tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90890062182343832152024-02-06T20:44:13.263-08:00red ink.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-14849688620935236352015-03-10T10:30:00.001-07:002015-03-10T10:33:08.487-07:00The Farmer's Wife.Time on this planet, in this life, is so fleeting. Already we've passed our second month of marriage and left it behind somewhere. I stumble to catch up with the changes and all the thoughts that crash around in my little mind. Some days, I feel acutely how slow I am to adapt. <br />
<br /><br />
We came home from our honeymoon and the snowy streets of Leavenworth around the middle of January. We came home to our little house on the farm, next to the dairy. The little house was lonely, dirty, and waiting. It was waiting for us to come live in it and make it a home.<br />
<br /><br />
Those first weeks in January were full of washing, scrubbing, organizing, painting, and trips to Ace Hardware. Thanks to the help of my darling family, all our walls are fresh and cream-colored, our kitchen cupboards are yellow like my Mommy's, and I now have more 'paint clothes' then any one person should. I even have paint shoes. If the surface is somewhat flat, wood, metal, plastic, already painted--I paint it. And even with all this painting, I still manage to get quarts and gallons of the wrong color. I have a quart of "Red Dragon" paint that is most definitely hot pink. If you know anyone in need of pink paint, do send them my way. <br />
<br /><br />
The first weeks of January the fog was relentless. I began to wonder where they kept the stars and the blue sky in this part of the country. But weather patterns and days never last forever. The fog did eventually lift and we got to see the sky again. I always miss my sweet family in Eburg, but some days are more full of missing than others. I'm so thankful for texting and hours of phone calls though. What a gift to still be able to stay connected. I'm also SO thankful we don't live states away. It's a 90 minute drive, but when you know the way, it's an easy drive.<br />
<br /><br />
Slow and steady we've brought order to the chaos in our little home. One of the first big steps was moving into the freshly painted bathroom. Which made it less of a hunt to find our tooth brushes at night. Another big step was buying enough white hangers to move all our clothes into the small closet and off the floor. A huge accomplishment was moving into the yellow cupboards of my tiny kitchen. Cream dishes are stacked in the cupboards. Red pots line the shelves. Moving into the kitchen, I found I had a plethora of pie plates. When I say plethora, I do mean plethora. I mean 15+ pie plates. Just let that one sink in for a minute. I also found I had no measuring cups or spoons, and no balloon whisk. The measuring utensils weren't to mission critical since I don't measure much anyways, but no balloon whisk! That one was much harder to live without. And since I refuse to use silicone whisks, it's taken till this week to purchase an honest to goodness stainless balloon whisk. Now I can whisk my egg whites the right way. I'm relieved, and Julia Child would be proud. <br />
<br /><br />
But all home-improvement and moving-in talk aside, married life is something incredibly special. It's something sacred, intimate, and something for every day. I'm finding, we can't be married just on our good days, or just on our best days. We're married on the bad days, the home-sick days, tearful days, stressed days; we're married for all of them. It's one thing to know that, it's another to live it. To wake up every morning and roll over to give a good morning kiss after some sleep, or little sleep, or dreams of planting new crops, or wakeful hours thinking over all that needs done. To roll over each morning and hold on tight to each others hands and pray. To lift up our praises our needs, and our fears. Praying for the day, the week, the month, the year. Praying for what we can see, and for what we can hardly imagine. We give it to Him who already know it all. <br />
<br /><br />
All the stuff of life we pray for, makes me feel so out of my depth. But praise God, His love is <em>so deep </em>we can never be out of His depth. Our Savior draws us both into His sacred presence in the pale light of sunrise. Brian's deep voice rises and falls, filling the quiet peace of the morning.<br />
<br /><br />
And I'm thankful. <em>So thankful</em>. <br />
<br /><br />
I'm thankful I married someone who is just as out of his depth in this life as I am. I'm so thankful I married someone patient and tender, someone who waits for me, someone who hears me when I need to talk. He holds me when I cry, he washes dishes when I'm tired, he prays when I'm afraid. He tells me I look cute when I'm in work clothes and an old hat. I'm thankful I married someone who comes in the house smelling like diesel and covered in dirt. He's a man for the long sweaty days of harvest, and the hours of numbers in the office. <br />
<br /><br />
He's a man for the every day stuff of life. And I am so thankful Christ saw fit to twine Brian and I's lives together. <br />
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I'm so thankful to be the Farmer's wife.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-14605460528215347032014-11-27T19:44:00.001-08:002014-11-27T23:23:39.105-08:00His constant Grace.The stars above us don't really move. They appear to slide across the night sky from the east horizon where they rise to the west where they dissapear behind dark hills. But in truth, they're not moving from one horizon to the other.<div><br></div><div>It's our earth that's moving. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The ground beneath us is a sphere, spinning in space. One complete rotation is one 24 hour day. We stand outside at night, looking up at the sky and we think the stars are moving, but we're really the ones who are moving. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">It makes me think. When I feel like I've dissapointed Christ one too many times; when I feel like I'm too broken to be used, or like I've somehow overdrawn my account of God's Grace, it's because of <i>where</i> I stand and <i>how </i>I stand looking. It's because I'm changeable and so fallible. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This life is not always what we expect or what we want, or what we're comfortable with. Our perspective of God and life is always changeable, and often inconsistent.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But He's not. He's infallible and unchanging. His well of Grace <i><b><u>never</u></b></i> runs dry for you or I. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">This Thanksgiving day, I'm so thankful for His <i>grace. </i>His grace that saturates every part of this life of mine. His grace forgives me, washes me, <i>redeems me. </i>His grace has brought me to this season; placing me right here, right now. His grace numbered and shaped all my days before there was even one of them in exsistence. His grace has brought countless people in and out of my life, each one for His purpose. </font></div><div><br></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">How blessed it is to rest in His <i>constancy.</i></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><i><br></i></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">This is cause for thankfullness. </font></div><div><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIb9lGkWX8DgSEDs5SWhc9r4nph6i0mFKpaFojWROqjPDRA0ZfOxNiu4kZSE18rQIZokgh50hSTeaXICC4EE1Y5jhL3pU32kFiC5TMsoqy9-rsFHPURmFL5-A2hHXH3sgc6EFS3FUJm0/s640/blogger-image-1593759856.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIb9lGkWX8DgSEDs5SWhc9r4nph6i0mFKpaFojWROqjPDRA0ZfOxNiu4kZSE18rQIZokgh50hSTeaXICC4EE1Y5jhL3pU32kFiC5TMsoqy9-rsFHPURmFL5-A2hHXH3sgc6EFS3FUJm0/s640/blogger-image-1593759856.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-74979572876935442202014-11-23T22:39:00.002-08:002014-11-23T22:39:13.561-08:00Forever. It was July, July 12th of this year to be exact. In the broiling heat of summer, we walked on a grassy knoll near a cool lake. Our faces were hot, kissed by the sun. He went down on one knee. He asked and I said yes. Yes, yes, yes! I said it a handful of times, as if once was not quite enough. It happened in minutes, this decision to spend forever together.<br />
<br />
My fiancé is the tall farmer with dark hair. His hands have hard work callouses; he wears old leather boots and plaid shirts. He has this smile that crumbles my defenses.<br />
<br />
For some reason I thought engagement would be really easy. As a girl I pictured getting married not living engaged. This season is long and short all in the same breath. It's sweet and bitter in the same moment. The truth is, it's a tumult of emotions. Like giant sea waves pounding and pouring over the sand. You just can't imagine what those waves feel like till you're under them.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I'm in my little room and I feel homesick for my home, but I haven't even left home yet.<br />
<br />
Other times I just wish he was near; that we could sit together and talk about everything for as long as we wanted to.<br />
<br />
I wear this beautiful diamond ring on the fourth finger of my left hand. It's made of so many tiny diamonds that are cut just so. They glisten in the bright sun, and in low light they glimmer. It's crazy for me to wear a ring like this. I milk goats, dig in the dirt, wash dishes, do laundry, make bread and clean toilets, all with a diamond ring on. It makes me think of God's beautiful, constant grace. He gives it to us and we wear it in spite of all our humanness.<br />
<br />
It's all my humanness that scares me sometimes. I'm doubtful, afraid, and selfish. I'm forgetful of God and prideful in my own wisdom. And in this next season of life, I will be a child of God with new roles to fill. The roles of wife, and Lord-willing, mother. But I am so inadequate! I'm so ill-prepared. I'm not enough.<br />
<br />
But I know the One who is <i><b>enough</b></i>. The One who is <i><b>sufficient</b></i>.<br />
<br />
<h3>
</h3>
<h2>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">But he said to me, "My Grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." 2 Corinthians 12:9a</span></h2>
<div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">It's so difficult to comprehend how my all-sufficient Savior can use my utter weakness to perfect His power.</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">It's also difficult to understand why the Farmer wants to spend the rest of his days married to me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">This season of engagement is almost finished. It's nearly December and winter is here in earnest. Snow veils the hills around our farm. Wind blasts fierce and icy </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">from</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> the north and east. Rain pours cold and heavy. That day in July seems life-times ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">Today, tonight, there's just 41 more days. Just 41, 24 hour days till the day the Farmer and I vow before God and everyone else that we'll love and live in all our humanness together. The day we vow to live fully aware of our weaknesses, but also fully aware of HIS GRACE. </span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">Just 41 more days till the day we start </span><i>forever</i><span style="font-weight: normal;">. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-80572971244132769552014-04-22T16:18:00.001-07:002014-04-22T16:18:46.265-07:00Because He lives.Rain is spilling from the sky outside. It's peaceful and soft. It smells like wet garden dirt. The goats are milked and now I'm inside my little room. I have a mug of hot chamomile tea, my books are stacked all around, and my finished moon painting is now hanging on the wall.<br />
<br />
Christ has made my heart thankful. In the deep, abiding way that only He can.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">This last week </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">we've</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> read through the Gospel accounts of Christ’s
death on the cross. It’s a miracle that can never be told or read too many
times over. Jesus, fully God and fully man. He had all power to carry out His
own will, but He </span><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">. Instead, Jesus was completely surrendered to the
perfect will of His Father. And yet Jesus was still fully human. The Creator of
the Universe clothed in frail flesh. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">After He was delivered to be crucified, He was scourged till the
blood ran. Jesus’ body was weak and bowed with pain, in the midst of the
jeering crowd. He stumbled beneath the
weight of the cross. The Roman soldiers impatient to be finished, grabbed a man
from the crowd to carry the cross. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">His human body felt every lash. Every thorn. Every nail. And yet He
controlled the moment His spirit was yielded in death. No one took His life.
Christ gave it in perfect obedience. He gave it because He loved us, the
sinful, jeering ones, with perfect love. The Sinless One was slaughtered for
the sinful. His Holy blood was spilled to cover our foul stains of sin so that
we could approach the Holy God. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">Easter was a blessed day, remembering this miracle of Christ's perfect love. It began with a pale blue sky and His glory in gold sunlight. Hymns sung all together in our little white Church. Eating sticky cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Me, dropping a whole cup of hot coffee. The scalding liquid splashing all over the floor, my leather shoes, and Mary's Church clothes. {unfortunate for her, she was standing right next to me when I dropped the cup} Mom thought I dropped the coffee because I was too excited about getting to eat food again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">She's probably right. I was pretty excited. Sticky, leaven-laden rolls, cream in my coffee. It was all lovely. I'm thankful I chose to give-up for Lent. And I'm thankful to be on this side of it. I now know it's possible to live without things like butter, bread, and cupcakes. It's hard. But possible. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It makes me think of how many times I look at something hard and I say it's not possible. But what if it actually is possible? When I see the impossibility of something it's because of my perspective. I think, <i>I'm not strong enough for that. </i>And that's very true. But I don't need to walk this way alone. I don't need to be strong enough. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Because Christ lives. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Three days after His death, Jesus rose from the dead. His work on earth was done. The debt was paid once, for all! The debt you and I owed, but could never pay, Jesus paid it for us. He made the way for us to live a new life; an abundant life in Him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">And the Abundant life begins in a thankful heart He creates.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Because HE lives, we can live too. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-58940928107407168832014-04-11T22:17:00.000-07:002014-04-11T22:17:50.491-07:00Reckless Surrender. For me, surrender only comes after the storm. It doesn't come before, and it certainly doesn't come in the middle when the fight is hardest.<br />
<br />
Yet again, I'm faced with the ugliness in me. The ugliness that rails against the Creator of the Universe, throwing my fear and doubt in His face. I crash around hurting those near me with my selfish, stubborn heart. And I'm all-consumed with making myself heard. All-consumed with asking <i>why? </i><br />
<br />
I talk myself into feeling like it's all too much. I tell myself, it's <i>just too much. </i>As if my Savior made a mistake in what He's sent my way. As if He could put me in the wrong place at the wrong time. I sit on my bedroom floor pleading with Him; sobbing my doubt out loud.<br />
<br />
His voice, though not audible, comes like something tangible. It's a breath of air I can feel. It's like the glowing orb of moon in the dark sky outside my window. He asks me, "do you love me Grace?"<br />
<br />
Through the sobs I nod, "yes, of course I love you."<br />
<br />
"Do you love me Grace?"<br />
<br />
I answer hurried, like Peter did. "Yes Lord, you <i>know </i>that I love you."<br />
<br />
And Truth starts to take form.<br />
<br />
If I really love Christ, then I would <i>follow HIM. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
If I really love Christ, then I would <i>surrender ALL to HIM. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But I always fight surrender, because I hang on tight and I don't want to let go. It's frightening, no it's terrifying, to release my hold on <i>my </i>will; <i>my </i>plans. Because this world we live in, makes you feel that you're reckless and careless if you don't make plans. And so I make plans, and all too soon I realize that I'm thinking I control my future, but I don't. I realize that I'm thinking of this life as <i>mine. </i>But it's not.<br />
<br />
He paid dearly for my unholy soul. He spilled His blood to wash the crimson stains of sin away from my robes. And He died and rose that I might have <i>life abundantly. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">"The thief comes only to steal, kill and destroy. I came that they might have life and have it abundantly." </span></i><i><span style="font-size: large;">John 10:10</span></i></div>
<i><br /></i>
Abundant life comes when I bend and yield to His will. It comes when I open my hands, releasing my strangling grip on all that I want; all that I think I need.<br />
<br />
I can live abundantly when I'm willing to be changed and transformed by His Spirit. When I'm willing to be still before Him, or when I'm willing to step forward without seeing the next step.<br />
<br />
<i>When I'm willing. </i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Lord is so patient; so gentle. Though I am <i>so unwilling</i>, He draws me into the peace of surrender. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He quiets my reasoning, my questions, and my fears. He softens my hardness to hear His voice.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He "upholds me with a willing spirit," {psalm 51:12} so that I might abandon myself in a reckless surrender to His will. </div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-5430207724838130772014-03-26T20:19:00.000-07:002014-03-26T20:19:13.602-07:00Feast Day.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrs57nw3z5FzmEUrsxyO-XcVhMJfYJg7i1yNu_DrtM7hmJ0lOKOXBZoL-0CWXCS5TddRJ7-SJbgkZRXF1-gvb7f3__eVwb8fq2GJ2aveZ9peKoE6cRQ6VpvmXDhnoGnqN5sbrKEihM0Pg/s1600/yes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrs57nw3z5FzmEUrsxyO-XcVhMJfYJg7i1yNu_DrtM7hmJ0lOKOXBZoL-0CWXCS5TddRJ7-SJbgkZRXF1-gvb7f3__eVwb8fq2GJ2aveZ9peKoE6cRQ6VpvmXDhnoGnqN5sbrKEihM0Pg/s1600/yes.JPG" height="640" width="424" /></a></div>
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During Lent, traditionally, Sundays are 'feast days.' On those days the fast can be broken in some way. So far I haven't taken advantage of the feast days because I thought for sure it would make it much harder to go back to fasting. </div>
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{feast day: coffee with whip cream. fasting: just black coffee again.}<br />{feast day: butter on hot crusty bread. fasting: carrot sticks again.}</div>
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Just saying. It would be harder. </div>
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But then Lew's birthday came and I made raised doughnuts with chocolate glaze and sprinkles. I decided I would have a feast day.</div>
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I'm not sure if doughnuts were created for coffee, or coffee for doughnuts... either way, they're the perfect couple. <i>The perfect couple. </i></div>
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I can't remember making doughnuts before that were quite so <span style="font-size: x-large;">wonderfully </span>amazing. They were so good, they made me use an adverb to describe them, and I almost <i>never </i>use adverbs. Seriously, they were that good. Especially with the coffee. </div>
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After consuming one, {and photographing all the others} I walked out into the clean air to milk the goats. This incredible sense of well-being washed over me. It could be partly due to the sugar and caffeine racing through my veins, but not entirely. </div>
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This last week, God has sent encouragement my way. He's sent it in bursts like the Spring rain. This refreshment has come in words, written and spoken. Loving, truthful, words. It's come in prayers. It's come in singing old hymns. In smiles. In morning coffee with Dad. In old pictures.</div>
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And it came in a feast day, with doughnuts. </div>
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It was hard, this morning, to ignore those doughnuts wanting to be chomped. But, coffee is still wonderful alone, and I'm still thankful I took a feast day.</div>
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I'm thankful to be basking in the bursts of encouragement. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-586146465647060262014-03-23T18:15:00.000-07:002014-03-23T18:17:07.892-07:00Giving up.Giving up is not my usual stance. Because I tend to hang on till my knuckles are white, rather than letting go.<br />
<br />
March 5th was the first day of Lent. Lent can be a tradition, a ritual, a mere formality. But to me, Lent is an opportunity to conscientiously give something up. An opportunity to <i>choose </i>to let go of something that's easy to hang onto.<br />
<br />
I love food. I love to create it, photograph it, smell it; eat it. I love everything about it. And so, for my first Lent I'm giving up some of the foods I love best. Butter, bread, cheese, all leavened things, refined sugar, and meat. {I'm keeping coffee and chocolate, because I feel that it's important to remain somewhat sane throughout this time of Lent}<br />
<br />
Starting out, I felt overwhelmed. Second-guesses ran through my head as I baked crusty loaves of twisted bread. And when I made a beautiful batch of citrus cupcakes topped with perfect meringue frosting, I began to think <i>this whole Lent thing is pretty over-rated. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But now. I'm crossing over into my third week of Lent and I hold a bit of perspective. It <i>is </i>in fact possible to live without the full scope of beautiful food. It's not easy. But then again, I wasn't signing up for easy, and I knew it wouldn't be...but I don't think I knew how hard it <i>could </i>be.<br />
<br />
I'm a baker and a cook. A <i>passionate </i>baker and cook. And let me tell you, to <i>not </i>taste my cake batter goes against every fiber of my being.<br />
<br />
Every single one.<br />
<br />
<i>But, </i>it <i>is </i>possible to make cupcakes and <i>not </i>try the batter. It really is. I would have never known that, had I never tried.<br />
<br />
I have to smile at myself, because in the grand scheme of things, my giving-up for Lent is pretty <span style="font-size: xx-small;">small. </span><br />
It really is. Because a few continents away, there are thousands, maybe millions of people who've never tasted butter cream frosting. Not even once. They're thrilled when they get to eat a meal. And I realize, the number of gifts I take for granted, is staggering.<br />
<br />
I give-up for Lent, to gain perspective and grow in thankfulness. But I also give-up so that in some very, very, <span style="font-size: xx-small;">small way, </span>I can try to emulate the perfect example of my Savior who gave up <i>everything </i>for me; for you.<br />
<br />
I'm still counting the weeks left till Easter morning. And there are still mornings, and afternoons, and evenings when I crave a hunk of bread with butter.<br />
<br />
But I'm thankful.<br />
<br />
Thankful to be in the third week, and thankful for a chance to give-up what I thought I needed.<br />
<br />
But mostly, I'm thankful for Christ, my Savior. I'm thankful for His abundant grace that seeps through every crack of my life.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-4287955335214774262014-02-21T13:08:00.001-08:002014-03-23T18:19:29.988-07:00The Milk Clock.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The hills all around
stand in generous folds of white. Clouds hover and boil in the west. Wild and
reckless, they spill over into my sky, surrendering their rain or snow in
sudden bursts. Sunlight breaks through in pale gold shafts. But it's still a distant,
winter sun. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Our big white barn,
where the goats live, stands wrapped in expectancy. It's kidding season here.
Mama goats shuffle in the straw, squeezing past each other with rotund
bellies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">From cold snow and blue
sky I walk quiet into the barn. Hushed air, and warm smells of manure and
after-birth greet me. I look over the wooden stall, and there they are. Wet and
unsure, tiny miracles lay in the straw. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">We come out into the
cold star-filled night, to milk the mama goats, and feed the babies. In the
barn, the cold air pulses energy. We stumble in the dark finding not one but
two mama goats delivering. The dark gives way to the flashlight, and little
heaps of wet cry pitifully. A heat lamp is rigged. I take off my coat and I use
Lew's scarf to rub their tiny bodies. The cold is bitter. We bring the four
littles into the living room. Cuddling them in the warmth of the wood stove, we
feed them bottles of creamy milk. Fluffy and content, they nestle in an
over-sized squash basket. More miracles. Breathing, living, furry, miracles
fashioned just so by the Creator.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">And now my days are run
on the</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">milk clock</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The milk clock is
powered by the milking of four does, once every 12 hours and the bottle feeding
three times a day for the week-olds, four to five times a day for the
two-day-olds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It's ticking in earnest
now, but it will gather speed as five other pregnant does are yet to kid.
Lord-willing, many more tiny babies to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">This milk clock is constant
and the babies and their mamas know it's workings well. Their bleats sound the
approaching hours loud and clear, as they wait to be milked or fed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">For
me, there is soothing equilibrium in the workings of God's nature. The movement
of the clouds, the shift in the seasons, the paths of the stars, the birth and
growth of the goats. And I find profound contentment and joy in having my days
pulse with the rhythm of the milk clock. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Milking is peace and
action all at once. The veins in my forearms move as I milk steady streams of white.
She chews her grain and her stomach heaves in the workings of digestion. She stops
chewing and her ears twitch if I change my rhythm. I watch careful of her
powerful hind legs that can spill the warm milk in the impatient instant. We each,
are aware of the other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The consistent routine
of it causes a quiet to settle in me. Especially when I milk at night. I walk
out into the dark with my head thrown back, my eyes soaking up the immeasurable glory of the sky. And I think, <i>He knows them all by name…</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The bottle feeding is joyful peace. Tiny bleats break the stillness of morning and night. They grow louder and more persistent as we get closer with a bucket of green glass bottles clinking together. And then they see us. Their eyes are wide in anticipation. The scramble and tumble over each other in their frantic hurry to get to the milk first. A few squeals, a bit of splattered milk and finally they each find the red tip of their bottle. The chorus of contented sucking, and tail-wagging ensues. And after the milk is finished, the hungry little mouths search for our fingers.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">With each tick of the milk clock, strands of peace are threaded together in this life of mine. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">It really is in the small things, the common miracles of the everyday, that God chooses to put <i>peace, </i><i>joy, </i>and <i>grace. </i>If we slow down, we can walk in the rhythm of peace. If we practice quiet, we will hear joy. And if we start to look around us, instead of always ahead, we will begin to see HIS grace <i>everywhere</i>. </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-52541989675369798372014-01-23T21:24:00.002-08:002014-01-28T15:24:53.364-08:00The Ungodly One. I am a sinner. I am one of the selfish, prideful ones.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
Had I been there, the day of Christ's Crucifixion, I would've been one of the ignorant by-standers yelling "crucify Him!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I <i>was </i>one of those wicked ones yelling for the sinless One, to die. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I can't claim much as being just <i>me. </i>But this I can claim for myself, I am one of the chief sinners. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am one of the <i>ungodly</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am a stubborn, habitual sinner. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The perfect lamb of God suffered unimaginable horrors. He was beaten, mocked, despised. His body of flesh was destroyed as He hung on the cross, gasping for air. His Spirit was alone, separated from His Father because of the world's sin placed on Him. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Christ did this for the <i>ungodly. </i>For the wretched sinners. For the ones who, by all standards <i>couldn't be salvaged. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
I nod my head, raising my hands above my head. I step forward. <i>That's me. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Yes. I'm guilty.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
I am undone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am confronted with the stark reality of my unworthiness. All my ugly sin is all I can carry to the foot of the cross. And yet, He still says, "come." </div>
<div>
I see Christ's hands torn and bleeding, pierced by the thick nails. I sob out loud. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He suffered and died, for my <i>ungodliness. </i>He suffered and died, for <i>yours.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person, though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die, but God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Since, therefore, we have now been justified by His blood, much more shall we be saved by him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son, much more, now that we are reconciled, shall we be saved by His life."</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Romans 5:6-10</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Jesus did not die for our righteousness, but he died for our sins. He did not come to save us because we were worth the saving, but because we were utterly worthless, ruined, and undone. He came not to earth out of any reason that was in us, but solely and only out of reasons which he fetched from the depths of His own divine love.</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"In due time Christ died for the ungodly." Fix your mind on that, and rest there. Let this one great, gracious, glorious fact lie in your spirit till it perfumes all your thoughts, and makes you rejoice even though you are without strength, seeing the Lord Jesus has become your strength and your song, yea, He has become your salvation. (Isaiah 12:2)"</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">~Charles Spurgeon "All of Grace"</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
What a glorious truth! That He died for me! <i>Me. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
He knows I'm <i>empty</i>; He calls me to come and drink of Him, to be <i>filled</i>. He knows I come stained crimson with sin, but He says come to be washed <i>whiter </i>than snow. He knows I'm without wisdom, He says come ask Him for <i>His </i>wisdom. He knows all I can bring is my great <i>need </i>for Him, He says come and He will <i>satisfy</i>. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Since then we have a great High Priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. </span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need."</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Hebrews 4: 14-16</span></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And Christ says to come to Him with <i>confidence</i>. Because He knows, and opens me to know, that I'm one of the <i>ungodly. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Praise God that, that's exactly <i>who </i>He died and rose again to <i>save</i>!</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
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The <i>ungodly one. </i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-18485901900131850702014-01-18T21:29:00.001-08:002014-01-23T21:34:02.298-08:00Dusty Gold.There is only room for One King on the throne of our heart.<br />
<br />
One Savior. One Master. Only one Precious One.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Job 22: 24-26</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">If you lay gold in the dust, and gold of Ophir among the stones of the torrent bed, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">then the Almighty will be your gold and your precious silver. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">For then you will delight yourself in the Almighty and lift up your face to God.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I must lay my gold in the dust. Drop it in the dirt. Surrender it among the stones. The gold I hang onto so tight can take many different forms. It can be an old habit, or some part of my old nature raising it's ugly head. Or it can be <i>something. </i>Or it can be an idea of mine, or a desire of mine. Our ways always seem right in our own eyes, but it's God who judges the heart. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But there is one thing that all my gold has in common: it's of this earth. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When I lay it down in the dirt where it belongs I can see it for what it is. It's not gold at all! </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And when I stop looking at the dusty ground, then I can lift up my face to God. Then the Almighty will be my delight.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When I stop holding tight to the dusty things of this earth, then I can reach out and <i>hold tight onto </i>Christ. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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I desire Christ to be my most Precious Treasure.</div>
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I want Him to be the One King on my throne. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-65554302296815300392014-01-01T20:10:00.002-08:002014-01-23T21:34:02.307-08:00The first day of 2014The new year. It's here.<br />
<br />
Half of me says, already?<br />
The other half says, <em>finally</em>.<br />
<br />
I love the feeling of a fresh, new, start. The confidence that comes from knowing that He who began a good work in me, is just and faithful to complete it.<br />
<br />
I look back at this past year, chalk-full of so much. Like shelves packed tight with books. I'm glad we have a New Years Day. It makes me take a moment to pause, to remember, to look forward. <br />
<br />
This last year looms full of mountain tops, valleys and plateaus where I was not on the mountain or in the valley. It's full of things I never thought would happen. Mistakes I never thought I'd make, victories I never thought I'd have. <br />
Through all the ups and downs, all my inconsistency, my doubts, my expectations there is One who has been faithful.<br />
<br />
Christ.<br />
<br />
He's the <em>grace </em>that's held my last year together. Looking to this new year I expect to see even <em>more </em>of His abundant grace. <br />
<br />
My hope for this new year; my heart's desire, is to earnestly seek and truly know my Lord, my Savior and His grace, like I never have before. I want the nearness, the close intimacy that comes when we draw near to HIM and He draws near to us.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
While I don't have a list of resolutions, I do have a few things I hope to do with regularity in the new year. They are: </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">memorizing, writing, reading, praying, listening, loving, and breathing.</span></div>
<br />
I need to memorize more of God's words! I can easily remember quotes from a movie or book, but my repertoire of God's living words is shamefully small. This needs to change. <br />
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I need to write more! Much more than I did this last year. I'm starting with a goal of posting on this blog and our business blog once a week, on Monday. {clearly, I'm working over-time with this post.} And then I have dreams of a cookbook and possibly a novel. Probably neither of those will be completed with the close of 2014, but they most certainly won't be if I never work on them.<br />
<br />
I want to be in God's word <em>every</em> day. I want to <em>daily</em> be renewed and transformed by words that come from the breath of God. <br />I also just want to read more books this year. I allowed myself dry times of little reading material last year. This was a mistake, {as it always is} I need the creativity of other writers to inspire and feed my own creativity as I write; I need to be inspired and challenged by tales, old and young.<br />
<br />
I need to pray more. I need to pray constantly. Every moment of any day I can approach the throne of a perfect, Holy God, and I can talk with Him. It's an incredible gift! But often, I neglect it. I want set times of prayer throughout my day, like a monk who shapes his day around the bell that rings for prayer. <br />
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I need to listen more. I'm so quick to talk; to spout my ideas and opinions. In my haste to say <em>something</em> how often to I do I trample over someone else? If I'm honest, often.<br />
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I need to love with Christ's love. I so often love people with my love that is small, temperamental, selfish, and really not love at all. I need to love the way God loves me which is faithfully, abundantly, selflessly. <br />
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I need to take more moments to just breath. In. Out. I need to be still and know that He is God. I need to revel in His presence. His peace. I need to just <em>breath</em>. Breath deep, long, slow. Grab hold of the moments, don't let them just run by. <br />
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I pray that you reach out and grab hold of this new year; that you revel in its gifts, large and small. <span style="font-size: x-large;">Most of all I pray that you taste, feel, and <em>know </em>GOD like you never have before.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-1584261824258623522013-12-30T20:08:00.000-08:002014-01-23T21:34:02.294-08:00HIS Will.God's will. My will. <em>HIS </em>will. My will.<br />
<br />
I can say, "not my will, but thine be done, Lord." I can say it with the best of them. I've said it most my life but what about <em>living it? </em><br />
<em></em><br />
I haven't <em>lived</em> His will. I've lived mine. I've stumbled ahead of God, thinking I knew better than He, what lay ahead. <br />
<br />
I was reading in Ezekiel and these verses spoke loud and clear.<br />
<br />
<em>"And I will give them one heart, and a new spirit, I will put within them. I will remove the heart of stone from their flesh and give them a heart of flesh, that they may walk in my statutes and keep my rules and obey them. And they shall be my people and I will be their God. But as for those whose heart goes after their detestable things and their abominations, I will bring their deeds upon their own heads, declares the Lord God."</em><br />
<em>Ezekiel 11: 19-21</em><br />
<br />
As I read the verses I knew that I wanted a heart of flesh, not one of stone. I asked God to replace my stone heart with one that is soft and alive. But I couldn't know just how soon He wanted to do that. <br />
<br />
And oh, it hurts.<br />
<br />
I've had a heart of stone, because then you don't hurt. You don't feel just how broken, messed-up and torn you are. The shards of yourself don't cut so deep when you're stone. <br />
<br />
But when you're stone, you're not clay in the potter's hands. <br />
<br />
When you're stone that doesn't feel, you're not living. You're just trying to survive on your own.<br />
<br />
God has started cutting out that stone in me, replacing it with a warm, pulsing, living, moldable, hurting heart of flesh.<br />
<br />
I'm bowed with grief over my hard heart. I'm terrified by my weaknesses. I'm terrified when I think about living surrendered and vulnerable to God's will that I can never see completely. My <em>self </em>wants to stay here, where it's safe with a stone heart that doesn't hurt. In my mind, I come up with all these <em>good </em>reasons to stay right here with stone inside me<em>.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
God will have to do this. He'll have to do it ALL.<br />
<br />
And maybe that's why He's calling me to this loving, hurting, vulnerable, living with a soft, flesh heart inside. Because He knows I can't do it on my own. He's made <em>me </em>know that I can't do it on my own.<br />
<br />
When I live stone-hearted and stubborn, I don't want God's will for my life. <br />
<br />
I need God to give me the flesh heart that desires HIM and HIS WILL.<br />
<br />
And so,<br />
<br />
With HIS grace I will start fresh and new. I will live daily with a beating, flesh heart. I will be vulnerable and weak and afraid. But I will bind myself to CHRIST.<br />
<br />
Constantly.<br />
<br />
And then I can say; I can began to live:<br />
<br />
HIS will. NOT, my will.<br />
<br />
HIS will be done. HIS. My Savior who knows all. His will be done in me; through me. For His glory.<br />
<br />
Amen. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-91572855722215857762013-08-28T20:00:00.000-07:002013-08-28T20:02:30.872-07:00Actively waiting. <em>The air is stagnant. Little light reaches this dull place. The chairs are old and worn. People sit and wait. Some know what they're waiting for, others don't. But they all wait. They just sit wearing the dim paisley thinner. A sigh escapes. A sliver of light exposes a shower of dust particles. Cracked clocks tell the wrong time. But no one seems to notice. They wait because they don't want to choose.</em> <br />
<br />
I used to think waiting was the absence of choice. We wait because we can't, or won't, choose. We wait by default. <br />
<br />
I now know different.<br />
<br />
Waiting is a choice I make every minute of every hour of every day. It's an active surrender. I don't wake up, and find myself sitting in God's waiting room. I wake up and I <em>choose </em>to wait on the Lord. It's not my default mode. In fact, it goes against the grain of my nature to wait. <br />
<br />
So often, I just want to know! I want to act, I want to choose. But I'm finding, that waiting <em>is</em> knowing. It is acting and it is choosing. <em> </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Waiting is knowing that Christ knows my every need and desire. It's acting in Christ's strength not my own. And it's choosing to be surrendered to His will. <br />
<br />
This waiting is breathing, living, acting. <br />
<br />
In every season of life I'll be waiting for <em>something. </em>And right now, I can practice the choice of waiting. I can practice following God, fully surrendered. <br />
<br />
I wait for a letter. I wait for a time to speak. <br />
<br />
Grey clouds cover the summer sky tonight. They take the sunset and wrap it up tight. But they're moving clouds. Shifting, churning. I can spot slivers of pale blue showing. I wait for stars to peek out. <br />
<br />
<em>I </em>choose to wait. <br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-88944633896776299502013-07-30T22:29:00.000-07:002013-08-28T20:03:59.362-07:00Shelling peas and a hail storm.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">It was Saturday. We were wearing white and black, selling our products at the Farmer’s market. It was a hot, humid day. Clouds hung low over our heads holding the warm air close. The sultry heat drove the customers away early. It was closing time and we were ready to get out of the warmth. We just carried the last boxes to the trailer when the first rain drops splashed the pavement. The wind burst, driving storm clouds over-head. We rushed to help our neighbors pack up. Rain came harder. Pounding in sheets Wind blew fierce. Canopies toppled. Venders scrambled to save their wares. The road was a river of water churning up past our ankles. We were all soaked and struggling to hurry weighed down as we were with rainwater. Then the hail stones came. Solid ice the size of quarters beat down on everything and everyone. Stunned, we tried to keep moving, to keep hauling things to safety. Bags of vegetables, framed pictures, strings of jewelry, and beeswax candles, all of it needed stowed in the vender’s cars. Somewhere under the cover of a building, street musicians played on through the storm. It made me think of the sinking of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">RMS Titanic. </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">Clouds moved letting sun stream through the rain. We smiled at each other through the wet. We were able to help all who needed it. We splashed in the water that reached our knees. We were so thankful. God had sheltered us in the midst of the storm. On a typical Saturday, we usually wouldn’t be packed up so soon. But this time we had every piece packed safely in the trailer before a drop of rain hit. And then He allowed us to help all the other venders caught in the storm. Stories of God’s protection and thankful hugs were sweet gifts to take home with us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4NZn1nx5LaUl-vlELlRFaK7pcCDFhV-tyAaLDSpfqG-K6eIsLKJavsCKlggkBg4iE9RZxI-T2yAuC0ONXmaZxHfJdykobxV5-t0lrlTQJRmCJuHxJ1QbVn_-TadK5PmS6lJzkgwVODc/s1600/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4NZn1nx5LaUl-vlELlRFaK7pcCDFhV-tyAaLDSpfqG-K6eIsLKJavsCKlggkBg4iE9RZxI-T2yAuC0ONXmaZxHfJdykobxV5-t0lrlTQJRmCJuHxJ1QbVn_-TadK5PmS6lJzkgwVODc/s640/1.JPG" width="424" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">Days after the storm, it was time to harvest the shelling peas. The pea plants were bruised and bent from the storm. Their shells scarred from hail stones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IV8bDzj2B-r3cJoEbHY6utO9IOD0J2LvX3QcZBWXNZ6R7PQ9dmW11ZNQ9dfnV143C8BTCZGQmiLbFmV2zE5t34d7bRebYu5eB23JHH65fSZSxAjlZ-6ALUC90XOvwQZHT7j7m2uMu1c/s1600/2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IV8bDzj2B-r3cJoEbHY6utO9IOD0J2LvX3QcZBWXNZ6R7PQ9dmW11ZNQ9dfnV143C8BTCZGQmiLbFmV2zE5t34d7bRebYu5eB23JHH65fSZSxAjlZ-6ALUC90XOvwQZHT7j7m2uMu1c/s320/2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">But beneath the damaged shells there hid perfect rows of tender, bright green peas. Breaking the shell open, I slid my finger along the tight row. One by one the peas break off and tumble into the large bowl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtM3W6mgKKfboLPeXVqBfnp3UrHGTDJo-8i-rfQFE3TFKzQbtaB8Vww9VKvAh1H5ZBqTDr6UgvtCikJ8T8xxOu_yQawJLjyMZBRKeDzJx8XHX7n3zybTysBsrrqaHDetTTKt_r-kS0Ow/s1600/3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtM3W6mgKKfboLPeXVqBfnp3UrHGTDJo-8i-rfQFE3TFKzQbtaB8Vww9VKvAh1H5ZBqTDr6UgvtCikJ8T8xxOu_yQawJLjyMZBRKeDzJx8XHX7n3zybTysBsrrqaHDetTTKt_r-kS0Ow/s320/3.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">It struck me. The storm, like the damaged pea shells, had concealed bright, tender gifts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYKsidfFmuHneL6ItnD9HJoJ1JGNmCi0IwQbxmCbT8k_qxonBkupQ5fdEJIOhjPoTqg_lmqqNl2QxOhq8MfRadgqtIMFPxbeGS2snnBUZYDhFlQ5b4oJAIHiK3UmbyWlMGh4_exl0v6g/s1600/4+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYKsidfFmuHneL6ItnD9HJoJ1JGNmCi0IwQbxmCbT8k_qxonBkupQ5fdEJIOhjPoTqg_lmqqNl2QxOhq8MfRadgqtIMFPxbeGS2snnBUZYDhFlQ5b4oJAIHiK3UmbyWlMGh4_exl0v6g/s320/4+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">How often does God send us gifts wrapped in hail-damaged shells? These gifts take unwrapping to really see all they hold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;">I don’t think I’ll ever look at a hail-damaged pea shell quite the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-bidi;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-41517030925293122002013-06-10T09:30:00.000-07:002013-08-28T20:03:59.359-07:00The beautiful ugliness.Beautiful ugliness.<br />
<br />
Do you know what beautiful ugliness looks like? I thought I did. I thought I knew how to look at the awful, broken, and disgusting, to see beauty. <br />
<br />
But what about the times when the ugliness spills out of <em>me? </em>Out of <em>you? </em><br />
<br />
Often I feel this happens to me. The pressure, the stress and strain, some of it real, some of it created in my own mind, born of paranoia and fear, comes crashing through my being. Instead of leaving to rest in the arms of my Savior, my stubborn sinful side takes charge. I lash out in anger. I hurt people. I say things I know<em> are not true. </em><br />
<br />
A day not too long ago, all this was poignantly true. In the beginning of the day my eyes were anywhere but on Christ. The "to-do's" crowded in. The pressure of meeting deadlines took precedence in my mind over the far more important care of the eternal souls living around me every day. <br />
<br />
And then it all crashed in. <br />
<br />
My foundation of sand crumbling. But instead of fighting the tide of sinful nature that comes over me so strong, I succumbed. I gave in to the anger. The selfishness. The pride. I said things I knew were <em>not true. </em><br />
<br />
It all came gushing out. All that ugliness inside of me that I like to turn away from. It sat crumpled in a heap right in front of me. As I sat looking at it, grief for my sin and anger at myself for not living in Christ welled up. And I wept.<br />
<br />
I wept and I pleaded forgiveness. They all forgave me. Those around me who I hurt forgave me in love. My Savior forgave me all and washed me clean. I live in constant awe of the miracle of forgiveness demonstrated in me and around me <em>every single day</em>.<br />
<br />
I was broken. Seeing yourself as you really are when you try to do it on your own, is bleak and frightening. But the day was not over yet. Loose ends had to be gathered so that things could be accomplished. I should have already left. A dear friend of ours dropped by as I was trying to pack the stray things I needed. This white-haired friend is dear to me because she's a follower of Jesus Christ and she's truthful. She's so honest with herself, honest with me, and her eye's beg me to be honest with her. <br />
<br />
I tried to avoid the honesty. I felt the tears would come fresh if I didn't. I backed out of our driveway, Mary in the car with me, I didn't pause to look. There was terrible screech of grinding metal. I stopped. And I think my heart stopped too. I pulled forward and got out. A crater of a dent starred at me from the side of her car. I felt my insides crumble. <em>I can't believe...</em><br />
<br />
And then a struggle. Should I just leave? Maybe she wouldn't notice the crater? But I knew. I couldn't just leave. I couldn't run away from my mistake. I walked back inside. The words choked my throat and the hot tears came all over again. Her first words were: "are you both alright?" And then she enveloped me in tenderness. Hugging me as I sobbed and choked on my pitiful, "I'm sorry." She didn't even go out to see the damage. She just forgave, loving me and giving me grace I didn't deserve. <br />
<br />
I'll never forget how she gave me 'grace.' She gave it like Christ gives it. Freely, abundantly, holding nothing back and asking nothing in return. One day, I pray that I can be the white-haired lady giving grace to the one choking out "I'm sorry."<br />
<br />
That night as I lay in the darkness of my room my eyes red from tears; my body tired, I thanked God for such an awful wonderful, beautiful ugly day. At my core I was truly thankful. What if I never had to face the angry, selfish part of me? That part, I wish wasn't there. What if it hadn't spilled out, forcing me to take in its ugliness. If the heat and the fire don't bring the dross to the surface, how will the gold ever be fine? <br />
<br />
The fire hurts, and I have thick dross that needs burning. But, I praise God He loves me enough to bring the refining fire.<br />
<br />
And <em>that </em>is what the 'beautiful' looks like in the midst of my ugly.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-55325710408991532632013-04-08T16:06:00.001-07:002013-08-28T20:03:59.360-07:00Glory.<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Psalm 72:19</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Blessed be His glorious name forever;<br />may the whole earth be filled with<br />His glory!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Amen and Amen!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Today, I've been thinking about God's glory. What it looks like; where I see it. I find that the whole earth really is filled with His glory! </span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">I see it in the Spring rain filling the sky with grey tempest, pelting our green fields with wet. I see His glory in a smile, warm and genuine. Glory in reconciliation. Glory in pain that opens our hearts for healing. God's glory in the celebration of His Resurrection. I see His glory in the expanse of stars that hang over me at night. I hear Him in the Psalms put to music. I read His glory in the pages of my Bible. I feel it in hug. In an 'I love you' softly spoken before bed. I find His glory in truth. Truthfulness with myself, with others, with God. His Glory in prayer, that time to be quiet and empty before Him so we can be filled. I see His glory in my weakness, my failures. I see His glory in our neediness, our dependence on Him for all things. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">His glory is ever-present, all around us. We can be instruments of God's glory if we're surrendered to, and filled by, Him. And Him alone.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is my desire.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Psalm 27:4</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">One thing I have asked of the Lord,<br />that will I seek after:</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">that I may dwell in the house of the<br />Lord<br />all the days of my life,<br />to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord<br />and to inquire in his temple.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-56589045521266797872013-03-12T16:51:00.001-07:002013-03-12T16:52:37.328-07:00Like a stack of books...<div style="text-align: center;">
Today, I'm revelling in the small things. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
like,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">a stack of books.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62uImglCNl1jz5WKPb_gczKFkpyhwfUhKyocVAIQHSVcIvJe-7za7H1ZvbcjVezeA3Sz3Eb_Xe7Lek80la45HyoJ8xzSkxNLgFUVvqSWz9ozpSO3BSQpWUMuSarjT7K-UTA4eYxkdXQA/s1600/DSC_0172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62uImglCNl1jz5WKPb_gczKFkpyhwfUhKyocVAIQHSVcIvJe-7za7H1ZvbcjVezeA3Sz3Eb_Xe7Lek80la45HyoJ8xzSkxNLgFUVvqSWz9ozpSO3BSQpWUMuSarjT7K-UTA4eYxkdXQA/s640/DSC_0172.JPG" width="425" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A cold, wet morning.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dark looming clouds.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A globe.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">words.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Someone playing piano on youtube.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Irish</span> books.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A chubby cup of coffee.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Brutal honesty.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Chicken soup bubbling on the stove.<br />my head full of thoughts.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Agape love.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
algebra problems.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bambi.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Clean floors.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Hugs</span>.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Writing.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Savory pancake breakfast.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
pictures of granola.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Reading from <span style="font-size: x-large;">Esther</span> and <span style="font-size: x-large;">Psalms</span>.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
prayers.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Whistling to birds.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
kittens.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Stacked rocks.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wind.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Being a sinner saved by grace.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-85265551357952980532013-02-13T18:30:00.002-08:002013-02-13T18:31:54.462-08:00Old skin.Am I the same person I was 5 years ago? 2 years ago? 3 months ago?<br />
<br />
My answer: I hope not.<br />
<br />
13 years ago, the Holy Spirit pierced my black heart for the first time: I believed. I repented, pleading God's mercy and forgiveness. Immediately, He washed me in the pure flood of His Son's blood. I became a new creation. Leaving the old skin behind, I was robed in Christ's righteousness.<br />
<br />
But I was still very much <em>human.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
In the moment of becoming a new creation, I didn't become a saint.<br />
<br />
With Christ inside me, my heart was now a battle-ground of war between the flesh and the Spirit. The old and the new. The human and the holy.<br />
<br />
As I ask myself if I'm the same person I once was, my desire is that I can honestly answer <em>no. </em><br />
<br />
Because, I believe God desires us to become new creations <em>every day. </em>He wants <strike>us</strike> <em>me </em>to shed the old skin with each morning. He desires me to become less of myself, so that He might fill me more fully. He desires His spirit to grow so huge and all-encompassing that the fibres of my wicked nature burst apart. He wants me to daily walk away from my old skin; the carcass of my <em>self. </em><br />
<br />
Like a spider who out-grows his skin, God's spirit inside me needs to out-grow my fleshly desires and wants. <br />
I believe every day, I need to let this shell of myself die, so that Christ Jesus in me, may fully live. <br />
<br />
It's a constant war inside of me. My old self raises its ugly, leering head, desperately trying to live. The hardest battles fought, are the ones we can't see. In the midst of the 'everday' can be the hardest time to put to death the 'flesh' inside of me.<br />
<br />
Only, with God's strength and mercy can I learn to daily cast off this old skin, so that I can live fully alive in Him!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-75711552834749955772013-02-09T15:47:00.001-08:002013-03-12T16:52:28.981-07:00today.<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">today</span>.<br />
is one of those days<br />
where the 'to do' lists<br />
loom long.<br />
and the wind blows cold<br />
and hard.<br />
the sky hangs still <br />
and grey.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">today</span>.<br />
I chased my golden-colored dog<br />
down the street.<br />
I cleaned.<br />
I folded laundry.<br />
I put on an argyle sweater.<br />
I made mounds of sparkly,<br />
red and pink<br />
valentines. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">today</span>.<br />
I want to crawl inside<br />
a book store,<br />
and I may not come out.<br />
I will take french roast coffee with me.<br />
a thick cable-knit sweater.<br />
notebooks.<br />
red pens.<br />
I will find a small little nook <br />
deep inside the bookshelves,<br />
on the top floor<br />
and I will read,<br />
and wonder,<br />
and ask,<br />
and answer,<br />
and watch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But
today</span>.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: white;"> still need to make piles of <br />
pastry dough.<br />
cookies with pink<br />
m+m’s in them.<br />
bags of plum tarts<br />
for a party tomorrow.<br />
Spaghetti for dinner.<br />
I still need to add words<br />
to my paper hearts,<br />
and words to white paper<br />
for a blogpost.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: white;">the
<span style="font-size: x-large;">bookstore</span>,<br />
I suppose,<br />
must wait<br />
for another cold, <br />
blustery day…<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-52502521290212562292013-01-31T17:03:00.002-08:002013-01-31T17:05:46.363-08:006 July 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYafFWv0NGkvW9TEjIiQa-7OA0LEMJ1_HCWFMiI-cY0yeDGg9m-X1NB6QVa6F23cwC8TxRERKJybtfYCnyrCq2PLfsHamlocIgJ5RapJCtDFI-loTv9MxV5ptyLIcjQ_YmTTPR2lysJtI/s1600/DSC_2343.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYafFWv0NGkvW9TEjIiQa-7OA0LEMJ1_HCWFMiI-cY0yeDGg9m-X1NB6QVa6F23cwC8TxRERKJybtfYCnyrCq2PLfsHamlocIgJ5RapJCtDFI-loTv9MxV5ptyLIcjQ_YmTTPR2lysJtI/s640/DSC_2343.JPG" width="424" /></a></div>
Imagine a world where time is churning, constant motion. It stops for no one. It waits for nothing. In this world where times moves constant and loud, people are frantic to grab hold of it.<br />
<br />
Like a train chugging by, time huffs and puffs down the tracks stopping for no one. Some people clutch their belongings in one hand; with the other they reach out to grasp the time that is moving past them. Like the pink rays of the sinking sun, time slips through the fingers that don't hold it tight.<br />
<br />
Some people stand in a constant state of readiness. They jump at a chance. Grasping it tight because they know time won't wait. A man is offered a job as a newspaper editor. He accepts the hour of his offer. A tall boy with dark glasses asks a girl to marry him. She accepts immediately. Her train is here; she figures she better get on. She knows it won't slow down and wait. If she refuses him, he will ask someone else tomorrow.<br />
<br />
A girl steps out into the cool of evening air. A field adjacent to her property is filled with the lights of hay trucks. Their metal arms clank and churn as they pluck the hay bales from the ground. Their headlights are steady beams in the glowing dusk. The sound of the machines is constant and echoing in the small valley. The girl realizes that this is the way time is. The churning metal groans louder in her ears. Time won't wait. It's on the move. She walks back inside with determination. She <em>will </em>write her book. She will write it now.<br />
<br />
To some, this constant motion of time is terrifying. They stand at the station frozen, watching time steam by them. But they can't gather enough courage to reach out and step aboard. They're paralyzed by fear. By questions. <br />
<br />
A man in a checkered bow-tie, clutches his small suitcase. The trains whiz by. They blow his hair in his face. People walk by him. Close by. They brush against him. He doesn't move. Very soon he realizes that the hair he's brushing away from his eyes is grey. He feels weak and sits down on the concrete. Time is closing in. But he hasn't done anything! He stares into the face of a train engine nearing him. He feels his life has been empty. <br />
<br />
He perceives the train is not going faster or slower then it ever has. It chugs along. Constant. Moving. Grinding metal gears. It waits for no one. For nothing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-79583881373284431162013-01-18T14:15:00.000-08:002013-01-31T17:07:48.829-08:00A page with words.When I don't write. It's not because I have nothing to say. When I don't write, it's because I have <em>too </em>much to say. Thoughts crowd my mind like so many books weighing on old shelves. Thoughts. Fragments. They float mid-air. If I don't write, I don't give shape and form to these floating things. I feel that I fail.<br />
<br />
Lately the thoughts come thick and fast. They fill the shelves of my mind so full they tumble off into a cahotic heap. When I lay down at night my head is heavy as lead because it's so full of thoughts. <br />
<br />
I know very well my thoughts are not always, if ever, original. My small mind contains questions that have been asked by millions of minds before me. <br />
<br />
But there's something satisfying in expressing something in your <em>own words </em>even if it isn't your original idea. <br />
<br />
What is the good of having thoughts, opinions; ideas, if you can't give them flesh and bones in clear words? Thoughts without words are faceless clocks that can't tell time, croissants without butter, books with empty pages.<br />
<br />
I feel as though I could lock myself away for a long time and just write. The words would spill reckless over the pages. In the end, I wouldn't have an incredible manuscript, something brimming with oringinal ideas. I wouldn't have a <em>New York Times Bestseller. </em>But what I would have, would be mine. It would be my thoughts and ideas made flesh. <br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-23925918367082689612013-01-09T12:17:00.000-08:002013-01-31T17:10:21.685-08:00A truth, I think we all know...Life is a gift.<br />
<br />
I think deep down this truth is written on the cavernous walls of our hearts. We <em>know</em> that life is a gift, but do we <em>live</em> like it is?<br />
Truthful, I don't always live like this.<br />
<br />
This morning I was walking into the pale sunrise of morning, out to the white barn, to milk the goats. The air cold, but not freezing. All around me the world, dressed in white, gleamed in the yellow light. The light touches the folds of the mountains with soft hands. Snow and ice crunch beneath my feet. Above me, the blue sky is dappled in silver clouds like the spots on a faun's back. They shimmer in the sunlight. In the west, dark blue storm clouds roll and churn as they climb over the mountain's peak, spilling into the sky above our valley. Though the clouds still hover far away, I can feel their energy. <br />
<br />
I walked into this beauty with a mind full of our mortality. <br />
<br />
We know a man, our neighbor. His body is wracked with the incurable Lou Gerick's disease. The disease seeps into every part of him. He can't walk. Now he can barely speak. We each have a number for our days, but his number grows smaller. We pray for him every day. God is reaching his heart. I don't think this man has every let God reach into his heart. <br />
<br />
With my eyes full of light, I was hit with the truth in a new way.<br />
<br />
Life is a gift.<br />
<br />
It is a gift to be alive. To draw breath. laugh. cry. talk. write. love. <br />
<br />
I've always known life is a gift, but I don't simply want to <em>know.</em><br />
<br />
I want to wake to each sunrise and breathe deep this gift. <br />
<br />
I want thankfulness for life to spill out of me every day. <br />
<br />
I want to live keenly aware of the number of my days.<br />
I want to live keenly aware of the gift each one contains.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-40615188087022824032013-01-01T00:29:00.001-08:002013-01-16T21:18:17.663-08:00New.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">New</span>.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
fresh</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
distinct</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
unused</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
change</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
bright</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
clean</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">New Year.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
unknown</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
questions</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
answers</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
familiar</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
hope</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
fear</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
dreams</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
different</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
full </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
empty</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
prayers</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
projects</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
failure</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
success</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
friendships</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
seasons</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
time</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">2013</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
is a gift.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a gift of time.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a gift of life.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Thank you God,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
for this </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">New</span><br />Year.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-23924345423860797422012-12-30T21:16:00.000-08:002013-01-31T17:07:48.825-08:00questions.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOcV_yQxOfNm1EYUWZ4rayLSnj8_9kb4JPCfkYWO3K90hC8gh6i1B5cryTX1_gAgn__NdBPXKtzG4f7PXnli-747jL_MCYAFHLOcPqG8GlsEhtLuIiwc905fhVrJdFtwAJ69GUtWCOuE/s1600/DSC_2716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOcV_yQxOfNm1EYUWZ4rayLSnj8_9kb4JPCfkYWO3K90hC8gh6i1B5cryTX1_gAgn__NdBPXKtzG4f7PXnli-747jL_MCYAFHLOcPqG8GlsEhtLuIiwc905fhVrJdFtwAJ69GUtWCOuE/s640/DSC_2716.JPG" width="424" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
He is a boy. He is a man.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
He is a boy man.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Teetering on the edge of boyhood, </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
looking into the vast unknown of manhood.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJVXxI1Yf6wCfyAHwiQ7haaD5MbzJX_TkA-0vtpnd74F8tOZCopnLoJZ7aX2IQYcWZ4slQjw4MH57H9QlBlxvJCny6ANW9dp__lS4hlEYcEg4sgE6gdcPdm1VUi-HqCtUNJpZk89cZ50/s1600/DSC_2720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJVXxI1Yf6wCfyAHwiQ7haaD5MbzJX_TkA-0vtpnd74F8tOZCopnLoJZ7aX2IQYcWZ4slQjw4MH57H9QlBlxvJCny6ANW9dp__lS4hlEYcEg4sgE6gdcPdm1VUi-HqCtUNJpZk89cZ50/s320/DSC_2720.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
His lips are pursed, wondering.</div>
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His eyes are open questioning.</div>
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He is a man who looks,</div>
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sometimes unsure, sometimes with questions into his future.</div>
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We all have questions. </div>
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In each season of life,</div>
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we ask.</div>
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we wonder</div>
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...</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9089006218234383215.post-55772010396034001312012-12-28T12:14:00.001-08:002012-12-28T13:17:35.826-08:00Foot in mouth.<div style="text-align: center;">
Do you ever put your foot in your mouth? </div>
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Not just the toes but the whole huge foot, all the way up to the ankle. And you're sitting there with your foot flapping in your mouth looking the picture of stupidity.</div>
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This happens to me more often then not.</div>
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It just recently happened to me. I was talking with someone I don't know very well, but I greatly respect. </div>
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{this always makes me painfully prone to putting my foot in my mouth. I always over-analyze what} {to say, till I'm so confused I don't know the right words from the wrong words}</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I never regretted something </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I didn't say."</span></div>
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{I think that's how the quote goes by Abraham Lincoln...}</div>
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True words.</div>
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Unfortunately I'm never sitting here NOT regretting what I didn't say, I'm usually sitting here <em>regretting </em>what I <em>did say.</em></div>
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Feeling that I'm an awkward fool with so much yet to learn...</div>
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A pretty accurate feeling about myself.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147484807473732565noreply@blogger.com4