I awoke this morning to a phone inbox full of multiple mass-text messages saying things like, “Happy Thanksgiving! I’m so thankful for you!” and other similar things. Facebook didn’t waver much from the same with status after status saying things about thankfulness. About being thankful for time with family, being thankful for time with friends, being thankful for the tryptophan in turkey so that instead of staying awake and suffering for the amount of gluttony that took place, we can simply lay back and let the wondrous affects of the massive bird wash a comforting sleep over us.
And Thanksgiving is a wonderful time. We live in a society so immersed in consumerism and self-satiation that we ought to set aside time to be thankful for all the stuff we have. I mean, I’m going to school for free due to scholarships and wonderful parents (thanks, Mom and Dad!). I get good grades, I’ve got a nice car, I’ve got warm clothes for the bitter Lubbock weather, and today I’m going to stuff myself silly with turkey, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. I have so much to be thankful for. So much to comfort me and make me feel safe.
But as we send out our text messages and make our phone calls and type out our Facebook statuses, I can’t help but think of people who look at these things and can only scoff. People who look at thankfulness and question what in the world it is that we think we’re playing at. A mother who had her only son die three days ago in a horrific car accident caused by a drunk driver; a single father of three beautiful children who was told yesterday that he has terminal cancer; a boy at the age of 8 watching his father hit his mother again and again, just closing his eyes and hoping it will all go away someday. What do they have to be thankful for?
I imagine that mother who lost her son waking up on Thanksgiving and receiving a text message and just settling her head back into the tear-stained pillow. I imagine the guilt-ridden father who realized that he just beat his wife in front of his only son looking at that Facebook status and throwing the computer across the room in agony and self-loathing. I imagine the oldest child of that father with terminal cancer falling down on her knees and cursing the doctors, cursing the world, cursing God for not saving her father.
Thankfulness is not an easy thing in a broken world.
The other day I was struck by a blog written by my friend Kyle Bullock (see www.kb-atwitsend.blogspot.com). The blog entry spoke about his time volunteering with underprivileged kids who have horrible home lives and have the worst soul-scars imaginable. A girl who bites herself just to get someone to see that she’s not invisible. A boy who has done juvenile jail-time multiple times before the age of 10. Again, what do these children have to be thankful for? How can our little text messages mean anything in a world like theirs?
The time came for them to begin talking about what they were thankful for and Kyle found himself worrying as to what these kids would say: what do they, in the brokenness that is their lives, have to be thankful for? Why are we even putting them in this situation when it can only turn out to be embarrassing for them and for everyone involved?
And yet, children have the amazing capacity again and again to see light in the darkness; to see that single burning flame in the midst of pitch black. Because when asked what they were thankful for this Thanksgiving, most of them spoke right to my friend saying, “I’m thankful for you.”
“I’m thankful for you.”
Through all the mess of their lives, the utter darkness that encompasses every step they take, the kids flocked to the one light they had been shown, the one beacon of hope in their existence in the form of this guy who spends a very small amount of time with them. Not even someone who is there everyday or someone who is there through the hard times, but somebody who shows up every once in awhile when it’s time to help volunteer. And still the kids claimed thankfulness for my friend. Because they had been shown love in a world in which love is something extremely rare and unfamiliar. Because a small breath of life had found it’s way to them through this caring man.
Last night, I was walking back home from Sugar Brown’s, this wonderfully cozy little coffee shop in Lubbock where I like to read and soak in the sounds and smells of the place. As I began making my way home, I was struck by the brilliance of the West Texas sunset. That’s one of my favorite things about Lubbock, one of those things that you won’t find anywhere else. The land is so flat and expansive that the sky fills up most of the landscape, and when God wants to paint a picture, He’s got more canvas here than almost anywhere else in the world. And this was a painting like I’d never seen before. It wasn’t like one of those brilliantly bright sunsets with the light blues and bright violets and neon orange. Instead, I feel as if God wanted to do something special, something different for the eve of Thanksgiving. So He pulled out a dark orange that makes your soul ache and some lavender and dark purple that makes your insides settle. And to top it off, He used a sort of heavy blue that your heart feels it can rest peacefully within.
And He painted. He painted something so wondrous that I almost stopped in the middle of the street with my mouth open. This wondrous thing God had done on this evening, this symphony of color that God composes every single night, still has the capability to amaze me and reduce me to awestruck worship.
The most curious thing about sunsets to me is where in time that they occur. The day is ending and the hours are waning down and darkness is approaching. But a sunset really isn’t day or night, is it? It’s kind of the in-between, the place where you are not working to finish the day, nor are you settling in to make dinner and get the kids in bed or get some last minute reading done. It’s a place in time where God has commissioned something beautiful to happen before the darkness comes and after the light has done it’s work, in which all of mankind stops and watches, admiring this sacred moment that exists in nature.
I think thankfulness is like a sunset. We don’t really notice the sun during the day unless it’s particularly hot and is making us uncomfortable, very much like the good things in our lives. If our lives are full of only people that love us and only good things that happen, how would we know what to be thankful for? And the same is true of the night and darkness: without the light, you would not know that such a thing as darkness or night even existed because that’s all you know. What is night without daytime as it’s opposite and the sun without the moon as it’s sister? In the same way, how can we know that a good thing is good or a bad thing is bad without the other to compare it to?
It is with experience and recognition of both the horrid, wretched events in our lives alongside the wondrously joyous moments that true, non-contrived thankfulness is born. When the day is over and the night is ready to come, the sunset showers humanity in a bath of triumph and glory that is unlike either the day or the night, either the light or the dark. But rather it’s the brilliant expression and acknowledgment of the entire weight of human experience.
Real, deep thankfulness comes like this. When we look on one side of us and see the light, and on the other side of us and see the darkness, and know that neither can exist without the other. That without the darkness, we would not be able to see that our lives are lit by those who love us. And without the light we would not have anything to be thankful for at all. It is in the sunset that we see where the triumphs in our lives meet the tragedies, and we can find ourselves dropping to our knees in thankfulness for it all.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Winter
Winter is coming.
I love the coming of winter; when the once existent warm weather fights vainly against the in-breaking of the unabashed cold. It's almost as if the coming of this weather covers the whole world with a blanket of new vision and colour, a new schema with which to understand and really see the world. It’s when you look outside and the lights, which have always looked a certain way during the summer, suddenly have a different hue, a different feel, a new shine. Reaching out of the sky is a west Texas sunset unlike any during Summer because it's painted on a new canvas, a canvas of cold, a canvas of winter days with the windy brushstrokes of whispers and night.
And with these painted eyes the world outside reflects the world within. Life resonates anew with each chill, and new perspective and optimism bloom in the place of retiring green and slumbering sunshine while retreating flowers give way to a settling of contemplation. The life lived in Summer has built up it’s stores in order withdraw into hibernation, with the Winter man just now stretching a glorious stretch of the dawn of a new, grey and blue day.
The smells of coffee and pine swirl around in the slow movements of the air and the cold skin of the faces walking breathe a deeper sort of life, taking a new perspective in the warmth of a blanket and the company of close friends. The sounds of ambient laughter and mourning guitars in coffee-shops provide the soundtrack for our winter and our hearts bundle together for a sort of warmth that cannot really be achieved by any one of Summer's friends but only by the reminiscing and outpouring of Winter's hospitality.
And the winter lights shine down on us, illuminating ourselves to ourselves. And the moon shows each of us the hearts that surround us; shows each of us a fire that's being built inside of us; shows each of us the strength of warmth in the winter through the lens of the placement into a new kind of family. A family which has little to do with blood and little to do with heritage. But instead, a family that breathes acceptance amidst the folds of the cold; a family that sighs in contentment in the light of the night clouds; a family that rises together and sings the songs of Winter and the sacred silence of it all.
Winter is here.
I love the coming of winter; when the once existent warm weather fights vainly against the in-breaking of the unabashed cold. It's almost as if the coming of this weather covers the whole world with a blanket of new vision and colour, a new schema with which to understand and really see the world. It’s when you look outside and the lights, which have always looked a certain way during the summer, suddenly have a different hue, a different feel, a new shine. Reaching out of the sky is a west Texas sunset unlike any during Summer because it's painted on a new canvas, a canvas of cold, a canvas of winter days with the windy brushstrokes of whispers and night.
And with these painted eyes the world outside reflects the world within. Life resonates anew with each chill, and new perspective and optimism bloom in the place of retiring green and slumbering sunshine while retreating flowers give way to a settling of contemplation. The life lived in Summer has built up it’s stores in order withdraw into hibernation, with the Winter man just now stretching a glorious stretch of the dawn of a new, grey and blue day.
The smells of coffee and pine swirl around in the slow movements of the air and the cold skin of the faces walking breathe a deeper sort of life, taking a new perspective in the warmth of a blanket and the company of close friends. The sounds of ambient laughter and mourning guitars in coffee-shops provide the soundtrack for our winter and our hearts bundle together for a sort of warmth that cannot really be achieved by any one of Summer's friends but only by the reminiscing and outpouring of Winter's hospitality.
And the winter lights shine down on us, illuminating ourselves to ourselves. And the moon shows each of us the hearts that surround us; shows each of us a fire that's being built inside of us; shows each of us the strength of warmth in the winter through the lens of the placement into a new kind of family. A family which has little to do with blood and little to do with heritage. But instead, a family that breathes acceptance amidst the folds of the cold; a family that sighs in contentment in the light of the night clouds; a family that rises together and sings the songs of Winter and the sacred silence of it all.
Winter is here.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Muslim Karaoke
When we first got into Kenya this summer, we stayed at a little hotel called the Sapphire Hotel in Mombasa. Mombasa is a really cool town because it’s got a very interesting cultural mix of traditional Africa with very heavy Muslim influences, as well as a whole lot of Western influence. There was a very large mosque near the hotel, so as we walked around town visiting the little shops or sat by the pool at our hotel we heard the Muslim Call to Prayer probably about five times a day. Super cool.
One thing that really caught our attention was this building across the street from our hotel where cars and trucks kept arriving and unloading tons of women in traditional Muslim body coverings. But the strange thing was that we didn’t see any men. None at all. It was as if all the Muslim women gathered together on this night together without the men to get away for a little while.
The funniest thing about the whole situation and what really caught our attention in the first place was the music coming out of the building. At first, it was a very talented woman singing in a language I didn’t understand, and it sounded like something that would come out of a country in the Middle East. It was absolutely beautiful music, really. The people here sing very differently than what you hear on the radio back in the States and it’s positively enchanting.
But pretty soon the singers started changing. And as the singers changed, the singing started getting...well, let’s just say ‘not as good’. It almost sounded as if these women were doing karaoke. Actually, we were pretty sure of it.
A bunch of Muslim women getting together without men to sing karaoke.
Muslim Women Karaoke.
Cool.
I guess it must have been nice to get away for a night, maybe take off the veil and the head covering and have some fun singing karaoke for each other without the men around. The freedom to just let loose and be you. Muslim women don’t seem like they get to do that very often. Muslim Women Karaoke sounds like a good idea, a great idea even. I kind of wanted to go over there, but sadly realized I’m neither a Muslim or a woman. Darn.
While we were still in Mombasa, we met a man named Omali. He approached me as we exited our tuk-tuks at Fort Jesus (tuk-tuks are these little half-motorcycle, half-car that’s cheaper than a taxi and much easier to get around in). Fort Jesus is this really neat tourist spot in Mombassa which charges foreigners about ten bucks a pop to get in. Omali wanted us to pay him as a guide of the Fort and for downtown, which he called ‘Old Town.’ After some bargaining by Jim in order to get the price down, we agreed and were on our way.
Omali took us through the Fort which has some pretty cool history, but cool history that’s different than what we get in the States. See, U.S. history goes back to 1776 and maybe a couple hundred years earlier. But here in Kenya, history goes back to creation. When we were on the train into Mombassa, we passed fields that had probably remained virtually unchanged since the last day of creation. So in this fort you could see the years of history where it had been built and rebuilt and changed many times by Spaniards, Arabs, Brits, Africans--you name it. You could literally see where each group had added stuff on top of other stuff. The bricks on the wall would go up to a certain point and then change color and style and material. When one group would take over, they would add to the Fort what they thought would make it better, stronger, or more fitting to their own situations.
And we witnessed the same levels of change on our train ride into Mombasa. When we first woke up that morning, we saw nothing but Bush with an occasional hut here and there. As we got closer into town, the small gatherings of huts turned into larger gatherings which turned into small villages which turned into many huts connected by farm lands. Next came closer and more compact villages which faded into what must have been very crowded houses built out of scrap metal. They looked very similar to the slums I’ve seen on T.V. where there are kids barely wearing any clothes looking as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks or had anything to eat in days. Soon that turned into city and we were at our destination.
After our tour of Fort Jesus, Omali took us into the heart of Mombassa, past the tourist spots and into the inner streets of the city. I could tell we were there by the smell and the piles of the trash lying everywhere. There were literally mounds of trash everywhere with flies swarming around and plastic bottles scattered about the landscape and the smell was almost unbearable.
This is where a large portion of the people of Mombassa LIVED.
How Africa had turned from the beautiful sights of the a small family living in a hut in the Bush to this concrete and plastic prison, I don’t know. Honestly, I’m amazed at the vast difference within just a few miles. I kid you not, I saw a chicken pecking through garbage, eating styrofoam. It was as if, like at Fort Jesus, different people had come to this once beautiful place and just kept adding on what they thought would make things better until somehow, everything got worse and kids resorted to huffing glue to satiate their hunger and chickens ate styrofoam.
I think so often I am like Africa. God created me as His beautiful child, a being precious in His eyes, a treasure beyond even the safety and well-being of His One and Only Son. And so often people come along and make me feel as if there is something I should do or add on to myself or take away from who I am to somehow make me better. Maybe if I lost weight I would be better. Or maybe if I spoke this way instead of that way people would think I was smarter.
And these things aren’t evil and horrible things in and of themselves much like cars and cement can be used to do really great and amazing things. But when a thousand attempts at self-improvement leave us with chickens eating styrofoam, I realize my only problem to begin with was the search to be better than what God created me to be. Because there is nothing more beautiful than the handiwork of a God like ours; nothing more beautiful than the imagination of God.
I want to be like the women singing Muslim Karaoke. These women, hidden by their veils and covered up by the men seem to be invisible outlines of what their society expects them to be. But they get to come together on this one Saturday night. This one special night without any of the men so they can sing into a microphone, unbridled and free. They get to dance and sing together and forget just for a few hours who they are supposed to be, who others have tried to make them, and instead just be who God created them to be--themselves.
I want to sing Muslim Karaoke.
One thing that really caught our attention was this building across the street from our hotel where cars and trucks kept arriving and unloading tons of women in traditional Muslim body coverings. But the strange thing was that we didn’t see any men. None at all. It was as if all the Muslim women gathered together on this night together without the men to get away for a little while.
The funniest thing about the whole situation and what really caught our attention in the first place was the music coming out of the building. At first, it was a very talented woman singing in a language I didn’t understand, and it sounded like something that would come out of a country in the Middle East. It was absolutely beautiful music, really. The people here sing very differently than what you hear on the radio back in the States and it’s positively enchanting.
But pretty soon the singers started changing. And as the singers changed, the singing started getting...well, let’s just say ‘not as good’. It almost sounded as if these women were doing karaoke. Actually, we were pretty sure of it.
A bunch of Muslim women getting together without men to sing karaoke.
Muslim Women Karaoke.
Cool.
I guess it must have been nice to get away for a night, maybe take off the veil and the head covering and have some fun singing karaoke for each other without the men around. The freedom to just let loose and be you. Muslim women don’t seem like they get to do that very often. Muslim Women Karaoke sounds like a good idea, a great idea even. I kind of wanted to go over there, but sadly realized I’m neither a Muslim or a woman. Darn.
While we were still in Mombasa, we met a man named Omali. He approached me as we exited our tuk-tuks at Fort Jesus (tuk-tuks are these little half-motorcycle, half-car that’s cheaper than a taxi and much easier to get around in). Fort Jesus is this really neat tourist spot in Mombassa which charges foreigners about ten bucks a pop to get in. Omali wanted us to pay him as a guide of the Fort and for downtown, which he called ‘Old Town.’ After some bargaining by Jim in order to get the price down, we agreed and were on our way.
Omali took us through the Fort which has some pretty cool history, but cool history that’s different than what we get in the States. See, U.S. history goes back to 1776 and maybe a couple hundred years earlier. But here in Kenya, history goes back to creation. When we were on the train into Mombassa, we passed fields that had probably remained virtually unchanged since the last day of creation. So in this fort you could see the years of history where it had been built and rebuilt and changed many times by Spaniards, Arabs, Brits, Africans--you name it. You could literally see where each group had added stuff on top of other stuff. The bricks on the wall would go up to a certain point and then change color and style and material. When one group would take over, they would add to the Fort what they thought would make it better, stronger, or more fitting to their own situations.
And we witnessed the same levels of change on our train ride into Mombasa. When we first woke up that morning, we saw nothing but Bush with an occasional hut here and there. As we got closer into town, the small gatherings of huts turned into larger gatherings which turned into small villages which turned into many huts connected by farm lands. Next came closer and more compact villages which faded into what must have been very crowded houses built out of scrap metal. They looked very similar to the slums I’ve seen on T.V. where there are kids barely wearing any clothes looking as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks or had anything to eat in days. Soon that turned into city and we were at our destination.
After our tour of Fort Jesus, Omali took us into the heart of Mombassa, past the tourist spots and into the inner streets of the city. I could tell we were there by the smell and the piles of the trash lying everywhere. There were literally mounds of trash everywhere with flies swarming around and plastic bottles scattered about the landscape and the smell was almost unbearable.
This is where a large portion of the people of Mombassa LIVED.
How Africa had turned from the beautiful sights of the a small family living in a hut in the Bush to this concrete and plastic prison, I don’t know. Honestly, I’m amazed at the vast difference within just a few miles. I kid you not, I saw a chicken pecking through garbage, eating styrofoam. It was as if, like at Fort Jesus, different people had come to this once beautiful place and just kept adding on what they thought would make things better until somehow, everything got worse and kids resorted to huffing glue to satiate their hunger and chickens ate styrofoam.
I think so often I am like Africa. God created me as His beautiful child, a being precious in His eyes, a treasure beyond even the safety and well-being of His One and Only Son. And so often people come along and make me feel as if there is something I should do or add on to myself or take away from who I am to somehow make me better. Maybe if I lost weight I would be better. Or maybe if I spoke this way instead of that way people would think I was smarter.
And these things aren’t evil and horrible things in and of themselves much like cars and cement can be used to do really great and amazing things. But when a thousand attempts at self-improvement leave us with chickens eating styrofoam, I realize my only problem to begin with was the search to be better than what God created me to be. Because there is nothing more beautiful than the handiwork of a God like ours; nothing more beautiful than the imagination of God.
I want to be like the women singing Muslim Karaoke. These women, hidden by their veils and covered up by the men seem to be invisible outlines of what their society expects them to be. But they get to come together on this one Saturday night. This one special night without any of the men so they can sing into a microphone, unbridled and free. They get to dance and sing together and forget just for a few hours who they are supposed to be, who others have tried to make them, and instead just be who God created them to be--themselves.
I want to sing Muslim Karaoke.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Carried
We heard a really cool story from one of our friends named Christine that I feel like I need to share with you.
Not too long ago, there was a man and a woman in Africa who loved each other very much. They loved each other so much that the man proposed to the woman in hopes that they could live together for the rest of their lives. Although she loved him very much, he was an irresponsible drunk and she couldn’t marry him unless he was free from that. But the man loved her so much that he stopped drinking and began taking responsibility for himself. So, once he quit drinking, they were happily married.
A few years later, the man decided that he loved drinking more than he loved his wife, so he began going out to the bars again, often not returning until the wee hours of the morning. One night before he went out drinking, he told his wife that he didn’t want her anymore and that she should take everything that she wanted out of the house and be gone by the time he got back. And with that, he left drinking his marriage and himself away.
But the woman just stayed at the house, crying to herself, not really knowing what to do. After a few hours, she came to a determined conclusion and awaited for her husband to return. When the man returned home, he was on the verge of passing out so she guided him to the bed and allowed him to fall asleep.
Once he had fallen asleep in his own drunkenness, she took the sheet that he was asleep on and used it to pick him up and sling him over her back. With this large man slung over her shoulder, bearing all the weight of him herself, she walked miles and miles through the hours of the early morning until she reached the man’s parents’ house, where she laid her husband in the bed that he had slept in as a child.
When the man woke up, he was confused at his surroundings and the people of his surroundings. Nevertheless, the first person he saw was his wife who he had asked to leave and never return. Frustrated and confused, the man asked her, “Why am I here? I asked you to take everything that you wanted out of the house and leave!”
The woman just looked at her husband, and with a longing look in her eyes said, “The only thing I wanted from the house was you. Only you.”
Christine went on to explain that is how she sees God. That no matter what we do or where we run to or how often we tell Him we don’t want Him and He should just get out of our heart and mind, He’ll just carry us back home and tell us that all He wants is us.
All He wants is you. All He wants is me.
And so often I just pass out in my drunken stupor, so drunk on arrogance or comfort or lust. And I just want Him to leave. I just want Him to take everything and get out because I’m so tired of failing, so tired of not being able to do what I want, so worn out from having to think about others and being responsible and Christ-like. I’m so frustrated with trying to figure out who I even am, so I’ll just cling to this lust or this false sense of purpose that will carry me away and allow me to find my identity in something other than Him or myself.
So I ask Him to leave. To get out and take whatever He wants from me, I just want to do what I want to do and pass out in myself.
But He doesn’t do that. He won’t abandon us.
He hasn’t abandoned me. And He won’t abandon you.
Maybe you’re still drinking bottles and bottles of yourself. Maybe you’re at the point where you’re already passed out in the sheet and you just aren’t aware that you’ve been slung over His back and He’s taking you home. And maybe you’re just about to sit down at the bar where they serve three-time-distilled selfish-ambition, and you’re so tired of the life you're living.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, God is there in it all. Crying over your unfaithfulness. Planning to bring you home. Carrying you on His back. Explaining to you that all He wants is you.
Not too long ago, there was a man and a woman in Africa who loved each other very much. They loved each other so much that the man proposed to the woman in hopes that they could live together for the rest of their lives. Although she loved him very much, he was an irresponsible drunk and she couldn’t marry him unless he was free from that. But the man loved her so much that he stopped drinking and began taking responsibility for himself. So, once he quit drinking, they were happily married.
A few years later, the man decided that he loved drinking more than he loved his wife, so he began going out to the bars again, often not returning until the wee hours of the morning. One night before he went out drinking, he told his wife that he didn’t want her anymore and that she should take everything that she wanted out of the house and be gone by the time he got back. And with that, he left drinking his marriage and himself away.
But the woman just stayed at the house, crying to herself, not really knowing what to do. After a few hours, she came to a determined conclusion and awaited for her husband to return. When the man returned home, he was on the verge of passing out so she guided him to the bed and allowed him to fall asleep.
Once he had fallen asleep in his own drunkenness, she took the sheet that he was asleep on and used it to pick him up and sling him over her back. With this large man slung over her shoulder, bearing all the weight of him herself, she walked miles and miles through the hours of the early morning until she reached the man’s parents’ house, where she laid her husband in the bed that he had slept in as a child.
When the man woke up, he was confused at his surroundings and the people of his surroundings. Nevertheless, the first person he saw was his wife who he had asked to leave and never return. Frustrated and confused, the man asked her, “Why am I here? I asked you to take everything that you wanted out of the house and leave!”
The woman just looked at her husband, and with a longing look in her eyes said, “The only thing I wanted from the house was you. Only you.”
Christine went on to explain that is how she sees God. That no matter what we do or where we run to or how often we tell Him we don’t want Him and He should just get out of our heart and mind, He’ll just carry us back home and tell us that all He wants is us.
All He wants is you. All He wants is me.
And so often I just pass out in my drunken stupor, so drunk on arrogance or comfort or lust. And I just want Him to leave. I just want Him to take everything and get out because I’m so tired of failing, so tired of not being able to do what I want, so worn out from having to think about others and being responsible and Christ-like. I’m so frustrated with trying to figure out who I even am, so I’ll just cling to this lust or this false sense of purpose that will carry me away and allow me to find my identity in something other than Him or myself.
So I ask Him to leave. To get out and take whatever He wants from me, I just want to do what I want to do and pass out in myself.
But He doesn’t do that. He won’t abandon us.
He hasn’t abandoned me. And He won’t abandon you.
Maybe you’re still drinking bottles and bottles of yourself. Maybe you’re at the point where you’re already passed out in the sheet and you just aren’t aware that you’ve been slung over His back and He’s taking you home. And maybe you’re just about to sit down at the bar where they serve three-time-distilled selfish-ambition, and you’re so tired of the life you're living.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, God is there in it all. Crying over your unfaithfulness. Planning to bring you home. Carrying you on His back. Explaining to you that all He wants is you.
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