Emily Conrad's Blog, page 13
March 9, 2017
Learning to Count My Days
by Emily Conrad
This time last year, my husband and I were house shopping. We were just a day away from receiving an offer on the house we lived in and days away from making an offer on the house we now call home.
The day our offer was accepted on this house, my husband and I went for ice cream. I waited until we were seated with our desserts to tell him we'd gotten the house, and I still remember his smile. I've been waiting for the day to come back around so I could celebrate it. Not in any big way, but with another smile, maybe some ice cream, and definitely a helping of gratitude.
But the house-buying adventure is not the only big event to have happened in March.
On Tuesday, Facebook's On This Day feature reminded me that three years ago, I worked my last day in an office. Since then, my only job title has been writer. Another event worth celebrating.
I like looking back at specific events and considering how they've shaped my life. Unfortunately, I find scrapbooks and boxes of photos overwhelming, and I don't post often to Facebook, so the events those things can remind me of are limited.
To keep track of what's happened on which day, I implemented a Pinterest idea.
I found a ceramic berry container, dated one index card for each day of the year, and recorded important events on their corresponding card. When did I take this job or leave that one? When did I break my wrist? What day did I return to work after 8 weeks off for surgery?
I didn't stress myself out about digging up everything, and I still sometimes come across an event that I realize I never documented. No problem, I just add it.
I'm learning to appreciate this calendar anew in light of Jerusha Agen's post earlier this week, which reminded me of the importance of recounting how God has provided for us in the past in order to have faith in the present.
She shares from Psalm 77, which says, I will think about all you have done; I will reflect upon your deeds! (verse 12, NET)
My calendar is like a maintenance plan for remembering.
Looking back reminds me where I've been, how far I've come, how my life has changed and, in some cases, why. In all cases, even when the event marks a loss, the entry is a day God brought me through. He's faithful. He has a plan, and it's good. The gratitude I mentioned earlier should lead me to praise God.
But the calendar offers a challenge, as well.
As I was preparing to write this post, Psalm 90:12 popped into my mind. It reads, So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom (KJV).
I'd rather not think of the brevity of life, but since writing about my close call on the highway and hearing many of you chime in with similar stories, I have to admit that life is short. God is teaching me to number my days.
Seeing notes I made on a card to represent the end of a long wait helps me to remember that each day has a number. Waits eventually end. There is hope in that but also a challenge. Seasons of life and my time here will not last forever. Am I using all the time I have now, in this place, to do what I'm called to do here? Life is short, and we must live it accordingly.
So, here's to three years of full-time writing. Here's to the new house. Here's to the faithful God. Here's to counting our days in order to make them count.
Counting the days in order to make them count via @novelwritergirl #todaymatters #remember
This time last year, my husband and I were house shopping. We were just a day away from receiving an offer on the house we lived in and days away from making an offer on the house we now call home.
The day our offer was accepted on this house, my husband and I went for ice cream. I waited until we were seated with our desserts to tell him we'd gotten the house, and I still remember his smile. I've been waiting for the day to come back around so I could celebrate it. Not in any big way, but with another smile, maybe some ice cream, and definitely a helping of gratitude.
But the house-buying adventure is not the only big event to have happened in March.
On Tuesday, Facebook's On This Day feature reminded me that three years ago, I worked my last day in an office. Since then, my only job title has been writer. Another event worth celebrating.
I like looking back at specific events and considering how they've shaped my life. Unfortunately, I find scrapbooks and boxes of photos overwhelming, and I don't post often to Facebook, so the events those things can remind me of are limited.
To keep track of what's happened on which day, I implemented a Pinterest idea.
I found a ceramic berry container, dated one index card for each day of the year, and recorded important events on their corresponding card. When did I take this job or leave that one? When did I break my wrist? What day did I return to work after 8 weeks off for surgery?
I didn't stress myself out about digging up everything, and I still sometimes come across an event that I realize I never documented. No problem, I just add it.
I'm learning to appreciate this calendar anew in light of Jerusha Agen's post earlier this week, which reminded me of the importance of recounting how God has provided for us in the past in order to have faith in the present.
She shares from Psalm 77, which says, I will think about all you have done; I will reflect upon your deeds! (verse 12, NET)
My calendar is like a maintenance plan for remembering.
Looking back reminds me where I've been, how far I've come, how my life has changed and, in some cases, why. In all cases, even when the event marks a loss, the entry is a day God brought me through. He's faithful. He has a plan, and it's good. The gratitude I mentioned earlier should lead me to praise God.
But the calendar offers a challenge, as well.
As I was preparing to write this post, Psalm 90:12 popped into my mind. It reads, So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom (KJV).
I'd rather not think of the brevity of life, but since writing about my close call on the highway and hearing many of you chime in with similar stories, I have to admit that life is short. God is teaching me to number my days.
Seeing notes I made on a card to represent the end of a long wait helps me to remember that each day has a number. Waits eventually end. There is hope in that but also a challenge. Seasons of life and my time here will not last forever. Am I using all the time I have now, in this place, to do what I'm called to do here? Life is short, and we must live it accordingly.
So, here's to three years of full-time writing. Here's to the new house. Here's to the faithful God. Here's to counting our days in order to make them count.
Counting the days in order to make them count via @novelwritergirl #todaymatters #remember
March 7, 2017
I'm Not in Control (and It's Better This Way)
by Emily Conrad
I lined up all my perfectionist ducks in a row. Then, I accidentally shot one.
I'm being dramatic, but you know that sinking feeling when you realize you've missed something important? Yeah, that.
The situation goes something like this: I’m waiting on various messages from various people right now. I’d been convinced for weeks—maybe even months—that I’d done all I could and now had only to wait. But then one of my social media accounts failed to email me regarding an important, time-sensitive message. I learned of it after the opportunity had passed—by more than a week.
After I found the message and sent an apology, I spent the rest of the day shaking my head at myself for not checking the site directly for messages. Sure, it had always emailed me in the past, but should I have known better? It certainly would've been helpful if I had.
My recent scare on the highway showed me there isn’t much I can control, but this? I’d been thinking to myself that I’d done everything I could. I’d controlled something; I was on top of it.
Or not.
I’m not in control, not even of my side of situations.
Honestly, I should've known this before the missed message. The day after our scare on the highway, I was driving through town, unconcerned about my ability to drive in inclement weather. I hit a patch of ice on an overpass and did a one-eighty. Two days in a row, I'd been in a spinning car. I wasn't in control. Not even when I was the one behind the wheel.
But maybe my writerly pride had gotten the best of me. Words are my thing, and I'm always watching my email. How could that go wrong?
Well, now we all know the answer to that one.
Thankfully, in large part due to those experiences on the road, I'm learning more and more that it’s okay to not be in control because Someone Else is.
When our car skidded out on the highway and started spinning circles, me and my brother and sister could’ve been seriously hurt or killed. We weren’t. The same with my incident the following day. Only God could’ve coordinated those details.
So as I face this missed message, I’m grateful I’m not the one who has to control the situation. Someone better and more qualified is in complete control of the details.
I’m hoping I get a second chance at the opportunity I missed, but, knowing I can’t control this, I’m not as worried as I would’ve been in the past.
If God wants me to have an opportunity, He’ll see that I get it. If He doesn’t want that for me, then I won’t. And what He wants for me, I want. What he doesn’t want for me, I’m better off without.
For once, I’m content to surrender the things I could never control anyway.
I'm not in #control and it's better this way via @novelwritergirl #hope #Godsgotthis #Isurrenderall
I lined up all my perfectionist ducks in a row. Then, I accidentally shot one.
I'm being dramatic, but you know that sinking feeling when you realize you've missed something important? Yeah, that.
The situation goes something like this: I’m waiting on various messages from various people right now. I’d been convinced for weeks—maybe even months—that I’d done all I could and now had only to wait. But then one of my social media accounts failed to email me regarding an important, time-sensitive message. I learned of it after the opportunity had passed—by more than a week.
After I found the message and sent an apology, I spent the rest of the day shaking my head at myself for not checking the site directly for messages. Sure, it had always emailed me in the past, but should I have known better? It certainly would've been helpful if I had.
My recent scare on the highway showed me there isn’t much I can control, but this? I’d been thinking to myself that I’d done everything I could. I’d controlled something; I was on top of it.
Or not.
I’m not in control, not even of my side of situations.
Honestly, I should've known this before the missed message. The day after our scare on the highway, I was driving through town, unconcerned about my ability to drive in inclement weather. I hit a patch of ice on an overpass and did a one-eighty. Two days in a row, I'd been in a spinning car. I wasn't in control. Not even when I was the one behind the wheel.
But maybe my writerly pride had gotten the best of me. Words are my thing, and I'm always watching my email. How could that go wrong?
Well, now we all know the answer to that one.
Thankfully, in large part due to those experiences on the road, I'm learning more and more that it’s okay to not be in control because Someone Else is.
When our car skidded out on the highway and started spinning circles, me and my brother and sister could’ve been seriously hurt or killed. We weren’t. The same with my incident the following day. Only God could’ve coordinated those details.
So as I face this missed message, I’m grateful I’m not the one who has to control the situation. Someone better and more qualified is in complete control of the details.
I’m hoping I get a second chance at the opportunity I missed, but, knowing I can’t control this, I’m not as worried as I would’ve been in the past.
If God wants me to have an opportunity, He’ll see that I get it. If He doesn’t want that for me, then I won’t. And what He wants for me, I want. What he doesn’t want for me, I’m better off without.
For once, I’m content to surrender the things I could never control anyway.
I'm not in #control and it's better this way via @novelwritergirl #hope #Godsgotthis #Isurrenderall
March 2, 2017
Truth to Cling to When Disaster Comes Close
by Emily Conrad
The car pulled right as if making an emergency lane change of its own accord as we traveled 75 miles per hour down the highway. But it didn’t stop pulling right, and soon we were spinning full rotations, the tires skating circles in precipitation that refused to be either fully rain or fully slow.
The first spin: disorganized fear.
The second, a silent cry for help: Jesus!
The third rotation: expectation of disaster.
I knew the ditch must be close now. I thought of a family from our church where 3 siblings were in a wreck together, sustaining scary injuries that would heal. And now I and 2 of my siblings were going to be in a wreck, too, and I wasn’t confident of what the outcome would be. We’d been going fast. The ditch couldn’t be far away now, and once the tires hit it, we would flip, wouldn’t we?
The car seemed so fragile. So many windows. How would they crumple when the car rolled onto its hood? We were so exposed. Why did I have so much time to think, to see that we were in trouble?
Any moment now…
And then the car stopped. My brother and I had both made the same count: we’d made two and three-quarters rotations. Our back tires were on the gravel of the shoulder. Though we were on a major highway, no cars were in our immediate vicinity. We all took a breath. My brother steered the car back into a lane and accelerated to match the traffic that would soon catch up to us.
We were been granted deliverance, but the close call still breathes down my neck even now, nearly a week later.
Both before and after this incident, I've been thinking about the questions we live with.
I am studying some literary fiction in order to write a story of that genre myself. I find these stories often present questions without answers. The implication seems to be that there are none, that we can only ask and wonder but never know.
In one story, a character collects pieces of art that represent one of the biggest mysteries of her life, the disappearance of a friend in childhood. In the end, the character is left with the art, looking into it, knowing she will never have an answer.
In reading the story, we do the same: we look into art that makes no attempt to provide an answer. We begin to believe, like that character, in the impossibility of discovering truth. We notice questions we have not yet answered. Perhaps we believe there is no answer or we wouldn’t like it if we found it, so we stop looking. We tuck the unanswered question in our back pocket and settle for the malaise.
This is tragic because life is short, cars spin out of control, \disease creeps in silently, meteors flash into the atmosphere. (Literally. One boomed in through the sky over my state a couple of weeks ago, waking me in the night.)
Christianity teaches that there are answers. That we can seek God, find Him, and replace our malaise with peace.
I’ve told the girls in my high school Bible study multiple times that we needn’t be afraid of questions, even those regarding our faith. The Bible tells us we’re not following cleverly devised myths. We’re following truth that has stood the test of time.
Yet perhaps I tell them that for my own good. When a question niggles forward, I sometimes find myself, for whatever reason, afraid of looking for an answer.
But when I let questions drive me to renewed study, I find that my faith not only can be examined, it ought to be. It is by study that I find renewed and deeper understanding of what I believe and why.
Faith and reason are not contrary to each other. They complement each other.
When I’ve spent time dealing with my faith and then the car spins out, I can cry out to Jesus in assurance that whatever happens, I will be safe with Him.
Life is short. Let us not ignore questions or ask them without seeking an answer. Truth is real and available to those who pursue it with open hearts.
The earth is spinning so fast. We’re teetering on the edge of so many ditches. We must know whose name to cry out.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Truth to Cling to When Disaster Comes Close via @novelwritergirl #Jesussaves #truth
The car pulled right as if making an emergency lane change of its own accord as we traveled 75 miles per hour down the highway. But it didn’t stop pulling right, and soon we were spinning full rotations, the tires skating circles in precipitation that refused to be either fully rain or fully slow.
The first spin: disorganized fear.
The second, a silent cry for help: Jesus!
The third rotation: expectation of disaster.
I knew the ditch must be close now. I thought of a family from our church where 3 siblings were in a wreck together, sustaining scary injuries that would heal. And now I and 2 of my siblings were going to be in a wreck, too, and I wasn’t confident of what the outcome would be. We’d been going fast. The ditch couldn’t be far away now, and once the tires hit it, we would flip, wouldn’t we?
The car seemed so fragile. So many windows. How would they crumple when the car rolled onto its hood? We were so exposed. Why did I have so much time to think, to see that we were in trouble?
Any moment now…
And then the car stopped. My brother and I had both made the same count: we’d made two and three-quarters rotations. Our back tires were on the gravel of the shoulder. Though we were on a major highway, no cars were in our immediate vicinity. We all took a breath. My brother steered the car back into a lane and accelerated to match the traffic that would soon catch up to us.
We were been granted deliverance, but the close call still breathes down my neck even now, nearly a week later.
Both before and after this incident, I've been thinking about the questions we live with.
I am studying some literary fiction in order to write a story of that genre myself. I find these stories often present questions without answers. The implication seems to be that there are none, that we can only ask and wonder but never know.
In one story, a character collects pieces of art that represent one of the biggest mysteries of her life, the disappearance of a friend in childhood. In the end, the character is left with the art, looking into it, knowing she will never have an answer.
In reading the story, we do the same: we look into art that makes no attempt to provide an answer. We begin to believe, like that character, in the impossibility of discovering truth. We notice questions we have not yet answered. Perhaps we believe there is no answer or we wouldn’t like it if we found it, so we stop looking. We tuck the unanswered question in our back pocket and settle for the malaise.
This is tragic because life is short, cars spin out of control, \disease creeps in silently, meteors flash into the atmosphere. (Literally. One boomed in through the sky over my state a couple of weeks ago, waking me in the night.)
Christianity teaches that there are answers. That we can seek God, find Him, and replace our malaise with peace.
I’ve told the girls in my high school Bible study multiple times that we needn’t be afraid of questions, even those regarding our faith. The Bible tells us we’re not following cleverly devised myths. We’re following truth that has stood the test of time.
Yet perhaps I tell them that for my own good. When a question niggles forward, I sometimes find myself, for whatever reason, afraid of looking for an answer.
But when I let questions drive me to renewed study, I find that my faith not only can be examined, it ought to be. It is by study that I find renewed and deeper understanding of what I believe and why.
Faith and reason are not contrary to each other. They complement each other.
When I’ve spent time dealing with my faith and then the car spins out, I can cry out to Jesus in assurance that whatever happens, I will be safe with Him.
Life is short. Let us not ignore questions or ask them without seeking an answer. Truth is real and available to those who pursue it with open hearts.
The earth is spinning so fast. We’re teetering on the edge of so many ditches. We must know whose name to cry out.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Truth to Cling to When Disaster Comes Close via @novelwritergirl #Jesussaves #truth
February 28, 2017
Indivisible: Living Loved
by Allie Crume
A year ago, also in February, I wrote a blog post on love, everything I thought I knew about it. I poured out everything I had in me, and I wrote long and deep about how I saw myself as separated from the love of God by the skewed view of love I’ve left with from broken relationships here on earth. It was so close to a breakthrough for my spirit and soul - but it was all on the surface, still so focused on the love story God writes us here on earth, not at all about the actual definition of love. It turns out that there was one more battle left to fight before I would really understand what was true about love, about God’s love – and in another country, in a whole other chapter of my story, I learned my fight had a lot to do with anxiety.
Read more »
A year ago, also in February, I wrote a blog post on love, everything I thought I knew about it. I poured out everything I had in me, and I wrote long and deep about how I saw myself as separated from the love of God by the skewed view of love I’ve left with from broken relationships here on earth. It was so close to a breakthrough for my spirit and soul - but it was all on the surface, still so focused on the love story God writes us here on earth, not at all about the actual definition of love. It turns out that there was one more battle left to fight before I would really understand what was true about love, about God’s love – and in another country, in a whole other chapter of my story, I learned my fight had a lot to do with anxiety.
Read more »
February 23, 2017
Indivisible: When the Hero of the Story Chooses You
by Emily Conrad
(Fair warning: There are spoilers in this post about Green Dolphin Street by Elizabeth Goudge. Since the novel was published over 70 years ago, I hope you won't mind me letting the cat out of the bag...)
Can I just say it like it is? Marianne annoyed me. She was self-centered and proud. She had a habit of grabbing what she wanted at the expense of good people. She wasn’t pretty, well-liked, hopeful, or generous.
Marianne’s sister was her opposite. I cheered for sweet, beautiful, positive Marguerite in her pursuit of the man both sisters loved, William.
But then, as the result of a silly mix up, the kind and heroic William married Marianne to save her from humiliation—though she totally deserved a big dose of humility (IMHO, of course).
I got so frustrated with the book that my reading slowed to a crawl. Little did I know that Green Dolphin Street by Elizabeth Goudge would go on to teach me more about love than any other novel I’ve ever read.
Read more »
(Fair warning: There are spoilers in this post about Green Dolphin Street by Elizabeth Goudge. Since the novel was published over 70 years ago, I hope you won't mind me letting the cat out of the bag...)
Can I just say it like it is? Marianne annoyed me. She was self-centered and proud. She had a habit of grabbing what she wanted at the expense of good people. She wasn’t pretty, well-liked, hopeful, or generous.
Marianne’s sister was her opposite. I cheered for sweet, beautiful, positive Marguerite in her pursuit of the man both sisters loved, William.
But then, as the result of a silly mix up, the kind and heroic William married Marianne to save her from humiliation—though she totally deserved a big dose of humility (IMHO, of course).
I got so frustrated with the book that my reading slowed to a crawl. Little did I know that Green Dolphin Street by Elizabeth Goudge would go on to teach me more about love than any other novel I’ve ever read.
Read more »
February 21, 2017
Indivisible: How My Husband's Love Revealed God's Heart
by Rachel Scott McDaniel
When I was young, if I misbehaved my punishment wasn’t a time-out session, it wasn’t a spanking, but three words that knocked me harder than any whoopin’ could.
You disappointed me.
Again and again. Over and over. Those words were pounded into me.
You disappointed me.
The power of this statement gained ascendancy in my reasoning. I know this was only intended to be my punishment—to steer me away from wrong-doing—but the way my personality is, it allowed those words to sink in and root into my core until it became my mantra not to disappoint anyone. Ever.
Can you see how ridiculous that sounds? And impossible?
So in high school, if I was in softball, I had to be the pitcher. If I was in the musical, I had to be the lead. Same with cheerleading, show choir, class officer and the many other activities I’ve involved myself in. Not because I wanted to be “in the spotlight” but because I felt compelled to be the best. Performance. If I worked really hard and made my way to the front, then I’d earn approval. I’d gain love. There is so much wrongness in this. It was a tainted view based on a wrong perception of love.
Read more »
When I was young, if I misbehaved my punishment wasn’t a time-out session, it wasn’t a spanking, but three words that knocked me harder than any whoopin’ could.
You disappointed me.
Again and again. Over and over. Those words were pounded into me.
You disappointed me.
The power of this statement gained ascendancy in my reasoning. I know this was only intended to be my punishment—to steer me away from wrong-doing—but the way my personality is, it allowed those words to sink in and root into my core until it became my mantra not to disappoint anyone. Ever.
Can you see how ridiculous that sounds? And impossible?
So in high school, if I was in softball, I had to be the pitcher. If I was in the musical, I had to be the lead. Same with cheerleading, show choir, class officer and the many other activities I’ve involved myself in. Not because I wanted to be “in the spotlight” but because I felt compelled to be the best. Performance. If I worked really hard and made my way to the front, then I’d earn approval. I’d gain love. There is so much wrongness in this. It was a tainted view based on a wrong perception of love.
Read more »
February 16, 2017
Indivisible: Am I Saved? How Perfect Love Casts Out Fear
by Jerusha Agen
Spencer’s face crumpled as tears came to his eyes and he ran from the room.
I sat in the tiny space used for our fifth grade class at church, too stunned to say anything to my best friend, the only other kid in the class of three. Guilt, horror, and fear pumped through my body.
My friend had made an unkind remark about Spencer, a boy we thought not quite as “cool” as ourselves, when we thought we were alone.
What we didn’t realize was that our classmate had returned just then, poised outside the doorway in time to hear my friend’s joke at his expense. As Spencer fled, shouting that he was going to tell our teacher, I sat in perfect outward calm, panicking on the inside.
I was what people often term a “good girl.” Well-trained by my parents and a Christian at an early age, I sinned every day, but usually in the so-called small ways that many people don’t even recognize as registering on the sin scale.
Getting in trouble for ridiculing a kid and making him cry was definitely out of my league.
My heart pounded as I waited for Spencer to return with our teacher. Would the teacher be angry? Far worse, would he tell my parents and I would have to face their judgment?
Then the self-justification started. I hadn’t actually done anything wrong. My friend had made the unkind remark. I’d just sat there. I was innocent.
So skilled was I at justifying myself in my own mind that, by the time Spencer returned with the teacher in tow, I’d cleared myself of any wrongdoing and became angry when the teacher aimed his lecture at me along with my guilty friend.
But fear still churned in my belly when the teacher threatened to tell my parents. Why? Because, deep down, I knew I deserved their judgment. I didn’t have enough fear of their judgment to avoid wrongdoing, but once I committed the wrong and was caught, then fear immediately took hold.
Does this remind you of our relationship with God? I don’t often have enough fear of His judgment to avoid sinning, but once I’ve sinned and been “caught” by the Holy Spirit convicting me, I start to get scared. The Israelites in the Old Testament notoriously did the same thing, frequently disobeying God without fear until they received their just punishment.
But there’s a crucial difference between us and the Israelites.
Read more »
Spencer’s face crumpled as tears came to his eyes and he ran from the room.
I sat in the tiny space used for our fifth grade class at church, too stunned to say anything to my best friend, the only other kid in the class of three. Guilt, horror, and fear pumped through my body.
My friend had made an unkind remark about Spencer, a boy we thought not quite as “cool” as ourselves, when we thought we were alone.
What we didn’t realize was that our classmate had returned just then, poised outside the doorway in time to hear my friend’s joke at his expense. As Spencer fled, shouting that he was going to tell our teacher, I sat in perfect outward calm, panicking on the inside.
I was what people often term a “good girl.” Well-trained by my parents and a Christian at an early age, I sinned every day, but usually in the so-called small ways that many people don’t even recognize as registering on the sin scale.
Getting in trouble for ridiculing a kid and making him cry was definitely out of my league.
My heart pounded as I waited for Spencer to return with our teacher. Would the teacher be angry? Far worse, would he tell my parents and I would have to face their judgment?
Then the self-justification started. I hadn’t actually done anything wrong. My friend had made the unkind remark. I’d just sat there. I was innocent.
So skilled was I at justifying myself in my own mind that, by the time Spencer returned with the teacher in tow, I’d cleared myself of any wrongdoing and became angry when the teacher aimed his lecture at me along with my guilty friend.
But fear still churned in my belly when the teacher threatened to tell my parents. Why? Because, deep down, I knew I deserved their judgment. I didn’t have enough fear of their judgment to avoid wrongdoing, but once I committed the wrong and was caught, then fear immediately took hold.
Does this remind you of our relationship with God? I don’t often have enough fear of His judgment to avoid sinning, but once I’ve sinned and been “caught” by the Holy Spirit convicting me, I start to get scared. The Israelites in the Old Testament notoriously did the same thing, frequently disobeying God without fear until they received their just punishment.
But there’s a crucial difference between us and the Israelites.
Read more »
February 14, 2017
Indivisible: A Valentine’s Gift for the Shamers and Self-Blamers
by Christina Hubbard
I drive by Massage Envy twice a week. Some days I let myself ogle the purple letters and even indulge myself to look at the hours posted in white on the glass. Gosh, how my shoulders ache. That would be so nice.
I’ve ventured in once or twice after getting permission with a birthday gift card. But I’m a power-through, independent woman. I shake my head. Who am I kidding? I don’t need to be touched. I’ll just envy those who can afford such luxuries. I’m fine. I pull away from my parking spot at the chiropractor’s office, two doors down, where I’ve been getting adjusted for four years, almost weekly. Repression at it’s best.
Read more »
I drive by Massage Envy twice a week. Some days I let myself ogle the purple letters and even indulge myself to look at the hours posted in white on the glass. Gosh, how my shoulders ache. That would be so nice.
I’ve ventured in once or twice after getting permission with a birthday gift card. But I’m a power-through, independent woman. I shake my head. Who am I kidding? I don’t need to be touched. I’ll just envy those who can afford such luxuries. I’m fine. I pull away from my parking spot at the chiropractor’s office, two doors down, where I’ve been getting adjusted for four years, almost weekly. Repression at it’s best.
Read more »
February 9, 2017
Indivisible: God's Love Is in the Air (plus, announcing the winner of the first journal)
by Emily Conrad
The air glitters this morning.
The micro-snowflakes may be frost detaching from the bare trees and black roofs. Or perhaps they’ve blown in from some far-off cloud to revel in the sunshine here. Whatever their origin, they catch the sun and flash, so light gravity writes them off.
The glittering air is filled with something other than snowflakes, however.
It’s filled with love. Not the love of men or women, but the love of God.
Perhaps it’s the trite ring of statements like that which has allowed me to gloss over and leave largely unexplored this mystery of the ages.
But the more I study it, the less trite the love of God becomes.
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The air glitters this morning.
The micro-snowflakes may be frost detaching from the bare trees and black roofs. Or perhaps they’ve blown in from some far-off cloud to revel in the sunshine here. Whatever their origin, they catch the sun and flash, so light gravity writes them off.
The glittering air is filled with something other than snowflakes, however.
It’s filled with love. Not the love of men or women, but the love of God.
Perhaps it’s the trite ring of statements like that which has allowed me to gloss over and leave largely unexplored this mystery of the ages.
But the more I study it, the less trite the love of God becomes.
Read more »
February 7, 2017
Indivisible: Learning to Recognize God's Love in My Cancer Journey
by Robyn Hook
The nurse squeezed my arm before rolling me into the MRI machine. I hadn’t missed the pity in her warm brown eyes. She’d read my chart. Stage 2 breast cancer at 39.
But breast cancer wasn’t a death sentence anymore. Unless my tumor hadn’t responded to the Chemotherapy and God chose not to heal me. Sweat broke out on my brow. The machine clanked over the foam headphones I wore. Soon I would know the answer.
I closed my eyes. Please God. Heal me. Allow me to raise my boys. Be David’s wife.
I swallowed and tried not to move. Or will I be meeting you soon?
Death had become real to me and near. I wanted to understand this God I knew in my heart but couldn’t explain. For months, I’d been studying the nature of God, begging Him to reveal Himself.
Read more »
The nurse squeezed my arm before rolling me into the MRI machine. I hadn’t missed the pity in her warm brown eyes. She’d read my chart. Stage 2 breast cancer at 39.
But breast cancer wasn’t a death sentence anymore. Unless my tumor hadn’t responded to the Chemotherapy and God chose not to heal me. Sweat broke out on my brow. The machine clanked over the foam headphones I wore. Soon I would know the answer.
I closed my eyes. Please God. Heal me. Allow me to raise my boys. Be David’s wife.
I swallowed and tried not to move. Or will I be meeting you soon?
Death had become real to me and near. I wanted to understand this God I knew in my heart but couldn’t explain. For months, I’d been studying the nature of God, begging Him to reveal Himself.
Read more »
