A Spreading Fragrance

 

Many of you know that I've been working on a novel for a couple of years. Today I was pecking away at the story in the study where I love to do all things contemplative. I light a candle nearly any time I set foot in here. The one gracing this space right now has amber notes in it. It's strong, the way I like them and intoxicatingly fragrant in the best possible way.

For the first time since I purchased this wonderful candle, I smelled the one from the kitchen wafting over its glorious brass band tones. This wouldn't be particularly noteworthy except that the one in the kitchen is a leftover from last fall that really disappointed me. I had a terrible time smelling it. I remember thinking it was just heavenly, as long as I was willing to nearly set my nose on fire. In fact, I ordered it again this year, but in the two-wick version in the hopes that a deeper wax pool would strengthen the scent throw. The one muscling past my amber candle is not the new, but the old, weak candle. Why is it suddenly running amok in the house, doing what I had so deeply desired for it to do last year?

The best possible answer is that, as it burned today, the flame hit a level in the candle where the scent oils had concentrated. I don't know if that is even possible, but it's the only thing that makes sense to me. Same house, same nose (mine), same candle. Ever more powerful scent.

I'm praying that God, in all of his sovereign ability, majesty and might, would take my efforts, the concoction that is me, and use me differently in this season of my life. I hope that I would somehow, through the influence of years and urgency of the grave rushing up to me, become something, someone He can use in new and better ways. I don't want to burn out, but rather burn up, my last gasp of air on this earth a prayer to Him. Only God can do this!

A Little Light

 

My toxic trait is that I live in, camp out around the edges of, dredge up and swim in the past. It's exhausting for my loved ones. They'd like to, oh, I don't know, MOVE ON? I am utterly fabulous at encouraging others to live for today, but my past is always knocking at my door. I am, to my everlasting discredit, always answering. 

I was reminded of that today as I tooled around one of my favorite thrift stores. I love remembering our oh-so-simple lives before the mind-altering, spirit-controlling firestorm that is the internet. A thrift store is the ideal place to bathe in those memories. I might run my hand along couches that saw the eighties come and go, pick up dusty cookbooks (the actual, physical kind), and smile as I note the decades-old pattern in a comforter proudly displayed on a bed that is also for sale. It's nostalgia for sale at great prices! As I troll the aisles for more treasures to stuff in my own home, I am taken back to so many nearly forgotten places in time. I remember neighbors and grandparents and at-home multi-level marketing parties. My own childhood homes swam before me today as I noted a bowl I believe we had. I was back at the table with my siblings. A lot of these memories are really fond. They make me happy.

It's a great thing to have great memories. Everyone has SOME. But it is not healthy to spend inordinate amounts of time in those memories if the purpose of the trip is to bemoan today, or to look upon the future with dread. The fact is, the good old days were not so good, after all. They were fraught with challenge, heartache, loss. Just like today. I think I live a bit too much in the past, especially my early married days. I long for the years when the biggest worry I had was my kids' scraped knees or a fever that seemed a little high for the moment. When I could keep everyone safe and make homemade soup if I felt a little sad, dousing it with cheese and baking cookies later for everyone to enjoy.

Living for the Lord is not like living for ourselves. Sure, we will still nurture our families, love our friends. Make homemade soup. But we've got another calling, one that requires focus, dedication to prayer and bible study, and a steadfast determination to live in the joy and peace of the Lord. I have learned that the world, the flesh and the devil are set against my having those two life-altering commodities. The enemy of my soul is always looking for an opening. With me, the easy door, the one that needs a permanent seal, is that of my past sins. I have decided to start thanking the Lord for everything I can think of when I am assailed with such memories. We are commanded in scripture to keep our minds on good things, because our feelings follow our thoughts and our actions follow our sustained feelings.

This post has meandered, and it's not nearly as artful as I'd hoped. So I'll close with the image I've attached at the top. I combed the store stem to stern and the only things I wanted to buy were the cross in the picture and two coffee cups. When I got the cross home and put a tealight inside, I have to admit, the candlelight did not illuminate the cross as beautifully and fully as I thought it would. I knew there was a message in that, somehow. I had been crying on the way home, begging the Lord to fully restore me spiritually. I haven't felt as connected to Him and to my life's purpose as I did as a younger person. With those tears still in my eyes, I happened upon a lady whose car had overheated. She was just inside my neighborhood but she was headed elsewhere. I went home and got my husband, who came back with me to help. As I sit here I see that, even though my light burns low at times, if it is steady, like the light at the bottom of the cross, it has value, just like my simple offer of water for an overheated car. A light is a light.

Audience

 Any public speaker worth his or her salt knows that understanding the audience is key to success behind the podium. If I'm addressing a kindergarten class, I'll get down on the floor and sit cross-legged as I encourage them to gather close. I'll be physically animated. My voice will be charged with energy. I'll put on something of a show, just for them. There may even be puppets. A live bunny. I'm pretty creative. I'd find a draw of some kind. You can bet your bottom dollar there would be audience participation.

Now suppose I were tasked with addressing a group of older ladies at a genealogy conference. The room is filled with the somber faces of those who have dedicated nearly all of their free time to tracing their family history. Some are wearing the family crest, embroidered with care upon their blouses or computer bags. Others have dressed in the garb of their native lands, albeit several generations removed. While I might start my presentation with a joke or two (this is me, after all, in this hypothetical scene), I'd pretty quickly get down to business with solid information designed to help them pursue their passion with greater precision. There wouldn't be any floor time, unless someone fell fast asleep.

Suffice it to say, I understand the principle of playing to the crowd. I might have been a decent marketer, had I chosen to pursue a career other than that of failed housewife (I don't like to clean and my cooking is sub-par). I would argue, however, that social media has made excellent marketers of us all. 

What if, just for one day, only God saw what we did? How would we dress? What would we do? It's an interesting concept, one that cannot be carried out in its purest form because most days involve interactions with others. Those are, however, the days that would count the most in such an experiment. Let's say that, although we would be interacting with others as usual, God was the only person really taking note of what we said and did. For just that day, we would have an audience of one. That day, if any act of kindness was done, it would have to be done in secret, with not even the recipient knowing we did it, if possible. If any moral decision was made, the masses would not know. Just God. 

The truth of the matter is that in order to follow God with the abandon it takes to be complete in Him, we do have to live exactly like that. Just exactly like that. "What Would Jesus Do," the adage in question form  that took hold years ago and spawned millions of rubber bracelets is, in all actuality, the crux of the crucified Christian life. If today you have done lots of things for the applause of men, I'm sorry. I wish I could give you a hug, because you must be utterly exhausted. I know I am, because I spent the day at home but under the depressing mantle of failure in the eyes of others, both in my spiritual life and in every other aspect, to my way of thinking. 

We have bibles. Let's open them and do what God tells us to. Regardless of what others think. In spite of what others think. Most importantly, with NO motive to make them think. I'm preaching to myself here. Glad you came along.

Motion

 

The bicycle planter pictured above stands on my front porch. Every time I pass it I am reminded of the good friend who gave it to me. My favorite images for decorating include bicycles with flowers, pathways and houses. Bicycles reminds me of the freedom of my early childhood, when I rode my beloved second-hand bike all over the neighborhood, as free as a robin on the Iowa summer breeze. Because I was so small and so young, it seemed as if the neighborhood went on forever.  Bicycle images are forever attached to the joy of summertime in my heart.

Images of houses remind me of the safety and security of home. I have been a housewife for two-and-a-half decades. The only exceptions during that period has been three part-time jobs, the longest lasting less than a year-and-a-half.  Most of my time has been spent at home, where I have felt and do feel the most secure. My husband is a quiet person. If I want to light scented candles and move from room to room silently, stopping in one room to read, going to another to stitch, lighting in the bonus room for a movie, this place is a virtual heaven-on-earth. It is truly a haven in the storms of life.

Pathways intrigue me for many reasons. I think the mystery as to just where the road that is pictured in an art print or photo might lead is part of the draw. Images of pathways in the forest remind me of the serenity of nature. Perhaps, layered somewhere under my conscious mind is the idea that a pathway indicates a way forward. Movement. I am very, very, very easily bored. So much so that at times I feel as if it is almost a curse. In truth, how we are wired is a gift. This gift keeps me creating, writing, stitching, talking, learning.

I've gone an awfully long way around the point today. The picture was, in fact, my theme. That bicycle, while lovely and adorned with living plants, is completely stationary. Utterly so. It has to be picked up and carried to be moved. While, since it is largely formed in the image of a bicycle, the sight of the planter evokes the idea of motion, there is no motion in the item itself, nor any potential for it to carry anyone anywhere. It doesn't have any wheels!

For dreams to be carried out, a vision has to be plotted. The vision adds wheels to the mission. The forward motion is supplied by hard work. Some of this work, I have learned, is done in the dark, with only the light of faith to show the way. When my faith bulb is dim, I have to cry out to my Creator for help. Today I read the parable of the talents in the New Testament. If I fail in my mission to use my gifts for His glory, let it not be because I did not exhaust myself, wringing myself completely out of pride, laziness and selfish ambition in the process. Let it also not be because I stopped believing that I could hear from God. There is a direct line from my prayer room to the throne room. God's word, the Bible, makes this very clear.

I'm writing a novel, which I hope to have a rough draft of by my fifty-fourth birthday next month. It is my first strong effort in many years to push the envelope in using my writing gift, which God affirmed in me as a young person when I was awarded a Manship Fellowship to LSU's school of journalism. Though I have been published many times in print when my kids were small and on the internet, I have not primed the pump of God's plans for my life, even though I have lived a good deal of it. I like to think of the next part of my life as that path heading into the mysterious forest. There will be days when I break into the open sunshine and others when I will enjoy the mystery of the deep woods, God's hand in mine. What an adventure life is meant to be!

Redemption

 

I remember when I first moved to Knoxville. The thrill of a brand new start was clouded by some struggles I was having. The sound of the mourning doves haunted me night and day. I would sit in my prayer room or on the screened-in porch I was so thrilled to finally have and their plaintive, mournful cries would cut right to my broken heart. It was awful. I couldn't get away from them. They were always there. In the evening, just before night fell, was when their voices rattled me most. Dark was a sad and scary time for me. It was easier to be hopeful as a new day began than in the evening when physical gloom was crowding in. "What a lack of faith," some of you may be thinking, shaking your collective head. Yep. It was. New trials showcase our built-in weaknesses quickly. They cut us behind the knees and we stumble. The sound those doves made sounded like the death of some of my closely-held dreams. Those jokers are aptly named. They sound sad.

There's nothing like redemption. Today, they crowd all of my feeders, and, along with the cheerily-colored cardinals, are the most plentiful bird in my backyard. I don't dread their calls anymore. They simply remind me that nature is close at hand for me to enjoy. What a change! A blessed paradigm shift. 

I am thankful to God for His many acts of redemption. If it were not for His unbroken chain of grace over my life, I would not be here. I would have died of a broken heart a long, long time ago. Oddly enough, I was eager to move here to escape sad memories in my former home and the waters we have waded through here were far, far deeper, the current so much stronger it makes me laugh in comparison. One thing I am absolutely sure of; those waters made me a stronger swimmer. I know now what God is capable of carrying me through. He has never left my side, even when fear choked my reason and my faith seemed locked behind plexiglass, my fingernails scratching the surface, clawing for it. He never judged me, He just kept walking with me. He used many, many people to help me to, first, my knees, and then my feet. The challenges have not all dissipated, but my ability to understand that God is guiding me and He will protect me as I make all of the very best choices I can, listening for His direction in all things, has become so much stronger that I hardly recognize myself. The only thing that builds this kind of strength is swimming against the undertow with the God of the Universe holding you up and showing you the way out.

The other day I wrote out a battle plan for times of challenge and spiritual warfare. You won't be surprised to know that fixing my gaze on Jesus, meditating on key bible verses and remembering that I'm deeply loved by God are in the plan. Don't laugh at me for having a written plan. If the enemy of my soul has a plan for my destruction, then I'll have a better one for walking on his head, right out of the shards of my own dreams and into the stunningly beautiful dreams God the Father Himself has for me! The last chapter of my life will be so much better than the first.

Along the Way

I recently read somewhere that journal-style blogging is a thing of the past. Here I am, living squarely in yesteryear, rather enjoying every yellowed minute of it! Thanks for joining me in the dusty halls of bottom-rung-self-publishing. Apparently I am a dinosaur, swinging my way through the forest! (That's not the reason for the photo I've included above.) Before I move further through the jungle, I'll stop to add that I also read real paper and ink books, the kind you can hold, the kind that fall from your hand as you nod off to sleep. Yes, yes I do. I still make notes on paper, too. All of these practices are satisfying to me, however inefficient you may deem them. You don't have to understand.

Nature speaks to me. I recognize that I'm not the first creative type to nobly assert this. I get that every wannabe writer in the universe claims the sun, moon, stars, the veritable expanse of the universe is his or her muse. We all gush about the messages shouted by the waves, the tender song of the sparrow, the twisted path of the tornado. Why? Simple fact is that God himself is visible in creation. If we were always in it and never learning, never seeing Him, we would have to have closed our eyes and stopped our ears. Even then we'd feel the wind, the sun, the rain. We'd understand his power and we would somehow sense his genius. Even without the sight of the delicately-painted butterfly's wing, the red-streaked horizon at sunset, the myriad calls from a tree line filled with birds, we'd be conscious of him.

Today as I was out walking the short path behind our subdivision, I was praying. I was pleading with the Holy Spirit to help me. I saw a break in the trees where a creek trickles through. I don't know where it comes from or where it goes. Might have its genesis in a mighty river, or it could be runoff from our homes. The break in the trees is like a crack in the heavens where the Holy Spirit seeps through, coming into my heart and life and effecting change. I took the above photo a little further downstream. It was more picturesque. It looked like more of a substantial promise from Him to head into my life with some living water. To take my heart on another course, some direction I may never have thought of before. A friend recently told me that God will show me what to do and that it may be something that has never occurred to me before. I liked that idea with an intensity I can't put into words. I am perpetually bored and God is endlessly fascinating so it makes sense that to cure my emptiness I would seek and seek and seek and, when spent to the core, seek some more. All of the way to the finish line.

Winged

 

Somehow I landed on the documentary about Mark Bittner and his care of a wild flock of cherry-headed conures on Telegraph Hill in San Francisco, California. I watched and I wondered. Mark had been homeless for many years. At the time he began feeding this flock, he was a property caretaker. He's obviously intelligent, is highly articulate and completely sane. These traits are fully incongruous with the fact that he lived on the street for many, many years. It seems to me that there was a restless wandering inside him that would not allow the confinement of a regular routine for very long. He described bits and bobs of odd jobs. Nothing that would point in the direction of a career. Nothing that would yield the professional and financial stability and/or trajectory that the rest of us scurry about grasping for. I was particularly confounded by him and, yet, I understood him on some level to his very core. 

If I did not have Jesus as the anchor of my soul, my heart would break free and wander untethered, too. I would look under every bush and in every back alley for that thing, that something that would fill me up. I have the soul of an artist and I, like Mark, need a spark. I need passion in my life. As I watched the beautiful birds bobbing and weaving as they interacted with Mark, I saw the essence of life. God made us to need the beauty, intricacy and joy of nature. He expresses Himself perfectly in all of his creation. He also made us to wander and to wonder what exactly it is that we are to do here on this planet. We each have unique gifts, talents and passions. They were hard-wired into us for His purposes and we must suss them out. The good news is that God will help us do just that! I keep, as I have mentioned before in this blog, a cross-stitched picture with the words "My sheep hear my voice" embroidered on it.  (John 10:27) It's displayed in the room pictured above, the place where I seek His face, look expectantly at Him in prayer, ask a million questions and cry a billion tears. It's my private cathedral and I am so thankful for it. Guess what my calling is? It's this. This very thing I do tonight. I write and I write and I cry (sometimes) and I write some more. I go away from this computer spent and happy and not at all concerned how many of you read what it is I have managed to spew. 

If God were the only one who saw these things I express, that would be enough. You see, I believe just being and doing who we are created to be and do is an act of worship and, as much fun as it is for us, it is a holy thing. I believe God gets the same joy from it as we used to when our small children built forts or drew pictures, completely absorbed in the joy of living.

By the way, the wild parrots of Telegraph Hill were once domestic pets. But you can't keep a bird from flying. Not for long, anyway.

Everywhere

 We know that spring is very nearly here. We can hear the birds singing, their songs an effusion of colors on the wind. There is joy in the sound. Many dread the heat of summer, which follows the spring as swiftly as an antelope its herd around the brambles of the desert. I don't. I love the endless parade of sunny days the hot season cranks out. The reds, yellows, pinks, blues of summer flowers, a profusion of love and joy sent by the Father of Lights. Speaking of lights...what about the fireflies that illumine the night just beyond my candle glow on the porch? They are magic and they are creativity and they are, also, love. The Father's love extends to us on every whistling breeze. We need not climb a majestic mountain to experience it, though He is there in the heights as well.

He is in the newborn baby's cry, the litter of kittens mewling like a living, moving, bouquet of flowers beckoning us on the journey of ownership. A journey to last fifteen years of companionship and understanding the unique personality of the creature, which reveals to us, yet again, another layer of our Creator's mind. He speaks in the love of our family and friends. Their kindness, their generosity, their faithfulness.

Where can I possibly go where Jesus is not speaking to my heart? Even in the darkest, most sin-ridden place, God would certainly whisper to my spirit, helping me to hold on until I see His deliverance from it. Even in their evil I would see the sharp contrast of His goodness, know His comfort, understand his strength as I stood in firm opposition by His power.

I absolutely love to hear thunder. I know it brings rain and, with it, refreshment for all living things. I like to read while the gale pounds. However, the thing I most love to do when the wind is tearing at anything frail, is to sleep. I know God is holding my home in His loving hands and I enjoy the peace of my shelter in His unfailing love.

I just noticed that the March winds have blown out my candle here on the screened porch. I'll light it again. And again. And again.

Writers Write. (It's what they do. And DON'T do.)

 

If I had to choose one activity to spend all day, every day pursuing, it would be this. Writing. Taking words and phrases and bending and shaping them into narratives that describe the never-ending variety posed by the human experience. It's fascinating and hard and mentally sweaty and cathartic and grand, all at the same time. If I had to choose one activity never to do again, it would be writing. Yes, you read that right. It is difficult, mind-bending, soul-wrenching and utterly exhausting. Why is it that whatever it is that you have been placed on earth to do is, while your grand passion, also your nemesis. 

If a writer has social tendencies...said writer never writes. He or she has fragments floating in his or her head, sees potential characters in strong personalities all around him or her, and yet, the page is blank. The page. Is. Blank. Two years ago I started a novel. I wrote 100 pages and landed on stop. Oh, I've done some things since. A few things. But my grand work of creative fiction is moldering in a shared desktop. 

Guess what? All of those intense characters will live again. They shall! I shall begin again. Just like that. As if I have opened a children's pop-up book and, instead of a mass of heavy paper in an assortment of contortions popping up to be understood, a party of people will emerge. I'm getting excited just thinking about it. 

I am so thankful there is something that I love to do. Even if I hate to do it. Even if I have to lock myself away from human society in utter silence for hours to do it (my attention span is as fragile as a robin's eggshell after the baby has kicked it two floors to the forest floor). 

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of a gift. For the gift of work that I love to do. For people who believe in me as I do it. Help me never, ever, ever again take them for granted. 

Not By Might

 

Wow. What a rollercoaster the last forty-eight hours have been! Part of that time span was spent sitting with a dearly loved one in the ER of a large university hospital ( nine-and-a-half hours). While I have entrusted their care to Almighty God and the infinite resources of heaven, I'm still tasked with finding a good specialist to look after them. I've done a lot of praying and texting the person, making sure they understand self-care in the aftermath and asking God for protection. 

In the midst of this, a prayer was answered about a job for that same loved one. My emotions have, to say the very, very least, run a long gambit. As I sat in the ER, plunged deep into a spiritual atmosphere rife with fear and despair, I fought an internal battle. I texted believing friends for prayer and pleaded with the Father for all sorts of things. It did not occur to me until I was home, safely tucked in a warm bed and listening to the rain pour outside, that part of the reason for my anxiety in the ER was the spiritually charged atmosphere of that emergency room.

When I first made my way through the double doors, I was instantly transported into what looked to me like a war zone, or a field hospital in the wilderness. It did not look like the emergency room of a level one trauma hospital in the wealthiest country in the world. There were, in short, people everywhere in all sorts of distress. There were elderly hunched in wheelchairs. There were people already hooked to intravenous lines, their poles and bags blocking aisles. People were coughing, throwing up, A woman whimpered in a corner. At some point a young man angrily cried "I've been assaulted with a deadly weapon!" He was summarily informed that there were a hundred people there waiting for help. It seemed to me staff was working as hard as they could. When, after a total (I got there late) of sixteen-and-a-half  hours after first being admitted, my loved one was finally given a bed, it was in a hallway. I can't be sure of all contributing factors but surmise the pandemic coupled with the location of the hospital (near the city center and a go-to for many people) had lead to the hospital being full. It was an unforgettable experience, to say the very least! We made sure to be as kind as we could to all staff, understanding that they were doing all that they possibly could. I was concerned for them.

Within those walls, a battle was raging. While I berated myself for not operating in faith, I failed to understand the waters I was treading. Satan and his battalion of spirits designed to crush body, soul and spirit were running amok in that waiting area. Demonic forces of fear, despair, infirmity, selfishness and rage roamed the aisles. I am so thankful for Christian friends who prayed for us and encouraged me by text. It was so strengthening. 

While I was there, God brought this passage of scripture to my attention:

 "For this cause everyone who is godly shall pray to You

In a time when You may be found;

Surely in a flood of great waters

They shall not come near him.

You are my hiding place;

You shall preserve me from trouble;

You shall surround me with songs of deliverance."

(Psalm 32:6-7, Holy Bible, New King James Version.)

God has instructed me to pray. I don't have to pray perfect prayers, prayers of just the right duration, or prayers prayed with a bold FEELING of faith. I just have to pray. God will supply the power, preservation and deliverance. 

I believe that if we have a lifestyle of prayer, when the floodwaters rise, we will instantly reach for God's hand. In my case, I also reach out for corporate prayer and I am deeply strengthened by it. When the issue touches a dearly loved one, the prayers of our Christian friends and their accompanying faith help so much because we may feel weak or exhausted. 

I didn't mention the warfare in the emergency room in order to shine a spotlight on the enemy. I simply want to remind all that we do not wage war as the world does. Our God, who is our supply, our defense, our healer and our support, is not intimidated by the enemy. Satan was crushed when Jesus defeated death on the cross. We need only to look to that same Jesus who the Bible says is the author and finisher of our faith to fight our battles for us. 

In all things and in every way endeavor to keep in step with the Spirit. Our victory is crystallized in Zechariah 4:6, which reads: "'Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,' says the Lord of hosts." (Holy Bible, New King James Version.)

Rooms of My Heart

 

Today started like so many others. Hopeful that things would change in several rooms of my heart. Off to a prayerful start, followed by a loud crash as I let my flesh take over and the complaining, criticizing and unwholesome talk began to spill out. It's okay. I dusted myself off and here I sit at my laptop, tapping away in another surge of legitimate hope. I read a scripture today that conveys that what we say reflects what is in our hearts. Not real happy with the fruit of my lips so that one smacked me hard. I prayed that my heart would change so that my mouth would follow. It was and is a reminder that it all starts with my thought life. A submitted mind becomes a submitted heart which is then reflected in good speech. I'm a long, long way from where I want to be, but at least my heart is turned toward home.

Have you ever watched a baby try to pick up something fine or delicate? They struggle because their dexterity has not become refined. They have some gross motor skills, and a whole lot of good intentions toward the object of their desire, but they cannot close the deal because their little brains and bodies are not in sync yet. They will get there. One day at a time. I see our spiritual struggles the same way. At first we see the goal. It is wavering in the distance, almost seems like a mirage across the desert of the world, the flesh and the devil. That oasis of peace and righteousness that Jesus longs to seat us before. Then we start to move toward the image and the details become more refined. The goal is ever more lucid until we can smell the water, figuratively taste it on our lips. There is a sound in our ears, the voice of the Savior telling us to press on.  That's where I find myself today. First I was wrecked on the glass of the sin I committed already this morning. Then I was bandaged by grace. Now I am energized at the brook of conviction, repentance and healing. I'm back on my pilgrimage just that fast. Back on the way to growth in Jesus. Straightening my backpack with a smile!

I recently added the above picture to my prayer room. It's one I found while rummaging through the detritus of my well-intentioned life. I don't even know where it was taken, though I suspect it was a playground in Franklin, Tennessee where we lived for nearly a decade. My sons didn't know I was taking their picture. I don't know what they were talking about. Maybe a cartoon they liked, or a video game. Maybe something happening at their elementary school. What struck me hardest about the photo was their innocence. They didn't know how hard life could be. They just didn't know.

Now I look at it when I pray for them every morning. When I ask for healing and restoration. When I ask for the God of the Universe, the maker of the stars, to intervene in their circumstances. (Three concepts outlined in a song I play/pray over them.) It's heartening for me to know that He has them. That He loves them. That there is nothing that they have done or will do that will cancel that tenderness, dim that torch of passionate love. He is for them. He is FOR US! If I am going to pray, believe, ask and expect for them, I'm going to have to do better at forgiving myself and believing God still hears me. That He forgives, heals and restores ME. Being broken doesn't mean that I cannot be used, rather, it means I WILL be used to help those who feel just as shattered. Being broken means that I can feel what the lonely, the hurting and those who have no idea how they will start again are wading through. I can put my hand into that swamp and they will know I have only just brushed the moss from my own shoulders by the power of the Holy Spirit!

May God redeem the rest of this beautiful day!