Archive | peace

A Resuscitation Story

Four words quickened tired hearts. Peace be with you! They had watched this man wash their dirty feet then take His last breath. Now, He stood before them with deep scars of love. Risen. Alive. Victorious.

No one expected this. The women at the tomb at dawn fully anticipated a dead body. Later that evening, Jesus’ closest companions huddled together in fear behind a locked door. Hopeless and despondent, they needed to be revived.

They forgot who Jesus was . . . and they forgot how to breathe.

Again, Jesus said, “Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.” And with that he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” (John 20:21-22)

As God breathed life into Adam, Jesus breathed His Spirit into man. Re-birth. Re-creation. Resuscitation.

Jesus’ instructions are beautifully simple: Receive Me, then go. No wonder I get so out of breath. My strength is never enough to go where he is sending me. But Jesus’ gift precedes His call.

There is a rhythm to breathing. It’s daily. In and out, in and out, in and out. Jesus said, “Freely you have received; freely give.” (Matthew 10:8b) This has become my prayer this Lenten season: Jesus, teach me to breathe freely so that my heart is not faint.

The state of my heart depends on the pattern of my breath.

God designed our bodies to follow this delicate balance. There is no giving, going, or serving without first receiving, accepting, embracing. There can be no loving others without first believing we are loved. In and out, in and out, in and out, the cadence of creation continues.

Breathing is vital to survival. Jesus resuscitates by giving us new breath—His breath. His power and peace activate new life. We are more than revived; we are a whole new creation.

Jesus wasn’t one bit surprised to find his closest followers hunkered down in despair. He knew the state in which He would find them in the days following His death. He knew the devastation. Without His breath in them, they would never have the power to overcome the doubt, grief, the nagging questions, or pride that convinced them they could step out alone.

Jesus told them again and again that He was sending them out as sheep among wolves, but He also warned them that the sheep of the flock—every single one of them—would scatter.

The survival of the flock depends on the care of the shepherd.

Shepherd and sheep share an intricate relationship. A shepherd leads his flock out to pasture, then brings them back into the fold, counting each under his rod. Once the flock is secure, he lays down across the threshold, acting as a gate to protect his sheep.

A Resuscitation Story

Jesus said, “I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. They will come in and go out, and find pasture.” (John 10:9) In and out. In and out. We return to remember who He is—the Good Shepherd who lays down His life for His sheep; we step out in faith, believing we will find fullness in a life completely dependent on Him.

Jesus will not stop until all His lost sheep have been found. And that is where this bunch of ordinary men and women came in. And it’s where you and I will likely find our places as well.

When Jesus saw Peter, the one who denied He knew Jesus over and over, and over again, Jesus didn’t shame Peter or criticize him or even question him about that night. He had told Peter ahead of time that it would go down the way it did.

Listen to the gentle rhythm of this precious exchange between Shepherd and sheep:

 

Jesus: Do you love me?

Peter: Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.

Jesus: Feed my lambs.

 

Jesus: Do you love me?

Peter: Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.

Jesus: Take care of my sheep.

 

Jesus: Do you love me?

Peter: Lord, you know all things…. You know that I love you.

Jesus: Feed my sheep.

 

Jesus’ questioning had more to do with Jesus’ love for Peter than Peter’s love for Him. As Peter confessed, “Lord, you know all things,” he remembered who Jesus is.

Return to My love for you, Peter (breathe in). Step out for the sake of My sheep (breathe out). Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Return, step out, return, step out, return, step out.

As who God is becomes more clearly defined in our lives, our breathing regulates. Our hearts no longer faint. When we step out, we choose to believe in who God is; we return to rest in His love. Rest and believe, rest and believe, rest and believe. This is the rhythm of following Jesus, the pulse of new life.

We are survivors, because we have His breath in us.

The Good Shepherd became the Perfect Lamb, sacrificed to purchase precious peace. And with the breath of God in them, those scattered sheep became shepherds of His flock.

Lord, show us where we’re running on the fumes of our own strength. Cultivate humility in our hearts as we return to you to remember who you are and whose we are. Show us where we’re holding our breath in fear. Give us fresh faith to recognize Your power within us. Regulate our breathing, resuscitate our lifelessness, and teach us to breathe freely. Thank you for the peace You’ve given us.

“Now may the God of peace, who through the blood of the eternal covenant brought back from the dead our Lord Jesus, that great Shepherd of the sheep, equip you with everything good for doing his will, and may he work in us what is pleasing to him, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.”  Hebrew 13:20-21

 

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What I’m Learning About Unsubscribing

The holiday busyness has finally come to a thankful end, and the silence and stillness my soul craves every January has made me glaringly aware of a restlessness I need to address.

Every morning after coffee, I delete about 13-16 emails.

Without opening, or even clicking, I mindlessly drag them to my virtual trash can which is an overflowing mess of advertisements, coupons, time-sensitive offers, and junk.

I need to unsubscribe.

All those times I handed over my email address to get something in return: a receipt, freebie, or steal of a deal.

Then there were times I thought I was getting something I wasn’t. Or the sender turned out to be someone I didn’t recognize.

Today, I make my list and—one by one—I scroll all the way to the bottom of the page, and I click unsubscribe. It feels more refreshing than I expected.

I’m learning the freedom of unsubscribing.

January is always the best time to make space for new—new commitments, new adventures, and new yes’s. New relationships, new growth, new opportunities to join in the work God is already doing. New habits, new rhythms, new rest.

A wise friend recently told me that every season she asks God to prune everything from her life that is not bearing fruit. This is always so hard for me, because it inevitably means saying no to good things, cutting comfortable, and ending habits I’d rather keep in my white-knuckle grip.

Bare often comes before beauty. The practice of making space requires discipline and patience. We make space for yes only by saying no. We make space for new only by disengaging from what isn’t thriving.

Today, my email list is my barometer. I’m learning that I say yes a whole lot more than I should, and after just 15 minutes and 40 un-subscriptions, I realize why I haven’t unsubscribed sooner.

As I methodically click through the steps to disengage from all the marketing agreements, explain myself with a check of a box, and confirm my decision to unsubscribe, I am aware of one lingering fear.

I’ve been dragged down a time or two by the nasty fear of missing out.

Our culture screams to us that if we pull back, step out, or disengage—even for a season—we’ll be left behind and forgotten. We fear we’ll regret the decision as soon as we come to terms with all we are missing out on.

So, we keep subscribing.

The truth is that all this junk is what’s causing us to miss out. We’re missing out, because we’re too busy hauling stuff to the trash every day.

It’s amazing how much less distracted I am after unsubscribing.  I still receive emails. Out of 54 subscriptions, I eliminated 40, roughly 75%. My fourteen favorites I kept, and with all the space left over, I decided to add 3 new subscriptions.

Paying attention to my inbox has made me more aware of what I allow into my head.  I’m asking myself: What are my subscriptions to dangerous and destructive thought patterns costing me? Am I missing out on stuff like peace and opportunity and the silence required to hear the voice of God?

I’m learning through deep cuts and shallow scrapes that what I bargain for doesn’t always end up in my favor. I cooperate—even sign my name on the line—all to my own demise, because the source asking my consent isn’t God.

I’m learning how a cluttered mind crowds out peace.

Though I could easily crank out 40, here are the top ten thought patterns I am unsubscribing from… with God’s help, of course. (Disengaging from destructive or distracting mindsets is never something any of us can achieve on our own.)

I’m pulling every one of these out of my mental inbox and asking God to replace those empty spaces with the truth of His word.

 

M y   u n s u b s c r i b e   l i s t:

living like it’s all up to me

assuming the worst rather than believing the best

trusting others rather than God

fearing others more than I fear God

competing

comparing

harboring bitterness

choosing unforgiveness

measuring impossible expectations

forgetting all about grace

 

This is a lame list of lies or at best, it should be categorized as “Junk” with a capital “J.” It may take a whole lot longer than 15 minutes, but I know I’m not the One accomplishing this feat. Honestly, some of these have been on my unsubscribe list for years now.

Unsubscribing isn’t always automatic.

But the decision to unsubscribe—fueled by a desire to disengage—will eventually eliminate distraction and discouragement. Eventually.

This matters. The space you surrender to God counts. He sees beyond the disgusting pile of garbage all around you… He sees you, and He has a bold plan for all the empty space He wants to help you clear out. He’ll fill every crevice and corner and hollow space with His grace.

God, renew our hearts and minds. We bring every sinful subscription to the foot of Your cross, and ask You to unsubscribe us from all that contradicts your Love and purpose for our lives. Empty us of every lie we’ve believed in fear; empty us of ourselves. Make space in us for Your truth. Amen.

 

Jesus loves you,

Kelly

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Hope Does Not Reside in the White House

I’m driving the same route I travel every single morning. Ten minutes to the elementary school, ten minutes back home. The big kids are chatting in the backseat, and the little one is surprisingly quiet.

I turn onto the two lane country road—at least that’s what I call it. It still feels country to me. Stretches of nothing flank either side, but I know it won’t stay that way for long.

I love this road. It’s one of the few places left in this suburban town where cows graze in open fields. Quiet and serene, it’s my favorite part of my morning drive.

Today I smell a fire burning.

I’m not alarmed; I’m curious. With awakened senses, I strain my eyes to try and find the fire itself. Then I notice what I’ve missed every single morning since school began back in August.

I see a small white cross and think about the family who lost someone precious right here on this quiet road. A huge log wider than a telephone pole lays sideways in the ditch further down. I have no idea why it’s there.

Trash collects to the left and to the right of this strip of road. Plastic bags and paper carried off by the wind settle into hidden crevices. I’m overcome by the signs of brokenness all around me.

Sometimes, it’s easier to notice beauty than recognize brokenness.

One week later, I inhale that same smell. The election has ended but the conflict continues. The intensity of emotion I thought would fade hasn’t.  Another fire burns somewhere nearby.

Ugliness and brokenness exist outside of and all around me, especially today. Yet the Spirit of God is begging me to notice the brokenness and ugliness within my own crippled heart.

Hope Does Not Reside in the White House

Rather than search outside, this morning tears flow as I search within. I take accusatory fingers that point outward, and I lace them together tightly and pray.

As I begin to notice my own heart, it unravels me. I remember Jesus’ words I read in Revelation this morning before the sun announced a new day. 

“I know your deeds; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead. Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have found your deeds unfinished in the sight of my God. Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; hold it fast, and repent. But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you.”

Revelation 3:1-3 (emphasis added)

I take note of relationships that appear to thrive on the surface yet I know are dangerously close to dying. I ask God to help me with that log in my eye, and I wonder how long it’s been obstructing my view.

My cluttered heart has allowed selfishness and entitlement to crowd out the work of God. And I’m reminded of my great need for Jesus here on this two lane country road with a car full of children learning to follow my lead.

Sometimes, it’s easier to be complacent than repentant.

Eyes are windows into hearts so maybe heart change begins with seeing differently, with noticing. The smell of thick, heavy smoke compelled me a week ago to look around intentionally, and today, it’s the fire I cannot see that quickens my spirit within.

Hope for our nation does not reside in the White House. Hope resides in human hearts, because Hope is alive, and His name is Jesus. We need revival to sweep through this country like wildfire.

Unity and peace aren’t our first steps. Repentance is first. Repentance is always first. Peace and unity follow.

Light a fire within us

Revival begins with repentance.

Awakening begins here. In me. In you. It starts with honesty and confession. Words like they and them become we and us. It starts with noticing what’s inside of us and begging God to change us.

I whisper a prayer that feels urgent and necessary and costly. Hope leads the way. Care to join me today? There’s plenty of ground to share as we hit our knees together.

Forgive us, Jesus.

We need you in the worst way. Spark a fire here inside and awaken us.

Help us recognize how pride and entitlement and complacency have blinded us. Open our eyes. Make us aware of what needs healing within our hearts. Show us where our footing is all wrong as we travel this narrow path.

Show us where the world hurts, and give us courage to hurt right alongside. Help us to reach far outside comfort zones to what exists outside our understanding.

We confess that much of the ugliness begins here in our own hearts. Remind us of the beauty of Your grace and forgiveness. Cover us with Your love.

Build Your kingdom here on earth.

Amen.

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The Practice of Quieting Our Hearts

Quiet is something the soul craves and the mind rejects. Getting quiet grinds against our nature, doesn’t it?

Not that long ago, I found myself in a season of quiet. At first, I resisted what God was doing inside me. I felt empty. Hollowed out. All I wanted to do was go on with my life. Leave everything as is.  But deep down, I knew that wasn’t an option.

My life lacked quiet, and it was crushing my soul.

When this season of quiet began, I was in the middle of reading Myquillyn Smith’s The Nesting Place, a wonderful guide to making a house a home. (If you’re not a reader, this book is a must-have just for the gorgeous pictures inside!)

About three pages into Chapter 9—appropriately titled, “One Room at a Time”—Myquillyn claims that quieting a room is one of her favorite things to do.  I’ve always pictured my heart as a series of different rooms, so this whole quieting process sparked my curiosity.

To quiet a room, follow these two basic steps:

1. Find a holding area.

“Find a holding area near the room but out of the way enough so you can stack or stuff there for a day or so without driving everyone in your house insane or scaring the dog.”

2. Remove everything.

“Remove everything that isn’t a rug, piece of furniture, lamp, or somehow attached to the wall (drapes and wall art can stay). Take out all the little junk on your tables, mantel, and ottomans; the baskets of magazines; the picture frames; the papers; the bills; the clay owls your daughter made. Remove the throw pillows and the blankets and the stack of puzzles and books. Take out the plants and candles and toys and everything else. Now you should have a quieter room.”

As I read Myquillyn’s simple instructions on quieting a space, I found myself wishing it were as simple as quieting my heart.  It isn’t. But during that season, God taught me what quiet is and isn’t, how quiet feels, and why quiet is good for my soul.

Quiet space

Quieting our hearts is intentional surrender.

Quieting is the opposite of striving. God begins the work within us, but we have to cooperate. God helped me evaluate all I had allowed into my heart. He showed me what needed to be removed, what needed to stay, and what needed to be rearranged. Being honest about what’s in our hearts isn’t always easy, but it’s the first step towards freedom.

One by one, God began to remove all the things with which I had adorned my heart in an effort to make myself look better. The idea of a holding area reminded me that even though I felt empty, God wasn’t finished. His quieting would rid me of fear and shame and anger and myself, so that He could fill me with peace and passion and purpose, and most importantly, Himself.

Quieting our hearts is revealing.

“Quieting a space” allows us to see what is underneath all the stuff. When we quiet our hearts, we’re uncovering. Coming out of hiding. This takes time, and it can feel very uncomfortable. Quieting our hearts reveals when we’re relying on our own effort instead of Jesus.

Many of us are afraid of quiet. We fear no one will like what’s underneath—or worse, that God won’t love us without all the effort we believe it takes to approach Him. But it’s His love that quiets us, and His love can never be earned. Our effort only gets in the way of receiving His gift.

Quieting our hearts is an intimate blessing.

God eventually began to fill my heart again. He repositioned only what was good for me and what helped me glorify Him. He showed me what was really there underneath all the effort. That’s where real beauty is found. Underneath. In a quiet heart without any unnecessary junk, I found this: I am fearfully and wonderfully made. So are you.

Jesus loves you. He loves the real you, not the try-hard you. He loves the you that you sometimes don’t. Jesus loved you long before you knew Him. Long before you loved Him. Jesus loved you first. Trust that His love is enough and experience the blessing of a quiet heart.

Quieting our hearts isn’t just a one-time thing. We’ll need to let God clear the space of our hearts over and over again throughout this life. It will require intentionality. It might even feel uncomfortable; surrender usually does. But it will always be a blessing to have Him quiet us with His love.

“O Lord, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me. But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me. Israel, put your hope in the Lord both now and forevermore.” Psalm 131:1-3

Jesus loves you,

Kelly

 

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HER STORY: Her Lifesong Became My Lifeline

Every heart has a song to sing and a story to tell. Our stories reveal God’s bigger redemptive story. Join me today for the first in a series called Her Story.

Her Story

Life is a mixture of big, important milestones and small, everyday moments. We tend to focus on the big stuff, but the small stuff gives us those unhindered glimpses straight into the heart.

A series of ordinary, individual notes create a person’s lifesong.

I’ve known my friend, Charla, for a decade now. We’re pretty much family. She’s a teacher and a writer. She’s a listener and encourager and a knees-to-the-ground prayer warrior.  She loves Jesus, rides a Harley, and plays the tambourine like nobody’s business. Charla has blessed my life in more ways than I can count, and her faith has taught me so much about God’s goodness. This is her story.

It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon brimming with errands and routine. Zach Williams’ “Chain Breaker” came on the radio, so she reached over to crank up the volume. She was singing along and tapping the steering wheel one second and looking out her window at twisted metal and broken glass the next.

She never saw the car coming.

“The sound of crushing metal drowned out the sound of that praise music,” she told me later. After the collision, the words from that song continued to fill the silence with truth. “He’s a pain taker, … He’s a way maker, … He’s a chain breaker…”  As she let the words of that song bring her back to reality, she knew she was going to be ok.

She got out of her vehicle and exchanged stunned glances with the woman who had t-boned her moments before. The absence of injury invoked a flood of relief. Charla embraced the other woman and tearfully choked out, “God is good.”

It was all she could find to say.

Just three words. God is good. I’m not at all surprised. These words spill out of Charla on a daily basis. As she stepped out of her totaled vehicle, the only words she could find that day were the words of her lifesong.

She spoke those words repeatedly to me during the darkest, most painful season of my life. As I questioned the very goodness of God, He placed her in my life so that I could hear her say over and over again, “God is good.”

When I doubted that God really had a plan for my life, she told me, “God is good.” When I was angry and heartbroken, she told me, “God is good.” When I had no strength to pray on my own, she prayed for me, then told me, “Kelly, God is good.”

Eventually, I began to see that even though my circumstances were not at all good, God was still good. I had run so far away, but those words drew me back into His arms.

Her lifesong became my lifeline.

She wasn’t trying to cheer me up or fix me or take away the pain I was experiencing. She was just walking out what she believed. And I know that she believes it deep within her soul.

Her entire life sings, “God is good.

Her lifesong has strengthened my faith. I don’t know where I’d be if she hadn’t kept singing, though I never felt like she sang it just for my sake. That’s the beauty of a lifesong. It’s not manufactured or borrowed like a Hallmark message.

A lifesong is a belief we know by heart.

I asked Charla how she relies on God’s goodness every single day. Listen to these precious words of truth straight from her heart:

“I always look for His good, because it’s always there. My first reaction to absolutely any negative circumstance—from my own sin, disobedience, insecurity, doubt, envy, hurt, or fear to illness, addiction, depression, or tragedy—is to look for how God is using it for His good. It’s not looking through rose colored glasses; it’s looking through God’s faithful protective lenses. It’s about finding GOoD. Finding GOD—in all things.  God promises us His good, and God is a promise keeper.”

Exodus 15:2 says, “The Lord is my strength and my song, and he has become my salvation; this is my God, and I will praise him, my father’s God, and I will exalt him.” The NIV translates it this way: “The Lord is my strength and my defense.”

Moses and his sister, Miriam, led the Israelites in this song after God parted the Red Sea and delivered them from their enemies. God gives us a song to remind us that Jesus has completely defeated the enemy of our souls. Jesus is our song and our defense. The melody that resides deep within our hearts can protect our minds from Satan’s deceitful attacks.

A lifesong is our defense against the enemy’s schemes.

Charla recently turned her spare bedroom into a war room—a place where she enters into battle through prayer. Reminders of God’s goodness adorn the walls: prayers laid at Jesus’ feet, prayers already answered, scripture she wants to memorize, and words of truth she finds meaningful. She even displayed her busted mirror from the wreck to remind her of God’s protection that day.

war room

When asked about God’s goodness in her life, Charla shared the three questions she asks herself anytime she faces a battle.

  1. What is God teaching me?
  2. Where is the GOoD in this?
  3. How will God use this to help someone else?

Recognizing God’s goodness involves a strategic battle plan.

Charla’s lifesong inspires me to look for God’s goodness every single day. I’ve learned that it’s so much deeper than surface-level-looking; it’s looking with the expectation that we will find Him. It’s a confident pursuit.

I hope Charla’s story encourages you to pause and think about what spills out of you on a regular Tuesday. What song does your life sing? Have you taken note of who’s listening? God wants to use your song, so keep singing.

Your lifesong just might become someone else’s lifeline.

Kelly

Charla

For more words of hope, check out Charla’s blog, He Speaks We Listen.  If her story inspired you today, leave a comment and let her know.

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The Space Between Beginning and Completion

He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. Philippians 1:6

All good things must begin. Even so, beginnings are hard. The gap between beginning and completion can be daunting. Today doesn’t feel much like the beginning, but I guess in some ways it still is.

In the very beginning, God whispered two words to me. Just two. It’s taken my heart a long while to absorb them. As I held my week old baby girl, the words paper butterfly meant absolutely nothing to me. Not yet anyway. My heart stirred with just as much excitement as wonder, and I tucked those two words away and waited for God to explain Himself.

A few months later, I stood spellbound in the middle of the Cockrell Butterfly Center. I witnessed something sacred as I stood on the other side of thick, clear glass. Vulnerable butterflies fought their way out of dead, crusty casings which had kept them hidden. The struggle seemed familiar somehow.

Wings marked the transformation. Wet and flimsy, they were not at all what I was expecting. I assumed that once the butterflies emerged, they’d be strong enough to fly. I wasn’t expecting frailty or weakness; I was rooting for immediate transformation. After all, The Hungry Caterpillar makes it all look so simple and carefree.  Transformation is a process, a changing of character or nature.

www.carriedbylove.com

Transformation is always miraculous, yet never immediate.

The glass window was a mirror that day. God peeled back the veil and invited me to see how His love not only saved me, but is changing me. He demonstrated His love through Jesus, who struggled on my behalf and made it possible for me to escape death. He broke out of the tomb so I could break free from sin’s grip.

Without Jesus, I would still be dead; I would still be in hiding. Jesus gave His life so that I could spend the rest of mine being transformed by His perfect love. I realized that day at the museum a vast expanse of God’s love was left undiscovered in my own heart.

When we made our way in to the butterfly habitat, I was mesmerized by millions of beautiful creatures taking flight. No two seemed alike. Each had its very own flight pattern. It was peaceful and overwhelming all at once.

Only one snatched my breath away. While others flapped and flitted, this butterfly glided effortlessly. Others flashed striking colors, but this one had translucent black and white wings that allowed the sunlight to pour through. I was drawn to the way something greater seemed to carry it along. With outstretched wings, this butterfly rode the wind. No effort, no rush, no trying to be something other than ordinary.

The image of the black and white butterfly lingered long after we loaded the kids back up and drove home. I eventually learned its name. It was no surprise that the creature that mimics paper floating through the air is called a rice paper butterfly or paper kite. God began a conversation that day that led me to this simple discovery: We were made to soar, not strive.

www.carriedbylove.com

God never begins something He won’t finish.

This really isn’t even the beginning.  God has always known me, and He’s always known you. The space between beginning and completion can be a struggle. It can be messy, and it can be hard, but Jesus entered that space and dealt with the part we never could.

This in-between space is about discovering the One who thought of you in the very, very beginning. It’s about laying down everything you carry so that love—Love who sacrificed everything—can carry you, in His arms, back to the Father.

Philippians 1:6 says this: He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.  

This good work is the good news, and it existed before time began. It wasn’t just a solution to the world’s sin problem. The good news of Jesus Christ is an ever present expression of the Father’s heart toward you and me.

Jesus carried your burden to the cross; He carried all the shame and all the guilt; He felt the full weight of being separated from God. His last words were, “It is finished.”

Jesus longs to speak these words of completion over our striving, over our trying to be a little bit better than yesterday, over our working our way back to God. He is the only Way back, and He is the only Way out. He is the only Way to new life.

God is telling His story through our simple and fragile lives. Because this story is good and because this story is true, God can be trusted to carry us all the way through completion. I invite you on a journey you won’t ever outgrow. Let’s discover Him together. Let’s rest in the beauty of this truth . . .

We were made to be carried by love.

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