Just like God intended, God had spoken through his creation, and his words were unmistakable: "I am here." But that wasn't all God was saying to me in that moment, for because I had read the words of a much older book, I also knew that the God who exists is also for me.
"We had decided to take a step out of our boat and see if the raging waves would hold us up. That morning outside the supermarket, our feet were still falling—hadn't hit the waves yet—and it wasn't looking like the waves were going to be able to hold us up. In fact, I was wondering if car trouble meant we shouldn't just fling ourselves back in the boat, that is, return home, put our pajamas back on, and spend the rest of the day binge watching Columbo."
"Night descended on the weary wayfarer, and with it came fears of thieves without and shivers from the cold within. Thick clouds hugged the earth and blocked out the moon and stars, and so the man walked down the dusty road beneath his thoughts and the suffocating darkness."
I love reading and writing stories because they have endings. Our story doesn't have an ending yet—at least not from our perspective. We're still slogging through the thick of it. We don't know what's coming up in the next chapter. All we can do is trust the Author, a Father who loves his children more than I would ever be capable of loving mine.
I sat in a hospital that was—well, let's just say it was different than the one I'd sat in almost two months prior.
The people of God are largely a forgotten people. And theirs are the names that are engraved on the palm of the Creator God of the universe, names that will remain forever, forgotten in this life perhaps, but not for a second forgotten by the One who brought them into being and sustains their every breath and will hold them in his omnipotent arms forever.
"As I type these words, a woman Laura and I only met a few weeks ago is cutting into my wife's abdomen in search of a mass that she will then snip off and remove from my wife's body." And that fact puts a new perspective on things.
O’er parched and sandy earth where sun has killed All but the most resilient weeds, where spear- Like winds hurl dust and wolves loom nigh and jeer, A flock trails near its shepherd wise and skilled And follows him despite hope unfulfilled. Through mountain passes narrow, rocky, sheer, Where enemies from hidden lairs peer, He … Continue reading Onward Pressed
"Sing, sparrows, sing, for God's good varied grace!" We are so well provided for.
"Nose against the cardboard, he still smelled each sibling's scent." The tale of the one left behind. Click to read more.