by Helen Lee
Remember that hit song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”? I recently listened to an interview with Bobby McFerrin, who wrote and sang that catchy tune. McFerrin, who hails from a family of singers, initially thought he would be a pianist, even though his distinctive, resonant voice indicated that he was vocally gifted. It wasn’t until he was close to 30 years old that he recognized and embraced his calling as a vocal artist.
God has a calling for each and every one of us as well. Of course, the primary calling for all Christians is the same: we are called by God, to God, and for God (to paraphrase Os Guinness in his eloquent book, The Call). But how we live that calling out differs for each and every one of us. In the same way that a relationship with God is unique and personal, so too are our callings. Are you pursuing the discovery of what your calling is?
If you are unsure of what your calling might be, Guinness gives a suggestion on how to approach the search: “Somehow, we human beings are never happier than when we are expressing the deepest gifts that are truly us. And often we get a revealing glimpse of these gifts early in life.” What did you love to do when you were young? What gifts and talents were evident in your childhood, and have you continued developing those gifts over the years? Perhaps as you think back on your life, you’ll discover talents that were affirmed long ago but that have been laying dormant, buried by the demands and expectations from your subsequent life circumstances or relationships.
When I was five years old, I wrote a story about a family of rabbits who survive a big storm and live to tell about it. My kindergarten teacher told me that the story was “special”, and so I gave it to her. I’ve never seen the story since, and I had nearly forgotten about the incident. But thinking back to this moment in my life, I realize that although I have always enjoyed writing, I never devoted myself in any serious way to fiction-writing. Whenever I think about trying it, I tend to focus on my fears and self-doubts: “What makes you think you can write fiction?”
In Scripture, we read the numerous accounts of people who experience God’s calling and whose initial reactions are to deny the calling in one way or another. Moses expresses his feelings of inadequacy. Sarah laughs at the implausibility of God’s plan for her and Abraham. Jonah runs as far away from Ninevah as he can. And yet we see that as God’s servants display openness for his plans, he leads them towards the calling that he intends, despite their initial disbelief or inaccurate understandings.
We need not worry about outcomes or adequacy. As we keep ourselves open to his calling, we discover that through his strength, we can achieve much more for his kingdom than we ever would have imagined, more than we could ever have done on our own abilities. Who would have believed that inarticulate Moses could lead the Israelites out of Egypt, or that ancient Sarah could have a baby, or that rebellious Jonah’s words could help turn around a wicked nation?
Sometimes our calling is clear and we merely have to embrace it, as Bobby McFerrin did. Sometimes, the calling seems outlandish, and we have to have faith to accept it. Perhaps the more improbable the potential outcome, the more evident it is that God is the one who has called us in the first place. Ultimately, our job as Christ-followers is straightforward: answer God’s call. Don’t worry about the outcomes. And be happy for the unique gifts and abilities we have been given to further his kingdom. That is something worth singing about.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Lilies of the Field
By Tracey Bianchi
Springtime and Easter bring lilies abundant. As their little trumpet-shaped petals open up to the sky, they sound out a tune of beauty and joy as we emerge from winter. On Easter Sunday I sat in church and was mesmerized by all the lilies. I caught a whiff of them as we sang choruses of resurrection and life, The scent was a soft reminder of hope.
I like lilies. Truth be told I've never actually purchased an Easter Lily, but I like the way they look and what they represent: hope, grace, wisdom. I like the fact that Jesus talked about lilies, that he took an interest in little white flowers pushing up from the dirt.
Easter Lilies are most famously perched atop church altars this time of year. When Jesus spoke of lilies, he used them as a metaphor for our lives, to tell us not to fret and struggle so much, that God takes care of us. The lilies of the field do not run around in spastic tornadoes like we do. They do not need caffeine to power on through. They just sit and receive the beauty God bestows upon them.
There are endless stories of the Easter Lily. A little research exposes a common tale. Most agree that sometime around 1920 a WWI soldier by the name of Louis Houghton dragged a suitcase of bulbs home from Japan. The Bermuda Lily to be exact. He was captivated by them and wanted friends and family to see lilies bloom. And so began the obsession.
Fast forward 90 years and we find lilies are the fourth largest-selling potted plant in the US. And that almost all their sales occur in a 2 week period each year. Great pains are taken by growers and greenhouses to make sure the lovely little cone shaped cups open their mouths right up on Easter Sunday. This, I have read, is no small thing.
To finesse, cajole and woo a flower to open at just the right time is an art form. To trick nature, trump the season (rumor has it they would normally bloom mid-summer) is a feat that enlists millions of dollars and many a breathless moment. And I am thankful for this work, for the wisdom these growers glean, for the knowledge at their fingertips. But I am also curious, not anti, just curious to know what Easter would be like without the lily?
It is an interesting juxtaposition to see all the energy we put into this flower when compared to the lesson Jesus had for us to learn from the lily. Fret or rest? What does this flower represent?
We sweat, curse, struggle and sow and then God says that he will make life bloom in good time anyway. We beg, pray, demand, urge and wait. All for what God has freely given to the flowers of the field.
So as Easter has passed and spring gives way to summer, take a moment to rest and realize that it is not about the lilies at all. Let the flowers of the field be a reminder of sitting, waiting, and receiving and let the sunshine of this season warm the depths of your very soul.
Springtime and Easter bring lilies abundant. As their little trumpet-shaped petals open up to the sky, they sound out a tune of beauty and joy as we emerge from winter. On Easter Sunday I sat in church and was mesmerized by all the lilies. I caught a whiff of them as we sang choruses of resurrection and life, The scent was a soft reminder of hope.
I like lilies. Truth be told I've never actually purchased an Easter Lily, but I like the way they look and what they represent: hope, grace, wisdom. I like the fact that Jesus talked about lilies, that he took an interest in little white flowers pushing up from the dirt.
Easter Lilies are most famously perched atop church altars this time of year. When Jesus spoke of lilies, he used them as a metaphor for our lives, to tell us not to fret and struggle so much, that God takes care of us. The lilies of the field do not run around in spastic tornadoes like we do. They do not need caffeine to power on through. They just sit and receive the beauty God bestows upon them.
There are endless stories of the Easter Lily. A little research exposes a common tale. Most agree that sometime around 1920 a WWI soldier by the name of Louis Houghton dragged a suitcase of bulbs home from Japan. The Bermuda Lily to be exact. He was captivated by them and wanted friends and family to see lilies bloom. And so began the obsession.
Fast forward 90 years and we find lilies are the fourth largest-selling potted plant in the US. And that almost all their sales occur in a 2 week period each year. Great pains are taken by growers and greenhouses to make sure the lovely little cone shaped cups open their mouths right up on Easter Sunday. This, I have read, is no small thing.
To finesse, cajole and woo a flower to open at just the right time is an art form. To trick nature, trump the season (rumor has it they would normally bloom mid-summer) is a feat that enlists millions of dollars and many a breathless moment. And I am thankful for this work, for the wisdom these growers glean, for the knowledge at their fingertips. But I am also curious, not anti, just curious to know what Easter would be like without the lily?
It is an interesting juxtaposition to see all the energy we put into this flower when compared to the lesson Jesus had for us to learn from the lily. Fret or rest? What does this flower represent?
We sweat, curse, struggle and sow and then God says that he will make life bloom in good time anyway. We beg, pray, demand, urge and wait. All for what God has freely given to the flowers of the field.
So as Easter has passed and spring gives way to summer, take a moment to rest and realize that it is not about the lilies at all. Let the flowers of the field be a reminder of sitting, waiting, and receiving and let the sunshine of this season warm the depths of your very soul.
Monday, April 5, 2010
An Unexpected Lunch Stop
By Kay Wyma
It might surprise all of us to see how even the slightest recognition can profoundly affect someone.
A few years ago, I dragged my crew into one of our favorite sandwich shops for lunch. As we walked in, the first thing I noticed was a significantly overweight woman at the counter ordering her meal.
Anyone with little children can appreciate that, without warning, unfortunate/uncensored/not-meaning-to-be-malicious things can come out of their mouths. I said a quick prayer that my kids would keep any commentary to themselves. It was about this time I felt a tug on my skirt.
"MOM", loud whispered my sweet, incredibly sensitive, 5-yr-old daughter. "MOM! ... Look at that lady over there!" Arm outstretched, her finger emphatically pointed to the overweight woman at the counter.
I couldn't believe that this child, of all my kids, would be the one to inform the diners that a large person was in our midst.
"Sshhh!! Don't say a word!" I hissed.
"But Mom. Can I go say something to her?"
"No!" My word!
Dejected she quietly informed me, "I just wanted to tell her how pretty she looks."
There are some moments when I would just like to moonwalk to the closest exit, or rewind and get a second chance. This is one that I will never forget. I told her she could absolutely go to the woman.
She ooched her way through the line and made her way to the woman. Now she tugged on her skirt.
"Excuse me ma'am," the sweet little voice spoke.
The woman looked around, then down. You could almost see her physically/emotionally brace herself for what she knew was coming. Her emotions were about to nail her, just not as she expected.
"Excuse me."
"Yes? ... May I help you?"
"I just wanted to tell you how pretty you look. I think your skirt looks so pretty with your boots."
(She was right. The skirt did look great with those boots.)
The woman choked out a "thank you" and my daughter skipped back to us.
We ordered and sat down to wait for our meals. The event had come and gone. My daughter had matter-of-factly done what she would have to anyone, any size, any color ... with not one thought of herself. That's where it ended.
Until the woman stopped by our table on her way out. I didn't see her coming, but felt a hand on my shoulder. With tears in her eyes, she said to me, "You have no idea what your daughter did for me today. .... Thank you."
And that was it. For the woman, who felt invisible and constantly judged, a kind word caressed a wounded soul. For us, the words offered a profound lesson on the impact that a small moment of courtesy and other-mindedness can have on another human life. May we always be alert for the kind word, the gentle hug, or the smile from a stranger that can, in unexpected ways, impact so much more than a lunch break.
It might surprise all of us to see how even the slightest recognition can profoundly affect someone.
A few years ago, I dragged my crew into one of our favorite sandwich shops for lunch. As we walked in, the first thing I noticed was a significantly overweight woman at the counter ordering her meal.
Anyone with little children can appreciate that, without warning, unfortunate/uncensored/not-meaning-to-be-malicious things can come out of their mouths. I said a quick prayer that my kids would keep any commentary to themselves. It was about this time I felt a tug on my skirt.
"MOM", loud whispered my sweet, incredibly sensitive, 5-yr-old daughter. "MOM! ... Look at that lady over there!" Arm outstretched, her finger emphatically pointed to the overweight woman at the counter.
I couldn't believe that this child, of all my kids, would be the one to inform the diners that a large person was in our midst.
"Sshhh!! Don't say a word!" I hissed.
"But Mom. Can I go say something to her?"
"No!" My word!
Dejected she quietly informed me, "I just wanted to tell her how pretty she looks."
There are some moments when I would just like to moonwalk to the closest exit, or rewind and get a second chance. This is one that I will never forget. I told her she could absolutely go to the woman.
She ooched her way through the line and made her way to the woman. Now she tugged on her skirt.
"Excuse me ma'am," the sweet little voice spoke.
The woman looked around, then down. You could almost see her physically/emotionally brace herself for what she knew was coming. Her emotions were about to nail her, just not as she expected.
"Excuse me."
"Yes? ... May I help you?"
"I just wanted to tell you how pretty you look. I think your skirt looks so pretty with your boots."
(She was right. The skirt did look great with those boots.)
The woman choked out a "thank you" and my daughter skipped back to us.
We ordered and sat down to wait for our meals. The event had come and gone. My daughter had matter-of-factly done what she would have to anyone, any size, any color ... with not one thought of herself. That's where it ended.
Until the woman stopped by our table on her way out. I didn't see her coming, but felt a hand on my shoulder. With tears in her eyes, she said to me, "You have no idea what your daughter did for me today. .... Thank you."
And that was it. For the woman, who felt invisible and constantly judged, a kind word caressed a wounded soul. For us, the words offered a profound lesson on the impact that a small moment of courtesy and other-mindedness can have on another human life. May we always be alert for the kind word, the gentle hug, or the smile from a stranger that can, in unexpected ways, impact so much more than a lunch break.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Looking Differently At Valleys
By Angel Richard
“How are you?” The age-old introductory question came my way at a track meet this week.
I impulsively thought, “Which part of “you” shall I answer from?”
Given who stood before me I said, “I’m well but you know me, I could just as easily sit down to weep over a number of situations, my story always commingles.”
Commingle – to mix or mingle together. It’s becoming my favorite word to capture the stuff of life. Valleys & hilltops, dreams & disappointments, joys & sorrows commingle in my story. They run alongside one another like railroad tracks. Both exist simultaneously on holy ground that I find myself asking the Father, “How’s a daughter to live in this place?”
You see I formed my thinking around the idea that Disneyland was the ultimate landing spot for life. It’s where dreams come true. Funny how all fairy tales give the impression that the girl was in a ‘valley’ the prince rescues her and her life never goes back to the ‘valley’ again. We all live ‘happily ever after.’ No commingling.
My story has plot lines that commingle hourly. Leadership challenges with organizational successes. Mentoring homeruns with parental strikeouts. Family highs mix with family disasters. Commingling, commingling, commingling… makes me wonder if I missed the prince’s rescue.
Life doesn’t feel like I’m making my way through the valleys to the hilltops but rather I’m doing a cosmic split between the two. Like the early years of gymnastics where I had one foot on the ground and one up on the balance beam.
My experience births questions like these, “Did Jesus experience commingling or am I missing something as a Christian? Does the Gospel story embody commingling? Is the rhythm of life only valleys then hilltops?”
Two ideas marinate in my mind today.
First, to hear the Gospel is to hear the greatest and worst news all at once. The King coming to fix the brokenness of the world commingles alongside the truth that my individual brokenness or sin is so serious that it will take the death of Jesus. I’m a loved enemy, a pursued outsider. It smells like commingling.
Second, I’m considering how Christ’s experience on the Cross is an image of commingling. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me” commingles with “For the joy set before Him, He endured the cross…” Grief & joy, loss & gain, wrath & love are embodied in His death. Breathtaking!
It’s the story I can take into the deepest parts of myself when I say, “Father I don’t know how to live here doing the cosmic split.” He says to me, “I see you. I know exactly what’s going on and My Son lived the cosmic commingling so you can be alive to Me and to others when you live in the commingling valleys & hilltops of life.”
So here’s to commingling! I seem to be following in My Brother’s footsteps.
“How are you?” The age-old introductory question came my way at a track meet this week.
I impulsively thought, “Which part of “you” shall I answer from?”
Given who stood before me I said, “I’m well but you know me, I could just as easily sit down to weep over a number of situations, my story always commingles.”
Commingle – to mix or mingle together. It’s becoming my favorite word to capture the stuff of life. Valleys & hilltops, dreams & disappointments, joys & sorrows commingle in my story. They run alongside one another like railroad tracks. Both exist simultaneously on holy ground that I find myself asking the Father, “How’s a daughter to live in this place?”
You see I formed my thinking around the idea that Disneyland was the ultimate landing spot for life. It’s where dreams come true. Funny how all fairy tales give the impression that the girl was in a ‘valley’ the prince rescues her and her life never goes back to the ‘valley’ again. We all live ‘happily ever after.’ No commingling.
My story has plot lines that commingle hourly. Leadership challenges with organizational successes. Mentoring homeruns with parental strikeouts. Family highs mix with family disasters. Commingling, commingling, commingling… makes me wonder if I missed the prince’s rescue.
Life doesn’t feel like I’m making my way through the valleys to the hilltops but rather I’m doing a cosmic split between the two. Like the early years of gymnastics where I had one foot on the ground and one up on the balance beam.
My experience births questions like these, “Did Jesus experience commingling or am I missing something as a Christian? Does the Gospel story embody commingling? Is the rhythm of life only valleys then hilltops?”
Two ideas marinate in my mind today.
First, to hear the Gospel is to hear the greatest and worst news all at once. The King coming to fix the brokenness of the world commingles alongside the truth that my individual brokenness or sin is so serious that it will take the death of Jesus. I’m a loved enemy, a pursued outsider. It smells like commingling.
Second, I’m considering how Christ’s experience on the Cross is an image of commingling. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me” commingles with “For the joy set before Him, He endured the cross…” Grief & joy, loss & gain, wrath & love are embodied in His death. Breathtaking!
It’s the story I can take into the deepest parts of myself when I say, “Father I don’t know how to live here doing the cosmic split.” He says to me, “I see you. I know exactly what’s going on and My Son lived the cosmic commingling so you can be alive to Me and to others when you live in the commingling valleys & hilltops of life.”
So here’s to commingling! I seem to be following in My Brother’s footsteps.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Adoption - Waiting - Valleys
By Jennifer Grant
A Note from Elisa: Some Valleys take us through professional upheaval, others are more personal. Jen's story below touches on the latter...a very personal journey into an undeniable leadership realm: motherhood.
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It all began with paperwork.
Well, actually it began more mystically than that. Sitting in a church pew, in a moment of silence, I knew I'd have another child. But this one, unlike her three older siblings, would join our family by adoption.
I knew it, the way you know by looking at a flower that is in bloom.
But after that, and after my husband received a similar spiritual text message, there was paperwork. Mountains of it. If you're an adoptive parent, you probably feel weary - and maybe a little sick to your stomach - just reading words such as "dossier," "I-600 form," and "home study."
I threw myself into the paper chase and finished in record time. To paraphrase lines from the film "Raising Arizona," there was a lot of love and beauty in our family and every day that our daughter wasn't with us was a day she might later regret having missed.
Home study completed, we received a referral. Our soon-to-be daughter was a stunning six month-old baby who was in foster care in rural Guatemala. She has been a "waiting child." A "waiting child?" My girl would wait no more! It was late summer and I expected that she would be home by Thanksgiving - Christmas latest. Wouldn't God shoot our case through the Guatemalan courts? After all, God was the one who tapped us on the shoulder to say we should adopt in the first place.
But then, months began to pass. My sunny, expectant mood began to fade. I talked with other women online who were waiting for the Guatemalan courts to finalize adoptions. Some told stories that frightened me. They knew of babies who were ill from drinking unclean water; one even died. And then reports of sexual abuse began to surface.
Almost obsessively, I prayed: "God, please take care of her until I can take care of her myself."
But no reassuring wave of peace followed these prayers. Just the ticking of the mantle clock, the turning of the calendar pages. Some months, we received updated pictures. When they came, I saw how quickly she was growing up. Would she bond with me if she came home as an older child?
"Please, please, please God. Take care of her until I can."
And then, one day, a thought settled itself into my mind. I realized that even after my daughter came home, I couldn't protect her from every harm, just as I couldn't ensure that my other children would always be safe. Whether she was in my arms or far away in a Central American village I couldn't even picture, her life was in God's hands.
And God knew her already and loved her even more than I did.
I was able to wait out the last weeks of the process with more grace.
When we finally got the call and went to pick her up in Guatemala City almost six years ago, our daughter was a happy and healthy girl of 16 months. The 10 months of waiting had seemed like a decade. But she'd been in God's hands all along.
And I had, too.
Psalm 27:14
Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
A Series of Transitions
By Teresa Spurlock
I am not high-strung. I consider myself “flexible”. But lately, I’ve had snippets of recurring anxiety. I stopped to be still and reflect. Transition. That’s what it is. I have been in a series of transitions for some time, but hadn’t stopped to think about it. Now it was rolling over the top of me…
This past year was a roller coaster of change. We sold our home in Iowa; packed and moved back to Colorado. Stored our belongings and lived in a friend’s apartment for 6 months. Took in our pregnant daughter and stood beside her through another birth. Lamented when she turned and went back to her unhealthy relationship. Attended a wedding of a dear friend (a widower whose late wife had been my mentor). Joined my church’s team to Uganda (a last minute addition). Finalized paperwork and got approved for a non-profit. Took in our daughter again. Moved to a new house and neighborhood. Bonded with our small grandsons. Grieved when my husband lost his job. Pondered as my church’s pews emptied after another series of events. Mourned when our grandsons and daughter left again. Listened as others shared their own version of tremendous trials. Yes, this past year has been a series of transitions.
My phases of transition: excitement/anxiety….darkness….shaky ambiguity…new season…repeat!
I often visualize the scene in the movie Apollo 13. Everyone was excited for lift-off; but no one anticipated the words, “Houston we have a problem.” Meanwhile the seasoned astronauts rotated to the dark side of the moon and all was silent…
Silence. Darkness. Why do we equate that with bad things? Fear of the unknown I guess. We try so hard to find a flashlight of friends with advice to break the silence and validate our dilemmas. It is not enough. Perhaps it is supposed to be silent and dark…
”the silences of Jesus are as eloquent as His words and may be a sign not of His disapproval but of His approval and His way of providing a deeper blessing for you.” Streams in the Desert
In the movie, the onlookers hold their breath. Meanwhile the travelers learned, adjusted and applied what they could, before bracing for re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere. I get that part. Often my transitions feel like intense moments of shuddering and shaking until I see the light and find my footing in a new season.
I am just coming out of the quiet, the dark. I am feeling the shaking. It is humbling. It reminds me that I am not in control. From quiet to not so quiet. From still to shaking. From now to next. The pattern of transitions. Oh that I might learn to recognize and then even welcome it and all it brings…
I am not high-strung. I consider myself “flexible”. But lately, I’ve had snippets of recurring anxiety. I stopped to be still and reflect. Transition. That’s what it is. I have been in a series of transitions for some time, but hadn’t stopped to think about it. Now it was rolling over the top of me…
This past year was a roller coaster of change. We sold our home in Iowa; packed and moved back to Colorado. Stored our belongings and lived in a friend’s apartment for 6 months. Took in our pregnant daughter and stood beside her through another birth. Lamented when she turned and went back to her unhealthy relationship. Attended a wedding of a dear friend (a widower whose late wife had been my mentor). Joined my church’s team to Uganda (a last minute addition). Finalized paperwork and got approved for a non-profit. Took in our daughter again. Moved to a new house and neighborhood. Bonded with our small grandsons. Grieved when my husband lost his job. Pondered as my church’s pews emptied after another series of events. Mourned when our grandsons and daughter left again. Listened as others shared their own version of tremendous trials. Yes, this past year has been a series of transitions.
My phases of transition: excitement/anxiety….darkness….shaky ambiguity…new season…repeat!
I often visualize the scene in the movie Apollo 13. Everyone was excited for lift-off; but no one anticipated the words, “Houston we have a problem.” Meanwhile the seasoned astronauts rotated to the dark side of the moon and all was silent…
Silence. Darkness. Why do we equate that with bad things? Fear of the unknown I guess. We try so hard to find a flashlight of friends with advice to break the silence and validate our dilemmas. It is not enough. Perhaps it is supposed to be silent and dark…
”the silences of Jesus are as eloquent as His words and may be a sign not of His disapproval but of His approval and His way of providing a deeper blessing for you.” Streams in the Desert
In the movie, the onlookers hold their breath. Meanwhile the travelers learned, adjusted and applied what they could, before bracing for re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere. I get that part. Often my transitions feel like intense moments of shuddering and shaking until I see the light and find my footing in a new season.
I am just coming out of the quiet, the dark. I am feeling the shaking. It is humbling. It reminds me that I am not in control. From quiet to not so quiet. From still to shaking. From now to next. The pattern of transitions. Oh that I might learn to recognize and then even welcome it and all it brings…
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Irrationally Incapable
By Suanne Camfield
I can’t stop staring at my laundry.
Every day begins the same: two kids whining over empty drawers and dirty socks followed by a husband’s heavy sigh—a reflection of both his waning compassion and growing annoyance with my emotionally paralyzed state—as he hastily grabs a pair of boxers he hasn’t seen since college.
I need to do some laundry. God knows I need to do some laundry. But valleys, I’m learning, have this way of robbing us of the life-capacity at which we normally function. A relatively easy step becomes an impossible task and we find ourselves irrationally incapable. And so each time I crack open the laundry room door, I freeze. I stare at what I’m sure is an insurmountable mess, and with a sigh of my own, am convinced: My children will never have clean socks again.
I know what you’re thinking. Before I knew what it felt like to sit with the ugly troll who lives under the bridge, I’d had thought it too: Come on woman, pull yourself together and throw a few shirts in the freaking laundry machine! Rationally, it sounds so simple. Yet there’s nothing rational or simple about a valley. In a valley, the disconnect between what we know to be true and what we feel is so vast that the faith we’ve unwaveringly declared on high ground becomes a distant echo of a voice we no longer recognize.
I’ve appreciated reading my colleagues’ (sisters?) growth experiences over the past couple of weeks as a result of the valleys in which they’ve walked. Honestly, from a girl who feels like she’s sloshing in the belly of a whale (and thinks it pretty much sucks), my visceral reaction is apathetic to growth. Christ-like character, dependence, humility? I’d swap my soul’s transformation in a heartbeat if it meant the pain would just go away.
Ah, but even as I type, I know I am wrong. Even in the darkest muck of the valley, I can’t snuff out the faint rays of hope upon which my faith is built. Somewhere deep down, I know I feel incapable of clawing my way out of the valley, because I actually am. Capable, that is. And so are you.
My laundry, however, now that’s another story.
A ray of hope from Jesus Calling by Sarah Young:
“I AM WITH YOU. These four words are like a safety net, protecting you from falling into despair. Because you are human, you will always have ups and downs in your life experience. But the promise of My Presence limits how far down you can go. Sometimes you may feel as if you are in a free fall, when people or things you had counted on let you down…You recall that that not only am I with you, I am holding you by your right hand. I guide you with My counsel, and afterward I will take you into Glory…”
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