The resolution to act correctly. The putting it off till it can't be done. The glorification of myself and my virtues. The following argument with my family. The repentance, swiftly done. The reparation, neglected.
Then, the self-incrimination on a blog without a corresponding humbling of self. That would be just too hard.
And God does not desire guilt. Conviction, yes, but not guilt.
Which means I must go apologize to my sisters.
Now.
God, give me strength.
Done, by His grace.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Freedom by Truth
I have been struggling to find my way for years, now--two years, two months, and perhaps ten days. But there were some basic questions I had asked, some that I know the answers to now.
What do I want?
The negatives--I do not want a job that is grown-up, formal, polite, responsible, and the absence of everything real except facts. I do not want to become a nominal Christian, either.
A positive: I want to be the fire that steadily burns hot. I want to give warmth to those who are cold, energy to others on fire, a searing touch of truth to those who are dead, and light to anyone who is in darkness. I want to be the salt and light of the earth, the truth that banishes the doubt, the wisdom that changes the ignorance, in a word--the hands and feet of God. I want to rely on Him so completely that all may see the glory is truly his, and the kingdom mine.
I want to be alive. I want to live and breath and remember my life.
I want to have the faith that moves mountains, and the prayer that does not give up no matter how long the wait.
Another question I have answered:
What am I to do?
Anything he commands. And I know, without a doubt, that he does not leave us without commands. Oh, there are (many, in my case) times the way is unclear, but we have commands even for that time. Trust. Live righteously. Wait on me.
And I know without a doubt I am a sinner.
Every day, every thought, every attempt to pray or to be kind or to be obedient, or, most of all, to rejoice in the duties laid on my life at the moment, are frustrating in their twisted, malformed motivations and carrying out.
I know I cannot change myself. Believe me, I've tried. And I'm a strong-willed person.
I know God is faithful. I'm alive, spiritually, even.
And He has promised to complete my redemption. No, He promised that my redemption is complete, and that my transformation into a righteous child of God, the image of God redeemed, will be complete.
I still have questions, of course.
What does it mean to rejoice when I am to broken to hope?
How do I teach myself to take joy in what I'm given? Or to have gratitude?
But just in writing this, just in writing out the truth, I'm reminded of what the truth is, and of what I've learned. And the doubts, the fears, and the pressing in of questions, lies, and honest seeking ceases for a moment. Truly, the truth sets us free.
What do I want?
The negatives--I do not want a job that is grown-up, formal, polite, responsible, and the absence of everything real except facts. I do not want to become a nominal Christian, either.
A positive: I want to be the fire that steadily burns hot. I want to give warmth to those who are cold, energy to others on fire, a searing touch of truth to those who are dead, and light to anyone who is in darkness. I want to be the salt and light of the earth, the truth that banishes the doubt, the wisdom that changes the ignorance, in a word--the hands and feet of God. I want to rely on Him so completely that all may see the glory is truly his, and the kingdom mine.
I want to be alive. I want to live and breath and remember my life.
I want to have the faith that moves mountains, and the prayer that does not give up no matter how long the wait.
Another question I have answered:
What am I to do?
Anything he commands. And I know, without a doubt, that he does not leave us without commands. Oh, there are (many, in my case) times the way is unclear, but we have commands even for that time. Trust. Live righteously. Wait on me.
And I know without a doubt I am a sinner.
Every day, every thought, every attempt to pray or to be kind or to be obedient, or, most of all, to rejoice in the duties laid on my life at the moment, are frustrating in their twisted, malformed motivations and carrying out.
I know I cannot change myself. Believe me, I've tried. And I'm a strong-willed person.
I know God is faithful. I'm alive, spiritually, even.
And He has promised to complete my redemption. No, He promised that my redemption is complete, and that my transformation into a righteous child of God, the image of God redeemed, will be complete.
I still have questions, of course.
What does it mean to rejoice when I am to broken to hope?
How do I teach myself to take joy in what I'm given? Or to have gratitude?
But just in writing this, just in writing out the truth, I'm reminded of what the truth is, and of what I've learned. And the doubts, the fears, and the pressing in of questions, lies, and honest seeking ceases for a moment. Truly, the truth sets us free.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
A Hawk
The sunset. A clear, clear blue sky, where the air was a soft clear gold that could could never inspire evil. No vibrant colors, no explosion of glory, only the still beauty that gives peace.
I was sitting on the stump of a tree, cut to a few inches off the ground, grey and dead. I perched on the very edge, so I would not sit in the dried green splat of bird poop in the middle of the wood. It seemed a fitting place for me to sit. The beauty couldn't touch my messed-up soul tonight.
Just last night, I had spoken and listened for an hour and forty-two minutes (to be precise). Just last night, I had heard my mouth admit that I could have certainty for eternity, but I could not summon the strength to dare to hope for tomorrow. I didn't dare to believe that things might get better. I did not have the strength.
I despised myself for that weakness. I sat with my arms around my fire-clad knees, the skirt falling gently. With a pure white top, and a skirt all the colors of flame, my hair falling softly over my shoulders, I might look liked I belonged with a golden sunset. I'd hoped so, picking mulberries off a tree, for I would enjoy being beautiful as much as I enjoyed the flavor of the dark purple fruit spreading over my tongue. But I had turned and left, and found the grey tomb of a fallen dryad. I sat, and waited, asking God for help. For hope. For truth. For some other way of living, than being a blind person led by a blind faith.
I acknowledged that I felt like I was living a dim, grey, harsh life, with no joy or hope. I was continuously fighting, fighting to do my duty, to love, to obey, to discipline myself. To do all that needed to be done. Even to hope, when things were dark. But hope I'd cut out, joy had left, and I was left with bleak days and endless, weary battles. I was fighting only on the strength of a memory. I had nothing, just the dim, lonely, shades of what I remembered. Nothing to fight for but that.
Twas then I saw the hawk. I have loved all flying things, and birds, especially, have swooped over my head often when I needed to be comforted, or snapped out of self-absorption. The sun, still shining, outlined the white feathers of the out-stretched wings, a stroke of brown running through the middle, the white body white against gold air. It was soft and powerful and free. I sat, watching it; it circled overhead. One circle, two; I could not believe it had not left my sight by now. It flew over, and I tilted my head to keep it in sight. It landed on the top of the tall, tall, pale blue water-tower two houses down from my home.
I followed. The back of my mind knew I was mad, knew that for a land-bound human to follow a winged creature of the sky was hopeless, but I did not have anything to lose but my place--the seat on a low, grey stump. The hawk waited for me, atop the tower, flitting its wings to keep its balance as soon as I thought it wasn't coming back. I came closer and looked up. It took off, past a line of trees; I followed again.
It vanished. It was not in the trees, it was not in the clear blue sky, there was nothing of it left in the warm, still air. It was nothing but a memory now.
I literally sank to my knees. Home was behind me, a few houses down. I wondered what this meant, if it meant anything at all; if a memory was to be enough warmth and strength to keep me fighting, to bring me victory as I leaned on the strength of God.
I still don't know. But it is a beautiful memory. And it is a question, and reminder: if God wants to use a lord of the sky to lead a clumsy stumbler, he could do so. Was I willing to follow? And to keep going, even to turn and go home, when beauty was nothing but a memory?
I do not have another choice, right now, for I have nowhere to be but home. But...I wanted to remember the hawk. So I came home, and wrote this. Hoping, maybe, that it will remind me that there is still beauty. That memories have power. And that obedience may not always make sense of the circumstances, but it is a good God whom I obey.
A God who makes hawks. And who made me. Maybe someday I'll understand why.
I was sitting on the stump of a tree, cut to a few inches off the ground, grey and dead. I perched on the very edge, so I would not sit in the dried green splat of bird poop in the middle of the wood. It seemed a fitting place for me to sit. The beauty couldn't touch my messed-up soul tonight.
Just last night, I had spoken and listened for an hour and forty-two minutes (to be precise). Just last night, I had heard my mouth admit that I could have certainty for eternity, but I could not summon the strength to dare to hope for tomorrow. I didn't dare to believe that things might get better. I did not have the strength.
I despised myself for that weakness. I sat with my arms around my fire-clad knees, the skirt falling gently. With a pure white top, and a skirt all the colors of flame, my hair falling softly over my shoulders, I might look liked I belonged with a golden sunset. I'd hoped so, picking mulberries off a tree, for I would enjoy being beautiful as much as I enjoyed the flavor of the dark purple fruit spreading over my tongue. But I had turned and left, and found the grey tomb of a fallen dryad. I sat, and waited, asking God for help. For hope. For truth. For some other way of living, than being a blind person led by a blind faith.
I acknowledged that I felt like I was living a dim, grey, harsh life, with no joy or hope. I was continuously fighting, fighting to do my duty, to love, to obey, to discipline myself. To do all that needed to be done. Even to hope, when things were dark. But hope I'd cut out, joy had left, and I was left with bleak days and endless, weary battles. I was fighting only on the strength of a memory. I had nothing, just the dim, lonely, shades of what I remembered. Nothing to fight for but that.
Twas then I saw the hawk. I have loved all flying things, and birds, especially, have swooped over my head often when I needed to be comforted, or snapped out of self-absorption. The sun, still shining, outlined the white feathers of the out-stretched wings, a stroke of brown running through the middle, the white body white against gold air. It was soft and powerful and free. I sat, watching it; it circled overhead. One circle, two; I could not believe it had not left my sight by now. It flew over, and I tilted my head to keep it in sight. It landed on the top of the tall, tall, pale blue water-tower two houses down from my home.
I followed. The back of my mind knew I was mad, knew that for a land-bound human to follow a winged creature of the sky was hopeless, but I did not have anything to lose but my place--the seat on a low, grey stump. The hawk waited for me, atop the tower, flitting its wings to keep its balance as soon as I thought it wasn't coming back. I came closer and looked up. It took off, past a line of trees; I followed again.
It vanished. It was not in the trees, it was not in the clear blue sky, there was nothing of it left in the warm, still air. It was nothing but a memory now.
I literally sank to my knees. Home was behind me, a few houses down. I wondered what this meant, if it meant anything at all; if a memory was to be enough warmth and strength to keep me fighting, to bring me victory as I leaned on the strength of God.
I still don't know. But it is a beautiful memory. And it is a question, and reminder: if God wants to use a lord of the sky to lead a clumsy stumbler, he could do so. Was I willing to follow? And to keep going, even to turn and go home, when beauty was nothing but a memory?
I do not have another choice, right now, for I have nowhere to be but home. But...I wanted to remember the hawk. So I came home, and wrote this. Hoping, maybe, that it will remind me that there is still beauty. That memories have power. And that obedience may not always make sense of the circumstances, but it is a good God whom I obey.
A God who makes hawks. And who made me. Maybe someday I'll understand why.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
The First Time in a While
I haven't felt at home in a while. I've been writing about that recently; maybe I'll post it. But tonight--tonight was a reminder. And reminders should be marked, written down in my case, maybe retold or painted or held in a memento in others...but here is my memory.
The weakness and despicable feeling of sin has held my heart for a while. Each defeat seems inevitable; each victory unreal. Until tonight.
Tonight, someone very close to me called. She's a member of my family--and my family does not cry easily, and certainly not to each other. She called me, I missed the call, I called her back, and started to tease her--till the silence on the other end of the line instead of laughter woke me up. "____, what's wrong?"
It was the first time she's cried to me. No, I take that back--she asked me questions once, questions about assurance and salvation, and she was crying then. That was years ago; I still pray for her, many times each week. Tonight, she called about family.
I have the-same-yet-different struggle in my own family, and I listened and spoke, and we ended the conversation laughing, as I walked up to the register to buy some things to make no-bake cookies. I'd sat in my backyard while she was crying, so no one else could overhear.
But these two memories are strong. When she first called I misheard what she said, and my mind jumped to a sister of mine; the fear had my pulse racing and my mind crying over options, what to do. I heard her explain more, and my fear calmed--I had misunderstood. I could listen to her better then.
The second strong memory was a memory of strength itself. It has been so long, so very, very, very long, since I have felt strong. Since I have felt I had something to say, where my words were certain and my heart...less broken, even when feeling the soft cry that echoes when I hear someone else's pain. Empathy and brokenness are two very different things, and the weight of tears at someone else's grief is not nearly as heavy as the unheard sobbing, throbbing of a cracked and broken heart. And oh, the grace of God, that he gave me this gift tonight: I was once again a part of his kingdom, his hands and feet to the lost or hurting. God, I give you my thanks, for this memory of what it is to say and love as you have given me gifts to do, for those I love the most. My thanks to you, my humble, heartfelt gratitude and thanks for that grace. In the name of Christ, who washed me clean, amen.
The weakness and despicable feeling of sin has held my heart for a while. Each defeat seems inevitable; each victory unreal. Until tonight.
Tonight, someone very close to me called. She's a member of my family--and my family does not cry easily, and certainly not to each other. She called me, I missed the call, I called her back, and started to tease her--till the silence on the other end of the line instead of laughter woke me up. "____, what's wrong?"
It was the first time she's cried to me. No, I take that back--she asked me questions once, questions about assurance and salvation, and she was crying then. That was years ago; I still pray for her, many times each week. Tonight, she called about family.
I have the-same-yet-different struggle in my own family, and I listened and spoke, and we ended the conversation laughing, as I walked up to the register to buy some things to make no-bake cookies. I'd sat in my backyard while she was crying, so no one else could overhear.
But these two memories are strong. When she first called I misheard what she said, and my mind jumped to a sister of mine; the fear had my pulse racing and my mind crying over options, what to do. I heard her explain more, and my fear calmed--I had misunderstood. I could listen to her better then.
The second strong memory was a memory of strength itself. It has been so long, so very, very, very long, since I have felt strong. Since I have felt I had something to say, where my words were certain and my heart...less broken, even when feeling the soft cry that echoes when I hear someone else's pain. Empathy and brokenness are two very different things, and the weight of tears at someone else's grief is not nearly as heavy as the unheard sobbing, throbbing of a cracked and broken heart. And oh, the grace of God, that he gave me this gift tonight: I was once again a part of his kingdom, his hands and feet to the lost or hurting. God, I give you my thanks, for this memory of what it is to say and love as you have given me gifts to do, for those I love the most. My thanks to you, my humble, heartfelt gratitude and thanks for that grace. In the name of Christ, who washed me clean, amen.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Confused, even Lost
My life has, for the past year and a half, followed a strict routine. That life is not my favorite--I prefer a varied life with a few routines in it, in the morning and evening. But it does make it easy to judge how I am doing, because I have so many similar days to judge by.
The last few days have not been routine. Normally I try to watch little TV; yesterday I watched fifteen episodes of one show. You read correctly; fifteen. That's eleven and a half hours of TV. I was sick, and stayed home from work; bored, and disinclined to sew or read any of the books I'd read a hundred times before. I know addiction is wrong, and that deliberately putting entertainment before anything (even devotions--I did not do those yesterday) is wrong, and hiding from that knowledge by distracting myself with entertainment is still worse; it is blinding my eyes and stopping my ears, that I may do my own will.
The night before I was sick I watched two episodes. I realized, that night, that I had been hiding, hiding from hope. My brother came down to make up a drill (he's in the reserves). My sister moved up with him and his wife, and she seems to be doing very, very well. At least compared to how she was doing before. The hope that she might be healing was so strong, so frightening. I have not let myself love anything new since coming back, because love was hurting, just then--hurting from my friends, who were now far away, many of whom do not have time, hurting from my family, for I could not reconcile who I had been with who I was around them very easily--something many people face. So I continued loving as I had loved, but not growing, and not, above all, hoping for change, because to love and to hope is to be vulnerable, and I did not think I could take any more hurt.
That became a pattern, a pattern I had been confronted with before, but one that overwhelmed me that night. I deliberately avoided praying, for to pray is to be honest, for who can lie to a God who knows all things, even the depths of my heart, my motivations? "For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And no creature is hidden from his sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must give account." But he brought me to my knees that night, and I told him I would hope if I could, if he helped me.
The next day I ran. A part of me acknowledges that I need to rest, that I had not dreamed or daydreamed with new material for too long, and I was careful not to watch impurity or evil. But I was still hiding.
This morning I got up, and got ready to go to work, and listened to my Mom. She has arthritis, inflammation, scarring tissue, and pinched nerves, which, combined, are steadily getting worse and worse till she is in pain sitting down, lying down, standing up, or breathing. She is praying for a long-term solution, and is switching doctors to one who wants to do more than pain management--she's going to the new doctor today, one who is highly recommended by a friend (one more thing to hope for). But she as given a cortisone shot yesterday, and she was so incredibly joyful this morning, because she could sit up after waking up without pain. You know that moment when you wake, and you sit up? For myself, I don't even think about it. For her, she has to prepare herself, because it is very, very hard. It is excruciatingly painful. She was so happy this morning, that she could sit up. She spoke of her struggle to make sure she was not bitter, unhappy, or unsubmissive to God because of her pain, and of the people she's seen who do so much more (note: my mother does not complain hardly ever, and is often more encouraging and hopeful about her condition than I am). Mom is hoping the shot will keep 80% of the pain away for a month, so she can finish teaching (yes, she still works full-time) and go on vacation with the family with less pain then normal.
So I came back down here, and opened my Bible, seeking for answers. Seeking for strength. Because I have promised God, if it is His will, not to watch TV or movies again unless someone watches them with me, or I am exercising. I am addicted to a TV series, and need to pay the consequences. I need help, not to hide. I want to change peoples' lives, I want to bring for the kingdom, I want to burn with God's light and life. To do that, I need to be vulnerable, to be willing to be hurt again and again, instantly forgiving and giving grace, instantly surrendering my rights and my wishes, everything laid down at God's feet. I read of Jesus washing the disciples feet, but still felt blind and cold. I felt as blind and ignorant as Peter, who sat there arguing with the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. I heard "Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end." I knew that God loved a willful fool; I knew that God can use and change a willful fool.
But that brings me back to something that has been haunting me, that makes it very hard to hope.
I do not see God's victory. I have been taking it on faith for a long while now; I take on faith that I am saved, I take on faith that God's Spirit is working in me, even when I cannot see it; I take on faith that God is planning something better than I can dream of for my life, when my dreams fell months, almost years ago to ashes and I have nothing left to build for; I take on faith that I am not falling farther and farther away. I have no proof, nothing but His word. The sweet, life-giving Word of God that has immeasurable power, and I know "he who promised is faithful." But I am struggling with the tension of reading and believing one thing, and seeing and living another. That is why it is hard to hope for my sister's full regeneration; that is why it is hard to pray for my mother's complete healing; that is why I had much rather hide. For I know I could be Little-Faith, that pilgrim in the second half of Pilgrim's Progress who lost everything he cared about (his jewels, his reputation, and his wits), did nothing to help others, and came to the gates of the Celestial City and entered, but without any story of God's glory but this: that God could save one so weak. No other victory was his. "Now if anyone builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw—each one's work will become manifest, for the Day will disclose it, because it will be revealed by fire, and the fire will test what sort of work each one has done. If the work that anyone has built on the foundation survives, he will receive a reward. If anyone's work is burned up, he will suffer loss, though he himself will be saved, but only as through fire." I do not want to be Little-Faith; I do not want to build on God's foundation with straw.
But I do not know where to go, what to read, what to do. I live by faith; no, I continue to exist and breath by faith, and pray to God that He teaches me to live.
"What about the times when even followers get lost? Cause we all get lost sometimes. There's a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll, in the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold. He's kneeling in the garden, silent as a stone, and all his friends are sleeping, and he's weeping all alone. And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot what sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought. So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God, the aching may remain, but the breaking does not in the holy, lonesome echo, of the silence of God."--Andrew Peterson
The last few days have not been routine. Normally I try to watch little TV; yesterday I watched fifteen episodes of one show. You read correctly; fifteen. That's eleven and a half hours of TV. I was sick, and stayed home from work; bored, and disinclined to sew or read any of the books I'd read a hundred times before. I know addiction is wrong, and that deliberately putting entertainment before anything (even devotions--I did not do those yesterday) is wrong, and hiding from that knowledge by distracting myself with entertainment is still worse; it is blinding my eyes and stopping my ears, that I may do my own will.
The night before I was sick I watched two episodes. I realized, that night, that I had been hiding, hiding from hope. My brother came down to make up a drill (he's in the reserves). My sister moved up with him and his wife, and she seems to be doing very, very well. At least compared to how she was doing before. The hope that she might be healing was so strong, so frightening. I have not let myself love anything new since coming back, because love was hurting, just then--hurting from my friends, who were now far away, many of whom do not have time, hurting from my family, for I could not reconcile who I had been with who I was around them very easily--something many people face. So I continued loving as I had loved, but not growing, and not, above all, hoping for change, because to love and to hope is to be vulnerable, and I did not think I could take any more hurt.
That became a pattern, a pattern I had been confronted with before, but one that overwhelmed me that night. I deliberately avoided praying, for to pray is to be honest, for who can lie to a God who knows all things, even the depths of my heart, my motivations? "For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And no creature is hidden from his sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must give account." But he brought me to my knees that night, and I told him I would hope if I could, if he helped me.
The next day I ran. A part of me acknowledges that I need to rest, that I had not dreamed or daydreamed with new material for too long, and I was careful not to watch impurity or evil. But I was still hiding.
This morning I got up, and got ready to go to work, and listened to my Mom. She has arthritis, inflammation, scarring tissue, and pinched nerves, which, combined, are steadily getting worse and worse till she is in pain sitting down, lying down, standing up, or breathing. She is praying for a long-term solution, and is switching doctors to one who wants to do more than pain management--she's going to the new doctor today, one who is highly recommended by a friend (one more thing to hope for). But she as given a cortisone shot yesterday, and she was so incredibly joyful this morning, because she could sit up after waking up without pain. You know that moment when you wake, and you sit up? For myself, I don't even think about it. For her, she has to prepare herself, because it is very, very hard. It is excruciatingly painful. She was so happy this morning, that she could sit up. She spoke of her struggle to make sure she was not bitter, unhappy, or unsubmissive to God because of her pain, and of the people she's seen who do so much more (note: my mother does not complain hardly ever, and is often more encouraging and hopeful about her condition than I am). Mom is hoping the shot will keep 80% of the pain away for a month, so she can finish teaching (yes, she still works full-time) and go on vacation with the family with less pain then normal.
So I came back down here, and opened my Bible, seeking for answers. Seeking for strength. Because I have promised God, if it is His will, not to watch TV or movies again unless someone watches them with me, or I am exercising. I am addicted to a TV series, and need to pay the consequences. I need help, not to hide. I want to change peoples' lives, I want to bring for the kingdom, I want to burn with God's light and life. To do that, I need to be vulnerable, to be willing to be hurt again and again, instantly forgiving and giving grace, instantly surrendering my rights and my wishes, everything laid down at God's feet. I read of Jesus washing the disciples feet, but still felt blind and cold. I felt as blind and ignorant as Peter, who sat there arguing with the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. I heard "Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end." I knew that God loved a willful fool; I knew that God can use and change a willful fool.
But that brings me back to something that has been haunting me, that makes it very hard to hope.
I do not see God's victory. I have been taking it on faith for a long while now; I take on faith that I am saved, I take on faith that God's Spirit is working in me, even when I cannot see it; I take on faith that God is planning something better than I can dream of for my life, when my dreams fell months, almost years ago to ashes and I have nothing left to build for; I take on faith that I am not falling farther and farther away. I have no proof, nothing but His word. The sweet, life-giving Word of God that has immeasurable power, and I know "he who promised is faithful." But I am struggling with the tension of reading and believing one thing, and seeing and living another. That is why it is hard to hope for my sister's full regeneration; that is why it is hard to pray for my mother's complete healing; that is why I had much rather hide. For I know I could be Little-Faith, that pilgrim in the second half of Pilgrim's Progress who lost everything he cared about (his jewels, his reputation, and his wits), did nothing to help others, and came to the gates of the Celestial City and entered, but without any story of God's glory but this: that God could save one so weak. No other victory was his. "Now if anyone builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw—each one's work will become manifest, for the Day will disclose it, because it will be revealed by fire, and the fire will test what sort of work each one has done. If the work that anyone has built on the foundation survives, he will receive a reward. If anyone's work is burned up, he will suffer loss, though he himself will be saved, but only as through fire." I do not want to be Little-Faith; I do not want to build on God's foundation with straw.
But I do not know where to go, what to read, what to do. I live by faith; no, I continue to exist and breath by faith, and pray to God that He teaches me to live.
"What about the times when even followers get lost? Cause we all get lost sometimes. There's a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll, in the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold. He's kneeling in the garden, silent as a stone, and all his friends are sleeping, and he's weeping all alone. And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot what sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought. So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God, the aching may remain, but the breaking does not in the holy, lonesome echo, of the silence of God."--Andrew Peterson
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