Broken Alabaster Boxes

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...