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Showing posts from August, 2015

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This ending chapter

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I heard the true story of a man who had a good life.  Things were going well for him, and he was happy.  But one day Jesus found him, and all of the moments that had brought him contentment no longer seemed to satisfy.  He didn't necessarily want Jesus, in fact the whole idea seemed to ruin the good thing he had going.  But his heart was being pursued by the one who truly loved him, and he was changed.  I have come to believe that once a life has been touched by the goodness of Christ, it cannot stay the same, and even if we never choose to follow after him he will always choose to love us.



I remember the day we moved in.  It was the middle of December, but the snow hadn't bothered to visit here in Cincinnati.  We spent the first night sleeping on the floor, and in the following days we managed to erect a Christmas tree in the empty dining room.  It was a lovely holiday in our new home that we built from the ground up, and not one of us cared that everything was out of place f…

Remembering still

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Thirteen years have passed.  More than an entire decade.  Not that I thought I would ever forget, but the remembering still surprises me.  April 26th would have been her birthday, and every year for the past thirteen, I remember.
I kept the small blanket I wanted to wrap her in, a pale yellow with a tiny print of animals on the edge.  In my excitement of learning the news I had purchased it.  It seemed a frivolous buy for someone so careful with their money.  It lays silently now in a wooden chest that smells of cedar never knowing the warmth of its intended body.
That same chest holds my hospital bracelet, the sonogram picture, and a little angel shaped box lined with blue velvet.  'Mathia" is etched on the lid in flowing script.  I suppose those are all representations of her death, but I keep them because I have nothing of her life.  So brief, her life, like wisps of smoke that disappear into the air once the fire is gone.  I never saw her face, but I know it was beautifu…

I'd come to Nicaragua to die

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I'd come to Nicaragua to die, that was becoming evident as I stared out the dusty bus windows only a few hours after I had arrived.  Not in the literal sense, though one can never rule out the possibility, especially after experiencing the general flow of traffic.  But in the sense that this is the story that God was writing for me to know him more intimately.

My eyes were searching for something familiar, something I could hold onto that reminded me of my other home in the states.  They say missionaries always talk of two homes, the one where they were born and the one that they live in.  I was stuck somewhere in between.


A few weeks earlier, I had whispered it secretly to a friend, not wanting the truth of it to be a common conversation.  I wasn't even sure I wanted to look it straight in the face.  After all, I have found that I tend to ignore the hardest happenings until I feel the strength to endure them.  I'm not sure any of us are ever ready.

But it had moved quick…