It's the first Monday I've been home since June 5th. It's incredible. And good . . . to be home. What. A. Summer.
Jesus propped open the door and coaxed me by the light.
And crooked danae child tried to find herself in another picture, another world.
And there were a lot of failures.
But between the cracks of cement and sin, floral victories peaked the surface and sprung in radiance.
Yet even with the victories, I still lie dying, trying to figure out how to die gracefully.
How to lay down everything.
And what does it really mean to follow You, Jesus?
You cracked my world a few days back, told me to carry my cross, to come.
Jesus, I don't even know what my cross is? Oh how resistant the soil feels. Is there any good? Can You drip the Living-Water into these cracks to make me soft for You?
To teach me what it means to love You?
And I stand at the end of the summer feeling kind of stuck. Stuck between the past of Tadmor and the present and the future of Multnomah and new church and new people. And are You asking me to step out from all of the things I leaned on? Oh Jesus, I want to be free. I want to love You. In truth.
Amen, Jesus. Amen.