“Lent is the time leading up to Jesus’ death where we practice being really, really honest about the lives we have.” - Kate Bowler
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Even today I look out past drawings of Yoda and ewoks, only to see a white haze on the barren fields outside. The lingering presence of all that has been defeated could not be ignored this week, could it?
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You see, it was not the conscious action that lacked selfless love. It was my unconscious, quiet distaste for being told “no thank you.”
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We can no longer run from the fear that our lives will not (or do not) matter. And so we are left with the question: Am I just a cat?
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As strong as we feel and as invincible as we may seem, times of uncertainty remind us of our own susceptibility.
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In this season of Lent, I will confess my sin to the Lord. And I will confess my dust-ness to myself as grace.
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“Ms. Jean said that when you see eagles, you’ll know.”
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May we root ourselves in You, O God. And may the lesser things fall away.
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Its funny how these births happen, sweet boy.
How you are born, and I am born all over.
Because lacking cords means lacking chords. Missing members in our love means a silent love song.
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“The farmers will plant when they can, pressing the seed in deep in last year’s rows. It’ll grow up right between the dying things. You’ll see.”
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Essentially, explain Mystery, Mom.
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My shy daughter may not tap or spin in the recital, but she knows how to live in her body. Look at her. All of her is right here. Right now.
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“You are the God who sees me— El Roi. For I have now seen the One who sees me.”
Hagar births a new understanding of this Yahweh for all of us.
I had never realized the pure and simple pleasure of tension on a string— the pull between my bone and blood body and the unseen mystery of the wind. The gripping tug between heaven and earth finally tangible.
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We wonder in the dark on Saturdays when everything is still and somber and given into the night. But there is a light coming.
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When facing plundering giants, we have to trust that we are more loved than we are afraid.
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One cannot help put ponder the grandness of such a thought. To touch one’s own skin and imagine God within us, too. Is there anything more hope-filled, anything at all more wonderful?
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When we walked up to the parsonage, I saw that big overgrown bush pressed tight against the side of the garage, and I knew that this was the grace we had been praying for.
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The Father comes and leads and tends to us like a gracious parent who trots alongside a wobbly toddler, patient through a dozen seasons of toppling and terror, gracious all the way until we ride in His peace.
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