I was perusing a familiar scripture when a new word jumped off the page. It was there all along, but in the past I brushed past it with no regard.
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It all started with a phone call to a friend. This friend and I have helped each other through a lot of junk, each taking turns being the needy one, and it was my turn. She can usually hear it in my voice before I have to explain myself. I imagine her on the other end pouring a cup of coffee and kicking up her feet, because she knows it will be a long haul.
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It’s been three years since your passing. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you. On occasion, I pick up the phone to call you and hear your voice while I am bustling around the house. We spent endless hours chatting while I was cleaning the house. You loved a clean house and instilled that in all of us.
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Do you find yourself exhausted, frustrated, with not enough hours in the day? Read on, my friend, because I am letting you off the hook, giving you a hall pass, writing you the excuse of a lifetime!
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I’ve attended more funerals than I care to remember, each one painful but different. I once attended the service of a homeless man named Roger who was dear to our church. As with most services, the pastor gave those in attendance a chance to say a few words about him. I remember sitting there thinking how awkward this was going to be. I have been to funerals where no one wanted to speak—how could anyone have anything to say about a homeless man?
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I took the plunge and attended my first retreat, voluntarily. Not just any retreat, but a woman’s retreat… is your skin crawling yet? If you have spent more than five minutes with me you would know that I am not a retreat kind of girl, especially not a woman’s retreat.
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Does your mission field look different than you imagined? Maybe you thought you would be sharing the gospel on the other side of the world, or on the front lines advocating for abused children. Instead, you find yourself so caught up with your daily tasks that you barely have time to utter a prayer.
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We all have a lot of baggage, junk, or stuff we don’t like about ourselves. But each woman has an important story to share, even if she doesn’t realize it right away.
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I had visions of grandeur heading into my first summer home with the kids. In the past, I had spent the summer counting down the days until I could stop paying for summer camp, but not this year. NO, this year was going to be different.
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No two are alike. Some have white picket fences with families intact and a comfortable life in the suburbs. Others tend to venture down dark alleys with pitfalls and road blocks. But we all have one thing in common: we all have a story. Or, if you’re like me, a trilogy.
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