Tuesday, December 29, 2015

My Texas--When You Wonder How to Survive a Natural Disaster


How do you survive a disaster? I don't know. 

I had a completely different post ready for this week, but a tornado swirled through our Dallas area, leaving devastation in its wake. It traveled our I-30, turning vehicles upside down. Bodies strewn. My tires touch that I-30 weekly.

The warm weather we were experiencing has turned to rain and chilled air. 

And my heart is shivering from unbelief and fear and concern. 

I'm thankful to be safe. 

I was near the area when the sirens began blaring ... driving home with my girls from a Christmas family gathering. My hands shook, my body trembled. Lightning lit the sky, one after another. No rain. When the sky brightened, the girls looked for tornadoes, as I drove.

But tornado warnings are a common, so common, occurrence here in Texas. You mentally blow it off for the most parttime after time, hiding out in the bathroom, and nothing happensuntil something like this happens. 

I have a dear friend who survived the major tornado in Wichita Falls, Texas, over 25 years ago ... as a child ... and you can believe she takes warnings seriously. When your entire house is missing except for the four walls of the tiny closet you and your three family members are standing in ... you take it seriously. 

I just learned that our pediatrician's office in Rowlett, Texas, was destroyed. 




Our dentist is there. Our daughter volunteers at the hospital there each summer. I have two cousins that work there at the cancer center. It's real.

We have dear friends we haven't heard from. I've heard their neighborhood was damaged. I pray they didn't lose their home. I pray they weren't hurt. But they weren't at church today. Maybe they are out of town. I'm trying to find out.
**update ... they are fine. Their home was damaged but not destroyed. However, the homes one street over were demolished.

Since my early 20s, I've witnessed an airplane crashB-52 on the air base, preparing for an air show. I was inches from being at a base hospital that was terrorized by a gunman, this is the hospital where we had doctor appointments, picked up our prescriptions, etc. The gunman killed and injured so many. Bloodied the walls. So a tornado ... why should it surprise me? But like all else, it's always something that happens in other states, other cities. But wow ... this hits close to home. I was little more than a mile away from the destruction, as a crow flies, that evening. Traveling the same direction for a time, a lake separating us.

Destruction abounds.

What do you do in the aftermath? This is the best my heart's got.

CRY

The only thing that comes to mind is an event that took place Christmas Eve. My daughter came to me in tears, holding a cherished childhood book called You and Me, Little Bear.

She was clearly hurting.

I said, "What's wrong?"




CAST YOUR CARES 

She melted into my arms and sobbed, "This is my last Christmas as a teenager."

Tears pooled in my eyes. She's afraid. Change is coming, change has come, good or bad, and there is nothing any of us can do about it. We can't reverse the clock. We can't grasp hold of the past. We are helpless. 

She handed me a letter. I opened it and read these beautiful words:

"This has been a great year. I'm almost 18, getting ready for college, but these times, I'm always going to remember. I love you and thank you for picking me, for raising me a Godly girl. My last Christmas as a teenager. But no matter how old I get, I will always come home. I need my momma. I love you."

CURL INTO THE ARMS THAT LOVE YOU


I asked her if I could read her bitty baby book to her, the one she held, like when she was little. She nodded. 




We sat on my bed, legs out straight, and I wrapped her in my arms. I read what I wrote to her so many years ago:




She smiled and said, "You were a writer even then."

We giggled. More tears. I read. We looked for the hidden crickets amongst the sweet pages like we always did way back when. I closed the page and said, "You will always be my baby. Wherever I am, you will always have a home. And nothing will change until you are ready for it to."

So ... with all that said ... I ask you to pray for Texas. Change and heartache come ... that's a real and unavoidable part of life. But there is relief in sharing the pain. Let yourself cry. Cast your cares on the God who loves you and on family and friends who love you. Focus on what is salvageable. Curl up in the heavenly and earthly arms that ease around your shoulders. Go through the motions, but still your heart until you are ready to take on the change.

I honestly don't know. But this I know

"Love covers over all wrongs." Proverbs 10:12





Monday, December 21, 2015

A Very, Very Merry Christmas Vlog From Me to You!


Thank you for always stopping by. 
I am so blessed by you, to know you, to hear from you. 
Thank you for all of your selves that you weekly give to me.
Every moment that I've thought to myself, Shelli, what are you doing? 
You answer my question by helping push me to keep going, dig deeper, and be better.
You are dear to my heart ... don't ever doubt it.
I'm excited and hopeful to share 2016 with you.
And if you have about 4 minutes to spare, I'd like to talk to you from Texas ... about what to scrape your life on ... how not to scrape make-up on your shirt ... how to properly remove a shirt ... well, y'all know me. 
Silly things always happen to me.
But I love laughter, joy, reasons to smile.
Listen for my sheep in the background.
And I'm sorry I'm not better at this video-recording vlog thing.
And Jesus ... the reason for every breath we take ... glory to God on the highest.
Love,
Shelli



From my home to yours ...



 Come inside ...
This writing inspiration might look familiar to some of you.

Our tree ... see the cats underneath?



Me and my girls


Monday, December 14, 2015

Finding Treasures at Cracker Barrel


The Cracker Barrel chairs out front rock and sway. We slip inside, and I head straight to the bathroom. That's a joke in my house because I can't go from Point A to Point B without needing to find a restroom. 

"You can go get a table. I'll find y'all," I say.  

I pass this sweet elderly man waiting by the restroom door. He's propped his elbows up on the counter. He looks so out of place, yet so comfortable. Peaceful. Purposeful. Maybe he's waiting for his wife. I smile. He smiles. I feel drawn to him.

We eat dinner. I'm so routine. Chicken and dumplings for me ... light on the chicken. The dumplings are my favorite part. Why waste valuable, limited space on your least favorite part? 

We make our way to the exit with these treasures tucked away in a brown paper sack. All three of us girls have one item each. 

Can you guess which treasure is mine?




Plus two Andes thin chocolate mints each ... the kind in the green package. My sweet proof is missing.

We push through the door, and there is that sweet man sitting in a rocking chair out front. I smile.

"Bye," I say.

"Don't forget to write," he replies, with a smile.

I laugh myself hysterically all the way to the car. His personality reminds me of my grandfather. It took maximum restraint not to run up and hug him. Walking the length of that front porch, I have to repeat his comment to the girls and explain a little, and then they laugh themselves hysterically, too.

"Don't forget to write." The treasured meaning knocks me right upside the head, wraps around my shoulders like a scarf, and pulls me in for a tender kiss.

Yes, Lord, I'm listening. I won't forget to write. I'll write. I will. 

When discouraged, O Soul Within, the Lord knows and sees. And He speaks through the least likely people, who end up being the most likely people. It really all makes sense.

What if that sweet man were waiting for me? All along. What if he was an angel? What if?

And I'm reminded of a journal that was given to me recently, at a lady's retreat I spoke at. I didn't have time to make one like everyone else because I spent time in prayer and preparing. But I shared about how special journaling had been in my life. And before I left, the ladies gave me my very own. It's so cute, y'all. It even has a tiny journal pocketed on the inside.






And I know the Lord is speaking straight to my soul. Oh, the sweetness that waits for me. 

Me.

Don't forget me, He breathes into my heart. Time is valuable and limited. I'm the only one who makes sense.

Write your novel story for me, to me, share with me. 


Today.


Share your life with me. Share your days and nights with me. Push through the doors to see me. Listen for me. Let me be your routine. 


Select me. Seek me with all your heart. Let me be your favorite partyour treasure.


I am so un-fit for The King, but He pursues me anyway, like I'm the greatest gift in the world. It's humbling ...


Our treasures from Cracker Barrel. Did you guess correctly?!


Merry Christmas!

Have you ever wondered if you'd just entertained an angel? Or perhaps wondered if an angel had just entertained you? Has God ever used someone interesting, least expected, to speak to your heart? I'd love to hear your story. 

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

More of the Story--Cleaning out the Closet


Just so you know, this may very well be one of my life's most embarrassing moments ... but some things, you just have to own ... ACB it ... admit, confess, and believe God will use it. 

"My first job, at only 15, entailed working at a five-and-dime. My tiny paycheck came by way of cash and loose change in a brown paper sack.

Christmas Eve had passed, and my boss divided the leftover Christmas candy that had never sold between us 5 employees. I was thrilled—kids and candy.

After work, I walked into my home with my bag of candy..."


Please join me for more of the story at WMU ... 




Tuesday, December 1, 2015

When Christmas Ornaments Become Holiday Baubles


The doors swing open wide, and I head into the post office, with the cool breeze trailing, to mail off my latest article. With no waiting line, it's going to be a good day. Yes! I just feel it.

"Do you need stamps today?" the lady asks.


Do I need...? "Yes, I do."


"What kind?" She displays several ... gingerbread houses, ornaments.


"I'll take the Christmas ornaments," I cheerily say, with a smile. They're cute
red, green, and blue dangly things. And with all the Hallmark Christmas love movies my daughter's been recording and forcing upon me, Christmas is definitely in the air surrounding my merry heart.




The lady corrects me. "They're Holiday Baubles," she sternly says, without a smile.

I'm not quick on my toes. And suddenly I'm reduced to wondering if I've been calling them the wrong name all along. Like I've done something wrong. I walk out, my soul deflated. Confused.

The more I think about it, sitting in the car and gripping the steering wheel till my knuckles whiten, the more saddened and confused I feel. The bitter mixture stirs and stirs in my heart and gut, pleading for Rolaids. Some type of relief. Some type of salvation.


I look closer ...





When I arrive home, I look up the word "bauble" in the dictionary. I'm 40+ years old, and I'm not sure I've ever heard that word before. Okay, so maybe I'm not as worldly as others. But I think I know what a Christmas ornament looks like.

"Bauble" is actually a Middle English word, from Old French. Even The Free Dictionary on-line gets it right by stating this:



1. showy toy or trinket of little value; trifle
2. small, usually spherical ornament made of coloured or decorated material which is hung from the branches of a Christmas tree. Usual US name: Christmas ornament
3. (Historical Terms) (formerly) a mock staff of office carried by a court jester

Most might say not to make a big deal about it. It's just stamps. Lady, it's just stamps. Come on. Get Real.

And nothing is wrong with the word "holiday" or "bauble" ... 

But I've been corrected. That's the heart of the issue. 

You won't say Christmas, you'll say holiday.

And it hurt my heart. Her words, attitude, hurt my heart. Yeah, O Soul Within, it hurts, and the pain is real. It's one thing to be imposed upon ... sanctions imposed on our hearts ... we tend to expect impositions these days ...

Don't you love Jesus. Don't you pray. Don't you trust Him. Don't you tell anyone if you do. And don't you share Him. Don't ask, don't tell policy. And if you're asked, you better deny ... if you want to live.

But in the Bible Belt? It hurts to see the belt loosening. And it appears to have definitely been loosened a notch or two. And still the weight above that belt is lopping over onto people, individuals, hearts ...

The very omission reduces Christmas to a mere trinket of little value; trifle. It mocks everything God did for usthe miraculous Luke 2 wonder of the world, Jesus, the Son, virgin birth, becoming the God-man. It says that Christsurrendering everything to come to this earth, sacrificing more than we'll ever know, to exchange Heaven for us, to be born in a lowly manger, to live for us, to fight for us, to die for us ... for our sinmeans nothing. The miracle is trifle. 


It smugly yet naively says, "What miracle?"


The very act says that "Christmas" is not worth mentioning


A first class love means nothing.




The miracle of Christmas reduces from a God-man Day to a mere man-made day. 


With the chaos and violencehardships, needthat woefully weave the frayed fragments of our world, when empty eyes and empty hearts and empty stomachs are desperate for salvation, reaching out with empty hands ... there has never been more a time to keep Christ in Christmas. To keep Christmas in Christmas. To look for the miracles. 


O Soul Within, some things are black and white. What will you allow to forever stick on your heart's wall? Be careful what you let stick on your heart's wall.





O Soul Within, you may feel powerless. But remember God's power and what you can do 

~Remember to pray.

~Remember what you really needJesus' first class love. Forever.

~Remember Christ in Christmas, keep Him there, let truth nestle into your heart forever and ever. 


~Remember to impart Him to your children.

~Remember that you have it right. Don't get used to the wrong. Getting used to the wrong doesn't make it right.  


~And as long as you have a voice, O Soul Within, remember to say, with every Christ-given privilege and right ...

Merry Christmas.




This video has ministered to my heart all week long ... I hope it ministers to you, as well ...




*How do you safeguard your heart from subtle changes and stealth arrows continually thrown? Can you add to the list? What do you say? What do you remind your self?


Tuesday, November 24, 2015

The Gentle Nudging for a Thanksgiving Blessing and a Dance



I hadn't been in over a year. Goodness, that's hard to believe. 

My dad goes up there sometimes, and he always assures me that I'm welcome. But I've been so busy--same ol' song and dance, you know. And well, it's just not the same since my grandmother passed away. 

When my grandmother was living, I'd go visit her as often as possible. And well, with my uncle living down the road, he was a package deal. My dad might come up sometimes, and I'd see him, too. 

When my grandmother was ill, we three spent much time together, on her behalf. And well, I just got to missing those two something awful. I'd heard my uncle had been sick with pneumonia recently. 


My uncle on the left, who spent all morning cooking for us,
and my dad on the right who'd spend all morning doing 
Elvis impersonations if a knee weren't bothering him. 
He's good, too. 
I've learned to listen to that gentle nudging. I always know the Lord is speaking to my heart.

My dad tells me a date that's good for him. We'll all go out to eat, we plan. Make a day of it. My heart's already leaping.

The day arrives, and we leave fairly early ... the girls and I venture out to go the distance--2-1/2 hours there. 

I call my dad when I'm an hour away, and he sounds like a little kid. He's so excited to see us. "I can't wait for y'all to get here," he says.

I miss her road. Her Texas county road. I chastise myself for letting a year go by. How could I miss her road? I pull off and turn around, heading the right direction now.


My grandmother's house is near this little city of Antioch, Texas. Antioch ... the first recorded place in the Bible that I've been taught where the word "Christian" was used ... it meant "Little Christs" ... it was often used in a derogatory way. Am I living my life in a way that others would call me "Christian"?





And there's her driveway. The long windy, sandy driveway trimmed with pines. Yeah. I played on that road a ton when I was a kid. My toes burrowed through that sand.

My heart pumps with ingrained excitement, as I turn onto her drive. In my younger days, that's when I'd bring out the hairbrush and dab on a little make-up--prepare to see my family. Like I'd looked that way all along. Just my casual self. 

Before I even get to the house, my dad is outside waiting, pacing. Just like my grandmother used to do. He's holding a camera. The minute we step out, he says, "I want to get a picture of y'all." I've never danced with my dad, but this moment was right up there. O Soul Within, he loves you.

We hug. He says my uncle is making dinner for us. 

"But he's been so sick," I say.

"He really wanted to cook for you," my dad says. O Soul Within, he loves you, too.

Noon finally arrives, and we head over to his Texas country house. I climb the steps and knock.

"Come in."






He's cooking. Doing the shuffle throughout his kitchen, he's made a Thanksgiving feast--a whole turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, some casserole, rolls, cherry pie. Like my grandmother used to do. Evidence covers the front of his shirt--flour, splotches of grease. He looks exhausted. He's sweaty. Clearly, his strength hasn't returned and may never. Other health issues. 

I start sweating too because his blood is thinner now, and he keeps his house warm. And I'm having power-surges (ABS!). And I'm imagining cracking open a window for fresh air. 

My mouth gapes open, with a smile. He's twirled my heart right in. I know my eyes are glowing with a slight hint of confusion. "What have you done?" I ask. "You've been sick."

"I wanted to do this for my baby."









My uncle put me first, grateful that I'd come the distance. For him. For my dad. Regardless of how he felt.

***

O Soul Within, it's not easy to honor the One who went the distance for us when you are sick, hurting, struggling ... 

To put Him first ... to treat Him like the love of your life ...

It's tempting to settle for Kentucky Fried Chicken, the quick and easy.

But you'll always be blessed for the effort. Allow the evidence to cover you and others. Don't let too much time go by. Don't miss the road. Take His hand and do the dance ... waltz the floor ...

one, two, three, one two, three ...

Because He loves you.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.





When you're tired and struggling, is it tempting to push the very One Who can strengthen you to the back burner? How do you ensure God comes first?

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Uh-oh! My Red Lipstick Got on Your Red Cup


It's raining, flooding actually. I've been known to hydroplane even in my tennis shoes with all the rain we've received. And I thought one could only hydroplane in a car. What did I know?

And I just dropped my oldest off at her volunteer job. I've got one other young lady who just hopped up front with me. And it's turned cold. We push those seat-warmer buttons.

"Do you want to get a latte?" I ask, smiling.

Her smile greets mine. "Yeah."

"Do you want to try the peppermint mocha?" 

"Yeah." She'll try anything. Any flavor, any color. She's brave. I'm not. I stick to the same ol', same ol'.

"One white chocolate mocha and one peppermint mocha, please."

Just what we needed to warm our insides.

"Can I try your peppermint?" I ask.

"Sure." She's so giving. I'm surprised she didn't ask me first.

"Oh, that's a bit too minty for me." I can't believe I hear myself say that. I love mint. My young lady wipes my red lipstick off her cup. Now, I know quite possibly why she didn't ask.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to get my lipstick on your cup."



O Soul Within, I know you didn't mean to infringe. Sometimes people don't want your blood spilled on them. 

Back up. Hands off. Let them clean it off. Don't touch their cup again. Unless you are invited.

It's probably tempting to think it's because they're so white and clean. And clearly, you're not. Never have been, never will be. Or maybe, quite possibly, there has been miscommunication, and they think you're so white and clean, or claim to be.



Oh, don't take offense, O Soul Within. 

Sometimes people don't want to jump on your bandwagon. Because they have their own bandwagon. Maybe they're comfortable with theirs. And maybe they're not quite ready to shift. And sometimes folks ride stealth bandwagons--invisible to you and sometimes themselves.

And sometimes blood carries germs and diseases, and people have enough of their own germs and diseases ... and they don't need yours. Stop trying to share.

And well, sometimes people just need to warm up to you.

And don't lose hope. Because O Soul Within, there are people who have your blood type. With your very same germs. They are just like you, and they don't mind your blood spilled on them. Not one bit. Or maybe they like studying your type--the work in progress that you are. And they'll open their very hearts to fit yours in. Come alongside you. They'll join your bandwagon or motion for you to jump on theirs. What a hayride!





And don't lose focus. O Soul Within, let it be a lesson to you. Don't worry about spilled blood. Don't worry about germs. Ditch the Germ-X. Let them pour down over you. 

Be brave. 

Don't stick to the same ol', same ol'. Ride out of your comfort zone. Hydroplane into others' lives. Because you were made for community, for fellowship, to share one another's burdens. Why, if you worried about that, you'd have missed out on the Lamb of God, the ultimate offering ... 

the One who took the cup upon Himself, who spilled His blood, letting it trickle down on you ...

so that you could be new ...

so that you could be clean.


***

Have you ever expected others to understand your situation and felt disappointed when they didn't? Or have you ever been afraid of someone different from you? Maybe someone suffering differently than you? Maybe you didn't know how to help or quite what to say, so you turned the other way? How can we love others when we struggle with fear? Any advice?

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

When You Don't Know How to Walk in Someone Else's Shoes


It's a beautiful day, and we are in comfort mode. I'm all slumped down in the comfy chair, relaxed and calm, delving into a really good book. When out of the blue, my toes take on a mind of their own and begin to curl inward, sending me running around the house like a crazy woman. Have you ever seen someone talk to their toes? Begging and pleading?

Dr. Pepper goes down, popcorn suspends in mid-air, TV pauses, and everyone looks at me like I'm a crazy woman. Eyebrows raise. "What are you doing, Mom?"

I want to say, "Don't you know by now?"

I laugh and want to cry all at the same time. 

It's hard for anyone else to understand. Unless you've experienced it.

"My toes are cramping again." I can't stop walking, running, dancing around until they relax. It's the silly sandals I've been wearing. That's my assumption. They're just as darling as can be, but they are too wide for my feet. And I have to scrunch my toes with each step to keep them on, or else I'll walk right out of them in public. And I've been known to do that. I smile, when others see my mishap, misstep. 

I shouldn't wear them, and I have been wearing tennis shoes more often, but the sandals ... well, they are really cute. 























Everyone thinks so.




We get in the car, my girl and me, heading to the store. We're on this old windy county road with bumps and bruises. A trailer hauling horses or cows leads the way, oh some quarter mile ahead. My daughter says, "What on earth are they doing? They are driving drunk." Swerving in and out. Looked a bit dangerous for that trailer.

I say, "Well,"and I milk this out a bit, southern style"they might just be avoiding ..."we swerve to the left"that big hole"we swerve to the right"and this big hole." Yeah. Our road is full of holes. If you don't avoid them as best you can, your tire alignment will never be the same and neither will your insides. 

We laugh. My girl says, "I spoke too soon. I shouldn't have judged them. I had no idea."

I say, "Yeah, it's hard to understand until you walk in someone else's shoes."

We sit there silent for a few moments, soaking in that truth.

And I remember just a few weeks ago when I stood before this beautiful group of women. I was there to share my heart. And I know some of their stories, and some of their stories, I don't know. But there are stories. That I know. We all have them. 

Because we live in a world full of bumps, bruises, holes .... One minute we're slumped cozy on the couch, and the next, we are in crisis mode. Swerving to the left. Swerving to the right. 

Deer on the left. Deer on the right.

And I ask the Lord, "How? How do I stand before these beautiful women and even attempt to open my mouth? You know me."

You see, I've not walked in their shoes. Who am I? What can I do? What can I say? I don't even want to walk in my own shoes. Because sometimes these shoes are painful. They hurt, they cramp, and sometimes I want to walk right out of them.

How on earth can I walk in someone else's shoes until I fling my own painful shoes off my feet?

I hear my Lord softly say ...

O Soul Within, you just share your heart. It's a beautiful thing called a testimony. It's yours, unique, and distinct, like you. You allow those knees to softly cap the ground, glide your hands forward, letting that dirty-blond-hair-turning-gray, that I made, touch the ground, right alongside your face. 

When your heart is cramping right alongside everyone else's ... when you can't stand on your own two feet ... you slide prostrate until your heart hits the ground, level with your face, and you lift your eyes, with those tears that continually pool, to see my feet ... the feet of Jesus.

The feet that were punctured, scarred, cramped, and bruised.

And then something beautiful happens, O Soul Within, you pour out your heart, only to find that others are filling yours. 

At the foot of the cross.


















Have you ever had a hard time walking in someone else's shoes? Did God show you how to walk forward?

And I want to thank the sweet Cornerstone ladies for loving on me, setting up all my equipment and all theirs, lugging in my boxes and bags before I could even blink, and for sharing their champion stories with me on this bumpy road called life. I'll love you forever.





Tuesday, November 3, 2015

The Heart of the Sanctuary


Maybe you have chairs. We have pews. In the sanctuary.

Maybe your rows are wide allowing easy access, to enter or leave.

Our rows are narrow. Once you get inside, you might as well get comfortable.

O Soul Within, where do you sit? I see you, you know. You sit in the far back like a good back-row Baptist. And you grasp the pew's edge like your life depends on it. Beads of perspiration overtake you when you have to release your good grip. I see you. And your heart feels a little put-out when you have to bend your legs for others to move past you, to the inside. I know, you had gotten comfortable, seat warmed, you didn't want your pants to twist. I know it. I see you. 



O Soul Within, are you in the way?

And as I became self-aware, from my outside seat on the back row, in the balcony, I saw all the edges filled and the middle left sparsely occupied.

The heart of the sanctuary seemed empty.

My thoughts hovered over it for a time.

It's easier to sit on the outside, isn't it, O Soul Within? It calls us to bend a bit, for others to pass through, and sometimes our toes get stepped on. But we can come and go as we please. With ease. We can slip out to the bathroom. We can bolt. We don't get trapped.

If some can't sit on the outside, they'll get up and go. And that could possibly require you to bend again. O Soul Within, you feel conviction, don't you?

Moving into the heart of the sanctuary is a bit inconvenient. We have to step over people, be cautious not to step on toes. We accept the risk of getting trapped there.

Why are we afraid to move in? To move close? Are we afraid to come alongside other Believers? Are we afraid for others to know us too well? Really know us. Are we afraid for others to know when we're absent? Or present? Are we afraid of what it might demand of us?




How close are you willing to get, O Soul Within?

Are we outsiders or insiders?

O Soul Within, Sunday morning is often a reflection of youwho you are. Yeah, your very soul. It stings, doesn't it? Just let it sting.

Because if you'd just move insit in the seat prepared for you, live the life God called you toyou wouldn't be called to bend, or move, or feel the press of your toes, and there'd be room for others to conveniently move in, too. 

When you move, your children move.

The heart of the sanctuary would be overflowing. Because where two or more or gathered, the Lord is doubly attractive. And visitors or late-arrivals would always have a place, enough space.

Yeah, it's sweet to see that those on the pew rose to the occasion. And it's doubly sweeter to see the rows become endless, without edges, the growth so exponential that no one can fall off and hit the ground. Can you just see it? 

And the view will always be perfect. Because the view is Jesus.




The inside more crowded than the outsidewhat a concept.

O Soul Within, peel away from the edge. Don't be afraid to move into the heart of the sanctuary, to come alongside fellow Believers, because that's where you'll meet God. On the inside. In the heart. The inner circle. 








Have you ever felt God calling you to more? Relinquishing your very self? Have you had to push past fear, like me?

Monday, October 26, 2015

It's Okay to Cry


“A CT scan is scheduled for Monday.”
When our pediatrician discovered an abnormality in our 13-month-old daughter’s abdomen, I drifted home in a state of shock. After walking through the front door, I locked myself in the bathroom and ran water in the tub as hot as I could stand it. I sought a safe place to cry, where only God could see.




Y'all, I'm a guest blogger with my dear friend, Norma Brumbaugh Wieland. 

If you'd like to read more of my story, please head over to her website
Blessed by you,
Shelli