tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76646518365124690042024-03-05T05:43:12.882-08:00The Hodgepodge DarlingThe Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-47273498074511369702018-04-17T19:11:00.003-07:002018-04-17T19:38:32.027-07:00The Nature of CallingsIt's been a while since I wrote something specifically for the purpose of posting it here.<br />
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I am a crappy blogger. It's ok. You don't have to assure me otherwise. Let's be the kind of friends that are honest with each other. I'm really just not good at this. </div>
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See, since before I could remember, I was always a journal girl. In the years since I opened this blog and have struggled to post in some semblance of regularity, I've filled dozens and dozens of journals. I may possibly be pushing triple digits. Writing is my therapy. It's where I talk to Jesus and it's where I allow Him to work out the tangles my soul has a tendency of getting itself into. </div>
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But I've never been one for the stage, and let's be real, this is as much of a stage as any wood framed thing. This blinking curser carries as much power as any microphone. Sometimes, even more. </div>
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I think I'd probably be content to forsake all of it. There are days I seriously consider deleting every media account I own and just focusing on the flesh and blood in front of me. There's enough of it to keep me busy. Just the laundry produced in this full house of mine could count as a part-time job, one with 30 hours a week of work and no benefits. </div>
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But the thing about callings and mandates is very simple. They are not easily abandoned. </div>
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Tonight, I made the kind of dinner that makes foodies like me cringe. It was hot dogs and goldfish crackers served on paper plates, and I found myself standing at the counter, in my pajamas at 7 p.m., sighing at the sight of it. The kids had to eat on the living room floor because my kitchen table is covered in heirloom seeds that will turn into a years worth of beautiful, healthful food. I'll be planting the garden this week and I've been so engrossed in the preparation of it, that we've eaten total garbage for days. Ironic? Maybe a little. </div>
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In moments like that, the little voice that sings of my failures takes the stage and the house lights go dim. Then Tobias came in, as if by cue and said, "Mom you're the best maker and the best planter and the best mom." The spotlight shut off, house lights came back and I carried the plates to the living room. </div>
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Then, as I stood in the midst of a scene where love had silenced the voice of the one who accuses, the One who Identifies spoke up. See, callings do not stay quiet. And my calling has always been to be real, and honest and vulnerable in a world that tells you no one could possible love you if you are.</div>
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I took a photo of my dirty, half-dressed boys then and there. Them, licking their lips to what they considered a fine meal that was surely much appreciated since it was an hour late. Both couches were piled with clean laundry in the background. The floor hadn't been mopped in at least four days. Ezra was smearing copious amounts of mayonnaise on Ben's hot dog, because Ezra is on a mayonnaise kick, eating it on everything from eggs to blueberries, coming up with creations like Peanut-Butter-Jelly-Mayo Sandwiches and frankly, I've got bigger battles than to try to stop him. And Ben, I don't know that he's even that fond of mayonnaise but he's really, really fond of his big brother and I figure they'll work it out. </div>
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It wasn't really a romantic moment at all, but that pesky calling tells me in moments like those to take the picture and then to drag it out on the fairly substantial social media platform He's given me. </div>
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There's a dramatic part of me that would like to declare that this has been the hardest year of my life, but I think that would be an exaggeration, and here we've agreed to be honest with each other. </div>
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It has been hard, but probably not harder than the year that included crippling postpartum depression, or the year that I earned the title "divorced" or the year that I watched my friend bury her kids. No, this year hasn't been that kind of hard. But it's had its moments. </div>
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I can confidently say that I've never before faced the amount of rejection that the last twelve months have held. I've never before experienced the kind of character assassination I have this year. And though I've experienced a handful of times what it feels like to be the hot topic of the church's gossip-mill-masquerading-as-a-prayer-chain, I'm pretty sure this last season breaks the record for that as well. </div>
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Do you know that the enemy comes after the very area of your life that God intends to thrive you?</div>
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As a gardener, I've become incredibly familiar with seeds. Given a mixed bag of seeds, I could easily separate out the tomato seeds from the peppers, the watermelons from the cucumbers, the squash and the lettuce. Without the label on the package, I'd have no way of telling you the color of the fruit or the size of the plant but I could easily identify the type. </div>
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I am confidant, when God set to knitting us in our mothers wombs, it might not have been obvious to anyone but Him the exact details of our fruit, but I think it was detectable what we were made to be. I think the enemy is able to tell from the time we are in seed form what we will become, and he does everything he can to keep us from reaching the mature stage that will see our intended fruit brought into the world. </div>
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Recently, I went to God in the sort of prayer that looks a lot like a temper tantrum, the sort where you ask indignantly, "Why is this allowed?!" He responded in such a precious tenderness. He told me if I would take my eyes off myself and trust Him to protect me from the shots being fired at my character, I could take advantage of seeing where my adversary was shooting from. </div>
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When Satan comes at you in accusation, take note. He's giving away his position. He's showing you were he<br />
is afraid for you to believe God. He's seeking to destroy your very destiny. </div>
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So I looked up. And I saw that the giant of fear had pointed his sword at the very place God was using to bring Himself glory in my life. </div>
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If I believed the lies, I might become afraid to be real and honest, because I might assume I was already dismissed and diminished. If I believed the lies, I might be tempted to ignore my calling and instead pick up the role as my own defender, as if my Father was insufficient. If I believed the lies, I might be tempted to consider myself disqualified. </div>
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I might have chosen silence over obedience. </div>
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Well, my answer is very simple. </div>
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No. </div>
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No, I will not be silent. </div>
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I am not disqualified and I am not perfect. </div>
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I have made so many mistakes and on the same hand, I have done so many things right. But the real fact is, the things I've done wrong matter no more than the things I've done right when the hand in question is nail-scarred. </div>
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Years ago, a friend of mine told me in a time of turmoil, "Rest in your Righteousness". I took it to heart, but in all my wrong mindsets of God, I thought it meant I could trust Him to be on my side because I had done all the right things. I've lived a lot since then, and I've learned a few lessons. Like that my own righteousness was nothing to rest in, but I've been cloaked in the righteousness of precious Jesus, and that the fear-driven voice that comes against it is the same voice thats been questioning the validity of Jesus long before I lived and breathed. I've learned that not wresting with flesh and bone means releasing myself from my own grappling. </div>
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I've learned that if the enemy comes against a voice, the attack in itself identifies that voice as valuable.</div>
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You know, I don't even know why I'm sharing this. Maybe someone needs to see my laundry or hear my struggle with the fear of sharing it. Maybe they need it today and maybe they need it a year from now. I guess that's the nature of Callings. They don't give you the stipulations. They don't tell you the worth of your "yes" on the front end. They demand you come out a little further. They don't let you settle into comfortable. </div>
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When you stand in your pajamas and put hot dogs on paper plates, Callings send blog posts reeling through your head. And when you walk in obedience, you take the photo of your laundry and your dirty floor and you post it alongside the almost worked out tangles of your heart. And you believe, that surely, somehow, by some reason far beyond your understanding, it matters. </div>
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The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-34404143338743114952018-02-28T08:04:00.001-08:002018-02-28T08:04:12.494-08:00002//<div class="MsoNormal">
002//<o:p></o:p></div>
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Your heart is my undoing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Could I dive into the depths of your love? <br />
Could I go, in my brokenness, to the deepest place where I can survive?<br />
And there, could you heal me? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Touch the broken places so I can <o:p></o:p></div>
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Breathe a little deeper. <br />
So I could go a little deeper into your <o:p></o:p></div>
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Wild<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jealous<o:p></o:p></div>
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Relentless<o:p></o:p></div>
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Passion. <br />
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Take me to a revelation of You that requires You to <o:p></o:p></div>
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Live there. <br />
Show me the bounds of my own understanding, <o:p></o:p></div>
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That I might tiptoe to the edge, <o:p></o:p></div>
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Outstretch my arms like the wings of a bird<o:p></o:p></div>
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Or maybe like your arms on the cross. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then, <o:p></o:p></div>
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With a recklessness made in the image of <o:p></o:p></div>
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Your own loving abandon, <o:p></o:p></div>
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Might I throw myself headlong off the edge of <o:p></o:p></div>
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My own understanding. <br />
Into the realm of Your understanding.<br />
Into the wild and roaring sea that is the revelation of You.<br />
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See me, Abba. <br />
Know me, Bridegroom King. <br />
Unravel me in your presence. <br />
And then hold me together with your merciful grace.<br />
Allow me to drown in your heart, <o:p></o:p></div>
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So that you might breathe your very breath <o:p></o:p></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Into
my living water-filled lungs. </span><!--EndFragment-->The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-35476484510010578152018-02-26T12:55:00.001-08:002018-02-26T12:55:42.449-08:00Fear and Foot-Washing<div class="MsoNormal">
Being a parent is terrifying. I used to live in so much fear
that something awful would happen to my kids. Every news story was a one-way
ticket to the Land of What-If. And it was a land I visited often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a land in which I held duel
citizenship. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d wake in the night and hover over their beds with my hand
gently resting on their chest, making sure my imagined horrors had not spilled
over into reality and, in fact, stopped their lungs from rising. Every time we
were in public places, I scouted out the exits and planned my escape from
attackers. Every stranger could have been a kidnapper, every bump or bruise
could have been the first sign of a dire diagnoses, every moment of calling
their name and not getting an immediate response could have been the moment
that everything changed for the worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember after the Sandy Hook school shooting, I checked
my boys out early. They were in kindergarten and first grade, the same ages of
the children slain by the shooter. We laid in bed and watched movies all
afternoon. We ate ice cream for dinner. They thought it was the best day ever
and I hid my tears as not to change their mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
School shootings were added to the looming list of threats,
alongside the rest of the possibilities that might snatch them away from me.
This list was a vague and nearly palpable thing, whispering daily its intention
of proving me in my worries right. I loved my sons so much that it seemed only
right to worry with the same fervor. It felt like love to worry like that, even
though it killed my joy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWnv8WpGjPfZwBlAG8N5ZfSOFlecl8sN_ykPsnXG6V6fU7WRC1oDBCh0eAtTW98fEISFx2vGK5hyphenhyphengNe3-tAr_2-0EAWn34LqW2Cj590EGyoTJC2t8LGYOm4QENic_TzPE_-iUQLHVBUMF/s1600/22095951_10155957822320676_5771123633487354761_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1074" data-original-width="1080" height="636" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWnv8WpGjPfZwBlAG8N5ZfSOFlecl8sN_ykPsnXG6V6fU7WRC1oDBCh0eAtTW98fEISFx2vGK5hyphenhyphengNe3-tAr_2-0EAWn34LqW2Cj590EGyoTJC2t8LGYOm4QENic_TzPE_-iUQLHVBUMF/s640/22095951_10155957822320676_5771123633487354761_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
A few months after Sandy Hook, in April of 2014, a tornado tore through Central
Arkansas. It missed our house by about three miles, but it did not miss my
friend April’s house. My sons slept peacefully that night as I laid awake in horror.
The next day we told them that their best friends were dead, and the Land of
What-If was no longer some imaginary and vague place. It became an inescapable
reality. <br />
<br />
It took a few days for God to break in. I was so mad at Him. His character was
standing trial and I was judge, jury and executioner. Then I visited April in
the hospital, and in her brokenness and newfound childlessness, she proclaimed
the goodness of God to me and it sent me reeling. I simply could not process
her faith. That night I laid awake again, this time not in horror but in a weak
and flickering hope that maybe my fear could be overcome. <br />
<br />
The next morning, from the end of my kitchen table, while I breastfed my son
Ezra, I wrote a blog post about a tornado and a mother that knew the goodness
of God. It went viral. So much so that four years later, it still receives a
hundred hits a day. Beauty began to emerge from ashes, and I was set on a path
into deep and meaningful relationship with the creator of the universe. God
used a tornado to teach me about His goodness. In the faith of my friend and
her unsurmountable peace, I found freedom from the chains that had bound me my
entire motherhood. <br />
<br />
It was in the midst of loss, pain and tragedy that I learned a lesson I had not
been able to grasp before. Gripping my children suffocating tight while fear
dictated how I raised them wasn’t changing the fact that our days aren’t
promised. So I decided to be certain in His love and actually, really, fully
live. The opposite of fear isn’t in nonchalance in the face of threats. The
opposite of fear is found in love. That is where bravery and freedom exist. The
knowledge that He is good and trustworthy is the only place unshakable by
What-If.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week, while yet another school shooting was still trending in the
headlines and while a tornado watch buzzed on weather channels, we met with a
group of friends in our home. We get together weekly, a living room expression
of church and community, and we teach our children to worship and to know
Jesus. That night we sat before them, us completely aware of the state of
disarray of our broken world, them completely oblivious to it. And we taught
them about the bible story of Jesus washing the feet of His disciples.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBpGNns8r8d-PTUSXQTJSCrGXuE_qRUr9dfT6e4aoxz6Z0SWik0kNoqcyUd_HIJzULRWuoE0ibc-jSJPYMj2rO7Pp_7Oa0eUAenya50IKUTzPAxzvZfPArKxPpw1dzOvtY4Jy7gFgE1nWQ/s1600/20180222-IMG_0633-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBpGNns8r8d-PTUSXQTJSCrGXuE_qRUr9dfT6e4aoxz6Z0SWik0kNoqcyUd_HIJzULRWuoE0ibc-jSJPYMj2rO7Pp_7Oa0eUAenya50IKUTzPAxzvZfPArKxPpw1dzOvtY4Jy7gFgE1nWQ/s640/20180222-IMG_0633-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
We didn’t expect it to be profound. We anticipated something of a zoo, one with
seventeen children and several pitchers of water. As the story unfolded and we
talked about what love looks like, the children settled. They began engaging in
conversation, and when we asked who would like to help wash their friend’s
feet, hands went up, some quickly, some apprehensively. Within minutes, even
the hands that hadn’t gone up at all had taken part. Before we knew it,
everyone was washing feet, praying over each other and receiving the same.<br />
<br />
We wept that night as our babies carried out an act of love they were only
beginning to grasp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may not seem like
much, a handful of families in a living room doing something so menial as foot
washing, but it stood for something incredible. It stood for the belief that
the bad things happening in the world do not measure the goodness of God. It
was a picture that grace means having the ability to navigate through
brokenness with love and the ability to still have hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jWHEqZ_E9FRHkDUZW62DEpKs6f5SP-S4DNFU0BsSHJWEHeOKwqGUEmeFL-bvH80BLMFgHfIaiskHXAOnje_gLuyGg6GbR2eWrcHg188Zm01YHRakK0s5XTHfXqVy4FCny488qNVKxUci/s1600/20180222-IMG_0646.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jWHEqZ_E9FRHkDUZW62DEpKs6f5SP-S4DNFU0BsSHJWEHeOKwqGUEmeFL-bvH80BLMFgHfIaiskHXAOnje_gLuyGg6GbR2eWrcHg188Zm01YHRakK0s5XTHfXqVy4FCny488qNVKxUci/s640/20180222-IMG_0646.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart still breaks at the headlines. I am not under the
delusion that I am immune from tragedy. I know that I can follow the traffic
laws, and make my sons wear their helmets and follow every precaution to keep
them safe, but ultimately I cannot protect them from the world. So I have
decided to trust the heart and intentions of God, and to find my assurance in
the promise of eternity. No matter what, He is good and He loves my boys more
than I do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
So I will love them with a worry-free ferocity. They will never learn fear from
me. It is my earnest hope that when tragedy brushes them in this life, they
will be the ones that respond in certainty to God’s goodness. That on the
foundation of His love and mine, they might be the ones that loose the chains
of fear off their fellows by their own fearlessness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Maybe, just maybe, they could be the ones to bring a little
healing to this broken world. Maybe they could live as duel citizens to a
different Land of What-if, one where only one question was begged, “What if the
world knew that God really is, always and undeniably, good?<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-69541079356906444432018-02-22T17:07:00.002-08:002018-02-22T17:07:42.072-08:00001\\<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I've been working on a project that the Lord put on my heart. It is a devotional of poetry and prayers, but I feel led to share some of them here.<br />I believe, in this hour, Jesus is asking His friends and lovers to rise up and teach people the way to the secret place.<br />Jesus preached the sermon on the mount, which is undeniably one of the most powerful sermons ever preached. But people did not say "Teach me how to preach." However, they did see the way He interacted with His Father and they said "Teach us how to pray." So He did. By praying and allowing them to hear so they could learn. If we go after the preaching, and the miracles and the works before we go after the relationship, they will be empty things. If we become familiar with the way the the secret place, though, all of these things will flow in power. </div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I've shared before how I learned to pray by praying the Psalms. When my soul was tired, I borrowed David's words and became familiar with the nature of God through them.<br />When I first felt the Holy Spirit urging me to make parts of my prayer journals public, I wrestled. I couldn't imagine cheapening those precious conversations by allowing anyone else in, lest they bruise my heart with their opinions and point out my flaws as they saw me in the vulnerable place of being before God. But then that still small voice came and asked, "Aren't you glad David shared his psalms with you?"</div>
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So I'm going to share. Small snippets, poems and prayers. And I'm encouraging you to do the same. Those of you who know Him well, share that place of intimacy. Lead the way that those who are unfamiliar can follow you onto waters they have not charted.</div>
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001\\</div>
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Today is grey and I’m longing for you. </div>
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Sometimes this world feels so completely separate from who I know you to be.<br />You, with your thundering and lightning.<br />You, with your emerald rainbow and your woolen hair.<br />You, with your eyes ablaze with passion. </div>
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You are seated on a throne in a realm I can’t even fathom, surrounded by creatures declaring your holiness.<br />And I’m seated in a rickety coffee shop chair, surrounded by your beloved. Largely, they don’t even know your name. </div>
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When the sky is grey, as it is today, and winter has stripped the world of her green, I feel like a foreigner more than ever. </div>
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In the Summer, when I can plunge my hands into the earth of the garden and breathe in the thick, hot air that teems with life, I can feel you close.<br />Then, you cling to me like the sweat on my skin.<br />Then, the screaming cicadas and the call of tree frogs could be the distant echo of a throne room.<br />Then, the trees and the grass and the moss on the chicken coop all grow vivid green. So much so, that even a green tint hangs in the air and I think maybe I can understand how a rainbow could be called emerald.</div>
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But it is not summer.<br />It is not green.<br />I cannot feel the warmth of your breath of the weight of your right arm embracing me.<br />I cannot hear the echo of your throne room.<br />I cannot see you in heavy fruit-laden vines.<br />I cannot feel your eyes burning in the kiss of the sun.</div>
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All I see is barrenness.<br />All I feel is cold.<br />I miss the green so badly it hurts.<br />And right now, I am sustained by the fact that Truth does not wither as a summer garden does wither. </div>
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Your kiss is more consistent than the sun.<br />Your touch far surpasses my capacity to perceive it.<br />Your goodness is everlasting. Never fading. </div>
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You are good, God of everything.<br />You are sovereign, imaginer of the seasons.<br />You sustain. On grey days and green.<br />You sustain me.</div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-26822059706908935072017-10-10T20:08:00.000-07:002017-10-10T20:08:56.376-07:00Yes. <div class="MsoNormal">
I just walked in the door after 14 hours of travel. The day
was full of shuttles, trains, planes and then topped off with a nice three-hour
car ride just to round things out. I am so tired. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The weekend was perfection. I wailed in prayer with
thousands and worshipped as others stood their posts around the clock, lifting
their praises right there in front of our nation’s capital. Do you know God is
enthroned on the praises of His people? That means King Jesus took a seat at
the National Mall this weekend. I got to help build it for Him. <br />
<br />
Leaving home is hard. I have no doubt at all, due to the faithfulness of God to
speak and confirm, that He desires me to go. And due to the lengthy process of submission,
pruning and refining, I trust His timing. I trust His will and the
intention of His heart. He is so good to me. <br />
<br />
Even with His goodness in mind though, every time the mandate to go arises, I
have to make a choice of obedience. Planes, and trains, and road trips were
never what I dreamed of. In fact, every time I pack my suitcase, which has been
a lot more frequently lately, I’m packing it to leave behind my dream come
true. The boys and the farm, that’s what I asked for. For years I prayed and He
heard me. He literally gave me everything I ever wanted and asked if I would
take the microphone and answer the call and because I trust His heart and His
intentions, I said yes. It isn't always that simple though.<br />
<br />
Don't get my wrong, it’s always rewarding. I get the privilege of seeing God move in His body and I
get to hear Him cry out to His bride. It is always, always worthy of my yes.
Even on days when it makes me so tired I want to curl up and cry. <br />
<br />
The moment of coming home is a hard shift, a tough transition. I was bombarded
in the driveway by two boys, greeted at the door by one, largely unacknowledged
by another and then screamed at by the two-year-old because he didn’t have a
nap and I declined his request that I stand on the kitchen counter with him. <br />
<br />
The to-do list is long here. My dream-come-true came with early mornings and a
lot of chores and after four days gone, wonderful as they were, there is little
time to rest and recoup. And when I walked in this evening, I had that
overwhelmed and mildly defeated feeling that often presents itself in my
moments of weakness. <br />
<br />
Five weeks ago, I was invited to go to India with Heart of David (co-founded by
Rick Pino and Jose Diaz). My immediate answer was a firm no, quickly followed
by all the reasons such a trip was not feasible. But then, that still, small
voice began speaking. And when I said, “Absolutely no,” I heard the whisper
ask, “Why not?”<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I think people have an entirely wrong view of my spirituality. Maybe
it’s the cost of transparency, maybe it gives people the wrong idea that when
you talk about things openly it means they aren’t that hard for you. A lot of
the time, I feel like I’m not nearly as strong as people seem to think I am.
All the time, I am certain that without God’s grace, I would be a hot mess
without a hope. I know, because I used to be one. And now I’m a girl with all
her dreams come true that struggles to pack the suitcase but in the end, always
does. Because there is a yes in my heart and He is a king and a lover and a
friend that is worthy. <br />
<br />
When I realized God was actually telling me I was going to go to India, I
yelled at my sister-in-law to shut-up (I really am sorry about that, Sarah) and
then binge ate an entire bag of caramels. In five minutes. It was not cute. Sometimes
my yes isn’t bubbling at the top, ready and willing to volunteer itself as a
response to the call. Sometimes my yes is a small and feeble thing, buried somewhere
down beneath a bunch of no, and it takes a bag of Chewy Werther’s and a couple
of emotional outbursts to sort it all out. <br />
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Tonight, I dragged myself in the house, coaxed the
two-year-old off the counter, listened to the run-down of how the kids did all
weekend from their saint Aunt Mikela, who held down the fort for us to be gone.
The whole while, I was desperately trying not to lose my footing as doubt and exhaustion
washed over my mind. Then I saw an envelope on the counter. I opened it, and in
it was a card with a small bird on the front, one with words filling the inside
that overflowed me with hope and alongside them, a check for one hundred
dollars. <br />
<br />
It was sent by one of my Instagram followers. A couple that knows me only from
my social media and the life I share in little squares. 100 dollars from
someone who is practically a stranger because they feel anointing on my words
and have deemed me good ground to sow into. Do you have any idea what that means to me? The Word says that where a person's treasure is, their heart is also. Do you know, that every dollar I've received has felt like people binding their heart to this call I so feebly responded to? And with every single dollar, I feel more and more brave.<br />
<br />
Five weeks in, with three left to go, and I only have 1200 or so dollars left
to raise. Five weeks in, and I have seen such a wave of generosity, and such an
overwhelming evidence of favor, it’s begun to confront and reconfigure my
underestimations of my God. Do you know how many strangers have given to this
thing? Do you know I’ve been handed money by people who don’t believe in God
but they love me enough to stand behind me? Can you grasp the implications of
that in a Kingdom where sowing brings a harvest? Do you know that when I first
told God no, it’s because I genuinely, honestly, truly was afraid He might not do it. I was afraid He might leave me hanging. Because I live in a world where thousands of dollars don’t exist on my
bank ledger, a world where extravagant giving flows from the barely-enough, not
from all-the-extra. <br />
<br />
But He’s doing it. From all the right sources, at exactly the right times. And
every single dollar has been like an arrow to the heart of my NO. It has been
the evidence that this is a body and I am not alone. It’s been a confirmation
that my Father funds the yes, every single time. <br />
<br />
He really does. So can I encourage you tonight? Though I’m tired and my feet
hurt and my laundry won’t get done until tomorrow because I chose to write this
instead. But I need to urge you. Listen to the voice of the whisper that asks, “Why not?”
when you say, “I can’t.” <br />
<br />
Uncover your yes. Moses stuttered his. Mary questioned how it could be possible
before she gave hers. Esther considered silence. Even Jesus asked for the cup
to pass from Him. But in the end, they, along with the rest of the
world-changers and history-makers sorted out their no and found their yes. <br />
<br />
So please, hear me. Right now, where ever you are, take a minute to
consider the call you have been hearing. The urging to go or to establish or to
embark. To learn, to teach, to grow, to be challenged. Whatever it is, only you
know for sure. But give Him your yes and let me tell you, He will work out the
rest. <br />
<br />
Even if you have to answer the “Why not?” with a whisper, the hosts of heaven are
waiting and the eyes of God are seeking whom He might be shown strong through. <br />
<br />
Repeat after me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, Jesus. I am yours and you are enough. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, Jesus, I am yours and you are worthy. </div>
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Yes, Jesus. I choose to trust you with the details. </div>
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Yes, Jesus. I choose to believe your heart for me is good. </div>
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Yes, Jesus. You're love has never left me wanting. </div>
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Yes, Jesus. Yes. I say yes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>If you'd like to sow into the gospel being spread through the country of India and a throne of praises being established for King Jesus there, you can give <a href="https://www.paypal.me/JessicaSowards" target="_blank">through Paypal here.</a> Thank you so, so much. Every single dollar speaks volumes to my heart. </i></div>
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The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-30579182046488878362017-05-15T20:29:00.001-07:002017-05-15T20:29:26.583-07:00As She Sleeps<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>This article </i></span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>originally appeared in <a href="http://dosouthmagazine.com/as-she-sleeps/" target="_blank">Do South Magazine. </a></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Tonight, the light of my Macbook is spilling onto a hay-strewn barn floor. The rhythmic sound of tapping keys is mixing with a hum of crickets and the soft moans of the doe laboring at my feet. Tonight, I am a goat midwife. I would usually be in bed by this hour, snuggled between crisp, white sheets, feet entwined with the farmer. We would be asleep, resting for the coming morning, if it were a regular night. But it isn’t. So I am perched upon an old, wooden rocking chair with peeling red paint, laptop on my lap, waiting for life to burst forth.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Have you ever been so familiar with something that when you got a different view of it, it took you by surprise? Do you know what I mean? Like when you see a photo of yourself from the back and think, “Oh, how strange.” Or when you run into a person you know from work while on vacation in another city, and you hardly recognize them out of their usual setting? It’s like a revelation of something you thought you knew well, the realizing there is still more to learn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My farm during daytime is as familiar to me as my own body. The way the morning light shines upon her through the trees, she glows and glistens before the dew dries. The smells of animals and manure mingle with the sweet scent of hay and grass. It assaults the senses in all the best ways and in some of the worst ones. The day is fruitful. The chickens are laying, and the goats are being milked. I tend to the garden in the mornings and spend the afternoons in the kitchen, mixing and kneading dough. The day is busy and long, tiring but so lovely. The night, however, is a foreign thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When I think of my life before this farm, it feels like looking into someone else’s story. The neighborhood I called home for decades now feels like a different world. Back then, when nights were lit by electric streetlamps, and the stars were drowned from view, I would have called night dark and quiet. Neighbors slept when I slept, so their cars and TVs slept too. And so it was quiet, and beyond the streetlamps, it was dark.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In the barn, I’m surrounded by the sound of chewing cud. Even as my goat herd lies resting, they chew. It’s a rhythmic sound, strangely comforting and so very alive. The sweet scent of hay is somewhat muted by the damp of the night. The hay feeder stands nearly empty, depleted from constant visits by twelve hungry girls today, waiting to be replenished by the farm boys in the morning. From the back of our property, a soft lull of birds floats through the night air. They make noise even in their sleep, the guineas, turkeys, and chickens. Low, hushed squawks and the occasional crow, it is a gentle sound compared to the roar and ruckus of daybreak.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In the far distance, a siren sounds. Perhaps the volunteer fire department or maybe an ambulance seven miles off in the closest town? I can hardly hear it. It reaches my ears more like a question than a declaration, but then Dakota, our giant white livestock guardian dog booms in response. The doe jumps in surprise, and I do, too. Then we settle back into our reverent waiting. The night, in all her soft and tender sounds, she is anything but quiet, and she fills the air again as the booming subsides.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The clock has rolled past midnight now. I heard the TV switch off a while ago, the farmer abandoning his wait for me to return. If I were to go in, I’d find five boys sleeping in five beds, mouths slightly open, with deep, soft snores emitting from their sweet bodies. And I’d find the farmer sleeping just the same as his sons, curled on the left side of the bed with blankets on the right side pulled back, inviting. I won’t go in just yet, though. I’ll stay on my post, surveying the farm and observing the swollen and stirring goat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In the country, even in the very depths of night, it is not dark. Even now, the moon is waxing, nearly full. He joins with his bedfellows, the stars, to sing over my farm and those surrounding. The light that falls in the night is very different than the soft glow of morning or the golden blaze of dusk. The moonlight is cold and slightly suggestive. It plays tricks on the eyes; it transforms trees into shadowy towers and forests into bottomless expanses. But from the barn, it is a mercy light. It means I am not alone, with my glowing computer screen, in lighting the place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh, and the stars, the silver, singing stars. I couldn’t see them from the neighborhood. I remember late-night car trips on country roads, when I, the city girl, would demand the car be pulled over. From the shoulder, I would awe, neck craned, at the galaxy I lived my life oblivious to. If I may confess to you tonight, from my rocking chair post, in becoming a regular farm girl, I have come to take the stars for granted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Tonight is different, though. It is not a regular night. It is not a night where we arrive home too late and unload sleeping children beneath the waving sky without so much as a glance upward. Tonight, the stars have my eyes. They look almost layered as if laid down above me in sheets and I am certain they tell a story beyond my ability to comprehend. Surely they are a part of something so much bigger than me. Beneath these stars, on a little farm in the Arkansas woods, I am very, very small.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The doe is shifting, her long face lays upon the hay. She begins to doze, and I wonder if perhaps we will have a morning baby instead of a night one. The new mother in the kidding stall next door whispers sweet nothings to her day-old kid. It has been a fruitful weekend. My mind wanders to the contents of the pantry, planning breakfast for a full house. Farmhouse quiches are my fallback breakfasts for sleepy mornings, and tomorrow will certainly be one. As captivating as night is, the morning pushes her way in whether I welcome her or not.</span></div>
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The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-62651313277853560262017-05-08T19:35:00.003-07:002017-05-08T20:11:40.722-07:00The Pear Tree and The Bathroom Stall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Tonight, Ezra ate a pear. </div>
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As I stood over the charcoal grill cooking dinner, he sat on the back porch steps and ate a pear. He had asked me to cut it into slices so he could easily share it with Journey, our pet pig. So I did. And he sat on the steps sharing with her. He'd eat a slice, she'd eat a slice. Then, with a shout, he found the seeds. </div>
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<i>Mom! I can plant these! I can dig and plant these and make more pears!</i></div>
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My muscles hurt this evening from the time spent clearing my garden plot today. Our greenhouse is bursting forth with life. I felt proud of his idea. I knew his idea was, in itself, the fruit of the seeds I've planted in him, but then he held out his sticky, little hand. His sweet hand, the one that I held for the first time almost exactly four years ago. In it, I saw three small, black seeds, all badly damaged by the knife that sliced the pear, the knife that simply thought of the fruit as a snack not a vessel of promise. </div>
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<i>Oh, Ezra. I'm sorry, honey. Those seeds can't grow. See, they are damaged. </i></div>
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He wouldn't hear me. </div>
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He's passionate, you see. Fiery. Persistent and Borderline bullheaded, with all the zeal one must have to change the world. He dismissed my wisdom as petty concern and pulled his boots on. I knew where he would go, and he did. Straight to The Digging Spot, a dusty hole the boys have emptied and filled more times than I know. With the pig hot on his heels, he ran towards his goal in the way small boys do, all the while talking about how nice it would be to have a pear tree of his own. </div>
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<i>We can pick pears all the time, everyday. We can eat pears and not even have to go inside. We can even climb my pear tree and eat pears while we climb. Mom, you can even make pear jam. We will have all the pears. </i></div>
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We will have all the pears. </div>
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I could see the certainly on his face as he knelt at The Digging Spot. He swiped at the loose dust and dropped the seeds with as much expectancy as I've ever seen anyone plant anything. </div>
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And then, without a single moment of warning, Journey the pig slurped up Ezra's damaged pear seeds. She chomped happily and then sniffed for more, walking away when she was sure that all was left was seedless, dusty dirt. </div>
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One single, very pregnant moment of realization hung in the air. And then Ezra began to cry. He cries with as much passion as he dreams, with as much tenacity as he tries to see his ideas into fruition. </div>
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He cried and he cried. And I held him for a while, and just let him loose the idea that a wonderful pear tree of his own would grow out of The Digging Spot. And when I felt he had had the proper moment to mourn his idea of things, I told him what I knew. </div>
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<i>We have a pear tree. Did you know that?</i></div>
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He didn't. Of course, he wouldn't. He was just a baby when we planted it, three years ago when we first moved onto our farm. And though it's grown to stand a few feet taller than me, it hasn't reached a point of bearing fruit yet. He wanted to see it, so we took a walk through the gate, back to the yard where the chickens free range and I showed him. </div>
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He laughed. With the stickiness of pear still clinging to his hands, he covered his smiling mouth and laughed. </div>
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<i>I can't believe it! I didn't even know! I didn't even know this tree was a pear tree.</i></div>
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I laughed with him. We talked about what we would do with all our pears. How we would make jam and share them with the animals, even with the silly pig. Then he spotted the broody hen leading her trail of chicks into the coop and ran to see her. And I was left by myself, standing at the pear tree. </div>
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The first time I remember hearing God was in a Golden Corral bathroom at one a.m. on a Saturday morning. I was eighteen, working a job I hated and on that particular night, I'd landed the noxious task of cleaning the women's restroom. It seemed that night had produced an especially awful mess to clean. Each stall was worse than the last. Tampons on the floor. Clogged toilets. Overflowing trash bins.<br />
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When I got to the last stall, I wanted to cry. I was tired and felt like throwing up. Trying to steel myself for whatever filth laid behind the stall door, I leaned my head against it. And I prayed. </div>
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I was just finding God then. Raised in church and never having really known Him, I was just learning to talk to Him all the time. And in the Golden Corral bathroom at one a.m., I said something to God without even thinking it through.<br />
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<i>If you really love me, let this stall not be so bad. </i><br />
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Immediately, I repented. I knew better. I'd learned in church, don't test God. You can't say stuff like "If you really love me." I told Him I was sorry.<br />
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<i>I don't mean it. I know you love me. I'm sorry. You sent your son. You love me, I know. Your love for me has nothing to do with the mess in this nasty bathroom. </i><br />
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And I swung open the stall door. </div>
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It was clean.<br />
Completely clean.<br />
Freshly bleached.<br />
Toilet scrubbed.<br />
Trash empty with a fresh bag and all.<br />
Why? Because I had already cleaned it.<br />
I was so tired that I'd forgotten.<br />
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I stood there in the doorway of the clean stall, half shocked and wholly wooed by a God that for the first time was showing me His complexity. He was showing me that He could use any means to answer prayers. Sometimes, the answer would be right in front of me, sometimes He would do it through my own weakness, but all the time it would point back to Him and His glory.<br />
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Like a light bulb coming on, for the very first time, I realized that He knew my prayers and requests before I even asked. But He did want me to ask. He wanted my real heart and my real thoughts, not some churchy script. He even wanted me to say the wrong things, as long as I was talking to Him. </div>
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And as the realization washed over me. I laughed. Standing in the bathroom at one a.m., I laughed with God at myself and I laughed for His goodness.</div>
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Tonight, beside a pear tree that was planted three years ago, I watched my son laugh at the provision that had already been made for him. So much like I had laughed that night in the clean bathroom stall.<br />
Except this time, I had the view of the parent.<br />
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He's too young to know the power of the analogy he just walked out. </div>
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Of course, the spiritual picture painted in my sweet Ezra tonight would be obvious to anyone looking for it. </div>
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The son unwilling to listen to the voice of his mother's wisdom, like we are so often when wisdom instructs us. The damaged seed, like our futile efforts to do things without God. The unfit ground, The Digging Spot, that old place that is easy to dig in because the brokenness of the ground, but fruitless for the same reason. The dreams dropped before the swine, the swine consuming a dream not out to malice but because it is, after all, a pig. The pear tree long since planted, a desire met before it was even conceived in the heart of the one loved by his parents. </div>
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The voice of God is there. Clear as day if our eyes are open, and it's there everyday in one way or another.</div>
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He is speaking. Concerning Himself with our concerns.<br />
Moving on our dreams.<br />
Speaking to our hearts.</div>
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In backyards and bathrooms. </div>
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Before we even ask. </div>
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The question is, are you listening?</div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-11148600641422248472017-05-01T14:52:00.001-07:002017-05-01T14:58:01.859-07:00When Heartsickness LurksThis morning I received a sweet message on Instagram that set the wheels in my mind to turning.<br />
I use Instagram more than any other social media platform. It's easy, and its become a habit to capture little squares and 15 second videos of our everyday to share. Because I do so often share there, our little life has caught the eye of people and I often get sweet messages of encouragement from those who enjoy watching our adventures.<br />
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The message today was a familiar one.<br />
Something along the lines of <i>Hey, I hope this isn't weird but I have been so inspired watching your farm grow. This is my dream. I want a farm so badly and I feel like God has put the desire in my heart. What do I do in the meantime? </i><br />
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I tr<i>y </i>to personally respond to each of these messages with encouragement. Its messages like this one, messages from the homestead dreamers, that compel me to share in the first place. Because I remember what it was like to have a constant yearning for a life that seemed impossible. I recall the way the yearning itself takes on the feeling of a dull ache somewhere in the region of your belly. I remember what it is like to harbor a dream, having no ability to make it reality. And I know the feeling of teetering on the edge of heart-sickness, the certainty that you are foolish for dreaming barely being overcome by the optimistic grasp of "Just maybe...just keep hoping."<br />
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I wanted a farm for a long time. If I called it a childhood dream, I wouldn't be lying. I specifically remember telling people that I wanted to be a farmer as a young girl and feeling crushed by their laughter. Surely they were imagining commercial chicken houses and mile wide crops, and the spindly, suburban girl before them hardly fit the bill of farmer. But I had an idea of something different. Something that involved a red barn and a big garden and animals bringing forth more life.<br />
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Like childhood dreams often do, my romantic idea of a farm got filed away as unrealistic. By the time I entered adulthood, I had set my focus on more acceptable goals. I'd be a journalist. A photographer. I'd sell my gifts to do family portraits and maybe if I was successful I could afford a horse or two, maybe I could have some chickens in the yard and rows of tomatoes. I had kids young, went through a divorce. Got remarried. And my sweet Miah, my second chance, saw the long extinguished dream and said "Let's take another look at that."<br />
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Just like that, it was alive again. A house in the country, a little land of our own, a small farm and real, homegrown food were again on my list of "Maybe, someday."<br />
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You know, when I look at my life, I am truly overwhelmed by the goodness and the grace of God. Not because of any single good thing He has done because He has done a lot of good things. But I see Him more in the areas where I got things right entirely by accident. When I fell in love with Jeremiah and when my desire for a little farm came alive again, I wasn't being a good Christian girl. I was struggling with sin. I was broken, angry and largely lost. I was overcome by anxiety and guilt. I couldn't list the books of the bible to save my life and my church attendance was nothing to write home about. But His faithfulness isn't determined by my faithfulness. His love isn't determined by my ability to follow the rules.<br />
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During that season, I started to read the bible. To be honest, when I started to read the Word again, I related more to the wicked ones who were mentioned than I related to the saints. I related to the seductress, to the adulteress. But somewhere along the way, I found myself in the woman with the alabaster box. I found myself in the testimony of Paul. Somewhere along the way, I begin to see myself as <i>the redeemed. </i><br />
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Years went by. The desperation grew. I appeased the yearning at farmer's markets. I drove to local farms to buy raw milk. I learned to make cheese. I grew what I could in containers, and read every resource I could find. I subscribed to magazines about homesteading and followed blogs by homesteaders. I could tell you how to butcher a chicken before I'd ever even held one. I learned to cook from scratch, learned to make cleaners and be resourceful. I learned to preserve. I thought about a farm all the time. And all the while I talked to God. I sought Him. I dove head first into finding Him and learning what His kingdom was about. So much more than my farm dream came back to life in me during those years.<br />
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Then between Christmas of 2013 and New Year's Day of 2014, during a date night to the book store, over a cup of coffee and a book about backyard farms, I cried. To my husbands great bewilderment, on a rare opportunity for alone time and in a very public place, I cried over chickens and goats that I did not have. My heart felt sick. It felt impossible. I hope I never forget Miah's sweet face when he responded, "God knows the desires of your heart."<br />
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I wrestled with that truth. Really wrestled. And prayed, the deep kind of prayers that feel like they scrape the bottom of your heart. And just a few days later, while sitting on the bed of our suburban home, we thanked God for everything He had blessed us with and put the dream of the house in the country in His hands. It might take years, we agreed. Our kids might be grown, we resolved. His timing is better than ours, we knew.<br />
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I can't promise it always works out this way. It would be unrealistic to think it could always be so neat, but within three weeks of deciding to let God have His way with my dream, I found myself standing in front of a vandalized foreclosure on four acres with a price tag we could actually afford. Three month later, we signed the papers that made us homeowners. And a few months after that, I brought home a box of peeping, fluffy chicks. Every single day of the process was an excruciating battle between flesh and spirit, hope and fear, patience and worry. And every single day, His grace was sufficient. Every single step, He was enough and I was leaning on Him to get through it.<br />
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I know that isn't a direct answer to the question: <i>What do I do with this dream? </i><br />
I know it's a lot easier to direct people to wait and pray when you have the fulfillment of your dream in hand. But it's taught me a lot, it's changed the way I dream now.<br />
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Now I remember that God's timeline is way, way different than mine. Hugely different. Massively different. In fact, if I placed God's timeline next to my own and did a comparison, I might even question that they are even in the same classification. Yes, impatience still rears his head in the waiting. Yes, I still face frustration. However, I know that the twenty some-odd years of dancing around my homestead dream feel like a sweet process now that I milk goats in my pajamas every morning. That perspective applies across the board. Now when I think of writing books, another lifelong dream, I am able to keep in mind how sweet the process will be between now and then.<br />
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Oh, and the process. The process is our friend. Do you know, I am certain the success we have experienced since we started our farm is directly related to the time I spent hoarding knowledge and gaining skills in the waiting. Today I am going to make jam to sell at our farmer's market booth, a skill I learned with foraged blackberries we brought home to our suburban kitchen years ago. I didn't just sit on my hands and wait for God to deliver. I took hold of the vision He had put in my heart and made war with it, equipping myself and partnering with it to the fullness of my ability.<br />
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Let the yearning sharpen you. My goodness, if I knew what I had been asking for when I prayed for my life, I might not have asked for it. Five sons. Full time ministry. A working farm. Dairy goats. Horses. A huge garden. A bunch of chickens. A big extended family. The list goes on. Those things that I count as my biggest blessings are, without contest, the hardest things I've ever done.<br />
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But I wanted it all. Begged for it. Yearned for it. Persistently prayed for it. When it's winter, and the chickens get a cold and stop laying and the stench of the farm in mud season permeates every fiber of my skin and I have to buy grocery store eggs and produce and supplement all the feed, I remember how I cried in the book store. When my favorite goat dies even though I fought my hardest to save her, when the alarm goes off hours before the sun, when I get bucked off the horse and get a huge bruise on my jaw milking a first freshener goat, when I'm sunburned and tired and I want to give up, I close down the pity party and shout over it, "This is my dream!" I've learned that while this whole life is a gift, the waiting was part of the receiving. Had I gotten it all when I first asked, I don't know that I would have had the determination to keep going when it got hard. And it's hard. But it's worth it.<br />
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So there's my advice. It probably doesn't make you feel as nice as you'd hoped, but it's all I've got.<br />
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One last thing. One day, when you have your farm and your dream is in hand, don't forget what it took to get you there. Because there's always someone else three steps behind you. There's always someone else holding out for fulfillment. Give them a hand up. Loan them your testimony and remind them that God is no respecter of persons.<br />
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He did it for me, and He will do it for you.<br />
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And when heartsickness lurks, remember this.<br />
<i>He knows the desires of your heart. And He really does care. </i><br />
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<br />The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-54187198346407247492016-09-19T11:56:00.000-07:002016-09-19T14:39:52.687-07:00Shine<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Light brings out the poems <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">in me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Like some distillation, some percolating process, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">when the sun shines on my skin and <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">then poetry begins seeping from my <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">heart. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Words flow lovely from fingertips, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ink on pages, sometimes cryptic<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">but sometimes clear, so clear <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">you could consume them and know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">the very deepest, sweetest depths <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Transparency was frightening for the <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">longest while, like a boogey-man fear, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">exposure felt always near and </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was so afraid. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I didn’t know that I protected my own darkness. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I didn’t know the walls I had erected <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">in attempts of self protection, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">were exactly what allowed the fright a place <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">to stay. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Longing for the light, but scared of the peril that lived<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">under the bed, “They’ll know you and they won’t <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">love you, and neither will your Maker,”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A dark-dweller, terrified of my own shadow, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">living in the shadow of everything but The Almighty, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">no identity stuck to me but the one <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">that called me lost and hiding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But then The Light, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">found me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With His Permeating perfection, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">blaring and glaring. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Exposed me in the gentlest way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Shone hard and searching, a light that<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">starts from the inside out. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The kind that busts in walls and <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">causes dark to flee. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He came like a flood and <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">made me an all new, fearless and bold<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and wild <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">creature. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Afraid of nothing but distance <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">from Him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I love the mornings. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Every morning, a new rebirth, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">a fresh reminder that the light <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">wins every time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I open my eyes, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">in the peaceful moments before sons demand </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">breakfast,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As a rooster’s crow floats in <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">windows and brown curls <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">tangle around my face, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">as the man I call mine </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">lays with a bronzed arm slung over <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">my baby-stretched belly, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am wooed by it all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This picture of redemption that is <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">my life, it is lovely in such an all-encompassing <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">way. A whole entire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">life imbued with beauty, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">but the part that romances my heart more than <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">the rest is the light. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Golden in the evening and blinding in the morning. Hot or cold, rain <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">or shine, the day breaks, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">everyday. He breaks through. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Everyday. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And as often, I pray, let me be a light-carrier. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let me be a reflection of the sun, the Son, the shining one. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let me birth it into the darkness, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">overcoming the bondage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Would you let me see the fearful set free?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He answered me, not in a flicker, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">but a blaze. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And said, yes, you are mine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have shone on you, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">now shine. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Shine, little light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Shine. </span><!--EndFragment-->The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-18914294657372888812016-08-22T11:19:00.001-07:002016-08-22T11:19:43.510-07:00Blended<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Lato, Arial, Verdana, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 18px;">
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<i>This essay was originally published in Do South Magazine, a beautiful publication out of Fort Smith, Arkansas. Visit their website <a href="http://dosouthmagazine.com/?s=jessica+sowards" target="_blank">here</a> for more of my monthly contributions.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZhekwTtaoMrzBAkyZS2D1uHF5pY52h3BNSAiINknpAOwF5G01FyfGC9JUDemhvHvAGWF67WesT9PcDQyvYRdFGfL5NHs-n3-LxKPVIwovG_moBULa9iUzcaeuftiWVJ5egmIxjUk_ypqI/s1600/JessicaSowards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZhekwTtaoMrzBAkyZS2D1uHF5pY52h3BNSAiINknpAOwF5G01FyfGC9JUDemhvHvAGWF67WesT9PcDQyvYRdFGfL5NHs-n3-LxKPVIwovG_moBULa9iUzcaeuftiWVJ5egmIxjUk_ypqI/s640/JessicaSowards.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Summer days start early. Roosters begin to crow at five in the morning, and the toddlers begin their cry of “Breakfast!” soon after. Then the kettle whistles and the tea brews and some days, venison sausage pops in a cast iron pan. Some days, though, it’s cereal for breakfast. Most days we pray and meet with Jesus before chores, but occasionally, the tasks are demanding and the mornings rushed.</div>
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The farm life is wildly romantic if you like that sort of thing. It’s a beautiful, beautiful life if you’re enamored by fresh eggs with pumpkin-colored yolks and dirty hands and rows of tomato plants and squash plants and proud corn stalks reaching up toward the sun. If you don’t mind the smell of earth and animals, and you don’t mind hard work, this is an unthinkably lovely way to live.</div>
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Most of the time I’m thankful, but sometimes my gratitude slips through the cracks. Sometimes, it feels like I’ve had chickens in my yard for a million years and I simply forget the way I used to pray until I cried for God to give me a farm. But there’s one thing that stirs up remembrance in me, like a shock to my heart reminding it to beat again, and it’s always, always on time. The reminder? It’s when Maliah comes.</div>
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We have a blended family. When my husband and I began dating, he brought a daughter to the table, and I brought two sons. She was four; they were four, and three, and they were great friends. I remember sitting in church while we were dating and the preacher saying, “Statistics say it takes seven years to blend a family.” The funny thing is, I still remember that single line of the sermon, but I can’t really remember my response. I can’t really recall what I thought it would be like, endeavoring to make a family out of the torn remainders of first attempts, but I am certain that I had no idea how hard it would be. I had no idea how much grace we would need.</div>
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We are just starting our seventh year together. Jackson and Asher, my oldest boys, spend the majority of their days at our home. I am able to homeschool them, and they are accustomed to the rooster’s crow. We have sewn our family together by welcoming our three younger sons, Tobias, Ezra and Benjamin. They are farm boys by definition, with dirt in their veins and any city life so far removed, I doubt they remember it.</div>
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<img alt="IMG_0476" class="alignnone wp-image-5176 size-full" height="667" scale="0" src="http://dosouthmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/IMG_0476.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #cc0000; height: auto !important; max-width: 100%;" width="1000" /></div>
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But Maliah lives 600 miles away, in a San Antonio neighborhood with her mom and stepdad. Every summer and rotating holidays, we drive for hours under the big Texas sky and pick her and her pink suitcase up. Then we drive hours back under that huge expanse, back through sprawling fields, through the hills and into the Arkansas woods, back into the driveway of our farm. </div>
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As soon as she gets here, the atmosphere of our family shifts. Usually, the farm is just an ordinary part of life, but when Maliah comes, there is an enjoyment about it. When she comes and unpacks her pink suitcase and all her wonder, excitement is rekindled in us all.</div>
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She names all the chickens. We have a lot of chickens. A lot. And she names all of them. Names like Charlie, and Rosie, and Annie, and John Luke. She loves running with the baby goats and holding all the bunnies. When the chicks are hatching in the incubator, she checks it a dozen times a day and carefully carries the tired and wet babies to the brooder. She begs to be included in every market trip, every feeding, every task. When the boys would rather watch TV shows or play video games, she responds with indignation. How could you want to do anything else? There’s a farm outside!</div>
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When we picked her up last November for Thanksgiving, she had started to change. Her legs had grown into long willows and the next season of her life had begun to show in her shape and the leanness of her face. I saw how it grieved my husband to see the evidence of time on her, and to see how much he missed. But after being here for only a few days, she woke up before the sun with him and layered on the camouflage clothes that belonged to Jackson. They bagged two deer while she was here, and she rolled up her sleeves and helped her dad clean them. He was so, so proud.</div>
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At spring break, her legs were impossibly longer. Just a few months had changed her even more. She was thrilled to stop in Dallas on our way home and pick up a few dozen hatching eggs from a friend’s farm. We went to Bass Pro Shop and bought her some new Muck boots, as her feet had grown along with the rest of her. She picked out camouflage. When we arrived at the house, as usual, the excitement stirred. We hiked our thirty-five acres every day, even the days it rained. We told her all of our plans for the future, for new barns and pastures, a herd of cattle and expanded chicken houses and gardens. And in her excitement, ours was rekindled.</div>
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Even though I can’t take any credit for her genetic makeup, I take a certain pride when I see her running across the yard in cut-off jean shorts and rubber boots, a chicken under one arm, a dog and a brother hot on her heels."</div>
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<img alt="IMG_0007" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-5177" height="200" scale="0" src="http://dosouthmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/IMG_0007-300x200.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #cc0000; float: left; height: auto !important; margin-right: 1.5em; max-width: 100%;" width="300" />When the pastor talked about blended families on that Sunday so long ago, he said, “Jesus has a stepdad.” I think it was that single line that evoked such optimism in me. If God entrusted His son to a couple of broken people who were willing to say yes, surely He would give us the grace to raise these kids together. It’s been hard. Truly, harder than I ever imagined it would be, but He has poured abounding grace upon our family.</div>
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Being a mom to five sons is such a cool and fulfilling role, but I’ll be frank, there is something very special about a daughter. Even though I can’t take any credit for her genetic makeup, I take a certain pride when I see her running across the yard in cut-off jean shorts and rubber boots, a chicken under one arm, a dog and a brother hot on her heels. I see myself when I was eleven and all I wanted in the world was a farm. When she looks through my closet and equally compliments my long white bohemian dresses, my leopard print heels, and my Carhartt overalls, I am tickled to be an example of what beauty is. Most important, when she’s feverishly scratching notes in her prayer journal and eagerly watching me while I preach, I am amazed at the weight of having a hand in the shaping of a woman.</div>
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Of course, we wish it was different. It would be ideal not to have to be assaulted by the way she’s grown when months go by between visits. We wish she was closer, and that being blended wasn’t such a challenge. Ultimately, we have placed her in the hands of our Father, thankful for the way He moves us to appreciativeness when she comes. We may have taken on blending a family without the realization of the struggle it would be, but now, as we dig into year seven and have watched these children grow together like a grafted tree, I can say surely, it’s been worth it. Being blended gave me a daughter, gave me a hand in raising a woman of God, and gave me a chicken named John Luke. What a beautiful life I live.</div>
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The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-55205427917421790162016-08-22T11:13:00.001-07:002016-08-22T11:13:30.637-07:00Extraordinary<div class="sc-title " style="margin-bottom: 30px; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase;">
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<i>This essay was originally published in Do South Magazine, a beautiful publication out of Fort Smith, Arkansas. Visit their website <a href="http://dosouthmagazine.com/?s=jessica+sowards" target="_blank">here</a> for more of my monthly contributions. </i></div>
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It’s funny how we humans are able to get used to extraordinary things. When I lived in Knoxville, Tennessee, I attended a regular playgroup with my boys in neighboring Pigeon Forge. There was a point in the forty-minute drive where my car made a turn and there before me was the most breathtaking mountain view. Every time, every single time I made that turn, it hit me. I could physically feel the awe it inspired.</div>
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I would call my grandmother. Because she understood my heart and she encouraged my childlike wonder. And she never grew tired of her granddaughter, a grown woman with children of her own, calling her and ecstatically describing the mountains. “It’s unbelievable,” I’d say. “I don’t understand how people live their lives in the shadow of snow-capped peaks without a constant sense of awe. I don’t understand how they go to their doctors’ appointments and soccer practices without stopping to gawk.” </div>
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And she would always say the same thing, “They are just used to it. It’s just normal to them. If you don’t want to lose the wonder, don’t treat it like it’s just normal.”</div>
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<i>It’s just normal</i>. Oh, that was such a tragedy to me. I’d petition God when I hung up the phone, “Please, don’t let me ever see the extraordinary as normal.” </div>
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I have been blessed with a life full of wonders. When we pray for patience, God gives us the opportunities to practice patience. In the same fashion, I truly believe He heard my prayer for never dulling wonderment and so He set me on a road of great and extraordinary experiences. Through ministry and photography, I have endeavored down an unbeaten path and on it, I have strived to maintain an ever-growing reverence for the power and beauty of God. </div>
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I’ll never forget the moment I saw the Rocky Mountains for the first time and realized that East Tennessee’s Smokies were mere hills in comparison to these monstrous miracles. I’ll never forget the first time I photographed a baby being born, feeling the hefty impact of a life starting, weigh on my heart. It’s not just the big things either. Just a few nights ago, as my husband, Jeremiah, and I drove down country roads surrounding our property, I shouted, “Slow down!” So we did slow, and I gaped at the thousands of lightning bugs that dotted the cow pastures. Or this spring, when fluffy white clumps of seeds fell from trees by the heaps and floated through the air, I stopped in the grocery store parking lot and raised my hands to feel them hit my fingers. The cart girl stopped and said “Are you OK?” to which I responded, “They make me think of angels.”</div>
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Sure, it’s peculiar. Wonder is rarely refined. It isn’t described as childlike due to the measure of dignity it carries. But I don’t care. Let me be the crazy lady in the parking lot being moved by tree seeds if it means I don’t grow blind to all the beauty this life has to offer. It seems like a decent tradeoff to me.</div>
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<img alt="0420_0213" class="alignleft wp-image-5278" height="672" scale="0" src="http://dosouthmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/0420_0213.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #cc0000; float: left; height: auto !important; margin-right: 1.5em; max-width: 100%;" width="450" />I am wildly passionate about Creation. I am ever awed and deeply wooed by nature and babies and beautiful views. I am enraptured by the way the garden grows and the way my children learn. I could write for days and weeks about beauty and power and wonder. That’s not why I’m writing this, though. I know I have cultivated a deep appreciation for beauty, but I have allowed myself to take the most important thing for granted. This is a confession.</div>
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When a blade requires sharpening, it must be unsheathed and then run over the rod. It must first expose its dullness before the sharpening can happen. So here I am confessing. I have gotten busy and allowed myself to grow altogether dull to love.</div>
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Every day, I wake up in bed with a man that loves me wildly. He’s the kind of man that pulls over so I can see the fireflies. He is spending his life with a woman who has a romance with beauty he can’t always see, but he always tries. And I’ve found that more often than not when I am being swept away by some everyday, extraordinary thing, my sweet husband is not looking at the view or the baby or the firefly, he is looking at me. And I have taken it for granted.</div>
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This morning I woke up in a big, old house. Just two years ago, I was praying for hours a day that God would give me that house, and He did. We moved in with our six children, and we had so much space, and the need arose, so we moved two of Jeremiah’s brothers and his sister in as well. Now we live here all together, a big cramped mess of people who love each other more deeply that I can explain. And every morning I wake up in my big, old house and meet my big, loving family in the kitchen. We eat breakfast and make plans for the day. We pray and go about our routines.</div>
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And many mornings, I leave my big, old house and go about the business of ministry. I attend meetings and plan events. I make phone calls, and I pray and study. I am so familiar with the love of God, and I see it echoed so much in my church family that I’m afraid I’ve gotten used to it. This tribe of mine has gone through struggles and trials hand in hand. We have felt our souls knit together and endured pain together. We run the race together. It is truly extraordinary. But here I am confessing, I have gotten busy, and my to-do list has captured my focus. And I have grown dull.</div>
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I didn’t realize it. I didn’t realize that I was living in the shadow of uncommonly beautiful love, completely used to its unusual nature until a few weeks ago when my eyes were opened in a moment.</div>
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It was during a worship service, and I was kneeling at the altar in prayer. I felt tired. I don’t know why, I just felt really tired, run down by my beautiful but busy life. And my big tribe of family and friends were all around. We were singing and praying, and my pastor took the microphone and said, “I want us to call out the names of the people we have been praying for. Just lift them up to God right now.” At that moment, the overwhelming exhaustion from being so busy felt like five thousand pounds on my shoulders.</div>
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Then I heard someone call out a name. Jewel, my little sister. Then I heard someone else call out another. Drew, my brother. Then I heard my husband call out the name of my mom. I heard a friend of mine call out the name of my dad. And it started to resound all around me, my prayers and my concerns and my desires being called out by people who barely know my loved-ones. All they knew was that these names belonged to people I love unexplainably, and that was enough for these names to matter to them.</div>
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I’ll never forget the way it hit me. It was the same feeling that would cause me to pull over when I first saw the mountains around the bend in Tennessee. It was the same feeling that stirs in me every time I hear a baby cry for the first time. As I sat at the altar, my tear-streaked face hidden by my hair, a deeper awe and wonder than I think I’ve ever felt washed over me and I thought, “Oh, God, I am so loved.” I realized how much they all really loved me, and that it was just a reflection of Him. And some fathoms-deep place in my soul woke up, and I had a new revelation of how fiercely my God loves me.</div>
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I’ve been missing it. While I waged war against becoming dull to beauty, I allowed myself to become dull to love, and it made me indifferent to people. Sure, I’ve loved the people that I’m close to. I’ve loved the people I have ministered to. But I have been living the kind of life where I slowed down for fireflies and pretty views but walked past the broken lady in the grocery store because my list was long and my mind was full.</div>
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I realized how tragically I had taken for granted this extraordinary thing, and so, I repositioned my heart. I have prayed for so many strangers in the last few weeks, just random people in public. I’ve stopped and asked people questions about how they are doing, and surprisingly, many have answered honestly. I’ve looked at people in the eyes. I haven’t been in such a rush to move on. I’ve been thankful for my family. I’ve enjoyed my kids more. My heart has been set with a fresh fire.</div>
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So can I challenge you? Can I urge you to find the love in your life and step back and marvel at it for a while? Let it stir you up and spur you on to spread it. Don’t live in the shadow of some beautiful thing like this and treat it like it isn’t breathtaking.</div>
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It isn’t just normal. You are extraordinarily loved. So stop, and awe. Be washed over with wonder. Then don’t let it ever feel just normal again. It isn’t. It’s extraordinary.</div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-24515687611027091392016-08-22T11:00:00.000-07:002016-08-22T11:01:08.358-07:00I Am From<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Lato, Arial, Verdana, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 18px;">
<i>This essay was originally published in Do South Magazine, a beautiful publication out of Fort Smith, Arkansas. Visit their website <a href="http://dosouthmagazine.com/?s=jessica+sowards" target="_blank">here</a> for more of my monthly contributions. </i><br />
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A million years ago, or maybe only thirteen, I sat in a senior high school class with a teacher who taught creative writing. She was challenging, young, and a bit dry in the humor department. She taught about storytelling, and I learned from her. I soaked up what she said about painting word pictures.</div>
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I had moved to a new town for my last year of high school, out of my parents’ house and in with family 120 miles away from home. I had no interest in building a grand social calendar. I was largely running away and largely hiding, but, without meaning to, I was also finding myself. I was learning to see the fingerprints of God on my life. As I look back, I remember sitting at a desk in the back of that teacher’s class and waking up to who He had made me to be, however rudimentary the knowledge was at eighteen years old.</div>
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Every morning, I would drive to my uncle’s house and ride to school with my cousins. As I passed over the train tracks that stood just before their street, the commentary in my mind would say, “Her silver car, shining in the morning light, lumbered over the retired tracks, knocking loose the sleep in her eyes and jostling her to attention.” Those tracks would speak, like a mother waking up a child with their soft Clang-Clunk, “It’s time to wake up, girl. It’s time to turn on the smile.”</div>
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I remember that little excerpt and the way it would roll through my whirring mind every single morning until one day, prompted by the storytelling teacher, I wrote it down. Around the same time, she gave an assignment entitled “Where I’m From,” and she told us to develop the main character of our own story. “You,” she said, “I want you to tell me who you are by telling me what you came from.”</div>
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As I worked on the I-Am-From assignment and simultaneously began to collect clips about train tracks, I figured out that most people do not have an inner dialogue describing life around them in flowery, poetic phrases.</div>
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I don’t have a copy of anything I wrote in that class. I don’t even remember the teacher’s name, as I only went to the school for a semester before I asked my parents if I could come home and face the life I’d run from. I didn’t really realize at the time, how influential she had actually been, but now, I am a writer. I am a storyteller. And though I can look at a long line of teachers and family and friends who encouraged the gift in me, that nameless teacher was the one pouring into me when I realized, “This is not to be wasted.”</div>
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I honestly had forgotten about her, the teacher. I’d forgotten about the assignment and about the way the train tracks moved me to realization. Then a few weeks ago, I woke up very early on a Saturday. The world outside my window was still dark, and everyone in the house was still dreaming. My arm hurt. It was covered in ointment and the start of a new tattoo that spans from wrist to shoulder. I do not like sudden change and the tattoo, as much as I love it, was a very sudden change. I felt a little unsettled and a lot tired, so I started to pray. And in that deep-down somewhere, the hidden place called my spirit where God speaks in a whisper, a question rose. Who are you?</div>
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I’m thirty. Young, really. Young enough to remember clearly when thirty seemed old but old enough to forget things that once changed me. But on that early Saturday morning, praying in the dark with my arm throbbing, I felt an assignment from The Teacher. As I lay there pondering the question, I suddenly remembered that lesson from so long ago. I began, again, to collect the I-Am-Froms, thinking I would just write them for myself and for God, for He and I alone to have.</div>
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A lot of the things I share were originally written for God and myself. That’s just how it works sometimes. This is a little different, though. I’m not just sharing this for the sake of sharing. I’m here to give you an assignment.</div>
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I don’t know where you’ll come across this article, perhaps on a computer screen in your busy living room, in <i>Do South</i> Magazine in a waiting room, or on your phone while you stand in line at the grocery store. But wherever you are, it is a classroom. Because really, life is always a classroom if we will look at it as such. And whoever you are, I’d like to challenge you to this assignment. Tell me who you are by telling what you are from.</div>
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I’ll go first. Then you go. Find a paper and a pencil and write it down. Because even if your brain isn’t whirring with a constant, poetic commentary, you can still write your own story. You don’t have to be a writer to tell who you are, because only you really know. Only you can really say what you are from.</div>
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Me? I am from small-town Arkansas and from big-world dreams. I am from a broken family covered by grace. I am from a childhood diagnosis and a miraculous healing.</div>
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I am from a farm that I prayed for and chickens in the yard. I am from a kitchen full of cast iron and fried chicken and greens. I am from a big, wild garden with tall corn stalks and overtaking weeds. I am from fear taught to hope and anxiety taught to be still.</div>
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I am from remarriage and loving again. I am from an extended family so loud they make the earth shake at Thanksgiving. I am from a little brother who grew up to make tattoos and a sister who has the world’s coolest dog.</div>
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I am from a mother who throws her head back when she laughs. I am from a father who was the first to tell me I could be a writer if I wanted to.</div>
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I am from the altar of God. I am from intimacy with King Jesus. I am from Scripture that sings over me.</div>
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I am from a camera on my bedside table. I am from the birth room, where I learned to photograph the first moments of life.</div>
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I am from running away and then going home again. I am from being poor and learning to be content. I am from learning about The Provider and from always having enough. I am from obedience. I am from following Him. I am from leading the way.</div>
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I am from adventures, from plane trips and ministering in places I never dreamed of being. I am from always being ready to go home.</div>
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I am from motherhood that started early. I am from my five sons and my one daughter. I am from tiny hands and sweet smiles that wake me up every morning. I am from tremendous love.</div>
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I am from the classroom of life, from finding lessons in the morning moments spent awake in the dark. I am from an open laptop and the collecting of lovely words. I am from a giant box of journals that collect dust under the bed. I am from a viral blog post and a magazine called <i>Do South</i> that said, “We like your voice.”</div>
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I am from dancing in the kitchen and singing to Jesus at the top of my lungs. I am from not believing in coincidence. I am from the fingerprints of God. I am from pain made lovely by the big picture. I am from redemption. I am from a wildly beautiful life.</div>
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And you? What about you? Would you take this assignment and let it change you? Maybe it’s just for you. Maybe it’s for God. But maybe it’s to share, to ask someone else the question, “Who are you?” Because if you’ll ponder the question, you will wonder the answer.</div>
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And if you figure out what and where you come from, you will be able to confidantly say, "This is who I am."</div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-2144371947266328692016-08-22T10:52:00.003-07:002016-08-22T11:14:12.262-07:00Been a while. <span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey, it's me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jessica.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The one who has neglected this blog for months and months.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'll be posting a lot of things over the next few days for archiving purposes, and then I will begin with new content.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks for being faithful and checking back so often. Thanks for following me on Instagram(@roots_and_refuge) and for sending emails.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You guys are the best. I, however, am a work in progress, but here's to new beginnings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">See ya around,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jess</span>The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-69843685082101645562015-12-03T10:40:00.002-08:002015-12-03T10:41:48.869-08:00I am Christmas<div style="color: #444444; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 18px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This article originally appeared in <a href="http://dosouthmagazine.com/i-am-christmas/" target="_blank">Do South Magazine.</a> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdt7Re7vTt5Nya_xiyopTtAVnGdrG1oBNLlSIIhdQ99Ns-x_Ws-6ZR6vyiInJmGS3d5DtjrNadTdCQ-a6N1XDlJS_qFtb7SO5vuEEVT-NeZAw4iJ8R37d_deaz2Nd1B_lVB5FSVVwYlto/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdt7Re7vTt5Nya_xiyopTtAVnGdrG1oBNLlSIIhdQ99Ns-x_Ws-6ZR6vyiInJmGS3d5DtjrNadTdCQ-a6N1XDlJS_qFtb7SO5vuEEVT-NeZAw4iJ8R37d_deaz2Nd1B_lVB5FSVVwYlto/s640/4.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I am a basket. I hold a bundle of rosemary, traded by a soft-spoken man to the woman with the farm and all the sons, tied with a ribbon and smelling of warmth. I hold a jar of spicy jam, jewel-bright and proud, made of peppers carefully inspected at the market and pickings from the pastor’s pear tree that arrived at this house in a soggy cardboard box. I bear apple-butter, long-simmered in a pot while small boys stopped to inspect throughout the day, curious what was being made of their orchard-found treasures. I hold a dozen eggs, smooth, multicolored shells lovingly tucked into a second-hand carton. I cradle a loaf of bread, kneaded by calloused hands and infused with prayers to an almighty God. I’ll be given away soon, to a loved one nearby. I’ll take the place of fancy gifts in shiny paper. And in my lowliness, I will move hearts. I was hard-earned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am a fake tree, bought from a clearance sale and decorated with more twinkle lights than could be counted. I am hung with six Baby’s-First-Christmas ornaments, with reindeer made of candy canes, and years of faded Polaroid</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">photos from Sunday school crafts. I am topped with an old star that represents an older star that once lead the way to the Savior. And at night, my yellow glow shines through the window onto a frozen and quiet farm. I stand for the deep comfort of tradition. I exceed the standard of the children who adorned me and am indifferent to any other standard. Because, while I may not hold the splendor of the trees in the shop windows, I embody all the wonder in the world.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I am a living room rug, bound of scrap carpet and nothing to sing about. I lie in front of a hearth. I am warmed by a fire of crackling wood. It was split in July, in sweltering heat, by the man with the farm and his brothers and friends. I am wearing out in spots, and I bear not the awe of the mantle, with its garland and stockings and cinnamon branches. I am often strewn with rubber boots and scrubbed where mud was tracked in from the yard. But on the coldest nights, piles of boys in footie pajamas, with their pillows and the quilts from their beds, come and lay on me. They watch Christmas classics and spill their hot cocoa and it doesn’t even ruin the moment. Because I am only an old rug, here to warm feet and soften the floor for the ones that matter.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7Qfs490oUond78loenirClWfi5EMBR3oJ2HdNF6MUsef6yfKj3UgWVQsACtOopH6cnR2GI2s2HFRnhLpgBXlefez4X4G1SEyA6Cvj8NUeGnvZxExXD3tzwmN70v5yF-O8PQprRtEvspI/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7Qfs490oUond78loenirClWfi5EMBR3oJ2HdNF6MUsef6yfKj3UgWVQsACtOopH6cnR2GI2s2HFRnhLpgBXlefez4X4G1SEyA6Cvj8NUeGnvZxExXD3tzwmN70v5yF-O8PQprRtEvspI/s640/5.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I am an average kitchen, largely furnished by Craigslist and garage sales. I will never be called “top of the line.” In the spring, I will sit still during the day, as the man and the woman and the sons whir through for cold sandwiches on their way back out to the garden, the greenhouse, the springtime places of a farm. In the summer, my counters will be lined with jars of canned bounty and baskets of garden goods, awaiting their destiny. In the fall, I start to wake up and get ready for this season, for the feasts I will birth, the family I will cradle and comfort. The garden and the greenhouse sit quiet now, but I am warm and full. I saw turkeys raised in the yard feed dozens in November. I saw flour-dusted boys laugh with their mother during the making of Christmas cookies and pumpkin pies. I wake up first on the icy daybreaks and turn out hot coffee and honeyed tea to warm the hands bitten by cold morning chores. I smell of spiced cider and fresh bread. I fill a place that hungers for more than just food during the holidays. I am the host of memories.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am a simple house. I am not old enough to be valued for antiquity and not new enough to be desirable to most. I was empty and forgotten, a widow, until the man and the woman with the dream found me. My skirts flowed out into acres, unkempt and uncared for. But they saw something in me that no one else could perceive and from the first day they came, their sleeves were rolled up, and their hearts were set on that unseen something.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">They built, they cleaned, they nurtured. They dug, they planted. They built more. When the fall began to whisper in their ears of colder days, they worked against the threat of winter. And then when she came, they retreated. I hide them from the coldness and darkness of the world and in me has been born some secret sanctuary. And I think this month is a celebration of that. This month, with the handmade wreath on the front door, none of the visitors notice the faded red paint. This month, with the warm light spilling out of the windows, and the laughter bubbling out of the kitchen, and the smell of home pouring out into the biting cold, I have been transformed into something completely other. I am only an old house, but during this time, I am an expression of thanks. I am a home, a refuge from the whole wide world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am just a little farm. This is not my proudest hour. The colors have been muted by cold and births are brewing but will not come until spring. I am hung with words like “dormant,” like “off-season.” But still, the sweet smell of hay mingles with that of ice and animals and spice. And there is a reflection of another time in a dormant, winter farm. A remembrance of a manger, when a girl became a mother and a King became a baby. I will shine soon, but today I am only a backdrop. I am only the sound of a rooster’s crow, of bleating goats. I am only the smell of wood smoke. I am only a small bowl of greenhouse greens and a handful of coveted eggs. I am not the focus, just the setting. Like the manger was two thousand years ago.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am December. I never meant to be demanding. I do not come with the bounty of fall, or the escape of summer or the promise of spring. I am, however, extraordinary. Because underneath the door-busters and the dollars-off, behind the juggling show of programs and parties, I am the teller of an incredible love story. I am a place where no bought things can lead. I am the celebration of a great gift, given freely, that could never be afforded by anyone but God. I bear the weight of an incomprehensible adoration, of a miraculous pursuit. And when a man or a woman take hold of it, they get to experience me in a new way. They will no longer care that their life is simple, or even that it is lacking. Because they will be equipped to live out a new December. An unselfish one, unhurried, unconcerned about material things. They will see the opportunities to give without receipt, to go the extra mile, to celebrate with kindness, and patience and an untouchable joy. They will see Jesus as their focus and all the rest as beauty to adorn Him.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I am Christmas. The story of a Savior. The opportunity to bless in the measure that you have been blessed by that baby, that manger story. I’m not hiding, but I’m largely overlooked. I’m largely masqueraded as some expensive thing, but I am free. I am beautiful. I am waiting to be embraced. I am waiting to make every gift reflect the greatest gift. I am waiting to strike hearts with wonder. I am waiting to be found, understood. I am Christmas. Will you have me?</span></div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-51446980969518058842015-11-20T13:12:00.000-08:002015-11-24T06:44:06.859-08:00For the Revivalists. <div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
For the Revivalists. For the hungry. For the Christ-chasers. For the ministers. For the hurting. For the overwhelmed:</div>
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God has addressed many things in me in the last several months. Compromise and competitive thoughts. He has abolished the unforgiveness in my heart and the offenses I allowed to creep in. He taught me to take a slap across the face and turn the other cheek. He taught me how to consider it joy when my goods were plundered. </div>
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He has stood patiently with open hands as I emptied my pockets and placed my children, one by one, into His care. And really, let Him have them. He has laid a comfort on me as I cried on the altar and laid my husband down for God to fully have, as I vowed to get out of the way and stop carrying the job as his convictor and teacher. And then He poured a joy out onto my marriage that I had not previously known.</div>
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He has taught lessons until I stopped crunching numbers and chasing dollars and started trusting Him to deal with my finances with the math of the Kingdom and the provision of heaven. He has shown out in my life, and poured in so much that even the overflow has been an incredible testimony. </div>
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I have stood still, even clenching, as He bound His peace to me. With straps and buckles comprised of the Word He’s laid that peace on my working arms and my running legs and my ever-wandering heart. And at some point I stopped clenching and leaned into His dressing me. </div>
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Oh, He gave me garments I never dreamed of. He called me His tool, His light, His salt. He called me His and then He waited patiently for me to believe Him. </div>
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He trained my words. He replaced them with His words. He told me “Don’t call yourself sick. BY my stripes you are healed.” He told me, “Don’t call yourself poor. You are made in the image of a God that does not want. I meet your needs.” He said, “Don’t call yourself voiceless. I will give you the words in the hour which you need them.” </div>
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And He has. </div>
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But the fear. It stayed. It stayed because when it knocked, I invited it in. To sit and chat a bit.<br />
Until. </div>
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Until I realized that fear kills revival as quick as the other killers. It stands in the corner with its friends; Compromise, Unforgiveness, Offense, Rebellion, Competition. That nasty gang of devilish liars. Those Revival-killers. </div>
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Kick them out of your life. </div>
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Don’t you know we need it? Don’t you see our world has caught fire with terrorism, hate, sin, apostasy. Our world is in pain. It is dying, a slow and painful death. Our world is screaming, crying, writhing for a Revival Rain to wash it clean. For a Bride to call our for her Groom to come. For a remnant to rise up and appeal to heaven on behalf of the powerless. </div>
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What will the church do? What will you do, Church?</div>
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The answer is surely not to wage war against the broken world but instead to open our eyes and wage war against the Revival-Killers we have housed in our hearts! </div>
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I have booted the others out one by one while I made the bed for Fear and fed him a meal made of my words and my heart and my conviction and the measure of Revival God had placed in me! </div>
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I was born for such a time as this. I was equipped with words and heart and conviction and a measure of Revival that I WILL bring to the altar. I will no longer allow it to be fodder for the enemy. </div>
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What of your heart? Confess it. Shine light on it. </div>
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You have a measure of Revival, God made it yours from the foundations of the earth. You have a weight of something precious that will die with you if you feed it to the Revival-killers. </div>
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But if you let the light flood it, kick the killers out and consecrate your God-loving heart, you can lay your measure down. Bring it to the altar with me. Let’s lay them down together. </div>
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Let’s start a movement and watch the Revival grow. Let’s watch it change us, then change the body, then bring a flood onto the burning world. </div>
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Are you with me?</div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-57782485889603117872015-11-20T05:21:00.000-08:002015-11-20T13:11:59.449-08:00Thankful.<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"><i>This essay originally appeared in Do South Magazine. Being a monthly contributor this this beautiful publication is one of the things in my life for which I am deeply grateful. See more of my contributions on <a href="http://dosouthmagazine.com/?s=jessica+sowards" target="_blank">their website.</a></i></span><br />
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</span><span style="color: #343434; font-family: "times"; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Thanksgiving stirs something up in me. Of course, I want to be
thankful year-round. I want to take it slow and enjoy what really matters. This
time of year amplifies that desire. Every year, I go into the holiday season
with a deep longing to get it right, to linger on the important things and pass
over the distractions. Usually, I get caught up, though. I have the best of
intentions in October but by the end of December, I’ve spent too much, gotten
too stressed, and ended up frustrated.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">This year, something shifted in our life and in us. We went from
people who harbored a dream of going back to the basics and raising our own
food to people who actually had a working homestead. There is a red egg basket
on our kitchen counter now. It’s a romantic thing, at least in my terms of
romance. The eggs are all different colors because our flock of chickens
contains many different breeds, and it is more beautiful to me than any flower
bouquet. The hens started laying over a year ago and I wondered if it would
become commonplace, if it would just be a thing we were used to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">It hasn’t. I still catch myself pausing in the kitchen, reaching
in the basket and rolling an egg around in my hand, feeling so deeply happy to
call it mine. I wanted this life for such a long while. For years I read books
and followed blogs about hobby farming. After we bought our property and moved
in, I felt my dream begin to form into reality when my aunt gave me three
chicks and I found a twenty-five dollar chicken coop on Craigslist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">That little coop was the most thrilling thing I’d ever had, and
as I cared for the coop daily, I thanked God for hearing my prayers. I felt so
grateful. I shared photos and wrote about it, I posted about it on Facebook. A
month or two later, my dog killed those chickens. I sat on the front steps of
my house and cried, feeling like God had forgotten me, feeling like He didn’t
actually hear the desires of my heart. I felt foolish for being so enthusiastic
in expressing thanks for something that turned out to be so fleeting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Since starting our little farm, I have learned a great lesson in
thankfulness. It was a lesson I didn’t know I needed. I thought I was a
grateful person before. I have always reflected on my blessings and vocalized
my thanks. But it was a surface-level gratitude.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I always thought that being thankful meant just being
appreciative. Receive something, express gratitude, thankfulness complete. Not
so much. It’s good to be appreciative. It’s perfectly appropriate to praise the
people around you to let them know you see them, need them and love them. It’s
wonderful to praise God for what He has done for you, because that is how we
share His love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">However, being thankful, being really, truly grateful is a
deep-rooted thing. It’s not something we just celebrate in November. And it
certainly isn’t just for when things seem to be going all right. Thankfulness
is meant to create a concrete foundation for us to hunker down to when the
storms of life come. True gratitude happens when no one is looking, and before
it benefits anyone else, it has to change our outlook and the groundwork of our
own lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Homesteading is hard. This summer was so hot, the rabbits
refused to care for their young so the babies grew cold in the nest boxes while
their mothers panted on the other side of the cage. We lost chicken after
chicken to heat stroke. Extension cords ran across the front and back yards,
fueling fans on all of the animals, but we still had to pick up bodies. Then
the truck broke down. Our finances were lacking. The chickens got mites and the
goats got worms. I hatched an incubator full of eggs and the heat lamp was too
hot, so when I excitedly came to check on them, none moved. Let me tell
you, there is nothing romantic about homesteading when all your stuff is dying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">It was about that point that every bit of passion I’d had for
this life dried up. I felt like the worst farmer in the history of the world.
Surely, <i>surely</i>, no one had ever made as many mistakes as us. I
wanted to give up. I wanted to send all our animals to a farm that could keep
them alive. I wanted to question God. But then I remembered crying on my steps
over my first lost chickens, feeling hopelessly forsaken. And I remembered how
just a few weeks later we were blessed with thirty new chicks, and how a couple
months after that we built our big coop. I went inside and looked at my red
basket, and though it was nearly empty (as the hens laid very little due to the
heat and the mites), there were eggs. So I said, right then with a pile of
losses and an almost empty basket of eggs, “Thank you, God, for this farm.” And
I meant it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">It was the kind of decisive moment that stays with you. I didn’t
feel like I needed to share it with the world or even my family. It actually
didn’t even feel like a grand gesture. But it was the moment I made a choice
that even if my life was not going how I wanted, I still wanted it exactly as
it was. I decided not to jump ship and blame God for the failure but to instead
hang on and embrace what He would teach me. I’m not entirely sure, but I think
if there were a scale for these things, that would be the instant that I
actually became a really, deeply, genuinely thankful person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The heat broke. Things stopped dying, new chicks hatched and
lived and the rabbits gave birth and cared for their kits. We fixed the truck,
built a greenhouse and filled it with promises of provision. I know everyone
has their horror stories of their first year of homesteading, and ours is no exception.
It’s almost like an initiation is required to enter into this life. It’s like
any person with this dream has to relinquish control and understand real
gratitude before they can accomplish anything. I have been initiated, hazed
even. I have learned true gratefulness should not leave me feeling forgotten by
God. Instead, it should propel me to remember the good He’s done for us before
and encourage me to believe He will do it again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I expect the holidays this year to be quite a bit different. I
can already see the changed mindset of my family. We’ve taken strides to live
simply and learned to give thanks for when things are prospering and also when
they are not. It makes life slower, more worthwhile. Nothing is for granted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">This Thanksgiving, we are butchering turkeys we’ve spent the
last six months raising. All of us are aware of how many hours of hard work
went into them. We remember how we prayed that they wouldn’t die in the heat, how
much effort went into protecting them. Now, before they are even brined and
braised, I can say I have never been more thankful for a turkey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Yes, there’s a twinge of sadness to living life like this.
Because while gratitude is born in a choice, it is cultivated in learning to
honor and value our blessings. While I will be immensely proud to serve a bird
that was ethically and naturally raised by our own hands, it will be sad to no
longer have the silly things gobbling around the yard. Thankfulness is
bittersweet, and we live in a society that will cheer a person on as they
disconnect from the cost of things. Everything costs something, and we are made
better when we seek to stay aware of that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">As I enter this season of gratitude and celebration, I’m hoping
and praying to carry these things I’ve learned. I’m hoping it may spur me to
give canned jams and tokens of our labor as gifts, understanding the cost of
them and the value. I may not get it all right, I may get caught up in the
buying and the planning. But I feel like as the years go by, as we make it
through more hard summers and hard winters, this thankfulness will grow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #343434; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">And one day, it won’t be something I have to choose. It will
just be who I am, a woman deeply rooted on a strong foundation. Whether or not
the egg basket is full or empty, I will stand firm and be thankful. And I will
thank God for the privilege of living this beautiful, bittersweet, completely
romantic life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Closing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
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The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-32293767414099021542015-11-16T20:24:00.001-08:002015-11-20T13:16:12.114-08:00On Refugees and Revival<div class="MsoNormal">
As a rule, I do not write about controversial things. I
value my witness far more than I value my opinion and so I generally hold the
latter so the former can be heard. But I’m having a hard time quieting my
thoughts on this. And I think this is one of those situations where the two are
too intertwined. I’m trying to pick them apart and I simply cannot, so here
they are together: witness and opinion, whatever they are worth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A few weeks ago, I spent hours of my day on Facebook. It’s
something I hadn’t done in a while, a habit I have tried to break but I
stumbled across Humans of New York and Brandon was doing a special, showcasing
the Refugee Crisis. He was telling their stories. I couldn’t stop reading. Each
story, I felt it, you know. I hurt over it. I prayed over them. I sat there at
my computer with the din of my house resounding in my ears, breaking
occasionally to fill sippy cups with chocolate milk, and I prayed for these
strangers. I prayed they would find their loved ones, that they would find
healing, safety, provision. And I prayed more than anything that they would
find God. That someone would feed them and give to them and show them by their
actions as well as their words the love of Jesus. <br />
<br />
Then I went about my life. It’s a busy life with all these kids and this farm.
Ministry to do, meetings to attend, plans to make. I thought of them
occasionally, the refugees, but mostly I did not think of them. I thought of
why my free-ranging chicken coop hasn’t been laying well and I reminded myself
to breed the rabbits. I made a list for Thanksgiving shopping. We butchered
turkeys and I wrote an article about fear. <br />
<br />
Last Friday night, as I sat in a Pizza Hut in a small town in Louisiana, my
kids complained because I made them order water to save money. We got a pizza
with pineapple and it was average. And while my youngest son threw his pacifier
on the floor over and over, I found myself scrolling Facebook again, refreshing
as often as I picked up the paci, reading the coverage of the Paris attacks to
my listening husband. And I prayed for them, the Parisians. For them to have comfort
in the terror, for them to find surety and safety, for the attackers to be found
and stopped, and most of all, that God would be known and shown faithful in the
circumstances. <br />
<br />
The next day, my feed was flooded with the hashtag “#PrayforParis” And as I
expected, I read the Mister Rogers quote a handful of times. You know the one,
it surfaces in every crisis, <span style="color: #131313; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my
mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people
who are helping.”<br />
<br />
That quote struck me deep the first time I read it. I think it was during 9/11.
I was a child then, just sixteen. But then I read it again during Katrina, then
the Boston Marathon, then again when a tornado came tearing through our own
lives, and then again on Friday. Sometimes the reverberation of things like
that makes me feel numb. We are so Ill equipped to process the brokenness of
this world with our own human understanding. <br />
<br />
Saturday I went to a birthday party for a seventy-five year old man, who has
surely seen more tragedy and pain than I can even comprehend at thirty. And
Paris and those hurting there crossed my mind. But then I got to ride horses,
and I laughed. I raced my son through a bouncy-house and let him win. It was a
very good day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I tell you all of this to get to my point, because I want you to know that I am
probably very much like you. I am an American, a Christian, I am even a
minister. I have set my heart on Revival and have made my life largely about my
Father’s business. <br />
However, in the last few weeks, even with knowledge of the state of mankind at
my fingertips, my life has mostly been about me, and about the things in front
of me demanding my attention and my focus. Oh, I’ve prayed, possibly even more
than the average American Christian. I’ve even cried! But my heart has been
largely untroubled. <br />
<br />
Until today. Today my Facebook feed, that little window into the world past my
bubble, is abuzz. Because now those refugees I prayed for need a place to go.
But there’s this lurking shadow called ISIS, claiming the terror on those
Parisians I prayed for, and who knows if they might piggy-back in on those
refugees backs right on to American soil? <br />
<br />
Last year, God called me out of my comfortable Christianity. He shook my life
up in the most glorious way. I didn’t know which way was up and which was was
down but I knew where Jesus was and that’s all that mattered. He lit a fire in
my bones and taught me that a call to repentance is the most passionate of love
songs. This afternoon found me on a stage, singing to God with a handful of
others, asking Him to touch our Nation, capture our hearts and lead us into holiness.
We have been praying for a harvest, a revival, a spirit of Glory to fall and
send people by the thousands running to the Cross, the Son, the Savior. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #131313; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br />
I’m believing God that I might see a million souls come to know Him in my walk.<br />
<br />
I told you I live in a bubble. <br />
<br />
Outside the bubble this evening, Governors are being applauded for denying
refugees and then others are name-calling those that applaud them. I’ve seen
all kinds of words this evening. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Impeachment,
Idiotic, Repugnant, Foolish, Hateful, Stupid, Sitting Duck, Killer, Murderer,
Trash, Muslim. </i>There’s been political jargon far over my education and
Christians calling other Christians judgmental names. I’ve seen no less than
five times, “Say _____ now so I can unfriend you.” And I keep seeing Jesus name
tied to these strong personal biases.<br />
<br />
And since I warned you from the start, and since you now know 1041 words of my
own heart, here is my witness and opinion, which I realize are rarely advisable
to marry. <br />
<br />
If we are praying for a harvest of souls, and the American church has made a
multi-million dollar business out of Sunday church “for the sake of saving lost
souls”, why would we not rejoice at boat loads of unbelievers being delivered
to our doors?<br />
<br />
Because the threat? <br />
<br />
Here’s the importance of The Word. Here’s the problem with the Lukewarm church,
going and sitting in a pew on Sunday and then fixing our hearts on worldly
things the rest of the week: we are weak in power. We have forsaken the
authority that Jesus gave us when He sent His Holy Spirit. We were never meant
to be afraid of our enemy. We were never meant to fear anything but God, and in
this is not a fear that disables us but a reverence that emboldens us. <br />
<br />
Oh, that this could be an ignition! If only I could impart this fire into you
and you receive it! I pray that God would move on your heart right now as you read
this and that you would apprehend this boldness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
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<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
It hit me tonight, at the end of the dinner table. We made biscuits and gravy
for dinner because the milk was about to turn and we had to use it up. And I
sat in my yellow chair and poured over scripture and after weeks of caring
enough to pray some, after worship and crying out and life as usual, God just
hit me then and there. And just like that, I became vexed. </span><br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
Not for the Syrians. Not for the Persians. But for the Americans, the
Christians. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
I became vexed because we are a church that has forfeited her power for comfort
and her demonstration for doctrine. We worship a God that has promised to
confirm our message with accompanying signs. If He is God and man is made my
God, why are we not proclaiming Him with all sureness? Are not the refugees AND
the terrorist made by Him? Are they not hardwired to know Him? Is He the truth
and if we believe that, what are we hiding from?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
We serve a God that has given us all authority of His son’s name, to which
every knee shall bow. We serve a God that has promised us the ability to heal
the sick and cast out demons and raise the dead. You can argue it, but it’s in
the Word. He said it, not me. This part isn’t even my opinion. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
We are a people that have not been given a spirit of fear but of love and power and a sound mind. We are a people that
are to love our lives not unto death. We are Esthers, given a place of privilege
in a crucial hour in history, for such a time as this. We are Nehemiahs, called
to rebuild the broken wall of God’s people, to stand in the gap. We are Joshuas,
called to face the Giants in the land and believe that God is mightier by far.
We are Davids, facing Goliath with a stone and a sling and worship in our
heart. We are Jeremiahs and Joels, calling out for those blind to the times to
turn and repent. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
We are the church. The bride of Christ. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
What in the world are we doing, casting off the harvest for fear of our lives?
Can our almighty God not protect us? Hasn’t He promised just that? Does He not
command His angels concerning us? And has He not offered us eternity because of
his wild and reckless love for us?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
What are we doing, calling names instead of speaking identity? What are we
doing fighting the fearful with hate? Do we fight against flesh and blood? Strike
down fear by speaking life! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
And repent! </span><br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
Yes, repent. </span><br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
I repent. I repent of my fear and my indifference and my self-centered understanding.
And I pray for you, American. I pray that as you read this Holy Spirit strikes
your heart with the fire of revival. I impart it to you, and if you will grab
hold of it and be ruined to everything else, YOU WILL SEE MIRACULOUS THINGS. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #131313;">
I speak this life into you. That you would rejoice for refugees and that you
would not fear ISIS. They want you to fear them. They want you to fear them and
love yourself more than you love Jesus and those He died for.</span><br />
<br />
Prove them wrong. <br />
That’s my opinion. <br />
We should prove them wrong. Not by our words but by our testimonies. By our
witness. Oh, that we might be like the first church apostles. That we might be
Pauls and Peters and Stephens. <br />
<br />
I don’t write about controversial things. But when I do, rest assured, it is
because God has laid it on my heart to do so. So perhaps you disagree, which
you have the right to do. But you have read until here. So think it over. <br />
<br />
And maybe, if you are willing. If you will say YES, God will vex you. <br />
<br />
And you will be a Revivalist. Fearless. Single-minded. <br />
And your opinion and your witness will marry and even against your better judgment,
it will bubble out of you.<br />
<br />
And you might just get what you pray for. When God puts a face and a people on
your newsfeed and you are comfortable praying for them from half a world away,
He might bring them closer. He might make you actually stand on it, risk for
it. <br />
<br />
He might not tell you to look for the helpers. He might tell you to be one. <br />
<br />
But then again,
that’s just my opinion. Or maybe it’s my witness. <br />
These days, it’s hard to separate the two. <span style="color: #535502;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-24523147764047285992015-11-05T05:32:00.003-08:002015-11-08T08:27:36.100-08:00The Little Dancing Girl<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14px;">God put this on my heart late last night and I felt led to post it as a Facebook status. I'm copying and pasting here because my hope is it might touch those that need it. </span></span></i></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sometimes I accidentally step into a darkness that makes my stomach hurt. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t watch the news, you know. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m too visual. Too imaginative. Just a few words and I’ve painted a picture that won’t go away. Just a single story of some awful thing; abuse, rape, pedophilia, murder. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then there it is, burned in the back of my eyelids to see every time I close them until I fight it down, shout truth over it and go to war for the story.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was a slave to fear. For a long time. And like an alcoholic does himself well to avoid liquor stores, I do not play with fire by consuming graphic horrors. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I remember the moment I first knew Jesus. It was a defining moment, a memory that lingered longer than was normal until one day the Holy Spirit spoke to that deep rooted place of my soul and told me that was the day He first held my heart. My Nanny was visiting and sharing my bed. I was seven I think, maybe eight. I laid on my full size mattress with her, much past bedtime, while my toes brushed against her nylon gown and I marveled at her skin that smelled of Avon and felt like loose elastic. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She told me a story, about Solomon and his wisdom and two prostitutes fighting over a baby. I remember even then feeling the great loss, imagining that dead baby and the terror of the live one being cut in half. And I knew what a wise king Solomon was, and how wicked the other mother was, willing to have someone else’s child sawed in half in response to losing her own. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And somehow in that night, I heard about Jesus and salvation and it struck me as truth. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It wasn’t at some camp when the music was blaring and the altar was open. It wasn’t after a week of Vacation Bible School or after a childhood full of happy Sunday lessons. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No, there’s nothing romantic about my come-to-Jesus story. Maybe the softness of the nylon and the sureness of my nanny. Maybe the fact that as she spoke, I faced my side table fiddling with some medical tape I’d stuck on the aged wood. I remember turning the tape into a cross, overlapping one piece over the next. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was not an overwhelming sense of love that lead me to Jesus, it was an awareness of wickedness, and a desire to instead live in the security of a wise King. At seven years old, or maybe eight. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I didn’t realize the oddity of that until much, much later. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And while I grew up with the knowing of grace and forgiveness and never really struggled with that idea of unworthiness that Christians so often carry, I had my own chains. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is a very dark world. I see it, all the time. Tonight, I saw a friend on facebook sing a song so lovely that it moved me to tears. Her voice rose and fell, strained in all the right places and I couldn’t make out the lyrics but it didn’t matter because they were only trappings to the gift displayed. But I was curious, because I am that way. And I searched the song, unfamiliar as I am to secular music. I found it, then I found myself watching a video of a child in a nude leotard dancing around a room. She looked naked, and her eyes were unsettling and I thought, “What is this darkness?” so I dug more. I found this Sia, so embraced, was making a statement about some dark something. Either she hated it or celebrated it, I’m not sure but even if it was a protest, it was a strange one with this girl in little to nothing dancing in video after video. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I felt confused and I felt sick because in my life and in my world 12-year-olds do not wear heels like that or make up like that and they have no mind to move their body like that. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In my world a rooster crows in the morning and a baby cries in the night and through it all, the bible lies open to the last place I was reading. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s not like I was always this way. I was just going about life once. I never thought about revival. I didn’t have to google popular artists and I wasn’t routinely assaulted with music videos that left me reeling into the night, typing feverish nonsense into my laptop in a dark bedroom with a sleeping husband and son. But I did lose sleep. I did stay up often after nightmares, I did have occasions of a shaking in my hand and a tightness in my breathing that assured me Fear was tightening his grip. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Until I learned his name and told him to flee in Jesus name. And he did. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was rather simple, but I found myself in the wilderness like an Israelite delivered of Pharaoh. My anxiety gone. My worries gone. My constant feeling of failure and terror completely gone. Deliverance in the most super-natural way. I wasn’t going back to Egypt. So I wandered, relying on God to get through. Renewing my mind with what I fed it. Until one day, I stepped into the promised land. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Listen, I get it. Anytime someone hears the world “minister”, the language changes. People stop saying things like “Shit” and start saying things like “The Lord.” And I just want to tell them, you know Jesus loved the tax collector. He saw Saul of Tarsus and said, “Oh yes, just what I need.” He lent His hand to the adulterous to bring her up from the stoning. I say this to tell you, this isn’t some high horse I’m preaching from. It isn’t some superiority where I turn my nose up because I don’t listen to that secular music. God only ever gives us wholeness to have a solid place to plant our feet when we reach out into brokenness.</span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Tonight, I write, because I am more than a conqueror. And as I read about that little girl and I watched those videos, basted with the flavor of pedophilia for whatever statement it meant to make, I felt fear knock on my heart. I felt that slimy thing whisper what he’d like to do to my kids and instead of inviting him in for a cup of tea and a chat, I pointed to the blood smeared on my door and watched him run away. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then I turned to this, what platform I have, to wage war against Fear and the twisted game of the enemy. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t even know why. Half of my readers follow for the chicken talk and the pictures of farming. The other half are here because of a tornado and either way, I’m here to tell you that you can claim that same Blood. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Against that worry and that fear and that lie. Against that sucking darkness that has been defeated by a wise and faithful King. Oh! You are not a failure. You, who measure out your quiet time with God and chastise yourself for not reading The Word enough. You who remember your divorce or your jail time or the doubt you hide underneath the position you hold. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Draw that secret thing out and let God set it ablaze. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was afraid of the diagnosis they gave me. When they said I couldn’t have babies. When they said my kidneys would fail before I turned 30. Until Deuteronomy 7:14</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You shall be blessed above all peoples; there shall not be a male or female barren among you or among your livestock. And then Isaiah 53:5 But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was afraid to walk through parking lots because I read a story once about a woman who was hit by a car after she put her son in his car seat. She died, and I imagined my sons watching that happen. Until Psalm 91: 9-10. If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,” and you make the Most High your dwelling, no harm will overtake you. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was afraid I would lose my kids. That there might be some misunderstanding. Some crazy accusation. Until Psalm 84:3 Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow builds her nest and raises her young at a place near your altar, O LORD of Heaven's Armies, my King and my God!</span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was afraid of not having enough, of shut off notices and bills we couldn’t pay. Until Philippians 4:16 And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.</span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I was afraid of man. Of being rejected, mocked, called crazy. Of saying words like prophesy and having them roll their eyes. I was afraid of being wrong. Until Galatians 1:10 Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.</span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let the light shine in. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Really. Let it shine in. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And be prepared because when it does, you will not be the same. The soul craves the light and the darkness becomes a sickening thing. And after months or years or however long it takes, you will find yourself so brazenly fearless that you will be the one the enemy hides from.</span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whoever this is for, I pray right now it finds you. I pray you resist the devil and his attempts to scare you and I command him to flee from you now, in Jesus’ mighty name. </span></div>
<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I pray that you learn to embrace your heightened awareness of darkness. You, with your deep, knowing of things that go bump in the night, the way your mind goes to the worst case scenario. I’m telling you now, God custom made you for a purpose. And you may not be able to watch the news because of how it turns your stomach, but if you give Him control over this thing, you will be amazed at the walk He has for you. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div style="color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After all, awareness of wickedness leads people to glory. I know because it happened to me. When I was seven, or maybe eight.</span></div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-23899202656219528962015-11-04T15:15:00.000-08:002015-11-20T13:16:36.314-08:00The Homesteads of Billy Goat Mountain. We live on Billy Goat Mountain which is, if you ask me, completely lovely. When we found our house, that name seemed like the perfect place to start a homestead.<br />
<br />
Now, a year and a half later, our homestead is thriving, growing, a fully living thing. While we don't have a billy goat, our little piece of Arkansas is the only place I could imagine being.<br />
<br />
Several months ago, I stared getting really serious about taking photos of the kids, the animals, the work, and the adventures of homesteading. I began sharing on instagram (@roots_and_refuge). And to my surprise, people were watching. I don't know why I didn't expect that. I know for the years I lived in town and dreamed of country living, I lived off of blogs and online photos of homesteading, living vicariously through anyone who would share their life with me.<br />
<br />
I've thought about that a lot. I shared some in my last post about the conviction I felt when I realized God had told me to share and I hadn't. And the decision I made to open up my life.<br />
<br />
That's when we started the YouTube channel. Of course, I'll still keep my blog and Instagram going but some things are just better shown than told. We've joined forces with a few of our neighbors to bring forth this channel that will share our knowledge, adventures and mishaps. I love the diversity that will be displayed on the channel. We are all in different stages and the sense of community I've experienced just since starting this endeavor has been nothing short of heartwarming.<br />
<br />
So, here is one of our first videos. This is me talking about chickens, which if you've been reading this blog long at all, you know I am crazy about!<br />
I hope you enjoy, like, subscribe and share! Thank you all for your support. It means more than I could ever put into words.<br />
<br />
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<br />The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-24872226307048413542015-10-22T10:40:00.002-07:002015-10-22T10:40:31.695-07:00This Little Life of Mine<div class="MsoNormal">
I have opened a blank document no less than three dozen
times in the last couple of months and just stared at the blinking curser.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Maintaining a blog is hard for me. It’s like there’s a deep
rooted something inside my heart that knows I am supposed to write, to use my
camera, and to turn the walls of this simple farmhouse into glass so that this
little life might shine for the world to see. But it’s wrestling with the fear
of not having anything good to say. It’s battling with the idea that it might
not be worthwhile for anyone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-Y1lCyvqDTsjyJwwYpSpgYPo43nHkGIPNnEQySzsl6PEdnsjczSBskA1PVNWiBKlZ4gRBkrA6gIqVLY42JuKktvNnP-wB1FESNH-v0JqO1eMf0Sjvo_GB_rdZkerT4PgWo-huytEPRoS/s1600/12052339_10153788958800676_1857780834286188280_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-Y1lCyvqDTsjyJwwYpSpgYPo43nHkGIPNnEQySzsl6PEdnsjczSBskA1PVNWiBKlZ4gRBkrA6gIqVLY42JuKktvNnP-wB1FESNH-v0JqO1eMf0Sjvo_GB_rdZkerT4PgWo-huytEPRoS/s640/12052339_10153788958800676_1857780834286188280_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I’ve been convicted. I’m sitting on
something God has told me to do. I write occasionally. When God lays something
on my heart too heavy for me to carry, I lay it down in words. Then I’ll share.
Because I feel so certain that God’s words are always worth saying. But what if it’s just my life, my day, my family, my words? Then I
second guess. I can’t imagine that it would inspire anyone at all. <br />
<br />
I’m not saying this to have anyone puff me up. I’m saying it to hold myself
accountable. Even writing the 195 words I’ve already typed into this document,
I’ve already imagined three times this standing as a lonely and forgotten post with no
follow up months from now. I’ve already thought, “Don’t post that. You’ll feel
foolish when you don’t do anything different.”<br /><br />
That’s the enemy. He’s a liar. <br />
He is always standing there waiting to remind you of your failures. He’s always
whispering that you can’t do better, can’t grow in discipline. That’s because
he doesn’t know grace. He can’t comprehend mercy. He’s just a thief, set on
stealing God’s plans for us. <br />
I rebuke that nonsense. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4QdbbEP_sG2SavAPXtLh_2LrodC4dcAQ5SZpoAVUc3JB22dmWluOHe8RDYmsSjrh8A6qPAKrA7TZ9Hx7-x12Eu0O-XnjmQy19LxYmGODc72oe-2VJM-ojOKL_-JmgSQBTL7u-dtKp-GS/s1600/12068719_10153788959110676_1110575518203087793_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4QdbbEP_sG2SavAPXtLh_2LrodC4dcAQ5SZpoAVUc3JB22dmWluOHe8RDYmsSjrh8A6qPAKrA7TZ9Hx7-x12Eu0O-XnjmQy19LxYmGODc72oe-2VJM-ojOKL_-JmgSQBTL7u-dtKp-GS/s640/12068719_10153788959110676_1110575518203087793_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
I’m here to tell you that this isn’t easy, but the best things never are. <br />
<br />
A year and a half ago, God laid one of those heavy things down on me. It
was about my friend April, a few days after a tornado killed her sons. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote it because not to would have been
treacherously disobedient to God. He is mighty. His plan is unthinkable. So
when millions of people streamed in to my rarely-touched blog, I was so incredibly
humbled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since then, I've felt the same pull. I've felt like I should teach people about chickens and show how we live. It just feels so minor compared to that massive thing that jumpstarted my writing. It feels like when compared to the big picture, the everyday things couldn't possibly matter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />But they do matter. Because God said they matter. They do matter, because even small things inspire people. They do matter because it's my life. My life matters and when I walk in that confidence, it changes peoples hearts about their own life and their own dreams. My faith matters because it encourages the faith of others to grow. Isn't it funny how much just stating the truth can embolden you?<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the course of the last two weeks, I have really sought
God on some things. <br />
I want to be obedient, you know. I mean really. My heart burns with desire to
see revival in this country. And I know that the only way to be a herald for
the fire of God is to have a repentant heart. So I ask Him, regularly, to
search me. (Psalms 139:23)<br />
<br />
I wasn’t really prepared for this conviction. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took me back to the parable of the talents. In Matt
25:14-30, we hear a story of a master who gives a number of talents to each one
of His servants. That word, Talent, when you take it back to the Greek is
actually a measure of gold. And a heavy measure at that, weighing roughly the
same as a person. It’s not a number. It’s not an amount, per say. It’s a
weight. <br />
<br />
Two servants took their measure and multiplied it. One buried his in the
ground. And this week, as God showed me what He had asked of me, and showed me
that when I operate in doubt and do not share my life for fear of criticism or
failure, then I am no better than that lazy, slothful servant who buried his
measure out of his fear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRr6hOpfRHUgQ4mnj_DBztFoDZvvj8Q90KgLkJVZtAz9ODeZO0qtNvHpwQ_dzMfBjfJJc9fTpkqwwzFdRCVv5uuBvWsHJ5WSq4PJmZY0FQmM2Hn_LMmyhjTohvVZyzsxlNepaIHSB8_Q5o/s1600/IMG_0251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRr6hOpfRHUgQ4mnj_DBztFoDZvvj8Q90KgLkJVZtAz9ODeZO0qtNvHpwQ_dzMfBjfJJc9fTpkqwwzFdRCVv5uuBvWsHJ5WSq4PJmZY0FQmM2Hn_LMmyhjTohvVZyzsxlNepaIHSB8_Q5o/s640/IMG_0251.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /><br />
I have been doing this, burying my measure. Maybe I've done a little bit of what I
should. But partial obedience is total rebellion. Maybe I've been writing and sharing a little. But I have allowed fear to override
truth. <br />
Man, that’s a hard conviction. <br />
This week it was mine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
It is not up to me, the servant, to decide the value of my measure. It’s not up
to me to worry about how it will be received. It’s only up to me to do what I have
been told to do with it. <br />In this case. It is to share.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the height of this revelation, I was sitting on our bed with my Word open and praying. Jeremiah came in and I looked at him and said "I just feel so heavy. I feel mixed up." So we began to talk and pray, and suddenly, I was reminded of a conversation he and I had years ago on a random night outside of a pizza restaurant in our old town. It was before we had any hope of owning a homestead in the foreseeable future. I was a full time student and we had recently invested quite a lot of money in photography equipment with the plan of me opening a business and working hard to make it succeed. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9jJ9a2-JsOjuTwPh-ds2Ct8KcTASAZ03uoF8HccbUiYkn_ucvVTJUQWCFauj1kvdpKW00iNvUT0pQzSaqi35OAfhaOlVcP2ZO3BLXbz4HJQIG6-Nq3JO2WAW62vFrvaXWFY6ZO26qGwEy/s1600/IMG_0239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9jJ9a2-JsOjuTwPh-ds2Ct8KcTASAZ03uoF8HccbUiYkn_ucvVTJUQWCFauj1kvdpKW00iNvUT0pQzSaqi35OAfhaOlVcP2ZO3BLXbz4HJQIG6-Nq3JO2WAW62vFrvaXWFY6ZO26qGwEy/s640/IMG_0239.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember sitting in the car that night. It was winter and I was crying. I told Jeremiah that I didn't think God wanted me to be a photographer. That I didn't understand the set of gifts and desires He had born into me. The writing, the photography, the love of the Word, the desire to stay at home with our kids and then that life-long burning to have a farm. I couldn't reconcile them. I couldn't figure out why I would have such longing in my heart for a life that felt so far away from where I was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I kept praying. And years later, God reminded me of that night, that conversation. He reminded me and showed me that He had actually given me every desire I'd had for my life. And He has only asked me to do one thing with it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honor Him by sharing it with others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcb6eCp_4GB90McW-lNGFmthyqchRa6o6FpukInYYyJR9Z-84mhk8k6Rrcp1x8Lnc4la2ZQGfhCPHOhBoyyXpCnV_u74vNkMdgKO7CpdKozwKYIhgPvgEEv5cYWL7wWuBmx-g5orOTDqO/s1600/12087232_10153788957955676_3545958512701327704_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcb6eCp_4GB90McW-lNGFmthyqchRa6o6FpukInYYyJR9Z-84mhk8k6Rrcp1x8Lnc4la2ZQGfhCPHOhBoyyXpCnV_u74vNkMdgKO7CpdKozwKYIhgPvgEEv5cYWL7wWuBmx-g5orOTDqO/s640/12087232_10153788957955676_3545958512701327704_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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So I am. </div>
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I am. From now on, I am. Even if it feels silly. Even if it doesn't feel worthwhile. Whether it feels heavy or not. I don't decide the value of this thing, He does. </div>
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He's given me everything I asked of Him. And let me tell you, it's messy and its hard but it is a beautiful life. While I hope it inspires someone, it can't really matter to me if it doesn't. </div>
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All that matters is hearing those words when I'm done with my race. All that really matters to me is hearing Him say, "Well done, my good and faithful servant. Well done" </div>
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This is my blog, my life, my measure. For it, I am thankful.</div>
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The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-77020457573782153892015-10-11T08:25:00.000-07:002015-10-11T08:29:20.280-07:00Things I Love: ZLYC Fauxdori Traveler's Notebook<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I recently got bit by the Traveler's Notebook bug and got an opportunity to review<a href="http://amzn.to/1QivNoq" target="_blank"> this set by ZLYC</a>. It's available on Amazon for a fraction of what a Midori costs. The set of 2 books, the Travelers size and the Passport size, currently sells for around 40 dollars. They are made of very high quality leather, and despite what some of the Amazon reviews stated, I found them to have no adverse smells or any bleeding. </div>
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I took pictures throughout the unboxing to show what all was included right from ZLYC:</div>
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Super nice packaging. This would make a great gift. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg30teG5DmvG14z-mWhdJk0wTBLr2zEcQWt9SroO__EfGxdEP1QgfkYnNDnbsg1DQ6FiXFjW2zKN4kY9JcMHdx_Yn59eD4LoSkwh8w2CUnzSQ7bqmRZNvpZyChlijFYh9s61dknIjbtaB93/s1600/untitled+%252811+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg30teG5DmvG14z-mWhdJk0wTBLr2zEcQWt9SroO__EfGxdEP1QgfkYnNDnbsg1DQ6FiXFjW2zKN4kY9JcMHdx_Yn59eD4LoSkwh8w2CUnzSQ7bqmRZNvpZyChlijFYh9s61dknIjbtaB93/s640/untitled+%252811+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Everything comes in this nice dustbag. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghxAZud-VM4bog3UYuAY7wFufDqvInksKxU1Q3VrqAvfqSKRAXfMOgFbPxkp7DRAyPx4Vzd-tbHHnuPsbqTIiZhsZZ2yOKgD3HYNxuwpE4uZ_btEQRIPS8aPWzKi0GQ3G8011TZ9sI1HVH/s1600/untitled+%252823+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghxAZud-VM4bog3UYuAY7wFufDqvInksKxU1Q3VrqAvfqSKRAXfMOgFbPxkp7DRAyPx4Vzd-tbHHnuPsbqTIiZhsZZ2yOKgD3HYNxuwpE4uZ_btEQRIPS8aPWzKi0GQ3G8011TZ9sI1HVH/s640/untitled+%252823+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Comes with a larger Traveler's size book and a smaller Passport size. Also has a nifty little pen holder that frankly, I will never use because I carry 50 pens at a time and they demand a pouch all their own. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmChXIddI4VYxa-6yLkZo3YVHREMJ4y50s9LeoyCFIG2nOcYLQKbmHUYiQJW8naKUm9xXc-M32OrL6HbrhFG5Gajq7fZCYIhrYjxiI2ThvXfZp3GFK_63dVgebrkri2GLxLduUR9gVh-cO/s1600/untitled+%252834+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmChXIddI4VYxa-6yLkZo3YVHREMJ4y50s9LeoyCFIG2nOcYLQKbmHUYiQJW8naKUm9xXc-M32OrL6HbrhFG5Gajq7fZCYIhrYjxiI2ThvXfZp3GFK_63dVgebrkri2GLxLduUR9gVh-cO/s640/untitled+%252834+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I chose the Dark Coffee color for no reason but for that nifty orange elastic. I like a little color in my life. My books varied a little bit in color from each other, but I like it. It just shows that they are truly hand-dyed, real leather products. Variation like that is, in my opinion, just part of buying these sorts of things. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLet2ulF5diOgHHPQ5jd2L-F7Our0uMwxSqJxZnwZwOT936Ct3ySxvYoNQgDQCQAOjU70sNVXRQbr0kw3G2cf7vyla_WCceE1WY6aUY5ZczAIyxJgYYKbFj-onQvDpH7uzJKox6N7ZApJl/s1600/untitled+%252844+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSs0219lT-vQo8YfGVQzz4rMx-eZpEKhQ-w8MIUvnof6uRCfWd5k2OudwceA7lElRI4XQz-ocMdOp2Krzji_99ndjlwM6gxBvK0tsFVsyZbrhhR-gxHLO0HftanB9jX_TQc1Q_jdH_v0Jl/s1600/untitled+%252848+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSs0219lT-vQo8YfGVQzz4rMx-eZpEKhQ-w8MIUvnof6uRCfWd5k2OudwceA7lElRI4XQz-ocMdOp2Krzji_99ndjlwM6gxBvK0tsFVsyZbrhhR-gxHLO0HftanB9jX_TQc1Q_jdH_v0Jl/s400/untitled+%252848+of+85%2529.jpg" width="266" /></a><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLet2ulF5diOgHHPQ5jd2L-F7Our0uMwxSqJxZnwZwOT936Ct3ySxvYoNQgDQCQAOjU70sNVXRQbr0kw3G2cf7vyla_WCceE1WY6aUY5ZczAIyxJgYYKbFj-onQvDpH7uzJKox6N7ZApJl/s400/untitled+%252844+of+85%2529.jpg" width="266" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLet2ulF5diOgHHPQ5jd2L-F7Our0uMwxSqJxZnwZwOT936Ct3ySxvYoNQgDQCQAOjU70sNVXRQbr0kw3G2cf7vyla_WCceE1WY6aUY5ZczAIyxJgYYKbFj-onQvDpH7uzJKox6N7ZApJl/s1600/untitled+%252844+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>It</div>
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It also came with a nice long length of black elastic. This would be plenty to replace the orange if you liked things a little more low-key. I used mine to make so variations which I will show later in this post. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0H2IOGY0SYZaKfWdv_EBqSHn62smDOzsoTOCCJA2IllfI_PtZAI9kxmqnBSulQDVy8YMu79sySIaYLBkHcPIEstjyDNsrJYC6Po1bzkT7MEtZvV6fNj_T-Vav9VsB72ClnOAMCFY4_fn/s1600/untitled+%252852+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0H2IOGY0SYZaKfWdv_EBqSHn62smDOzsoTOCCJA2IllfI_PtZAI9kxmqnBSulQDVy8YMu79sySIaYLBkHcPIEstjyDNsrJYC6Po1bzkT7MEtZvV6fNj_T-Vav9VsB72ClnOAMCFY4_fn/s640/untitled+%252852+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Right inside the cover, beautiful soft leather. Each book comes with 3 notebook inserts chosen at random. My Passport size can with 3 blank inserts, which is awesome for what I want to do with it (That will be another post). The Traveler's size came with one blank, one lined, and one calendar which is also just what I was hoping for. They all have brown craft covers.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KN6P-k3gxr2WmXytScXg9fM0xDtBp37LbLjXSCxEypemrjHi6CLXhqaICHy6f0wg9QxrMeLUeMO7gU8gwPBPmyxKeeKyRZj14vbnbedeaxWB9pzcVtzxNINIhFEZ1b6jhWEqnSD8ErG-/s1600/untitled+%252857+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KN6P-k3gxr2WmXytScXg9fM0xDtBp37LbLjXSCxEypemrjHi6CLXhqaICHy6f0wg9QxrMeLUeMO7gU8gwPBPmyxKeeKyRZj14vbnbedeaxWB9pzcVtzxNINIhFEZ1b6jhWEqnSD8ErG-/s640/untitled+%252857+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWSIJOLChrIJBC3UqGZ2L_a2zlor3CiM4t7OmsAvU106vHeM_1MVy9DJ9At5doZKHMU9b3doKKWnunBPDvIPB3G2efh28xCUY-3mK3rImNszrB0hWsnhAsJsW9z-gQNHHqltzWed8QTUP/s1600/untitled+%252861+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWSIJOLChrIJBC3UqGZ2L_a2zlor3CiM4t7OmsAvU106vHeM_1MVy9DJ9At5doZKHMU9b3doKKWnunBPDvIPB3G2efh28xCUY-3mK3rImNszrB0hWsnhAsJsW9z-gQNHHqltzWed8QTUP/s640/untitled+%252861+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitO2OUF9_8JcOmsD_4c2HlSgGnNWCNqyD6ip11BGKfAb1RyaXSUqxJwjMlYLebmSVy_Q79EtlUXMrXxRA_q6CiKXFTpQcCEt5VclFAmzwUnsBMePGvc3qtXHvnQqoxHFylZrLhM9fnOlYn/s1600/untitled+%252866+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitO2OUF9_8JcOmsD_4c2HlSgGnNWCNqyD6ip11BGKfAb1RyaXSUqxJwjMlYLebmSVy_Q79EtlUXMrXxRA_q6CiKXFTpQcCEt5VclFAmzwUnsBMePGvc3qtXHvnQqoxHFylZrLhM9fnOlYn/s640/untitled+%252866+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbsjn_u24je1svWj83-zmddi89gTLRYVwMNleXKJ-wG44dGGrD_IcD-UOtZ1p8ValgJcojpUy_J79PsPbn1GRgds1wJWi3Fx5kVszAEExES7U7WiTNzFxMY-58rh7Z-mqFbupfQzmaZe-/s1600/untitled+%252871+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbsjn_u24je1svWj83-zmddi89gTLRYVwMNleXKJ-wG44dGGrD_IcD-UOtZ1p8ValgJcojpUy_J79PsPbn1GRgds1wJWi3Fx5kVszAEExES7U7WiTNzFxMY-58rh7Z-mqFbupfQzmaZe-/s640/untitled+%252871+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Also included was this neat insert that has a pouch on one side and a card holder on the other. Also awesome for what I have in mind for this notebook.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6n_DiWB8oLCN8BAmW7jMkH7mI-5wMaRR8wUYW12Pv_buHszMFTqMz0D7s_mcyYE_JTTHaw0TK37gHHjM-pJtJn2UPcIfbQt0Do6ASy2VPJITEXRU0sGWtNzWWMD0BSk5R9FMlHJfMJrU/s1600/untitled+%252876+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6n_DiWB8oLCN8BAmW7jMkH7mI-5wMaRR8wUYW12Pv_buHszMFTqMz0D7s_mcyYE_JTTHaw0TK37gHHjM-pJtJn2UPcIfbQt0Do6ASy2VPJITEXRU0sGWtNzWWMD0BSk5R9FMlHJfMJrU/s640/untitled+%252876+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBNkl5PT6Zkkqgc9hTZfvTjR3Hqbkkp_SLby3zIHxhQ2idmE-UOXoJnQAmLQRwlqIQIyvQKW7EGaOGGRbGtWb_uGHjHXrJ2yGHxZuPgGu2tCSH0HhUK-WPo_U1P6c1itcMVc5sbWo4jsd/s1600/untitled+%252881+of+85%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBNkl5PT6Zkkqgc9hTZfvTjR3Hqbkkp_SLby3zIHxhQ2idmE-UOXoJnQAmLQRwlqIQIyvQKW7EGaOGGRbGtWb_uGHjHXrJ2yGHxZuPgGu2tCSH0HhUK-WPo_U1P6c1itcMVc5sbWo4jsd/s640/untitled+%252881+of+85%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Now that you see what comes out of the box, you'll know why I was so excited about finding this product. One Midori Traveler's Notebook cover costs around 40 dollars on Amazon. So for the same price, you can have both size covers, 6 total notebook inserts, a wallet insert and extra elastic. It is hands down, a much better deal. The leather is still very high quality so I feel like the only real difference is the brand name. If that doesn't matter, definitely go for this deal. </div>
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Now, each person's use for a product like this is going to vary greatly based on their life. I don't know many people with a life like mine, but I'm going to show you how I'm using mine and hope it inspires you. </div>
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First things first, I decided when ordering this that I didn't want it to end up as just another notebook that gets used a while then forgotten. God recently led me to go on sabbatical from my smart phone (I'll be writing more on this later), and one of the problems with that was not having my calendar or the ability to take down a quick note or thought while on the run. Enter the Traveler's Notebook. To make sure that I always have it, I knew I wanted a wallet insert to keep my IDs and Debit card in it. Since the<a href="http://amzn.to/1GCMe9J" target="_blank"> ZLYC Set</a> came with one already, I was set from the start. </div>
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While I was waiting for it to arrive, I found <a href="http://www.mydigitalartstudio.com/blog/2015/5/19/midori-notebooks-free-printables" target="_blank">this free printable</a> to make an insert myself. I printed the grid paper and cut it down to size along with a cover from white card stock. </div>
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I printed out 15 pages of front & back grid, so there are 30 pages each with a front and back.</div>
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This became my farm log to journal the happenings of the everyday stuff around here. We have tried to keep several different logs for what we buy/sell, hatch, butcher, plant, etc. but it ends up being a little overwhelming. My idea here is to have one place for everything and always have it on my to be able to keep better records. So far, I am loving it. Yesterday I planted a raised bed of fall greens and radishes and I was able to draw out the bed on the grid paper and label what was planted where. </div>
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We had a chick hatch out crippled and devised a little incubator egg out of a water bottle to help straighten his legs up (He's fine now!), and I was able to draw it out and keep a record. </div>
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I'm actually really enjoying the time of writing everything out each day. Some days it only takes half a page and sometimes it takes 2. </div>
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I took the extra elastic and strung it through the holes with the orange elastic (I had to stretch them out just a bit with a pen) so that I could put more than the intended 3 inserts in comfortably. I can post a video on this is anyone needs help. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIksEm-LMDXy8kcidVuEWiQqkpdUWUsxsBK9FcsehP3YPv7W5EXXcJbZdvMxdZTxw6tu3JURlJJgtCmVdUYkyF3qqT9TRU3YC1CPv0XcjPAx4v3ZzFHW6FaKVrgupXF49mbxzr4YaIWXge/s1600/untitled+%25281+of+1%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIksEm-LMDXy8kcidVuEWiQqkpdUWUsxsBK9FcsehP3YPv7W5EXXcJbZdvMxdZTxw6tu3JURlJJgtCmVdUYkyF3qqT9TRU3YC1CPv0XcjPAx4v3ZzFHW6FaKVrgupXF49mbxzr4YaIWXge/s640/untitled+%25281+of+1%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Next, I went to Pinterest and searched "hand lettered scriptures" to find ideas to decorate the fronts of my other inserts. I assigned the lined notebook to be my prayer journal. I keep my written prayer lists as well as the scriptures and prayers that I regularly pray over my family, and I have room to write out my prayers (which by the way, is an excellent way to remember the things God has heard you on.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGxAvBz2w7fCAd4nZIdYsE2fQiLJt_S6TT54Liy2FTcAykbHCG65JMPCM8u9Mc-Tlm7BxybibACVvsrd79FpK_3qNxe_KRiRam6m2Ax8KRKiBtbeE5kY7rvZeO6vWQts_oEHva5qeJp_TT/s1600/untitled+%25283+of+8%2529-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGxAvBz2w7fCAd4nZIdYsE2fQiLJt_S6TT54Liy2FTcAykbHCG65JMPCM8u9Mc-Tlm7BxybibACVvsrd79FpK_3qNxe_KRiRam6m2Ax8KRKiBtbeE5kY7rvZeO6vWQts_oEHva5qeJp_TT/s640/untitled+%25283+of+8%2529-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The majority of my sermons come from the Notes section of my iPhone. I usually start a new "Note" each week and it ends up full of the things God puts on my heart as I go through each day, studying, listening to other speakers, etc. Since I am currently going without a smartphone, this was something that had to be addressed. I took one of the little notebooks from my Passport sized journal and slipped it in to be the catch-all for random thoughts. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk2uh7COHDfVX1OVe02OXSC4MJH7kRC6F-8gXwEivl7SaD1h_uAMF2yv-bunqu-q59cM1azpVUDGrSDWlaE-7N2D-MU5uMq1NGF4H1g9k23akLQCGy_sYIUoot99X89vrBsXuyFTvlsGRR/s1600/untitled+%25285+of+8%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk2uh7COHDfVX1OVe02OXSC4MJH7kRC6F-8gXwEivl7SaD1h_uAMF2yv-bunqu-q59cM1azpVUDGrSDWlaE-7N2D-MU5uMq1NGF4H1g9k23akLQCGy_sYIUoot99X89vrBsXuyFTvlsGRR/s640/untitled+%25285+of+8%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Then, the blank journal has become my bible study notebook. I love the size of these because I can always have it on me. I usually use composition books but it gets a little bulky carrying it around. I'm never without my journaling bible so this just couples well with it. I plan on making several more inserts myself and will probably have to change them out regularly. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqmK56k8Ico_wCGCN2iHWJwobELQM0A3h4heJEEtOGumDzf3IzQESyTGeDGlz-PgyKo1U10J9_V5mOHsU_1u9hjASmzJFCV1DJb0EPBKt8ESOPWh2RhXKvLFTJ_8jOrnGPQ8iDqPtyP8Y/s1600/untitled+%25287+of+8%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqmK56k8Ico_wCGCN2iHWJwobELQM0A3h4heJEEtOGumDzf3IzQESyTGeDGlz-PgyKo1U10J9_V5mOHsU_1u9hjASmzJFCV1DJb0EPBKt8ESOPWh2RhXKvLFTJ_8jOrnGPQ8iDqPtyP8Y/s640/untitled+%25287+of+8%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Last to be addressed: the calendar insert. I don't really love it. It's weird how it just starts with 1 and goes to 31 with 5 days on each row. I'm actually planning on replacing it with one made from <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/164240717637827398/" target="_blank">this template. </a> I really like to plan by week anyway so even if the monthly calendar has been laid out better, I may have still replaced it. </div>
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I am currently in the process of turning my Passport size ZLYC notebook into a carryall for meal-planning, grocery shopping and organizing feeding whole foods to a big family like mine. I'll make a seperate post about that later. </div>
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Obviously, I'm thrilled with this product. Even in the week I've had it, the leather is breaking it nicely and I've really started building the habit of going to it to write things down. </div>
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I'm going to also make a YouTube video for ZLYC to show how I'm using my notebook and I'll link that here later if that interests you!</div>
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<i>I received my set of ZLYC Notebooks at a discount in exchange for my honest review. There are also affiliate links in this post that compensate me a small amount when you use them to make your purchases. All proceeds of this blog go to feeding chickens and small boys. Thanks so much, friends. </i></div>
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<i>Love, Jess</i></div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-86398441958092218052015-08-02T10:42:00.002-07:002015-08-02T10:50:23.947-07:00The Pursuit of Passion<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPY0OY3bvZGAoRagHiNirQmoxOWfaUG-Gvrfx4H0b3Y_MevYg6bAekR8zixm7uhyz477Vdwa6BRF28TU0HjfFptil2gNUHeF2v54FMRyjbnZrqew2cI4l-CYleGxH2HrfL7Jzhv-f40kQ/s1600/Stormy-Night-Lightning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPY0OY3bvZGAoRagHiNirQmoxOWfaUG-Gvrfx4H0b3Y_MevYg6bAekR8zixm7uhyz477Vdwa6BRF28TU0HjfFptil2gNUHeF2v54FMRyjbnZrqew2cI4l-CYleGxH2HrfL7Jzhv-f40kQ/s640/Stormy-Night-Lightning.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Before I had it, I longed for passion. <br />
I’d see it, you know. I’d see it on movies and read it about it in book after
book. <br />
I wanted it. I wanted to be it. I wanted to feel it. <br />
<br />
Before I was old enough to grasp it, back when I knew everything and before I
still had worlds to learn, I went seeking passion. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found a fleeting look-alike. The smell of it clung to my hair on hot summer
nights. <br />
It set my heart to racing and made my words sweet like sugar water. <br />
But it was a childish thing. Found in all the wrong places while exploring with
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the wrong people. And like sugar water, it became
cloying and rotting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a hot pink passion. Like bubble gum, sticky but not holding, a mess when
misplaced. <br />
Like construction paper hearts on elementary Valentines days, embellished with
lace and paper doilies and written with pretty sentiments that would surely
fade when left in the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back window on a sunny day. <br />
It was an easily torn passion. Easily wilted. Tossed away and tried again. <br />
It turned into marriage one day. And I thought surely I’d found it, <br />
Of course it would hold that real-life romance where dancing happens in the
kitchen and nights are spent under the stars.<br />
And I was disappointed to find that real life doesn’t usually read like romance
novels. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time I thought I could find <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the passion I could want in my sons. <br />
Them with their sweet, soft skin, and their insatiable need for me. <br />
Them with their doe eyes and grasping hands that held my finger so perfectly. <br />
But it quickly turned from a baby blue passion into a <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Black one. <br />
A sucking black thing that ate me up when I realized<br />
I was not enough on my own. <br />
And fear gobbled up my heart in the night. <br />
And told me I was failing them. <br />
Then the passion was disabled, it came rushing and pulsing then choked me
because I could not protect them as much as I loved them. <br />
It was a dark and scary passion. A desperate-not-to-fail passion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I ran, went looking for deep and rushing elsewhere. <br />
I found myself searching marriage again, seeking to understand where passion
fit in the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thing I didn’t comprehend. <br />
And I found that marriage passion is much less moonlight dances and down comforters
and much more concrete. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought it a white passion. Lacking luster and tearing
down trust. <br />
Sometimes it was blinding and sometimes it was dull and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the time I didn’t understand why. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why would we be called to something so hard?<br />
<br />
I got close once, picking through just going to church. <br />
Like a game of Marco Polo, I was warm but not hot. <br />
I felt a tickle of conviction in the knowledge. Felt a little <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stirring in the lack of understanding.<br />
I didn't seek. I was lazy.<br />
I felt a hunger on Sundays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way you
feel when you need to eat fruit and water<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But your drink soda instead. And the hunger goes away. <br />
But not really. <br />
It was quite a grey passion. A little blurred. <br />
A little between the lines. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was like a smudge of ashes, like smoke without fire. <br />
A little bit of a mix between black and white. <br />
It was a very small passion. Too small to carry me through<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Big leaps. <br />
Big hurts and big needs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I sought to fill the gaps it left in a lifestyle. <br />
In warm eggs in a nestbox, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Homemade bread, clothes on a line, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Babies on the hip and a mason jar of sweet tea. <br />
How romantic it would be to have a life to be passionate for. <br />
It was, and it is. <br />
However it’s a very green passion. Shifting with the seasons. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is like grass, growing rampant when the water is
plentiful but turning brown in drought. <br />
It’s a passion that dies a little in the wintertime.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It strains a little when there is no time for showers alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the kids get sick and when a goat gets sick,
or when a <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mother rabbit decides not to care for her babies because it’s
too hot, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so they grow cold. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see people looking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All sorts of people, surely we were made to be passionate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surely, we were made in the image of an incredibly passionate God. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And he would not leave us searching.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I found it unexpectedly. On a random Tuesday. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found Him in a shopping center, on a cross, in the Book,
in my dreams. <br />
I found Him when He was chasing me. And I heard Him shouting, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I AM PASSION! I AM PASSION! I AM PASSION!”<br />
<br />
And I realized I had been running. Searching relentlessly, longing for the very
thing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that was hot on my heels. Pursuing me uncompromisingly,
longing to have me. <br />
And one day, a random day, I simply turned direction. <br />
And I ran towards Him. <br />
<br />
I laid down my ideas of what passion looked like, of what knowledge looked
like, of what romance and marriage and motherhood looked like. <br />
And I ran. <br />
<br />
And it hardly took long at all until I collided into the arms of <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Passion. <br />
I fell in love and caught on fire.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Passion changes things. <br />
It puts fire-tinted glasses over searching eyes. <br />
It reveals the hidden obvious. <br />
<br />
It shows that marriage’s white passion holds every color of light. <br />
That true love is both a downy place to land and a concrete place to <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stand <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Build <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
True passion filled in the black hole of fear in motherhood. <br />
It brought back the baby blue. Reminded me <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When their chubby hands outgrow my finger, <br />
I need only hand them over to Him. <br />
It assured me that if I am enough or if I’m not, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t matter because He always is. <br />
<br />
He tore down my walls of knowledge. Erased the smudges of grey <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And with red blood, made things <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Black and white again. <br />
And then my eyes were opened <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the Word was alive. It was speaking to me. <br />
And I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t wanting. <br />
<br />
I became a girl dancing on the feet of my Father. <br />
With freedom to twirl, arms spread wide in <br />
deep and solid abandon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Passion made me grateful. <br />
For all these things I have to be passionate for. <br />
It has ignited all the dry places. <br />
Healed all the scarred places. <br />
Made light all the dark places. <br />
It covered the lies with truth. <br />
The fear with peace. <br />
<br />
I became bold. <br />
In this passion that is security that is mine, I am bold. <br />
A roar or a whisper, whatever He calls for, I can be. <br />
I am armed and not afraid. <br />
This is a red passion, and a orange one, with flashes of blue and white and
sometimes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is lightning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is an unconceivable passion.<br />
Such a beautiful passion. It is the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Loveliest of romances. <br />
It is honey. Life-giving. Unable to spoil. <br />
<br />
It’s yours too, this passion. <br />
Whether you know it or not. <br />
Whether you are running fiercely or sitting comfortably in warmth. <br />
<br />
There’s a fire on your heals. <br />
Do you want it?<br />
<br />
Hear these honey words, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Feel them drip down into that longing, deep place of <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Needing to burn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pray now that if you are reading this, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You will catch fire. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pray that some place in you that longs for passion perks up, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it's tired of searching. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it's tired of running. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it's just tired. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let this honey drip down and let the fear shut it's mouth and </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hear me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Passion is hot on your heels. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fire is hot on your heels. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turn around and pursue the arms of Jesus. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is passion, and when you collide into Him, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You will be passion, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-38066574950042908952015-07-26T20:05:00.001-07:002015-07-26T20:23:02.069-07:00The Least of These<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX69046917" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{195}" paraid="613543369" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">A few weeks ago, I was given the </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">opportunity</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> to preach at Soul Food Café, a mission outreach in Conway, AR. </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">It was one of those times where despite my best efforts, I had been completely unable to come up with a message to give. </span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{195}" paraid="613543369" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Nada. Zilch. Nothing. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">So when they handed me the microphone, I simply said “My name is Jessica,” and started to pray, knowing it would be good because it would be all on God. </span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{195}" paraid="613543369" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{195}" paraid="613543369" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">It was. It was a good message. But when I think about that day, any words that came from my mouth pale in comparison to the juggernaut that sat before me. Poverty. </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">That oppressive thing. </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Big, ugly, stinking, sucking poverty. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{195}" paraid="613543369" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">You know, I can’t stop thinking about it. Every Tuesday, this place opens and feeds hundreds of people. They come in because they are in a shelter, or a rehab, or because they are simply having a hard time making the budget stretch until the next paycheck. They get a hot plate of food and a box of items donated from grocery stores with expiration dates that have since passed. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Volunteers in red t-shirts serve beans or spaghetti or garlicky bread</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> and they</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> pack boxes or cut hair</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> or pray. And every week, the people come. Because they</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> have needs that are not met and they hear of a place full of people willing to meet them. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Most go for the spaghetti. Not Jesus. But they find Him anyway. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">They told me to be prepared for a loud audience. They told me I might have to hush them up, because they came for the spaghetti and they’d be in line to get it. I didn’t have to hush them though, and they weren’t loud. They were too</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> captivated by the words being spoken over them. I saw it. I saw the tears in </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">their</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> eyes as God used me to tell them, “You are a masterpiece. You are an heir to the Kingdom. You are a child of the King. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved.”</span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> preached twice, prayed with half a dozen people, ate a plate of spaghetti and </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">left in awe of what strong truth will do for lost and hurting people. Then </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I went home, got on F</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">acebook and within just a few minutes, I had come across a news story with a long line of comments dogging welfare recipients and thugs and all sorts of </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">the </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">people that I had just preached to.</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> Of course, the w</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">orld is broken. Of course, these comments shouldn’t shock me and they wouldn’t if they had been made by the broken world. What bothered me was the fact that many of these comments came from professed Christians.</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I walked away from the computer</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> without commenting</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> but I’m still </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">being haunted</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">by </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">t</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">he </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">juxtaposition</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> of that hour</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">My friend Jennifer cuts hair in the back room of Soul Food. She sits addicts down in her chair and makes them feel like </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">people</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> again. She sits </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">men and </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">women 2 weeks out of the state pen down in her chair and makes them feel value again</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">. T</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">hey get haircuts they would not be able to afford otherwise. They are made presentable to obtain jobs an</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">d a chance at a new beginning. More importantly, t</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">hey also get the gospel. They receive healing. They get delivered. Because</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> they meet</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Jesus</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">obviously</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">.</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> But they meet Him through Jennifer.</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> They meet Him because s</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">omeone</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> took the initiative to show them what love looks like by giving them something they couldn’t afford </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">without expecting anything</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> in return. Do you know how many people are bewildered by that concept?</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="EOP SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{195}" paraid="613543369" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="EOP SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX69046917" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{202}" paraid="1753380698" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">We’r</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">e so comfortable, this nation. I wonder how many </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Christians click on celebrity news stories about sex changes and divorces, but walk by homeless men needing a dollar or a prayer. </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">What are we turning our heads and reaching our hand to? Is it Jes</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">us?</span><span class="EOP SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div class="OutlineElement Ltr SCX69046917" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; clear: both; cursor: text; direction: ltr; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{226}" paraid="326778549" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{226}" paraid="326778549" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">I don’t mean to be condemning. I really don’t. Unfortunately the action of humans is condemning enough. My only hope is to bring some perspective so we can self-examine. So we can be better. </span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{226}" paraid="326778549" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{226}" paraid="326778549" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">We live in a country so consumed with want that need goes unmet right under our noses. Yeah, I’ve heard the arguments. They had choices to make. They screwed up. They made their bed. </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">But telling them to lie in that bed is not a Christian concept. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">One of the women I prayed with at Soul Food was named Shirley. I took her in the back and we talked for a while. She’s been clean for a month but there’s no security in the shelter she’s living in so the money she’s trying to save keeps getting stolen. </span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">As we prayed, I opened my eyes and noticed an oozing scab on her knee dripping blood down onto on her low, white sock. She must have been wearing them for a couple of days based on the color of the blood stains. I noticed how small her feet were, so much smaller than my own feet, which I have always considered plain. I don’t pay for pedicures like so many of my friends, but when I looked down and saw my clean, plain feet in 100 dollar Birkenstocks next to hers</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> in her bloody socks</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">, my heart was grief-stricken. Why do I have so much?</span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">She was molested for the first time at age 9 when her mother used to make deals with the neighbor for her to go over to visit while his sons came to do yard work. She’s 59 now, and she didn’t want me to pray for her to get more money or to get a new car or to have a great new job or a husband or any of the things we privileged Christians might petition God for. No. Shirley asked for me to pray for her to be able to sleep at night. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">So I did. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">And then I went home and saw professed Christians making comments about welfare rats and white trash. I didn’t comment, but I am now. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">How dare you talk about Shirley like that? How dare you say such Christ-less things, you with your computer with internet and your clean socks and your childhood where you weren’t prostituted to the neighbor in exchange for someone to mow the lawn? Was it really her choices? And if it was, does it really matter?</span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Didn’t Jesus say to feed His sheep? Didn’t He say to do it for the least? </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Are you using your privilege to follow that command or are you staying comfortable?</span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The brokenness of the world is an opportunity for those who know Jesus to introduce Him to others.</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">The brokenness of our world</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> screams the need for revival and love and a savior.</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> And it is up to us to be the conduit for that.</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"> </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFt2Awm49CPj8ixl9NgKIjWv0ByTaj3yR6taDEm9OII7fi5FYpmmKZNvs9Uldn0hd_NT6_NBk-g2B9o56smo-AdrDDD3RboLn0vTARl2g6OBywervczXMS2V8gUJMHfqB4b6sbx94lZ65h/s1600/1460194_233881236776588_1393502365_n.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFt2Awm49CPj8ixl9NgKIjWv0ByTaj3yR6taDEm9OII7fi5FYpmmKZNvs9Uldn0hd_NT6_NBk-g2B9o56smo-AdrDDD3RboLn0vTARl2g6OBywervczXMS2V8gUJMHfqB4b6sbx94lZ65h/s1600/1460194_233881236776588_1393502365_n.png" /></a><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">There aren’t enough Christians willing to leave their comfort zone and love people. Even though they know that’s exactly what Jesus did for them. While we were still sinners, He left Hi</span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">s throne and loved us. He bandaged up our scabby knees and pulled us from our poverty. And He loved us first so we could </span><span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">then love others in return. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">Open your eyes. Quiet your opinion. Reach out your hand. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Paragraph SCX69046917" paraeid="{ea94c677-eefb-4f09-a427-ed66687eead2}{226}" paraid="326778549" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; color: windowtext; font-size: 6pt; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span class="TextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US">When you do it for the least of them, when you do it for Shirley, you do it for Him. </span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="LineBreakBlob BlobObject SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="TextRun EmptyTextRun SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" xml:lang="EN-US"></span><span class="EOP SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </span><br />
<span class="EOP SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span class="EOP SCX69046917" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: normal !important; -webkit-user-drag: none; -webkit-user-select: text; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><i>To sow into what Soul Food is doing, see their website <a href="http://www.soulfoodcafemission.org/" target="_blank">here</a>. You can also connect with them on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/soulfoodcafemission?fref=ts&ref=br_tf" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. </i></span></div>
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The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-28656515144410661022015-07-26T05:59:00.001-07:002015-07-26T05:59:51.728-07:00A Weight of Revival<div class="entry-content" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 1.5em 0px 0px; min-height: 36px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This article originally appeared on <a href="http://theworshipcenterblog.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">The Worship Center Blog</a></em></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">by Jessica Sowards</em><a href="https://theworshipcenterblog.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/il_fullxfull-176575185.jpg" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /></a></span></div>
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<a href="https://theworshipcenterblog.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/vintage-kitchen-scale-edward-fielding.jpg" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.3s ease-in-out; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.3s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="vintage-kitchen-scale-edward-fielding" class="alignnone wp-image-15" height="359" originalh="359" originalw="239" scale="2" src-orig="https://theworshipcenterblog.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/vintage-kitchen-scale-edward-fielding.jpg?w=239&h=359" src="https://theworshipcenterblog.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/vintage-kitchen-scale-edward-fielding.jpg?w=478&h=718" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="239" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A couple of weeks ago, the Lord woke me up very early on a Sunday morning. I hadn’t been dreaming and I had no overwhelming feeling of His presence or power resting on me. What it actually felt like was a very ordinary moment in a completely quiet house at 4 a.m.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I turned my lamp on, picked up my bible and flipped through it, stopping in Matthew at the Parable of the Talents. Immediately, I knew this was what He meant for me to read. I assumed He was giving me a word for collecting the offering at church, one of the duties of being on the pastoral team.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It wasn’t about money though. And it wasn’t the message I’ve heard preached multiple times before about people using their spiritual gifts for the kingdom.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A year ago, when God called me out of comfortable Christianity and trapped revival in my bones, everything changed. It was as if the world and the walk I knew was suddenly viewed through fire-tinted glasses. Every injustice and every darkness I saw on the news just cried out the need for revival. The lukewarm church has been comfortable in bathwater religion for too long and the water is growing colder by the minute. Soon they will all seek heat or freeze. We are a nation poised and desperate for the fire of God.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25: 14-30) tells a story of a master who left his possessions to his servants while he went away for a time. To the first, he left five talents. This servant was faithful to work with what he had been given and double it. The second servant was left with two talents, and he was also faithful to double his portion. The third servant was left one talent which he buried in the ground and did not double or even collect interest on. So when the master returned, he had nothing to give back except what he had been given. He was scolded and cast away.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I’ve always read this and dismissed the third, slothful servant as <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">the other Christians.</i> You know the kind, the Christmas and Easter church goers that identify with Christianity to the extent of their Facebook status but not beyond it. I was wrong.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The word “servant” or “slave” in this parable actually comes from the Greek word doulos. It is referring to believers who willingly live under Christ’s authority as His devoted followers. It is the very same word used in Joel 2:29 and Acts 2:18, in reference to the servants who would have the Spirit poured out on them. It is a word used with great honor throughout the New Testament to refer to followers like Peter and Paul and Timothy. The parable is, in short, a story of the burning ones.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This realization alarmed me. I immediately began to scour the Strong’s Concordance to learn what the living word of God was conveying in this hour. And then I heard it. It’s revival.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A talent isn’t actually an amount of money. It’s a measurement of weight equivalent to about 130 pounds. And while the ESV says the master distributed the talents based on each man’s personal ability, the original text more descriptively says the distribution was based on each man’s private strength.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Being a forerunner to revival is not for the faint of heart. It’s a heavy weight of something hugely important and immeasurably precious. The cry for repentance cannot come from a mouth that hasn’t already cried out to God its own repentance. It takes a passion grown in the secret place to be able to carry this weight. It takes a deeply rooted yearning for clean hands and a pure heart. It takes a private strength only truly known by the Master. He distributes accordingly.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This parable is a promise. Each treasured weight of outpouring placed in the hands of a faithful servant will be multiplied. Those who are willing to sacrifice their agendas and give up their plans to host His presence will see a great increase. Those who recognize that He is not doling out useless currency will get an opportunity to serve Him. Seeing the value of who He is and what He intends to do, they will go at once to make the most of what He gives them.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">These servants were not competing to be the best servant or the most noticed. They did not do anything for their own personal gain. There was no confusion about who owned the riches. Even the profit they earned was presented with only one hope: to enter into His joy. Man cannot own revival because man cannot create revival. It is truly a bestowment of a wealthy master willing to trust us with His presence. No part of it belongs to us, even if we are so fortunate to see it multiply while in our possession.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">What we do with it is up to us. We can act on it immediately, making His work our identity, pleasing our Father and treasuring His love and awesome power. The result of this is to share in His joy, to see a world transformed and the body revived.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Or we can bury it in the ground and sit on it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">See, this parable is also a warning. A sad ratio of the servants of God will not recognize revival when it is handed to them. Perhaps they will be embittered that their brother received a heavier measure than them. Perhaps they will think themselves above the required humility or they won’t want the mess. Perhaps they will be distracted by the demands of the world and accidentally let their good intentions expire. Maybe they just have the wrong idea of what God looks like and are too hard-hearted to see Him for who He really is.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It could be that they just believe the lie of the enemy saying they aren’t worthy. They become disabled by the idea that what they do might not please their Master. They believe Him to be hard and unfair because they have settled for a small view of a very big and great God. So they pass by the small opportunities to spread revival, the ones that come in grocery stores and the back row of sanctuaries, the opportunities that aren’t glamorous. They give up and think they will just stay comfortable and saved, lest they step out and make a mistake.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Regardless of the reason, any buried measure of His presence is a wasted opportunity to grow this desperately needed move of God.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It’s not too late. If you buried your measure, dig it up now. Don’t delay. Treat it as a right and a treasure and forsake everything to make it grow. If you are already multiplying what He’s given you, carry on.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">He’s coming back soon. And I don’t know about you, but I want more than anything to hear those words: Well done, my good and faithful servant. Well done.</span></div>
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<a href="https://theworshipcenterblog.wordpress.com/2015/07/24/a-weight-of-revival/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.3s ease-in-out; border-bottom-left-radius: 50%; border-bottom-right-radius: 50%; border-top-left-radius: 50%; border-top-right-radius: 50%; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-style: inherit; height: 36px; left: 50%; margin: 0px 0px 0px -18px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; position: absolute; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.3s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline; width: 36px; z-index: 2;"></a></div>
The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664651836512469004.post-61301701010781678302015-07-06T16:12:00.000-07:002015-07-06T16:12:01.233-07:00FacebookToday, I launched a new Facebook page so I could more easily connect with the people who follow this blog as well as my Christian writing/speaking. I appreciate your prayers and encouragement more than I could ever say. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jessicalanesowards/timeline" target="_blank">You can follow me here.</a> Thank you!The Hodgepodge Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09938449939619423585noreply@blogger.com0