Guest-posting with Bobi Ann Allen today on her excellent post, Betrayal: 18 Ministry Experts Weigh In. (And yes, I am as surprised as you are that I would be termed or included in a group of “ministry experts”!) Good stuff in there.
Guest-posting with Bobi Ann Allen today on her excellent post, Betrayal: 18 Ministry Experts Weigh In. (And yes, I am as surprised as you are that I would be termed or included in a group of “ministry experts”!) Good stuff in there.
What’s better than having the embassy in your cell phone?
Citizenship to a greater city—with an even more powerful “passport” than my remarkable little navy one (uh, and its awkward little photo).
It was two years ago that our family received unsettling news that began an extended holding pattern for us, news which wouldn't be resolved for another eleven months. That period of gray, unsettled twilight will stand out in my life as one where I became well-acquainted--more than I would have wished, for sure--with the chisel of God that is waiting.
Man, it was a tweeny sort of day. And I remembered: This isn’t just about control. It’s about relationship.
I'm realizing something. Godly responses to conflict are pretty much all counter-natural--or more specifically, super-natural. They beg an overhaul of what I typically want to do.
I’ve written about my overcommitment before, and the true cost to my family. But it’s challenging when it’s not a bunch of nonessentials munching at the white space on my calendar. It’s people. People with needs; pain; longings; hope.
And it was then that words from a friend drove themselves home, settling in my chest: The need does not always constitute the call.
Loving people unlike ourselves--when we can patiently wait for the dissonance like a junior-high band to pass--produces the swelling, overwhelming harmonies of a full orchestra.
At first, I thought she cheated my son.
But when, yielding to my call, she trudged back up the steep grade of our hill, my frustration softened. Her wide black eyes slid up to mine, her forehead glimmering in sweat. Her faded, two-sizes-too-large men’s T-shirt was pocked with holes. She must have been walking nearly the entirety of the morning in those foam shower slippers with the toes long gone and sizeable gaps in their soles. She was thirteen, though looked all of eleven.
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