Hope in the midst of pain...

Hearts all over the country are hurting. Specifically hearts out east, as the rest of the country sympathizes.
It's unthinkable. There is no easy answer.

The same day those babies and teachers were killed, my boys were first on the scene of a fatal accident in which another baby girl met Jesus along with her mom. Leaving behind an injured twin sister, an older sister and a broken-hearted daddy.

My guys saw things that forever changed them and broke their hearts.
They were there to bring the Spirit of God into a place of chaos and pain.
Our hearts are so very heavy.

Our human minds try to reason it all out. We try to blame and come up with plans to prevent future pain. We all try to stand together against the evil that causes such sorrow.

No words, no laws, no president, no unified country can change this world we live in. It's been fallen and broken for much longer than we can imagine. Humans broke God's heart almost at the start, and it continues.

We, at least, can opt out of viewing other folks' pain. His heart surely continues to break as He holds each parent's hand all the way through--if they let Him.

What kind of God would allow this? Surely, that's what folks will ask.
This is not His doing. There is evil at play. This world is full of darkness and suffering.
There is only One Light.

As a little girl, I sang a song that said, "He never said there'd only be sunshine. He never said there'd be no rain. He only promised a heart full of singing, at the very thing that once brought pain."

As long as we live here, there's going to be pain. To expect less sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Do we expect that if there really is a God we'd live in utopia? Who deserves the kind of pain we see around us or maybe feel? In our human minds, no one does.

But if we didn't hurt or cry out in pain, we'd never know the need for the Giver of Peace! If we didn't know the absence of joy, we never give credit to the Joy-Giver!

Into the darkness, a Savior was born. It was in the dark of night, when He was most needed.
Hope is here. In the darkest night, Hope was born.

You can argue theology with me all day and I might lose, but what you can never take from me is that in my darkest midnight, I was never alone. No one can ever take from me the memory I have of peace that washed over me like a warm, sweet blanket in a moment of sheer panic.  No one can ever convince me that the times when the presence of God was more real to me than any human has ever been did not happen.
And there is NOTHING in this world that means more to me than that. I cannot imagine a day without the peace I have. I could not exist without the hope I found. In the midst of pain, I can see beyond this moment to a plan bigger than mine.



I will sing of it forever.



Dear Jesus,

It's a good thing you were born at night. This world sure seems dark. I have a good eye for silver linings. But they seem dimmer lately.

These killings, Lord. These children, Lord. Innocence violated. Raw evil demonstrated.

The whole world seems on edge. Trigger-happy. Ticked off. We hear threats of chemical weapons and nuclear bombs. Are we one button-push away from annihilation?

Your world seems a bit darker this Christmas. But you were born in the dark, right? You came at night. The shepherds were nightshift workers. The Wise Men followed a star. Your first cries were heard in the shadows. To see your face, Mary and Joseph needed a candle flame. It was dark. Dark with Herod's jealousy. Dark with Roman oppression. Dark with poverty. Dark with violence.

Herod went on a rampage, killing babies. Joseph took you and your mom into Egypt. You were an immigrant before you were a Nazarene.

Follow us

Oh, Lord Jesus, you entered the dark world of your day. Won't you enter ours? We are weary of bloodshed. We, like the wise men, are looking for a star. We, like the shepherds, are kneeling at a manger.

This Christmas, we ask you, heal us, help us, be born anew in us.

Hopefully,

Your Children
(Max Lucado)

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Out of control...?

It's funny how quickly a day can spiral out of control. Or a truck when the tire blows.
I cannot even believe I'm writing this because it was not even a year and a half ago when I wrote this post chronicling another accident my son had.

Today, my son and Babe the big, blue truck had their last ride together. And another huge Ford (and an even huger God) saved his life.

Strange things happen in heads when a, "Wow. This day could have wrecked my life!" moment hits you between the eyes. Everything looks a little different. Every word you said earlier in the day, every weird "coincidence" looks a little less coincidence-y, every hug gets a little tighter.

On his way home from work, his right rear tire blew spinning his truck on the expressway. Facing the wrong direction, he saw a truck and camper and in order to miss hitting it he spun the wheel which sent him careening into the air and then he landed upside down crunching the roof to his head and tipped over one more time.
The truck and camper stopped, and two men on their way to hunting camp ran over to check on him.
This, my husband heard while on the phone with his son.
The second man peered in through the windshield and said, "Kirksey!" Yup. It was a friend. And volunteer fireman at that. They both were. They had called for help, and got Justin out and safely away from the vehicle and waited until his dad showed up.

Mom heard the phone call and fought vomit for 25 or so agonizing minutes waiting to hear her son's voice.

He has two scratches. And he's sore. And he is praising God. Because even though his truck, which was his prized possession is gone, and he's unsure of how God will provide the next one, he is alive. My son laughed and hugged me while I sobbed and said, "Momma, I'm fine. I'm alive! The enemy thought he could win, but God's got me."

And the rest of the night we all just keep looking at him.

I don't ask God, "Why?"
I never have. I guess no matter what has ever happened to me no matter how dark the day or devastating the circumstances, I've always known He is in control. I have wished for things to be different. I have begged that He would choose a different way, but because I know He is God I guess deep down I decide to let Him be.

It was just this morning that Christian and I had this conversation. We said that there were definitely a few things God could allow in our lives that could raise that "why" question. But, so far, we hold His hand and trust His plan. It's bigger than we can see.
I don't mean to sound all Pollyanna, and I guess if my life was perfect one could laugh at my naïveté.
But, like we discussed this morning, how does one KNOW the love of God? Like know it in your core.
If you wanted to know, but didn't know, how do you think He could prove it to you?

Blessings? Money? A perfect life?
Because I found His love when my heart was broken. It was always there, but it wasn't the great moments in my life that drew me. It was the deep, dark pain-filled ones.
That's where He waited for me.
And once I knew Him more, I recognized Him in the great moments. Now, I see His love everywhere.
Even in a car accident.

He loves my son. He is doing huge things in him. Huge!! And my son will continue to be used in HUGE ways that most people don't see to represent love. And when a really bad thing happens, he sees the love in spite of it and running through it.

Crap happens. It does. Folks deserve better than this world full of crap happening. But like so many arteries running from the heart outward runs LOVE so huge it makes the crap irrelevant. Or at least forgettable.

Or, it makes love the part worth focusing on.

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A sad day, indeed

We said "Good-bye" today to our kitty. Seventeen and a half years ago we took in our very first pet--a precious gray and white kitten. In that much time (almost half of my life!), we enjoyed a legend and his many lives--far more than nine!

This was our cat who was declawed as a kitten and then decided he wanted to live outside as well as in. Our cat who terrorized neighborhood dogs ten times his size.
He climbed trees and ladders and played on rooftops. He hunted daily and brought us those yucky, dead animal treasures--all with no claws.

(This picture was taken just a few months ago as, at age 17, he waited for hours to catch some little creature. Eventually, he fell asleep on duty.)

When we moved across town, he moved with us and then came up missing. After about three days we found him on the front porch of our old house, surely wondering where his family had gone. How a cat found his way several miles back "home" is a bit of a mystery. We retrieved him and then it seemed he understood and stayed put to learn his new neighborhood.

He took naps in the middle of the road.
He got into fights with raccoons, opossums, squirrels, dogs, and other cats. From his battle wounds we got to see his insides several times--science class, right? We pulled at least a dozen ticks of our little feline.

He survived the acquisition of three more cats and two dogs to our family, and upon every new pet's arrival, he would just look at us like, "Really? We're doing this again?!"
He chased my kids when they were toddlers, and bit their little bottoms, and then snuggled with them on the couch.
He learned how to open round, metal doorknobs out of sheer determination, and even unlock doors when desperate enough.

He was truly the stuff kitty legends are made of, and we loved him dearly.

Loving a pet brings an awful lot of joy. And it brings tough days like today. Days that make you wonder about the worth of inviting love and the inevitable pain it brings in.
Life is like that, isn't it? The deeper we love, the greater the risk, reward, and then unfortunately, sometimes the pain. Makes you wonder about the guy who stated that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
And then you don't.

At the end of the day, Rajah's Christmas ornament got hung at the top of the tree, and after some reminiscing and some tears, a couple of parents are wondering when we got old enough to handle the tough stuff like this.
And life goes on.
And we keep it all in perspective because, though this wasn't our favorite day, we are healthy and have more pets to love, and a whole family as well.

And, as strange as it sounds, it reminds me of a certain rhythm that life has. And that God is in control and knows and sees and cares--even about the little things that matter more than a little to our hearts.

And what a beautiful thing it is when hurting hearts are drawn together.

Let me tell you about my Daddy...

My dad was the guy everyone loved to be around. The one who laughed almost too much and told funny stories and jokes and acted like a goofball. He was the one who noticed someone all alone and made them smile, or was the first to brighten an elderly person's day.  He had talent pretty much oozing out of him, and could play anything on the guitar--entirely self-taught. He was pretty much legendary for his fingerstyle playing that patterned Chet Atkins. He had an extremely high IQ and could fix anything. Give the man a roll of duct-tape...!
When I was little, he took apart an entire engine in the garage just to learn how to put it back together.  He built a new exhaust on one of our cars from my old swing set!

He grew up on the wrong side of the tracks to parents already in their twilight years. Somehow the stigma of not being worth much began early and stuck. His dad was a well-loved alcoholic. According to my dad, back then, my grandpa was so drunk he passed out in the alley that my dad and his friends walked in to get to school. Shame started early.
At my grandpa's funeral I'm told there was standing room only. He was the guy everyone loved. This was the year before I was born.
The saddest part is that my dad chose the same path.

What very few people know was that my dad was a very well functioning alcoholic for as long as I can remember. When I was about five he shared a beer with me. Later, I would try many different varieties of hard liquor as 'our little secret.' "Don't tell your Ma, Kid," he would say. I didn't know the extent to which he was drinking then, but I knew dad was a lot nicer with a couple beers in him.
I will not elaborate on the way that his marriage kept him in a perpetual state of failure. I will say that my heart broke for him as he did his obvious best to provide for his family, but it was never enough.

There was a lot of anger in our house. It was scary and out of control and seethed and grew until it became almost another member of our family. There was no affection, no real warmth or laughter, but it was all wrapped up in a pretty, "perfect family" package, bow and all, and presented to the world with a big smile. My sister took the brunt of the anger.  Somehow, I was relegated to the observer position. And the worrier position. I just wanted to be so good that I made no waves so everyone could be happy.
I followed my dad around like a starving puppy looking for scraps. I did whatever it took to be noticed by him, and to try to win his approval, from being the other member of our little performing team (he on the guitar and me the little singer), to eating chicken gizzards (YUCK!), to asking how engines worked. Never would I have done these things on my own, but for my dad's smile, I would've walked through fire.
It wouldn't have mattered if I had, and it really didn't. He just didn't really see his little shadow no matter how hard I tried.
I was a pretty needy girl by the time I met Christian. By the grace of God, he needed me just as much, and he helped as much as he could to give me the attention I so desperately craved. But, there's nothing that can fill a little girl's heart like a daddy's love.

As a grown, married woman with children of my own, I started to see some things. That Coke bottle didn't really have coke in it. His drinking got much worse as he became more unhappy. There were times that he behaved so very badly in public, I had to apologize for him, and then had to drive him home. Words cannot describe those moments and the shame and helplessness I felt. My kids were seeing things they never should have seen, and being scared in ways that have no words.

The worst part was that to the rest of the world, there was no problem. My dad was active in church and working hard, and his life looked great. I tried harder than anyone will ever know to help him keep all the pieces of the dam duct-taped shut.  I fed him, and covered for him, and loved him until the inevitable happened and the dam burst.

The scariest night of my life involved too many pills, a gun, a ridiculous amount of vodka and more evil than I can describe. I had to commit my dad to the authorities as he screamed my name and begged me to help him. I couldn't, though I tried. I begged him to do the work and get help. He chose differently. He became someone I didn't know. So consumed with bitterness and so eaten up by alcohol that he was threatening and frightening, and the dad I knew was gone. He lived alone and in filth and loved and hated me. Hated me because I drew a line in the sand and said that the legacy that was mine would not pass to my children. That if he couldn't get help, I could not be a part of watching him die. For about two years, I remained separated from him. It broke my heart. I knew the risk I took. He was hospitalized several times and I was told he would die. Could I stand strong with my choice if he did?

All I knew was that God had told me through a vision and His very words out loud that it was not my burden to carry. God told me there would be a victory in the end. I held onto that like a lifeline.
And I chose to praise through the storm. And praise I did. No matter who came against me for the stand I took, I praised God. No matter how much I wanted to call my dad and try to fix his mess, I didn't. I just praised God for how He would surely deliver me.

On April 7, 2008, I got a phone call from my husband who said he was on his way home from work--that something had happened. I made him tell me what even though he was hoping to be here with me when he had to tell me that my dad had died.
For a few days my world stopped spinning. Grief became a physical pain in my chest and my eyes would not stop crying. This was NOT the victory I had waited for. My dad had died virtually alone in his filth and hating me. Never understanding my need to protect my children, and I guess myself, from the darkness that was my dad. The future with him that I had longed, and waited, and prayed for was no longer even a vague possibility and was gone.
But, in the meantime, something had happened.

As I lost my dad, I found my Daddy.

There is a Daddy Who had loved me from the very beginning of me, and had held my hand when my dad didn't know how, and always had time for me. He had listened every single time I cried, and kept each tear in a bottle. He had taught me how to climb into His lap and be loved. As I praised Him, He responded and showered me with attention and good things too numerous to count. He provided a husband to protect me and to love my children the way only the best daddys can and who loves me beyond my wildest expectations. He became the Keeper of my heart, the Lifter of my head. He vindicated me to those who had judged me without me having to say a word. He washed me in His peace and restored my joy. He filled each hole in my heart; no duct-tape required.

That is the victory that He had promised me from the beginning. It took me a while to see that. What looked like the end was just the beginning. I have a Daddy. He calls me His own.

Now, on an average day, I can smile when I hear something come out of my mouth that my dad always said. I can tell his corny jokes and they are funny all over again. I spot him, the amazingly great parts of him, in the shape of one of my children's fingernails, or the way they make someone's day brighter. I watch his hands reborn in my daughter who somehow inherited the very unique talent on the guitar that was my dad's though he never taught her even one chord.
I know he would be so very proud of me for standing in a way that he didn't have the strength to.
I see things we have learned as a family that we couldn't have learned any other way.
Bitterness kills.
Alcohol will never be worth the risk (our conviction--not preachin').
Secrets destroy relationships. Let them out!
Forgiveness is sometimes a day-to-day process.
Taking a stand makes you strong. It may make you different and not well-liked, but popularity is over-rated.

As you finish reading this post, please know that whatever pain you are going through, there is One Who longs for you to know that you are not forgotten and never alone. I would love to talk with you if you need an ear. I know others live similar pain and need hope.

A verse, and a quote, and a song that move my heart...

Psalm 45:10,11
Forget your people and your fathers house. Listen, O Daughter, and give ear: The King is enthralled with your beauty. Honor Him for He is your Lord.

"Daddy, did you get loved enough?"
"My question is, did you?"
"It's never too late..."

my song

"Be careful of the words you say, Keep them short and sweet. You never know, from day to day, Which ones you'll have to eat."

I have one more good post in me about words. Well, for now. I reserve the right to revisit.

I read a great book yesterday. The timing was not a coincidence considering all of the recent speech control.
The book is called, Listen by Rene Gutteridge. It is a fictional story about the power of words. The plot is about an idyllic, small town where a website was created that posted conversations from within people's homes in which people were speaking about others. 
Just imagine for one minute that your most private conversations about friends and family or church members were recorded, perhaps by cell phones and published for all the world to see.
It might change the way you talk, right?

"We know metals by their tinkling and men by their talking."--Thomas Brooks

Have you ever sent a text to the wrong person? I have. And the text I sent was about the person I sent the text to! It wasn't anything bad, but for those few moments when I realized that my words could have been misconstrued, I was afraid!  The damage could have been irreparable.

Our family is unusually carefully with our words. We have been taught numerous times about the power of the tongue. We know that God created all things with His words and according to Proverbs, the power of life and death is in the tongue.  I really could go on and on about this, but I'm not trying to preach a sermon. 

Consider words spoken about you when you were a child that did damage, either at home or by other kids. How much did that shape you whether you wanted it to or not? That whole "sticks and stones" thing is a bunch of garbage.
When my kids were small, if someone put someone else down, they had to then say at least five compliments to the other person to try to redeem their words. And things like, "I like how you take a deep breath," or "I like how your hair is so long," didn't count.  But one point for creativity and making us laugh when we were really mad.

At our house you will never hear things like, "My headache is killing me!", or "That makes me sick!" We take those words seriously because we only want to speak good things and give power to the awesome things God wants for us. Not the negative.  You might think it's crazy but there was a Flyleaf song that we all really liked and the kids would all sing it. It was called, I'm So Sick and we talked about how maybe we shouldn't be claiming those words by singing that song. Well, it was a catchy tune and sing it, we did. Within days the entire family was quite ill and it wasn't pretty. Coincidence?
Needless, to say, we don't sing that song anymore.

My dad never heard these ideas to my knowledge, but I remember being a little girl and hearing him say that he thought the most stupid swear word to say was, "I'll be darned." Only the word wasn't 'darned' but I'm not gonna type that naughty word. He said that one would have to be pretty stupid to open that invitation.  Interesting.

As many of us are working on controlling our words these days, this is even more relevant. While you are conscious of what you are saying, be even more conscious of the strength of your words.

Consider this...Do words change the world when spoken, or do they change the person speaking them? Or maybe both.

"A sharp tongue is the only edge tool that grows keener with constant use."--Washington Irving

Keep spreading the word. Issue the challenge to quit complaining to those you know. Let's keep this going. If you fail, just switch the bracelet and move on. Don't give up. This is about the awareness not the accomplishment.

The pastor who gave birth to this movement of bracelet-wearing, non-complainers took three and a half months to keep his bracelet on the same arm. Others have needed seven months!
I don't care if I wear this bracelet all year. I want to make the most valiant effort possible to control my mouth. According to James 3, I'll never do it on my own.

"Post this at all the intersections, dear friends: Lead with your ears, follow up with your tongue, and let anger straggle along in the rear." James 1:19 The Message

Who am I?

Nothing like a vague opening title, right?

I woke up this morning with this blog on my mind. I have been reading other blogs lately which I find completely fascinating. In fact, I heard a guy last night who, when asked if he had a job, said, "I blog." Ha! That cracked me up. As if writing about thoughts and opinions qualifies as a career choice.
And yet the irony is that I, too, feel compelled to write. The words burn inside me and have to get out. I always thought I would write someday. Perhaps that novel is still in there somewhere, but for now, this is it.

Writing is a part of who I am.

And who am I exactly? I used to be known as Ralph and Linda's daughter until I became that smart little girl with glasses which led me to whatever I was in high school (please do not fill in the blank) and then Christian's wife, three kids' momma, a piano teacher, homeschool mom...
The list could go on and on.

But who am I deep, deep inside?

It's unfortunate to me that we are so labeled. As children, our parents dubbed us with labels according to characteristics they saw demonstrated. I was called a worry-wart, told I was just like my mom, and that I would never be a good kisser (don't worry, Amy, I forgave you a long time ago :o)
All these things it took me years to change my mind about. I can confidently say now that I haven't been a worry-wart for a very long time, I am nothing like my mother, and obviously Christian liked something about that kiss. But, I had to consciously choose to throw off those labels and determine who I wanted to be!

So these are some of the things I am and some of the things I am not.

Society tells us some of who we are. Our childhood tells us some of who we are. Our accomplishments tell us something about who we are. But underneath all of that who is in there?

One time a friend of mine and I were talking on the phone and she asked how I was. I answered with a litany of words telling all about what the kids were up to and how busy we were. She waited and then said, "I asked how you are!" I didn't even know how to answer that. I was so wrapped up in the identity I had created as a mom that I didn't even take time to think about Alison.
We are so talented at that. It is so much easier to lose ourselves inside busy-ness so that we don't even have to think about the big stuff. If I would have answered her honestly, my answer may have been much different. Can you imagine if I would have said, "Well, I got a horrible night's sleep because my dad drank too much yesterday and embarrassed me in public again and in my frustration I kicked the cat way too hard and then yelled at my family and cried myself to sleep."? That may have been what the true Alison felt on that day, but she was buried under a label and didn't feel safe coming out.

I tell my kids that they are not the sum of their mistakes. It's another lesson I learned the hard way. I may have been a pregnant teen at one point, but that does not define who I am. I am a young mother who allowed the power of God to change the course of my life and empower me to pour all I had into three precious people. There's that "perspective" again.

So how does one figure it out? Who am I? Introspection is a scary, scary thing. If I look too hard, I WILL see things that will require work. I firmly believe that God gives us opportunities to look. The tricky part is that those opportunities usually come through some type of pain or time of pressing.

The process of great pain has the potential to yield a precious harvest.
Ask the grape and the olive how they felt when pressed.

There is an upcoming blog post being birthed in me that will challenge me. I've known it's coming since I started writing. Perhaps that was why I have resisted writing. It will come on the 3rd anniversary of my dad's death in a few weeks. It is a story of my pressing.

In answer to my own question I refer to Scripture and Jesus' words. He asked a troubled disciple one question, "But who do you say that I am?"
I am just a disciple. I ask Him, "But who do You say that I am?" His is the voice I've learned to trust, cling to, and listen to above all the other clamor. His voice tells me that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. He tells me that I am cherished and beautiful and loved. He tells me that I am worth His pain and that I am full of purpose.
And so very much more.

These are the lyrics to a song I learned once upon a time in Sunday School. It is who we are.

I'm a promise, I'm a possibility, I'm a promise with a capital "P"
I'm a promise to be, anything God wants me to be
And I am learning to hear God's voice, and I am trying to make the right choices
I'm a promise to be, anything God wants me to be
I can go anywhere that He wants me to go, I can be anything that He wants me to be
I can climb the high mountain, I can cross the wide sea, I'm a great big promise, you see.
 

It's really all about love, isn't it?

This last week I caught a cold. It has been the best-worst cold of my life.
It really was time because I haven't been sick in a year! Yup! A whole year!! To what do I attribute my good health, you ask? Staying away from doctors, lots of good hubby massages, some natural remedies, and God loves me. Simplistic? Maybe. But our whole family has avoided medical care for years, and I don't believe in knocking on wood. I told you we were weird! ;o)

Anyway, we traveled 12 days or son ago to visit our son, Justin, in Mississippi. He is currently living there and working as a disassembly technician on airplanes. He is there to earn and save money to later fulfill his dreams. He works hard and well and we are so very proud of him, but I must say this move of his has been one of the toughest challenges we have faced.
We are the closest family I know. We do everything together and always have and we really like it that way. We went from years of day-to-day life together to living very closely in an RV to being 919 miles apart. The first time I left him to come back to Michigan he was very sick and I felt like I was abandoning him. It ranks in the top 5 worst days EVER.

So, we drove 15 hours on a Wednesday and spent a delightful weekend with him in Orange Beach, AL and then spent the week in Mable (his RV home) just like old times. Got to hang out with Thcott and Uncle Rico--two of the coolest guinea pigs ever.

Had some epic cupcakes...

AND caught a cold together! Once again, I left him sick and then proceeded to drive and drive and drive home. As great as we are at road-trippin', a chest cold does not make for 15 hours of good times. So that it why it's the worst cold.

Why is it the best cold? I am being loved. Action verb.

I recently sat down with a friend who is married and has little ones. She is very loved by her husband but needs some action verb proof of it. I was remembering back to when my three were little and I was teaching piano a LOT and Christian worked full time plus traveled plus worked an office out of Detroit a few days a week. Life was so crazy-busy then and we hadn't been married that long and we had a lot to learn about each other. Christian didn't know every single thing about my needs then, nor I his. We were doing our best and loved each other deeply, but at the end of the day, I was just wishing for a dishwasher. Not exactly dreaming of how I could serve him better.
The knowledge of love grows.

This cold, my husband was rubbing my back and running the errands and filling the tub. He was praying over me and let me just tell you, I felt loved. He has learned and learned well.

Possibly about four years ago, a stranger came to our house and told us he had a message for our family from God. I must say the whole experience was a bit odd. He was, after all, a complete stranger and he was rather dramatic and the way he prayed made the kids giggle no matter how hard they tried to keep a straight face. In a nutshell, he told us that God was about to reveal to us in a whole new way how much He loves us. That if we could grasp even just the tiniest glimpse of how loved we are it would change the entire fabric of our being. That God's love is so very powerful and strong and limitless and that in the end, His love for us is all that matters.
Since then, God has shown us things that would take me a lifetime of blogging to share. But today, as my husband served me from his heart, I was reminded that every single person just longs to be loved like that. No matter where they come from, what they've done, what they look or smell like...everyone just longs to be loved.

If I could pass along even a bit of what I've learned in the last few years through some extreme circumstances that drew me to suck some serious rug at the feet of Jesus, it would be that there is a love so real and ready and available that would literally alter one's existence. I could be the best person from now til eternity; follow every societal rule and never be worthy. It doesn't matter one bit how much I love God. He doesn't need it from me (however much He would like it). What matters is how very much He loves me. Of that love, I will shout from the rooftops.

It is so very good to be loved.