a covenant for today

i've been thinking a lot about covenants lately. in my earnest and heartfelt attempt to understand, truly understand, the Bible, i've started again back at the beginning. deep in the language of genesis, there's mention of these sacred promises. to never again send rain to cover the earth. that all the land, as far as abraham could see, would be his. that his family would be fruitful enough to cover that land with babies and women and love. that sarah could have her taste of miracles, even though by any other standard than God's, she was too old for such dreams.

they were big, these covenants. huge. they were a declaration that things would be OK for you. that there would be long days of gray and heartaches, but there would also be sunshine. so much sunshine that the dove would never come back and you would forget the flood.

reading it, i rejoiced for these people. these early foragers plowing their way through life, guinea pigs of the most fantastic kind. and i, too, ached for a covenant. an assurance.

but i was reminded this morning, driving to work with my hard boiled egg and favorite song, that such a covenant does exist. it exists when i sneak a peek at pablo asleep on the pillow, his little paw tucked under his chin. or at robert, putting his folded clothes into the old dresser. it exists when i hold hands across the table with my family, like last night at mama's. and on my favorite two-second walk to the mailbox at the end of the day.

the same promises that were made to these ancient ancestors hold true for us today. the flood won't last. there will be sun. there will be redemption. there will be mercy. there will be babies. there will be life. there will be forgiveness. there will be joy.

give us this day

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there are some days when my coffee turning cold too quickly is all it takes to undo me.

yesterday it was a long line at taco bell. monday it was traffic. not stalled, angry traffic, but just the mundane hum of the highway and a gloomy sky.

it's always the litte things. because we know, don't we, that they're never really that little. especially not when they conglomerate and stick to each other and turn into a giant thing. lately, i've become so "of" this world that it's hard to remember i'm really just "in" it.

beacuse this is all so much to take in. the super sized combo for seventy five cents more. the buy one get one free. the movies and the music and the restaurants that cost more than they did five years ago. and i'm a visual learner. the same girl who could stare at a whiteboard for hours and have a ball with an overhead projector screen (the thing i miss most about elementary school), is the same one who now sits on her kitchen window to watch the sunrise. i put hymns in my earbuds and sat out on the side porch this weekend as a storm blew furiously around the yard, twisting the oak  branches around and stirring up mud.

because i'm still learning, you know. and i'm taking this world in, one deep, gulping day at a time.

it hit me while getting ready this morning. while putting on the makeup and the dress and the heels. while chopping the garlic for tonight's chicken and twisting my hair into a side bun.

God gives us our daily bread.

not our daily foie gras or free range chicken. not our daily extra large milkshake or target shopping spree. not our giant movie screen or popcorn with extra butter. we are not entitled to such luxuries. they are there for us, yes, and they can be so beautifully fun.

but when it comes down to it, the bread is all we really need. such simplicity in a world obsessed with anything but is a hard concept to swallow. but i'm convinced nothing goes down easier.

there's a reason restaurants serve bread at the beginning of a meal. it's a little taste of what's to come. an appetizer for the main course.

and such it is in life, too, i suppose.

catch some light and you'll be all right

 

 

i spend my day looking at a computer screen, breaking only to pour a hot cup of coffee or take a walk around the building, my headphones drowning out the highway traffic. and i look at the parking lot. and people in restaurants. and the pin oaks in front of the house. the clothesline. the stove. at night, it's the blue buzz of the television that draws me close.

but on saturday, i looked up.

and saw an explosion of rose in the sky. a few spots of amber. we took a walk like we do every night and i couldn't get over the sheer beauty of it all.

later that evening, we took a blanket outside. to that far corner of the yard beside the blueberry bush, where we can't see or hear the road. and we talked like teens and looked up at the stars, the sky again a wonderous shade of ebony.

this morning i looked up and said a prayer of thanksgiving. for a clear lane on the highway (a blessing every time).

i've become determined to make this a habit, this upward glancing. to remind me of prayer. and of nature. and of consistency. because the sky is always there, whether i acknowledge it or not. and if paintings like this are always above me, it just seems silly to ignore them.

jesus, the short-order cook

so they went out in the boat, but they caught nothing all night...at dawn, Jesus was standing on the beach, but the disciples couldn't see who he was...when they got there, they found breakfast waiting for them--fish cooking over a charcoal fire, and some bread...Simon Peter went aboard and dragged the net to the shore. there were 153 large fish, and yet the net hadn't torn.

"now come and have some breakfast!" Jesus said. none of the disciples dared to ask him,"who are you?" because they knew it was the Lord. -john 21:1-12 

he walked on water. consumed a burning bush. rose a man (and himself) from the dead and gave a blind man sight. but one morning by the ocean, Jesus was just a man in a robe, cooking some fish and inviting his friends for breakfast. i found this passage a few weeks ago and it has since become one of my favorite in the entire Bible. because it presents Jesus in ways i don't often think of him. 

the great savior who knows the length and number of every hair on my head also enjoys cooking with charcoal, like my dad did in the nineties on his old black grill out back. and as i slink into the very back corner booth during my lunch break, he stood and shouted, not wanting to eat alone. the lover of my soul loves company. and fellowship. and good meat and bread in the morning. i can see the mist of dawn rising over the sea, the sun and moon in that celestial tug-of-war that happens every sunrise. i bet it was chilly, as seaside meals can be. i spent one morning two octobers ago on cannon beach, oregon. robert and i ate scones and looked at haystack rock in the distance. i dipped my toes into the pacific ocean for the first time. a thick haze covered the ground below and in front of us. i like to picture that scene in this story. a master in the mist.

oh but listen to the rest of it! yes, this is one of the most human accounts of Jesus in the Bible. i also love the passage where he prays in the olive grove, bowing down to his Father but also asking if maybe, just maybe, the cup of suffering may be willingly taken from him. but this is a more than mortal experience.

the disciples weren't catching fish. they were out all night scavenging the ocean bottom to no avail. but as soon as they see Jesus and he suggests throwing their net to the other side, they catch more than their net should allow. but it doesn't break. of course it doesn't. as he fed the thousands, he fed his friends. more than enough, but never too much to handle. that's a miracle.

i didn't get too far past the first ripple of the pacific ocean that morning on cannon beach. it was freezing and my toes were bare. but the disciples ran off the boat to Jesus. not only had their savior returned, he was ready with a warm fire and food. alive in the realest sense. and even on the mistiest of mornings, no truth is clearer than this.

waiting on the dove

and the waters prevailed upon the earth a hundred an hundred and fifty days. (gen. 7: 24) 

after the end of the hundred and fifty days the waters were abated. and the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of ararat. and the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth month, on the first day of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen. (gen. 8: 3 - 5) 

via

i read this yesterday and stopped in my tracks. as i dove into the story of noah, i realized something i'd never before understood. 

after the rain stopped, the waters still rose.

there were still oceans of fury and seas of torrent. it was 150 days before they stopped and the ark came to a rest. before the jostling and rolling and slamming against rocks came to an end. all this time, i thought it was only forty days. not that that's any better. and even then, even when the sun peeked its meager head forward as if asking, is it okay now? can i come out?, all was not safe. there was another period of waiting. of sending a dove back and forth, back and forth, until one day he didn't come back and that's when they knew. the gate could be opened and they could walk on the dry land.

sometimes the hurts don't come in thunderstorms. they don't always wash over you and threaten to drown you in their weight. sometimes, they just toss you around a bit. a snap from a co-worker. a plan changed unexpectedly. a phone call that leaves you nervous and worried. yes, the waters often rise even when the rain has stopped. and what's hard is that sometimes its those little waves that hurt the most. those little nags that weave their way into your life without your consent.

my sweet nanno is still not home from the hospital. there are bills to pay and my cherry red desk isn't making them any prettier. i haven't had a deep sleep in days and my nights have been spent twisting and turning between rest and  prayer.

but there's a morning, too. if we just wait for the dove. the mountains have been there all along. we'll see their tops soon.

does he still feel the nails

if you were to walk up those carpeted steps, sliding your hands up the old oak banister, you would turn left and enter my old bedroom. if this were any year  before 2005, you would find my little twin bed pushed up against the wall, a few feet from my sister's. under the rectangular window that faced into the woods and overlooked the swing set.

you'd see a life-sized cardboard cutout of tom cruise from jerry maguire. an old mauve vase with twigs from that big pin oak on the shelf above my bed. five of my favorite books. short, poignant reads like the old man and the sea and of mice and men. the bible. a framed picture from the first family gathering i attended with robert.

if you sat on my bed, flattening the old white comforter lined with pink flowers, you could see our old desk. the one mama and dad lugged up the steps and assembled before i can remember. where i sat and played oregon trail with my very first grade school boyfriend. where my sister still stays up and completes her college assignments.

it's one of those good, solid office depot desks from the mid-nineties. with a million little compartments and drawers that tend to come off their hinges if you pull too hard. inside one of those crevices, i placed a little statue i received in high school.

it's no taller than a coffee mug. just two pieces of hardware intersecting themselves on a wooden platform.

with a caption: "does he still feel the nails, every time i fail?"

taken from an old ray boltz song, the statue reminded me, and still reminds me, of the importance of good friday. of what happened, and how indebted i am.

i love easter weekend, probably more than any other.

because yes, there were nails. but more than the piercing and the beating, there was also love. and i know He still feels that too. above all else.

taking back sunday

it usually happens when i'm on my side in bed, one hand propped under the cotton pillowcase and the other hanging loosely above my head. when everything in the house is silent save for the sweet puffs of breath pablo and robert let slip out as they dream.

when the day is done, and the headaches and stresses, little annoyances and big worries all go back into their rabbit holes for a few hours. that's when i pray the longest, and the hardest.

i love the idea of prayer as a continual conversation. of never really saying amen. i whisper little thank yous when my lane is clear on the highway. when a stormy day turns sunny. when i'm rocking on the porch swing with a big bowl of salad and a sweet tea. i whisper little please Gods before a presentation, a work engagement or a dreaded conversation.

but the true, guttural voice that rises from me to reach out to the heavens only truly comes out at night. and i've thought about how to change that. how to make it the first thing, not the last thing i do. i don't want the most integral, important part of my life to be an afterthought. something i attend to after my everyday duties are accomplished and i'm just about sacked out.

the other day, i realized an important element behind why i think this way: i consider sunday the last day of the week.

i've always been confused by calendars, because they typically start the week with sunday, and end with saturday. i've gone against this trend all my life. monday, the dreadful beast that it is, is always the first day of my week. my new chance to start fresh. to write in my planner more and clean my desk. to plan meals and spend more time with pablo.

but it needs to be sunday. it has to be sunday. if i keep sunday as the last day of my week, i continue the trend of pushing my rest and religion to the very back burner. oh sure, you can have church, and a day of thanksgiving and reflection. only after your monday through saturday things get done.

so tomorrow is the last day of my week, as far as i'm concerned. and sunday will start it anew. my end is now my beginning, as it should have been.

mama once told me, there's no sweeter way to fall asleep than in prayer, deep in the arms of Jesus.

but there's no sweeter way to wake up either, i'm certain.

plans to prosper you, and not to harm you

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it hit me yesterday while driving along the old road near my house. the one with potholes that the city keeps filling and big mud trucks keep digging back up.

the sun was low in the sky and the window was down. and from the driver's seat i could see home in the distance.

and the thought came. as clear and simple as the yellow line slipping out from under me.

don't question the story God is writing for you life. and don't discount the one He's writing for your neighbor.

i pulled into the driveway, frantically flipped through old papers and registration and lipstick in my glove compartment. from those depths i pulled out a red pen.

i sat alone in the driveway while the sun set around me, red ambers dancing on the grass.

and i wrote it down. and as i wrote, i prayed. and as i prayed, it lifted.

i say a little prayer for you

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because i need this today, and i suspect some of you may need it to, i want to do a little something different on here.

the blogging community is so big. it is full of girls writing about their favorite vintage dresses, their baby's first steps and their date nights with their husbands. it is a cathartic release for people writing through pain. through divorce. through deaths. through illness.

i woke up with a heavy heart for a family in my community. i woke up with nerves about a presentation coming up soon that's two years in the making. maybe it's the fact that the clouds are hanging low in the gray carolina sky this morning and my usual songbird wasn't perched in the tree outside my window when my feet hit the hardwoods, but i just woke up burdened.

and i thought, maybe you are too. maybe you need to share today the anxieties pulling at the threads of your soul.

if you would, please leave any prayer request, any nagging uncertainty or big, deep pain sitting on your spirit in the comments below. 

let's do this anonymously. a safe forum, an even playing field. since elizabeth's new year's post, i've been thinking about a way to incorporate an idea like this, and i feel strongly this is my version.

i will pray tonight. i promise. and if you feel led, my wish is that you too will pray for the requests.

how to leave an annoymous comment:
-select "post a comment" below this post
-in the box that says "comment as" scroll down to select "anonymous." 
-click "publish"

thank you, friends. for lifting me up, and for lifting each other up. it's a beautiful thing.

new {happy} year

last year this time, i sat in the bathtub and wrote a list of goals. they included: read one book a month. write a "thankful for" list at the end of each day. keep a day planner. take more walks.

but this year, all i want is one thing:

to wake up each morning and catch the sunrise.

to not let its beauty spray across the sky while i'm in the shower, or drying my hair. to not pull the yellow quilt over my eyes when the rays start peeking through the blinds in the bedroom. to bring my coffee outside with me and sit on the porch swing in the dark. just sit in the morning blackness. until the golden and pink and coral start crawling up from behind the trees.

i just want to catch it. and i think with that, i'll catch all those other wishes and resolutions. all those other desires of my heart just beyond my reach. i'll pull them in with the sunshine. and at night, send them back up into Heaven, to the great painter Himself, who will take them, mix them, and create with them another glorious morning.

to see my dreams in the dawn. and to chase them until nightfall. that is my wish for 2012.

a christmas card and a prayer

on the way to work this morning, i thought about baby Jesus. about little chubby fingers. about flushed cheeks. the way babies smell. about a tired mama and a proud papa. about hay bales and donkeys and night stars and the cold. then i thought about the cross on the hill and i couldn't bring myself to think about it anymore and had to turn on a pop song.

my heart aches for what mary didn't fully know. my spirit crumbles to pieces when i think about swaddling a savior. because it's all so tortuously beautiful. and sad and sweet and precious and wild. i pray that this realization never leaves me. that i feel just as impacted on a pretty thursday evening in the spring, under the shade trees in the front of the house with my arm under robert, as i do this morning, two days before christmas. that the knowledge of the blessing sticks to my ribs, sustaining me on nights spent kneeling and mornings spent over the coffee pot.

it's a comfortable life, typically. there are sunrises and twilights. there are hands held across wooden tables and  pillows that smell of summer. there are children laughing on hilltops and dogs with wet noses to greet us at the close of the day.

but to have this? to achieve this unspeakable beauty? it took one incredible sacrifice. but before all that. before the nails and the beating. before the crown of thorns and the bleeding.

there was one incredible birth.

a real world christmas

it was cold that night, and dark.

there were no rooms and people were rude. they were lost, lonely and scared.

on a bed of straw, huddled near livestock. not the ideal way to bring a savior to the world. not the ideal place for anything, really. the birth was flawed, riddled with unexpected setbacks, disappointments and heavy-hearted fatigue. in an age where lead-based paint is feared, the floor of a barn seems an unimaginable substitute for a hospital. but for all its human shortcomings, what a divine, precious perfection. it was real, hay bales and all. the face staring back a marriage of the human and the holy. yes, it was not quite as imagined, but in its very essence, the realness, the grit and dirt and sweat of Jesus' birth is what makes it endearing, special and sacred.

i find comfort in that. in the realization that God wants the soil of our lives, the grimy undercore of our souls, to plant the seed of faith. life is messy and tragic and altogether hard sometimes, but it's also so blessedly beautiful.

we took christmas pictures on sunday. from the moment i slipped on my dress, it just felt wrong. it was windy. and cold. and pablo was preoccupied with the cat running behind the deck. my hair was laying weird and i picked my skirt on the wooden bench. we argued about dog placement and portrait vs. landscape. about self timer length and background location. seven pictures later, we settled on a semi-focused, semi-centered one that will suffice, and ordered thirty.

this picture sort of sums it all up. we were frustrated, ill and tired with each other. i was tempted to send these out as the final picture, a nice detour from the typical, posed shots that line our fridge.

because this picture represents real life. it was not ideal. actually, nothing went according to plan. but it was real and honest and rooted in love. and in the end, the chaos gave way to beauty. much like that birth, i suppose.

just fine

 

it's funny how one thing can undo me.

how coffee loses its taste and the sunrise loses its brilliance when clouded.

i've got a presentation today. a short, no-longer-than-three-minutes-please little impromptu speech.

and i've practiced. for robert. for pablo (who provided lots of constructive criticism), and for my co-workers.and i drove to work in the dark this morning, praying for an elusive confidence the whole time.

i was born nervous, to a nervous father. i'm reminded every time i skirt the telephone or think up another word to replace the one not quite out of my mouth.

so i will drive. to the big city two hours away. with my sweet sister in tow and hope against all odds that the fluency fairy will visit at approximately 6:15 p.m.

prayers, happy thoughts, well wishes, good vibes, please?

thank you.

via

my fourth: festivals, fireworks and family

 

 

 

robert and i drove downtown yesterday to visit the local independence day festival. it was a smorgasbord of funnel cakes, sno-cones and local banjo pickers. all under the blistering noon sun. i saw mamas holding onto their children through the crowds,  little flags stuck into holes on the sidewalk, and an elderly man selling shower heads. who broke my heart because no one (absolutely no one) visited his stand. the one with the faux shower set up and the pamphlets neatly spread out on a little wooden table.

we left the fun and went to a little diner for lunch. the best part of the day happened in the middle of my meal when, with my hands full of barbecue chicken and honey rolls, robert grabbed them and said, "i can't wait to have kids with you one day." it was altogether random and beautiful and filling. 

yesterday afternoon held a thrifting spree with my sweet sister, then we all gathered at my parent's house for our annual cookout. which would not be complete without my dad and brother shooting off some classic wal-mart fireworks. with names like "glistening rain" and "lotus flower," you know you're in for a real treat.

it did rain yesterday. but after it cleared came a rainbow. a double one, actually.

reminding me that yes there is conflict in this world. there's war and violence and innocent people die and we never really know why. but there's also a beauty to this earth. and the joy that comes in the morning is enough to stamp out evil. enough to rise and reassure. and remind us that never will humanity be washed away again. even on the hottest and wettest of carolina summers.

entertaining angels

if we treat people as they are, we make them worse. if we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.-  goethe

i had a bump-up about a month ago. just a little fender bender in front of my favorite local gas station. as i was pulling in front of the building, a woman backed up in to me, though i honked very loudly the entire time the black SUV was moving. it was my first accident ever. and i know i'm lucky it was so minor.

but the woman was anything but simple. she was difficult to work with, elusive and quick to flee the scene.

she told me she would e-mail me her insurance number. she didn't.

she told me she had insurance. she didn't.

and her little lies and deceptions cost me almost two months of headache and stress, the eventual outcome being that i was covered under my non-insured motorist insurance and all was well.

but i was angry. angry that her mistake cost me. angry that i had to spend hours on the phone, a stutterer's worst nightmare. angry that for two months, i had to drive around with my front bumper halfway hanging off while an insurance agent tried to reach her via snail mail.

but she's not the last. there will be others, i am sure of it. ones who will tear down the wall of sunshine i've built. ones whose clouds will helplessly wander into my beams. but it's how i treat those people that spins the situation. yes, i could be dealing with an instrument of satan. but i could also be entertaining angels. and on this side of heaven, i might not always know the difference.

so i overestimate the good. and trust. in promises that might turn up empty and strangers who only seem sincere. i do it in hopes that maybe one day, on an afternoon when i'm not my best, when i'm grouchy, angry and downright mean, someone will do the same for me.

she loves the sunrise, no longer sees it with her sleeping eyes

i used to think i needed someone in front of me while i exercised. a lithe instructor. an enterprising college student making beer money teaching free cardio classes at the university gym. a woman in a sports bra and spandex, consoling me through my television, just a few more reps.

but this morning,  i woke early. i slipped on my flannel pants and fleece jacket. i read scripture on an old round, wooden table. the one passed down to me, with the drink rings, scratches and that one place i left the iron sit on for too long. i ate cheerios as i read, and drank pulp-less orange juice from a plastic cup splayed with my alma mater. i missed the pulp.

then i took my pilates mat outside. to our side porch. where the trees surround and our little white glider sits. there are still hooks in the ceiling where hanging baskets used to sway. and i laid my body down on the hot pink foam, and waited for the sun to come. and as i waited, i stretched. i moved. twisted. downward dogged. and i realized something:

the body knows. 

it just knows. how to move and free itself, work out those kinks and pops and aches. and yes, classes are wonderful, and there's certainly something to be said about the motivation of a group atmosphere. but there's also something about the way the sun bounces off an elm tree. the way the fading night swirls into the clouds. the way my thick blue socks felt against the pavement.

and the way i was reminded. of the beautiful, complex work of art that our bodies are. i vowed to get up early tomorrow morning, and do it all over again. yes. prayer, cheerios, and sunrise salutations. i think a girl could get used to this.

because it's close to easter, and i needed this

xxx

You are more than the choices that you've made,
You are more than the sum of your past mistakes,
You are more than the problems you create,
You've been remade.

'Cause this is not about what you've done,
But what's been done for you.
This is not about where you've been,
But where your brokenness brings you to.

This is not about what you feel,
But what He felt to forgive you,
And what He felt to make you loved. 

 -from this beautiful song

the only thing that counts

what you feel only matters to you. it's what you to do to the people you say you love. that's what matters. that's the only thing that counts.

-the last kiss

that's my favorite quote, folks, from  my favorite movie of all time. with all the beautiful poetry, song lyrics (and goodness, there are some beautiful song lyrics), and classic literature that i've consumed, this one stands above them all. because at its core, it's the truest sentiment i've found.

because just as faith without works is dead, so is love. i  can hold in my heart the greatest, sweetest feelings toward robert, but if i don't act on them, if i just cocoon them and stay safe within them, he'll never know. and it's a beautiful harbor, that cocoon. i could live forever inside it. but i can't. we can't.

i've got to show it to my family too. for me, this means staying up on the phone with my sister, far away in college. helping mama clean up after a big meal. helping my brother with his homework (because microsoft excel can be ridiculously hard). driving 20 minutes to ship my etsy packages from the post office where my dad works, though there are three post offices within a two-mile radius of my work.

because no one can read my mind. no one will know how i feel about them unless those feelings pick themselves up by their bootstraps and morph into actions.

it's the greatest challenge, and the greatest gift, this ability to show love. it can backfire, lead to misread signals, and end up unrequited and defeated. but it can also lead to the greatest happiness and reward this life can offer. and when this life's up, all the love we've given, every single gorgeous drop of it, will be returned to us tenfold. by a Creator who graciously, thankfully, is a master of leading by example.

the one i feed

xxx

i read something in my devotional book this weekend that struck me. not just got me thinking, but suddenly aligned everything i've been seeking for in my walk with God and my search for truth:

from a native american faith tradition we receive the story of a grandfather telling his grandchild about spiritual struggle and growth. "inside me there are two wolves who fight each other all the time. one is motivated by peace, gentleness, honesty, justice and love. the other lives by resentment, bitterness, hate, anger and violence." "which one wins?" asks the child.

"the one i feed," answers the elder.

fate as malleable as clay

i look forward to friday lunch breaks. they mean a trip to value village, my favorite neighborhood thrift shop. it's a spacious, beautiful warehouse with rows and rows of darling dresses and pretty retrro furnishings. it's like heaven.

last friday was no exception. at 12:00 sharp, i turned off my computer monitors. i slung my pocketbook over my shoulder and headed for the door, ID badge dangling between my fingers. halfway across the threshold, i remembered something. a work assignment i need to talk to someone about. before lunch. before the mid-afternoon hypnosis set in. but then, a quick conversation led to more work, more conversations. a terrible avalanche at the worst time.


so i spent the next 25 minutes going over a project with one of our managers.

i was frustrated when i left. because i was late. which meant less time shopping, and worse, a hurried, rushed feeling. and no one, i repeat no one, wants to feel rushed while thrifting--an experience to be savored slowly and purposefully. i got in the car and sped away.

then, a few miles before my exit, i saw it.

a row of cars clamoring to merge into one lane. to allow the fire truck to move through. the police cars. the ambulance. right where i would have driven, an accident had just happened.

i sat in the traffic jam for about 20 minutes until i passed the horrible scene. the dilapidated car and torn guardrail.

{in college, as a journalism minor, i was warned against using the word "tragedy" unless i was specifically talking about an event in which the main character has a flaw that causes his own demise, like oedipus. but friday, with the sirens joining in an awful chorus and the sky looming with rain, what i saw can only be described as tragic.)

i received an e-mail forward one time about all the employees who, for some random reason or the other, did not go to work in the twin towers on 9/11. they were all late.

some missed their alarm that morning. one man's son started kindergarten and he was a few minutes late from dropping him off. it was person's turn to bring doughnuts. one man wore a new pair of shoes, developed a blister, then stopped at the drugstore to get a band-aid.

------
in all of those instances, including mine on friday, something caused a delay. which in turn, caused frustration, anxiety and unhappiness. but in the end, that very delay saved our lives.

so i urge you. embrace every situation as a gift. from a God who knows the future. standing behind an elderly woman in line counting her change, as irritating as it might be, is a deliberate standstill. traffic jams, long-winded friends and unexpected changes at work aren't accidental. by opening ourselves up to the idea that everything is working for the good--the beautiful, deliberate good--of those who love Him, things don't seem so inconvienent anymore. 

and being a Christian doesn't mean i'm immune. that could have easily been me on friday, and it wouldn't have meant God loves me any less. but having that relationship means trusting, searching and finding. looking for the meaning behind the simplest of things. for His mercy.


and it always comes, just in the nick of time.