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So Maggie Paulus heard how I had told our boy that his wooden spoon was perfect, and encouraged him to go carve a thousand of them. So, she grabbed her pen and did what I  was struggling to do — to not let anything keep me from “flinging out into the streets, eyes and mouth full of His wonder, to pant it in the marketplace, the back alleys, the front fields, across the crackling wires that I have seen Him.”
That’s what Maggie’s been doing — testifying to “the glory-sighting.” She opened her eyes wide to the reality of God’s Presence with us here, even in the grime. C.S. Lewis, he spoke of it too, when he wrote about finding patches of Godlight in the woods of our experience. That’s what Maggie’s Finding God at the Kitchen Sink: Search for Glory in the Everyday Grime  is all about —an invitation to hunt for His beauty and find God’s glory in an everyday humdrum life. A crazy, humbling grace to welcome Maggie Paulus to the farm’s front porch today…

 

by Maggie Paulus

Dear Children,

This momma of yours sometimes lies awake at night worrying about the world and about you and how you’ll grow up here.

There are these moments when I’ve read the latest headline on the news that I want to lock the doors and all the evil out and try my best to protect you from everything wicked and wild.

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I wish you could only know about blazing sunsets and fishing ponds and old barns down dirt roads and kitties and good people that call you friends and a society that’s safe to live in.

But things are broken here, and there’s some things I need to tell you to keep you soul-safe.

I want the light in your heart to stay on when the world around you gets dark.

There’s a God who is good, who does love you and who’s got this whole world in His hands. But there will be days when it won’t feel that way. You’ll look around and sit numb from the pointlessness of it all and grasp for answers, knowing full well sometimes there are things that happen here you will not understand.

Keep praying to the God I’ve told you about. Because when we pray, we reach out and grab hold of Someone real but who can’t be seen.

There will be aching nights when you will struggle along, feeling around in the dark, searching for some notion of grace in this fallen world.

And I want you to hear me—God is here. Right here. And when you run hard after Him, determined to find Him with a little speck of faith, He will show up. Every once in a while you’ll be able to feel Him— the warmth of His light-bearing face.

I know, my loves, you’ll have your doubts.

The voices around you and sometimes in you will try to reason God away.

Clouds of unbelief will hide from you what’s there.

Cynicism will come looking for you, to hunt you down.

You’ll have to do war, my loves. You’ll need to turn around and look at that sneering unbelief in the face and scream the truth you’ve got tucked down deep in your heart. You’ll have to kick doubt to the curb, babes, or it will cling to you.

Remember it’s sin, not God, that broke this whole place.

The ground groans. Stars catapult in revolt and trees travail like a woman in labor pain, bent over and gasping for her next breath. Creation reels for all that’s been lost and waits with this eager longing to be set free and restored to her rhythm of rest once again (Rom. 8:19–24).

You’ll wonder why you’re here.

Just keep running to your Maker and He’ll whisper it to you again, because it bears repeating. That you are light and couriers of His love, and this is how He chooses to help the world—through your actual hands.

Your very feet. He’ll shine out through your eyes and His joy will show up in your cheeks and in your smile. You, His kingdom children, will demonstrate to the world a different way.

And when you’re afraid about your life, remember God knows the number of your days (Ps. 139:16). He’s with you in every single one of them.

Don’t forget, you must never forget, there is a forever after this. One day light will split through all these cracks and God’s righteous kingdom will reign. Forever.

There will be no more sickness or dying, and all that’s sad will come to an end. You’ll hear it then—how the mountains will shout for the everlasting joy being born, the thorns in the thickets will no longer grow, and all the trees in the field will clap their hands (Isa. 55:12–13).

So long as I’ve got this breath in my lungs, I’ll remind you of these things.

And I’ll help you see that though the world is broken, still it’s good.

There’s beauty here and God-glory all around. I’ll take you by the hand and we’ll go hunting. We won’t stop looking until we find Him here. Together we’ll trace the outlines of His ways.

As long as you’re here with me, I’ll keep getting up and stumbling through the dark to check on you while you’re fast asleep.

And even when you’re grown and gone, I’ll still carry you around in my heart and chase you with my prayers.

You’ll always have your momma’s prayers, my loves.

Today, I’m praying for your peace.

 

 

 

Maggie Paulus is a God-seeker, a beauty hunter, and the author of Finding God at the Kitchen Sink: Search for Glory in the Everyday Grime .

She loves digging in the dirt, eating chocolate and playing barefoot in the yard with her bearded husband, three rambunctious kids and one cat. Maggie goes searching for God each day in His Word, in creation, in the people that He’s given her and she finds Him. In the painfulness of her past and the ordinariness of her present, she’s found that the God who calls Himself the Great I AM actually is. Right here. And though her life is mostly full of ordinary things, Maggie discovers again and again the realness of Him who has woven His narrative into her days.

Each page of full colour, vivid photographs and Maggie’s lyrical words, invite us into Finding God at the Kitchen Sink

Friday, August 29th, 2014 | Guest posts | Visit Post

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You’d have thought I was reading The Dangerous book for Boys or the like.

The way he kept grinning at me as I read, looking over his shoulder and arching that eyebrow all mischevious at his brother all smirking.

I think this as I read, that maybe this really is the original dangerous book for boys.

The book boys have been reading for the last millennia or two, the one that grabs a body by the shoulders and shakes the drowsy straight stock awake.

The one that binds the bloodied up and romances the lonely, that woos the rejected and cuts straight through to where the soul joins the bone.

A bona fide Dangerous book for everyone.

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It’s the same every day.

Everyday Malakai pleads for that book when we sit down for our daily read alouds. “Read the Bible first —- please?!”

He Bible begs.

I didn’t do anything to make this happen.

I almost think I don’t know how it happened at all. But I do.

I opened up the Living Word and let it wield its glint sharp edge. I opened up straight Scripture, a one year Bible, and let it breathe fire flame. I opened up the Bible for the Boy and he could feel the Danger.

This Word is no safe lion.

“You were reading about Joseph. And the brothers. Remember?” I look for my bookmark and he looks over my shoulder and I can feel the boy hunger for more.

We, the Word-God’s poiemas, are our realest real, when eating His Words.

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“Yessss… Right here…” I smooth the page out.

He breaks into grin anticipation. Littlest Sister, she curls into me, a tendril; Levi and Hope, they sit on the rockers, the young made wise with knitting needles and the books read aloud.

“When Jacob learned that there was grain in Egypt…”

I begin and I read of ten gaunt brothers caravaning across hot desert and of the knees bending fast before Pharoah’s man and the lips kissing the cracked dirt at the ditched brother’s feet. And these sons of mine break faces in mile-wide smiles at ancient brothers speaking incognito, at supposed strangers and the claim of spies and it reads like mystery, the best — for it breathes real.

And when famine gouges deeper into guts and the brothers’ silhouettes slip again across sands, bow like sheaves before the brother masked Egyptian, Malakai’s eyes blaze with story light.

And the child, he’s made of words, breathed into being by words, breath of the Word, and when I read to him the Word, I breathe into him what he’s made of and words pulse the veins and the child feels.

I reach for the bookmark.

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“No — more! More!” The room erupts and they plead for more and I read.

Of the furtive steward with the secret silver chalice, and this is really the story, and Malakai, he writhes.

And I read slow of the stealth crawl of the servant to Benjamin’s bag, and Malakai, he wrings hands, and I watch his face contort. I don’t know if I should keep reading.

And when the house steward pants after those full stomachs bound home for Israel, accusations ready on the tongue, Malakai rises on knees, anxiety mounting in the west, and he presses his chest up against my shoulder and his eyes cling to me. Levi grins his knowing.

I read the words of the steward authoritative, “Whoever is found with the chalice will be my slave; the rest of you can go free.” Malakai digs his fingers deep into my arm. He won’t let me go. I can’t look at him when the words on the page form, “And the cup was found in Benjamin’s sack!”

A storm, he splits open over my shoulder and he rains down blackest grief and I am gully washed away.

He heaves with centuries of brother pain.

He’s crying for Benjamin and brothers and over real boys that have walked off the page and right into his skin.

My son’s crying over the Bible.

Isn’t this the Best Read ever?

Why hadn’t I thought of this years sooner, to read the Bible to my children not only during “devotions” but as a the greatest read aloud ever, the Greatest Story ever told, reading several chapters at a time? Till His story was all told in a year?

When had I had last wept over Words?

When had I lost my first Love?

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I stroke his cheek with one hand, hold the Word in the other.

His own brother offers pain relief: “Kai— it’s going to be okay,” murmurs Levi, knitting needles stilled. Kai shudders hard.

“You want me to go on?” I whisper it soft.

His yes mangles in wail.

Yes. It’s His story that wounds us and it’s His story alone that heals us and sadness always needs more Story. The fullest comfort comes from the fullest story. And the fullest Story is the Father story and I stay in it because it’s knowing the end of the Story that wipes away the tears. 

I read it urgent, for I need to get to the hope: Judah entreats the younger Joseph for release of the youngest Benjamin. Malakai’s still woe-wracked on my shoulder. Littlest Sister pats his hand.

And then there it is, what we’ve read pages and pages for, and I read it through his tears falling:

“Joseph could stand it no longer. There were many people in the room, and he said to his attendants, “Out, all of you!” So he was alone with his brothers when he told them who he was.” Kai sniffles, brushes his cheeks.

I read on and the words barb in my throat and tear me a bit open… and the cement inside gives a way and I am alive. I weep with my son. This family, and these brothers, and this love, and our family and these brothers and our love and we are them long ago and they are us now and I am tears.

“Then he broke down and wept. He wept so loudly the Egyptians could hear him…” The Living Word animates in our living room thousands of years later and the story that undammed Joseph has undone us.

I am Joseph!” he said to his brothers.”

He is Joseph! I feel Kai’s feeble smile before I see it, the way clouds break up and rays feel warm. I laugh through the ache!

He is Joseph! Kai is Kai! God is God! We are well!

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The Word has done it. The Word holds up a mirror and the Word peels back the mask and the words are who we are.

We weep out of recognition. This story is us. This is the read that is deeply revelational. We see us.

When we pick up Scripture, we do not read, a verb; we become, a realization.

Becoming is the most Dangerous of all.

I slip in the bookmark. Kai’s body rests against mine.

Tomorrow we will read more.

 

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The One Year Bible

How many times have I read through this one?

He meets every day with just the right words, for exactly where I am — times I could my head down and weep for the grace of it.

over and over again — when He gives His Word in the morning, I brim because He knows what I need & is close.

It’s a quieting truth: Spiritual disciplines are not about getting Him to love you… but about getting yourself to place where you can hear Him tell you He loves you.

Any time of year — to pick up The One Year Bible

Couples of the Bible: A One Year Devotional Study to Draw You Closer to God & Each Other

A 52-week devotional just for you and your spouse.

Make date time at the end of the day for just the two of you — a week of daily readings focusing on one couple of the Bible, from Adam & Eve to Christ & His Bride. With readings easily divided up for each day of the week, you read their story, explore how their story can powerfully touch  your own marriage, and then explore questions applying biblical truth to your relationship with your spouse.

Then the week finishes with a  tender time of reflection, thanksgiving and prayer. This is the only book that’s been on the Farmer’s side of the bed this year.

When you want your marriage to grow deeper spiritually, I can’t recommend anything better than Couples of the Bible – the gift of intimacy in Him.

The Jesus Storybook Bible: Every Story Whispers His Name

This is a wonder! Anointed! Captivating! Absolutely ageless!    

I don’t know how many copies I have shared of the Jesus Storybook Bible around the world in various languages, how many I have given as baby presents, how many nights I have read aloud from these pages. This the truest, richest theology in the most dancing, lyrical language.

I never, ever tire of the wonder of these pages — and how every story whispers Jesus’ name.

Absolutely 5 Star in every possible way: The Jesus Storybook Bible

 

The Children’s Story Bible

The Vos Story Bible for children has been a staple read aloud here for nearly 2 decades.

Vivid, accurate retellings of both the Old and New Testament, a feast for children whose parents want to cultivate an appetite for the richness of His Word.

This isn’t dumb-downed — but full-bodied and beautiful, meaty and real.

The Children’s Story Bible is simply a classic that I pray to be reading to my own grandchildren.

 

ESV Single Column Journaling Bible

This is the Bible that I read out of after every meal, the one I date our family Bible readings for the day just the way the Farmer’s mother dated decades of their family Bible reading, the one I journal thoughts in the margin, carry to Sunday meeting, keep at my place at the table — this is the Bible with the wide margins and faded lines that beckon me every day:

Read His Story — and write the story of your life around His Word. Let it shape you, change you, revive you, carry you.

There is something very powerful about the lines in the margins of this Bible, inviting you to actively engage with His Word for it is living and alive and God speaks.

If you need to find Him again — begin here with the ESV Single Column Journaling Bible... begin with His Word with a pen in hand, your heart ready to run like ink.

ESV Women’s Devotional Bible

I have never lingered as long over writing words as I did contributing to the newly-released ESV Women’s Devotional Bible. The gravity of entering into such a hallowed space… much praying and pouring over words…

The 365 devotionals written by Lauren Chandler, Elyse Fitzpatrick, Joni Eareckson Tada, myself, amongst so many others, are deeply theological, every day accessible and profoundly rich.  

The best devotional Bible I have ever read, I cannot recommend the ESV Women’s Devotional Bible highly enough for a fresh vision of His heart for you … 

Saint John’s Bible: Gospels and Acts

The Saint John’s Bible is the “the firsthandwritten, illuminated Bible in the modern era,” the first Bible to be written all out in calligraphy in over 500 years.

Be awed by the process… 

Our St. John’s Bible, one of the most meaningful investments we have ever made as a family, stays open in the centre of our living room — because He is the Master Artist and His Word is infinitely beautiful to us. 

Because that is the bottom line: Jesus is not merely useful to us — Jesus is ultimately beautiful to us. A breathtaking heirloom for a family

 

 

So it comes down to that — that these pages are either absolute or obsolete.

His Word is either infallible or insane, either God’s Word – a sure Word, a pure Word, the only secure Word, or mere words, either miraculously alive with otherworldliness or embarrassingly a mess of ignorance.

You get to either spend more of the marrow of our one life looking at cat faces on Facebook or at God’s face in Faith’s book.

You get to either sling God’s Word down like an energy drink for your day — or you get to savour it like a taste of wine to warm your very heart alive.

We can have as much of God as we want.

It is Old Truth: Everything else you eat is dead.

Everything else you eat is the once living that has died. You have to open the fridge up like a casket and look for something to eat amongst its shelves, all your dead food being kept cold like a corpse.

All else is eating of a dying world until you taste Him. Until you eat God’s Words, until you swallow eternity, these Words that will outlast fire, until you press Christ, Living Bread into you, the sustainer of stars and strength and souls.

“Man does not live by bread alone, but man lives by everything that proceeds out of the mouth of the LORD.” ~ Deu. 8:3

The Bible is the language of God in the language of man and this is the thing: Reading His Word is not about getting Him to love you…
but about getting yourself to the place where you can hear Him tell you He loves you.

Every syllable of every psalm, every resting space between every caressing word that ever proceeded from the mouth of God was uttered to usher the willing into the unimaginable joy of being safe. 

God gives the Ten Commandments as more than ­Law—​­He gives them as a true commitment to love. God gives the ­Law—​­because He wants there to be love.

He gives His plea: “Oh, that you would obey ­Me—​ because ­that how you give Me love, and that is  how I give you love because these commandments fulfill your longings and your love and your being.”

The Ten Commandments are a command to relationship.

To love vertically, to love horizontally, to love ­eternally —​­and it’s not a suggestion.

It is not a suggestion. These words are your life…

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Though few may read His Word, a thousand will read the sheer leaves of your moments and how you turn.

So there’s a steeping in the Word, porous and saturated with an otherworldly grace so that when everything spins, we spill glory, the whole earth full of His glory.

We are the Word that the world is reading; We are the chapter and verse made visible that the world is needing; We are the Gospels incarnate that the world is heeding —

and we are the broken and bruised and bent who simply must eat for the relentless craving of our empty places:

We will not face the day until we’ve touched the face of God.

 

Related: The One Habit that Dramatically Changes A Family

Thursday, August 28th, 2014 | Bible Reading | Visit Post

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Kelly Minter and I have gone for long walks and talked late over shared plates and it was never long enough. I could listen to Kelly talk about Jesus forever because she is real and honest and warm and loves Jesus with every fibre of her being. Kelly’s Bible studies have profoundly impacted my walk with Jesus, studies I have returned to over and over again. A down-earth woman who loves people around her table, cooking, gardening, late afternoon walks, music and her local church, Kelly and I’ve laughed that we need to figure out how to find away to move our farm closer to her garden or vice versa.  It’s a ridiculous joy to invite a woman I love like a sister to the farm’s front porch today  —-

by Kelly Minter
The air was clear and the summer afternoon crisp with a light breeze.

I love the North in August because, for the most part, humidity can’t cast its net that far.

My friend and I were on a lonesome road picking wild blueberries with a new acquaintance who’d let us in on her secret spot.

“I’ve been picking here for years”, Kathryn said with her Michigan accent, handing me her bug spray.

“And this year’s a beauty.”

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The ground teemed with tiny dots of blue as though strung with a million Christmas lights, each a slightly different hue.

As many of these lights as I could gather would be baked into the night’s blueberry buckle, a recipe I’d found in the cupboard of the cottage I was staying at. It was dated August 8, 1972 and signed, Aunt Elotia. The name alone felt promising.

The three of us spread out, picking mostly in silence. I just don’t get enough purposeful solitude— or perhaps I don’t plan for it enough.

The sensory motion of twisting bunches of blueberries off their stems and into a bowl was cathartic and mindless. Although, not truly mindless. The serene landscape and repetitive picking cleared my mind to consider thoughts I’m too full to think when I’m caught in the busyness of routine.

That’s when I considered the differing colors before me: Cerulean, navy, periwinkle, grocery-store-blueberry blue. I wondered what all these varieties were and how they came to grow together so nicely?

My mind flew back to the previous spring when I stood at the cashier’s desk at the farmers’ market.

As the clerk scanned the five blueberry plants I’d carted to the front, he’d asked me if I had selected at least two different varieties.

I had, but not out of expertise, simply out of a panicky disposition at the thought of missing out. One variety grew like mad, another boasted flavor, others were known for their baking qualities.

I had to grow them all, or course. “The more varieties, the better when it comes to blueberries”, he said while tallying my purchase.

You’ll have a longer season and bigger yield. Blueberries need to cross-pollinate.

I snapped back to the countless blueberry bushes bounding wildly out of the ground in the countryside of Michigan where this conversation had returned to me.

All these varieties are helping each other grow, I remembered.

Light and dark, plump and meager, sweet and tart, thriving together on the same forest floor, under the same water and sky. I dropped another handful into my bowl and couldn’t miss the metaphor of the body of Christ on display before me.

Cross-pollination is the transfer of pollen from the flower of one plant to the flower of another plant with a different makeup. Here’s the prize: for the sake of reproduction and/or mutual enrichment.

I thought about my own Bible church upbringing and how for many years I viewed the charismatics as too crazy spiritual, the Anglicans too liturgical, the Baptists too structured. I was leery of anyone whose flavor of Christianity wasn’t just like mine.

And then I started traveling.

And I found that I loved when the charismatics prayed over me with their passion and belief. I occasionally sought them out for “my word.”

I loved how the Presbyterians could always find Christ in the Old Testament, how the high church believers knew holy reverence, and how no one could serve a community in crisis like the Baptists, with their casseroles and prayer teams on the move.

And this is not to mention the differing personalities that hang from the same bush of a denomination. Soft spoken, upfront, servant, teacher, leader, helpmeet, confrontational, meek, funny, timid, just plain odd. (As one old pastor once told me, “There were a lot of strange critters on that ark.”)

Unity is a big deal to Jesus.

So much so that He said our love for one another would be the defining marker of our faith (John 13:35).

Whenever I spend time with believers of differing denominations, backgrounds and cultures, I am challenged and inspired. I am stronger.

That day in the blueberry fields while crouched in the midst of numerous varieties growing alongside one another for the betterment of each other, I saw this phenomenon at work. Proliferation. Health. Strength. Diversity. The blueberry bushes were doing it so well. And so must the church.

Pondering these truths, I noticed my bowl was growing full and my legs were a little shaky from all the up and down.

I called for my friend to see if she was ready to head back.

She carried her bounty toward me—pointed out that she was a faster picker—and then the two of us headed for the car after a good day of rest and reminders.

As we padded down the trail I noticed out of the corner of my eye my friend rummaging in her pocket and then the others, patting her shirt pocket as well. I knew this to be a bad sign; this could be nothing but the universal symbol of not knowing where one’s keys are.

For the next hour we traced our steps and scoured the terrain for that one rental car key that must have slipped out her pocket when reaching for one of the hundreds of blueberries she had in her pile.

In the end, it cost $50 for the rental car company to send someone to break into the car so we could retrieve our belongings. $150 to tow the car to the nearest dealership. $200 for another key to be made. We determined that the evening’s blueberry buckle made with free blueberries cost us around $400.

This is my friend, though. These bungles and mishaps find her, or she stumbles onto them, or they simply fall out of her pocket into vast fields of blueberries.

But I wouldn’t trade our differences in personality, her vibrancy and unpredictability, for the world.

Nor would I trade my dear relationships from differing denominations, backgrounds or cultures.

We need one another in the body of Christ, not just because this is a nice sentiment; rather it’s essential to the mutual enrichment of the body of Christ.

Plus, it makes for a more flavourful dessert—

even if it costs you a little more than you planned on spending.

 

 

 


Kelly Minter grew up a pastor’s kid in Northern, VA, eventually landing in Nashville, TN. A few moderately successful records later, she wrote her first bible study on modern day-idolatry called No Other Gods.
Her first bible study was followed up by Ruth, then Nehemiah and soon to be released, What Love Is on the letters of 1, 2 & 3 John (Nov 2014). In the middle of writing and speaking, Kelly traveled to the Amazon river with Justice and Mercy International on a moderately reliable, double-decker, wooden river boat. It was in the Amazon that God used the poor and forgotten to transform her heart more closely to His own.  Like Beth Moore says, “Kelly Minter writes the way a portrait artist paints” and her latest book, Wherever The River Runs,  is an exquisite journey down a river that teems with piranhas, caimans, a beautiful people, and, especially, Jesus, who hold all things together.  

I read everything Kelly Minter writes because she knows and walks with Jesus in a way that is not only exceedingly rare and authentic — but profoundly Scriptural and deeply inspirational. Wherever The River Runs will inspire you to not settle for anything less than taking leaps of faith.

 

Related: This Week’s Memory Prints from #Scripture Memorization for the Rest of Us 
The Jesus Project: Memory Project 2014
For our series of Wednesday posts unpacking the #TheJesusProject and the book of John
To download all of our free scripture memory prints

Wednesday, August 27th, 2014 | Guest posts, Jesus Project | Visit Post

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Sometimes, even right before it really begins, you’ve got a feeling how the week’s going to go.

I look in the mirror early on a Monday morning, the bedhead looking more like a monsterhead, and I look right into that water-splattered mirror.

And tell the woman looking back at me how the next seven days are likely to go down — are going to likely try to take me down.

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The mail’s going to bring bills and sucker punch first thing.

And he’s going to the say wrong thing or nothing or claim he never heard you say a thing, and every time you look away from the clock, time will just up and suck down whole hours like an industrial shop vac and you’ll be left wondering where into the bowels of the world did this week really go?

The inner chamber of the microwave is going to look like a gory battlefield of losing, epic proportions by Tuesday.

You’ll have to clean a toilet. Or regret that you didn’t. The laundry’s going to laugh at you.

And by Wednesday, you’ll pull a three inch hair from the chin and you’ll replay who you talked to on Monday and Tuesday this week who must have saw it at an inch and a half.

You might eat too much, have to referee something between little kids or still-kids in very big bodies, and it’s statistically a cosmic likelihood that you’ll be late at least once, forget something twice, and get a whole lot wrong.

You’ll laugh a bit like it all doesn’t matter, or least doesn’t hurt, and there will be broken eggshells left on the counter and broken promises left after the fact and the real, exposed truth of it is, after it’s all said and done? Is that under it all, we’re right broken.

No one knows but you do war every single day with the slanderous voices in your head and you wrestle a bit with the death dark that encroaches around the edges of everything and you’re never the only one: anyone who gets up has to push back the dark.

I’m standing there in front of the mirror.

Standing there, looking right into me and the abyss of the mess of me that I’ll never get all right. And it comes down to this:

Christianity is the only hope for this broken world because there’s no other way for the broken to get the Nails they need to rebuild.

That’s what this week needs, that’s all this week needs most:

More than needing schedules and productivity, this week will need a Savior and prayer.
God’s not asking me to produce– He’s asking me to pray.
God’s not asking me to climb ladders — He’s asking me to kneel and let go.

Right there at the mirror, right at the beginning, the week begins to unfurl in slow, in hope.

And that’s what I whisper into the mirror:

His grace will be more than just sufficient — His grace is guaranteed to actually save.

Time, me, the week, all redeemed and miracles happen in mirrors and to people we know. When we know Christ, we always know how things are going to go — always for our good and always for His glory. The sun flashes blaze in the mirror.

The week has this written all over it: God only allows pain if He’s allowing something new to be born.

And down in the ditch at the end of the lane, I had witnessed it, on the way out to get Monday morning’s mail.

I had stood there with the Food Basic flyer and the hydro bill and the week coming straight head on and I had watched this  monarch land.

I had stood there with the mail and the proboscis tongue unfurled into the nectar well and the wings of this king butterfly right ripped open His secret epistle to everything:

Drink the thankful sweet out of each thistle —

because this is how you fly.

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And it’s right there at the beginning….

and it’s quite something….

how even at the sharpest edge of things, there are wings.

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Related:  a hick’s stumbling journey of drinking the thankful sweet out of each thistle

Monday, August 25th, 2014 | Uncategorized | Visit Post

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Friday, August 22nd, 2014 | Guest posts | Visit Post

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Monday, August 18th, 2014 | 1000Gifts, Doing Thanks, Eucharistic Living, Faith | Visit Post

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