tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43675513987784419752024-03-12T23:46:10.700-04:00Midnight MoonsJennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-17021377509475495552020-04-30T21:14:00.002-04:002020-04-30T21:15:30.570-04:00Crevice <br />
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Somewhere tonight there is a girl wanting to die. Somewhere
tonight a boy contemplates ways to hurt the pain inside him by hurting himself.
I can guarantee it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, because that
was me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I wanted to die so bad, but was so afraid of the process. Then
three years passed and I wanted to paint the pain in physical destruction, but
I didn’t necessarily want to die, I just wanted to punish myself for being
alive. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Today and yesterday the sensations passed through me again. Not
the thoughts. Just the numbness. The taste of black or grey in your muscle fiber.
The literal ache in your chest. The empty, tight feeling in your stomach. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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That feeling that you are more connected with death than
alive. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Or the panic. The panic at being alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The panic at never being wanted. That maybe no one will ever
believe, this F-ing hurts. Only, I never used that word back then when that was
everyday. Barely even knew what it meant, actually. It seems appropriate
though. For the strength of the pain. Nothing else is visible in those moments.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My beloved reader, <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I wrote so many letters to you before I was ready. So many
letters to say I know what it is to hurt. The problem was, back then I didn’t
know if I was going to survive. And I knew absolutely nothing about living.
Well, I knew quite a bit, but I didn’t know how to find it again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Staying alive is the hardest part. Surviving. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Numbness just sinks into your bones and you feel alone. And
whether or not you’re ready to actually go through with the dramatic plans that
crop up in the mind, still the sensations roar “I am not alive. It hurts that I
am alive. It would be better if I were not alive.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, better for who? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, I was convinced it was better for me and
everyone else. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But it wasn’t. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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There is someone out there who loves you. Who needs you.
There is something out there that you like or want. Someone out there who can
hear the words “This hurts more than I know how to say.” And believe me, we
want to know that pain much more than know your grave. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been on both sides of the suicide game now. They both
suck. When I decided to try not to die, I did it because as much as every ounce
of my body said I was better dead, the pain of loss in the eyes of my friends
said I was better alive. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
For me, it was the desperate love of the family I struggle
so much with knowing how to love that kept here. The friends who loved me so
much, and hated the antics of my trying to die so much they wouldn’t leave my
side. The late night simple responses, “I’m praying.” Or “Don’t be stupid. Come
back inside.” The sense of walking Gethsemane’s garden with the greatest man in
history and the scars he too bears forever. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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For me, it’s the soft touch of my dog’s fur that brings me
back right now from the numbness. It’s the promise of spring in these dark
rainy storms. I don’t want to loose that. I didn’t want to loose the relief of
crying. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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What about you? As you hold the numb pain that needs to be
heard in one hand, what’s the ray of life in the other? The taste of ice cream?
Sitting in a dark room listening to music? It doesn’t have to be bright or
brilliant or big. You just have to be able to touch the edges of feeling less
awful. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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When, in the last twenty-four hours did you feel the least
dead, the most alive, and the most like the self you want to be? What was
happening? What do you feel as you remember? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-9386628862640144152019-02-24T18:08:00.004-05:002019-02-24T18:12:44.040-05:00Dreams to DustIt was the very end of the process. I'd been working with an editor for a year, then passed on to another as the first editor moved on to a new job. In the last stages of adjusting the final draft, I received an email with my work rewritten out of my words. Through dialogue it became painfully clear, to get the piece published I would have to let go of my voice. <br /><br />So I withdrew from being published.<br /><br />You see, to take my story out of my words, takes me out of the dialogue. <br /><br />So I withdrew from being published and in a sense, I watched my dreams crumble to dust. <br /><br />I was twelve the day I decided I want to be a published author. It’s been twelve years since Robin McKinley and Gail Carson Levine drew me to imagine my own stories of princesses in tentative positions. Then my mother drilled me in the art of essay and I wrote stories with no plot, and then a novel that was never fully edited, and then more and more and more, until I found myself listening to my work critiqued by a classroom of college students. <br /><br />But as poured my heart and soul into a degree to learn how to write, I learned something. Writing well is more important than industry opinions or standards. Maybe a poor book (or two) has been published.<br /><br />Now, don't get me wrong: every author needs an editor. A damn good one. <br /><br />But a good editor, takes your work to it's best, not takes it into a formula or specific needs. See the editor has the power to safe guard what gets a publisher’s name attached. But the author has the power to decide what and how she or he will say it. It's the way of life, differing opinions, differing goals. <br /><br />For me, somewhere in the middle of my love affair with stories, I fell in love with the written word and the ability to create a spoken poetry on paper. I valued not just reputation, or fame from the word “published” but the art of painting words into stories. And the dream changed. <br /><br />I swore any words that went out in my name would be high quality...but always in the back of my mind lingered the question, would I really, if I could be published? Would I really refuse to compromise “show don't tell,” or any other basic pillar of good, dynamic writing? You see, this looks like just a basic difference of values and it is. But it's also question of whether or not I will live by my convictions.<br /><br />“Will I die for Jesus?” I asked myself over and over as a child. “Will I really give my life up for him?” <br /><br />I've lived through the strongest desire to die out of loyalty to Him.<br /><br />And when it comes to being published, it's been so strong a dream. You never quite know what you will compromise for those dreams that run as deep as your blood. This week I found my answer. You see, writing has become a part of me. A part of my worship. <br /><br />To compromise on my story, my deep faith story, would be to compromise myself, a part of my soul. <br /><br />It may be a different style, but I see it as less good. And just as I refuse to live my faith halfway, so too I refuse to use my gifts half way. <br /><br />We were not made to save the world, but to share our stories. In each unique way. <br /><br />So yes, my dreams turned into dust. I did the stupid move for a writer. I walked away from the dream. And today I am skittish to seek out any recognition of the writing industry. Self publishing no longer looks like the compromise I once saw, but a small way to share my deep love. Being a best seller is off the dream list, well almost. But after a year, I want to sit down with my novel again and just play with my stories. After a year, I've learned to write better… clearer, but still within the edges of my voice. I've learned, again, what I believe in. Because, I never really trust myself until I see what I do.<br /><br /><br />I lost deeply. But perhaps writing is turning again from task to an element of relationship. Most times I write to God. And if not to God, to people for Him. Writing is about us… not fame, fortune, or having my name on a book cover… even if I may still work towards someday seeing it, today I experience the difference. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyALE0lOdSs">JJ Heller puts the sense of lost dreams for deeper hope so well. </a> Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-46364987761442103282019-02-01T19:05:00.000-05:002019-02-01T19:05:05.159-05:00MK...Not Missionary <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHhXLZLzw-CV9MldQKaWM4HYQQZ1fWUiRmoyWpMlSkBCRdse1WFNJ4ZuQ_06nLZbx3HBEtBaBbedsfdEFGplzeBmC8-yGupimjk-CDiXW_fgNXEpvzy8T_lQHCPCVHtEaYiJZV4DsPcyC/s1600/19388390_10213967388965825_6782131228975862410_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHhXLZLzw-CV9MldQKaWM4HYQQZ1fWUiRmoyWpMlSkBCRdse1WFNJ4ZuQ_06nLZbx3HBEtBaBbedsfdEFGplzeBmC8-yGupimjk-CDiXW_fgNXEpvzy8T_lQHCPCVHtEaYiJZV4DsPcyC/s320/19388390_10213967388965825_6782131228975862410_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m sitting across from my missionary brother. He tells me
stories of his life balancing two worlds, a home that’s not quite home in
either place—details of the other world lingering, from cars, to dog, to how to
keep the house safe. This type of information isn’t new for me. I watched Dad deal
with it all the time. A call from Alberto about the ministry. Me asking if my
golden retriever lemon lover was being fed. But now, a new question lingered as
I sat in American restaurant, middle class with a fireplace and view over a
field or water that’s been covered in the blanket of snow, this is my world now.
These stressors my brother describes are almost foreign to me, a memory of a
child hood left behind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And yet, middle class America isn’t my world. I am still the
outsider, looking in. I am the one shaking my head at a culture of “busy is
better” and rushing from sports to work to church…I am the one who feels like
she almost belongs, but never quite will. Never will have that family of Mom
and Dad to spend the weekend, type of world. That is not my story. My story is airplanes
and long trips across the country. My story is watching my siblings follow in
my parent’s footsteps, painfully aware that I was taken off the ministry
playing field by force—I would have lost myself there, my stories gone to waste.
I would have never made it on the field, I barely have energy to handle the
American work day, never mind disinfecting every vegetable I eat, boiling the
water to drink, washing laundry using a hose to fill the washer, boiling water as
a constant just for daily cleaning needs. I would never have been the woman who
could raise children away from friends, survive away from a community who
understood her own culture. Not me. I want to be made that way, but I’m not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was taken off the playing field because I couldn’t handle
it. In my teenage years I invested everything I had into my parent’s ministry.
From doing kids ministry with a fellow church in Latacunga to Sunday school in
a church plant that never made it. I worked in an orphanage and tasted ministry
not theirs. I was often the one to climb in the car alone with Daddy, or with Daddy
and Anita and ride up into the mountains…and yet….that life isn’t mine now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have looked poverty in the face, both financial and now
spiritual. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I do not belong. Still. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had this odd idea that when I moved to the USA and stayed
I’d be planting roots. But in a sense in that attempt, I left the roots I had. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I no longer belong to the missionary community and culture.
But I don’t belong to USA, quite. I still have the foreign eyes looking in, a
hidden immigrant with white skin, privileged because I have the ethnicity of
respect with a knowledge to communicate out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I don’t belong, and in that I am not privileged. And though I’ve
heard calls for Missionary Kids to become the next generatioin of Missionary, I
can’t just go back, I don’t think. My mental health struggles won’t just pass
like I want them to. If nothing else, I’m probably stuck with some kind of
fatigue my whole life. I’ve tried taking the pills. I am excerising. I got a
dog who helps so so much. But still my energy does not match my age. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I do what I can. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve joined the other side of the missionary table. I’ll pay
for the meals, listen to the stories, pray, help be the funding. I DO CARE. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I can’t go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe some day I’ll figure out what it means to be the one
that stayed in the home country, the one that’s not my passport I mean, not the
one that has mountains reaching to the sky and settles me the minute I step
into the thin air. To be missionary in the same place I’m paid. To love on the
one percent, to see the needs and suffering hidden under social norms and
knowledge without experience of relationship. It’s not the same. And we would
be cruel to say it was. But for now, for now I will name what has eched a
stress in me the minute I started adult life. My heart will never fully be home.
Even not travelling, a piece of me was left somewhere else. Another taken by a
brother to Costa Rica, a sister to the Chicago’s inner city. I am the
missionary’s family. The child who did not play sports or learn to dance. The
adult who will work a “paying” job and never raise support, never trek across the
country for a livelihood, nor spend half of my work week on what it takes to
live in a country “not your own.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And yet, I stubbornly refuse to leave Grand Rapids. I WILL
make a home here. Fight in a country that believes in dog coats and abortion. I
will never belong to everyone. But to quote a wall decoration “To the world you
may be just one person…but to that one person, you are the world.” I will never
belong in a way some will never understand. But if nothing else, I get stories
from that. Lots of novel inspiration and fodder for non-fiction. And my loved
ones, that family spread across the world, well, maybe just maybe I’m starting
to believe that the straggler Hunter is a needed piece of the picture. I have a
sister who’s making my puppy mittens. A brother who wanted to have lunch. And parents
who would do just about anything to know I’m safe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-56025827415020992282017-08-19T17:36:00.000-04:002017-08-19T17:36:05.982-04:00My One Comfort <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I sit in the summer shade listening
to geese, half asleep; then in a comfortable overstuffed couch. I eat three
meals a day and am blessed with computers and a full time job. Cars transfer me
places and buildings house me. Hot water flows easily from the faucet and I
would be foolish not to recognize that I live in a life of comfort. I live in a
“first” world country. I am rich, though there are days I certainly don’t feel
it, and as I settle into a stable life and find myself in a quandary over
questions like whether to attend conferences for one or two days I’ve wondered
if I am in danger while in comfort. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Is
comfort a danger? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After
all, no offense to America, but consumerism is a deep in-set part of culture,
and worse is a blindness to the difference between selfishness and self-care. I
who have seen the dangers of over extension now sit in the danger of the other
and I wonder, what is this? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have
seen suffering. How can you even consider spending money to go to a writer’s
conference when there are people starving? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is a
first world problem: and they are legitimate. Perhaps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What
if, my dear friends who are blessed with homes and money and clothes on our
backs, our problem is not comfort? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if
we have forgotten the point of Revelation 3? As John so aptly wrote to our
brothers and sisters in Laodacea, we must return to our first love. Just as I
could be distracted by questions of so many natures in so many places, the
issue is not comfort, but our focus. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There
is a promise that all tears will be gone someday. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which
means that our battle with sin will be over—thank goodness. Wars will have
ceased. Natural disaster will be over. World hunger will no longer be an issue
and I imagine that climate change will not be a question since, if we read
Revelation literally there will be no sun, it’ll just be God’s light. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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But if
my eyes stray from my Lord, then I am in danger of cruelty. Then selfishness
can seep into my being and laziness my soul. So Lord, let me seek you, my first
love. And follow you to the ends of the earth—wherever that might lead. Ultimately in both life and death our comfort is that we are not our own: we've been bought with blood. We are safe, secure, beloved in Christ's Lordship. Father, draw me closer to your everlasting self. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-38164718389773148672016-11-14T17:34:00.003-05:002016-11-14T17:34:57.533-05:00A Defense of the “Conservative” <br /><div class="MsoNormal">
“I didn’t
think the republicans care about the poor.” The words made me swallow as I went
on to explain that we hold a difference of philosophy of how to help, not a
difference of values towards those in need. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And yet, when I scroll through my
facebook page, my heart breaks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
People are angry about the
suffering minorities face, and they blame the common man. They say sin, or life
effected by sin is what should be allowed, and while we both long for the
freedom and well-being of our country, I wonder if we are in danger of creating
a new prejudice: against the “majority people” (Which, for the record, really
doesn’t exist.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you
are a “minority” group person reading this post, I am sorry for the suffering
you’ve faced. If you are close to someone of minority groups, you see social
objections every day, and I’m sorry. But, I would argue it’s time we be honest.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There are many conservatives out
there serving the lower, lesser people, not in facebook posts, but in action. I
know people who walk the inner-city streets of Chicago who work with the women
who need to be loved, and would still call themselves pro-life. I know someone who gave up his freedom to
protect his people, who defends the right to bear arms. There are those who
walk into homes with dirt floors and flickering lights who believe it is
through the middle class that the truly poor can gain jobs. I work in a group
home that serves the physically disabled, but I still believe the fact that
they are disabled is a loss—they are not less because they are disabled, but I
do believe that Jesus will give them whole bodies on the final days. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
You see, I am pro-life. I believe
being gay is wrong, as well as sleeping with your boyfriend before marriage. I
am one of the rare Christians of my generation who refuses to drink (and may
sometimes wonder if it’s wrong). I am probably the least feminist woman in my
family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But you are wrong if you think that
means I don’t love people. You are wrong because one of my biggest heroes was
in prison for drug trafficking. Her son (she is single) is my foster brother. You
are wrong because my childhood hero suffered from cerebral palsy and yet always
taught me to smile. You are wrong because if I had the chance, I would return
to my internship with Immigrant Connection at the drop of a hat. I documented
many cases of male abuse and told women in tears that they were valuable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
You are wrong because my reason for
guidelines comes from my reason for love, and God himself—the extremity of both
liberalism and conservativism—did not give up His standards when He chose to
love us. He held His standards and chose us at the highest cost to Himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Conservative does not mean hating
bigot. Pro-life does not rule out my love for the mother. Straight (versus gay)
does not mean I don’t understand the battle against sin or the idea of a sexual
desire that may never be met. Conservative means I want to help people help themselves—I
want to educate the poor, not give them handouts. I want to disciple them in
Christ, and teach each person to give their last penny to God. The question I
find myself asking, is if you am brave enough to believe the minorities matter,
are you brave enough to believe it is because God created them? Are you brave
enough to believe that God love you—so much that He found a way for His
standards and His character of love to intermingle? He did this for you and the
person sitting behind you, do you believe that too? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In this time of political and
physical upheaval around the world, remember God is our king. When it comes down to it, He will rule the
heavens and the earth. Are you on your knees before Him? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-87837279907766269532016-04-07T08:44:00.002-04:002016-04-07T08:45:00.568-04:00Dear Cornerstone University Senior,<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Today marks a month out from
graduation: those of you counting down can probably tell me the number of
hours. It is an exciting time! (And scary, don’t forget scary.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We are going from “college kid” to “adult.”
Some of us will maintain the name of “student,” others will drop that role as
well. We will be done with this set of stresses, and, oh, how beautiful that
sounds. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As buried as we are under homework,
it is easy to rush to the next thing, hope for the one relief of no-homework,
and look forward to whatever it is that is coming next (if you even know what
that will be!). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But, I have a challenge for you. <i>Slow down</i>. Live today. If you don’t
look, you might miss the beauty and joy of transition. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Yes, the beauty and joy of
transition. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This change is good, and necessary.
If we were to stay here too much longer, we would be out of place; already I
feel my wings preparing to fly. But before we do, it’s important to take a look
around. This change is a chance to
recognize our growth. It is a chance to
internalize those things we want to carry with us, and filter through what
habits we might not want to continue. And, hardest of all, it is a time to
grieve. Leaving Cornerstone includes loss. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Transition is beautiful, but it’s
not easy. Why else would we continually rush to the next thing? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This is our last month on campus. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
How has school been hard? Is there
an attitude you’ve carried you need to confess or something we’ve done wrong
that we want to make right? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What are the things of Cornerstone
life you love? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What friends have you made here
that you will (or already) miss? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What professors have influenced
you? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Where are your favorite spots on
campus? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Who have you become because of
Cornerstone? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Where has God met you here? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the beautiful part about saying goodbye, recognizing
what we’ve had. For some of us, this will hurt a lot as good bye is not easy to
say, for others, we may not cry at all. I cry during change, it’s part of who I
am. I have friends who are ready to move forward. But if we rush onto the next step, we miss the
chance to further internalize and recognize the life and growth at Cornerstone
University. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I probably won’t see you at CU next year, but I hope we both go out
with the memory of our lives here. As we look to the excitement of what comes next, let’s thank
God for what has been. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goodbye Cornerstone, it's been good, it's been hard, you've been home. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-12862962122347049172016-03-31T20:54:00.001-04:002016-04-01T11:37:49.074-04:00Hope<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alaska. I might, possibly, depending on a few unanswered
questions, have an opportunity to go to Alaska. Not just to Alaska, but an
isolated island to spend the summer helping a well-established author. I would even meet
other authors. It’s a childhood dream of going to the frontier as a pioneer
mixed with a current dream of connecting with and meeting authors who could
guide me. (Did I mention Mountains? I want to be near mountains…). I wasn’t
looking for it. It landed in my lap and sent my heart pounding and my mind
rolling. Forget the fact that I might not be able to do this, I was excited.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was excited. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t been really excited in a long time. Just the <i>idea </i>of something beautiful and filling
was making me happy. And just being happy and excited made me more excited
because I was dreaming. This could happen in just two months. Forget homework,
forget sleep, my mind circled around and around the idea imagining standing by
my two favorite sceneries, ocean and mountains, my unedited novel ready to
receive some loving care even as I journalled
descriptions for the sequel, which co-incidentally is about people isolated on
a small island… I could go <i>to one</i>. Did
I mention I had just prayed about that childhood dream of a living museum? This
was a dream beyond a dream. <!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I realized. I have a dream… But I have a bigger dream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
We will kneel at our Savior’s feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one whose resurrection just celebrated, the one whose
death saved us, the one who <i>made</i>
beauty and mountains and stories in the first place. Him. We will get to spend
eternity with Him. As sure as it is that
I will graduate (which right now feels very doubtful), no, more sure than the
promise I will be handed a diploma on May 7, the certainty of God’s physical Kingdom
covering the Earth is sealed in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He will come and judge the living and the dead. And
in that judgment, for those who confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, repent of
their sins and chose to follow God, intimacy will be the result. Not the sometimes
emptying kind of intimacy, the filling kind. Our <i>adoption</i> will be complete. We will be family with Christ and we
will rule with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All beauty deepens in the chance to step into God’s
presence. Colors will deepen, the awe of mountains will grow because we will be
looking at their creator, who is so, so much bigger. We will be on our knees in
worship. I won’t just be in the presence of a man who happens to have
intelligence, I will be in the arms of the one who is the source wisdom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this hope, we don’t have to say “if God wills it.” He
does. This is hope. We have a happy “ending.” It is not a scary one without
life or color. It does not mean that we will be bored, no we will finally be
satisfied. Our restless days will be calm. Our empty longings will be filled.
The definition of intimacy will be found as we settle into who we were supposed
to be. We will be, and are today, in the presence of the most holy, famous,
powerful person who ever existed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we wait, with eager, active expectation for the world to
be set right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is hope. Not dreams in possibilities, but certainty in
the spectacular. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-52092304776390377332016-03-18T21:38:00.001-04:002016-03-18T21:38:12.279-04:00When God provides<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“God is telling me He’s got this.”
My friend sits behind a desk and computer, a little overwhelmed with the tasks
before her. A little overwhelmed by the fact that she is nowhere near half way to her support due in a few days. There are six dollars in my wallet. Six. My debit card is finally
working, and I have no excuse for not going to the ATM machine on campus, but at the moment, I only have six dollars in my wallet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
excitement in her voice as she tells how God’s provided becomes my focus, but
my heart is somewhere listening. Give. I try to remember if my laundry card has
money on it, will I be able to wash my clothes? Give. I think I can do it later...after
the weekend is over, after I get more cash at the store. Give. What about…Give.
I remember the woman who took me to lunch yesterday, who spent much more money
than I ever would have spent on myself to feed me and challenge me to follow God.
Give. I pull out my wallet, find the larger of the two bills and throw it on
the keyboard. “Jennifer…that is not why I am telling you this story. No.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shake
my head. “I know it wasn’t. But God told me to.” (We will not mention that we
just spent the better of two hours in class two days ago discussing whether or
not God actually tells us what to do with decisions and just go with the fact
that sometimes you know it’s the Holy Spirit and not emotion.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She
rounds the desk and gives me a hug. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After I
finally got home for my nap, I flipped onto facebook and was surprised to see
my co-worker was on campus. I needed to go say hi. As much as I wanted to avoid
people or another migraine, or anything of the sort, I knew I needed to go.
Sighing, I shade my eyes from the sunlight as I walk back across campus, berating myself for not
procuring sunglasses to at least help. I speak with her and her daughter. The
eighteen-year-old girl I’m meeting for the first time has my full respect and I
wonder if she knows that. Finally, I can go home to
peace and quiet. I say good-bye, give hugs and start to walk away when my
co-worker calls me. “Jennifer, wait.” She leads me out of the cafeteria and
opens her wallet. “I still wanted to…” I try to protest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had wanted to buy me groceries. I had conveniently forgotten to send her the
grocery list. Not so much because I don’t need them…but because her financial
state is so much more precarious than mine, and she has to feed three children.
“Nobody knows I’m doing this.” As if that
mattered to me. I don’t care if anyone knows, I want her to be safe. I try not
to watch what number bills she pulls out, not wanting to know how much, but the
bills drop to the ground and I see it is more than I want to accept. I don't really need it and I don't want to admit the fears this is beginning to calm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
God doesn’t
let us choose who to let help us. He doesn't let us decide whether or not we're in need. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend’s
friend is asking why if he has given faithfully, God has not returned. I don’t
know. For three years my parents and I searched for a home appropriate for our
family on the mission-field with consistently failed results. Why didn’t God give
a house if we were willing to give our lives? I don’t know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But why
does God give at all? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-46201625730387783542015-12-17T00:00:00.001-05:002015-12-17T00:00:12.749-05:00Is change good?<div class="MsoNormal">
Change certainly isn’t easy for me. I wouldn’t be up at
11:42 for almost any other reason.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, this week I realized something absolutely amazing about
change.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Change is an opportunity to see meaning in a world that we
so often forget how it special is and it is a time to see how you’ve changed
and grown since the last big change. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The semester has ended. I will not again take a Bible class
in my undergraduate education (I’m not sure capstone counts) and I can see so
much that is different in how I see the Bible. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The semester is ended and I’m getting a chance to see just
how important some people have become to me, some who were important starting
freshman year, and some who slipped into my heart three months ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My character is not what it was at the beginning of this semester,
I have grown and become a new person—though that person is certainly still
growing and evolving in the environments God places me. But change, change can
be good. Because without change I might not remember to stop and see how much
where I am and who I am with influence who I am and how I think. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Without change, I wouldn’t get a chance to see new things—which
according to a friend of mine new is good. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Change is like changing lanes. This time, you don’t just glance in the rear
view mirror, you turn your head look back at your blind spots, and then look
forward again and then back once more, just to be sure. So look back catch your
blind spot, grasp hold of the person you’ve become, and look forward to a new,
and good thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-24338350355821442052015-11-17T19:00:00.003-05:002015-11-17T19:00:37.694-05:00Ending Well<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We’re looking at the end of a year
coming up, and for some of us an end to a semester. I am 4 weeks away from the
end of the semester—the first semester of my senior year. Applications for new
worlds have been sent in and now I sit looking at the fast line to the end. And
I began to ask, what does ending well look like? And after that, what does ending
well look like for me? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know
ending well has a combination of saying goodbye well, of keeping commitments,
of leaving a legacy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it
stuck me today, as a fellow student stopped me before I could leave work to
come home from work, that right now ending well means being available.
Available for fellow students who don’t understand the material or want me to
proofread a paper, available for my new friend down the hall, available for my
roommates and for my friends “from last year.” Available to freshmen who are
adjusting, to sophomores who are finding school is harder than they expected…Available
to the person God puts in front of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ending
well means putting work into school, but to be totally honest my classes have
begun to be a bit repetitive, and now, what was once taught to me is now being
ingrained. Ending well means being thankful for the growth and what I’ve
learned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ending
well means writing, even though I don’t have a class asking for my next story
anymore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ending
well means saying thank you for what this school has given me, from beloved
friends, to insight, to a deep inlaid fear of God. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ending
well means looking beyond my world, and praying for France, Lebannon, and
Ukraine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ending well means leaving a legacy, even perhaps, if that
comes with the opportunity cost of performance. Let’s be real, I never was a hard core scholar. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ending well means letting go, saying good bye,
and looking forward. Ending well means having a heart in the past, hands in the
present and focus on the future. Being fully here. Being there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I have 4 more weeks to support my
classmates and friends before I go home for a break. I have four more weeks to
challenge my writing skills and put forth big projects. I four more weeks and a
semester...or is it eternity? Time, after all, is inconsistent. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is a beautiful ending? As the days pass, what do you hope to remember? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-25638086887698236402015-11-07T16:14:00.001-05:002015-11-07T16:14:30.915-05:00Pain<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Seconds <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Turn into <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Hours, no<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Millennium, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
In the tick <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Of a clock <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I have <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Changed <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Into something<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Not myself<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I cannot <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Think<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I cannot<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Feel <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
But I feel<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Oh! I feel<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Hardness<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Burning<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Freezing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Steel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Moment,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Minute,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Now. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-43775164730103827832015-10-18T14:23:00.000-04:002015-10-18T14:23:10.378-04:00A Warning to the Bible Scholar<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It’s mid semester of my senior year
as I Bible major and I don’t want to read my Bible…to be totally honest I want
to run from it. I love God, a lot. But I’m weary of the Bible. I have filled my
mind with head knowledge, but my heart is starving. They say the Bible is
supposed to change a person’s life…so why in four weeks of intense study of the
Bible have I come away with one soul filling lesson? Why only once did the
vision of the gospel grasp hold? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am in
Gospel Literature, but have learned nothing of Jesus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am in
the Psalms, but really could stand never to read one again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There’s something wrong here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Why is it that the philosophical
ideas outside of the Bible are giving me more life than that ancient document
written for all of God’s followers? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This is my warning: dear Bible
scholars who bless us with your knowledge, don’t forget your soul. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Rationality matters. Understanding
the text matters, but if you read the Bible when it’s not about the study or
the concepts, but about how God works. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are we asking the Holy Spirit to work in our hearts? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Are we REALLY letting Him guide us
in understanding? In all 4 years of my college I haven’t heard reference to
this once in class. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Don’t lose yourself in knowledge,
because no matter how many historical arguments there are for Scripture’s validity,
no matter if a psalm was written by David or not, no matter if the Christian
existence in the world will begin to end with rapture or if there not even be a
millennium, God is looking for those who want HIM not knowledge
OF Him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And so Bible student, I urge you,
remember to pray. Remember that God is
God and seek His face. Don’t let the Bible become your idol, and don’t let intensive
study drive you from experiencing it. God’s story matters because by it we may more
fully know God. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And God is worth knowing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
That’s why we read His Word…because
He and His servants co-authored the Bible. That’s why we study the historical context: so
that we can understand how the human author and his audience thought and meant to write. That's why we pray, because His Spirit talks through His word. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
God, please, help us to understand,
so that we might know you and love you more. We're hungry to hear you speak. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-19243418014669076392015-09-20T21:30:00.000-04:002015-09-20T21:31:19.147-04:00Another Day <div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I stand over the bridge and watch cars go underneath, underneath, underneath…I like watching them: I like the highway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The highway feels like home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I linger to soak in the reminder that I am but a small piece. I take a breath and keep walking, listening to the cars below me as they still run with their high pitch sound. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I see a girl running towards me and I wonder if she minds that I stay by the side of the bridge rather than move by the road. <span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">She does not move over and I wonder if I should.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
She stops. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
One earphone is in her ear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
“Hey are you okay?” her long blond hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and I recognize her poignant features and Florida blue eyes. We met the other night. She lived under me and had told me that we had some of the bigger classes together. She remembered me because I had asked many questions in those classes and that had helped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
I smile. “Yeah.” I’m not sure what makes her ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
“Okay,” She hits my arm lightly as she turns to go. “I don’t like people standing on bridges.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-indent: 0.5in;">
And then she is gone. Fast steps take her back to campus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
My mind follows, even as my feet continue to carry me forward. It’s quite possible that, in another situation, on another day, she would have saved a life.</div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-29914219487364976912015-07-20T20:01:00.000-04:002015-07-20T20:55:25.345-04:00A Response to How To Love ____ Personality Articles<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
The other day I stumbled across an
article about loving “creative people.” I read it because someone I love dearly
often falls into of the many categories they described and I found it
interesting. But a friend of mine had a point, when we defend personalities in
articles that simply face a defense they can be “a blank check” it can either
fall into excuse to leave boot prints on hearts behind us or become tools to
navigate the balance beam of relationship. But I think, in order to walk the
balance beam of relationship we have to realize two things:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->People are different<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->We can grow and learn from differences. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stereotyped logical personality often
shakes one's head at the emotional whimsical person who goes off the beaten path
and often finds themself lost in a forest of confused emotions. But as long as
they insist on staying only on the road of logic, they miss the streams
bubbling, the quiet of melancholy, and the passion of anger. On the other side
of the picture, the emotional person judges either oneself or the logical
person (often both) because the logical person continues walking in a straight
line which serves a purpose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Neither are necessarily right or
wrong, but neither will probably ever land in the same footprint and people are
as unique as their finger prints.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
To be fair, you must know I write
as someone who often operates primarily out of emotion. Purposefully, I do not
work on some things when I experience certain emotions, no longer as a lack of
self-discipline, but as a choice for the quality of the work, and the quality
of my life. But perhaps it is important to understand, some of the people I
hope to emulate are quite the opposite. If a task is on the list, it will
generally be accomplished, sometimes to the forgetfulness of the emotions, but
mostly the logical person might say it is more that the emotions are channeled through a structured
road of thought. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Both hold a purpose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Roads enable us to get from here to
there. Imagine life without any roads, at the least, food would not be
transported and jobs could not be worked at. I lived in a country where roads
were either filled with holes or were dirt roads. The difference between the
pothole filled panamerican thirteen years ago and the one today is the
difference between calm nerves, car sickness and at least an hour of driving...
But so too emotions serve a purpose, as beautiful as the forest is, it also
offers oxygen to all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On either side of the spectrum there
sits value and detriment. My wandering emotions sometimes cause me to lack
trust, to speak out of turn. I forget that whatever this moment holds God still
stands as the ultimate reality. On the other hand, my emotions often give me a
deep sense of love and affection, the ability to question what I once took for
granted, and depth of life that intuition guides me to. I cry tears not just
because I often find myself hurt, but because of how deeply I love a person. I
dance inside simply because the sun shines and life for me can go anywhere from
shouting songs to melancholy satisfaction. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And yet, my way of life is one I
struggle to accept. I admire another’s. Discipline can guide some into an organized,
smooth moving life filled with accomplishment, focus, and drive. Logic can lead to strong arguments and assurance of belief. Logical lives are easy
to understand and emotions rarely effect the quality of work performed. And yet, they too suffer from and enjoy
emotion, just as I secretly hold self-discipline. Some of those with
organization love with a quiet constancy I do not understand. They may not say “I
love you,” as I often as I want to hear, but I’ve watched and seen grace when I
did not deserve a second chance. (We harm ourselves when we stereotype for we
see only one side of the jewel that people are.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The “love me as I am” articles hold
value in that they state what a person is whilerecognizing that value. But the
wording often sounds prejudiced towards that person and against another. (Take
for example the fact that I compared roads to oxygen...) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It is sin, not personality, that is wrong with
a person. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sometimes it proves difficult to discern
the difference, but personality is neither sin nor an excuse to sin. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-8795002725338515692015-06-25T10:26:00.002-04:002015-06-25T10:34:57.200-04:00“Be where you’re at,” Part 1<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost
three years ago, a very dear friend of mine used to shake her head at me and
urge “just be where you’re at.” I didn’t know then that when she urged me to “be
where I am at” that she urged me toward the core of love. For love, often posed
as sacrificially giving rests in a matter of the heart as well as the will and seems
to linger on two very big points: presence and acceptance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being present means fully immersing myself
in the moments of my life where I am now and the moments of those around me. It
is enjoying the rain that is falling on the ground outside the house where I am
babysitting. It means actually reading the messages from my friends when I’m
skyping and responding first to what they say, stepping into their world, not
making a commentary on or demand of their hearts. (Sometimes lessons get
learned the hard way.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means
seeing the rain in their hearts, or the sun, and rejoicing with those who
rejoice, and weeping with those who weep. We don’t necessarily stay in their
weather of emotions and thoughts, but if we never step into the world as far as
they let us, we will never really understand. How can we sacrificially love and
meet needs if we don’t see them?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes this
is hard for me. I like my world and all the interesting twists and turns often sing
with familiarity. I’d rather judge your weather from a window, and not step in,
be it to rain or sunshine. Or, I try to push a new lesson, new words, new clouds
into another’s life. I’m missing it. I’m missing that my friend might be going
hungry and does not need emotional support, but help to find food. I’m missing that
a different friend is graduating and just needs space and grace to adjust. I’m
missing that I am pressuring myself to be better and my own emotions and reactions
may need attention and maybe I just need to spend a long time talking with God,
or talk with a close friend after I talk with God, not before. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss it all because I try to pretend and
become something I’m not. I am not talking about growth, or change itself, but
a pressure to <i>have grown</i> and <i>have changed. </i> To be where I am not. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I don’t
recognize that I am a finite unique human and accept that, how can I let you be
one who acts and thinks differently than me? If I am not where I am at,
hanging somewhere in a strange mix of Redemption and Fall, then how do I accept
that we are both enough and not enough; both good, loving and kind, and selfish
and wanting the world to be the way we long to demand; both feeling loved and
unloved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Maybe together we can be where we
are at, on this earth, in this moment, be it struggling against sin and its effects or
rejoicing in promise, or more likely a strange combination of both. God is where we are at, and where we have
grown. He does not necessarily ask for our performance in the future beyond
commitment, nor actually expect us to
fix the people around us, but to be where He is at, with His heart that sees
and fixes, hands dug into His work, standing beside Him, leaning into Him. In
that point where He works in our lives, He asks us to work now, commit now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He knows the future, and He is there too, but
since we can’t get there, I wonder if being where we are at might help, even as “being
here” sometimes gives space for dreaming and preparing for "there" without
pressure to pretend to be somewhere else. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-83366538984032642922015-06-01T16:58:00.004-04:002015-06-01T16:58:38.098-04:00Loss, Loneliness and Looking<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">The
idea of following God is perfect. A
treasure glitters at the end of his path, eternity with Him, eternal security,
life everlasting. It’s really the first that delights, but the cost of
following the narrow path was higher than many wanted. I started on this path and ran into red pain.
Then loss glittering blue, an ocean of salty tears until finally I found myself
buried in a grey loneliness, hating these colors worse than I might have because
I had tasted the fresh green of life. The fresh green of life could be many
shades,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";"> love, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">happiness, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">The
essence of being surrounded by a God who loves me completely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";"> But grey? I did not bargain for grey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">In
fact, I had thought that God promised that we would never, ever encounter loneliness
because He would always be with us. Yet I found myself, standing in the middle of
a grey lonely cloud, sinking in a blue ocean. And I said, “God, this is not
what I asked for.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">I
tried to run, jump off the path into the briers, but I was too buried in the
path, I was all in or all out and I knew it. I tried to turn and stop, but
really, stopping never did anyone any good. No one stops in the middle of a
path. And I tried to close my eyes and keep walking. Peeking them open
occasionally for green. There was nothing. Still, steps were taken. One more.
One more again. I step out of grey. Then back in. Then out again. Bright colors
appear in grey and I fix my eyes on them, laugh at their sparkles. The greyness
started to fade away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Then
the sparkles dance moved, these sparkle’s path did not follow mine, and they
but call from a distance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">And
if I’m not careful, I could allow the grey to consume me, to seep through my
skin to all that I am. These grey clouds have so little swirls. The grey becomes thick so I can barely see
just when I start searching for how I can give green to others. It is thick, I
cannot see. One minute to the next takes an hour. I keep moving, head held
high, one step in front of another. Still, the storm cloud does not pass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">But
this time, this time I realize. The promise of presence is not the promise of
green because the Fall tainted all colors. The promise of hope is not the
promise of sunny skies because I still live in the battle. The promise that I
would never ever be alone did not say that grey’s loneliness would not surround
me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">It
is time I stop running from grey but look into it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">As
I squirm to leave it I miss the peaches and blues you can only see in a grey
sky. I see that I am not alone, though loneliness lingers. I feel the tears
beneath my feet as I walk, and I cry more into them. Loneliness hurts. Loss
aches. There are hands I wish to hold, colorful smiles I want to see dance,
stories I want to hear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">The
tears swish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">We
disobeyed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">I
don’t know whether or not separation would hurt quite so much without the Fall,
but I have been made two promises. I will never be alone, but I will also taste
the effects of the Fall. He walks with me, but to where they will call me
names. He walks with me but He does not stop them from judging. He walks with
me, but He does not keep all special paths together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";"> “Will you follow my path?” He asks
in the grey. “You have made you commitment once, and again and again. Will you
lay down your fists? At the risk of work
you hate the idea of? Into the risk of red pain? Into the promise of it?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">The
thing about following this God is that you have to love Him. Because He asks
the best, and hardest thing. “Open your eyes to the pain.” The pain He causes
so we will put Him first. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Forgive.
<i>Let it hurt more deeply by not pushing the pain into
revenge. Accept that you have been pained and surrender to the fact that I
made, love and give justice.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Trust.
<i>Risk that the red of pain will return
from the ones you forgive, and others, and My path.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Mourn.
<i>Open your heart to the loss, cry tears so
that you will not drown in them inside. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Make
peace. <i>Put yourself in the way of other’s
shots.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Give
Compassion. <i>Open your eyes to the pain of
another. When you really see, then maybe you can really act.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Face
persecution. <i>Do you believe in your cause
to the point of torture and death? I let the Fall live, will you live with the
consequences even I face? <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Across
continents, or at home, financially, or emotionally, with the risk that you may be called to leave,
will we be His followers? With the risk
that He may take what you most love and with eyes open to the pain when or if
He does, will we walk? The gift He will give is the one for which every human longs, to know
true intimacy. But the way in which He will give it, and the pain we will receive differs. I must face the grey clouds without dancing colors because it
touches on the ache and grey within, the grey that must turn not to bright
colors of friends, nor the black ink of my pen, but to God first and alone. To your deepest love He may very well ask, "Do you love this more than me?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";"> For what purpose does He lead us through pain?
Whether it be the loneliness of a Sovereign act of friends moving on or the
sharp edge of a knife questioning if you will follow Him, He works all things
together for our good, not our pleasure, s</span><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face', serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">o that We
will become like Him (Rom 8:28ff).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">Pure
and True Image-bearers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif";">We would be like the One who is, who became image, so we
could see what we are meant to be. What a Christ follower is
already: that he/she, we, will slowly start to become in reality. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-68431072861986083492015-03-31T22:45:00.004-04:002015-03-31T22:46:13.186-04:00Clichés, Beauty, and the Gospel<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I
looked out over the sparkling water. The sun shone brightly, but with the
exception of the daytime moon, I found myself rather unimpressed despite the
knowledge that I should love this beauty. Countless people on my college campus
would probably be commenting on the sunny day, but there is nothing mysterious
about a sunny day. It’s like the volcano out my front window growing up. It was
a snow top mountain, somewhat isolated, and everyone thought it was pretty. So
what? I used to ask. It was big, it had its pretty moments, but it looked nothing
like the ridges. The ridges held mystery for I could not know if what lay
behind them. Sunny days, sunny days ask very few questions. They are the
cliché-beautiful. And I realized, in all my ability to find beauty in the ugly:
a cloudy day, rain, a hall way with very few pictures, I have lost the
specialness of beauty. Yes, there is a bounce in my step as I walk around the
pond, watching ducks dunk their heads into the water. Yes, there are smiles on
the people around me. Yes, the sky is vast—but it’s almost too bright for me to
look up. Now don’t get me wrong, it was incredibly nice to walk outside and not
be so cold my head hurt. It was incredibly nice to feel a warm breeze and have
a bounce in my step. But it was still too easy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The assignment in class earlier was
simple, in fifteen minutes go out and ask people how they would share the
gospel. I asked two poor people who were recruiting on our camps (It’s not just
any day someone walks up and says, “if you were sharing the gospel what would
you say?”) The Gospel. Words that are about fifteen years cliché for me: “Jesus
died for your sins.” Even when I taught it as a young Sunday school teacher I
realized the five year olds had eyes glazing.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What is wrong with them? It always
sickened me that I could watch movies, read books, and listen to Adventures in
Odyssey countless times over, but the gospel fell dead on my ears. Was not the
gospel the most important thing in my life? But even as my brother commented
that “All I have is Christ” is a good song, and I agreed with him, I still had
a love/hate relationship with it. It was the same words over again. Except,
that Jonathan was right. The words are complete. Almost. Countless times we
don’t start with the right picture. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So where do we start? At the
beginning. In the beginning God. I think it might be good to start there. Do
you know God? How do you see Him? Do you know that He is both wrath and grace?
Justice and mercy? How? Well let me tell you a story... <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Once upon a time, God was the
perfect good King. He decided He wanted to make the world. So He made one. He
spoke everything into being. The sun and stars, the earth, water, fishes and
giraffes, elephants and ostriches. Everything.
Similar Cinderella’s godmother only nothing existed before. God said “this is good.” And then He decided
that He wanted someone to care for these animals of His—so He created images of
His. These creatures were different than the others because of the image bearing.
And He gave them a few jobs. Adam named the animals. Adam and Eve were supposed
to take care of the earth, do things (maybe invent some stuff), and have kids.
There was one other thing: they weren’t supposed to eat from the tree of the
knowledge of good and evil. But then, someone asked them why they shouldn’t and
eventually they did. Enter problem. They got kicked out of the garden, to
protect them from another tree. When they ate the fruit, they started the
process of death. Sin , anything that isn’t good and obedient to God, was
passed from person to person. No one was born without it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Over and over again, God reached
out to people in a new way and offered them ways to be close to Him. He gave
them sacrifices, but finally, He took another step. He came Himself. (Enter Trinity Explanation:
God is one divine essence in three persons, in other words, God is one and
three at the same time. And no, I don’t get it. They are distinct, and the same
at the exact same time and it makes no sense in my mind and any more
explanation will lead me to heresy.) So, Jesus, the second person of the
God-head, came to earth and became a man. He was even born. He lived the
perfect life—like perfect, without any sin at all. He loved God first. He was
righteous, and loving, and just. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Then He died. For God to be just,
someone had to pay the death penalty. Sin was still in the middle of us and
God. He had set up a system of killing animals, but it was an over and over
again process for each thing that is lost. So Jesus paid the death penalty and
God infused all his wrath on what we did wrong (all the inability not to sin we
inherited from Satan). End of story right? My sins are paid for. Wrong! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Time passed slowly. Friday night.
Saturday. Imagine the memories running through people’s minds. Imagine the
tears His mom cried. Did the man who authorized His execution approve of his
actiosn still? Sunday morning. A friend
and follower of the God-man went to do traditional burial practices. His tomb
was empty. An angel appeared and told her that Jesus was alive. Alive! Jesus
had died. No recitation, people had made sure of that. And then He was alive.
This has been something I heard so much it sounds cliché. But really, how many
people have died completely and come back to life. And how many of these people
have already been buried. His disciples saw it. He appeared to a lot of people.
Sin is NOW concurred. It was paid for, and it’s control was taken away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Here’s the really strange thing: when
we come to Him and commit to submitting to God as king like we are supposed to,
repent (change our mind about doing things that are wrong), we also inherit His
righteousness and justice and love. God sees us like that. We become alive at
some point in that process. And then, when Jesus left, He sent the third person
of the God-head, the Holy Spirit, to come into us and seal us. Now we are in
the process of becoming in nature what we are in name. And even while the
process is in progress, what Jesus did, and the acceptance of those who choose
to recognize that God is well, God, and King, both over the world and
individual lives, we get the privilege of being family. And as we are God’s
family, we are also each other’s family and we need to love each other, because
that’s what Jesus does: we are his followers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There’s an ending too. And ending
that hasn’t happened yet. Jesus is coming back. To reign like He is supposed
to. And the world will be remade. All the people who committed to being
re-imaged will get rewarded, all the people who didn’t and thus still lived
with the guilt of sin on their heads will be punished—forever. How can a loving
God do this, you ask? Simple. He’s just. And not He has justice, <i>He is justice.</i> He can’t not be just and
punish the wrong things we do. The problem is not God, but our fallen view of
sin. Because we do have a messed up view of it: even when we are being re-imaged.
God did love them. He let the Trinity be separated and the Son bore the worst
punishment in History. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So what does this mean? How is this
less cliché to me? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes
it’s not. But... that might be because it is indeed beautiful. Even with all
its brokenness involved, God’s story is perfect. God is perfect, how can He
made anything less? It is clear, like sunny day. We’re talking awesome King, terrible problem, and a hero who
dies to save those He loves, climaxed with him coming back to life—only unlike
the rest of the stories, it’s not that He didn’t really die. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There is mystery—how can there be
trinity—how can a person both fully choose to follow Christ and God choose and
elect them at the same time—why in the world would God try again when His
perfect humans fell, again and again. What in the world would instill Him with
the notion of re-imaging at such a high cost? People die for this around the
world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Repeated may not always be cliché. <i>God loves you,</i> can be some very cliché
words. <i>Jesus died for you </i>probably
are too. But His death and resurrection were anything
but. Just like Michigan’s sun, it’s a very abnormal idea. Who do you know who
made the world, died in it, came alive again and is gonna come back and rule
over the entire world? And you, IF you have or do accept Christ, you get to
know this King, personally. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-90224146419543683422015-03-14T18:20:00.000-04:002015-03-14T20:01:20.934-04:00To Matter... <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I have always had a very deep
longing. It has shaped how I interacted with people, the choices I made, what I
decided to become, how I reacted to anything in life. I have wanted to matter. I
have longed to know what it is to be valuable and I have sought it: in
thousands of unhealthy methods I have sought to be noticed, to be seen, to be
needed...all so that I would matter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Give me attention, I ask. But it is
not attention I seek, it is to know that I am important to you. That I matter
to you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And that is the extravert in me,
the person who deep down believed my value must be people-based and not based
on accomplishments. Because people matter. People are valuable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Over Spring Break, someone showed
me I mattered to her. In the midst of a world that was already fallen, it
spiraled further. That love touched the ache deep in my heart, love from one
who might be a little too high on the list of people I want to matter to, love
that came offered freely even though in my mind I was messing up. Or it was
just because of the pain. It could not have been me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I believed the need to matter was
wrong after so many fallen habits that sprung out of that longing... from
keeping long hair to overdependence, from writing because it was unique and no
one else had tried it to jealousy, the need to “matter” has practically guided
my life. The fear that someday I would wake up and discover that the world
would be better without me. And then the day I believed it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After it hurt people for too long, I
crushed the need. I can be accepted by my friends, but it is selfish of me to
need to matter. I wrote blogposts and heard no response. I realized there are
thousands of books and I said to myself that I write not because it matters,
but because I love it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But when I tried to crush the longing, I tried
to crush myself. Unlike my sister and Emily Dickenson, the idea of being nobody
sickens me.. I do not need to stand out at the crowded party anymore, but I do
need to know that if I leave it makes a difference to someone in the room. I do
need to know that without my story someone’s imagination would be a little bit
less rich. I want to be as influential to someone as Gail Carson Levine and
Laura Ingles Wilder were to my life. I do need to know that as I withdraw to my
room to disappear, or I leave you alone because it is best, that I will still
matter to you, that my value won’t simply disappear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It is not necessarily that you see
me, I have been seen by too many people. It is that I matter to you. That me
gone would make a difference. That me here makes a difference. This is a
longing of my heart. A longing I have tried to suppress. A longing that refuses
to be silent. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-32208305506549216022014-12-07T19:13:00.001-05:002014-12-07T19:13:20.535-05:00No = I love you <div class="MsoNormal">
<i>No sea malita</i>—don’t
be bad. Big brown eyes. A whining tone. Don’t tell me “no.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I can’t say how many times I’ve heard
those words. No, I can’t buy candy from you (I want to, but how do I know it is
you it will help, and not some guy who’s beating you up?) I’m not being bad
when I say no. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
How many times have <i>I </i>wanted to hear the word yes when
someone says no? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
How many times have I said yes,
when I needed to say no? Sure—I can’t tell you that I can’t talk now, that’s
unloving. Sure—I can’t tell you I can’t work an extra hour, you really have no
solutions. Sure…but I don’t want to, I’m doing it because I have to. Sure, but
it’s not really me choosing to love you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People say that the first word children learn is “no.” (Or “mine”
but we’re not dealing with that word today.) And yet, it’s somehow the word we
least know how to use, or accept. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was
eighteen when boundaries in close friendships formed. A dear, dear friend of
mine told me I could ask—but only if she could tell me no. No, I can’t read
your writing right now, I’ll read it later. No, I can’t come pray. No, you can’t
keep saying things like that. No, you can’t do that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No. No. No. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then she said yes. Yes, let’s eat breakfast, and when we
ate breakfast we both wanted to be there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, let me hear what you wrote.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I can pray for you, what for? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, you can text me when you need something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No… because I want to give you something real. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No—but I still care. No—I think you’re capable and kind
enough to respect my boundaries. No— I don’t like hugs; don’t hug me all the
time, but when I hug you, it will be a real one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love you too much to give you what I can’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-51016226093113684952014-11-16T18:42:00.004-05:002014-11-16T18:42:46.291-05:00You are...<div class="MsoNormal">
When you wake up in the morning and everything is gone, you
are loved. When you fall asleep at night and smile at the good day that passed,
you are loved. When normality drills a hole into your skull because you are
bored, you are loved. You are loved. The cross stands permanently accepting you
as you are. If you are like me, if you have heard the story all of your life,
it can feel old. Yes, I know, Christ died for me but what about NOW? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will you step back with me a moment, into a vortex of time,
or into a vortex that takes you out of this current reality? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine that you can see God in creation. Do you see, there:
Man was made in God’s image with the ability to feel, reason, a sense of
morality. There are Adam’s arms, his legs, his full body. Good. No, very good.
Then woman appeared, so that man might not be alone. Good. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are loved, personally, for you. If God is going to hold
you personally accountable for your actions does it not make sense that He will
also love you and want you personally? Why else would He care? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He made you. He made you finite, with limitations and skin
and energy levels. He made you with a unique bent in personality; be that
towards art, towards children, towards laughter, or quiet. He made you with the
ways that you react and respond to life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then they were distorted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Adam and Eve sinned, distortions came in and messed up
your completeness; your sense of wholeness. You were covered in guilt (be it
when you first sinned, or by inheritance, you were covered in guilt and there wasn’t
anything you could do about it). But still, you were loved. God did not abandon
humans but over and over again as a race He has pursued us, from accepting Abel’s
sacrifice to pursuing the Israelites, to the god-man on a cross. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when the grave became empty, then you became whole and when
earth was left without it’s human likeness of God, His spirit came inside. If you have accepted Christ, you
are a new creation. Your name is redeemed, holy, righteous. While you are still
sinner, you are only sinner because you sin. And yes, you do still sin. Don’t just stop when you see it and say “I’ll do
better” because sometimes even morality can simply be a disguise of our
disgrace. You are loved. You are loved, even when you hit God’s gag-reflex in
sin. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are loved as you are. Distorted image and redeemed
image. You were created, distorted, and are accepted. And there is a side of
you, an ideal picture of what could have been, and what will be. The perfect
image of God. Pieces of it still sneak out on occasion, and in the process of
sanctification those occasions grow in frequency. You are loved, not “when,” not
“if,” but “now.” Why? Because God made you like He wanted, and He’s not about
to desert you. You may be overly talkative, but God gave you words. You may be
quiet and withdrawn, but God gave you a sense of hesitancy and caution. You may
find yourself in the same sin, the same addiction over and over again. Change
may not feel possible. You are accepted. Period. After the period, after that
truth, change may be possible but sometimes I think we miss the point. Growth
does not give value. Even seeking growth won’t. You are loved. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-63575345924051739972014-11-02T19:32:00.001-05:002014-11-02T19:32:31.032-05:00Good Writing<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The mistake of strong writing is
this: it is good. Too good. Constantly good. The mistake of good writing is
that it causes you to ask questions, thousands of questions, without trusting
any answers. In other words, the problem with good writing is that it is constantly causing a
writer to doubt. The problem with good writing is that it is revised over and
over and over again until the heart has been removed. Or maybe not the heart,
but without a doubt any of the flaws, leaving the reader in awe of the person
who can “just write.” And if you can just write, and have no mistakes then you
teach me nothing about life because in life I make a million mistakes every day
and people have to sort through all the typos and through all of the contradictions
in a person’s live to see his or her heart. You see, I just contradicted myself.
Good writing, strong logic, doesn't do that, but I just did. I did, and probably
before I’m done pushing buttons on my computer I will do it again. It’s not
unlikely. That’s another thing life is that good writing is not: repetitive.
Most humans are not Anne Shirley, I cannot tell you the number of times that I
have made the same mistake, faced the same dilemmas, heard the same words from
friends. Life is full of repetition, but good writing eliminates repeated words
(unless we repeat the words on purpose, like a prayer said every morning). Or, good writing is often free of parentheticals and yet life seems
to be full of them: life and time itself is a parenthetical sitting in the
middle of eternity. Eternity, that is another reason why life doesn't quite fit
under the mold of good writing. Life, even in time, sits inside of something
eternal: good writing begins clearly and ends clearly. A good chapter has a
good beginning and yet we rarely seem to look big enough to see the book of
time in eternity, and look at the continuity between the creation of the world
and the re-creation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Re-creation, writing is re-creation,
perhaps that is why even when you write drafts over and over to show a broken
world, it still romanticizes it: because writing is a recreation. If I really
wanted you to understand why I am writing I will go back and revise it, at
least once, rewording a sentence so that it will stick in your head like a
photograph of a sunrise. Which is another reminder of beginning and endings:
did you ever notice how we do have book markers to the day but we never stop to
see them, or mark them or we rarely stop to see both of them, and so we
complain that the days go on and on in a single stream with the same repeats
without seeing the repetitions that were meant to be there, meant to be said
again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Writing is re-writing: trying again,
and yet when you write in life the first mistake you made will not disappear.
But at the same time: grace is revision. No matter how many times you write it,
grace will come back to it, and give the words another chance to say it another
way as it brushes through the words just the way they are. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-41306746432288851492014-10-08T20:39:00.002-04:002014-10-08T22:19:31.778-04:00 INFP<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I - Introvert</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Introspective, find yourself alone
walking along a sidewalk of fallen leaves, in the quiet of your footsteps. Find
yourself in the moments before bed, or when you wake to the first morning
light. Find yourself as you read of the lives of others; find that in the quiet
there is a peace in your soul to remember. Find out whose you are, and be
still. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
N- Intuition<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I listen to my gut. Generally she’s
right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
F- Feeling<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> Facts
attempt to tell reality. A tree sits outside
a window. But, what if I let it stop there? I will never taste it, never
imagine reaching towards the pine needles, never smell a breath of Christmas or
watch raindrops linger on branches. Never find inspiration. I need smiles, tears, and frowns:
they don’t determine truth, and shouldn't always change action, but without
them I wouldn't care if truth and action lingered waiting to be grasped. There
would be no passion, no love, no hope, it would be a life without color in
nature, no songs of birds, no crunching of rocks, no life in reality. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
P- Perceiving<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Perhaps? Let me process first
because I’m not all the way sure: it’s possible that my tendency towards
schedules and checking off lists and occasional quick decisions would determine
me to be a judging type person. But then again I stop to look at the sun, and
flowers, and the fly buzzing by, and I must consider the needs of others as I
weigh how much time to spend sprawling my words across paper. Wait just a
moment as I consider whether or not I like spontaneity, or if it is my schedule
that maintains my sanity. I’m not sure I’ve found all of the possibilities. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-50325425816119503182014-08-05T20:28:00.000-04:002014-08-05T20:28:00.620-04:00For the thousandth time...<div class="MsoNormal">
I rap them up
into a bundle, and slip them under my arm; stepping out of my chair, I stand
and I walk. I walk through the memories of life, the first time a story came to
mind, then the imagination of a six year old child. I walk through the games I
played by the equator, sword fights and dresses that brush against the dirt. I
walk past a young girl sitting at a computer, typing furiously. I walk past and
early morning’s writing interrupted by the pale face of my mother… until I find
it. Deep inside my memories, the image of a cross, just after the stories have
stopped. I set the bundles down, the stories of people who have never existed,
the giggles of island stranded teenagers, the tears of a motherless daughter,
and I fall to my knees. “Have you asked for these?” They have not come often or
easily for three years now. Ideas once idled in my mind now flee to the touch,
and I must give them up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you have decided to take these, then here
they are. The truth is I’ve lost my love for them anyway. They themselves are
but a memory and the memory is not mine to hold.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
Jesus picks up the broken mess and hands it back, “where is your pen?” is all
He asks. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-5365797301616803102014-07-22T22:37:00.000-04:002014-07-22T22:37:10.513-04:00Self Portrait <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Dear Reader, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As you may know I have been asking the
question of who I am, in search of what I might become, but I was looking in
the wrong place. I was looking in the present, yet it is the past that God used
shaped me. I found in my actions traces of who I am, hints. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who am I? I am the youngest of three children,
the girl who never got a baby brother but tasted being an older sibling for
three months at thirteen when I helped love my foster brother and got temporarily
ousted from the precious seat of youngest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am proud Auntie, and glad to have adopted
yet another older sibling through Jonathan’s marriage. Who am I? I am a girl
who has lied, and thus learned to love the whole truth. Who am I? I am a girl
who loved stories and imagination from the first, from a girl riding her bike
and talking with an imaginary friend to the fifteen year old insisting to her
friends that we MUST play one more acting game, make up one more story until I
became the girl who chose Creative Writing as her major, and wouldn’t give it
up because she might not survive without story. Who am I? I am a girl who has
lost without expectation, from neighbors to heroes, her homes, then her country,
to friends, then an adopted Uncle who was her ride to see friends, we spent
most of our time together in his truck or a restaurant. Who am I? I am a girl
who was once convinced her parents lied to her, insisted she was adopted, and
now loves those who really do not belong to a family; who has cuddled orphaned
children into her arms, and who hopes to someday take someone home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who am I? I am the daughter of one who has
been adopted. Who am I? I am one who has sat in a dark room and cried. Who am
I? I am someone who is terrified of crowds, but would die to get a glimpse of
your heart. Who am I? I’m Irish, German and Polish by blood but Latin and
American cultures have seeped into my veins, creating in me the spirit of what
you would call a TCK. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a girl who
obsesses, to write I will drop all other hobbies for the sake of learning to
put words on paper, if I study a subject and I can, I will do more try to do more
than one big assignment on an idea until I’m sick of the knowledge and wish to
find something, anything else, to think about. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who am I? I have perfectionist tendencies,
frighten or become anxious easily, and long to please people. Who am I? I’m a
girl who is fascinated by psychology. Who am I? I make myself like a subject
that bores me, because I hate doing things I don’t like. Who am I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I accepted Christ into my heart at three
years old, was baptized at eight and started to really pursue God at around
twelve, who decided to keep pursuing at eighteen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have sins that I struggle with, and promises
I hold to, trust that is still being grown. I try to read my Bible and pray
every day, I fall on my knees before God in both lament and joy and I have
heard the very voice of the Holy Spirit in my head, and I have felt His arms of
comfort wrapped around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who am I? I
am made, chosen, wanted and loved by God. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing can change that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who Am I? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am Jennifer Grace Hunter, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 1.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am Elohim’s adopted daughter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who are you? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sincerely, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Me. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367551398778441975.post-75794669994210283072014-07-12T11:20:00.002-04:002014-07-12T11:29:01.261-04:00Dirty Houses<br />
The yellow
shower tiles started to look more and more white, one at a time as a scratchy
green sponge rubbed them clean. I dumped a bucket of water over them, and me. I
was tired, I stopped at the house on my way home to clean that the renters might
move in at the end of the semester, the house had to be clean before they moved
in. I was getting paid to do this but still I was worn out,
and I just wanted my Friday night. <em>I am working for
Jesus </em>I reminded myself, thinking of a verse at the end of Philippians,
where Paul tells the slave to work as they would for Jesus himself. If Jesus
were moving in to this house I would want the house to
be spick and span, pay or no pay. This is how my thoughts run, how I
really believe it ought to work, but Jesus does not wait for the house to be
cleaned. Christ will not stand for dirt in a heart, he made that very
clear. But here, my emotional beliefs fall short of true theology.
God does the unexpected:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"Zacchaeus, I'm
coming to your house today." <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"Oh, but God, it's
full of dirt. You wouldn't like it there." <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"May I Come in?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"Yes, but... Wait, I like
it with you sitting at my table. I'm going to clean the house."
And Zacchaeus started to clean his heart giving away half of what he
owned to the poor, and repaying all those he owed. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
When the Holy Spirit moves into our hearts, He can't stand to have the dirt, and
He offers to help us get rid of it ("When we confess our sins He is
faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and purify us from all
unrighteousness," Check out all of 1 John 1 &2.) But,
just like any house, while He does want us to work to keep it
clean, work to let His light shine on it: just like the first
time He doesn't leave because dirt exists. I will go clean in the
bathroom today. What if that were my heart? <em>The brilliant light from His presence begins to
shine through the cracked windows as He steps into the room. "Did you say
it's dirty in here?" He sighs, "I think you know already.
In all your efforts to clean it, it will never be clean without me." And as He takes the sponge from my hands, a
red liquid spills across the tiles, dissolving the dirt, as it has done so many
times before, "If you can remember just one thing, keep your
eyes on me. My child, I will not leave you or forsake you, even to the ends of
the age. This new room won't make me go away." </em><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4367551398778441975#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><i><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></i></span></a><em> </em><o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4367551398778441975#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
Sometimes, it won’t be so simple, sometimes he will use caustic situations like
a caustic chemical, and scrub until it aches, sometimes it will break you in the
process so He can remold you… analogies only go so far, but the idea remains
the same. </span></span></div>
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Jennifer Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831599670328772913noreply@blogger.com1