Broken Alabaster Boxes

He sat right up against me during church, searching for song numbers and Bible references, his 11-year-old energy well contained for the moment. He blessed me, just by his energy, smile, and quiet trust as he leaned his head against my shoulder.  It reminded me of another boy who is my friend as well. He’s across the ocean, still working at Hardee’s. But I remember him. As we sat and listened to the message, I thought of the young men that roam the streets, causing trouble and smoking weed. Will this one beside me be like them in a few years? What will become of him? But I have this moment, while he sits by me, to be his friend, point him to Christ, and pray he will be different. * * * A grocery cart and 5 students.  “Teja and Selena, go get a box of orange juice. Tell me the price when you bring it back.” Josiah and Shachri return with canned meat. “$5.50, Ms.” “Anton, what’s $9.50 plus $5.50?” He thinks hard. “$15.00.” And we move down the...

Shouting, laughing, hurrying, the students piled into the three waiting vans. Windows slid open and eager faces peered out. Hands waved and shouts were exchanged until we were finally on our way for the first field trip of the year. We began winding our way up the island, past board shacks, elaborate mansions, tiny spice shops, Carib bars, and locals barbequing chicken.  The children laughed and chattered in the back until we reached out first destination, Belmont Estate. It's a chocolate factory, beginning from the cocoa pod itself to the final product. It was an interesting process, which our guide explained well, even for the youngest students. Time and drying are crucial for good chocolate. And at the end, we ended in the factory where we were given samples of the chocolate. Belmont produces dark chocolate, and one of their flavors include different spices grown here in Grenada, including cinnamon and nutmeg.  The students enjoyed the tour, especially t...

Life. A vapor.  Slipping as sand, Thro the hour glass of life.  Slipping and sliding, Cascading thro the narrow opening of seconds and minutes and hours. Tho slow it may seem, One thing is constant.  It is forever moving.  One day the last grain of sand will slide thro the narrow opening.  One day the time for that hour glass will be done.  One day that will be me.  Sometimes I try to catch the sand as it slides thro.  Sometimes I try to reclaim the sand that has already passed. And sometimes in frantic haste I clutch and grab and pant to preserve.  All is futile.  All without hope.  The only choice I have that truly brings hope, Is to give that hour glass to Him.  To take this vessel I have, Only one, And place it the hands of the Maker. To take my grains of sand, This moment, This child, This task, And by the grace of God, ...

The evening air blows cooler as the sun slides towards the horizon. The moderation in temperature is welcome, tho slight. Everything from the waving palms to the people walking the roads look relieved for the coolness. And I feel the same relief. The days have been cooler now with the rain. It comes down in sheets, drenching any, even with an umbrella. The children come to school in hoodies and wet shoes and complain about the coldness. In reality it's still 75 or 80. Games are played indoors at recess, the rain driving hard against the roof, and sometimes dripping from leaks. It's been good to be busy again. When I first arrived, time tended to drag. I had less to do, and I didn't know many people. But as I have gotten out in the community that has changed. This past week has been particularly busy,  with something scheduled every night. The days are filled with school and other duties, the evenings mostly with church or ministry oriented things. Other weeks our ...

The drumming of a passing shower. Crickets every night outside my window.  Children calling to each other as they walk the road.  Bussing, jammed together, music throbbing, people calling to each other.  The evening sky, clouds tinted pink and the moon emerging.  The harbor at sunset.  Faces of friends looking up into our windows, seeing if we are home.  Sitting on our steps, watching people walk by.  School children singing. Calling greetings on Sunday afternoon walks. The bizarre that happens. Cool breeze in evening. 

Eight o'clock and we gather for teachers chapel. One teacher assigned for playground duty. The rest gathered around the table. Twenty minutes for devotions, sharing, and prayer. I have enjoyed the blessing of fellow teachers who are focusing on the same issues and struggles and who are together seeking God. 8:20 the bell rings. Kids scramble to their lines, assigned by grade. Shirts tucked. Shoes tied. Basketballs handed over to teachers.  "Ms., I finished my homework."  "Ms., Josiah stepped on my foot."  "Do we have Language Arts test today?" Sometimes it takes long to quiet them, or get them in a straight line. Sometimes I send them running around the school for not obeying promptly.  Then we file in. We have 10 minutes in our classroom before chapel. Pencils grind sharp. Books and papers are set in my desk to be scored from yesterday's homework. Assignments written on the board are copied into notebooks. Lunch is ordered....

Five faces uplifted. Five pairs of ears listening, at least they were suppose to be. Together in the morning for classroom devotions, I told them of 2 friends, both from bad homes. Brothers who worked with me. One works hard, loves his family, and is looking to better himself despite life's circumstances.  The other, is experimenting with drugs and alcohol, hanging with bad characters, and wreaking havoc in his life.  And I contrasted the two. Who will go far? Who will succeed?  And when we prayed, the young voice leading out, lifted up James in prayer to Him Who cares.  He Who looks down on our classroom.  And on James. 

White eyes peering out of dark faces. Hands reaching up to clutch at mine. Voices at our door, asking, "Wata, Ms. Can I have some wata?" Shouts of happy children at play, The basketball thumping.  Or walking down the road, chatting together. Good days. When they are excited to learn and work hard in school. Bad days. When the test score comes back a failure, Or their attitudes turn sour. And normal days. Their laughter sounding from our classroom. There's Josiah, head bent over his work. Struggling to comprehend. And so excited when he only has 2 mistakes to correct. Selena, body jiggling as she laughs, Her face split in a big grin. Shachri, smart, working hard, but often in a rush. Teja, intellegent, a reader, currently reading Pilgrim's Progress. Anton, his face alight with a goofy grin. When you get them all laughing, it's sure to be hard to get them stopped.  Chapel...

"It was now dark, and Jesus was not come to them." They could not see Him.  Could not sense his presence.  He was not there. They thought. It was dark. The darkness was real. Not hypothetical.  Not imagined.  Real. And they wondered at His absence.   They forgot. Forgot His faithfulness.  His trustworthiness. Because they could not see.  Because it was dark. But He was there.  He knew. To Him, there was no darkness.  No uncertainty.  No questions. Him they could trust. But they did not always.  And I do not always.  It is a choice.  A choice to trust that He will come in the darkness.  Every time.  

By faith. By faith we teach, tho we question the comprehension. By faith we are patient, tho it may seem in vain. By faith we emulate, tho they may not follow. By faith we live, tho it may seem they do not care. By faith. Faith in Him Who called. Faith that He will take these offerings we give. Faith that, if we are faithful, He will use us. Faith in the unseen. Faith that gives us hope for a new day.

"Mornin." "Mornin." The day begins with a greeting. No excuse for barely opened eyes. The salutation is given. Early morning hours. Cars whiz down the road at intervals. People walk to work. And the goats and scrawny dogs follow you with blank eyes. Morning is the best time to walk. Fewer people out and less drunks. It's also cooler, tho by the time you reach home again, clothes are sticking and sweat drips.  The roads are generally littered with trash. Old wrecks of cars abandoned along the edges of the already too-narrow roads. Drains emit a reeking stench.  Sometimes there's fog in early morning, brushing tops of distant mountains. Sometimes rain clouds, sending sporadic down-pours. Sometimes blue sky. All promise the same. A hot day. As the sun rises and the day moves on, traffic along the narrow roads increase. Drivers frequent the use of their horns as they near narrow corners or zip around other vehicles. Music commonl...

Different. Starkly different.  Public busing.  Crammed beside a stranger.  Dripping sweat together.  Trees and plants,  Unnamed to me. People, Strangers.  Faces and names I do not know.  Ways of living, Of surviving,  Learned anew.   Yet not different. Still people.  Still needs.  Still working together.  Still dying to self.  Still seeking Christ, together.  Not better than Or wiser. Just different.  And the same. Just people. 

Together they worked.  Nodding to one another.  Laboring together.  Searching for treasure.  Here?  Or here?  Often their efforts rewarded.  Marching thro seas of useless things, To claim that which they sought.  Sometimes frantically.  Sometimes stoically.  Always persistent.  My new friends.  Unwelcome tho they be.  Meet the ants. 

Us four. Under the rays of the hot sun. Fresh-dug potatoes in hand. Rubbing dirt, Tossing into buckets. So strange that we assemble in this way. Yet not long ago, not so strange. Strange now because we've grown,  Changed, Life moved on. And we use to rub potatoes together. But now, hardly ever. Now one leaving. Never the same again. Yet would we want to be those four children, Forever rubbing dirt and hauling potatoes? Would we have froze time there? A thousand no's. What would be the joy in that? What would be the lessons and growing? What would be the adventure? No, not to stay there forever. But nether to stay here. To go, not clutching the potatoes and the dirt, But to grasp at the next. The potatoes and the dirt were good. And we're glad. But what came after was good. And what will come is good.  Maybe ...

September and October mean fall. Lovely, forever-blue skies. Deep golds, reds, oranges. The heavy smell of pumpkin spice and hot chocolate. The flicker of candles. Simmering soup. Crunch of leaves underfoot. Minnesota in fall is endlessly lovely. But now. No lovely days of cool weather. Or crisp mornings laced with frost. Or hot drinks sliding down to warm. Because it's to hot in Grenada. To hot for frost. For cool mornings. For satisfying soups. Just to hot. To hot for anything but the ocean. This place I'm going. What will it be like? Hot. I know that. Different. Very different. Hard. Like here. Yet good, like here. Because God is good. There will not be Minnesota falls there.  Because it's not Minnesota. But there will be other things. Things I will learn to love. And it's ok. Because the God that gave good gifts...

No bits of chocolate morsels. No thickly slathered frosting. These instead are heavily delicious. Fragrances of maple and oatmeal, Somehow homey and comforting. Edges crisp. Glaze hardening. Taste tantalizing for yet another. Just one taste and they beg for more. Taking them to my brother's work, One was reported to eat 8. Leaving another with none. "You gotta make more." The recipe simple. Yet satisfyingly good. Oatmeal rounds with pooled glaze. Come see me. And we'll make them together.

We are man. As dust. As grass.  Passing.  Fading.  Decaying. He is God. Immortal.  Everlasting. Eternal. We as men pass away. He as God is forever. And the only way to anything of lasting value as men of dust, The only way to that which will not pass away, Is to reach out to the Eternal,  To the Word made flesh, To the God of mercy that endureth forever. Surrendered to Him. Then He can use this passing grass, This dust, For that which endureth forever.

"I have a gift for you."  She placed the dusty strand into my hand.  A relic of hers that she gave to me as a gift at my parting.  A gift purchased from the country and people I am going to. A gift from the people I am leaving.  To remind me to pray.  To care.  To still ask about them.  This leaving to go to another country, It's not a question of God finally calling me into missions.  Rather, it's a question of where He is calling me to serve now. And me going there means there will be a hole here.  Means there won't be that light where I worked. It is not more glamorous to go.  Sometimes it is not God's will to go.  It's about being faithful where He has called you. To the people in your town.  Or the people in another town.  Or even the people in your house. That dusty strand given as a parting gift, Will be a reminder of my people....

 The exchange of vows. The joining of two in one. The beginning of a life lived together. My heart is so glad for my friend. And I want to bless them with a gift. A gift that will be fun, yet useful. Not a sensible crockpot (though, please, someone give them one. They need that too) Not a set of china dishes (Does she even like china? And if she does, what kind?) Not money (extremely boring for a dear friend) or towels (please no), or even an eccentric kitchen appliance (will she even use it?) So what to get? Something fun, yet useful. Something to partake of together. Something used to bless others as well, as I know they will. A sturdy basket. A plaid picnic cloth to spread the fair.  Roasting sticks to outstretch.  Cute tin mugs, two for them, two to share.  Fluffy marshmallows Rich chocolate. Crunchy graham crackers to sandwich. And hot chocolate to warm all the way through. Practical? Not really. Ne...

"Beware of the leaven of the Pharisees." Glances around the circle of disciples. Confused. "Because we have no bread? Because of our physical need, this concern weighing on us for bread, for nourishment, for physical security?" But Jesus. "How do you not see? How do you not know? "The breaking of bread, only five loaves, the feeding of thousands. "This I did. "The providing for of the physical. "I will provide bread. Do not fret over that . " "But the leaven of the Pharisees. Sin. Attitudes. Pride. That beware of. "This is not a warning to worry over the simple physical. To clutch and stress and worry over something so minute. "But rather, I ask you to seek me. To, unlike the Pharisees, come to me with a heart empty of pride and self and stress, and know Me. "Not to clutch at the physical bread. But to reach out and touch the real Bread. "And as you touch, as you parta...

These, my people. How can i leave them for others? Who will care about their souls?  Who will mention their names at prayer meetings?  These, my people who I have struggled and learned to love. And now leave them?  Leave the watching of their souls?  The agonized prayers. The words spoken, trying to show truth? Leave this?  Yet if this is His calling, if I must leave these people who have been my passion, my heart, then the Father Who's hand guides me elsewhere will be faithful to them. Cannot I trust Him with this?  He Who said that no man comes unless the Father draws them. Cannot I trust Him with the drawing?  And leave them in the Fathers hand.

Discerning the will of God is never a frantic, clutching, fearful demand. We should never approach Him demanding, "Show me Your will," as if He is only here to be swayed by man's demands or insecure fears. His desire is never for us to arrive at His will in fear. Fear of man. Fear of circumstances. Fear of our own failings. But always in trust. He wants us to come to Him with open hands. "This, Father. Or this? What would you have me do? What would bring you the most glory?" And if we walk in His ways, if we do the small obediences here, He will never leave us without His will.  He will show us. He will not leave us without knowledge of what we ought to obey, then punish us for not obeying. Deep down, we must believe this.  His will is arrived at in complete trust in His character. In faith that He will guide. In obedience to the calling.

God never calls us beyond humble obedience to something greater. He never calls us beyond patience, humility, dying to self, kindness, righteousness. He never calls us to places where we are the star and never again must die. His way up is always down. The way closer to Christ is always death. Sanctification is always work. And those great obediences? Those great things you long to do for Him? There's the apostle Paul, stoned and shipwrecked. There's John, alone in the aisle of Patmos.  There's Corrie Ten Boom in a concentration camp. There's Jim Elliot floating dead in a river with an Auca spear thrust through him. There's Christ, hanging naked upon a cross. The great obediences? These, our examples. These our patterns. There will always be humble obedience before us. The choosing to die. The giving of self. The breaking of the will. And only then there is life.

I thirst. The anguished cry descended over the crowd, emitted by the tortured Man suspended.  I thirst. The cry of humanity.  To the Samaritan woman He had said, If you drink of me, if you drink of the water I give you, you will never thirst again. Yet in His humanness He thirsted.  He the Creator, yearning for water.  He the perfect, infinite God,  humbling Himself and asking for a drink. Acknowledging His physical thirst.  He Who spoke water into existence, asking for the life-sustaining liquid. He Who does not call us to unthirsty lives, but calls us to acknowledge our needs. Physical and spiritual. To humbly say, I thirst. And drink of the cool water of relief. 

"I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger...the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world." I am the bread. Eat of me. The sustaining bread I call you to share is my flesh, my life laid down for the world.  Eat of this death. My death. And your death. My death for sins. Your death to self. Share what I have done for you, this bread, this death, and live. Eat of me, and I will be everything you need. Truly, life-sustaining bread. Filling every hunger. Quenching every thirst. As you continually eat of me, you will continually be filled, and never need hunger again.  This is not a idealistic whim. It is not some mystical illusion. It's truth. Obey Christ's call. Do your duty. Glorify your God. Die to self. Carry your cross. And you will be eating of His flesh, imitating His life. Not simply acknowledging Him, but obeying Him. Not looking at Christ, but being los...

There is this thing about life in the summer. It's a full out run. Panting, sweating, gasping. Most times it feels like we careen into Sunday and crash into our pew with a sigh of relief. We didn't die. Success. But we as a family have begun to keep a tryst in the crazy summer. A tryst with a fire ring and 8 lawn chairs on Saturday night. Sometimes smores. Sometimes biscuits filled with oozing pie filling and creamy whipped topping still warm and smoky. Always coffee. We sit. We look at each other. No jumping for the canner or powering through the tall green in the zero-turn. Not even one more weed pulled or green bean snapped. Sometimes, in exhaustion, we would rather slumber. Or perhaps that last unfinished project nags. But we choose to sit. To hear. To spend time. Because they are more important than the crazy summer. And our choice evidences that.  So that is what we do. Bright fire crackling. Bird wings whipering.  Frogs croaking. The sun sinking.  ...

To know your God, read His Word. Do I allow this to directly affect my life? Is my first thought in adverse situations commands of Scripture? When I am faced with lies, do I know His truth? Do I know Him through the gift of His Word? This summer I am undertaking a Bible reading challenge with the intent of being in His Word. Read it. Whether that be in the 10 extra minutes you have on break at work, while feeding your baby, or perhaps even in a waiting room. Immerse yourself in His Word until that is your default. To know Him through His Word. Are you failing to live victoriously? Read His Word. Are you struggling to love? Read His Word. Are you searching to know His will? Read His Word. Summer is crazy, I thought. But do I truly value His Word enough to do this thing? Do I believe His Word is truly relevant to every situation? Every need? If I have time to check the weather, I have time to read His Word. If I have the mental energy to read a blog p...

When someone in your life is controlling and critical, what is that to thee? Follow thou me. When your sister forgets to ask you about your life and your struggles in the long listing of her own, what is that to thee? Follow thou me. When someone thinks they know what is best in your decision and does not understand your circumstances or choice or your wrestling to walk wisely, what is that to thee? Follow thou me. When they scorn your faith and question your God, what is that to Thee? Follow thou me. When others think you walk in joy only because your life is easy and you never struggle with discontentment, what is that to thee? Follow thou me.   When others praise you for virtuous things, what is that to thee? Follow thou me. For it is Christ. Not I. It is His glory. Not mine. And my duty is to walk in obedience to Him. And as I do that, I can rest. For I am following Him. 

A picture shows what the composer chooses. Evening light streaming through dining room windows on a quiet kitchen. Children, happy at their play. A picturesque slice of cake and a cup of coffee curling steam. It tells the story that is framed. You as the observer can not see behind the lens or know the mental noise in the photographers mind even as he shoots the serene scene.  Unmade beds in the next room, the same evening light falling wearily on them, remains unseen. Family turmoil just after the perfect photo shoot goes uncaptured. Mental worry and stress of the coffee drinker is not recorded. You only see the picture, framed for display. You only see the beauty, for the real is edited.  My desire is to stop seeking to arrive. To arrive at a beautifully, clean home. To arrive at finally finishing everything. To arrive at a leisure life with peaceful coffee. To arrive where there is no struggle to trust Him who gives the hard. Rather, I wish ...

There are times in life marked by intoxicating joy and fulfillment, days where you felt your hand was truly clasped in His. You knew Him. He was there, conversing with you. And it was blessed. Looking back, you see those times of joy and fulfillment as times you were close to the Saviour. And when your heart hungers, you seek the joy and fulfillment, hoping to find Him. But joy is elusive. The more you grasp at it alone, the more it is simply not there.  And you think, "I knew Him when I had joy," and seek all the more. But He is standing, waiting. Not for you to seek and find joy. Not for self-fulfillment. Not for the pursuit of peace. But the pursuit of Him. To be given for Him. To be broken by Him. And to be full with Him. So full that the search for joy is lost in obscurity. No longer needed. No longer searched for. No longer pined after. Because you have found Him. And He is giving more than you can hold.

There is the careful design that a builder knows. The perfect angles. The straight lines. The detailed thought and preparation. The thoughtful builder’s mind thinks of the need. How can this best fit this person’s necessities? How can I bless this person with the gift of my labor? How can I do the most good? And he does. Careful skill erecting shelters from the elements. Talent designing a wheelchair ramp. Practiced hand creating from raw material. Likewise, there is the thoughtful making of that which nourishes. Carefully measuring. Jiving spices. Intuitive salting. Mental labor and precision to bless those that partake. There are times when mashed potatoes, dreamed to be smooth and fluffy, are only chunks of hard in a soupy mess. There are times when the delicious sweet bread, carefully labored over, turns out half done, dumping raw dough. There are times the cook must laugh, or die in embarrassment. But the thoughtful cook thinks of those she serves. T...

Stewardship. Sometimes seen as the careful hoarding of money. Or if not money, than time, talent, or commodities. The preserving, keeping, storing for later use, for future necessities. But what if that definition, so often assumed, is a narrow, limiting, un-Godlike view of stewardship? When the best deal is attained, but at the expense of another. When the haggard waitress is given a smaller tip because, what if she uses it for cigarettes, (gasp) yet goes home, once again discouraged. When a gift is bought at a cheaper price, but the recipient wonders at the sincerity. What if this is not stewardship at all?  The buying of ice cream, money hard earned and fast disappearing, but the ice cream providing laughter and time together. The bouquet of flowers, bought at the florist rather than the grocery store, costing twice the amount, but showing more care. The thoughtful gift of coffee beans for the coffee lover, rather than a $1.99 candy bar. The giving of time to ma...

They toiled in the sea. Heads bent. Sweat trickling.  Lungs aching. Rowing.  Forever rowing. If only to reach the land. Then the cry of one at a sight. That of something moving upon the surface of the water. Advancing towards them. "A spirit." Fear shivered. Terror chocked. Defenselessness mocked. Nothing to save. No hope for the stable. Grasping for the rational. Then a voice, Known so well. "Be of good cheer!  "It is I. "Be not afraid." A collective gasp of relief. Terror and panic melting. The thing they feared the most was but the Master. The storm, a gift of mercy. The tumult, a touch of grace. The fear, unfounded. It was only Christ. And all was well on the sea.

This guest post is written by my dear aunt who lives in Pennsylvania with her 6 kiddos. It has put into words the things that I could not find words for these last three days, the real ache of a sweet sister diagnosed with diabetes. So thank you so much for this in a time of need. Humanity   I have been feeling so human   lately.  Insufficient, without hand to sway the circumstances, without ability to hold back the hurt, without power to effect a change in a heart. Human. And that humanness has lodged like a fist near my heart.  There is so much brokenness here.  I can do so little.  Brokenness, in the body of my niece, who has gone from sturdy to thin and who doesn’t want to eat.  Now we know why.  It doesn’t matter if diabetes doesn’t come wrapped in the same dark shadow as cancer.  It has its own far reaching fingers.  The needle hitting home.  Once.  Twice.  Four times a day. ...

Two, so at odds. Sisters, yet struggling violently against the other. Constant pushing, One inch farther, One nerve drawn tighter. Unkind words spoken. Dark looks exchanged. Both limited. The one twelve. The other seven. Sisters. Yet enemies. And she, the older one, in pain. Again. We wonder what's wrong. We will talk to her doctor Wednesday. Until then, our hearts ache. But the younger one asks, "Does your tummy still hurt?" A brief nod. Listless, tired. Then, "I will pray for you." And a cheerful voice, "Dear Jesus, ...Kendra not feeling good... ...yah, Jesus name, Amen." Her faith. I see hope. Hope that the bickering will turn to love, The rivalry to companionship, The frustration to patience. And hope that this child too will know Him.

                                                                                                                                               Photo by Bethany Beck on Unsplash Typically I don't write about world happenings and events. Rather, I try to focus on being faithful where I am, now, finding that challenging enough. However, the tragic fire of the Notre Dame Cathedral touched me; watching the flaming steeple topple, listening to the haunting songs sung by the grieving people of France, seeing the beautiful interior that is now smoke blackened and hazy. So I write. The way this fire gripped me surprised even myse...

James, standing by drive-through. Me by the fry station. His face alight with the story. His telling uncultivated, yet captivating. “So I was turning left at the light there by McDonald's. With all the snow, it was really icy. I started drifting without meaning to and was just sliding towards a post. So I just punched it, trying to miss the post, and did a complete 360 right there in the intersection. Then I just kept going and did another complete 360. “And there’s Cody Kelly and his chicks, sitting at the light, just watching me. “They probably thought I was trying to show off, but I wasn’t.” I doubled over in laughter at his story. I envisioned James in his beater of a red truck, front left side patched in a horrid shade of green, spinning in an intersection with Cody, one of my former coworkers, and “his chicks” just watching. James, my friend. Estranged from his dad. Hates his mom. Rejected by almost every person who has taken him in. Teased at...

She came with her box of spikenard and, without reservation, poured it all on the Master. In this pouring out, was good stewardship considered? Was it used wisely? The disciples didn't think so. "Why was this waste of the ointment made?"  They couldn't see. Nothing done for God's glory is a waste. This pouring out, it was the best way to use this precious ointment because it was used for God. It was good stewardship because it brought the most glory to God. The monetary expense was irrelevant as the ointment was poured out. The goal was worship, and the object was attained.  Christ was of that much value to her, that the cost of pouring out was irrelevant.  And that is worship.  Worship can not be measured. It's simply given. Worship is not accomplished. It's a lifestyle.  All of life should be worship. Anything, done out of obedience, submission, and love for Him, is worship. Hanging laundry, done for God, is worsh...

Children, crying out in agony, Bruised, broken, tormented. Haunted eyes, crushed souls, And we cry out,  "Oh God, have mercy." Then to our surprise, He makes us the vessels of that mercy. He gives us these broken children. And what we find covering the violent hurt, Is bellowing anger, Blantant disobedience, Frustrating behaviour. We prayed that God would show them love. Yet our sincerity is tested when God says, "Will you?" Our dedication evident, When our lives are riped apart and chaotic, To make room in our homes for the broken. "You say you ache for the broken, Now show Me you truly care." It becomes much more real. Much more sacrificial. It's no longer idealistic, No longer simply a nice idea. It's an aching, giving, hard love. And He wants us to be that vessel. When God takes that child, And places her in your family, And sa...