonder how many times I’ve read this verse, this passage, this book. I wonder how many times I’ve driven right on by, never noticing the way that tree leans or has that barn really always been right there? We can be so oblivious in our day to day. I mean, how many times can family members walk around piles of clean clothes, their own belongings, and not know to reach down and take it with them back to where it goes? How many times do I?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYY7GRpwjs07R1EsXUgCOIVxrpqh_46-BaUOkKNFd7fc_uopFPQivxxH4bJQv2VM9x5Gi1lgegSEurT0ty4G0KK2RDxoYyspJq5oN1zWc0Pb78pS3ynHrEfo7zApgGhk_ayNeYYpE-YE/s1600/b6f2f9554cf6b7670c73547c50a1337f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYY7GRpwjs07R1EsXUgCOIVxrpqh_46-BaUOkKNFd7fc_uopFPQivxxH4bJQv2VM9x5Gi1lgegSEurT0ty4G0KK2RDxoYyspJq5oN1zWc0Pb78pS3ynHrEfo7zApgGhk_ayNeYYpE-YE/s320/b6f2f9554cf6b7670c73547c50a1337f.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1">The verse that presents a pause to my early morning study is Psalm 51:12b: </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><i>“Sustain me by giving me a </i></span><span class="s2"><b><i>willing</i></b></span><span class="s1"><i> spirit.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Interesting, isn’t it, self? I take another sip of coffee. A willing spirit? Why would that maybe be key?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I grapple for my journal and start writing. Trying to find a way to use the key I've been handed to unlock what is suddenly right in front of me.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">If you want to be in someone’s presence, you have to ask. Just like my friend, Regina, asks me out to breakfast, I have to accept, let her know that’s a good morning for Grandma to keep Henry and most importantly: <i>I have to show up</i>. I can ask my sweet friend, Jamie, if I can stop at her house as I drive through, confident she’ll fill me up on love and iced coffee, but she has to open the door for<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>me when I arrive. Someone has to submit. Both sides have something to offer, both have to put it out there. Both have to wait or give some kind of commitment to show up, to not keep the door locked, to put the coffee on.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Likewise, we submit to God. We can’t just beg to be saved, changed, for it to all magically go away. We have to step down, back off, put aside our self and get to work. Even Jesus had to submit to the will of His Father in order to save us all. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><i>What kind of willing spirit must the cross have taken?</i></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVARZy_J9q2vQ7TWck3RMZV_nDmxhKhAGnLPOXMfWCY_CrSOXWB2bJpLcg__hGeVrRTL3Lbi0MseUNXJ3yHaIRtofhUQG6Uv6tn1XQkInsuCn40HD7OoZCJ5R-jLjiaNBcZQq_4HosGK0/s1600/a7353330698da1b630756dc363dc4224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVARZy_J9q2vQ7TWck3RMZV_nDmxhKhAGnLPOXMfWCY_CrSOXWB2bJpLcg__hGeVrRTL3Lbi0MseUNXJ3yHaIRtofhUQG6Uv6tn1XQkInsuCn40HD7OoZCJ5R-jLjiaNBcZQq_4HosGK0/s320/a7353330698da1b630756dc363dc4224.jpg" width="256" /></a><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">We try to fix, control, micro-manage. We plan our days, our weeks - a year of fat goals. And then the well-planned date night gets cancelled because your kid starts puking. Submit. Willing to be stretched, disappointed, inconvenienced. I recently received a diagnosis of anemia and that only came after an over two year stretch of feeling miserable and more miserable. I can’t tell you how many freedom prayers I prayed. How many times I bartered and begged. Cried on my knees. Smacked myself around emotionally to deal, to do better.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But what eventually had to happen? I had to submit to finally calling my doctor and requesting a blood draw vs. relying on what Google could tell me. Could God have healed me with a snap of His fingers, no iron supplementation required? Certainly! But has God maybe provided me with a trustworthy and knowledgeable physician who can provide medical support far surpassing my ability to self-diagnose, self-cure? Without a doubt.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But here’s the thing... <i>we love the fix, we don’t really like the leg work required</i>. It’s why fast and easy ways to detox or slim your way to sexy in 10 days are so popular. No one really ever wants to submit. To do the hard work. To die to self. To be willing to be the one to be vulnerable, the one to risk, the one to be wrong or hurt. Doesn’t a lot of our frustration come when we are unwilling? Refusing to help, to change, to apologize, to reach out, to open a door, to drive the miles?</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">To admit that sometimes your hand hurts because you keep hitting yourself with the hammer of your own choosing?</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Ever have a heart to heart with yourself? Like a really strong, really true, come to Jesus meeting - just you, yourself and that child that still lives deep down inside? The one who gets triggered. The one who can pout. The one who can feel like the bottom of everyone's priority list. The other day my eldest had some anger that exploded all over and he wound up slamming the back door, throwing his shoes and stomping up the stairs. It would be less annoying, maybe, if I didn't see so clearly myself in that nine year old rage-fest.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Sometimes we don't want to have self-control, so we roar. Sometimes we don't want to do the right thing, so we play the self card and shut down. Sometimes we don't want to eat healthy, so we eat a pack of Mint Oreos instead (don't ask me how I know these things). Sometimes we stay miserable because we don't want to try. <i>And sometimes we stay sick because we don't want to put in the work to be made well.</i></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">In John chapter five we learn about a man who has been an invalid for thirty-eight years (plot-twist, I'm thirty-eight, too.). This man has been laying beside the rippling pool of Bethesda, and Jesus knew, the Bible says, that he had been there a long time. The cooling, healing waters, lapping just beyond his reach. Restoration a cannonball away.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I can imagine Jesus kneeling down, amidst the evidence of someone physically broken and mentally probably destroyed, the humanity of languishing beside the bowl of physical salvation. Amidst a multitude of giving-up souls, Jesus approaches this one and asks him a question - simple and moving with meaning.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Do you want to be healed?"</span></b></i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I wonder how many heads turned. I wonder if the man gaped at Jesus like He had lost His mind. What would you do? Your mouth might work but no sound would come out. You might gesture frustratingly with your arms. <i>I'm here aren't I?! </i>The man answers just as plainly that he doesn't have anyone to take him down into the water at the right time. Surely Jesus - obviously - knows that the man is here to get well. Not only is he unable to heal himself, but he has probably given up. Wouldn't I do the same? Haven't I?</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">What if Jesus wasn't asking the obvious question. What if He was probing to see if this man was prepared for the<i> responsibility of being healed. </i>It's kind of like calling in sick for work or for another responsibility - it only works when you're sick. Once you're well - it's back to real life. My kids come home with a fever or other school-circulated illness and they get babied and lots of snacks and tons of snuggly couch time and their favorite shows. But by golly, the moment they've been fever-free for 24 hours it's back to real life.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Sometimes when we've been down so long, we aren't really sure we want - or know how - to get back up. Even if the Healer comes (and the Healer always does). But like this man at the water's edge - if he did indeed get better, he would have to pick himself up and walk out. That means he would have to go do life. Find a job. Pay taxes. Take care of himself. He wouldn't be able to sit against a wall and live the life of an invalid. He would have to live in freedom and responsibility. As someone who has been given a fresh new world - not someone still waiting for one to come.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">We have to want to be healed. We have to be willing to be healed.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Our provision and sustenance is always found in Christ and provided for by our good God. If we know how to give good gifts to our kids, how much more does God know how to love us? And so we have to trust that like any good parent, the love, the lavish devotion, the desire for good things, for health - that God wants the same for us. And likewise for a good parent, not a dictator, that we want a willing, obedient, trusting spirit from our children. To believe that we have their good in mind. That He has every good and kind motive towards us.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Do you want to fix this? Do you want to be healed from that? Do you want your life to be abundant and full and free? Are you tired of the anxiety, the stress, the worry? Is the grief too heavy for you to carry anymore? Are the unanswered questions too loud in your ears? Jesus asks us to take His burden because it's better, lighter. He switches us out of our heavy pack as we journey together.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The healing comes. In some form. But do we really want to be healed? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because if your answer is yes, you're going to have to pick something up and go. You will have to accept, lay down, move forward, give up,... something. And then you're going to have to stand up, step your feet up to the very edge, and give it your very best shot.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><i>Cannonball!</i></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><b>love and a </b></i></span></span><i style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">sound mind</span>."</b></i></div>
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<br />Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-37822691904108349532019-07-27T15:07:00.001-04:002019-07-27T15:08:31.806-04:00LET GO MY SOUL<style type="text/css">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The past ten months have been the longest stretch of desert sand I think I’ve known when it comes to my personal health. I stumbled through September with personally diagnosed allergies and sinus colds. I missed every choir practice. I went away on a romantic weekend for my tenth anniversary and came down with strep throat right before we left and took unhealthy amounts of ibuprofen to see me through. (We came home and my husband then came down with strep, went to the doctor and got meds. You know. Cause life is unfair like that.)</span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><br />I got more and more run down. Pretty sure I wound up with walking pneumonia (my Momma said that’s what was going to happen and I smiled and was like, </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Mmmk, Mom.”</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">)</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t know what happened in November and December. Thanksgiving</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">and Christmas, I’m assuming? I missed all of the beautiful church services. I turned thirty-eight, I guess. And then it was 2019. And winter. And snow and ice on the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">inside</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> of our doors. WHAT. I live in Indiana, not Alaska. It was completely bananas and then </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">went bananas. I continued to plummet more and more.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I finally broke down enough that I scheduled an appointment for some blood work, because by this time I was pretty certain I was anemic. I mean, I had educated myself by Googling and checking off all of the symptoms. The tech took two vials and said if one came back normal (which it did) then she would have my ferritin levels (iron stores) evaluated. So, that’s what they did and not long after, while at lunch with a sweet friend, I got a call that I needed to get myself some iron pills. I nearly cried with joy (maybe I did?) because finally we had an answer. Right?! I was deficient and this was going to make it all better! HALLELUJAH! <br />
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It did seem to help for a time. I think releasing the stress of trying to figure out what was wrong with me also helped the storm cloud lift. I started working out again. I started feeling the brain fog lift. But just as quickly as it all seemed to be relieved, it all crashed over me again. I felt like I was back at square one or maybe even worse than before. Another doctor’s appointment is made.<br />
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He listens in the most compassionate way imaginable, arguing with me when I say I’m crazy or it’s all too much and he decides to run a bunch of tests to find out what’s going haywire inside of me. He tells me that he’s determined to help me and I believe him. I turn over his business card and it simply says, <i>“Pray, hope, and don’t worry.”</i> (St. Padre Pio). And I bow my head and cry. And I feel hope’s struggle to bloom again.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I get a call while we are on vacation that my thyroid is having a rough go of it and I will have a prescription waiting for me when I return. I couldn’t get home fast enough. I’m back at the doctor’s office ten days later, more blood work, more going over my numbers, and the nurse looks quizzically at me as she takes my vitals, <i>“Do you have a history of high blood pressure?”</i> I feel a bell of alarm ring. She asked me that same thing a few weeks prior. <i>“No, I’ve always been praised for my LOW blood pressure.”</i> Hmmm, she says. My doctor later tells me to keep an eye on it. To use those nifty little machines at the pharmacy counters to check my stats. Last night I did, like I was eighty, with my seven year old asking what in the world I was doing. And as feared, my numbers were high. And I stressed and worried and cried (later, not in the store. I have some control.) And then I woke up and stressed and worried and cried some more. (Super helpful thing to do when your body is physically stressed!)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s Saturday and this whole day I’ve been a bundle of freak out</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">. Worried which kid would throw a fit next and cause my heart to power up and threaten to explode. To take me down. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, isn’t that the thing? To </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: medium;">do</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">? But when it comes to your heart being too taxed, what can you do? Obviously taking care of yourself and exercising are all important, but when you’ve been too tired to do anything, it’s just a vicious circle and you kind of give up, cause it looks like you’re going to drown, no matter which way you turn.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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While the boys ate lunch, I made brownies and mixed up my iced coffee. It was that kind of day and I didn’t know what else to do. I’d already vacuumed and done laundry and tried to journal. I had sat quietly and cried listening to, <i>“Rescue” </i>(Lauren Daigle) and as I folded myself into child’s pose, my three year old did the same, his face near mine, giggling. I laughed as the tears splashed down my face and he jumped on top of me, <i>“I love youuuu, Mommy.”</i></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZial6fHbxn3ciXFesW0ogSY8IeCgOiL452ZU13zKtgm49t20iFR-zOW68rptjzn2Scak2qt_vxkGbDsg8FBktMDEpW7MTSI04ZH5oi6g09pEMidc710aiPYt15-ceAn9uuYd5LtBtXuA/s1600/2b257cc13d669c4d627c1046aadaf308.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="513" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZial6fHbxn3ciXFesW0ogSY8IeCgOiL452ZU13zKtgm49t20iFR-zOW68rptjzn2Scak2qt_vxkGbDsg8FBktMDEpW7MTSI04ZH5oi6g09pEMidc710aiPYt15-ceAn9uuYd5LtBtXuA/s400/2b257cc13d669c4d627c1046aadaf308.jpg" width="213" /></span></a><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I can’t explain it, but I sat down to read stories before nap time and I felt something tear away in my mind. I had been watching the birds outside look for worms and I thought how they always have the provision they need. Something startled them and they flew to the other side of the house, but I knew they would find what they need whether they flew to another part of the yard or came back to beneath my window. And I took deep breaths and thought about how I am given provision in every moment. Enough manna in the morning and enough for the evening and always, somehow, something on my plate the next day. I think someone was praying for me, honestly, and I fully sensed that burdening pack taken off of my tired shoulders.<br />
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So, like any normal person, I decided I should set aside the iced coffee and workout, now.</span></span></div>
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I’m pretty picky about my workouts, mainly because my very nature wants everything to mean something - and mostly because I believe that everything does mean something. I’m an introvert and a writer and fairytales are a real live thing, people. And we are living one. You’re right in the middle of yours and I’m right in the middle of mine and while I’ve felt stranded in the desert, that has left me with nothing but looking north, south, east and west for my Rescuer to come. <i>Because He always surely comes.</i></span></span></div>
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I click on a workout within this wonderful ministry that isn’t about just moving your body, but about honoring the God who gave us bodies to maintain and help flourish to begin with. I just can’t do some insane high energy workout right now and running on the treadmill kind of made me feel nauseous. Because I wanted more, really. I wanted to be preached to and my friend Kara leads us in wellness, but with a strong spirit of witnessing the goodness and power of Christ. Can I get an amen?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The screen flickers and I see it briefly, Psalm 27:14. My heart snags a little on it, because I’m sure it’s the verse I know, one I kept close for a long time, a reminder to wait on the Lord. I Goggle it quickly just to make sure I’m right and I am, but my breath catches: <i>“Wait on the Lord, be of good courage, </i><b><i>and He shall strengthen thine heart;</i></b><i> wait, I say, on the Lord.”<br />
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</i>He will do WHAT?! </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">S T R E N G T H E N M Y H E A R T ? ? ? ? </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Y’all. <i>Come on.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Cue the tears. All the tears.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I’ve been telling myself to just do the next right thing. My system was too overwhelmed with anything more than that. Just focus on today, Laura. Just do what you have to right now. Don’t borrow worry or trouble or strain from a future day. Over and over I’ve said it: just breathe. In and out. You are loved, you are loved. I love how He strings the promise so completely on that tiny string of my little life. Each story slides along and clinks up familiar to the one next to it. And when you’re able, you pull back and look and think, <i>“Oh, my. He never missed a thing.”</i> And you wonder why you doubted. Why you, like Peter, began to sink when your Savior was looking you full in the face.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You can’t make up His goodness. You can’t beat His kind of love. His providing ways. I feel like I was being rolled up and over by the waves and I suddenly got spit out, dredged over and over in sand until I landed, still. And when I looked up there was the most beautiful beach house and all you know is that rest is here. And you stand up and take a deep breath, wiggling toes down into the gritty earth, to confirm that you are alive and not drowning anymore. And suddenly your shoulders relax and you can’t stop crying because the rescue that you hoped would happen, did. The wish that someone would care for you, it came true. Your deepest desire to reach out and have someone pull you in, it happens.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">And you relax and you don’t remember if you reached out or He reached for you first.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I think maybe He reached for me first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">"Cast all your anxiety on Him.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;">For He cares for you..."</span><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ I Peter 5:7</span></i></b></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">“I am sure as where you’re standing...</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">You don’t have to reach for me.</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Cause this where I am. I am...”</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ Amanda Lindsey Cook, House on a Hill</span></i></b></span></div>
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<br />Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-11978193493291737022019-06-16T11:01:00.001-04:002019-06-16T11:01:48.385-04:00THE WORLD THAT'S WAITING UP FOR ME
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He’s very nearly three and it’s just a hard time for him (and for us). He’s learning to communicate more, but his speech bubbles are still limited and he has easy meltdowns over wearing the wrong hat, not getting to remove his own shoes, our minivan stopping or turning into a parking lot when he simply wants to keep on moving down the road.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">This morning I seemed to have an extra dose of patience (which is shocking, because I’m feeling anything but) and while he was (expectedly) disappointed when I told him no to a request, on the contingency that he had to clean up - I wasn’t real shocked by the tears. Don’t I throw similar fits? That’s all I could see as he hid behind the barstools, under the ledge of the kitchen island. Tears dripping down his round face, hiding as far back as he could. Probably feeling like Momma didn’t really love him or get his request at all. He was all alone, a toddler on his own deserted island, in the middle of our home.<br />
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I coaxed him calmly. I told him he only needed to clean up some other toys before getting something new out. I told him I would help him. I told him not to throw a fit and to let me give him a hug. I sat and waited quietly on the floor next to his mess of toys, wondering if he’d give in and come find me waiting and ready to help. He stayed meshed under the counter.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_zSQC2mbZuUQ3BCZvXNkdYqLXU6i2ixEG8o9o4lQBAanRMHQIWEcHyd9BisUQSbuYM3ocmTB808IapizgNSrhTMuG7WSzbOfIuPSw3z_zur5Fcdrw3BVGDePZ_eujz8w1zZch-qa7yY/s1600/38d308dc474ca46905a365e6dce63991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="845" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_zSQC2mbZuUQ3BCZvXNkdYqLXU6i2ixEG8o9o4lQBAanRMHQIWEcHyd9BisUQSbuYM3ocmTB808IapizgNSrhTMuG7WSzbOfIuPSw3z_zur5Fcdrw3BVGDePZ_eujz8w1zZch-qa7yY/s320/38d308dc474ca46905a365e6dce63991.jpg" width="213" /></a><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Eventually he said he wanted to eat (which is what we had attempted to do five minutes prior, but he had gotten distracted going in and out of the pantry, watching the light flicker on and off) and I took his hands and helped him in his chair while he was still crying. <i>“Buddy, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’m going to feed you. Do you need a Kleenex for that nose?”</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">He’s miserable and snotty, but he relents and I clean him up and snap his bib on and give him clean water and a new snack. And while my patience pants were on strong and I was able to focus on him (not on how exasperating it all was) all I could hear was God saying the same things to me. In my own frustration that things couldn’t or can’t be what I want. That I can’t have what I want to have right now. That I need a snack and a Kleenex and fresh water, but I’m also stubborn and hiding in a corner where I am fully seen, but am pretending I’ve never been so abandoned.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Have you been there, too?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">The big boys had Bible school this past week and memorized 2 Peter 1:3. When they came home to recall it to me and teach the toddler the hand motions, I struggled to not tear up. Not because it’s awesome hearing your kiddos quote scripture (and it is!) but because oh my goodness, how often do I act like I desperately do not have everything I need to cope or succeed or withstand another war over mini muffins with my almost-three year old?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">When kids, friends, husbands, strangers in the checkout lane all make me want to roll my eyes, run away or eat a Snickers in my closet, that’s when I’m not so unlike my little guy. And I forget that I have everything I need. That there’s a hand to reach out to and a Name to call on and that I literally have the Spirit of God inside of me, helping me along. Helping me put those patience pants on one leg at a time.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I’m not all alone snotting tears behind the leg of a barstool. I might be crying for a million things, not excluding water (with coffee, please) and my own bag of mini-muffins and my myriad of requests and denials, fighting with the restraints, wanting what I want without cleaning up or putting in the work before me. Wanting what I want when I want it, without hearing God whispering kindly above me, over my so small head, that He’s right there, that He has given me everything I need, do I want a hug or a Kleenex?</span></span></div>
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And so today I’m going to try to live like I believe what I say I believe. You know, that God is for me, not against me. That I’m fully cared for and completely loved. That I have what I need for this very, exact, precise moment. Maybe I think I would like to pull more out of the bottom craft drawer, maybe I think I can handle more, more, more.... and maybe He’s telling me, waiting for me, to help me clean up what is before me, so that I am fresh and equipped for the next thing.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Situations, relationships, heck, life in general, can look confusing and maddening. The people we love drive us crazy the most and as angelic as we <i>surely</i> are, we seem to set them off, too. They roll their eyes at us and we are aghast. They get impatient and we gape in surprise. <i>How could they?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i> But the truth, my sweet friend with the inner almost three year old: <i>How could we?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i> Are we really so different? I don’t think so. We are needy and entitled and desperate and impatient.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Today I choose to pause and to listen. To imagine myself as that small person with the big feelings, because gosh, am I not just this? Aren’t you? We stand vulnerable with our whole hearts in our eyes and we just want this one thing to go well and then we think it’ll all be fine. And something says no or yes or maybe or stop. And it can feel oh so very unfair and maybe it was a misunderstanding or a stressed out tone or someone else forgot their patience pants today. But you are not alone. You are not badly fitted for this moment. You are not ill equipped.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">He is present, He is willing, He is overwhelmingly ready to rush in with kindness and to provide peace in all the spaces. If only we could stop reaching for what we think we need, stop kicking for what we didn’t get, stop screaming about the unfairness of it all and I will hide out here under the kitchen counter where you can’t find me, <i>thankyouverymuch</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Will you choose to hear? To take a deep breath and tell yourself, “No fits” and really listen? Will you beg for food and find your plate already filled? Your cup overflowing? Will you go rest and find the bed already provided?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Will you stoop down and find that God is already there?</span><br /><b><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: small;">"God has given us </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">everything</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large; font-style: italic;">we need </span><span style="font-size: small; font-style: italic;">to live a godly life."</span><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ 2 P e t e r 1 : 3 </span></b></span></div>
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</style>Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-69195735606271651182019-02-27T13:43:00.000-05:002019-02-27T13:43:08.656-05:00I WILL SEND OUT AN ARMY...<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A few weeks ago, my six year old began asking for me to please buy a favorite yogurt from the store. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhySVdPr9bjeuwmUbumNdkNAeobiFsy3KiaPq5AbopnxCWupMazqIbPpjCrzN0Rryc0tjHc4mq3s0i1ngP4F2PzSFKl0rKTUn2CKcffBYsLKXzdlfZ0PRlBi_VYOcgaAv7bDhyphenhyphenSZTMu0/s1600/270ca73757e94200ca39bf21bb7bc964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhySVdPr9bjeuwmUbumNdkNAeobiFsy3KiaPq5AbopnxCWupMazqIbPpjCrzN0Rryc0tjHc4mq3s0i1ngP4F2PzSFKl0rKTUn2CKcffBYsLKXzdlfZ0PRlBi_VYOcgaAv7bDhyphenhyphenSZTMu0/s1600/270ca73757e94200ca39bf21bb7bc964.jpg" /></a><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He said it was chocola</span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">te and vanilla and it was the best thing he had ever had and why hadn’t I bought it again? I wasn’t real sure what he was talking about and so I took him with me to the store one day and we investigated every container, unfortunately, none of them was what he was wanting. His face was devastated as only a kindergartener’s can be over yogurt; </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I’ll never taste it again.”</i></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I assured him that sure he would, we would find it. Maybe it just wasn’t at this particular store. Maybe we were overlooking it or maybe they were out of stock. I’ve looked every time I’ve been at the store and still couldn’t find anything that resembled what he was describing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then, on Monday night my oldest and I ran into the store for a few items before basketball practice and we stocked up on some yogurt and cheese and that’s when I saw it. Cups of layered chocolate and vanilla. My eyes sparked. <i>“Joel! Do you think THIS is what Travis has been wanting? Pudding?!” </i>Joel was certain we had stumbled across the magical snack that dreams are made of, so I tossed it in the cart with a giddy smile.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I asked him Tuesday morning at breakfast, turning from the fridge with the surprise in my hands if <i>this </i>was his beloved treat and his eyes pooled. <i>“You found it!” </i>Later after dinner that night, as we were retelling this tale to Daddy about snacks that come true, Travis got visibly choked up and he started full on crying, right there with the spoon in his hand: <i>“Thank you, Mommy for finding it! You’re the best Mommy ever!” </i>Pausing from sweet bites to give me a hug.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m not crying, you’re crying.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As I tend to do, I’ve been turning that moment over and over again in my hands. Of course I didn’t give up looking for that cup of pudding. Of course I remembered every time I went to the store. I didn’t even have to add it to my list, it was instinctive, because I love my little boy. And I want to do everything in my power to bring joy and special experiences into his life. A pudding cup isn’t really that extravagant,... is it?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There have been prayers I have prayed that have been answered beyond what I could have imagined. And other prayers that were answered exactly as I wanted them. And still others, not answered at all like what my original request was. But does any of that change God’s love for me? Whether it’s a yes, a no, or a wait... does a father’s love ever wear out? The Bible even says that if we know how to give good gifts to our children (like pudding!) how much more does God the Father pour out on us? <i>(Matthew 7:11)</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This morning I was driving to the store and it felt amazing. I have to tell you that I have not felt super sparkly the past few weeks, months, even. Whether it’s been illness or the winter weather, it’s knocked the breath clean out of me. I have felt dried up, braindead, exhausted and lost. I haven’t been able to sing or write or workout. Every thing, from the big to the seemingly small has felt like a mountain I can’t even dream to overcome. But this morning I felt my lungs fill up and exhale grace. And the two year old was cute in the backseat and we picked up groceries and dropped off a birthday gift at the post office.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I thought about manna and the daily, often moment by moment needs. You know how it can be with kids... you turn your back for a second and they are about to jump off the table, the roof of the barn, out of a tree. They are fine one second and the next they’ve tripped, fallen, called someone a “butthead” or busted their front teeth out. So, I as I drove I smiled a little and thought about how His grace is said to be sufficient and that I get enough for this day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">No. Not just for this day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For this very moment.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And when my heart needs to keep beating, there’s grace and manna there, too. And when the kids push my buttons or I find out someone I love is struggling or that rough days may be ahead, I press pause. Grace. Manna. Enough. Right now. Sometimes you don’t need to know so much that you will eat three square meals today, plus snacks, and go to sleep in clean pajamas after a hot shower. Sometimes you just need to eat that one meal and note how it fills you up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And then the next grace comes, and you accept it with unworthy but loved hands.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I spent all morning with my youngest. I met him with a smile at 6:45 a.m., changed his diaper like every morning before. He came to me randomly for intense kisses, story time, to fix a truck, to ask if he could turn on his (very loud) train, to eat, to request his favorite show, to reading books, to hug me around the legs while I cooked. He’s my baby and he is so loved. Consistently. In all of the ways. Moment by moment, when I meet needs with food, fixed toys and kisses. It’s as if the blanket he drags around shouts like a flag of how much our love for him trails him everywhere he goes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Kind of like you. Kind of like me. And the banner that flies over our own heads proclaiming that we are so very loved. I read it in a book* just a morning or so ago, <i>“You are the beloved. So be the loved.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not in a grand, overarching, for my whole life God loves me kind of way. But in a slow down and notice how He’s loving you right now, in this moment, kind of way. How are you sustained? Who was kind to you? Who has brought you this far? Who shows up with gifts, on the faces of friends, in books, songs, and sunsets, with all of your favorite things?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Sustaining, consistent grace. Not enough for all of your life (though there is) or all of your week (though there will be) but<i> right now.</i> We are so busy, so forward focused, so driven to slay and hustle that we forget how to </span><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">be the loved</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">, don’t we?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">We forget to tell someone that we wish we could have that treat again, we hold back the minutia from God, forgetting that His delight as our Father is what makes our own delight with each other, our own children, mean anything at all. I’ve never seen or realized how much God must really, really love me as I do in my role as a mother (and let me tell you, loving through some of these drama-filled days makes me madly respect how much God must love me on my worst days.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Henry's favorite song to sing (</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">really, the only song he sings), is </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Jesus, Loves Me"</i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. I can't tell you what singing that simple truth can do when you're struggling, worried or distractedly busy. I can't tell you what it does to your knees, your anger, your stubborn heart, when your toddler hands you a toy microphone, one for you and one for him, and tells you to sing. It's hard to feel abandoned or discouraged when you are reminded of how insanely strong the Father's love is for you.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Travis was moved to tears by a simple treat. And I was moved to tears by my love for him. I haven’t told him, but I think he must know that he’s going to be taken care of tonight and tomorrow and the next day. And he will be cared for and I won’t forget his favorite things and we will make more memories and he will learn over and over again that my love doesn’t wear out. </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I need that reminder. I bet you do, too.</span></div>
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There is enough grace... and enough pudding cups... from here to eternity.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There always has been.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>*A Million Ways // Emily P. Freeman</i></span></span></div>
Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-19573964944572073982019-01-18T14:28:00.002-05:002019-01-18T14:42:28.595-05:00IF YOU NEVER SEND US RAIN<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDmaxWCdO8HjxW2cbyEYScpmfY4x7PGZkaXGMI65CV69vD7hE3YzaleQ37g351z4qeZ7vtLkdG1HlalY5j-N_YPXDhMwkUqHarfEvk0ub9OILnSOB33kRCLLm_kfEr4-OwwTj35N1pOU/s1600/1a7812f91f820f2101126997a96be316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDmaxWCdO8HjxW2cbyEYScpmfY4x7PGZkaXGMI65CV69vD7hE3YzaleQ37g351z4qeZ7vtLkdG1HlalY5j-N_YPXDhMwkUqHarfEvk0ub9OILnSOB33kRCLLm_kfEr4-OwwTj35N1pOU/s320/1a7812f91f820f2101126997a96be316.jpg" width="226" /></a><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was at the sink and heard the scream from outside.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Seconds later, I’m at the back door, watching my husband run across the snow ridden yard with our eight year old in his arms. He looks tense and near tears. My knees threaten to buckle and I'm absently thankful to fold myself immediately at my son's feet.</span></span></div>
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<i>“He busted his teeth out.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“He what?!” </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I grabbed paper towel, tried to stop the bleeding, tried to see where it was coming from in the first place, my husband standing above me, snow falling out of hoods and sleeves and dripping off the backs of boots.<br />
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<i>“What do we do?”</i> he asks. I look into our son’s mouth, the broken two front teeth. <br />
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<i>“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Later, after we’ve called all the numbers and left all the messages, I warm up leftover mac and cheese and try to soothe my worried boy who is certain he has ruined himself for life. I tell him to trust me. That it will be alright. <i>“How?!”</i> he wails and tears start again. <i>“Those were my big teeth! They won’t grow back anymore!”</i> I begged him to trust me. This was a problem that would have a solution.<br />
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But how often do I feel - do you feel - that we’ve done that one thing that is irreversible? The one thing that goes too far, past any grace, past any new morning mercies, too out far the lines to ever be drawn back in or changed? It’s forever altered, the universe shifts and you’re left with scars that will heal, but will always be visible. Something for someone to point out, question, build their own suspicions around.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I sit next to him as eats and almost accusingly, he says how I always tell him that God is watching over Him, but how could God let this terrible, worst-day-ever play out for him the way it did, if He was indeed loving, present, all-knowing, deeply aware? I blink, a little surprised that so quickly, so simply, so succinctly we can go from, “God is so good!” to “God failed me!” He’s eight and it’s there. The doubt. The frustration when the story plays out differently than the one you had imagined.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I tell him simply, aware of his tender nerves and trauma-induced exhaustion, that God’s love doesn’t remove our own choices. That living in a broken world means there are hard, unfathomable things. Things that happen because, in the very beginning, someone disobeyed rather than choosing obedience. Moments before he had even told me how this had happened <i>because</i> he had ignored his Dad’s cautioning on the wet play set. He knew he had had a choice in the matter, but when it all came crashing down and the teeth broke and disappeared into the winter wonderland, and the blood filled his mouth: then it was God’s fault.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">How often our prayers get answered in ways that make us feel like He just isn’t watching.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That He’s watching a different highlight reel altogether.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I pray for opportunities to speak to my kids about the love, grace and kindness of God. But, I never intend, assume or want those moments to come because of broken teeth, broken hearts, broken dreams. But so often, those cracked spaces are where the light leaks in... and out. It’s not my preference, but it doesn’t mean He’s any less knowing, faithful or good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In shooting out text messages to ask people to pray, one of my best friends reveals that she herself broke her front teeth in high school. I know pretty much everything about this girl and I had never known that. I was incredulous and I tearfully showed Joel a picture of Jamie’s effervescent smile revealed via text message. <i>“Look, bud! You know how beautiful Jamie’s smile is! We never knew that she had the same thing happen to her!”</i></span></span></div>
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I visibly saw the stress evaporate from my boy’s little shoulders.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The memory of that is the one thing that has made me want to cry over and over.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And Jamie - my sweet BFF who received busted teeth courtesy of a wayward Frisbee, never could have guessed, assumed or even thought to consider that her own moment would coincide years upon years later (not to make you feel old, girl!) with a close friend’s worried, anxious, <i>“I’ve ruined my whole life” </i>little eight year old boy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When you pray to be used by God to heal, encourage and offer peace to another - you never think it’ll be because a Frisbee knocked your teeth out when you were a teenager.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKJbUzc-Jz3fPlzY3tC-_TcXjJi4qwx4NlNjpfblisWUsOvIhMc-Dm8vPmbi22WkmLlqorH8V390Fl0-5awLv6npyMxJ5W9ULDAlDAhQywVNVCA51Q7bFwOse8kKRb3tKIS9kQc0TrGY/s1600/a418bdb23abd0481cb3e658d716beb7e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="739" data-original-width="554" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbKJbUzc-Jz3fPlzY3tC-_TcXjJi4qwx4NlNjpfblisWUsOvIhMc-Dm8vPmbi22WkmLlqorH8V390Fl0-5awLv6npyMxJ5W9ULDAlDAhQywVNVCA51Q7bFwOse8kKRb3tKIS9kQc0TrGY/s320/a418bdb23abd0481cb3e658d716beb7e.jpg" width="239" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t think our prayers go unanswered. I think we <i>think</i> they must have fallen short or not made the cut of good prayers to pray or prayers worth miraculous answers. I think we <i>think</i> Jesus has taken a step back or away, but in all actuality, He’s coming through in ways we cannot imagine or figure out or sometimes, often, make sense of. Because His ways are not our ways. His thoughts, not our thoughts.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And sometimes bad things happen and it doesn’t seem that there’s a reason. I don’t believe for a second the lie that God never gives us more than we can handle (we can’t handle much of anything on our own - I can’t even get through Walmart with my two year old without calling on God’s mercy and favor). But there’s nothing we go through, that He won’t follow us into. Whether it’s fire or cancer or infertility or devastation or divorce or inexplicable loss.... there’s nothing too burning to us that He won’t stand next to us in solidarity through. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">His goodness and kindness demands His consistency. He’s not sometimes loving or sometimes merciful. And we may pray one way and the answer wind up in another direction than what we had assumed, what we had wanted - but that makes Him no less great, no less worthy, no less good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He can handle the flame, the starvation, the bleakness of our souls, the anger, the inability to comprehend, the begging, pleading and bargaining. He proved His level of love, His strength, His warrior side that will rush into battle, His tender side that says He cares about orphans and windows and hunger. He didn’t abandon us, because He knows this <i>is</i> His circus and we <i>are</i> His monkeys and you guys.... <i>He is kind</i>. But He’s not always kind the way we would think, the way that feels right or seems to make the most sense to our limited, finite, human minds.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He has always been and always will be and <i>was</i>, at the very start, the entire world.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNZ76dssjv2eNYtLPQZ9SbG1n9PQgx6iOCN7ECcNsfgjqk116-_p4vlK-K_-4phMh1ZxFwnsIEBGSXQ0TwjoTGs-hUE8LS_QGUMIjDqHr7_RRj0GV7-BIkBnDyXHQqr5baGIq6lpX06N0/s1600/ed0cb876b02f5ec77fca7bc105e82829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="845" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNZ76dssjv2eNYtLPQZ9SbG1n9PQgx6iOCN7ECcNsfgjqk116-_p4vlK-K_-4phMh1ZxFwnsIEBGSXQ0TwjoTGs-hUE8LS_QGUMIjDqHr7_RRj0GV7-BIkBnDyXHQqr5baGIq6lpX06N0/s320/ed0cb876b02f5ec77fca7bc105e82829.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So yes, He does see all the moves, hears all the prayers. And sometimes our choices lead us down paths (or up wet snowy slides) that result in a trip to the dentist at 7 a.m. Sometimes it leads us to peace, to new adventures, to healing. Other times it leads us into a furnace, disappointment, strain. What may not feel like a blessing, what may not feel like love... may be the very thing that saves you. That saves someone else. That keeps you tender to His persistence and love. That enables your testimony to ring true, your faith to hold steadfast.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But most of all... that He is to be trusted. In every season. As a favorite song writer* said so perfectly, <i>“Surely You can see that we are thirsty and afraid. But maybe not, not today. Maybe You’ll provide in other ways... and if that’s the case: we’ll give thanks to You, with gratitude for lessons learned in how to thirst for you, how to bless the very sun that warms our face... if you never send us rain.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It may not look like bread or healing or protection. But once upon a time, a sea didn’t look like a door, a pit of lions didn’t look like a good place to sleep, a stone and a slingshot wouldn’t be enough, a shepherd with a lack of courage and speech impediment couldn’t be the leader of a nation. A whale isn’t a home and a bloodied cross is not a throne for a King.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He has been proving His love since before time began. He’s not going to start failing now.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And it is still so true: <i>God is watching over you.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; background-color: white; font-size: 16px; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;">to be out of your sight?</span></i></b></span></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>
<span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"></span></i></b></span></span>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">If I climb to the sky, you’re there!</span></span></i></b></span></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;">
</span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">If I go underground, you’re there!</span></div>
</span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">If I flew on morning’s wings</span></div>
</span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">to the far western horizon,</span></div>
</span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You’d find me in a minute—</span></div>
</span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">you’re already there waiting!</span></div>
</span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Then I said to myself, “Oh, he even sees me in the dark!</span></div>
</span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">At night I’m immersed in the light!”</span></div>
</span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to you;</span></div>
</span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;">
<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to you.</span></div>
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<span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">~ Psalm 139:7-12, The Message</span></div>
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<span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">+++</span></div>
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<span class="text Ps-139-7-Ps-139-12" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Song Reference: "Gratitude" by Nichole Nordeman</span></span></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-51068492833735603232018-12-01T11:02:00.005-05:002018-12-01T11:02:34.693-05:00OUR HELP WILL COME<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This morning I woke up at 5 a.m. and snuck quietly into the bathroom to get ready. Fix my face, make my hair un-scary, put on real clothes. I flip the daily calendar and read it with a smile, <i>“Whoever is wise, let him… consider the great love of the Lord.”</i> (Psalm 107:43). I wouldn’t consider or define myself as “wise”, but I do seek. I show up with great expectation, over and over again. The simple words on the perpetual calendar that my husband picked up for me last year stick in my mind as I get ready.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1JbuFv7a1xtxkECy1SH_MggNuIEVcGXOCxPKIPwnnNQ6BwkXh8sUxP0GA-7TrJg2HRhmOZ80sf9paO7I0oyB_ru3r3cYgmZvtxLyAeK_WzC7euqYXORnUKNo85BiDvj3oWiU_fnhm_8/s1600/37431bf22855664ded1b3ad02a061e80.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1JbuFv7a1xtxkECy1SH_MggNuIEVcGXOCxPKIPwnnNQ6BwkXh8sUxP0GA-7TrJg2HRhmOZ80sf9paO7I0oyB_ru3r3cYgmZvtxLyAeK_WzC7euqYXORnUKNo85BiDvj3oWiU_fnhm_8/s320/37431bf22855664ded1b3ad02a061e80.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I gather up the laptop and books. Load up my fancy little backpack, grab the essentials: phone, water, keys, and slip out. I drive through dark day and winter fog to the nearest and only available coffeeshop and pull in to a mostly wide-open parking lot. I rustle in with great hope and a little dreamy eyed about how God will surely show up. Because the Bible says that when you seek Him, you will find Him. And I know His stories are true forever.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I sit in a corner with Christmas music humming over my bowed head as I sip my iced chai and slip bites of pumpkin loaf. I set everything up and set out to write, set out to find gems, set out to discover and be enlightened…. and I’m met with blank spaces on my computer screen and blank spaces in my brain. Before I know it, the iced chai matches the scene before me… empty.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Frustrated, I load it all up and go to Walmart. What else do you do at 7:18 a.m. when you’re having your “alone time”? I fill my cart with Christmas gifts and make small chat with the lady behind me about the long lines - she complains and rolls her eyes, I try to elevate the moment a bit with plenty of smiles and a no-rush attitude. I’m a perpetual optimist, I apologize for all the people I’ve annoyed throughout my life. Especially those who have to deal with my incredibly chipper self on early mornings. I’m basically like a kid on Christmas morning,<i> every </i>morning. I think that’s a fairly accurate description. (But I mellow out after lunch - relax, your prayers have been answered.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s 9 a.m., the library is unexpectedly closed when I pull up, and I’m not in the mood to shop, the stores are too people-y on this first day, this first Saturday in December. So, what else do I do but turn the minivan towards home? I rationalize that this is fine. Home is good. And it is. It really, really is. But I’ve also been so entrenched with the mom-life and my sick-life that I really, really need some wide open space. But it’s thirty degrees and the dreariest possible day. I turn around in a vacant parking lot and head towards the second coffee shop of the morning. This one is more “introvert friendly”, with booths and high reaching planks snuggling you in around your very own table and electrical outlet. The privacy is alluring and spectacular and I love it so much.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I settle in to my seat, this time with something warm and for the second time this morning, pull out all of my trappings: the journal and Bible, the laptop, the pen and highlighter. I look incredibly studious and intense, I’m sure. The barista fixes me a Tuxedo Toasted Marshmallow and I’m not mad at all about the results. There are white Christmas lights winking around the posts, I think about Bethlehem and the night sky, and it feels as if I’m in my very own stable of sorts. But with coffee. Again: not mad.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqdSAkb1oRbyIzev4fUmfzk_wnarAqoq1j6CfCYx4FAm9SYrtZOpumDIszPOgk1JUoHKl28H1MVz0zNLgiDva95ZGvKaLKCEDOPactK4LJ2Kp-NxOeEhnUcRKHNYPzABR3y9xAB-hXOc/s1600/aa2f08fa0d9ceacdc28b9685b06367ec.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqdSAkb1oRbyIzev4fUmfzk_wnarAqoq1j6CfCYx4FAm9SYrtZOpumDIszPOgk1JUoHKl28H1MVz0zNLgiDva95ZGvKaLKCEDOPactK4LJ2Kp-NxOeEhnUcRKHNYPzABR3y9xAB-hXOc/s1600/aa2f08fa0d9ceacdc28b9685b06367ec.jpg" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I read it yesterday in Psalm 23, dissected it - the imagery of God as our shepherd, the staff in hand. I started thinking about the intentional provision that that kind of guidance provides. It doesn’t just keep me from danger, and it just doesn’t keep me in line… <i>it literally keeps me near Him.</i> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I’m tempted to get distracted, wander off, stare off into blank space and lose my way, His staff nudges me awake, keeps me aware and in tune to the goodness and rest before me… and most of all tender to His care. The version I read begins the familiar chapter simply: <i>“I have enough…” </i>I smile and tear up a little about how God doesn’t miss a thing… and we notice this more and more when we stop missing things. When I get Him, I get enough. Verse six continues with the blessing of life next to the shepherd:<i> “Only goodness and faithful love will pursue me.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Only</i> goodness.</span></span></div>
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Only </i>faithful love.</span></span></div>
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Will pursue me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Can you taste the glorious freedom and rest in that? What else do you have to fear, little lamb? The Shepherd never loses sight of you and if you should go wandering off, He’ll leave the ninety-nine that are safe in the grove and come barreling after you. Do you see that it’s not just the simplistic “blessing” that surrounds or follows your head… <i>but that it is Christ Himself</i>? He is ever the </span><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">only good </span><span style="font-kerning: none;">and He is the </span><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">only faithful love</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"> of our entire lives, earthly and eternal, and there is room for no other pursuer when He’s on the road behind you.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Shepherd is always what follows. Follows, leads, makes us to rest. Without the protection and surety of our home in His perfect care, we free fall. We run towards the west when everyone is headed south and we make wrong turns and head towards bad water, thickets, painfully tear new paths through woods where we don’t even belong in the first place. When we freakout and flail around, we break limbs and break hearts, His and our own. We are prodigal sons, prodigal daughters, prodigal lambs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And oh my heart, do we ever need just goodness and just love to take us back.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One of the things I’m learning and finding I love in this forced recline, this time of extended rest, this calendar of limited commitments… when I can finally stop trying, pushing myself to sit taller and make something happen in my own (limited) strength… beyond the still waters and the lush pasture, I’m finding that under and over it all, is the gentle hand of the Shepherd. He’s not forcing me down, He’s not kicking my legs out from under me (even though on my worst days, I’ve felt a little picked on, to be honest).</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I’ve stopped on the edge of the path, against the lip of a cliff, at the base of </span>mountainous, craggy rock<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">, stuck in a too-small passageway between the range. And even though I could freak out and wonder if terror is about to strike, since I’m all on my lonesome in this great wide somewhere, I don’t. Because I’ve learned that the hook on the end of His staff brings me back home. I’ve learned that there is no fear, only relief and love to know He’s coming up behind me. I know that His hand, once it reaches me, will be love on my tired head and His words will bring peace and that wherever He is, is where I want to be.</span></span></span></div>
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Even if that means that my day to day doesn’t always look the way I wish it would.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The gift of peace is a literal gift and the presence of it in our lives is favor. And only the great Shepherd, the Prince of Peace, can give you peace - peace like the world doesn’t even know to give. Peace like you don’t even know what to do with sometimes. I come back to the Bible verse that I saw this morning in my bathroom. Roll the words around until they stick.<i> “...consider the great love of the Lord.”</i> The real thing we really, really need to know? Simple. Basic. Life altering... </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His great love.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">On the sick days. The left-out days. The bad choices days. The fight days, the grief days, the starving, irritated, old, terrifying. </span></span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><u>Because surely</u>…. </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">surely</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">…. it is goodness and mercy that follows us. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">All </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> days of our life.</span></div>
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<b><i>"... though the flocks<span style="font-size: x-large;"> disappear </span>from</i></b></div>
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<b><i>the pen <span style="font-size: x-large;">& </span>there are no herds in the stalls,</i></b></div>
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<b><i>yet I will<span style="font-size: x-large;"> celebrate in the Lord</span>;</i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">I will rejoice</span> in the God of my salvation!</i></b></div>
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<b><i>The Lord <span style="font-size: x-large;">my</span> Lord <span style="font-size: x-large;">is my strength,</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">He makes</span> my feet like those of a deer</i></b></div>
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<b><i>and <span style="font-size: x-large;">enables me</span> to walk on </i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">mountain heights."</span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ H a b a k k u k 3 : 1 7 - 1 9 </span></i></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-75759279182835795002018-11-22T14:57:00.005-05:002018-11-22T15:03:44.826-05:00A MILLION THINGS ARE KEEPING ME AWAKE<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Probably not a big surprise that I’m a big journaler. I still have my very first diary, a tiny thing, peach and with a gold padlock - a gift from a childhood bestie for my eighth birthday. One of my very first entries is the emotional trauma of losing another birthday gift, a My Little Pony named “Buttons” while out shopping with my Mom and sister. We had gone to the fabric store and I still - to this day - can remember s</span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">itting behind stacks of fabric, patiently waiting and playing with my sister and my Pony, waiting on Mom to make her selections. I surmise in that early childhood pen that I must have dropped it in a treacherous rain puddle as we leapt over it. My Dad even went back to search for it later that evening, to no avail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The past chunk of years, I’ve had two massive, leather journals, a definite splurge the first one from Barnes and Noble, but it was so pretty with the Da Vinci roses and it just begged for me to take it home. After filling, I found a second, exactly like it, via the dreamboat called Amazon Prime. That was back in January of 2014, nearly four years ago. I had thought I would continue my OCD ways and keep buying the same journal, but it’s no longer available (and where you can find it, it’s hard to justify the high price!) So, I bought a new journal and have been itching to start. You know how it is when you’re ready to move on to a new adventure. A new story.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I debated just being done and closing it up. I’d been writing in it for nearly four years and there is so much heaviness in this edition, let me tell you. I wanted to tie it up, tuck it on a shelf and be done with it. I’d learned all there was to learn, I wanted to move on from so many different versions of myself that I had poured out and struggled over in those pages. And there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with wanting out of the valley. Sometimes you get tired of looking at the mountaintops and you just want to go there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you’ve followed me at all recently, you know that I’ve been kicking at the restraints of rest. Of staying put and abiding in Christ and learning my very real physical limitations, thanks to being sick with one thing or another since early October. I’ve had to pull back on pretty much everything, curl into bed early and just let things be. Let myself be. You can’t hurry up not being sick. If you didn’t know that already, it’s no use. You’ll still be sick no matter how you try to pretend otherwise.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s ironic in a way that makes me smile that I would come to the final pages on Thanksgiving Day. That tying it all up and putting it on the shelf would happen on this day. This day that I unexpectedly woke up and realized I hadn’t coughed the entire night. This day that I get to see family and eat pie and not do anything necessary. Ironic that after a season of rest, at times when it felt like a disaster, a wilderness, a punishment, even. Funny that on a national day of rest, I find myself more at peace, maybe a little healthier, at the end of the journal, finally, and content to be simplified.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I think back to a few weeks ago when I wanted to rush it all along. I even asked my friends - can’t I just quit the journal now and start my new one? “Don’t do it!” so many of them cautioned. I had been plugging away for almost four years, don’t throw it all away now. Finish it. Go the distance. Joyfully script, “The end!” on the final line and then.... and only then... begin again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This journal is heavy, weighed down with a many good things - we built our house, we had our third baby, we took amazing vacations. There are other pages that are tearstained or that my writing is angry and sharp. There’s death and sorrow. There’s anxiety, doubt, depression, mothering concerns and wonderings if I’m doing anything really well or accomplishing anything that I’m really supposed to be accomplishing. When I started that book, I had a four year old and a two year old. Now I have an 8, 6 and 2 year old! When I started, I had one in preschool, now I have two in school and one at home. The way time has marched forward leaves me wondering how it all felt like it took forever to get to the end... and how it feels like I just started, too.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tonight I’ll put it on the shelf. I’ll lovingly tuck it in like something I’ve borne, and in a way, haven’t I? There are so many things I’ve worked on and worked out of between those pages. So many ways that I cried out and God heard. So many times that I felt His delight and heard His song over my silly head. And regardless of how impatient I was to get to that last page and move on to something that feels new and fresh, how amazing that you can’t really rush anything. That God always shows up right on time. He would know that it would matter to me when that last entry fell. He knew it would matter to me that I finished. He would know - oh He knows so well - how I’m anxious to lay down so many heavy things in exchange for His extravagant rest.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m finding out this about the valley... it’s quiet. It’s simple. The grass is soft, the air smells clean and you can hear the trees move. You can tell when He steps into the surrounding, when He’s headed your way. How? Because you’re not distracted by anything else, because there is literally nothing else but Him. He’s your only real visitor, your only real Comfort, your only lasting Peace. He settles the roar in your stomach and quiets the roar in your mouth and brings a blanket to cover over your busy mind, your restless legs, your impatience to know all the the answers. Your impatience to get out of what feels small, stifling, boring.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I read today how the thing about the valley is that it’s between two mountains. You will reach those great heights again, somehow, one way or the other. But the valley wouldn’t exist if not for the mountain peaks. And as great as those mountaintop moments are, I’m now in this place where I don’t know if I want to leave the valley. There is something gentle, tender and very passionate about this place. About God’s specific and tender love for me. For you. I think we are conditioned to believe the valley is something bad. A place you don’t want to fall into. Just go from mountain top to mountain top. <br />
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But hear this: the valley is a place of beautiful respite - the valley is not a pit. </span></span></div>
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There’s a difference.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And in the beginning - as I wrinkle my nose and write this - I think, yeah, I probably cursed the valley for a hot minute. I probably said it was a pit of despair, I don’t belong here, can’t you see I’m made for more? But then I realized that where I was wasn’t a pit at all. There were too many things. There was an abundance. There was enough. There was a Shepherd who would come find me when I finally exhausted myself with trying to get out on my own. There was love that lifted me onto His shoulders and I found that no mountain top can compare to that security, that view.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don’t bring me down, God. Don’t ever let me go.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s okay to misunderstand. It’s okay to want to rush the chapters. It’s okay to want to start over, start again, forget. He understands all of that. And the really beautiful tremendous thing about the Father’s love? He won’t let you miss out on what He has for you. He is not swayed by your fits or your tantrums. He’s not worried about your doubt, your questions, your fear. He’s not biting His nails, wondering if you’re going to miss the shot. He’s so much greater, so much bigger... His very name, El Shaddai shouts that He is, plainly, ENOUGH. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>You get enough when you get Him.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let it roll over our tongue. <i>Enough</i>. There was a Sunday morning where I was tucked in a dark closet, crying, alone. And I asked Him... what do You have for me in all of this? What could there possibly be in this insanely hideous, heavy and gut wrenching place? This valley that I did not want to be in, but here I was. And as clear as any voice, as real as any hand in mine, I knew He was present and I knew it was Him when He answered, <i>“I have Me for you. Is that enough?”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I realized, with all defenses down and my desperation so real... that He wasn’t just the last resort, He was the only one. And it had just taken me a long time to stop fighting the valley, stop wandering in the wilderness, stop trying to push all my fingers into all the holes in the dam. That all of my circling, all of my insanity as a little lost sheep, had left me completely lost. And so I just stopped. I stood there on my shaky legs, hoping salvation would come.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I know this with every ounce of my spirit: <i>I know He comes bounding after us in those moments.</i> I know He sees us, whether we’re a mile away or right at His feet, and make no mistake, He doesn’t hesitate and He doesn’t get confused. Just as I don’t hesitate to scoop up one of my boys the moment they fall, God the Father doesn’t pause. He rushes in and flings us across His shoulders and I think.... I think we must.... we must realize in those moments, that those <i>are </i>our mountaintop moments. Those are the highest highs. Those are our “meant to be” blasts in the sun. You can’t get any higher than being carried on your Father’s shoulders.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I check my references to be sure. The meaning of God's name, El Shaddai and it is that He is "the sufficient one", that He is in all the basics: enough. But you want to know what else it means? I'm bursting with smiles and tears right now, because THIS IS THE GOD WE GET TO SPEND OUR LIFE WITH. Guess what else El Shaddai can mean. Just guess. You'll never guess! And I quote...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>"Yet another possible meaning of El Shaddai is, "The God of the Mountain".</b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course it is! </span></span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">OF COURSE IT IS! </span></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I would start yelling, but I'd wake the baby. You aren't in the valley at all are you? Not when You're with Him! The God of the mountain, the One who came down and was present before the </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Israelites, the God who inhabited Mount Sinai and overwhelmed the space - reminding them, <i>reminding us,</i> that He is provision and salvation, powerful and present. He is God of angel armies, God of all ages, God of every, single, stinking mountain. You can't scale any height greater than Him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let Him carry you in the valley and out of the valley. </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let Him carry you anywhere He wants. Forever. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Take a deep breath. Do you f</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">eel</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> that? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">It's enough.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>"<span style="font-size: x-large;">At first </span>I didn't think of it</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>as a gift, <span style="font-size: x-large;">and begged God</span> to</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">remove</span> it. Three times I did that, </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>and <span style="font-size: x-large;">then</span> he told me, </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>my grace is enough; </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>it's <span style="font-size: x-large;">all </span>you need...</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>now I take <span style="font-size: x-large;">limitations in stride,</span></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>and with <span style="font-size: x-large;">good cheer</span>...</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>I just let Christ take over!</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">And so </span>the weaker I get, </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>the <span style="font-size: x-large;">stronger I become</span>."</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>~ II Corinthians 12:9-10, The Message</i></b></span></span></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-38932390912312112462018-11-20T14:23:00.002-05:002018-11-20T14:34:17.972-05:00ALWAYS REMEMBER TO NEVER FORGET<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I joined a Bible study a few weeks ago with a few women from my church. I saw the request fly out on Facebook if anyone was interested and I felt my heart jump, as it always does when it comes to something like this. I always want to be involved and then I usually figure out there’s no feasible way for me to pull it off and I go back to daydreaming about such a thing. But this time - this time I thought it might work. I saw a couple familiar faces would be joining in, asked Grandma if she could keep Henry the mornings of all the specified dates and moved forward. Super excited.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I will tell you, though, that I did not feel as excited the day of our first meeting. I’ll tell you why: it’s because Satan hates me. He hates us who believe in God almighty and he hates those of us who gather, he hates hearing our praise, he hates hearing our stories of how God has shown up and pulled us through. He hates our prayer requests and our joy, our sorrow laced with quiet trust. And he hates our joy and he will do anything to destroy it. Steal joy and peace from a believing heart and what are you left with? Someone who has lost their light and doesn’t look or sound much like the God they claim to know. You take my joy and my peace and I’m sullen, bitter, depressed and hidden. No worry about me being a threatening city on a hill with a disposition like that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So, no big surprise that the Devil was doing his best that Tuesday morning. With everyone out of the house for the morning for me to get ready in peace (which never happens, glory upon glory), before I pulled out of my driveway with my mug full of coffee, I paced around my foyer and yelled at Satan. Oh, yes, I did. I don’t usually do that, but this was a <i>day</i>. I told him to get out, stay away, shut-up and back off. Not today, Satan. Not. Today. I told him the morning was off limits and he wasn’t allowed to tag along, nor was he allowed to pull on my strings of anxiety or panic. Introvert or not, I could handle gathering in a cozy living room with women who love Jesus. Surely that’s something I could manage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">As you can imagine, the study was glorious, the ladies were perfect, the morning was a gift. I drove home with such a high you can’t even imagine. Creation seemed to echo it back to me and the clouds were the whitest white and the blue sky that peeped in between was startling and jeweled. I jumped out as I pulled in the drive to take some pictures because it felt like I had stepped onto a movie set, where everything was too perfect, too beautiful, to be real. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But it was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">God knows how to give really good gifts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'times new roman';">We mine through a few more chapters of Exodus and I underline a few small words towards the end of chapter 17. They stood out to me, so I took notice:</span><i style="font-family: 'times new roman';"> “Write this as a memorial in a book and recite it in the ears of Joshua.”</i><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Odd or not odd? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">See, in the words just above, Joshua did as Moses instructed and defeated Amalek; verse thirteen says that Joshua overwhelmed Amalek and his people. The man was <i>there</i>. He did the work. I mean, would that be something that you would forget? That you went to battle and won? It feels like kind of a big deal. I feel like that’s not something I would need to be reminded of. I mean, heck, I still remember lots of things from my past, like that year Grandma gave all the big grandkids sweatsuits and my sister got the Barbie I had been wanting. Growing up stinks. Don’t ever do it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But then today... as I sit around Angela’s living room and we all share our stories and what the study brought up in our hearts and I speak over my raspy throat... it’s in that moment as one friend and then another start talking about my writing, that I get it. I see why it’s important to be reminded of what you have been given in God. What the thing is that you do. Because if you would ask me if I write, I would shrug and say, <i>“Yeah, I mean, I pile sentences together and call it a blog, sometimes.”</i> but then I have new friends like Jen and Amy today, who adamantly defend my artistry and when I think I’m dumb or and idiot for writing what I do, they jump in and grab me by the shoulders and give me a little shake almost with the intensity in their eyes and recite truth in my ears.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And I think, wow, Satan is a determined liar, isn’t he?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And to think that if I had bailed on this Bible study, I wouldn’t know those ladies. And they wouldn’t be reading my little diary here. And they wouldn’t be encouraging me. We often have no idea how quickly things can get out of hand with just one choice - with one decision to let fear win, to let discouragement triumph, to allow anxiety or busyness or even exhaustion to win. It’s easy to forget how much we need community <i>and isn’t it just like the Devil to convince us we don’t need one anyway?</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCwFh8EfifRvkJ8baPBPfc3e-ABrE6qD0rU4C5-h9frQNMBN7hCSqStkbiMfEXEd_qSFGt99PufPGRK5pzgUtB3ofOiOFFgeziDjyoi7gGxVSP3ovO3q1yvnSeZitBof-3tDICmjcDvUI/s1600/0d2bff5b0a2f5250c82a48b0ebb93b91.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="446" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCwFh8EfifRvkJ8baPBPfc3e-ABrE6qD0rU4C5-h9frQNMBN7hCSqStkbiMfEXEd_qSFGt99PufPGRK5pzgUtB3ofOiOFFgeziDjyoi7gGxVSP3ovO3q1yvnSeZitBof-3tDICmjcDvUI/s320/0d2bff5b0a2f5250c82a48b0ebb93b91.jpg" width="232" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">I hear people say it all the time: I don’t need to go to church to be a Christian. No, of course you don’t need to go to a building to find or stay with God. It’s true. There have been plenty of seasons where I have missed Sunday morning services for a myriad of reasons - mostly babies or illnesses. Usually both. And God has never left me and I have never lost Him simply because I didn’t show my face inside a building.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But the <i>building </i>isn’t the church. God’s people are the church. And if we are living isolated, whether from choice or from fear or from apathy, we are susceptible to missing out on some of God’s greatest and richest blessings. We need their stories and they need ours. We need someone to pray over us and we need to be on our knees praying for someone else. We need to squeeze onto a couch and share a Bible and we need to hold hands and we need to love how it sounds in that moment when everyone is singing an old hymn that no one can forget.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And we need for someone to recite the truth to us when we forget,... because we will forget. We will be tempted to wash our hands of it all. And what a terribly sad thing that would be for everyone who misses out on hearing your song or watching your walk with God unfold or experiencing the love of Christ in your hospitality, your artistry, your cooking, your care. We need someone who will recite all of it back to us.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Whether you’re singing, painting, preaching, dancing, gardening, working, waiting, or even just stringing words together and calling it a blog... </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">gather </span>in my name,</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">there I am with them."</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ M a t t h e w 1 8 : 2 0 </span></i></b></span></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-81409254588846507702018-11-13T19:07:00.001-05:002018-11-13T19:20:59.332-05:00I AM THE LUCKIEST<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I think I’ve just had a moment today. A revelation of sorts. It’s not really anything new and in some ways I feel I’ve thought all these things before. But today it clicked. Solidified. Made an indention.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve had a full day. A good day. A Tuesday. I had a coffee, then two, a trip to the store, a cooperative two year old, a short nap for me (a long nap for him) and a nice walk. I filled a plate with the colors of the rainbow (don’t be deceived, I devoured a croissant as soon as I got home from the store) and sat. Finished a movie. Noticed the dark winter rolling in the sky.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhokCCquo2nmSs_jMw8hmYgzF5XP7C5PKoCZ-Bwx0liHy_I6SOouz5t3agEQDJEsm6rLISWP2qk2sP2ZjEywukVvOQ0Jeh1LvKIkgofCA3bRJTf8ll0120rSBeYP595BHI4B7qPmALlctQ/s1600/1445f8a7b942ad90b69e824c10bba175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhokCCquo2nmSs_jMw8hmYgzF5XP7C5PKoCZ-Bwx0liHy_I6SOouz5t3agEQDJEsm6rLISWP2qk2sP2ZjEywukVvOQ0Jeh1LvKIkgofCA3bRJTf8ll0120rSBeYP595BHI4B7qPmALlctQ/s320/1445f8a7b942ad90b69e824c10bba175.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I thought... <u>this is it.</u> This is my one life<i> and </i>my best life.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As if I had just now shown up. As if I had time traveled back and forth and wound up here, in this moment, to live it again... except I’m living it for the first time, obviously. But it’s amazing what perspective will do. What gratitude changes. It feels as though everything shifts a little and I smile at all the trains thrown across my house, the random one tucked under the corner cabinet. I listen to the wind chimes on my porch, think about the bus arriving in exactly an hour with two of my boys, the basketball practice we have to brave the cold to go to.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I think how it’s the best.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I deleted a fitness and calorie tracking app on my phone today. I will probably put my FitBit up for sale. I’m so enormously done with tracking my steps, my gulps of water, my intake and outtake. It’s exhausting and consuming and am I not more than a number on a scale or a completion of steps? I get being healthy and caring for ourselves. But sometimes care looks like a plate of veggies and sometimes it looks like a cheeseburger with extra bacon. Sometimes it’s a walk, sometimes it’s a nap. And is that okay? It feels glorious to give myself permission. To give myself a nod of approval to simply <i>be</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Does anyone struggle with all of the “shoulds” in life? How our days should look, all that we should accomplish, all the ways we should hustle and slay and show-up and live amazing, Instagram-worthy lives? And instead we are busier than ever, connected but more disconnected, rushed so much that rest feels awkwardly painful. When it feels like a punishment instead of the blessing that it is. I think sometimes I’m holding the tail of time, begging it to slow down, back up, just stay here. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s me. It’s the expectations, the lies that are easy to believe. It’s the pressure to perform, the push of guilt. It can be really strange to sit in a quiet space. To choose solitude. To choose to not be a little productivity machine. To choose rest, to choose to abide, to choose the better thing. It can feel like you’re choosing the wrong thing until the moment it all shifts into place and you know - you know it in your very soul - that you are right where you should be, doing exactly what you should be doing. Even if you’re doing absolutely nothing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What if we weren’t worried about success? Just for a minute. What if we weren’t worried about how to be noticed or praised. Or even how to serve. <i>What if we just were.</i> What if we just loved those who were in front of us? What if we just ate with thankful hearts, instead of stressing over an ingredient list or what’s “good” vs. what’s “bad”. What if we were tremendously grateful that we have feet and legs that work and so we walk and run and workout, not because we hate our bodies, but because we love them? What if the end goal got obliterated and transferred to right now? What if the big purpose, the big success story, the big, “I did it!” was just this very moment?</span></span></div>
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Because in reality, it’s all we have. Lord willing we will have more. But we don’t know that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, our finish line keeps moving. It’s this moment and the next one. And when you look at it that way, the finish line isn’t scary. The finish line isn’t a determination on your life. No more, oh I’m this age and I’ve yet to marry or have children. So what. The finish line stays right before you: just do the next thing. Love the next person. Do the next good. Drink the water, eat the cake, share the leftovers. Run the race, write the book, take the nap.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Be good and be grateful. Inhabit y</span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">our current moment as if it’s the only moment you’ll ever have. You certainly won’t be able to time travel and have it again. Now is all you have. Now is all that is certain. Now is the gift that we snatch up and spit out, distracted by searching out the horizon for our “true calling” our “big break” our “moment of brilliance”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Death to all of it. Right now is it. Right now is your moment in the sun. Right now is where you’re supposed to be. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Right now</i> is your victory lap.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>“<span style="font-size: x-large;">Are you tired</span>? Worn out? </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Burned out </span>on religion? </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Come <span style="font-size: x-large;">to me</span>. Get away with </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>me <span style="font-size: x-large;">and you’ll recover your life</span>.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"> I’ll show you </span>how to take a real rest. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Walk with me and work with me—<span style="font-size: x-large;">watch how I do it. </span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Learn the<span style="font-size: x-large;"> unforced </span>rhythms of grace. </i></b></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">I won't lay anything </span></i></b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>heavy </i></b></span><br />
<i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">or ill fitting on you. </span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Keep company with me </span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>and you’ll learn to <span style="box-sizing: border-box;">live</span> <span style="box-sizing: border-box;">free</span>ly <span style="font-size: x-large;">and lightly.</span>"</i></b></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> ~ Matthew 11:28-30, The Message</span></i></b></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-39321841341125546802018-11-03T20:06:00.005-04:002018-11-03T20:06:56.951-04:00GROW SLOW<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When I was a little girl I wanted to be a school teacher. Then when I was in high school and needed to make decisions about the course of my life, I chose music, which seemed like the safe, likely and very probable thing I would pursue. So, I told everyone at my graduation party I was majoring in music. My piano teacher from ages 4 to 18 was ecstatic. This is what she had been so diligently working me towards. In truth, it’s what I had been working towards, too. It’s what I was good at, it came easy, it brought joy. Why wouldn’t I pursue it seriously for the foreseeable future?</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And then it seemed before we could pack up the food and pass out all the leftover potato salad, I had settled on doing none of it. In my heart I wanted to get married and have babies. At eighteen and with no boyfriend at the time, this didn’t seem like the best choice. I’m surprised my parents didn’t force me a bit into the music department, but if I could find a “real” job, they’d let me do my thing. So, I found a job and eventually</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> found the man of my dreams. A little over a decade after that graduation party, I was a wife and mother. My goal of entering marriage without college debt and a degree I’d never use was complete. And my dreams of being a school teacher all came true, in a roundabout way, with having children. Win win.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This was my big dream. It’s what I was going to invest in. My calling, if you will.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I’m not sure when the idea settled in that it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t big enough. Surely God expected more of me than to <i>just</i> care for my household of boys. I grew up imagining it would be more than enough and somehow, something got twisted. Maybe I ate a forbidden fruit that poisoned my mind and misconstrued my theology. Regardless, I suddenly found myself evaluating what I did, what I thought, what I said, reposted or liked as a reflection of “what a woman of God does”. Suddenly I became a token soldier for Christ.... and somewhere along the lines forgot that I was a beloved daughter.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJ_X78u4rItIGv65FU4R5qDMeGO4pEv2hOQlQ3Fl4OjGF8xSxuoNexXZ-PyIAMTaBLESjZJ4bWoMfQPmzMy6_Sfe8sWfRLK9L5yTLTFA1E26wcbkQklAHEx1bHfdytiAPyfzKuG_y-PY/s1600/c26570ce578950474fff34b7d17771d7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="563" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJ_X78u4rItIGv65FU4R5qDMeGO4pEv2hOQlQ3Fl4OjGF8xSxuoNexXZ-PyIAMTaBLESjZJ4bWoMfQPmzMy6_Sfe8sWfRLK9L5yTLTFA1E26wcbkQklAHEx1bHfdytiAPyfzKuG_y-PY/s320/c26570ce578950474fff34b7d17771d7.jpg" width="255" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And, hear this: daughters don’t have to perform to earn love. I don’t require my boys to act or achieve in order to earn or keep my love. God isn’t basing His continued love for me on how fast I can whip up a casserole for someone at my church, if I pay my dues with monthly nursery duty, if I attend x amount of choir practices per year, if I devote myself to a side hustle to earn money to give away or build an orphanage. Those all sound like very worthy things, and in many ways they are. There’s nothing wrong with serving, nothing wrong with using your gifts to bless others, nothing wrong with wanting to do good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The problem comes when we think God won’t love us if we don’t.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If we skip a practice, say no to volunteering that week or in that way. If we turn down being a part of that Bible study or never get involved in that really worthy sounding ministry opportunity. God didn’t create me to do big things for Him. He doesn’t need me to accomplish His plan. And as much as I may feel compelled to prove to God that He did a good job in picking me for His team, the truth is this isn’t a round of "Red Rover: Holiness Edition", and God isn’t waiting for me to come running with my plan to save the world.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Over the past month, I took an unexpected sabbatical from doing pretty much everything. Some of it was just plain convenience and necessity - I was exhausted and I had to back away. And then I got strep throat and my kids got strep throat and my husband got strep (Lord, have mercy) and we went through all the Amoxicillin (and I had a suspected reaction from it; yay) and in the midst I’m feeling my worth slipping because my activity was at an all time low.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Wait. Did I just say that out loud?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And while maybe you don’t admit it or realize it, we live in such a performance based time. Plus with the added bonus of technology, everyone is free to share their talents, skills, ministries, quirks, passions through Instastory and Facebook Live and sometimes, just sometimes mind you, you can be sitting at home in your comfy pants for the 32nd day in a row and you wonder how you can even call yourself a follower of God when you’ve yet to do anything “big”.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">About this time last year, a sweet friend gifted me an amaryllis bulb. I knew next to nothing about the thing and know even less about plants in general (ironic that my mother in-law is a Master Gardener. You’d think her skills would have rubbed off on me a little in the last decade. Nope.) But I loved the idea of it. Of this winter blooming wonder of a thing. Of this plant that you water and nurture and watch spring to life, only to then withhold water, cut off the dead, and let it lie dormant for awhile. Mine has been in it’s sleeping position for months, on top of my fridge.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not exactly the “cool and dry” place that was recommended. What can I say, I like to live dangerously.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But regardless, I pulled it down and gave it a wake-up call: sleeping time is over, you pretty little thing, you! I carefully pulled back some of the dried and brittle pieces, thrilling to see the proof of life, the bright green right before my eyes. It wants to bloom again. I can feel it. So, tonight I carefully repotted it and didn’t know what to do with the tangle of roots that had been hidden below. I was careful to remove the dried and crusty earth from them, ever so gently pulled dead away to reveal living, shook the pieces free and then tenderly repotted.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I just had to smile, because God is always careful with our roots, too.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He’s tender with the replanting, when the season comes. And He doesn’t forget about us, alone on the top of the fridge, with dead things hanging on us. And while we think water and sunlight and all the good things all the time would be superb idea, maybe it’s just not so. Maybe we bloom better, grow stronger, twine a myriad of roots for however long our life goes on - if we are forced to be dried out for awhile. If the water and the sun is withheld and we just go hibernate. Just for a little while.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I wrinkle my nose a little, because I don’t much like the dark, cave-like times. I don’t like being told I can’t do something. If I can bloom, then by gosh, I want to bloom all flipping day! All year round! Can’t stop, won’t stop! And yet... I am finding through forced dormancy - or as Jesus has been calling it in my ears: <i>abiding</i> - I am finding there is something to that, too. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhZ6rc9TARBbj3xzlI_WVVYow6dza_CfLZJ1LoWLdK0CkX68I930Noumnlttw7yhnuz-kz26zGhkTHjHNSPzqPd5szypcYAjeo0y7cpDK-XoG1xX_sqmRV3jv8jsEC2yR57qdtStbUE4/s1600/50aed9ad022b51ef59d9a385bb12dfd3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhZ6rc9TARBbj3xzlI_WVVYow6dza_CfLZJ1LoWLdK0CkX68I930Noumnlttw7yhnuz-kz26zGhkTHjHNSPzqPd5szypcYAjeo0y7cpDK-XoG1xX_sqmRV3jv8jsEC2yR57qdtStbUE4/s320/50aed9ad022b51ef59d9a385bb12dfd3.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Could the amaryllis bloom all year round? I suppose, if it had been created that way. But it wasn’t. It was created to grow and rest, bloom and fold in, sprout high towards the heavens and then simplify and draw quiet. I’m kind of relieved to know that I’m not expected to shimmer and shine 24/7, either. I’m kind of relieved to know that the God of all peace knows my rooted stories and my ability to grow and my desire to bloom and that He gives me a cool, dry place to rest with Him. Or the top of a fridge. Whatever. From the depths of where it’s quiet and I’m not forced to perform or measure up, I hear His love whisper...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Come to Me all who are heavy and burdened and need help pulling the dried up away.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I will give you rest.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My eyes swim a </span>little with the relief of it all. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Thank You. Thank You. Thank You. </i></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><b>"And the <span style="font-size: x-large;">Lord will continually </span>guide you,</b></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">and satisfy </span>your desire in </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">scorched </span>places,</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>and give <span style="font-size: x-large;">strength</span> to your bones;</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>and you will be like a <span style="font-size: x-large;">watered </span>garden,</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>and like a <span style="font-size: x-large;">spring</span> of water whose waters</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">do not fail.</span>"</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>~ Isaiah 58:11</b></span></i></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-48356959113199305512018-10-26T10:21:00.000-04:002018-10-26T10:23:58.770-04:00THERE'S SO MUCH TO FIND<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I spent so much time trying to get the wood to burn. For the fire to take.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My husband headed out for his tree stand just after putting our oldest two on the bus and the baby and I went back in to pull out the Thomas trains and unload the dishwasher. There were faint embers in our fireplace from the night before and while my husband said he’d start a blaze when he got back in, I was determined to get it going and have it rolling by the time he came back in.</span></span></div>
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That’ll impress his socks off.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And while Henry rolled Thomas and James and Ferdinand over the wooden track and through the bridge, I knelt against the cool stone of our hearth with a lighter in my hand and worked and tried and begged the flame to hug the aged bark. I gave it some time, backed away, went to thaw out pork-chops for dinner. I came back and it was dead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My shoulders sagged. This feels like the story I’ve been holding lately.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not necessarily anything super dramatic, but just that sense that something isn’t right. And no matter how hard I try, what I fix, what I try to upgrade, work out, shop out, replace.... the feeling remains. And I don’t even know if it’s a feeling or simply absence of feeling. Is that in fact a feeling all its own? It seems like it. It’s been settled on my shoulders for so long, it feels like it’s a thing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I lean in and blow softly. Close my eyes and think about incense and offering and I don’t know whether I’m sending something out or if I’m receiving. I don’t know whether I’m the flame that just can’t seem to flare up, or if I’m the stubborn old tree from the woods behind our house that refuses to do what I’m meaning for it to do. As I patiently wait and kneel and whisper breaths, it feels so much like my heart that I keep kneeling and blowing softly. It’s a prayer and it’s a request and it’s peace and it’s total unrest.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The flames dance and back way.<br />
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The bark quickens and sparks and I hold my breath. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It fades.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxk0n_fGdj1_cXGwml3F3apLIn7x453edVfnKOAss53NocDpp6FlLiOeYkNkwbqCZpGfzCxHo3ebxL8w_1tuGPY4nghViGPTmWDKntOeLGAYMpLyRLPVyf6r9WnSGiofDN99UCqjYEU8/s1600/316c8ca8a01dde476fe677effb29efcb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxk0n_fGdj1_cXGwml3F3apLIn7x453edVfnKOAss53NocDpp6FlLiOeYkNkwbqCZpGfzCxHo3ebxL8w_1tuGPY4nghViGPTmWDKntOeLGAYMpLyRLPVyf6r9WnSGiofDN99UCqjYEU8/s320/316c8ca8a01dde476fe677effb29efcb.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I sit back on my heels and feel as though I’m blowing and blowing and the flames won’t grow. No matter what I do, what I try, where I go. Whether I surround myself with people and noise and song and the church or whether I sink into my couch and bring the blanket up to my chin. I don’t know whether I’m lost or found or hiding or running. I’m in a wilderness. I know that much. I know I’ve got suitcases of grief stacked in the corner. I know I’ve got hope and a God who won’t fail me and books upon books about rest and respecting the sabbath and how Satan uses busy to make us bad.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And my neck aches from kneeling for so long and the fire just won’t go.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I keep getting up to check. Maybe it has miraculously taken off. If God can burn living brush into a pinnacle and post for Moses, can’t He help two logs to crackle? I believe He can but believe He won’t. So, does that mean deep down I believe He can’t? I think my faith is set, but it’s honestly a little battered. I have my old hymnals and my same old Bible and all the new worship songs and podcasts and I’m just sitting here. With God blowing on my dying embers and nothing is burning. And I don’t know why. Because all the right pieces are in place.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I get up and decide to try again. Tuck a couple 3x5 cards between the logs, hoping to entice the slow burn I need to get things really trucking along. I make sure the two year old isn’t toddling nearby, open the grates, kneel once again, click the lighter in my hand. For a moment it looks promising. I breathe ever so softly. I click the lighter again, the small flame it emits telling me it’s done it’s job for all of time. I sigh and roll my eyes. Of course it’s dead. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course the quick fire, the easy fix, the seeming solution that I hold in my two tiny human hands is dead. <i>Of course it is</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t feel bitter as much as I feel ironic. This is how it’s gone. I try and I try and I end up with a dead lighter. A fireplace that won’t burn. A book I can’t write, an early morning quiet time that is invaded with coughing children, an anniversary trip with no kids (our first, ever) riddled with strep throat. I go to make coffee, the pod explodes. I opt to make a full pot, it tastes like muddy water and I don’t know how I can be thirty-seven years old, and with all of the seeming talents and gifts I possess, I can’t figure out how to make a good pot of coffee. I’ve bookmarked Folger’s website and I still can’t. They are dead to me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, I sit back and think.... that’s the thing though, isn’t it? Because some people can make fires and some people can make good coffee and some people can write books and some people can have energy and pizazz and fortitude. And while I have sparks of genius, I feel like I’m the chopped wood in my stone fireplace that can’t seem to figure out how she’s supposed to burn.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don’t tell me it’s because I have a two-year-old. I realize he’s fully to blame for a lot of things, including my loss of brain cells and focus.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But this is beyond mommy-brain and it’s beyond what I can fix or slap a spiritual bandaid over. I can’t out-church this. I can’t over-worship this. I can’t sleep it off or dance it out or gratitude my way to brighter days. That doesn’t mean it’s for lack of trying all of those things and then some. But what I’m finding is that if Jesus brings you with Him to the desert and the wild wild wilderness, there’s no way out except with Him. There’s no pitching a tent on your own if He doesn’t hold things in place and hand you the tent pegs (I also know nothing about tents or camping, so I’m just assuming there are things to hold and things called pegs for such a task.) My idea of roughing it, like the worst thing I can imagine, is not having anymore coffee creamer. I’m sorry, it’s just the way I am.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8ioK_jb6FazWY4BROSYUyYNITku-9ZL3HgnEmZn4rwEQhyphenhyphenE9U5W1-zoK7BISpU0kKUz2RogAYbZ3i81JqSpjW0r4SYOib79KvK2euV_ppANkt-FYrIGwPAA10hg0HK3ZYdAw5vjt1dQ/s1600/7d6de861cd8f691ffc64554b32bade3b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8ioK_jb6FazWY4BROSYUyYNITku-9ZL3HgnEmZn4rwEQhyphenhyphenE9U5W1-zoK7BISpU0kKUz2RogAYbZ3i81JqSpjW0r4SYOib79KvK2euV_ppANkt-FYrIGwPAA10hg0HK3ZYdAw5vjt1dQ/s320/7d6de861cd8f691ffc64554b32bade3b.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A week ago as I open up a new Bible study that was delivered routinely to my doorstep, I set to pull out the paper and toss the box. I had almost thrown it all out, but decided to recycle the paper in a birthday package to a friend. And there in the bottom was a bonus art print that I hadn’t realized was included. I almost threw it away and I pull it up from the paper and peel back the cellophane and I sit back stunned. You know in that way you imagine Moses felt when he came upon a burning bush or watched the pillar of cloud lead the way. The hushed, pull back of the spirit when you realize that yes, you’re in the driest place of your life, yes you are sick of waking up to eat manna every day, yes you are wondering how long you will wander... but you sit back and a veil parts in some part of the world and you hear it and feel it and read the scripted words on the weighted parchment in my hands:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>“I will provide peace in this place.”</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tears jump up and down in my eyes as I write that. As I remember that moment, sitting in my office, holding a piece of peace that I nearly tossed in the trash, that I nearly left undiscovered. <br />
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But that’s the funny, wonderful, tremendously loving thing about God, isn’t it? That He won’t let you miss out. He won’t leave you starving when what you need is the bread of Himself. He won’t leave you wilting in the heat without rushing to provide shade. And while you may kick the sand of the desert as you trudge along, as I have, He won’t leave you lonely. He won’t abandon you or let you starve or let your fire go out. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">He will come to us like rain <i>(Hosea 6:3)</i>. He will bring the peace <i>(</i></span><i>Haggai 2:9)</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">. He will provide, faithfully.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I pause to check on the fire. Yep, still not burning.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m still here. Still in the same place, except my eyes are dry from staring and blowing into my fireplace for an hour. But He is the Lord who brings us out of the land of slavery. He always has been that God, that Savior, that King. Even when there’s no fire roaring and I’m most likely going to have to admit defeat (and find a new lighter) for my husband when he comes in. Even when I still feel unsettled in my soul. Even when the things that used to bring me joy now bring a semblance of anxiety and I hunker down and hide away.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj8C92Ukmr0Xmk5GPIghoVfK-VW3l6Z8NY0gzVpPeIZkjElEzva85yfQo66QTHTlxnU6m9U8sSXUH0GexZzYFM7DgLj1bjjFDivdx2yYdGjnZX0Ft626Gbb4WcA3j7dwNzhLbiqP3zqM/s1600/IMG_3798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj8C92Ukmr0Xmk5GPIghoVfK-VW3l6Z8NY0gzVpPeIZkjElEzva85yfQo66QTHTlxnU6m9U8sSXUH0GexZzYFM7DgLj1bjjFDivdx2yYdGjnZX0Ft626Gbb4WcA3j7dwNzhLbiqP3zqM/s320/IMG_3798.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s okay in this place, in the dust that flies around my wobbly tent. Yesterday I hear it whispered as I watch the autumn sunrise along the field next to my house. The Bible verse comes to me in words and I Google for the reference... but over and over, “I will bring her into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her...” Him. To me. To you.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I framed the art print and it stares at me boldly as I write and I feel like I have to submit. Have to give my nod of consent. Yes, Lord. Yes, I believe You will provide peace in this place, because I believe that You are here with me. Feeding, watering, pushing back any and all condemnation or doubts or chains that would seek to choke me out... covering me with words of love, tucking me into the dust with such lovingkindness that I welcome the rest... </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And promising to show me how to start a blazing fire when the time is right.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>"Let me <span style="font-size: x-large;">experience </span>your faithful love</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>in the morning, for <span style="font-size: x-large;">I trust in you</span>. </b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Reveal</span> to me the way I should go,</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>because I<span style="font-size: x-large;"> appeal </span>to you."</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i><b>~ P s a l m 1 4 3 : 8 </b></i></span></div>
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</span></span>Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-21177062314764048102018-07-21T06:43:00.002-04:002018-07-28T06:38:14.938-04:00Hungry<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s just one of those days. Or maybe it’s summer break. Does summer wear on anyone else after awhile? I’m anxious for vacation, stressing over details, trying to remember how many birthday cards for the month of July I need to buy. I feel exhausted; a little sick to my stomach, even. I can’t decide if it’s plain old stress, motherhood or the fact that I simply need to wash my hair. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSS8EWFN-MOCycqynghptD3sDIa3hztgqLGIZx9uqPBHPG2Yza-07aSaBk_thUJ5WXCgT1YISd-tTt-Oz3QK1H2_4AsQK0ucHTs_hRgXSKayuF38qbJddboIJRk8Fmj5n-nucC8msaFqg/s1600/2fa25c0360a382f32532b301e6e1cdfb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSS8EWFN-MOCycqynghptD3sDIa3hztgqLGIZx9uqPBHPG2Yza-07aSaBk_thUJ5WXCgT1YISd-tTt-Oz3QK1H2_4AsQK0ucHTs_hRgXSKayuF38qbJddboIJRk8Fmj5n-nucC8msaFqg/s320/2fa25c0360a382f32532b301e6e1cdfb.jpg" width="231" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I lose track of time as the morning flows on and on. The baby goes down for a nap, the big boys bring down toys that are not baby approved and enjoy their freedom. I feel too tired to read, too tired to rest. I wander around my house, passing through my kitchen to eat bites of this and that, wondering why it all feels so impossible. And suddenly it’s time for lunch and I don’t know where exactly the morning went.<br />
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I take down plates for the boys, start filling. I barely have one small section of the compartmentalized plate filled when in rushes the six year old,<i> “Momma, I’m hun....” </i>He stops abruptly, sheepish as he sees what I’m doing, <i>“Is that my wunch?”</i> I smile. Yes, baby. It’s your lunch. I know you’re hungry. I’m in the kitchen, standing at the island, prepping things before he even says a word. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My eyes fill a little with tears. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I feel my spirit whisper the same: <i>“God, I’m hun....”</i> I feel the pressure on my shoulders, the ease in my heart, <i>“I know, baby girl. I know you are. I’m fixing it right now.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Spirit of God is not an influencer, as I am learning, but a deity - not simply an entity. He is not a lesser God, but is very God. And He has diminished Himself to dwell within people like me. To guide and comfort. It’s not only God the Father who sees from Heaven, or my savior, Jesus that watches from His Father’s side.... but the very Holy Spirit, right in my midst. Hanging around my fringes, completely aware, completely available, not at all surprised by my need. <br />
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The lyrics of a much worn out song by Steffany Gretzinger plays on the playlist of my memory: <i>“So rockabye, baby, come and rest. You’ve been tired a long time. Lay your head down. Baby, don’t you think I know best? I’ve been a Father a long time.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He’s been making me meals long before I knew I was famished.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3T5P1EPUZ6HZ59-1DPquuZjb-EWHkdEtLGepOtME8w-UaNA1ow66ie3aMQZ5zv3JpFxtrDfzO-7S-Hi9hu7GhUeri4vj5LbH0rIDY8U7mskG31iMYzO7kKP4iSWyIxGaH6XHwzY5JiPA/s1600/214302273b2c31fc25b0a30d3b5ba673.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3T5P1EPUZ6HZ59-1DPquuZjb-EWHkdEtLGepOtME8w-UaNA1ow66ie3aMQZ5zv3JpFxtrDfzO-7S-Hi9hu7GhUeri4vj5LbH0rIDY8U7mskG31iMYzO7kKP4iSWyIxGaH6XHwzY5JiPA/s320/214302273b2c31fc25b0a30d3b5ba673.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hours, days and post-vacation recovery later, I’m at Starbucks while most of the world continues to sleep in on their Saturday. The sun is still hidden as I sip my raspberry mocha and tear out pieces from my simple buttery croissant. And I think, with the first bite and the first sip of morning coffee: <i>this is some kind of communion. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It feels like rest, relationship. It feels like what I’ve been wandering around my house, digging through the pantry, shuffling through to find. And isn’t it always? Jesus. I’m just looking for more of Him, more of the Spirit. More. Is that okay? Why am I so starving? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus said that He came so that we would have life and have it in <i>abundance </i>(John 10:10). I picture a yield from my father in-law’s garden next door, the one he sensitively tends daily. I see the battered old cooking pan, handle missing, that my mother in-law loves to gather fresh peppers, snap peas, onions and tomatoes in and bring them to my back door. Her arms overflowing with food from the earth, the dust of their first home on their skin. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The description of abundance makes me smile:<i> “A very large quantity of something.” </i>and my eyes continue to scan and then brighten, <i>“Plentifulness of the good things of life...”</i><br />
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Plenty. Communion. Rest. Full bellied. Satisfied. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m constantly the six year old baby girl, dancing on bare (but painted!) toes into her Father’s kitchen. I’m looking and wanting, empty somehow. And I don’t go looking for a doll or a book or a turn on the swing. <i>I go looking for Him.</i> Because intrinsically I know only He can answers. Just as my son knows to come looking for me for lunch, not to go searching for a sandwich hidden somewhere around the house. (Eww.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus came to give life. And to give it full of plenty of the good things of life. </span></span></div>
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This and the next.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjxzOiL_LScb9GJa6MiCkq3HNy5q47iIPtfIsxusT2lzuoQgR_MnOmXBR-YEu1skAjjIZchZotUL1Ak-6AJX3GldoEUCjyC98az2zELAAT1N0y1SDDrWIKv2MQqRVfyI8k5q3OcJmilQ/s1600/2b257cc13d669c4d627c1046aadaf308.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="513" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjxzOiL_LScb9GJa6MiCkq3HNy5q47iIPtfIsxusT2lzuoQgR_MnOmXBR-YEu1skAjjIZchZotUL1Ak-6AJX3GldoEUCjyC98az2zELAAT1N0y1SDDrWIKv2MQqRVfyI8k5q3OcJmilQ/s320/2b257cc13d669c4d627c1046aadaf308.jpg" width="171" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, sometimes I have to run away. I set my alarm for 4:30 a.m. and I wake up with the song on my phone, wondering if this is a good idea, if I’ll pay for this early wake-up later in the day (probably) especially when the two year old is pressing all my buttons. But I don’t have a choice. I’m so hungry, I have no choice but to <i>go</i>. <br />
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I sit in my choice corner at Starbucks, the morning air on my face and I squeeze my eyes shut. <i>I had to be here.</i> I had to do whatever it took, whatever inconvenience, however tired I may be by 2 p.m. today. I had to be here. I had to find Him, to have more of Him. He is the true bread and the true wine and He’s what I’m looking for, not simply the mocha. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>You know He gives all His secrets away to us, don’t you? </i>That the Spirit is so readily available, so near, so very <i>in </i>us. Not next door or down the street or only in the sanctuaries on Sunday morning. In us. Carrying through our days, viewing our frustration and fears. Hearing the rumble in our stomachs ages before we slow down long enough to realize we’ve been skipping meals.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Take the stillness. Take the early morning, the late of night, the sound of birds on your walk to work. The breeze across your face, like a good morning kiss. The cloth on your shoulders like hands that love you. To take communion, to press pause. To gather enough awareness to stop dead still, to look around, up to the sky, your hand pressed into your own chest: God, we are so hungry. <br />
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His love won’t leave you empty, searching, starved. And you’ll open your eyes to see the generosity in front of you; that He's</span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> already holding a full plate out to you.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><b>"<span style="font-size: x-large;">But I</span>, through t</b></i></span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>he </b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">of <span style="font-size: x-large;">your </span></span>steadfast<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> love, </span></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>your holy temple in <span style="font-size: x-large;">awe </span>of you..."</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b><i>~ P s a l m 5 : 7 </i></b></span></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-3986311074755181122018-07-02T12:57:00.000-04:002018-07-02T13:18:14.241-04:00Over All I Know<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I like deep conversations. I appreciate being honored enough to hold and witness someone's story. Their wrestling. Their triumphs and their griefs. I fight the concept and the entrapment of perfection - of believing the lie that we're not good enough, that our pain is unique to us, that we are a small bug being crushed under the weight of an almighty, greater foot. You tell yourself those kinds of stories and before you know it, that's exactly what you'll be writing with your own ink of life.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVwjdvs1F3r9PNb2Rmz5-o1kpNFeejRQHunzg97FzhkDRDf5LTnw9p5vkN_1HIIUZRDnYk_-ZGq8Q2zv5RatHlm-ZH0MuY2SBsrRJ53mFgzSKXRlVOEKpjXvDXkzj2uiytCSnJSYdB-c/s1600/452fca3bfaf1d51d881805407ba0f02a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVwjdvs1F3r9PNb2Rmz5-o1kpNFeejRQHunzg97FzhkDRDf5LTnw9p5vkN_1HIIUZRDnYk_-ZGq8Q2zv5RatHlm-ZH0MuY2SBsrRJ53mFgzSKXRlVOEKpjXvDXkzj2uiytCSnJSYdB-c/s320/452fca3bfaf1d51d881805407ba0f02a.jpg" width="212" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had the opportunity to have a good talk about a good God that turned into an absurdly long email to my friend, brother in Christ and fellow worshipper. I started writing it on Sunday and it sat minimized at the base of my computer screen. I would go to delete it and then leave it. I didn't know why I should leave it there, but I did. And eventually I thought, <i>"Oh what the heck, it's just Kevin."</i> and pressed send. Because if you can't tell your stories to your family, who can you tell them to?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I get scheduled at the last minute to play keyboard and that's when he tells me he wants to read a portion of my email to the congregation before we introduce our new song for the month. <i>"Not all of it,..." </i>he says with a laugh, <i>"Otherwise that would be the entire sermon." </i>Sorry, I like a lot of words and I cannot lie. He said he'd change some details, leave off my name. Not have the entire congregation staring me down as I huddled behind the keyboard on Sunday morning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I suspected, I played awkward and probably painfully sounding chords while he proceeded to read nearly my entire email. I was shaking so hard my hands could barely stay on the keys and I was crying, so I couldn't see much of anything. But what I felt was that beautiful freedom that comes from a willing offering and that moment when you don't care if you look or sound foolish, that you just want to throw it on the altar and burn it up beautifully for the love of God Himself. That nothing, nothing else matters. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had a friend looking for me as soon as first service ended. I had unexpected text messages from friends who knew the email author was me. I received countless Facebook messages, emoji hearts, GIF hugs, email and text messages. One of my dearest friends watched the service replay to hear it and then told me she was going to transcribe it and keep it in her Bible. Bless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, I decided to come here and share my message for anyone who wants to read it, share it, or mull it over. And I would love to hear your stories of broken, your stories of redemption, your stories that may not have the perfect ending and you wrestle with it. It's okay, friend. I'm here to tell you it's okay. Because over all I know... He loves us. Crazy loves us. And you can fight and kick and scream and praise and cry and paint and write until it's all out there. And maybe you'll find - like I have - that your brothers and sisters are well acquainted with your kind of scars... and together is where we find that He's been good - and over it all - all along. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For the beauty of the gospel, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Laura</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">TO: Kevin</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">FROM: Laura</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">06.27.18</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I keep thinking about our mini-chat about OVER ALL I KNOW and I’ve been chewing and praying on it. Here’s where I’m at. ;)</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I lost a baby early on, between Joel and Travis, and it was of course devastating. I didn’t know I was pregnant until I wasn’t. I felt confused and cheated. I knew God could save the pregnancy - believed that there was every available miracle - but there was just loss. When my niece committed suicide, I couldn’t understand how God could have seen all she was going through and not intervene. Not show me that I needed to drive to Indianapolis that night in October and prevent all that was about to never be undone. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When I first heard and almost automatically began singing this song it just put all of the pain, heartache, confusion and loss I’ve ever gone through in perspective. Because when you go through something traumatic or too heavy to bear on your own, eventually that’s all you know. That God is God and He is good and you are loved. Even if the sickness isn’t healed, the pregnancy isn’t sustained, the niece is buried. Your ultimate view of God is what colors everything else.<br /><br />I don’t know why I lost that baby, I don’t know why my niece was effective in ending her life, I don’t know any clean, nice answer for the different valleys and griefs I’ve gone through so far in this life. <i>But over all I know is Jesus</i>. That’s ALL I know sometimes. Those early months and first year following Sydney’s death was one of the darkest of my life. It hurt to breathe and it hurt to be happy and it hurt to pray. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Just typing that makes me cry. My entire soul was devastated and caving in on itself.<br /><br />We have this really soft, insanely cozy blanket in our living room. I had a lot of trouble sleeping after Sydney’s suicide. I’d go to sleep crying and wake up crying. For nights and nights, I’d creep out to the living room at 2 a.m., to try and sleep. I would cover myself with that beautifully soft blanket and one night I began thinking about God covering me with His wings. You know that verse in Zephaniah? He will rejoice over me with singing and quiet me with His love and cover me with His feathers. I always fell asleep. I always felt peace. <i>Because even though I wanted answers and I wanted a new reality, what I ultimately needed was to know that God was over it all. Even if it didn’t make sense. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I asked God what He had for me in all of this. What I needed to find or reconcile, what I could possibly fix. And it wasn’t any of that. He just said He had more of Himself for me on the other side of it all. And was that going to be enough for me? If I had no fix to the situation, just more Jesus? Could I live in this right now but not yet reality with just that? With just knowing He is God and only God and only ever has been God?<br /><br />The thing is - our ultimate need is never the fix or the resolution of the situation or the happy ending. All of us - we always need Jesus. We always need more of Jesus. And I find more of Him with every step I take. It doesn’t take away all the questions or all the grief - but it balances it, because faith in Him lifts it all higher. I don’t get it, but He does. I don’t know how the story ends, but He does. But I do know that more of Jesus is the only, only, only thing I need. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I feel like that’s what this song is saying as a testimony. We know the stories in the Bible. We know He heals and performs miracles and fights for us. We know the <i>history</i> of His goodness and grace and we are able to stand in our own broken stories and say - I know this was true of You then and true of You now. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It’s like we all get to hide under a big blanket together and say - this is all I know. I can’t tie it up with a nice bow, but I can tell you that He rejoices over us and He quiets us with love when we can’t stop the screams or the cries or the cursing. He is over all I know. </span></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-48371504228143592892018-06-06T11:33:00.001-04:002018-06-06T11:33:15.996-04:00The Dirt Between My Fingers<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The glorious (read: cool) morning beckoned to all of us. I sent the big boys on out ahead, let them burn off some steam. The baby pranced by the door, impatiently patient. He was ready for his chance to romp around in the grass and sunshine, too. The backdoor squeaks as we squeeze out into the 8 a.m. day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We swing and talk to Grandma and Grandpa (who live next door for those who are unaware) and chat about how adorable and good our puppy is. The boys chase imaginary foes with their lightsabers and I try to keep the baby from toddling into something our good, good puppy has left behind, if you catch my drift. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When it's finally time to come in and clean-up, I scoop up the barefooted baby and plop him next to the sink, taking care to rub in between all of those tiny toes with a sweet scented soap, spraying off the bubbles with cautiously warmed water. He grins, I clean his feet a little longer, then it's off for a snack. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEczZEWmSuc6y02nNwD3iZV_9jft7gf9EpYhjhY65OX_NMvVCSm4wsb4X2MIjFKUEnuzHGxPK7vJCtMQyFnICarXZV8q9NbdvbUTrsqyl_ehFstVR1ScyBteDZFBVOsHqNZif3eRn6XPw/s1600/17db9a77a85f660deafe8ab740ed489b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="845" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEczZEWmSuc6y02nNwD3iZV_9jft7gf9EpYhjhY65OX_NMvVCSm4wsb4X2MIjFKUEnuzHGxPK7vJCtMQyFnICarXZV8q9NbdvbUTrsqyl_ehFstVR1ScyBteDZFBVOsHqNZif3eRn6XPw/s320/17db9a77a85f660deafe8ab740ed489b.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's not until he's nearly finished with his snack and trying to feed me bits and pieces of a peanut butter cracker, that I notice the dirt on his palm. Just a smudge. Probably where he caught himself before landing on his face out in the yard. Maybe when he balanced himself at the base of the playground slide. Regardless, he'd been eating snacks with dirty hands, because I had been unaware.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I had been focused on his feet. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He'd been walking through the grass barefoot, the puppy licking at his heels. Literally. I knew those toddler size four feet were going to need a good washing when we got in the house. His hands weren't even on my radar.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But they were still dirty. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I woke up at 5 a.m. today, like I do most days (yes, even though it's summer). If I don't get my quiet time in at the start of the day, the rest of the day rushes ahead of me and I spend all the hours trying to simultaneously survive and stay ahead of the race - until suddenly it's bedtime and I'm too exhausted to form a coherent thought, let alone read or study as I should. So, morning it is. Plus, I'm kind of an obnoxious morning person - I seriously love the early hours, so so (so!) much.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This morning I got comfy in my normal spot with my normal coffee, my normal blanket and my new Bible study that I began on Monday. It's a study on 1 and 2 Corinthians and the body of Christ. Our differing parts, our larger purpose. I highlighted a few verses that seemed to stand out to me:</span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"For since there is envy and strife among you, are you not worldly and behaving like humans?"</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"... and each role the Lord has given."</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"So then neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth."</i></span></li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxNsDyalvD2Wg3Zv82QhnItTemQscItHXiGqVdwQcWrhu18JV5j8jcywk4f9yd6SpnpmE78OOrMLlsv8k6zgiy4KlECoyjwA5kWt3CVFN9BV587vZJrpp-fn_h0KNy2usCNy91hNuVHI/s1600/01750c6f14b4ab7d3fc00269566f4a5e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="564" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxNsDyalvD2Wg3Zv82QhnItTemQscItHXiGqVdwQcWrhu18JV5j8jcywk4f9yd6SpnpmE78OOrMLlsv8k6zgiy4KlECoyjwA5kWt3CVFN9BV587vZJrpp-fn_h0KNy2usCNy91hNuVHI/s320/01750c6f14b4ab7d3fc00269566f4a5e.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The accompanying commentary went on to jab a little deeper with statements that made me squirm a little and almost in a confused way. Surely, I didn't have a problem with this issue. And then, <i>"For adult-me, self-pity is the most common form of pride. When I feel left out by a group of friends, the sadness that creeps up isn't just sadness at the rejection; it's also a prideful entitlement which shouts, 'I should have been invited!'..." </i>(ref. Claire Gibson, She Reads Truth). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, another reader pointed out that there are cliques and exclusions that occur in the church and within the body of Christ that should not be there and should be addressed. Completely agree. We need to watch ourselves and test and see if we are being Christ-like or if we are just enjoying our little moment of fame or hanging with the "in" crowd. And I kind of wanted to side with this reader and move on. Yep, today's devotional is way off course. There's nothing here applicable to <i>me</i> and <i>my </i>own life. Surely.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And yet, I couldn't shake it. Didn't think God wanted me to shake it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And that makes the little wrinkles come out between my eyebrows and tears poke at the backs of my eyes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because, I don't want that to be true of me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm sure you don't want it to be true of you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We can skirt around thinking that we do really well. We don't do any of the big sins. I mean, I'm not killing anyone and I don't steal. But then I had to think about the times, even recently, when I've really struggled with that left out feeling. Or with the conviction that surely so and so must think this or that of me or that so and so is standing in my way or that I'm just as good, just as talented, just as necessary as who</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">mever. But, that's okay, right? My feelings are just hurt. That's all it is. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmWxG-cflpqwUkb3BZf-WknnxB7Zvroag6Rcw0UVOFqFmvK9n-pvimfzQy5xf6GM14mpFBRRP8AfYa8l2rqx_xhX3roqwRjvulnksZn8iQLbX1PN6k8ztvIpFldk0AIm-SizeEiFZuM8/s1600/420862057481c6be94e40ef3ef6ef16b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmWxG-cflpqwUkb3BZf-WknnxB7Zvroag6Rcw0UVOFqFmvK9n-pvimfzQy5xf6GM14mpFBRRP8AfYa8l2rqx_xhX3roqwRjvulnksZn8iQLbX1PN6k8ztvIpFldk0AIm-SizeEiFZuM8/s320/420862057481c6be94e40ef3ef6ef16b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But as valid as my argument and my feelings may or may not be... the hard pill to swallow is that <i>I'm awful concentrated on myself </i>in the midst of all of this. Because really, isn't that what I'm saying? I'm this, I'm that, I deserve this opportunity or that chance or that gift. Kind of throwing an all-about-me hissy fit. When my kids do that, they get lectured and sent to their room. How many times have they heard, <i>"The world does not revolve around you!" </i>And yet, really, if we're being honest - we grow up and never grow out of it and still believe it kind of does.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, here I sit, in the dark, before my kids wake up, feeling spanked by God. And it's not exactly my favorite place to be. I much prefer to sense Him shining down on me, sending me sunsets and cozy messages tucked in cute little gifts from friends. God's love in the form of a new mug, a handful of chocolate, an unexpected iced coffee in the middle of the day. Those are the forms of God's love I really can get behind. Being spanked in the early part of the day and losing every argument and self-made justification is a lot less enjoyable. And not as easily shared on Instagram as a Pioneer Woman mug.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I look out my window as I type this and swallow back the sob. Because you know what? If He didn't crazy love me, He wouldn't crazy care about my silly self-pity and my pride and my not-killing-people sins. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If it didn't matter, <i>if He didn't love me</i>, He'd just pat me on the head, tell me I was doing enough to get by and it was alright. But He's not saying that. He's saying His love is higher and wider and deeper and I can be all surface and shrug it off, or I can accept the discipline and be changed by the love behind the instruction.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTFEEeGWGRbMeTx1j0zKwAzOHhaznGXE1mYtbobCK8kZF9qhvQgwpueP2ZB3TpZgthUprEvYlBV_P9VcJUIYXJNUZ-pNTJC-4srj4EH0EQWS_MPnBkjABUsX5obFiSe9jDIm0m4y62MOo/s1600/69d6b358e6dfb60d42e710adf7d29d05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTFEEeGWGRbMeTx1j0zKwAzOHhaznGXE1mYtbobCK8kZF9qhvQgwpueP2ZB3TpZgthUprEvYlBV_P9VcJUIYXJNUZ-pNTJC-4srj4EH0EQWS_MPnBkjABUsX5obFiSe9jDIm0m4y62MOo/s320/69d6b358e6dfb60d42e710adf7d29d05.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the tail end of I Corinthians 3:10 it says, <i>"But each one is to be careful how he builds on it." </i>The foundation has been laid by our Master Builder; incredibly skilled and intentional decisions. Precise measurements, materials of integrity. And all that follows - our stories, our successes, our great shining moments - they are all built on the foundation that has already been laid for us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The foundation that has been <i>laid down</i> for us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus Christ is everything. Yesterday, today and forever. It is not a simple, flighty, impartial thing that we do as followers. As children of the King. Even in my own parenting, I spend a great deal more time talking about heart issues, behaviors and what is coming out of those little mouths than I ever do lecturing them about not to kill people or take things that aren't theirs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And we are not so unlike those little children.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What are we doing? Really? How are we behaving? What are we thinking, saying, justifying, living? Because, the tagline beneath this third chapter of the book of Corinthians?<i> "The Problem With Immaturity"</i>. Children. Babies. Mere humans.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But with all good spankings comes the moment of forgiveness, the tight, snug hold of reconciliation and call me crazy, but I would rather be punished by God times infinity and allowed those sweet times of being so, so near Him, than to simply go through my days without an uncomfortable unsettling in my spirit. I would rather be loved and treasured by God so much that even in my lowest and most unflattering, I know He isn't giving me up. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He disciplines those He loves. That truth is almost as good as a glorious sunset, the right song at the right time on the radio, a mug full of coffee. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You know, it might be even better.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text Eph-3-17" id="en-ESV-29252" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; text-align: start;">"... </span><span class="text Eph-3-17" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic; text-align: start;">so that <span style="font-size: x-large;">Christ may dwell</span> in your hearts </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text Eph-3-17" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic; text-align: start;">through faith - that you, </span></span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: start;">being </i></div>
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<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: start;"><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29252B" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29252B" title="See cross-reference B">B</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>rooted <span style="font-size: x-large;">and <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29252C" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29252C" title="See cross-reference C">C</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>grounded in love</span>,</i></div>
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<span class="text Eph-3-18" id="en-ESV-29253" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>may have strength to <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29253D" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29253D" title="See cross-reference D">D</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>comprehend with all the saints what is </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span class="text Eph-3-18" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; text-align: start;">the breadth<span style="font-size: x-large;"> and </span>length <span style="font-size: x-large;">and </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29253E" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29253E" title="See cross-reference E">E</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>height <span style="font-size: x-large;">and </span>depth,</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: start;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span class="text Eph-3-19" id="en-ESV-29254" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">and to know the love of Christ </span></i></span></span></div>
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<span class="text Eph-3-19" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29254F" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29254F" title="See cross-reference F">F</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>that surpasses knowledge, </i></span></span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: start;">that <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29254G" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29254G" title="See cross-reference G">G</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>you may be filled </i></div>
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<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: start;">with <span style="font-size: x-large;">all <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-29254H" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-29254H" title="See cross-reference H">H</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>the fullness </span>of God."</i></div>
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<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ E p h e s i a n s 3 : 1 7 - 1 9 </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-11367431160670276652018-02-23T09:04:00.000-05:002018-02-23T09:05:55.595-05:00{ HOW DEEP HOW WIDE HOW HIGH }<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There are two ways to live life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's all miracle. Wondrous. Awesome.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And... not.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicoZqww6QhRNCi536FRDbt9LLaLiHKGv9Gq8JfVDGbq24YF_3GGVMLLBeqdyVllDPHAzOp27PqxEYyMVR9XNgPbTQvTOvZervP-cAoY9r_99_BH7C-lQSNUeIlzfWC4eRCZnx5KXS_cNU/s1600/IMG_0785.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicoZqww6QhRNCi536FRDbt9LLaLiHKGv9Gq8JfVDGbq24YF_3GGVMLLBeqdyVllDPHAzOp27PqxEYyMVR9XNgPbTQvTOvZervP-cAoY9r_99_BH7C-lQSNUeIlzfWC4eRCZnx5KXS_cNU/s320/IMG_0785.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's a phrase I love a whole lot and I flash it a around in my hashtags pretty much always. Wait for it. Brace yourself. It's pretty fantastic: <i>"Don't be a miserable cow."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I mean, how great is that?!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm the crazy Mom who pulls over to point out sunrises or sunsets. I'll stop to take pictures of the sky or detour to our church parking lot to see how the sky looks over the pond. My kids know I do this and in due time, I fully suspect them to connect the dots and discover Who I'm really chasing after. Who I'm trying to get close to in those moments of sky art glory.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On Valentine's Day morning, I made my way to the end of the icy driveway with my seven year old. I usually don't accompany him to the spot where he stands and waits for the bus, but this particular morning, I was forced to brave the elements. Trash day. So, we stood and shivered and stomped on the ice coated gravel.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Look at the sun! It's pink and red.... for Valentine's Day!"</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I didn't say it. My son did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Normally I'm the one standing with my iPhone at the ready, anticipating the colors to dash across the broken morning sky. I'm the one who stands at the front door as the sun sets nearly every evening, and my husband teases from his spot on the couch: <i>"Is the sun setting again?!"</i> Funny. He's super hilarious. (Good thing for him he's cute.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I try to live as though God is always ready, able and just about to show up. Holy expectation. Hopeful anticipation. I can live as though everything is wondrous, as if the plot is about to twist,... or I can live in an eternal winter. The dark, dank, desperate basement of life. There's no lukewarm here. There's no room for gratitude and simultaneous grumbling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's all miracle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Or not.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The house is quiet and I wish for not the first time that my coffee maker was a little quieter (but I live dangerously and brew a cup anyway). I snuggle into the couch with my basket of books (literally) and jars of pens and highlighters. I am loving the self-imposed student life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm Mary at the feet of Jesus and when I stumble into the room with my Beauty and the Beast mug and sleepy-blink eyes, I feel His soft smile, <i>"You've chosen the best - it won't be taken from you."</i> as if He knows (and so He does) my worries of being interrupted, of getting in too deep and then a cry wrecking this cup I'm drinking (I'm not talking about the coffee). And nine times out of ten, we sit in quiet, sometimes with spa-like music playing to keep my brain a little more alert, and the boys all sleep on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I read it in a Bible study in the thick blanket of early day when it's all black and unseeing. I sit up a little straighter, fluff the pillow behind my back. This is good. I highlight in my study guide, verse 14 in the 17th chapter of Exodus, a pink wash across white paper, the black words of truth pushing their way up. <i>"The Lord then said to Moses, 'Write this down on a scroll as a reminder and recite to Joshua: I will completely blot out the memory of Amalek under heaven.' And Moses built an altar and named it, "The Lord is my Banner"..."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i>
I do a quick search for Amalek on my iPhone and come across a teaching video on YouTube and I clicked play. Don't you just love rabbit trails? Hunts for the gold at the end of the rainbow? This is what is waiting for me - for you. Expectation. Anticipation. Wonder. So, I go to clicking, my pen ready for what will come and I hear it, back track the video, hear it again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">"Hashem is my miracle."</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KhyzoG-DngfbcrJ6QMPiUI_CQBiyOh9a-f0IrFUasxaYQKvrbQCzs0WTsPHJSeDoFyjZUAR8myXZ3FvrTVda3aXPPtVJgXBWj6tiyJeYbi7kzsPOXNRBZfRB_iLELN7F4rQs0IK3LaU/s1600/31c7316dd99e9739c5f3108c90ec36eb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="749" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KhyzoG-DngfbcrJ6QMPiUI_CQBiyOh9a-f0IrFUasxaYQKvrbQCzs0WTsPHJSeDoFyjZUAR8myXZ3FvrTVda3aXPPtVJgXBWj6tiyJeYbi7kzsPOXNRBZfRB_iLELN7F4rQs0IK3LaU/s320/31c7316dd99e9739c5f3108c90ec36eb.jpg" width="240" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hashem. The name for the Holy God... so hallowed and revered that His name isn't even spoken. We could stand to learn a few things I think for how valued the name of the Lord should be. We grab His salvation cheaply, His Word we can take or leave, we can pray or not, go to church or not, get our hands dirty, or not. We say His name without thinking when something goes wrong, when we're grieving, traumatized or in cursing when we've stubbed our toe, boiled the macaroni over the side of the pot again. Careless. Treating it - treating Him - as though, well, common. Not sacred at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But oh the beauty we see and hold when we do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His love... His very life... His work on the cross... <i>miraculous</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And every day,<i> e v e r y </i>day that we're bowed down with stress and worries, fears and doubts... He remains the miracle that has happened and is still happening. What was and what will be. I can live every day as though He will provide that daily bread, with those moments of filling like only He can do... or live starved. Every day hungry. I can believe this is as good as it gets, or I can press on, believing I will never see the end of His great love and goodness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> What we make of our moments - every stinking one of them - can be everything.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Or not.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b>
</span><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<span style="font-size: x-large;">What if </span>the path you choose becomes a road?</span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The <span style="font-size: x-large;">ground you take</span> becomes a home?</span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The wind is high, but the <span style="font-size: x-large;">pressure's off</span>.</span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I'll send rain</span> wherever we end up,</span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">wherever we</span> end up."</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">~ A m a n d a C o o k , V o y a g e</span></i></b></div>
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<br />Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-20141858464933799442017-07-28T11:25:00.002-04:002017-07-28T13:38:31.338-04:00Tale as old as time: a different sort of review...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-qmWhdK8nYTGLbMW6b_hHMFSMNROjdZRy0KA6t9BTeQoImj39y7KfieNODuGWh00q2QRmdOWpmGsLFSc3KjVgtyfKn9wckySpwjGWtCS3DTuk2LAwm5bfarFzxDO9RRLx99EcDnlOLuU/s1600/068f4835b2174a03f504968b522e08b1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="606" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-qmWhdK8nYTGLbMW6b_hHMFSMNROjdZRy0KA6t9BTeQoImj39y7KfieNODuGWh00q2QRmdOWpmGsLFSc3KjVgtyfKn9wckySpwjGWtCS3DTuk2LAwm5bfarFzxDO9RRLx99EcDnlOLuU/s320/068f4835b2174a03f504968b522e08b1.jpg" width="264" /></a>Is there any more beautiful notes than the first few tones of the dramatic prologue to Beauty and the Beast? When Disney released its animated version in 1991, my little ten year old heart was completely enraptured. Enchanted. I am never not moved by the overview of the roses, the squinting through brambles to see the castle aching and looming large against the sky.<br />
<br />
Last night I swung by RedBox and picked up the newest version, since I'm like the only person on the planet who hasn't seen it, yet. I was ready for some uninterrupted girl time - just me and my mini Ben & Jerry's. I couldn't get the kids to bed fast enough (which is ironic, because I allowed them to stay up later than normal - the things we do as mothers that never make sense to anyone). I had my evening planned out and suddenly I had unending patience and energy. Funny how self-care works.<br />
<br />
I settled deeper into my couch, held the ice cream close and got ready for an evening free of thinking and lists and back to school preparations. No more thoughts about new habits or busting old ones, no more worrying about when to do this or when to fit time in for that - just time to sit and soak it all in. I was ready in all of my inner little girl-ness.<br />
<br />
Immediately I was tearing up. The music. The sounds of those voices. Even certain notes themselves got me all stirred up. I texted my best friend that this was amazing and beautiful and my inner ten year old was enchanted all over again. I was mesmerized. I didn't even need or want the ice cream. The story before me that was unfolding was heart stopping.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3Azvk34Yup5uvbYYbO0Q2GeTCfAL6tMo5rj32sRQkO3iKmlq1LPlfxI7vqylFLRsViOx8xJiajYoHQLu6Zm7-0U0dxu8wZD4VuI9iAGGYn6wDKjBPEC2LApEfZZpLVLR96qL88QpGEc/s1600/81520ebf3464755c81621b0d1faab741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3Azvk34Yup5uvbYYbO0Q2GeTCfAL6tMo5rj32sRQkO3iKmlq1LPlfxI7vqylFLRsViOx8xJiajYoHQLu6Zm7-0U0dxu8wZD4VuI9iAGGYn6wDKjBPEC2LApEfZZpLVLR96qL88QpGEc/s320/81520ebf3464755c81621b0d1faab741.jpg" width="320" /></a>I had been thinking on it a couple days ago... how I've had so many moments of feeling so ordinary. So impossibly simple. But at the same time, wrestling with something within that felt extraordinary. I drove from point a to point b; the post office, the grocery, the pediatrician, the church. And I thought about my story, about the different chapters, the cliff hangers, the unexpected endings. I love playing connect the dots with times in my life and God's goodness. If not for this, then not this.<br />
<br />
It always moves me to great gratitude, because it's unfathomable when you start to dissect and reconstruct it all. And I said it to myself, this story is amazing, because it is His story. Every road, every place I've landed, ever gift I've been given - it's all part of His story and His love, not only for me, but for all of us. When I move my sight from my plainness, I see nothing but His glory.<br />
<br />
And being part of a story like that? That is anything but ordinary.<br />
<br />
As Belle spun through her small, provincial world, my mind spun around my own. The mayhem of the square, the cries of babies and animals and people - sometimes that feels like my life. Someone begging for attention or six eggs or trying to right some injustice (like who actually is to blame for tearing off all the tiny arms, legs and heads of our Lego heroes.)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirgmIEcnZxQTZKTp-NEojHBP5Ec6nEa-Vl1MbIXSsQXyXE4dWh0fK-MczFlcon9zc0fjTkQ0HzHUSKEW6BVYBO2buplM9AMnnARRhzdOryDQ7IAu7ykKNqLJtOcyNgaz5C5Rpkj-WfHjM/s1600/786849c47166836716eaa4409c195dfd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirgmIEcnZxQTZKTp-NEojHBP5Ec6nEa-Vl1MbIXSsQXyXE4dWh0fK-MczFlcon9zc0fjTkQ0HzHUSKEW6BVYBO2buplM9AMnnARRhzdOryDQ7IAu7ykKNqLJtOcyNgaz5C5Rpkj-WfHjM/s200/786849c47166836716eaa4409c195dfd.jpg" width="200" /></a>And sometimes I'm moving through it, seemingly oblivious. Sometimes I'm just trying to get lost in a different world, for a book or a song to take me away, and yet I can't actually break away. There's always a Gaston rudely snatching your focus, making fun of your dreams or not understanding how or why you could possibly read a book without any pictures in vivid color. It's not bad. It's not a bad place or bad people or a bad life. Not by any stretch of the imagination.<br />
<br />
It's not so much about the world you're in - or the world Belle found herself in - it was the fact that she fought against the confines of her own skin, of her own responsibilities and expectations - that she ran up agains the fringes of who she was at her core. And what do you do about that when you are in, in all actuality, a spirit housed behind skin and bones, blood and water.<br />
<br />
Adventure... in the great wide? Somewhere?<br />
<br />
We all can understand.<br />
<br />
As she sung herself through the town and up to overlook the town, the sky expanded and filled the screen. Sunlight splintered through and it all crescendoed as our heroine sang and spun and celebrated her moment in the sun, her brief understanding that she wanted more - that she was meant for more - but whatever did that mean? The beauty that surrounded her on all sides made me teary and I whispered it in the quiet living room: <i>that's heaven</i>.<br />
<br />
The other side. The adventure. The bigger story. The perspective. It's all there. It's all part of another world. The Bible says that we have eternity set in our hearts. (Ecclesiastes 3:11) I think that's what makes us long for that something more. For that great wide story. There is something extraordinary dwelling within us. If we proclaim that the power that rose Christ from the dead that lives in us? My goodness. How are we all not spinning out of control, running up to every mountain, twirling and wondering how do we contain it all, how do we manage it, how do we keep doing all of this here when we were meant for something else entirely?<br />
<br />
I feel like that's the ache I run up against. I feel like that's what I'm able to just barely fingertip touch when it comes to worship; to music and lyrics and singing. I always feel like my heart is in my throat, not because I'm nervous, but because I'm standing on a ledge it seems like, and it feels as if there is only the thinnest veil between me and God; between me and complete seeing. I get that feeling whenever I'm living fearlessly and operating out of a bravery that comes from my belief in who I am in Him and nothing else. The clamor of my own world, simple as it may seem, calms down and blurs and suddenly all I see is all I was always meant to be. It's the most extraordinary, enchanting sensation of all.<br />
<br />
I was prepared for some down time. Just chill, eat all the calories, turn off my mind. I was not prepared for a Bible lesson. I was not prepared to find myself covering my mouth and heaving with sobs because of the most lovely picture of Heaven I've ever witnessed on this earth. But once I started seeing Him in the story - that's all I could see.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieAoDMis4H-rr70Yeq7UPZ3ovR9aY9S4OK2-fh-otiewApFOS2L0ij8R_oCQdtGRLxK0LnGOqznj9lBnQUCifA9IrpsHa9ZluzQdbRHTumZ9qcwFRIm5-Iy8uNQIC5aiKLX0iOMlxT4Xs/s1600/39658751cd1ea15eb171979a69fb5131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="564" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieAoDMis4H-rr70Yeq7UPZ3ovR9aY9S4OK2-fh-otiewApFOS2L0ij8R_oCQdtGRLxK0LnGOqznj9lBnQUCifA9IrpsHa9ZluzQdbRHTumZ9qcwFRIm5-Iy8uNQIC5aiKLX0iOMlxT4Xs/s320/39658751cd1ea15eb171979a69fb5131.jpg" width="320" /></a>I saw Christ and His entrapment in a form that was not His own. I saw Him fighting against becoming something for love. And while I'm well aware that Christ does not need our love to be set free, nor was He cast under a spell and bound in the body of a beast - the fact that He took on a form that was not His own so that He could save us? So that He could take us from ordinary and provincial to something completely not of this world? That's real.<br />
<br />
As Gaston's pistol fires shots that take down the beast, I held my hands over my heart. Even though I know how this story ends - how the greatest Story ends - I still was caught up in all of it. I wanted to be lost in it. I smiled a little at Gaston's bravado and how he fully believes he's taken down the Prince once and for all. Sounds so much like another one that swims in darkness and another time when he believed he had won... when in reality, he was about to be smashed to smithereens.<br />
<br />
Smithereens is a great word.<br />
<br />
With Gaston rightly cast into the farthest depths of darkness, the Beast crashes into the ballroom. The room is broken and dull, the sparkle and life of the dance just a few nights before, gone. You can almost feel the air being sucked out of the room. The hope of returning to order, dimming. The Beast rolls heavily down the steps as she races next to him. The heartbreak is palpable and as the servants of the castle, one by one begin shutting down forever; I start choking on my own sobs.<br />
<br />
The wardrobe tearfully says goodbye to her husband, her doors lock tight forever as she no longer operates as an enchanted piece of furniture. Her very spirit is snuffed out and it's all gone. The petal falls to the ground and all of the love, all of the hope they had each held onto for so long - it's evaporating and you feel the wave of death sweeping through the castle. No one is saved.<br />
<br />
I am more affected than I had ever anticipated and I whisper against my clenched hands, pressing against my mouth so I can somehow stop sobbing as though my world has also ended: <i>"... but Heaven started counting to three." (ref: Bob Goff)</i><br />
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This is not how this story ends. It's not how the greatest story ever told ends. I ache with how things seem. The finality of death. I've suffered it, we all have, we all will. There's never an easy answer. No matter how much time passes, it doesn't really get any easier. My tears are streaming and I'm holding my breath. Just waiting.<br />
<br />
<i>One... two... </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Three.</i><br />
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And suddenly... resurrection. The earth surges and Belle stumbles back in trepidation - this isn't possible. This shouldn't be happening. Everything is over. Finished. Done. That's how this works. That's how this always works. Your heart breaks, the rose disintegrates, you say goodbye. Sometimes it can feel that you're always saying goodbye.<br />
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I have my own dried roses. My own boxes of petals. There are holes in my heart that are just never going to be the same ever again. We can know and operate on the truth that death is not forever, but it is an end, and that is never easy. The delicate flowers I have kept are just a representation of a time I had to say goodbye before I was ready. Before any of us were ready. Belle asked her father to bring her a rose from the market. How funny that we often dry and keep safe those flowers from the services that acknowledge the loss of someone we love. What is it about a dried flower? It's dead, too, after only a few days, but it somehow freezes time.<br />
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So, then... the Prince is back. He's back and it's more right than it has ever been.<br />
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And then everyone... everyone... <i>comes alive.</i><br />
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I know I'm going to have puffy eyes in the morning, but I'm folded in half sobbing, my hands covering my face. So glad I didn't go and see this movie in the theater.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOvZ4gb3g2nsf65yrKKVdF4eNS3MZnaAd9gZQxjonQTmoghyhYTDbTdpOWzDCKbdgvqnqJVabUE5zD09OZztPxtMTZs8JB4St-bniyTQPlJNrGFh2WVKythhgzXM-kCycvSA-NLxRH9E/s1600/tumblr_l69k09nJf31qd0axho1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="1185" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOvZ4gb3g2nsf65yrKKVdF4eNS3MZnaAd9gZQxjonQTmoghyhYTDbTdpOWzDCKbdgvqnqJVabUE5zD09OZztPxtMTZs8JB4St-bniyTQPlJNrGFh2WVKythhgzXM-kCycvSA-NLxRH9E/s400/tumblr_l69k09nJf31qd0axho1_1280.jpg" width="400" /></a>I'm a mess of relief and hope and shuttered grief. Everyone spins and evolves into who they were always meant to be and it's such a celebration. <i>"It's me! It's me! It's YOU!"</i> Everyone is exalting and running around mad, exciting, relieved. Finally they are together. Finally everything is back to as it should be. Finally the spell is broken and they can hold each other in their arms again. My mind and eyes swim with memories and tears and for that day... that day when I can rush to my Aunt Joyce, when I can be caught in my Grandpa's arms agains. When I can finally see my second child, who I never got a chance to know at all. When I can wrap my niece in my arms and never let her go.<br />
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I have never witnessed such a perfect, unexpected glimpse into Heaven. I didn't know how much I needed that perspective. How much we all do; because we all have those broken beautiful places.<br />
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But the truth of it all? At the very end of it all?<br />
<br />
I guess Mrs. Potts summed it up the best:<i> "I</i><i>t'll turn out all right in the end. You'll see."</i><br />
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<i>"And He <span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>who is seated </b></span>on the throne said, </i></div>
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<i>"Behold, I am making <span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>all things new</b></span>."</i></div>
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<i>Also <span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>he said</b></span>, "Write this down, for these words</i></div>
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<i>are <span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>trustworthy and true</b></span>."</i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ R e v e l a t i o n 2 1 : 5 </span></i></div>
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<br />Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-55135240281607873432017-06-20T22:10:00.002-04:002017-06-20T22:10:31.418-04:00{ Behold He Comes }<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpF5DXXYo5ZWaHdBVZvnVkG89KE_nDgOfhJQfLC72E2FuhEGK6c5HwipZvVbmRsF2u9egxnm5yeXxspOp3F3lpMsoa5VgNp-VatKC9zETZKNFMQyw3yQwuBqi_KrhKo-WwWQP9r_QM3M/s1600/807b391a3916d158ac34c1a036e5716b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpF5DXXYo5ZWaHdBVZvnVkG89KE_nDgOfhJQfLC72E2FuhEGK6c5HwipZvVbmRsF2u9egxnm5yeXxspOp3F3lpMsoa5VgNp-VatKC9zETZKNFMQyw3yQwuBqi_KrhKo-WwWQP9r_QM3M/s320/807b391a3916d158ac34c1a036e5716b.jpg" width="180" /></a><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It was evening and I was wearing down. Finishing up some work, the babies all asleep in their beds, husband away for the night playing softball. I was in get-stuff-done mode and it felt good. Until I felt tired. I decided to stretch my legs, and by that I mean I decided to hop on Facebook and give my brain a timeout.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was met immediately with post after post of a gorgeous double-rainbow that had visited so many of my friends. I’m kind of a sunset/sunrise chaser. My husband teases me a bit about it. Most nights I’m standing at the front door or I creep out on the damp patio in my barefeet, iPhone in hand, ready to snap the next greatest sky art. He’ll tease me as I toddle almost childlike back into the house, padding my way back to the couch in my comfy clothes. <br />
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<i>“Did the sun set again tonight?” </i><br />
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He thinks he’s hilarious.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So, I see these gorgeous pictures and my eyes flit to the front windows, the side windows. What did I miss? When did I miss it? Would I have even been able to see it out here anyway? I had noticed the sky was golden and glorious, but I hadn’t gotten up to wander around. I mean, I was trying to be serious for two seconds and do some serious work. And by serious work, I mean partying on social media with my people. It’s what thirty-something moms do now for fun at 9 p.m. Don’t judge me. It could be meth.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9b3nuPYnsGQaRTFmAkdeuE_sqhmX92ic958_nX17cXf0RsuP0055s4AdEsbJFKeenBYfIB81lpYaWXWiY78GpFfjORtxWIG5OQvSYptHnxFUK5AtIqgEJ7ExXDvH9lReMp9zETpJ7rXQ/s1600/62778466b0836f68d073d4b395e996dd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9b3nuPYnsGQaRTFmAkdeuE_sqhmX92ic958_nX17cXf0RsuP0055s4AdEsbJFKeenBYfIB81lpYaWXWiY78GpFfjORtxWIG5OQvSYptHnxFUK5AtIqgEJ7ExXDvH9lReMp9zETpJ7rXQ/s320/62778466b0836f68d073d4b395e996dd.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I hustle up and out of my house and I’m full of trust in my heart. He would not leave me out. He would not forsake me. You know how I know? Because I believe Him when He said that we will find Him when we go looking for Him. And I’m not looking for a double-rainbow or a pink sky or for anything other-worldly except for Him. That’s really what I’m out to capture. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I know my gift may look different than what a handful of my peeps spied in Auburn, Indiana on a Tuesday evening - but I know He won’t leave me standing out on the cool pavement, barefoot while country traffic (and by country traffic I mean Amish) trolls by, probably scandalized into next week by my Star Wars pajama pants (hey, my boys think I’m epic, hush!) and my, <i>“My favorite bars are chocolate”</i> tank. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I swear, you guys. I can be classy. I really, really can!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I go looking. And He’s not just found, He’s intentionally waiting <i>to be found</i>. Not by all my friends in town with their double-rainbow Instagramed sky-magic. No. He knows I will come paddling around to find Him. Because He <i>knows me</i>. Loves me. Not just as a creator, someone who pulled me and stretched me and gave me really wonky toes and thick hair and such a good, good life... but as a friend. A deep hearted, deeply rooted, friend. Who knows all my good jokes and my bad stories and adores me. Who knows the things I am too scared to say out loud that I hope for or dream about. The one who knows prayers I’ve prayed and prayers I’ve begged and prayers I couldn’t find words for. The one who has held me as I’ve fought, waited as I ran, sat next to me with tears drowning His eyes because of my shattered, destroyed, devastated human, baby girl heart. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He’s had arms wide open when I felt abandoned and arms wide open when it’s all too horrible to bear, arms wide open when I’m exhausted and, dare I say, mean.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I feel like I’m missing out - or that I’ve lost my talents or chose a wrong path or missed out on some great calling - I mean, do other people think about that stuff, cause I sure do. And I watch and read and link arms with those going through momentous highs and mountain top success stories... and I’m standing on my front porch wearing pants with a wookie on one leg and a droid on the other.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5J10_IHrOQ7bQjIX5aWf6PkusRS3Llu-V4jaJfP9NcTI4WZYZl__W0RprM05OLokXQk9PtiEUE6ahz1mC-XSDeL0oalObpOAPBkDn44Mcf0VX8y48xFB57YLz9I0LZdy0gyoCH49N4wo/s1600/IMG_1169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="781" data-original-width="1600" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5J10_IHrOQ7bQjIX5aWf6PkusRS3Llu-V4jaJfP9NcTI4WZYZl__W0RprM05OLokXQk9PtiEUE6ahz1mC-XSDeL0oalObpOAPBkDn44Mcf0VX8y48xFB57YLz9I0LZdy0gyoCH49N4wo/s320/IMG_1169.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Depending on your outlook, that can leave you feeling all shades of left out.<br />
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But when you go looking, knowing you’re <i>already</i> found? That there is something to be discovered? Even if it is “only” a sunset on a Tuesday night? If I’m chasing after a glimpse of the One who adores me more than anything, if I’m just trying to catch His eye or evidence that He was RIGHT THERE, right near me, right outside that red front door, waiting for me. Then, I’m going to go. I can look the fool over and over. That’s okay. And I can miss a sunset or a rainbow or a glowing sunrise. That’s okay, too. You can’t iPhoto them all, I suppose. <br />
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But if my heart is beating with expectation and wonder and I want to hurry to go on an adventure, even if it’s just outside in the summer night - why wouldn’t I go? If I expect Him to show up and He surely always does - why wouldn’t I go? Why would I wan’t to be amazed, to see evidence of His finger pulling, dragging, expanding all the colors across His very own canvas? I mean, I’ll stop everything and hunt that stuff down.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Him. Hunt Him down. Every time.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeOuUdkgHdH4j7GY7jH9RP8nd9xbTiwalSSGHb7bxR7srkb-QCbhmx_3snbtcRg8dwrS6I2POSxgCrzPdAh_Ag9gI3Gsw5yyEgdO14uO6kzP_Mzx6WIPira2fdLwdxpR8yMpnZ7Ad_7Ig/s1600/IMG_1173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeOuUdkgHdH4j7GY7jH9RP8nd9xbTiwalSSGHb7bxR7srkb-QCbhmx_3snbtcRg8dwrS6I2POSxgCrzPdAh_Ag9gI3Gsw5yyEgdO14uO6kzP_Mzx6WIPira2fdLwdxpR8yMpnZ7Ad_7Ig/s320/IMG_1173.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I can’t get enough of Him reminding me that I’m not forgotten. I can’t get enough of Him standing still until I find Him right where He has stayed so I could be near Him. Like a good Daddy who pauses and waits for the little legs of his children to catch up.... He holds up for me. Until I get done with my work, or done with my tired, or done with my frustration - He’s there, holding out His hand, kind of like I do with my boys when we cross a parking lot. I don’t even have to look for them, because I know they are coming. I just wait, with my arm out, ready for their little hands to hold tight as we walk on to our next destination. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And sometimes it’s big, big things and other times it’s love written in the clouds. It’s His whispered presence in a song or in a morning well-spent or in how kissable the cheeks of my babies are. Sometimes it’s the big stuff that we have to hammer out together and sometimes it’s colors way up high and clouds far beyond... to remind me that somewhere out there, He has all the love - all the love - for me. <br />
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And He never leaves me out. Never has. Never, ever will.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">"If you look </span>for me </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>wholeheartedly,</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>you <span style="font-size: x-large;">will</span> find me." </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b><i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">~ </span>J e r e m i <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">a h 2 9 : 1 3 </span></i></b></span></span></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-4626269718695801282017-05-15T05:33:00.000-04:002017-05-15T05:59:46.448-04:00{ Oh, He Will. Oh, He Will. }There's something dismissive about an alarm.<br />
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And something irresistible when it's God.<br />
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I woke up this morning at 4:59 a.m. My alarm was set for 5 a.m. I had to smile. Had my alarm gone through with its work, I might have been tempted to kick it off. Ugh, 5 a.m. is early. The night wasn't nearly long enough. I'm. Not. Moving. From. This. Spot.<br />
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But when the alarm failed to sing me awake, and instead I woke "on my own" and sensed nothing but God calling my name. A mom-version of the child Samuel, hearing the voice of God calling. Immediately my eyes pulled open. The shutters flung wide. I'm here! I'm awake! I'm up!<br />
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Within five minutes I was standing and waiting for coffee, a lit candle in my hand, ready to carry and cup up whatever God had waiting for me. I was rushed. I was feeling it in my spirit, as though if I didn't hurry, He would move on. Go wake up another daughter in another house who was ready for His words. I wanted it to be me. <i>Desperately.</i> I'm here, I'm awake, I'm up.<br />
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I hustle my coffee and the Yankee Candle into the living room.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCZOFwUJaHoCAa6s1SaKYMhIR2NW0lGbbQv2vL3iNF4S3rAlr0OoIzQEGX6_ttNy-MZQLWMchRe1ukxP17mRQleNDA2mWefttwZUz0gqsYwqvRh1HcJ98Z9XxsVc-N0-v3etMFentGB0/s1600/97f2e11fe56512a84de2c24031ae8a2b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCZOFwUJaHoCAa6s1SaKYMhIR2NW0lGbbQv2vL3iNF4S3rAlr0OoIzQEGX6_ttNy-MZQLWMchRe1ukxP17mRQleNDA2mWefttwZUz0gqsYwqvRh1HcJ98Z9XxsVc-N0-v3etMFentGB0/s320/97f2e11fe56512a84de2c24031ae8a2b.jpg" width="320" /></a>In the handful of minutes it had taken me to hop out of bed, gather my phone and the baby monitors and pop in my contacts, the words to two very different songs were running through my mind. Pry open the right eye and slip the contact in: <i>"Your presence is Heaven... oh to be with You." </i>(ref: Bethel). My heart pounded. It was like I was rushing to get ready for a first date. The anticipatory butterflies. Blink, blink. Ready the other eye. <i>"My God's not dead, He's surely alive!" </i>(ref: Newsboys).<br />
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This is why I was jittery before the coffee ever hit my bloodstream. My very living, very powerful, very loving God? Completely alive, completely available and I could't move fast enough to spend time with Him. Rush hour traffic, an ill-timed train, <i>come on</i>. My wonderful date that I can't believe wants to meet with me? He's waiting. Get out of my way, all of you. Just let me get there on time.<br />
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I snuggle into the couch and pause. Pray something completely ineloquent and hurried. Nerves, almost. Here I am, here I am. I made it. I don't know where to start. Is it a worship-music in the background kind of meeting? Do I just journal? Flip the Bible open? Read something out of somewhere?<br />
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I open up a book I haven't read for awhile. I told myself, <i>"If nothing grabs me right away, I'll stop and move on." </i>I turn open to the bent corner of page 105. "Worship in the Wilderness" is the headline I had left off on. Well, what do you know. Let's just read about God's presence, shall we? I smiled. Ignored the coffee.<br />
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The phenomenon of God making an appearance is called "theophany". I felt like Beth Moore as I Googled for a deeper understanding, for the Greek. Theophany (pronounced the-oph-a-ny). "Theos" (God) and "Phainein" (to show). I write it in caps in my journal. How great is that? It is a complete wonder and I am wonderfully breathless as I spoon it out to my starving heart. God showing Himself to me - to anyone - is a deeply profound thing.<br />
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And I underline these words, block off the entire paragraph: <i>"The purpose of the Israelites' deliverance was not simply their emancipation from slavery; it was to lead them into deeper worship of the Lord." </i>The deserts, the swallows of dust - it's such a desolate place that we learn our supreme need for Him. For Him to show Himself to us. And when we know what our freedom, what the chasing, the redeeming, the restoration cost? It drives our worship.<br />
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I'm a worship kind of girl. I love all the songs, download all the tunes, follow all the worship leaders. I pin the quotes and routinely update my playlist. Heck, I even spend a handful of hours every week working at my church, supporting the Worship Arts ministry with some admin tasking and doing my best to shoulder some ministry burden for our Worship Arts Pastor. I love it. Love it all.<br />
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But worship is more than a song. More than a set of riffs. More than a heart-stopping bridge.<br />
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Worship is a lifestyle and worship is a sacrifice and worship is a busted jar at the feet of Jesus. And what a beautiful place to be in. The desert and the worshiper and the presence of God. My worship doesn't end when the doors close on Sunday. It doesn't begin when I step on stage at 8:25 a.m. every Sunday, either. It has to be consistently more than that, or what I do on Sunday, with my hands around a microphone or settled on keys, is just a waste of time.<br />
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Same for early mornings waiting for God to show up (or is He waiting for me to show up?) If I don't spend time with Him, how will I learn to desire Him? To miss Him when I'm in those desert spaces and feeling so spun-crooked and lost my way?<br />
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We always look for what we can gather. Hold.<br />
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If I'm not looking for Him, what else am I holding?<br />
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It is true that we are far too easily satisfied (<i>C.S. Lewis</i>). It's easy to go through the steps, to find comfort in routine and schedules and another same ol' same ol'. I even wrote that as a gratitude this morning. Thankful for a regular, plain Jane, Monday morning. And that's okay. It's okay to be thankful for our simple routine and a quiet day. But I can't stay there. I can't just hold onto my planner and my lists and say, "Okay, I'm good. It is well with my soul." I could.<br />
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But I was made for something more. I crave something stronger.<br />
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And we can try to numb it, out race it, ignore it, busy it... but the truth is we were made for more and our dreams matter and our moments cost and when we stop to think about the weight of glory... about the gift given to us, the gift we were created to be... it leaves you with a little smile at the corner of your mouth. A little breathless.<br />
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Because when God shows up, like a Father reaching out to His child who is lost - spinning this way and that, looking for a face she recognizes in the crowd - when He shows up, reaches out, hands us a burden, or a task, or a family, or a hurt - He never stops showing up. We can feel isolated and dumbly on our own, but while we whip our head from the right and to the left, looking to be saved, when our wild hearts can calm down - we find that in all the busy gathering and searching, He's still there. Still loving. Still profoundly being found by our starving hearts.<br />
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Like Ruth, we can strivingly glean the leftovers and survive... or we can sit at the feet of love and live every dream like we knew we always wanted.<br />
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">"So much!" </span>Naomi exclaimed.</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Where in the world <span style="font-size: x-large;">did you</span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">glean today?</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Praise the Lord <span style="font-size: x-large;">for whoever</span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">was so kind</span> to you."</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So Ruth told her mother-in-law <span style="font-size: x-large;">all about it."</span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">~ R u t h 2 : 1 9 </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I <span style="font-size: x-large;">have</span> loved you with an </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">everlasting love</span>;</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I <span style="font-size: x-large;">have </span>drawn you </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">with <span style="font-size: x-large;">unfailing </span>kindness."</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;">~ J e r e m i a h 3 1 : 3 </span></i></b><br />
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<br />Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-54554339457611196692017-04-22T12:25:00.001-04:002017-04-22T12:32:13.336-04:00{ IT'S YOUR BREATH IN OUR LUNGS }I've been encouraged to write. Challenged. Read it on pages and in between lines. Heard it in a song. Write, write, write. The ones who know me so well... they tell me. <i>"Where are you? Why aren't you doing this thing that you were given to do?" </i>And... I don't know. I've got kids, man. I've got responsibilities and stuffed calendars and I just sometimes want to sit in my comfy pants and eat Starburst Jellybeans and binge on a favorite show. Sometimes... a lot of times... I think: what could I possibly have to offer? I can't even get caught up on laundry. I feel like I'm kind of a mess. There's not much inspirational about that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL4twMoCU_p1hnh31yewZGxCKpWPJy1ipxY1AJ3tcKHBFvaOCmmhX828UdKwmL3W4Cj9rMIiSgprEinOX-iRm_RiZibuXLGGm-K2ZxYMM9oBtuLUIewHVoe-TF32V_dW_dRmSHHe4Uqg/s1600/985a047d08b02f77a4d38824952d3f3c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL4twMoCU_p1hnh31yewZGxCKpWPJy1ipxY1AJ3tcKHBFvaOCmmhX828UdKwmL3W4Cj9rMIiSgprEinOX-iRm_RiZibuXLGGm-K2ZxYMM9oBtuLUIewHVoe-TF32V_dW_dRmSHHe4Uqg/s320/985a047d08b02f77a4d38824952d3f3c.jpg" width="189" /></a>But, I'll admit... when it's quiet? When I have space to hear the strum of my heart and the pounding of dreams racing through my head, like the agile feet of a runner, Reebok's smacking the asphalt? I feel it. I feel it right now. My spirit is knocking on a door I keep on locking up. Oh sure, pull the laptop out and write a little here and there, and then back in the cage you go, you silly creative thing, you.<br />
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But when I sit... like today, with the iced coffee and the burning down candle and the sleeping baby upstairs... when I give myself a chance to pause and think about the greatness of God and the smallness of me and the gasping beauty of being chosen, loved, worthy, chased after, gifted... and then I have to ask myself, <i>"Where are you? Why aren't you doing this thing?"</i><br />
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It all leaves me a little breathless.<br />
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The whole process steals my air. The stringing together of words, the puzzle pieces of a sentence, the interlocking wave of a paragraph; oh, I love. Tapping it out and then pausing, looking out the window, trying to catch the next wave, to see the otherworldly things just beyond the living room... finding a detail that I would have missed if I hadn't paused. The way a story unfolds. How it always unfolds. It's enchanting. It's an enchanting thing to be a part of.<br />
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There's a pure joy and it's not for anything other than the pure joy. And shouldn't we do more of that? Have more of that? Instead of tearing others down or beating ourselves up... what if we unfurled more an more into the blossom we were meant to be? We like to think we need to constantly be transplanted, uprooted, changed. Taken somewhere other than where we are. Like sure, there's better things, but I'm going to have to be stolen away to ever find it.<br />
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But what if we could have it? What if we just put down the roots and shot up tall and strong and waveringly lovely? What if we really did bloom right here. Just where we are?<br />
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Isn't the greatest beauty the one you see and call out in someone else? That you speak to your own reflection? Seeing a gift unfurl in someone... experiencing and witnessing their bravery and transformation... isn't that what this - creativity, faith, art, books, music - isn't that what it's for? A tool to cause us to come alive? To grow? That's life, isn't it?<br />
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If it's not about a kingdom or a treasure incorruptible, what is it about? If it's not about the risen Christ rising in us... of witnessing and speaking truth and seeing it expand in another?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjW6BY3I0HWbtXAZDFeCL29OUrWZcK9P4-sz6v3KUdpvigJ4LnXRqhbYDKirmz5RnSsvDAOy8DSXFO-1Qb7N7Ga2LtZ1DivtMDEMCSkp8geOtMnN0pqMXMm0c2gf6a1sS6m8mxybvmTpE/s1600/4224fbecfc8f3466c640db087bbc5450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjW6BY3I0HWbtXAZDFeCL29OUrWZcK9P4-sz6v3KUdpvigJ4LnXRqhbYDKirmz5RnSsvDAOy8DSXFO-1Qb7N7Ga2LtZ1DivtMDEMCSkp8geOtMnN0pqMXMm0c2gf6a1sS6m8mxybvmTpE/s1600/4224fbecfc8f3466c640db087bbc5450.jpg" /></a>If not that... then what are we doing?<br />
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We can get caught in the spider web of should. Of so-called service. We snag our stressed sweaters of shoulders and backbone on being good. Helpful. Showing up on time, showing up early. And we are really busy doing the things. But are we mentoring? Do we know the people we are walking with? Do we pray for them? Intercede for them? Allow them close enough to intercede for us? Do we pray for each other? Get down in the pit with each other? Speak truth over each other?<br />
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I thought about it all as I got ready for the night yesterday. About the blooming and the splendor, of the unfurling and the open pods in the earth, of seeds and water and sun. I come out all fresh hair and the stress of the day drained out dry and pick up the book I left bookmarked by draping it over the lip of a basket. I read it right there in my hands, the next words on the page. Curled up on my couch, I feel the weight of the paper against my thumb and freeze my breathing...<br />
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<i>"In the end, it's all just violets trying to come to light."</i> ~ Elizabeth Gilbert<br />
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In the end... it's all just... oh my.<br />
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Just violets trying to come to light. Bloom where they are planted. Grow into what they were always intended to grow up into.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmS39ueWqWV9gjey9GRgQzy_Wh_yvaPOukamjMs5EvCT2Necv3xenL1B8VFmoypPqW9xAIA59XKXAM35Aqw0ZEUDHJ3NT9kzhz3IyG-OPk_mAWyJEeUSrYFmfE6XyoPpjIz6SQGAUdiWQ/s1600/FullSizeRender-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmS39ueWqWV9gjey9GRgQzy_Wh_yvaPOukamjMs5EvCT2Necv3xenL1B8VFmoypPqW9xAIA59XKXAM35Aqw0ZEUDHJ3NT9kzhz3IyG-OPk_mAWyJEeUSrYFmfE6XyoPpjIz6SQGAUdiWQ/s320/FullSizeRender-5.jpg" width="240" /></a>I walk into Target. Killing time at the Dollar Spot. It's the first thing I see. A little $3 wooden plank that says, <i>"Bloom Baby Bloom"</i>. I giggle, stupidly. Surprised and delighted, it bubbles before I can stop it. I play it off as me cooing to my baby, so the khaki and red shirted folk won't look at me any stranger than they are already.<br />
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Take another cursory glance before moving on and I see it on a simple pot. An embossed word in the clay: BLOOM.<br />
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Into the cart it goes.<br />
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And so I'm here, with the white screen and the blinking cursor and I think... okay. If this is how I bloom, then this is how I bloom. And there's only silliness to expect to bloom somewhere else, if this is my spot in the gritty dirt. There's a lot I'm not good at. There's a lot I've failed at. There's a lot I mess up, all the time. But sitting here, playing with words? This does something for my heart.<br />
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One of my favorite quotes is: <i>"The glory of God is man fully alive."</i> (St. Irenaeus) I first read it in my first apartment, bent over breakfast and a book by John Piper. And it likes to circle through my head like a favorite 90's country tune. It just never goes away. And I've seen it... when someone is so caught up in their calling and their purpose - what God has uniquely gifted them to say and do - how startling and inspiring that is. Because it makes you think, <i>"Maybe I can come that alive, too." </i><br />
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But we can't all come alive if we're trying to be like someone else or force feed ourselves to paint when we'd rather run or work with kids when we'd rather minister to the elderly, or work outside the home when we'd rather work inside. There are always things you have to do - I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to adult sometimes. But when it comes to the creativity, the giftedness, the uniqueness of you? That's all you. And you should grow wild with it.<br />
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I think maybe I should just stay here and try to come to light.<br />
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I think you should, too.<br />
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<i>#bloombabybloom</i><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"Makers <span style="font-size: x-large;">gonna</span> make."</i></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ U n k n o w n </span></i></b></div>
<br />Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-52373177272797281202017-04-20T16:52:00.000-04:002017-04-20T16:52:22.693-04:00{ WE BURY DREAMS }It feels extravagant.<br />
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A little silly.<br />
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I sit down with a plate of eggs, feta, chives. I fill a mason jar with exactly 8 oz. of cold milk. And I sit. I open a window, light a candle, and I sit.<br />
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My feet buzz with the history of busy. With the pressure of me on them all day, roaming the house, what could be done, should be done... what I'm too tired, too stressed, too hassled by kiddos to do. My feet pound the paneled floors, the carpeted steps. They think about hitting the treadmill.<br />
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The heels cup and burn with the relief of being done. For now.<br />
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This morning my alarm went off unexpectedly at 5:30 a.m. I have it preset just in case I think I'm going to get up and have some pocket of quiet before kids and school and diapers and all the all hits. And then before bed, sometimes the middle of the night, I go, "Nah." and turn it off. Tell Jesus that if He wants to meet with me, He can wake me up.<br />
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Pretty sure I turned the alarm off.<br />
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My husband nudged me this morning as it was going off. Unconscious as I was.<br />
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I smiled.<br />
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Okay. I told You I'd get up. I'm up.<br />
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I pad to the kitchen. Turn on the coffee. Pull closed the door to the boys' room, so they can sleep a little longer before the demands of the day get to them, too. The rain smacks the windows, lightening triggers bursts and rumbling of the earth. I think it's nice. A rainy day, that sounds nice. Grace and coffee and nowhere to be.<br />
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A dandelion on my window sill, hangs precariously on the lip of my husband's grandma's sea blue pint jar. I take in the contrast of the bright yellow, tugged from the earth by my four year old and ran to the back door for me only yesterday. The storm rages beyond the glass. The dandelion hangs on.<br />
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Gosh. Isn't that just hope? Isn't that just hope and wishes and this busted life?<br />
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I read it not even an hour later in a devotional to my 7 year old as he munches on his breakfast. It starts out in bold, "Hope". I smile. We may say that we hope this or that will happen, or that the check will come in the mail or the test results will be positive or maybe that they'll be negative - we hope it'll all work out. Hope it'll happen, somehow. But hope per the Bible? Hope means that ABSOLUTELY SURELY something is going to happen. Our hope hinges on faith.<br />
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Faith that God will make all things new. That He works all things for our good. That the best things, our greatest treasures, can never be taken from us. He is, the <i>"God of hope" </i>(Romans 15:13). Not the God of wishes and twisted fingers, hoping for the best. The God of certainty. The God of promise. The God that gives such a hope to us, in the CERTAINTY that THIS hope will, <i>"...fill you with all joy and peace as you trust Him..."</i><br />
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Hope... not that it'll go my way... but hope that I will trust Him? Trust Him in the storm, in the thunder, in the crushing? Hope in Him, certain that He sees myself, much like the dandelion, straining to hang on, to not slip completely under and away. And why? For what? I have a God Who is hope and a God Who is sure and I'm supposed to hope so that I can trust Him <i>more</i>? That I can have joy and peace - in all the times, all the in between spaces - and then what?<br />
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<i>"...so that you may overflow with hope."</i><br />
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Overflow. With Hope. Overflow with trust in WHO HE IS.<br />
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How would that change my days? My storms?<br />
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The sun presses its way through. The two littles and me, we leave the Post Office and there's the sun. Hoping high and burning off the morning rain. I step in an iridescent puddle as I lean in to strap the baby in his seat. We take our time getting to preschool. Drive over the covered bridge. Drive down familiar roads. Stop and take a picture of the morning sky. Think about His pouring out for us... think of the blood and the wine and the storms and the rain. Of the pounding gales in the sea, the feet on the surface of the water, reaching through... to us.<br />
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I came across it Sunday... an artistic rendering of Jesus on the water, reaching through the rippling pool, reaching down to pull up. To restore. <i>Just trust.</i> Hope that He will save, hope that doesn't disappoint, hope that doesn't leave us strangled and knuckling the edge of a ledge, terrified we're going under. Hope that we will rise is trust that He will not fail. When has His arm ever been too short? What has He never been able to reach, if it was in His mind to do so?<br />
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This kind of hope. This kind of hope has the power to change it all.<br />
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Because trust in the love of Jesus... changes everything.<br />
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His love... now, that's something extravagant.<br />
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<b><i>"... '<span style="font-size: x-large;">Safe?</span>', said Mr. Beaver.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>'<span style="font-size: x-large;">Don't you hear </span>what Mrs. Beaver tells you?</i></b></div>
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<b><i>Who said <span style="font-size: x-large;">a n y t h i n g </span>about safe?</i></b></div>
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<b><i>'Course he <span style="font-size: x-large;">isn't </span>safe.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>But <span style="font-size: x-large;">he is good</span>."</i></b></div>
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<b><i>~ C.S. Lewis</i></b></div>
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<br />Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-22428393574294518802017-02-13T14:44:00.002-05:002017-02-13T16:37:42.695-05:00Your Love is Fierce...<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was so angry. So painfully, gut-wrenchingly, angry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I didn’t know that’s what it was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">January was exhausting, sickly, draining. It clipped fast on the heels of December and holidays and before I knew it, what should have been a day to celebrate my beautiful niece, was a reminder that she wasn’t here. And I was a mess all day. Cried about everything. I had a purple heart on the calendar and I was destroyed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I went to choir practice the following Wednesday. I usually always want to go. This week, I didn’t. I felt shattered and exposed and I knew that any song, every song, would set me off. I knew I needed to go, something deep in my spirit knew, but I was so apprehensive. One chorus. One bridge. One well-meaning repeat and I would be undone. I had been breaking and re-breaking in a thousand different ways since October. I was falling apart in every direction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I had to leave during practice once that night. Went into the ladies room and sobbed so loud, before I could stop myself. My grief was tearing its way through me. It wouldn’t stay in and it couldn’t be tamed. I was going to unravel completely. One tug, one hand on my shoulder, I would fracture again and again. Not even an hour later, I stepped off the risers and all but ran out of the church before we finished sound checking for Sunday. I couldn’t do this. Could. Not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I sat in the parking lot for thirty minutes and cried.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">On my short drive home, I started talking to God. I had become a little estranged from Him. I hadn’t intended to. I just thought I was a mess and when I felt better, it would all be better. But I wasn’t feeling any better and He only seemed further out. <i>I</i> seemed further out. I didn’t know what to say... as though we had had an argument and I didn’t know if I should make the first move or keep waiting. It felt uncertain and painful. But I spoke the words against the windshield of my husband’s truck. I spoke into the night and I spoke to Him, because I knew He was everywhere. The truth eeked out.<br />
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“You should have told me.” </i>My voice cracked and my spirit severed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I gasped for air. The truth was out. The ugly, nasty truth was out and it finally made sense and He heard me loud and clear. I’m mad and I’m hurt and dismayed and it’s all too late, so, so too late - <i>and You should have told me</i>! I know I’m not God, but I could have done something. Would have done anything. I was near Him and listening and seeking and I would have heard. Would have followed through. Anything, Lord. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I pull into our gravel drive and sit. Crying. Watching the moon. Gritting my teeth, my head pounding. But there was a warmth against my chest, my shoulders. A nearness. He was there, had always been there - holding me together and holding me together still. I had just been fighting and angry; so gosh darned wrecked that I didn’t see that all I was doing was running in the wrong direction. My busted heart in my hands, a hundred thousand miles in the wrong direction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">Thursday I woke up and for the first time in months I felt it. Hope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">On Sunday night I’m sitting with my small group from church and our leader talks about the beauty of Christ. Starts talking about Narnia and Aslan and the stone table. Of sacrifice and love and fierce loyalty. My heart was gasping for air and truth. My eyes blinking too fast against tears. And I just sat there and soaked it up. Give me every crumb, every dusting, every appearance, every nearness and greatness and smallness of Christ. I was starving for Him. I sat there and listened and fell in love all over again. How great, how tender, how beautiful, how fierce. Our God.</span></div>
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I came home and put an image of a lion on my phone as my lock screen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">And I’m scheduled to play keyboard with the band for the following Sunday morning and we have a new song. A brand new song, simply called, “Jesus”, and I print it out and write in my chords and I swallow every word, eek out harmonies and I’m amazed as we sing of the loveliness of Jesus: <i>“He roars like a lion, He bled as the lamb...” </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">He roars. Like a lion. I would wake up in the night for weeks with those words.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">My heart finally mended. While loss was certainly making my heart ache, isolating and keeping myself distanced from God was destroying me in ways I couldn’t put into words. I’d glance at the lock screen and my hungry heart would smile and feel safe. At home. Three weeks solid, a lion on my phone, a fierce love taking me back and healing me all over. Whenever I felt like I was suffocating or that my insides were stabbing through my outsides, I would see that image on my phone, hear the words of that song and I would take a deep breath and put myself back in His hands. <br />
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Back between those mighty paws, if you’re a Narnia fan.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">A full three weeks later and it’s another Sunday. I’m back with the earbuds in my ears, my fingers on the keys, clearing my throat against the mic. And I’m stunned a little silly - we’re doing a new song, but not the new song we had scheduled. I’m a little confused as to what this song is or where it came from. I text my friend, Richelle: <i>“We’re doing another song about God being a lion.” </i>She texts back, <i>“I’m not surprised.”</i> My voice falls in step with our worship leader, <i> “Our God is a lion, the Lion of Judah. He’s roaring with power and fighting our battles.... Who can stop the Lord almighty?”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">And then it’s today, a fresh week,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m sitting in my house with my two youngest boys and my friend and a plate of cookies and we’re talking about it all. About where I was in my spirit a month ago and where I am now. How good God is. How near. How aware. How tender. How careful. He’s the most loving, most adoring, most dear. I felt overwhelmed with Him and the sun blinded me as it poured in the windows of my home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For the first time in like forever, both littles were napping. I opted out of work and settled down with coffee and candle and journal. Decided to take some deep breaths and do a little recon on this lion of a God. I tap <i>“Aslan”</i> into my Pinterest search bar.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I burst into tears the second the page loads.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">That’s me. I know that’s Narnia and Lucy. But that’s me. That’s God. That’s a hundred and twelve times over and over again what has been going on with me. Sit stunned, tears streaming and I take a picture and text it to Richelle. My heart pounding, smiling, freaking out. I keep scrolling and pinning to my new board. So grateful. So released. <i>So seen.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I pin and scroll and scroll and pin and then I’m frozen. My heart stops, skips.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7toXDZ6am-BJFmo2KXqeQkzJQ_rpHqJItJCkYJ9I0T8cIc0mLgqUN-W8m5O36YPdlawKATtQG27wg1JDB1GDBoqxC9-A2Tz8EKYZVSc8DfKoN15G71vduq3PgQRd8enPli4-I7xPRyEQ/s1600/IMG_6229-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7toXDZ6am-BJFmo2KXqeQkzJQ_rpHqJItJCkYJ9I0T8cIc0mLgqUN-W8m5O36YPdlawKATtQG27wg1JDB1GDBoqxC9-A2Tz8EKYZVSc8DfKoN15G71vduq3PgQRd8enPli4-I7xPRyEQ/s320/IMG_6229-2.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7toXDZ6am-BJFmo2KXqeQkzJQ_rpHqJItJCkYJ9I0T8cIc0mLgqUN-W8m5O36YPdlawKATtQG27wg1JDB1GDBoqxC9-A2Tz8EKYZVSc8DfKoN15G71vduq3PgQRd8enPli4-I7xPRyEQ/s1600/IMG_6229-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">I had no idea about Lucy and her crown. I can’t even say I’ve read the Narnia series completely through. I have a vague recollection of a witch and a wardrobe and some beavers. Right? I know about the stone table. But this? I didn’t know about this. </span></div>
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He loves me, He loves me. It reverberates through my entire spirit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-kerning: none;">My name, Laura, means, <i>“Crowned with laurel leaves.”</i></span><br />
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You can’t make this stuff up. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I sit freshly stunned. Just sit and stare and blink at my screen. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The lyrics to a new song I've been listening to winds itself around my ears for what feels like the first time. It's the words I didn't write and the song I didn't pen, but it's all of me. For the first time in maybe forever, I get it. It all snatches itself together - a long line of stories and truths and moments - and His presence overtakes me. I'm under His wings, in His hands, my face buried in His mane. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm honored and understood and victorious. It's the eve before the day of love and I've never felt so adored. So fought for, so known, so passionately redeemed, so deeply understood. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Home.</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's not the news that any of us hoped that we would hear</span></i></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"></span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">It's not the road we would have chosen, no</span></i></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The only thing that we can see is darkness up ahead</span></i></span></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
<i></i></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">But You're asking us to lay our worry down and sing a song instead</span></i></i></span></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>
</i></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"></span></i></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And I didn't know I'd find You here</span></i></span></i></span></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"></span></i></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">In the middle of my deepest fear, but</span></i></span></i></span></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"></span></i></span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are drawing near</span></i></span></i></span></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are overwhelming me, with peace</span></i></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">So I'll lift my voice and sing</span></i></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You're gonna carry us through everything</span></i></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are drawing near</span></i></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You're overwhelming all my fears, with peace</span></i></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You say that I should come to You with everything I need</span></i></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You're asking me to thank you even when the pain is deep</span></i></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You promise that You'll come and meet us on the road ahead</span></i></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And no matter what the fear says, You give me a reason to be glad</span></i></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And I didn't know I'd find You here</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">In the middle of my deepest fear, but</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are drawing near</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are overwhelming me, with peace</span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">So I'll lift my voice and sing</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You're gonna carry me through everything</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are drawing near</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You're overwhelming all my fear</span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Here in the middle of the lonely night</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Here in the middle of the losing fight, You're</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Here in the middle of the deep regret</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Here when the healing hasn't happened yet</span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Here in the middle of the desert place</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Here in the middle when I cannot see Your face</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Here in the middle with Your outstretched arms</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You can see my pain and it breaks Your heart</span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And I didn't know I'd find You here</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">In the middle of my deepest fear, but</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are drawing near</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are overwhelming me with, peace</span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">So I'll lift my voice and sing</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You're gonna carry me through everything</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are drawing near</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You're overwhelming all my fear with peace</span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Rejoice, rejoice</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Don't have to worry 'bout a single thing, 'cause</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You are overwhelming me with, peace!</span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Don't have to worry 'bout a single thing</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You're gonna carry us through everything</span></div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Overwhelming peace...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">~ E l l i e H o l c o m b , " F i n d Y o u H e r e "</span></div>
</span></i></span></span><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-32089607756744113912016-10-27T08:09:00.001-04:002016-10-27T08:09:10.119-04:00{ I've Heard the Whisper ... }<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Nobody likes to sit in the dark.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">That’s what I tell him as I flip on the light so he can clearly see his granola bar, handful of Froot Loops and his Star Wars vitamins.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">No one wants darkness. It’s heavy and depressing. Oppressing. It feels sneaky and devious. It can feel scary and hopeless. It’s a wet blanket on the warm fire of a sun-filled day. It snuffs out all the hope and brilliance, ideas and dreams, that you had during the day. In the dark it all shifts. It all feels worn and tired, old and pointless; you feel lost in a forest of trees with eyes and faces and arms and you wonder why you ever thought you could find your way out or change the world.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The darkness can be such a storyteller of lies.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The darkness can be such a sanctuary for the Teller of all the lies. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And the darkness can be banished... just. like. that.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>“Let there be light.”</i><br />
<br />
God proved in the very beginning, before elephants and man and oceans and babies... He proved first that beyond creating, beyond teaching leaves how to change colors and birds how to migrate and tides to come in... He showed first that He had power over darkness. Over the void. Over the nothingness. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkrfPPus0FtwZnMcrXr4s1I3ety59VDCJAFWNL3ZSaiaZBUfvq8yaImZ5OIvPJAp8WpormeJ1vNZSPISdRAErJIbF0gCAcPxdPHSHSk42dmBnJPyS2x9H94cMsDxejNYegowdvYRkDJY/s1600/IMG_2261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkrfPPus0FtwZnMcrXr4s1I3ety59VDCJAFWNL3ZSaiaZBUfvq8yaImZ5OIvPJAp8WpormeJ1vNZSPISdRAErJIbF0gCAcPxdPHSHSk42dmBnJPyS2x9H94cMsDxejNYegowdvYRkDJY/s320/IMG_2261.jpg" width="239" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He was and He is and His command, whether spoken or thought, caused the black to tuck its tail and go running. Skittering into complete oblivion. Not just hiding. Not just slipping under a couch or behind a cloud or into a closet for awhile... completely unable to skirt around God’s whispered but thundrous command. Go and it went. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I find I’ve been holding my breath. While I’m reading, while I’m writing, while I’m starting laundry. I’m holding my breath and I think it’s because it feels like I’m holding my heart together. Like if I just pull it all in, the fragments of my heart won’t splinter off and stab themselves through my skin. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not that my grief is or can be hidden, but somehow I think that’s what my poor little heart thinks. If I just hold it in... maybe it’ll go away. Maybe I can have the power to banish all that, too. Maybe I can pretend that it’s all a terrible, awful dream and I’m going to wake up. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Surely I will wake up soon.<br />
<br />
My lungs are screaming and I don’t even realize it. My sister held me and rubbed my back and whispered, <i>“Just breathe deep. Deep breaths.” </i>And I didn’t even know I wasn’t breathing.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The darkness dwarfed, outweighed, everything. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s so heavy and I drop everything just to hold it against me. I don’t know what else to do. It’s just there, like a bundle shoved in my arms, bags and bags of heavy groceries and burden and it’s just there, hanging in my hands, slipping heavy off my fingers, and I just stand and hold my breath and hold it all. I don’t know what to do with it. Where to set it down. Where to put it away.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We all have said it in the past week. What do we do? Where do we go? <i>What do you need, what can I do? What can I do, what can I do... </i></span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">How do we fix it, explain it, redeem it? It’s silly, but our desperation whispers it quiet in the back, in the farthest room away, we hear it through the walls of our selves... <i>how do we get her back?</i> How do we reverse it?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And we can’t. And the darkness, if you let it, will fill your empty cup to overflowing.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I drag it all out from under my bed on the drive home. I sing it out and cry it out and pray it out. I talk it out and try to think it out. The sun beats down on my dusty minivan and I just want to go home. I want a hug. I want my babies and kindness and someone to be gentle with me, because I’m so thin right now. I feel like I’m transparent and I’m walking around just waiting on someone to step on some stray piece of myself that I’m suely dragging and I know, I know, it will all come unraveling and spinning unwound around my ears.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I pull into Chick-Fil-A for lunch. Opt for a sweet tea over an iced coffee from Starbucks. Why? Because I just wanted someone to be so, so nice to me. I nearly cried with how decently they added my chicken sandwich to my order, did I just want pickles, or could they add tomato and lettuce, too? How they asked if they could help me with anything else (No, no, you can’t. I wish, I wish...) how they wanted a name for my order, how they wished me to have a good day, how they thanked me for letting them serve me today. Tears bit at the insides of my eyelids and I bit on my lip to keep it away. Held my breath, again.<br />
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<i>“You’re not going to cry just because someone was nice to you as you bought waffle fries.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But... in all of this. Guys, that’s all I know. That’s all I know is to be unendingly kind, unceasingly compassionate, unwaveringly aware that we’re all fighting battle after bloody battle. And if we’re not careful with each other, if we’re not open with the tender and open with the acceptance and honest with the truth and the real, the darkness wins. It swallows all the good, all the winning that could come. That should come. If we let it, the memories we shared and the laughter we hold onto and the things we love about the bright, funny, creative, talented, joy-giving that we lost... we will lose us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We will lose on what could be the most beautiful, extraordinary, unexpected, ripple effect ever. Ever ever.<br />
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It only takes one to start it. One drop. One stone. One bubble on the water. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And it all quakes and lets go and trembles across the surface. Changing the entire thing. Changing the view of things forever. If you’re watching. If you’re paying attention. If you’re willing to go forward and let go of the rewind.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">None of us know how. None of us know how to exist in a new normal when your old normal felt just fine. Just beautiful. Just kind of perfect. But we’re here now and the path is set before us and I watch a new way eat away at the night. The sun struggling up in the midst of a foggy, dusky morning.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I’m with the sun, struggling to stand on shaky legs in the light of a new day, a shadowy, fog-filled Wednesday. It’s just another day like any other day, but unlike any other day. I’m the same but different. Unprepared. Unexplainable. Just here, beating and breathing and questioning and going on, kind of. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Every step feels like a betrayal. Every moment of peace I feel, betrays a moment that she didn’t. Every joke I laugh at, every mundane task that I do, every phone call or text to a friend, feels like a tragedy. Like I’m cheating on memory. Cheating on love. And I’m not, I’m just living, but in the face of death, of letting go, of an unprepared for end, we’re all left hanging and living and walking and breathing shallow. And it all feels like a beautiful, tragic, unfair scene.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We keep replaying and simulatenously trying to fast forward, and it’s the in between that has us such a wreck. What do we do with now? We knew what to do then, or thought we did, we know all the things everyone says about the future - that time will heal, that time will tell, that time will give us perspective and more chances to love - but right now? What do we do with the right now? It’s always the inbetween that gets sticky. A little lost or misdirected. <br />
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Dark.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But... </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I smile. Just a little. Feel it just a bit around the edges.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But... God.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few weeks ago, I read it to my son before he hopped on the bus with the exuberance only a six-year old can muster at 6:45 a.m. I read how many times that phrase is in the Bible, how the story looks to be this, seems to be that, the whole pot stirring one direction and you think you know the outcome... and then it all changes. The atmosphere itself melts a little, submits. It was this and going to be that, BUT GOD.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s dark and feels hopeless... <i>but God.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s confuisng and unfair... <i>but God.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I stutter it to myself, I have for days. <i>“But, God..”</i> but, but. We didn’t get this chance. We didn’t get that warning. We didn’t pick up, weren’t grateful enough, weren’t loving, weren’t present, we just... weren’t. Enough. And the fears and the excuses and the regret bubbles against our bitten lips. We’ve been biting our lips for days. Trying to keep it in. Trying to let it out. The ragged edges of grief dragging itself up and down our spines, rubbing us raw.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s all perspective. Night and day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The hesitant, fearful, trembling, <i>“But God...” </i>and the tearful, trusting, hanging onto a sliver, or maybe just the simple idea, of hope, <i>“But God...” </i>Can You change this? Can You redeem this? Can You show us what we need to know in all of this, in this hard, hard story?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I nod in the dim dark, the dim light, of my music/office/sanctuary.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes. I believe He can. I believe He will.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The rain splatters like heavy tears onto my sidewalk, onto the roof of my house. The gutters catching and running free, the earth soaking it up, the Fall leaves dancing and almost twirling, like hundreds of tiny dancers on tiny limbs... and I think of her and I think of all of us and I think of God.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I think of what we had and give thanks. I think of what will be... and give thanks.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I watch the dark run.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>"Now the earth <span style="font-size: x-large;">was formless </span>and empty,</i></b></span></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">darkness </span>covered the </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">surface of the watery depths,</span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>and the Spirit of God <span style="font-size: x-large;">was hovering</span> over </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">the surface </span>of the waters..."</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b><i>~ G e n e s i s 1 :</i></b></span><b style="font-family: times, 'times new roman', serif;"><i> 2</i></b></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"He will <span style="font-size: x-large;">carry the lambs</span> in his arms,</b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>holding them <span style="font-size: x-large;">close</span> to his heart..."</b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b>~ I s a i a h 4 0 : 1 1 </b></span></i></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-57402405263829575702016-09-29T18:53:00.000-04:002017-09-20T10:36:26.305-04:00{ You Don't Miss a Thing }<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">There are days when things feel a little winsome. A little magical. When I feel like I am those things in those days. That there is an otherwordly grasp. A song I can’t hear, have never heard, but completely know. Every chord. Every strain. Every dotted half note. I hang on every tone as though it’s a good word. I’m walking around, but I feel like I’m dancing. I am dancing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Today was one of those days. It didn’t start out in an extraordinary fashion, but then again, maybe it did. It started dark and early, like every morning. I actually pushed myself out of bed even earlier in an effort to have a come to Jesus moment. I wanted it. Needed it. Went looking for it, like a nighttime snack. But instead of my head in the freezer searching for the next pint of mint chocolate chip, my hands were around a mug and my heart was looking for Him. <i>Expecting</i> Him. <br />
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I read some verses. Said a small prayer. Waited for the alarm to get my oldest up for school, since the sun wouldn’t be up for awhile, yet. I waited. Told myself to hold in the pause. To not fight it. Just let myself be quiet. Maybe that’s what He wanted me to experience. Just quiet. So I held my mug and watched the clock and tried to push away the to-do’s that were already rudely interrupting, begging for my attention.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3Sq4o95rrUfztvJfLKDYuAfCqLsJ59BPmAnWji1yuhw2j3tE6rQ9b5TWaGvJfpEoLzt7NRhGe4PnfiIQljq3goDXcOx6j-l8R0aRFox-8D5Pt3FuHXcpKp9sDb9Og7JXUq0ERoAaqac/s1600/502d2e977ef2ce00962f08f939a48321.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3Sq4o95rrUfztvJfLKDYuAfCqLsJ59BPmAnWji1yuhw2j3tE6rQ9b5TWaGvJfpEoLzt7NRhGe4PnfiIQljq3goDXcOx6j-l8R0aRFox-8D5Pt3FuHXcpKp9sDb9Og7JXUq0ERoAaqac/s320/502d2e977ef2ce00962f08f939a48321.jpg" width="172" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">Over breakfast I read devotions to Joel, just like I always do. What else do you do at 5:50 a.m. when you’re sitting in your dining room, staring at each other in the dark? He munches a NutriGrain bar. I finish off my coffee. And I read about the moments in the Bible - the “But God” moments. The times when things looked like they were headed one direction, but then it all swevered. It was this and that, but then, God. He showed up. Shifted the trajectory. Started playing a whole new song.<br />
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As I walk him to the end of our drive to wait for the bus, I hold my phone in my hand. In the weeks since school started, I haven’t done this once. But I took it with me, anticipating something worth taking a picture of. The sky was alight with stars and our house glowed like it’s own little city on a hill (except it’s not on a hill). Once the bus pulled away with my six year old, I stepped across the gravel road into the edge of the neighboring field. Snapped a photo of my home sweet home against the dusky sky. Felt thankful for my sweet family and the home we built last year, that my husband and I designed all by ourselves. Hoping that when I got in the house, the smallest were still sleeping. Maybe I could have just a little more peace? Hang on to whatever seemed to be bobbing right in front of me?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I had a friend from church planning to show up in a couple hours. She was sweetly bringing me Starbucks. I had gulped down my insecurities and my silliness and went live with a request to my team that they pray for me. My anxieties were riding high and panic attacks were heavy on my chest, clawing at my throat. My introverted nature made it hard to open up and even harder to allow someone to come and care for me, even if it was just a Grande Iced Salted Carmel White Mocha. But I relaxed my death grip on my own semi-security and said, <i>why not? </i>Maybe God wanted to take care of me by having this friend bring me coffee. And who am I to argue with God if He wants to bring an exhausted mother of three a Starbucks?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Let’s not be silly.</span></div>
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But I told my best friend... that I kind of wished it <i>was</i> a best friend. I only have a couple and my heart ached for something that felt like home, I think. I think that’s what I was crying about. And I told her, <i>“You would know to bring me donuts. You would know to bring me a huge Starbucks and all the donuts and we would just sit and I wouldn’t have to talk.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And then there’s a knock on my door and a sweet friend, who didn’t have to go out of her way for me, but so did... she shows up all smiles and love and grace, holding my iced coffee. I let her in and she says my baby is cute (he is) and then she hands me a bag, <i>“Here,...”</i> she says,<i> “I didn’t know what you’d like, but here are some donuts and I got some chocolate ones....”</i> I’m already tearing up as she open hands me a necklace with a sparrow on a chain, reminding me that I’m seen and loved and treasured by God and by others. <br />
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I hug her once. I hug her twice.<br />
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She leaves and I melt into my day and my delicious treats and I soak up love, wear it like my favorite socks, wrapping myself in the truth of being seen and valued like a well-worn hoodie. It was comfort and soul food and that was the best donut I’ve ever had. Ever. Ever ever. And I read in a book that is in a stack in our living room, about how God so loves us, how we’re royal and blessed and all we have to do is ask in His name. We have an inheritance and a voice and power in us that raised Christ from the dead. And we don’t use it. We don’t walk around trying to wield our swords. We don’t walk around... expecting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’m padding around my house in my grace and my imaginary “Jesus Loves Me” hoodie and I’m so grateful and full (of donuts and blessing) and it all feels good. Just like I needed it to.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And just like when you think you have the ending of the story all figured out, have the perfect way to wrap up the day and knot it tight,... but God isn’t done, yet.<br />
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Not long before the bus is set to bring my big boy home, I start tackling a cleaning project in the kitchen. I decide to start my organzation dreams by purging the sippy cups and travel mugs we never use. I could use that drawer for something, anything else. I sit down and start sorting. Toss it. Keep it. Toss it. Never liked it anyway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I pull out a glass tumbler, something my sister gave me a few Christmases ago. I actually have never used it. I don’t know if I didn’t trust myself with the glass or what, but I’ve just been storing it. I set it aside to either get rid of or re-gift. And that’s when I see the verse reflected in the glass, shimmering in my palm: “For I know the plans...”<br />
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<i>No.</i> Wait, what? This? <br />
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<i>Now?</i><br />
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A quick backstory: about a month ago, my pastor shared how, in a dream, the reference “Jeremiah 29:11” wouldn’t stop running through his mind. He finally woke up and asked God to reveal what this meant. It all unfolded in a way that the verse refrence, the beautiful reminder that God knows His ways for us, was specifically intended for a handful of people. I’ve honestly kind of glossed over the verse in the past. I’ve seen it’s overuse on graduation cards and new baby cards and “You’ll get through this” cards and I think it lost some allure for me. Surely there were OTHER verses that would hand more to my hungry heart.<br />
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But still... I listened on that Sunday of the stories unfolding. And I expected. I mean, didn’t God have a Jeremiah 29:11 experience for me?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I would read my boys their nightly bedtime story, expecting to see the reference there. <br />
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<i>Nothing.</i></span></div>
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I opened up a devotional and fully expected to see the verses glowing, the text highlited just for me. <br />
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<i>It never was.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I anticipated a friend sharing a reminder. Someone sending me a card. A note. Anything. I joked with a fellow staff member at church, <i>“Where’s MY Jeremiah 29:11?! I’m here! I’m ready! I love Jesus!”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Maybe I <i>was</i> living out my purpose. I’m married and have kids and a house. I have beautiful part-time work at the church I love and people that I’m honored to link arms with and do ministry with - wasn’t <i>that</i> my purpose? Why did there have to be more? The dreamer in me probably just needed a kick in the pants and a reality check and to go do another load of laundry for crying out loud.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4S7qtoVy7E2oFGfeWsjLbcrge11XfTQZOIwU5QnxRcYYnjcFlEvIVgS15uvXD4lW6KcApBU6pE5WvpjwfEj3OTdcAzhB6N0TJsg51TNRorBHWobmBgm-VFPuudW5vKqC4xVz4yJUfax4/s1600/IMG_0512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4S7qtoVy7E2oFGfeWsjLbcrge11XfTQZOIwU5QnxRcYYnjcFlEvIVgS15uvXD4lW6KcApBU6pE5WvpjwfEj3OTdcAzhB6N0TJsg51TNRorBHWobmBgm-VFPuudW5vKqC4xVz4yJUfax4/s320/IMG_0512.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">But here I was, sitting on the (probably needing to be swept) floor of my kitchen, going through a junk drawer of plastic and insulated cups... and God was showing up? Handing me my own Jeremiah 29:11 moment? I was almost too stunned, too frozen, <i>too freaking loved</i> in and out in that moment, to cry. The tears pushed gently at my eyelashes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My dreams? Are they ever mine? Were they ever? Hunger in my spirit for more times to worship, more opportunities to shatter myself at His feet, more ways to be creative, loving,... words and music and dust and bones and housework and babies and vacations and school field trips and hand holding and song learning and toilet cleaning.... could He be in all of it? Could He be intending, all of it? Could He be, still, holding... <i>all of it</i>? While I struggle exhausted and coffee laden through “the little years”, what about my deep love for my Savior? What about the stories I’m dying to tell about the Jesus who loves, loves, loves? Am I just sitting here, holding another shopping list, watching my dreams die?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Or does He have a deep well of purposes for me? <br />
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For you?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Could I live in expectation and wonder? Could I do all my jobs and wear all the hats and still... still have my heart catch at the possibility, the ancipated enchantment of a God who never stops telling stories in our lives? Who never stops purposing and repurposing? It goes on and on. His goodness. Our path. All glory and honor and praise. <br />
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<i>Holy. Holy. Holy.</i></span></div>
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And it’s found in donuts that she didn’t know you needed, <i>but He did</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s unwrapped in the little moments. It surprises us every time, but it shouldn’t. He told us this was the way. When you look for Him with your whole heart.... when you walk heavy to the end of your driveway and watch the sky... when you open up to be used for Him... when you shatter every tender pint of hope and terror and passion and will at His open door... you find Him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He may not give you a blueprint. He may just give you a chocolate covered donut.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But the thing is... that small... that tangible... it will always end up being the very thing, the very deep love language that your desperate lungs are gasping for.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And you’ll feel something crack in another world, something that opens up... and you’ll know that that banner - forever and for always waving, billowing, tugging at you to believe His plans and His vast desire for you to come fully alive - you’ll know He is stretching it out for you to see, for you to know...</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">And it will say, <i>“You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. By me.” </i></span></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">"When You stand, I feel the floor of Heaven tremble.</span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">As You breathe, we live and have our being</span></b></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;"><b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">When </span>You<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> speak, oh I feel it in my chest.</span></b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>When You sing, all my fears are put to rest.</b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>What a wondrous thing, I can stand to sing,</b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>cause when I fall to my knees, </b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>You're the one Who pulls me up again.</b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>What a mystery, that You notice me!</b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>And in a crowd of ten thousand, </b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>You don't miss a thing..."</b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: x-small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>~ A m a n d a C o o k / B e t h e l </b></span></span></i></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695463642526809006.post-85575414202370339282016-03-13T11:02:00.001-04:002016-03-15T06:57:06.797-04:00Come like rain...<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The past few days, I’ve felt like I’ve just ran into dead end, after dead end. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m delightfully in my 27 week of pregnancy with our third, sweet, crazy, little boy... and I am so grateful. But I have also been nauseous nearly every day since we conceived back in September. I’m not exaggerating. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">On top of persistent (and finally medicated) nausea, I’ve had a flu bug that left me severely dehydrated and with monstrous headaches for days. I’m still a mother to two boys under the age of five and have continued all of the shopping, the tasks, the runs to and from preschool and a husband on travel for work. It doesn’t sound like much, maybe - I know we all have our own battles. This is just where I’m at and physically I am beyond my breaking point.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And then I caught my preschooler’s headcold. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3rjE7KRWAyHNu8P53JbHV4y8HLVQKn1JxeVr_Nr4RZw1CCorju4EQe9TEab7ylnfbj4pXqDinOW3Hkj5yrV11lqq90eO3k1kak8xDoYh0u7mcyBOj50iEd5MVBgIKH7FQl26fjIjdMw/s1600/3643c094cb1e5ce23f006bfb065589a2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3rjE7KRWAyHNu8P53JbHV4y8HLVQKn1JxeVr_Nr4RZw1CCorju4EQe9TEab7ylnfbj4pXqDinOW3Hkj5yrV11lqq90eO3k1kak8xDoYh0u7mcyBOj50iEd5MVBgIKH7FQl26fjIjdMw/s320/3643c094cb1e5ce23f006bfb065589a2.jpg" width="145" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve been coughing for days. Horrible, racking, my lungs are going to be shredded to pieces, coughing. I’ve been awakened anywhere from 1:30 a.m. to 3:30 a.m. with a hacking fit that would persist for hours. Literally. I’ve had very little true rest, but I’ve gotten a lot of Pinterest plans and online shopping accomplished. The other night I went ahead and ordered an embroidered stocking for the new baby. I realize it’s March and this made me feel like I was really killing it. Take that Christmas 2016. I own you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s been such a struggle - not to just “feel better” but to <i>act</i> better as I’ve done nothing but feel worse as the months have gone by. I’ve come close to asking for help and then I’ll retreat. I’ve come close to asking for prayer and then delete my request. My problems aren’t as big as others that are out there. I’m blessedly pregnant and we have a comfy house and plenty of snacks in the pantry. My kids have been incredibly healthy (headcold aside) and when my husband travels we splurge on pizza and donuts and fresh flowers to get through the long days. Admittedly, life could be worse. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve worked on my mental outlook, made lists, striven to be more productive and have tried to rest more. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Well, not really the resting part. That’s a lie. I’ve mainly just been pushing myself continually forward. (The abundance of pizza is real, though.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Another long night, a restless couple of hours spent trying to sleep in a recliner and my kids are up promptly before the sun. I couldn’t have been more weary. Couldn’t have been more ready for a Sunday morning at church. Couldn’t have needed worship and my church family more. And yet I’m on the couch with a tumbler of water and my three year old. Because I can barely breathe, can hardly speak and I’m not real sure when I showered last, to be honest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Desperate for “a good word”, I shamelessly handed my kid the iPad and pulled up a previously DVRd segment with Beth Moore. I watched and listened and paused and prayed... and I watched the rain outside and felt myself begin to really breathe again. Not in the in and out way, but in the “I’m alive and I’m grateful” sort of way. And then she said this; my head jerking away from the view outside to the television screen as I went from watching rain splatters on my window to hearing her say the word, “umbrella”...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw8EPkWXX6nKcEEiIaNN32l_qoBvwhr_tg0bEf5RT_JuWyGKt59aHRXNki42bVNe4LyPo-lkwSaxP6OcVCVJFQVG_vVRzgu-VAepm0R3CRCeDGRI0YjseNYdn6yatA_M8tcuSM-zQCK8M/s1600/ceafc84e6a06fec7329b8dbc5e08d322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw8EPkWXX6nKcEEiIaNN32l_qoBvwhr_tg0bEf5RT_JuWyGKt59aHRXNki42bVNe4LyPo-lkwSaxP6OcVCVJFQVG_vVRzgu-VAepm0R3CRCeDGRI0YjseNYdn6yatA_M8tcuSM-zQCK8M/s320/ceafc84e6a06fec7329b8dbc5e08d322.jpg" width="223" /></span></a><b><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“... I had an umbrella in my hands that I never opened, because I wanted to get drenched with rain... I want to tell you, it was one of - the most romantic moments I have ever had with Jesus. Cause you know what, I feel like He said, “You know what? You’re in it anyway. Praise me with everything you’ve got. You praise me. And with every bolt of lightening you dance with everything you’ve got. You go ahead and call upon my name. I will put my hand over you, but you give Me praise. You give Me the praise that I am due.” ~ Beth Moore</span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will tell you... by the end of her sharing this moment, I had my face covered with my hands, sobbing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why? <i>Because honey, you’re in it anyway.</i> For me? The cold, the less than dreamy pregnancy, the long days, the long nights, the restlessness, the inability to focus or work or feel like a success... the frustration with no energy, my lack of patience with my kids, with others. Lightening bolt after lightening bolt, slamming down on the ground next to me. And I can’t run away. I’m just <i>here</i>, right smack dab in the middle of it. What do I do? What am I supposed to do?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Praise anyway. Give thanks anyway. Worship anyway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve been trying to do that, but not really. I’ve yanked out my gratitude journal a few times and sometimes I wrote stuff down and other times I just pulled out my pen, only to lay it back down. It’s not that I wasn’t feeling thankfulness somewhere in my core, but I just couldn’t summon up the exact words. The precise praise. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was too focused on just getting out of my bad mood or my depressed feelings. There had to be a way out. Something I could fix if I worked harder or cleaned more or had an afternoon by myself. Something that would be relieved with a trip to Target or a genuinely restful nap. Maybe if I organized some more or threw one more bag of stuff in the van to get rid of. Maybe if I dusted or decluttered or called my Mom. <br />
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Texting with a friend - her at church, ready to worship, me at home, wanting to be at church - and I told her I was praying for her and the service (and I was) and she said, <i>“Maybe God wants you at home to pray.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For such a time as this. Beth Moore echoes it from my television screen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I hadn’t thought of that. I’m part of the Worship Arts team. I’m supposed to be there. I’m supposed to be smiley and present and ready to belt it out. That’s all I could think of when my cold rendered my voice useless. I can’t sing. Great. Awesome. Now my Sunday is shot. I can’t be at church and staying home feels like a failure or an excuse. I rankled against all of it. Cried a little because of it. I didn’t want to be here, I wanted to be there! I felt cheated and guilty because a cold had deemed me useless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But what if... what if He really wanted me right here. Right now. Today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not just to pray and do my part from wherever... but to realize that <i>He can do His part</i> with me any time. Any weather. No matter if I can sing or not sing. And that not only could I still worship from right here... but that He could and would meet me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had all my fingers in all the cracks in all the dams. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And then... then it started raining.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Forget what I was trying to hold back or hold in... now it was coming down. All sides, all angles. No umbrella big enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And that’s when I stopped. When I inched my hands back. When I realized the futility in what I was actually trying to accomplish. I watched the grey skies with a sense of relief. I watched the puddles become rivers with a sense of joy. I didn’t think about the promise of Spring or sunshine that will come or how it’ll all be brighter and better someday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I just watched it rain today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Gently pulled my determined fingers from the leaking holes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And thought how good it would feel to humbly just surrender them out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s raining anyway. I’m here anyway. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What if I praised... anyway?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>"Let us <span style="font-size: x-large;">know</span>; </b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>let us press on <span style="font-size: x-large;">to know the LORD</span>; </b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>his going out<span style="font-size: x-large;"> is sure </span>as the dawn; </b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">he will come to us</span> as the showers, </b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>as the spring <span style="font-size: x-large;">rains</span> that water the earth..."</b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i><b> ~ H o s e a 6 : 3 , E S V </b></i></span></span></div>
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Laura W.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04411814949119227428noreply@blogger.com0