“Make me like Job, God,” I prayed several months ago. Well, so far, God has taken away many things: my home, my health, my dreams, my plans, almost everything I own.… Read More Make Me Like Job
Often to a friend in the midst of a trial, I will pray that they won’t forget the hope in Heaven. I’m asking for more than the world’s version-the simple hope that the blue sky lives behind the grey, that there will be sunshine after a rain, that color will light up the blackness.… Read More What Is The Hope In Heaven?
There is beauty in this
Fade to never
There is another way
Life will rise again.
If you dread Sunday mornings and the sound of happy people singing, hear me: You need worship. It is the only way to get out of yourself and your depression.… Read More Worship Through The Pain
I’m excited to announce I will now be posting regularly each Tuesday.… Read More New Posting Schedule
I’m not going home for Christmas this year. Not by choice—I love being home with my family gathered round at Christmas. But my family has been forced to flee our beloved home because of mycotoxins which made our Lyme’s disease even more complex and harder to treat.… Read More He Came to Bear Our Sorrows
Crimson isn’t always so red Sometimes It isn’t Blazing at all. That flame of life as Vibrancy fades Is preceded by far less Brilliant Green which Holds real growth and life. Leaves Burst into Fluttering reflections The warm sun and the blue sky Join in This their Child: the lifegiver. Which somehow as it dies… Read More Crimson’s Protest (Poem)
I was lying in bed-again. Just the night before I had prayed and asked God to give me the grace to be able to serve Him, even in a simple way. Maybe just blessing my family and those around me. Maybe something more exciting, like missions work. I didn’t really care-I just wanted to be… Read More When You Can’t Serve God
Your dry tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, and the glare of the sun reflecting on the sand makes your eyes glaze. How long have you been stranded here in this wasteland? Deep trials rob us of the ability to see anything beyond this current pain, this endless stream of suffering. It seems… Read More Look Up: The Blue Sky in the Wasteland
“On again, trot and walk and trot, jingle-jingle-jingle, squeak-squeak-squeak, smell of hot horse, smell of hot self, blinding glare, headache. And nothing at all different for mile after mile. Tashbaan would never look any further away. The mountains would never look any nearer. You felt this had been going on for always—jingle-jingle-jingle, squeak-squeak-squeak, smell of… Read More He Satisfies the Languishing