"When I am told that God became man, I can follow the idea, but I just do not understand what it means. For what man, if left to his natural promptings, if he were God, would humble himself to lie in the feedbox of a donkey or to hang upon a cross? God laid upon Christ the iniquities of us all. This is that ineffable and infinite mercy of God which the slender capacity of man's heart cannot comprehend and much less utter- that unfathomable depth and burning zeal of God's love toward us. And truly the magnitude of God's mercy engenders in us not only a hardness to believe but also incredulity itself. For I hear not only that the omnipotent God, the creator and maker of all things, is good and merciful, but also that the Supreme Majesty was so concerned for me, a lost sinner, a son of wrath and of everlasting death, that he spared not his own Son but delivered him to the most ignominious death, that, hanging between two thieves, he might be made a curse and sin for me, a cursed sinner, that I might be made just, blessed, a son and heir of God. Who can sufficiently declare this exceeding great goodness of God?"
-Martin Luther -Here I Stand
Friday, January 29, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Haiti
Tonight I found myself roaming my house with nothing to do so I flipped on the tv and started watching news coverage over the earthquake in Haiti. Woah, did it blow me away! Sure,I've been praying for these people casually but it didn't seem that real to me until I flipped this on and saw the pictures and heard the stories. It seems so surreal to me that I'm here living in my nice, cozy house while at the same time these people are on the streets, fearing an aftershock, trying to protect their families, and hoping to survive it all. My heart is breaking for these people. Join me in meaninfully praying for them.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
"Do Not Be Afraid..."
Fear. We all have it to some extent whether it be fear that we will fail the midterm or fear that the sun will fall out of orbit at any moment and all of mankind will be wiped out (ok, so that's a little extreme, but you get what I'm saying.) Me, I'm what you would call a big ole worry wart. I worry about anything and everything. What, you say, is there for a 14 year old girl to worry about? Well, for me the list goes on and on. I dwell too much on 'what could happen' (and not in an optimistic perspective.) Lately this gnawing fear has been growing, so I've decided I need to do something about it. Out of Jesus' full ministry here on earth the one statement that he made more than any other was "do not be afraid."
"So don't be afraid, you are worth much more than many sparrows." -Matthew 10:31
"Take courage, son; your sins are forgiven." -Matthew 9:2
"I tell you not to worry about everyday life- whether you will have enough food and drink, or clothes to wear." -Matthew 6:25
"Don't be afraid. Just believe, and your daughter will be well." -Luke 8:50
"Don't be afraid," he said, "Take courage. I am here!"- Matthew 14:27
"Do not be afraid of those who can kill the body but cannot kill the soul." - Matthew 10:28
"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom." -Luke 12:32
"Don't let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me." -John 14:1
"The peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don't be troubled or afraid." -John 14:27
"Why are you frightened," he asks,"Why are your hearts filled with doubt?" -Luke 24:38
"And you will hear of wars and threats of wars but don't panic." -Matthew 24:6
But Jesus came and touched them. "Get up," he said, "and don't be afraid." -Matthew 17:7
"Take courage, son; your sins are forgiven." -Matthew 9:2
"I tell you not to worry about everyday life- whether you will have enough food and drink, or clothes to wear." -Matthew 6:25
"Don't be afraid. Just believe, and your daughter will be well." -Luke 8:50
"Don't be afraid," he said, "Take courage. I am here!"- Matthew 14:27
"Do not be afraid of those who can kill the body but cannot kill the soul." - Matthew 10:28
"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom." -Luke 12:32
"Don't let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me." -John 14:1
"The peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don't be troubled or afraid." -John 14:27
"Why are you frightened," he asks,"Why are your hearts filled with doubt?" -Luke 24:38
"And you will hear of wars and threats of wars but don't panic." -Matthew 24:6
But Jesus came and touched them. "Get up," he said, "and don't be afraid." -Matthew 17:7
Jesus doesn't want me to live in a state of fear. I don't want to live in a state of fear. Fear does nothing but suck my joy and fullness in Christ. It is,yet again, the devil trying to pull me from the straight and narrow path. So I am now day by day learning to put all my trust in Him, to stop worrying about what will happen tomorrow, and to live in the joy of Christ. Please pray that I will continue to do so.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Trashman
The woman flops down on the bench and drops her trash bag between her feet. With elbows on knees and cheeks in hands, she stares at the sidewalk. Everthing aches. Back. Legs. Neck. Her shoulder is stiff and her hands raw. All because of the sack.
Oh to be rid of the garbage.
Unbroken clouds form a gray ceiling, gray with a thousand sorrows. Soot-stained buildings cast long shadows, darkening passageways and the people in them. Drizzle chills the air and muddies the rivulets of the street gutters. The woman collects her jacket. A passing car drenches the sack and splashes her jeans. She doesn't move. Too tired.
Her memories of life without the trash are fuzzy. As a child maybe? Her back was straighter, her walk quicker... or was it a dream? She doesn't know for sure.
A second car. This one stops and parks. A man steps out. She watches his shoes sink in the slush. From the car he pulls out a trash bag, lumpy with litter. He drapes it over his shoulder and curses the weight.
Neither of them speaks. Who knows if he noticed her. His face seems younger, younger than his stooped back. In moments he is gone. Her gaze returns to the pavement.
She never looks at her trash. Early on she did, but what she saw repulsed her, so she's kept the sack closed ever since.
What else can she do? Give it to someone? All have their own.
Here comes a young mother. With one hand she leads a child; with the other she drags her load, bumpy and heavy.
Here comes an old man, face ravined with wrinkles. His trash sack is so long it hits the back of his legs as he walks. He glances at the woman and tries to smile.
What weight would he be carrying? She wonders as he passes.
"Regrets."
She turns to see who spoke. Beside her on the bench sits a man. Tall, with angular cheeks and bright, kind eyes. Like hers, his jeans are mud stained. Unlike hers, his shoulders are straight. He wears a t-shirt and baseball cap. She looks around for his trash but doesn't see it.
He watches the old man disappear as he explains, " As a young father, he worked many hours and neglected his family. His children don't love him. His sack is full, full of regrets."
She doesn't respond. And when she doesn't he does.
"And yours?"
"Mine?" she asks, looking at him.
"Shame." His voice is gentle, compassionate.
She still doesn't speak, but neither does she turn away.
"Too many hours in the wrong arms. Last year. Last night....shame."
She stiffens, steeling herself against the scorn she has learned to expect. As if she needed more shame. Stop him. But how? She awaits her judgement.
But it never comes. His voice is warm and his question honest. "Will you give me your trash?"
Her head draws back. What can he mean?
"Give it to me. Tomorrow. At the landfill. Will you bring it?" He rubs a moist smudge from her cheek with his thumb and stands. "Friday. The landfill."
Long after he leaves, she sits, replaying the scene, retouching her cheek. His voice lingers; his invitation hovers. She tries to dismiss the words but can't. How could he know what he knew? And how could he know and still be so kind? The memory sits on the couch of her soul, an uninvited guest.
That night's sleep brings her summer dreams. A young gir under blue skies and puffy clouds, playing amid wildflowers, skirt twirling. She dreams of running with hands wide open, brushing the tops of sunflowers. She dreams of happy people filling a meadow with laughter and hope.
But when she wakes, the sky is dark, the clouds billowed, and the streets shadowed. At the foot of her bed lies her sack of trash. Hoisting it over her shoulder, she walks out of the apartment and down the stairs and onto the street, still slushy.
It's Friday.
For a time she stands, thinking. First wondering what he meant, then if he really meant it. She sighs. With hope just barely outweighing hopelessness, she turns toward the dege of town. Others are walking in the same direction. The man beside her smells of alcohol. He's slept many nights in his suit. A teenage girl walks a few feet ahead. The woman of shame hurries to catch up. The girl volunteers an answer before the question can be asked, " Rage, rage at my father, rage at my mother. I'm tired of anger. He said he'd take it." She motions to the sack, "I'm going to give it to him." The woman nods, and the two walk together.
The landfill is tall with trash- papers and broken brooms and old beds and rusty cars. By the time they reach the hill, the line to the top is long. Hundreds walk ahead of them. All wait in silence, stunned by what they hear- a scream, a pain pierced roar that hangs in the air for moments, interrupted only by a groan. Then the scream again. His.
As they draw nearer, they know why. He kneels before each, gesturing toward the sack, offering a request, then a prayer. "May I have it? And may you never feel it again." Then he bows his head and lifts the sack, emptying its contents upon himself. The selfishness of the glutton, the bitterness of the angry, the possessiveness of the insecure. He feels what they felt. It is as if he'd lied or cheated or cursed his Maker.
Upon her turn, the woman pauses, hesitates. His eyes compel her to step forward. He reaches for her trash and takes it from her. "You can't live with this," he explains. "You weren't made to." With head down, he empties her shame upon his shoulders. Then looking towards the heavens with tear-flooded eyes, he screams, "I'm sorry!"
"But you did nothing!" she cries.
Still, he sobs as she has sobbed into her pillow a hundred nights. That's when she realizes that his cry is hers. Her shame is his.
With her thumb she touches his cheek, and for the first step in a long time, she has no trash to carry.
With the others she stands at the base of the hill and watches as he is buried under a mound of misery. For some time he moans. Then nothing, just silence.
The people sit among the wrecked cars and papers and discarded stoves and wonder who this man is and what he has done. Like mourners at a wake, they linger. Some share stories. Others say nothing. All cast occasional glances at the landfill. It feels odd, loitering near the heap. But it feels even stranger to think of leaving.
So they stay. Through the night and into the next day. Darkness comes again. A kinship connects them, a kinship through the trashman. Some doze. By early morning most are asleep.
They almost miss the moment. It is the young girl who sees it. The girl with the rage. She doesn't trust her eyes at first, but when she looks again, she knows.
Her words are soft, intended for no one. "He's standing."
Then aloud for her friend, "He's standing."
And louder for all, "He's standing!"
She turns; all turn. They see him silhouetted against a golden sun.
Standing. Indeed.
--Max Lucado
Oh to be rid of the garbage.
Unbroken clouds form a gray ceiling, gray with a thousand sorrows. Soot-stained buildings cast long shadows, darkening passageways and the people in them. Drizzle chills the air and muddies the rivulets of the street gutters. The woman collects her jacket. A passing car drenches the sack and splashes her jeans. She doesn't move. Too tired.
Her memories of life without the trash are fuzzy. As a child maybe? Her back was straighter, her walk quicker... or was it a dream? She doesn't know for sure.
A second car. This one stops and parks. A man steps out. She watches his shoes sink in the slush. From the car he pulls out a trash bag, lumpy with litter. He drapes it over his shoulder and curses the weight.
Neither of them speaks. Who knows if he noticed her. His face seems younger, younger than his stooped back. In moments he is gone. Her gaze returns to the pavement.
She never looks at her trash. Early on she did, but what she saw repulsed her, so she's kept the sack closed ever since.
What else can she do? Give it to someone? All have their own.
Here comes a young mother. With one hand she leads a child; with the other she drags her load, bumpy and heavy.
Here comes an old man, face ravined with wrinkles. His trash sack is so long it hits the back of his legs as he walks. He glances at the woman and tries to smile.
What weight would he be carrying? She wonders as he passes.
"Regrets."
She turns to see who spoke. Beside her on the bench sits a man. Tall, with angular cheeks and bright, kind eyes. Like hers, his jeans are mud stained. Unlike hers, his shoulders are straight. He wears a t-shirt and baseball cap. She looks around for his trash but doesn't see it.
He watches the old man disappear as he explains, " As a young father, he worked many hours and neglected his family. His children don't love him. His sack is full, full of regrets."
She doesn't respond. And when she doesn't he does.
"And yours?"
"Mine?" she asks, looking at him.
"Shame." His voice is gentle, compassionate.
She still doesn't speak, but neither does she turn away.
"Too many hours in the wrong arms. Last year. Last night....shame."
She stiffens, steeling herself against the scorn she has learned to expect. As if she needed more shame. Stop him. But how? She awaits her judgement.
But it never comes. His voice is warm and his question honest. "Will you give me your trash?"
Her head draws back. What can he mean?
"Give it to me. Tomorrow. At the landfill. Will you bring it?" He rubs a moist smudge from her cheek with his thumb and stands. "Friday. The landfill."
Long after he leaves, she sits, replaying the scene, retouching her cheek. His voice lingers; his invitation hovers. She tries to dismiss the words but can't. How could he know what he knew? And how could he know and still be so kind? The memory sits on the couch of her soul, an uninvited guest.
That night's sleep brings her summer dreams. A young gir under blue skies and puffy clouds, playing amid wildflowers, skirt twirling. She dreams of running with hands wide open, brushing the tops of sunflowers. She dreams of happy people filling a meadow with laughter and hope.
But when she wakes, the sky is dark, the clouds billowed, and the streets shadowed. At the foot of her bed lies her sack of trash. Hoisting it over her shoulder, she walks out of the apartment and down the stairs and onto the street, still slushy.
It's Friday.
For a time she stands, thinking. First wondering what he meant, then if he really meant it. She sighs. With hope just barely outweighing hopelessness, she turns toward the dege of town. Others are walking in the same direction. The man beside her smells of alcohol. He's slept many nights in his suit. A teenage girl walks a few feet ahead. The woman of shame hurries to catch up. The girl volunteers an answer before the question can be asked, " Rage, rage at my father, rage at my mother. I'm tired of anger. He said he'd take it." She motions to the sack, "I'm going to give it to him." The woman nods, and the two walk together.
The landfill is tall with trash- papers and broken brooms and old beds and rusty cars. By the time they reach the hill, the line to the top is long. Hundreds walk ahead of them. All wait in silence, stunned by what they hear- a scream, a pain pierced roar that hangs in the air for moments, interrupted only by a groan. Then the scream again. His.
As they draw nearer, they know why. He kneels before each, gesturing toward the sack, offering a request, then a prayer. "May I have it? And may you never feel it again." Then he bows his head and lifts the sack, emptying its contents upon himself. The selfishness of the glutton, the bitterness of the angry, the possessiveness of the insecure. He feels what they felt. It is as if he'd lied or cheated or cursed his Maker.
Upon her turn, the woman pauses, hesitates. His eyes compel her to step forward. He reaches for her trash and takes it from her. "You can't live with this," he explains. "You weren't made to." With head down, he empties her shame upon his shoulders. Then looking towards the heavens with tear-flooded eyes, he screams, "I'm sorry!"
"But you did nothing!" she cries.
Still, he sobs as she has sobbed into her pillow a hundred nights. That's when she realizes that his cry is hers. Her shame is his.
With her thumb she touches his cheek, and for the first step in a long time, she has no trash to carry.
With the others she stands at the base of the hill and watches as he is buried under a mound of misery. For some time he moans. Then nothing, just silence.
The people sit among the wrecked cars and papers and discarded stoves and wonder who this man is and what he has done. Like mourners at a wake, they linger. Some share stories. Others say nothing. All cast occasional glances at the landfill. It feels odd, loitering near the heap. But it feels even stranger to think of leaving.
So they stay. Through the night and into the next day. Darkness comes again. A kinship connects them, a kinship through the trashman. Some doze. By early morning most are asleep.
They almost miss the moment. It is the young girl who sees it. The girl with the rage. She doesn't trust her eyes at first, but when she looks again, she knows.
Her words are soft, intended for no one. "He's standing."
Then aloud for her friend, "He's standing."
And louder for all, "He's standing!"
She turns; all turn. They see him silhouetted against a golden sun.
Standing. Indeed.
--Max Lucado
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Feeling Outnumbered?
"Surrounded, yes. Outnumbered, no. We are always surrounded. We are never safe in this world. But we are always protected. When God sends us on a mission we go not alone. Don't look down at the enemy army. Look up at the heavenly host. This is no time for fear but for courage- it is not a time to flee, but to charge. With the Lord the advantage is always on our side. Faith sees more clearly than sight. Lord, open our eyes, that we may have confidence in your ways."
Ever feel outnumbered in this world, like the devil and his cunning ways have finally gotten a hold of you and there's no way you can remain strong? Ever felt completely and utterly alone in the battle of the Lord? I know I have and I think this is another one of the devil's clever plots to destroy us. We start to feel lonely, we see how big the battle really is, despair sets in, and we give up. When those feelings start to come in we need to 'look up at the heavenly host' and remember that we are never alone. "I will never leave you nor forsake you." -Joshua 1:5.
Sure, the battle looks big and frightening, but we need to remember that we're on the winning side... with a God who will be with us every step of the way.
Ever feel outnumbered in this world, like the devil and his cunning ways have finally gotten a hold of you and there's no way you can remain strong? Ever felt completely and utterly alone in the battle of the Lord? I know I have and I think this is another one of the devil's clever plots to destroy us. We start to feel lonely, we see how big the battle really is, despair sets in, and we give up. When those feelings start to come in we need to 'look up at the heavenly host' and remember that we are never alone. "I will never leave you nor forsake you." -Joshua 1:5.
Sure, the battle looks big and frightening, but we need to remember that we're on the winning side... with a God who will be with us every step of the way.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)