A Day of Quiet Goodbyes: March 20, 2026

Today, the world feels heavier. On March 20, 2026, the news cycle is dominated by the passing of Chuck Norris—a man who symbolized strength and invincibility for generations. But in my world, the headline is much more personal. Today, I lost my father. 

There is a strange, hollow irony in sharing a final date with a legend. While millions share digital tributes and recount stories of a martial arts icon, I am sitting in the quiet of a life that has been fundamentally altered. My father wasn’t a movie star, and we were really not that close, but there still seems the need to pay tribute. Failure to do so feels like an insult to the human experience as a whole.

What makes this grief particularly difficult to navigate is the silence that follows. There will be no funeral. There will be no family gathering to share stories, no room full of flowers, and no collective mourning to help shoulder the weight of this goodbye. There will not even be a social media post. The decision to forgo these traditions leaves me in a state of emotional limbo. It is for this reason I will add my thoughts this to this semi-hidden personal blog that we seldom contribute to any longer (but maybe we should?) 

I feel a profound sense of sadness that I can’t quite place. Without the ritual of a service, I don’t know what to do with my hands or where to put my thoughts. How do you honor someone's life when there is no designated space to do so? I find myself drifting between numbness and a sharp, stinging loneliness.

If you are reading this, please know that grief doesn’t always look like a crowded room or a black suit. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet room and a heart that doesn’t know how to feel. I am still figuring out how to say goodbye in the silence, but for now, I am just letting myself be sad. Rest in peace, Dad. 

This is for all the things that went unsaid and for all the fucking things that we never should have uttered.

The Juncos Usher in the Gloom of Winter

I stood in my office looking out the large north facing window. Under the row of pine trees, small birds bounced around, shuffling through the leaves, looking for something to eat. These weren’t the ubiquitous sparrows, nor the numerous finches, not even my favorite black capped chickadee. These birds were rounder, with darker heads and white bellies. Juncos. The Dark-eyed Juncos are winter birds in South Dakota.  The seasons had changed.  The darkness of winter was coming quickly. As the days shortened, the juncos ushered in the cold and the shadows.  I stood staring out that window at the group of chubby juncos with silent tears streaming down my face.  

I watched those adorable juncos move about their day as if they had been here for months.  Seeing them, I could no longer deny the passage of time.  From January through summer we watched the days lengthen, until summer breezes turn to chilly autumn winds, and in the blink of an eye the hours of daylight dwindled. The leaves changed, work campaigns ended, and the juncos arrived.  The world seemed to be constantly changing, evolving even, and here I was, just the same as always.  Still fat, still a chatterbox, still worrying about my dad too much, still Auntie Carla to the ever increasing children of siblings and best friends, and still childless. The days and months and years seem to both crawl and fly by in some twisted joke of the universe.  For the first quarter of our lives we’re always desiring to be older, to get to the next step, until somewhere in your late twenties you realize you want to stop time- you want an extension on this assignment called adulthood.

Cultural Influence: From Silly Green lawns to Silly Church Services

Killing in the name of LAWN!

About a month ago, while taking out the garbage, I saw our next-door neighbor standing on his front porch, beer in one hand and a garden hose in the other. Connected to that hose was a large green bottle of lawn fertilizer/weed killer that he was indiscriminately spraying on his perceived lackluster yard. The smell, although familiar, still burned my nostrils and caused my eyes to run like a millstream. As I made my way back into the house, searching for Kleenex and an antihistamine, I began to wonder: where did our obsession with perfectly groomed green lawns come from? Obviously, this was a product of culture, which begs the question: do you think most cultural changes are positive or negative? I don't believe it's always an either-or question; I do think we have to weigh cultural changes on how it positively or negatively affects the population as a whole.

Concerning the American penchant for meticulously manicured lawns, I would say this cultural shift is negative. While every Tom, Dick, and Lary spray noxious chemicals on his property, we lose more and more of our natural fauna and flora. But damn it, our lawns look fabulous!!!

An excellent article entitled The American Obsession with Lawns explains the history of this cultural shift. One of the taglines from this article is the statement: "Lawns are the most grown crop in the U.S.—and they're not one that anyone can eat; their primary purpose is to make us look and feel good about ourselves."

"Making us look and feel good about ourselves." I wonder how much of this has infiltrated Christianity and our Churches? Has our attempts to look and feel good inadvertently removed the metaphorical flora and fauna of our Churches? Recently a Facebook friend posted a video of their church service where the worship band was playing: What's the frequency, Kenneth, by REM to apparently help the congregation tap into the Holy Spirit's "frequency." Decent song, but I don't think the Apostle Paul would have recommended this tactic to Timothy to raise the church's spiritual awareness. 

I could drone on for hours, but I'm more interested in your thoughts on these matters:

1. Do you have a well-manicured green lawn? (No judgment...well, maybe a little:)

2. Do you think culture has positively or negatively affected today's Christian church?

3. Are you a fan of REM's music?

Tap into our frequency and comment below. 

 

Pole Dance

 The college friend, Munch, who lives in Montreal in the movie Away We Go isn’t ever far from my mind. Yea, a fictional character from a movie most of you haven’t seen is always somewhere near the top of the pile of noodled thoughts in my brain.  

Mark and I have loved this movie since we first saw it in the early months of our marriage.  We often go back to it. It’s a sweet pleasure we share, just the two of us. 

And yet, I tell everyone I know to watch this movie, but most don’t.  Starring John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph in early in their careers; a little known film from 2009- most people avoid attempting the search function on prime. 

But we watch it together once every 12 to 18 months or so.  

The plot, and this particular subplot sting more now than it did in 2010.  In 2010 I didn’t understand Munch and her pole dance. She didn’t make much sense to me, but I enjoyed the Canadian stop in the progressive travel plot of the movie. 

In 2010, I thought Munch and her husband had it all. They had adopted a gaggle of diverse kids ranging in age from 5 to 16.  They lived in a beautiful brownstone and were still in contact with their besties from college.  It looked like an amazing life, one in which I had hoped to live in a few short years. 

I didn’t fully understand the desperate dance at the random strip club on amateur night. I didn’t understand the look of known pain she exchanged with her husband as she was up on that pole while her college friend looked on stunned. It made little sense to me then. And yet now, over a decade later, I've exchanged similar looks with my own dear husband.  

Applying Pressure

In April of this year, Mark and I will celebrate our 11th Wedding Anniversary. It will also mark approximately 8 years and six months of trying for, hoping for, praying for, and desiring babies.

My mother was sick with Early Onset Alzheimer's for over 13 years and died 2 years ago this month. In those 15 years, I often shared through social media, blogging, speeches, and with acquaintances and dear friends about the unique pain of grieving a parent who is still alive and subsequently burying a parent you were already mourning and missing. 

But for the last 8 years, I have not shared much about our fertility struggles. There were brief spurts on social media and even on this blog when I was brave, but it was fleeting. I think it's harder to be public about it because it is a wound that never heals, never scabs, never scars-it just keeps bleeding into every area of my life. Lifting the fragile bandages off this wound only exposes it to the callousness and lack of understanding of the world. So I only give the world glimpses and peeks under the bandage, afraid I will bleed to death if I am too exposed.

You see, when I tell people that my mother didn't remember my name, or know who I was, or couldn't talk or walk, they can briefly imagine their parent with such an illness. They can wear that grief for a second or two. But when I tell them I want to be a mother, and we haven't been able to conceive, people simply cannot forget their children exist- this grief doesn't fit, they cannot wear even for a moment. They cannot imagine a world where they long for parenthood because they are actively parenting in their real world. They cannot empathize their real-life babies into mere dreams.

When people cannot grasp the pain you are in, they respond to it in a myriad of hurtful ways. This includes, but is not limited to, telling me I was not meant to be a mother, giving bad advice, asking extremely personal questions about our reproductive organs, making jokes, and giving more bad advice. Many people have told me to relax. One woman told me I just needed to get drunk and have fun with my husband. Honey, we have lots of fun. One time, our pastor's wife asked me, whose "fault" it was that we didn't have kids. I did not tell her.

First of all, it is no one's fault. I have many conversations with God, many pleading, desperate conversations about our unfulfilled desire for children. Still, I am no closer to understanding why we have not had babies. I see slivers of purpose for this pain, but I have no flowery explanation to share with you. What I can tell you is that I trust God and His plan for our family - even if I yell at Him like an inpatient, petulant child. But what I will not tell you is anything clinical related to this journey. I might tell you about the many tests we both have endured, about the invasive ultrasound wands, the humiliation and pain of a hysterosalpingogram. But I won't tell you if we ever received a diagnosis. I will vaguely tell you that the ART routes we attempted were all blocked and that I believe that was part of God's plan.

But I won't give you any details. I won't share reports or doctor's words. If you are a praying person and want to pray for our family, this is not information that you need. It is information that many people want. I believe how we pray matters, I believe that doubt is powerful, and our words matter.

While he was still speaking, there came from the ruler's house some who said, "Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?" But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the ruler of the synagogue, "Do not fear, only believe."  And he allowed no one to follow him except Peter and James and John the brother of James. They came to the house of the ruler of the synagogue, and Jesus saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. And when he had entered, he said to them, "Why are you making a commotion and weeping? The child is not dead but sleeping." And they laughed at him. But he put them all outside and took the child's father and mother and those who were with him and went in where the child was. Taking her by the hand he said to her, "Talitha cumi," which means, "Little girl, I say to you, arise." And immediately the girl got up and began walking (for she was twelve years of age), and they were immediately overcome with amazement. And he strictly charged them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat. Mark 5:35-41

If you're praying for me to be ok with a childless life, please stop praying; those are prayers I do not need. If you look at 8 years and only see a mountain of impossibility, I ask for you to search for a mustard seed. If that mustard seed cannot be found, I ask you to completely put our predicament out of your mind. We do not need the doubt of others in our ears or in your prayers; we battle in our hearts and minds enough without your intrusions. We strive to rid ourselves of fear, and only believe; to take all the doubts and doubters and put them outside.

But silence is not what I seek. I will admit that Mark and I have different needs, and I think silence is indeed what he often seeks. But ignoring the gaping wound provides no balm or comfort. People are uncomfortable with pain and grief and, therefore, purposely ignore and avoid it. I know many women who have lost children, they think about them every day, your mentioning their name is not protecting them, or bringing up what was not already on their minds. Every day I feel the absence of children in my life. I am not depressed or forlorn every single day. I definitely have moments of despair; holidays and the darkness of winter are hard. But I live knowing something is missing. I live expectantly. I have a beautiful, thriving marriage and a husband that can always make me laugh. I have friends who are like family and family who are close and caring. My life is good. And yet, it is missing something. I am filled with joy, but I hold grief in my heart. Life is a collage of contradictions. We exist in the 'and' of beauty and pain. We all do. I've gotten more comfortable with the in-between in recent years.

If you are expectantly praying and hoping for us, if you think about our struggles with sympathy, if you want to support us- let us know! Break the silence. A simple text or card doesn't upset me; it makes me feel seen and loved. Infertility is a lonely community- there are thousands of men and women in private support groups who quietly walk this path every day. You work with them, you go to church with them, but you don't know their daily pain. It is a private ache, and we are afraid that your lack of empathy will cause us to drown in the blood of our emotional wounds. But your encouragement applies pressure to the wound and strengthens our resolve.

Knowing Evil

When it comes to Christianity, social media is a fascinating and perplexing medium these days. Specifically, I see many Christians posting, Tweeting, and advocating for fellow Christians to “stand up against evil!” or “We need to fight against evil!” On the surface, this emotional “call to arms” appears rational, appropriate, and necessary. However, if we look a bit deeper, things are not exactly what they seem. 

Just yesterday, I responded to a few posts and Tweets where the author pleaded for Christians to stand up and fight against “evil.” To which I merely replied: “what do you consider evil?” The responses I received varied from “are you a reprobate? I shouldn’t have to explain this to you!” to “you must be a leftist idiot!” I found all these responses rather peculiar since not one of them expounded on exactly what the “evil” was we’re to be fighting? If I pressed them, I was almost always blocked, unfollowed, or unfriended. So when I dug a bit deeper into these “Christian” accounts, it became clear of what they considered the “pinnacles of evil”: 

1. Election fraud (Trump won!) 

2. Mask mandates (This is nothing more than Social Control and Communism.) 

3 Covid-19 (Hoax. The Democrats used it to destroy the economy.)

4. The vaccine (This is nothing more than mRNA reprogramming.) 

5. Biden Inauguration (Illegitimate! And the AntiChrist is most likely going to make an appearance.) 

 Christians that espouse the list above almost always have a select Bible verse to justify their post/Tweet, so how can you argue with that? Though I do find eisegesis to be disingenuous and disgusting. 

 As Christians, we do both Christianity and the World a disservice when our political ideology blinds us to the real evils and needs that surround us: 

1. Poverty (hunger, homelessness, quality daycare) Racism 
2.  Consistent life ethic ( death penalty, abortion, and helping struggling single parents) 
3. Human trafficking 
4.  Helping prisoners and widows/shut-ins.

This list is not exhaustive, so feel free to add yours to the comments below.

Blessings to you and yours!

How Trump-supporting “Christians” are destroying the local church

(It might not be a bad thing)

We currently live in Sioux Falls, SD, where are there are over 125 local churches. These churches include all mainline denominations as well as non-denominations. All these churches are brick and mortar buildings that require utilities and upkeep. I’m not going to speculate about the amount of money it takes to keep these god-pods up and running, but I will say it is substantial. What a damn waste of time, money, and resources!

We live in a day when it is profitable to be a “prophet” and run a church, but perhaps those days are coming to a close? Prosperity preachers and evangelicals have thrown their hats, as well as their pulpits, in the ring for President Trump, which may be their undoing. We have seen this in the city of Sioux Falls as well. Many of our local evangelical preachers have not only been Trump supporters, but they have also been Covid-deniers and anti-maskers as well. At first, I was perplexed by their behavior; however, it didn’t take long to see that the main driver here had nothing to with God or Jesus; it was purely about the almighty dollar: the alluring, unholy god of avarice.

It is not my intention to throw the proverbial baby out with the bathwater, but I advocate for these Trump-god churches to be taxed or shut down. In my opinion, this would be about 30% of the churches in my hometown (a conservative estimate). 

Good riddance. 

Tales of a Grinch's Holiday Hangover.

 It’s me, I’m the grinch.

“Have you been stressed?” my chiropractor asks me. I’m getting a full exam instead of just a regular adjustment. It’s a super exciting way to ring in 2020. She informs me that I’m tight from the base of skull down to the curve of my ass cheeks.

I pause to consider if I’ve been stressed, somehow forgetting that I just recently escaped the abomination that is the Holiday Season.

“Well, I hate December and everything that comes with it,” I give as an answer.

It seems my back and neck are still clinging to the after effects of the holidays. My muscles are suffering from a Christmas hangover. I was wondering where I was hiding that anxiety, glad to have found it.

Photo by Lynne Hl

The fact that I was born in December doesn’t seem to save the month from my yearly aversion. I have also grown to detest the yearly reminder of my march towards oblivion.

My chiropractor briefly agrees with me regarding the awfulness of the holidays. This comes as a relief. Often when the secret of my grinchiness gets out, people pry. People seem to expect me to present a burden of proof to justify my hatred of the holidays.

The thing is, I don’t hate your holidays. I hate MY holidays.

I’m a fairly open person. Ok, if I’m being an honest, I’m a recovering over-sharer. Boundaries and personal space were hard lessons I eventually learned in my mid to late twenties.

I learned these lessons partly because I married a very private person and I respect my husband enough not share on his behalf. 

Also because in the last 8 years I’ve morphed into a woman whose mom is slowly dying from a wretched disease AND who suffers from infertility and the resulting childlessness. It’s a heavy combo and it doesn’t always make for the greatest small talk. Therefore, I avoid talking about these things with new people. Or I introduce these gems of my life by making jokes about them. I’ve found out, not everyone appreciates dark humor.

If I let my holiday hatred spew out, people are certain to press me for more information. I’m sure it blows many a mind that a vocal Christian and church goer like myself does not want to get all tinseled up to celebrate the birth of Christ.

Listen, I love Jesus, and I’m grateful for Him every day. I just hate His birthday. I mean, I hate mine too.

This year there as been an interesting change. My mom died in February. Therefore when people are trying to figure out my reason for the bahhumbugs they get this really pitiful look on their face and say something like, “Ohhh, the first year without a loved one is really hard.”

To which I tend to blurt out, “But she hasn’t actually been a part of our holiday festivities for like, 8 years. She’s been in a nursing home and hasn’t spoken. So, it’s not the first year without her,” because I like to add an extra dose of awkward to the situation.

This exchange tends to make people pretty uncomfortable and tends to work in my favor. Everyone wants to tell me what grieving my mom is supposed to look like and that’s a great distraction so I don’t have to ruin their Christmas joy and get into the real reasons I hate the holidays.

Truthfully, at first it really was about my mom. Those first few years post-diagnosis I created so many expectations for myself to attempt to fill the gaping hole that my mom’s deteriorating brain had left. 

By the time the 23rd of 24th of December rolled around I was ball of nerves yelling at those I loved or crying about pie crust or monster cookies. 

I had to let go of that stuff and allow new traditions and new expectations (or no expectations) replace the years of healthy mom holidays.

After she moved into a nursing home I started wishing December had a forward button on December I could push and somehow safely land in January avoiding holiday-induced crying jags on the living room floor.

But still the worst of my grinchiness hadn’t set in yet.

The real killer of good tidings of comfort and joy is ....continue reading on Medium.  

  

"You can have some," and other Remembered Words of Alzheimer's

I don’t remember the last time I heard my mother say, “I love you.”

I don’t remember the last time she said it to me or to anyone else.

She died this past February. But the last time I heard the words, “I love you” pass through her lips was many years before. If I had to guess, I would guess it was in 2011.

It’s hard to remember much of what she actually said to me in my life. When I was 24 she was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s disease. Even then in the early stages, conversation was difficult and awkward. Alzheimer’s was like the ugly elephant in the room stepping on our mouths, preventing the usual chatter exchanged between mother and daughter.

So I would sit and watch Family Feud with her. Or sit next to her and thumb through books of cross-stitch patterns, writing my name next to the ones I wanted her to stitch. I probably wrote my name on over a 100 of those patterns. I didn’t really want any of them. Cross-stitch wasn’t my thing, and it definitely wasn’t my style. But she learned cross-stitch when she was young, and her hands remembered it even when her mind failed her. She couldn’t work as a nurse anymore, couldn’t provide the emotional support to her children that she used to, so she spent hours on elaborate cross stitch patterns. She threaded together words and pictures almost every day. I didn’t want those pictures at the time, but I wanted to give my mother purpose- and she wanted to give us whatever she could. So I wrote my name, and she stitched.

I can’t remember many significant conversations with her. I just remember hours sharing space with her on the couches in her living room and occasionally on long walks. In later years I shared space with her in cramped nursing home bedrooms. Regardless of the venue, I strain to hear her voice in my memories.


Even when Mark proposed, I know she was one of the first people I told- but...Continue reading on Medium here

Update and Exciting Announcements

Hi Friends!  Or whoever still pays attention to this very neglected space.  2019.  Oof.  It's been a weird year.  This is literally the second post on 3-Fold Cord this year.  And it's the first time you've heard from me in almost 2 years.  I can't tell you how many times I had 5 or more ideas floating around my head that I wanted to flesh out into a post.  But somehow, it hasn't happened.  Call it busyness, laziness, or a lack of commitment, I will admit to any of them.  The last 4 years have been full of both changes and also much of the same. 
This year has been a strange for me.  In January Mark declared it would be THE year and it has definitely not been THE year I was expecting.
  

4 Dangerous Words

I believe the four most dangerous words in the English language for Christians are: “Thy Will be done.” I realize we Christians give a lot of lip service to these words- and the truth is- how can we not? I mean when the disciples asked Jesus to “teach us how to pray?” Jesus uttered these exact words when reciting what has come to be known as the Lord’s Prayer. That being said, have we really considered the ramifications of these words? Up until a couple years ago I know I didn’t. Many of us really believe that wherever we are, and whatever we are doing, it’s God ordained. I have come to realize that nothing could be further from the truth. 

My personal experience, when I prayed those powerful words, and meant it, was my world began to be shaken to the core! The things that once gave me security started to foundationally erode; the things that I thought made me happy gradually became bitter. This was God’s Will…this was God’s plan. And while common sense would say, “just surrender”, I had other ideas: I fought it tooth and nail; I became angry at God! I believe my response is all too common in Christendom. We have been programmed to believe that if we are comfortable and secure, God is blessing us. However, if our supports and securities are getting kicked out from underneath us, God is angry and punishing us. The truth is, God has had a plan for each and every one of us before time began, but ultimately, when it comes to our life, we have the choice of “thy will be done” or “my will be done”. The former is not the smoothest most comfortable path, it is the narrow path. This path is often wrought with trials and attacks from the enemy…however, this is nothing more than a refining process that strips away the follies of the flesh and molds us into the image of Jesus Christ.

In closing, when you pray the words, “Thy Will be done”, do you really mean it?

Rapture Theology

I must admit, I enjoy a good theological debate. However, I find most Christians would rather endure the pillory or the rack than engage in a good Biblical discussion. I believe people fall into several categories concerning this issue:

1. There are those that think it's a waste of time and divisive. 
2. There are those that feel they are uninformed and have nothing to add.
3. There are those couldn't care less.

No Biblical debates please!

That being said, I will push forward anyway. 

About a week ago I put up a Twitter poll where I asked people the following: "Do you believe in any form of Rapture theology?" I had 1033 kind souls chime in and the results were as follows:

74% voted Yes, they believe in Rapture theology

21% voted No

5% voted that they thought this was song sung by Blondie. (God bless them!)

So as you can plainly see, a vast majority of the people polled believe in some sort of rapture doctrine. Now for full disclosure, I do not believe in the Rapture. Now at this point you may be tempted to pelt me with rocks and verbal rebukes...but please hear me out! 

My first contention, which I will deal with in this post, involves the Rapture theology not being taught in the first 1800 years of church history. It wasn't until 1830 that John Darby formulated this theory. In his own words he said: "it literally jumped out of the pages of the Bible." And while this is all fine and good, we must ask: "is it really possible that all of the church fathers up until 1830 missed this little gem?" 

Church fathers like: Augustine, Athanasius, Ireneaus, Basil, Tertullian, Origen,Cyril, John Chrysotom, Justin Martyr, Jerome, or Hilary. 

Is it also possible that the theologians of the middle ages: Aquinas, Anselm, Abelard, Calvin, Luther, and Zwingli missed it too?

Lastly, is it possible that more modern theologians like Barth, Bonhoeffer, Bulgmann, Moltmann, Tillich, and N.T Wright missed it also?

Now it's your turn...

Creeping Lies of the Enemy

Ugh. Ok friends I can’t post out of nowhere without mentioning that we haven’t posted much in the last year(s).  I promise you, at any given time I have at least 5 blog posts floating around my head, waiting to get out.  I am just undisciplined.  I promise by summer, I’ll have at least 5 more for you (if we have any readers left).

For the past 6-8 months I’ve been experiencing a comforting renewal and regeneration in my faith life.  After a couple years of beating myself up about not being where I used to be, I finally let go of the times I was stronger and just accepted the now. No easy feat for someone who continuously wants to be better and do better in everything.  But I am not in a competition with myself, and no matter the crisis or tragedy that I previously overcame through Jesus, comparing myself to myself was getting me nowhere.  After a long dry season of feeling like God wasn’t speaking to me and wondering why I was more often a hot mess crying on my bathroom floor than pouring over my Bible and breathing in the truth of Jesus, somehow I let go.  Through deepened and almost constant prayer and stepping back my from my intense focus on my desire for children and subsequent pain of those unmet desires while opening myself up to the pain and needs of others,  I could finally hear God again. 

So as I was basking in my resurgence of faith I was surprised to find myself hit with lies from the enemy.  Lies that sound so true, it’s tempting to believe them. I was very tempted to return to my former place of wallowing- usually on the bathroom floor, because I thought Mark couldn’t hear my sobs and would just assume I was struggling with tummy problems and not pressing my face into a towel attempting to both muffle my sobs and drown out the pain.  Sobbing isn’t wrong, friends, but moving in and making camp in a place of wallowing to the point that Jesus seems like a distant stranger is.  I was beginning to believe that I had left such moments behind.  Until that Sunday.

  

Prayer

“Lord, teach us to pray.” – Luke 11:1.

Prayer was an important part of Jesus' life and ministry. Jesus knew, and wants us to know, that prayer is mightier than the sword, and has the ability to slay the enemies of the soul. 

Prayer is brighter than the rays of the sun, revealing the hidden depths of the human spirit. 

Prayer is quicker and stronger than eagles’ wings, bearing us up from the confines of the earth and transporting us to the throne room of God. 

Prayer is a greater power in the transformation of the world than all legislation and military might. 

The center of its power is in the heart which utters it; the radius of its influence is as infinite as the mind of the Living God. It is the cool breath that comes to ease the fevered brow. It is the Holy lever of Archimedes to move the world! 

How is your prayer life my friend?

Also, let us know if we can help or pray for you! 

Prayer: A Mystery Unfolds

We lead a prayer ministry at our church.  So I feel like I think about prayer fairly often.  But this week the morning show I listen to (The Walley Show) was talking about prayer, specifically about when prayers are unanswered or answered in a way that we weren’t really hoping for or expecting.  They had many examples of how these unanswered prayers lead to bigger things that they just couldn’t see.  Which I agree happens often, but not always.  Recently I’ve also watched a relatively new believer blossom into a beautiful example of Christian boldness emboldened by the Holy Spirit. We also have come to realize that many struggle to attend our prayer gathering because of a fear of praying a loud, or a fear of praying wrong. I’ve watched Christians grapple with this concept of corporate prayer and have been moved and touched by the words that they themselves feel fall short. So I’ve been thinking a lot more about prayer this week.

Prayer is indeed mysterious.  To me, prayer has always seemed simple on so many levels. I grew up Catholic and my youthful prayers were either repetitive rote memorization or easy flowing conversations (many times one sided conversations) with God.  It was a lot of asking, a little thinking, and many times it felt desperate.  As I’ve grown as a Christian, delved deeper into the Word, and walked through spiritual battles, my concept of prayer has definitely evolved. It is far from simple.  But in many ways, it is still very mysterious- and there are many things I don’t understand.

Dear Christian, You can't Win.

Don't argue with fools. 

There is an old gambling saying: “You can’t lose what you don’t put in the middle”. However, what I’m witnessing on social media and news websites is: we have way too many Christians “going all in”! What I mean by that is we are wasting precious time arguing with people whose only motivation is to attack Christianity (and Christians) directly and by proxy. This is clearly evident when you witness non-believers and spiritual reprobates suddenly quoting Bible scriptures and proselyting like a possessed carnival barker. While their positions have the veneer of pure kindness and altruism, there is something inherently rotten at the core: the hatred of God. Yes, I said it because it is true…they hate everything Christianity stands for; they hate you! Now they would never have the guts to come right out and say it, but they do.

ADORATION

I was reading Psalms 78 today and I was in absolute wonder of what an awesome God we serve! Unregenerate man cannot fully understand the wonder and power of God. Proverbs 1:7 states, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge…” Psalms 111:10 also states, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; prudent are all who live by it. Your praise endures forever.”

Without being born again and without the Holy Spirit, man is incapable of truly understanding the hidden things of God. Our God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow…for God never changes! This is the same God that split the Red Sea piling up the waters rigid as walls. This is the same God that spread a table in the desert and rained manna and meat upon the people like dust!

We must worship God in spirit and truth. God is able to take worship out of the hands of men and put it in the hands of the Holy Spirit. It is impossible to truly worship God without the impartation of the Holy Spirit. It is the operation of the Spirit of God within us that enables us to worship God acceptably through the Person of the Lord Jesus Christ, who is the physical manifestation of God. So worship originates with God and comes back to us and is reflected from us, as a mirror. This is the only worship that is pleasing to God.

Have you recently studied, and/or experienced anything that brought you into the awe-inspiring presence of God?

Spiritual Soap

Always remember: "there is no heaven with a little corner of hell in it." It is God's desire that we be pure, holy, and right; HE will not allow us escape for one minute the scrutiny of the Holy Spirit. When we sin, the Holy Spirit convicts us and urges us to repent and become clean again. Now if we cast off this conviction and chose to remain in our own filth, the inevitable process begins to work and we end up in our own spiritual prison. It is during these times when it feels like God is a million miles away! It is during these times we may ask "Does God really love and care about me?"

Seen from God's side, it is a glorious ministry of love. For God is going to bring us out pure, spotless, and undefiled. The Lord loves us so much that HE will tax the limits of the universe in order to help us take the right road...And the moment we realize that the Holy Spirit is convicting us and our current disposition...the sooner our position with God will be drastically improved.

Do you ever wonder why there are times when God does not feel close? Maybe it is time for some spiritual soap?

Are there times when God seems like HE is far away?
What do you do in those times?

Amputation

My mother is dying. She’s been dying for 9 years, it’s just more evident recently.  There is a lot written on grief and many times if I see an article about it, I can’t help but click and read it.  If I don’t have the time for the reading or for my own emotions evoked by such reading, I send myself the link so I’ll read it later.  I rarely pass over such articles.  I’m sure this says some about me, but I’ll leave the psycho-analyzing up to my husband. 

One such article from The Guardian particularly drew me because it wasn’t just on grief, but on the pain of losing mothers.  The article resonated, though there were a few aspects I disagree with most likely because I have a different world view than the author (more on that later).   I also grimace a little at an article that makes losing a parent seem like the epitome of grief. I’m not one to compare and compete for burdens, we all are living very different lives, and we can’t ask others to understand a perspective they haven’t lived.  But I have watched a handful of people lose a spouse, and from observing that grief, I am thankful for having not walked it.  

One such line from the article that spoke to my personal perspective is, "We have not “lost” our mothers. We say that to be polite, but in truth, we have become un-mothered, like Marie Antoinette was un-headed or that wilderness hiker who sawed off his arm was un-handed. It feels violent. It feels raw and fundamental, a pain that reaches all the way down to your ligaments and bones. Our mothers were our first firmament, literally, our first homes."

Perpetual Prodigal

**Author’s note: I started writing this almost 4 months, which just solidifies my role as a perpetual prodigal daughter, I can’t even commit to writing a post about my lack of commitment.

Recently I was standing in my kitchen on a lazy Saturday morning making pancakes.  And I suddenly had this vivid recollection of a time I was 17 and gave a talk about faith for a freshman retreat.  I stood up in front of a bunch of 14 years old and I spoke of the trials I had faced, the testing of my faith, and the ultimate comfort of leaning on Christ.  I really thought I was something, inspiring these younger kids with my tumultuous teen years and deep, wisdom-filled faith.  I laughed out loud at the memory.  I had no idea.  What I thought was a trial and the most difficult times of my life, seem trivial now.  And I have a hard time recollecting anything of my faith that was not based on either feelings or what I had been taught in 13 years of Catholic school and 4 years of youth group and teen Jesus conferences.

I’ve always been a bit arrogant, so it’s no surprise I thought I had my shit together.  It didn’t help that I had peers tell me I was an “inspiration”.  I still have a tendency to be over confident.  But now, 15 years later, I no longer feel like an inspiration, and while I am confident in my Biblical knowledge, I often feel like a perpetual prodigal daughter, making the same mistakes over and over again.