She opened her purse and pulled out a card. “Look how neat this one is, it has a bookmark with it. My cell mates really liked it too!” Rosie* had been released for almost a week and was showing me the many cards and notes she’d received from the folks at our church. She said her cell mates couldn’t believe all the mail and as she read through the cards and notes they noticed all the scriptures that had been written in them. “Would it be okay if I underlined those scriptures in my Bible, too?” one of the inmates asked. “Sure!” replied Rosie, more than willing to share the encouragement she was receiving. A handwritten note, what a rare and beautiful thing these days. Who remembers the days when hours were spent writing a letter? When letters were heartfelt, full of details of our undying love? And the signature, could be a written name, a special name known only to the receiver of the letter, or even a name with a heart drawn around it or some other symbol of affection that brought about special remembrances to the reader. The letter could be written to a lover, to a daughter in college, to a friend across the country, or to your “sister” in your prayer circle. What was so special about the written word? What made us drop everything, run to our favorite chair, carefully open that letter and cherish every word? Was it just the sender, or the fact that in our hands we were holding words that were spoken from one heart to ours? Words that were chosen just for us? “The power of the written word is more than just persistent — it is pervasive. It not only endures; it permeates lives, penetrating where spoken words would be shut out. One of the reasons for this is that there is an implied acceptance when we choose to pick up something to read. In essence, we have given it the right to speak into our lives. Because of this, an article can often penetrate a resistant heart, for just the action of choosing to read it opens the door to the truth it contains.” (Randall Kittle) Words do speak into our lives. If you’re like me, somewhere you have stashed cards and notes that spoke to you. Maybe you’re organized and they are all categorized in one place and easily accessible. Or maybe you’re like me and have cards and letters scattered throughout the house…..in drawers in my bedroom, a keepsake box in my living room and a memento box in my cabinet. One day maybe I’ll put them all in one place. Or on second thought, maybe not, it’s rather fun to “discover” them all over again when I’m going through a drawer or cabinet looking for something else. I have a special notebook of cards and letters that is stowed away on a shelf. When I first began writing songs, I also began receiving notes of encouragement and notes thanking me. One letter in particular was heartbreaking. A mom wrote to tell me of losing her 18 year old daughter. She said she’d never been able to grieve that loss….that she’d only grown cold and angry every time she thought about it. And it was in hearing a song I wrote, that the doors of her heart opened up and the anguish spilled out in tears that had been held back as if waiting behind a big dam that had finally been released wide open. And she thanked me. Those words blessed me and instilled a message in me that still resonates……the songs I write are offerings I give to God and how and where He uses them I may never know, but He will. And I’m good with that. I hope that in the days and weeks to come, Rosie will read back over those cards and notes that were sent to her. There’s a message for her there, one she can hold on to always. Isaiah 55:11New Living Translation (NLT) “It is the same with my word. I send it out, and it always produces fruit. It will accomplish all I want it to, and it will prosper everywhere I send it.” *name changed. Written with permission
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Dark clouds gathering in the sky and a stormy breeze used to mean running outside to see if I could get wet, now it means lock down. The storms can last thirty minutes or two hours. Today I’m hoping it’s a short one. There doesn’t seem to be much breeze with this storm because it’s stifling in here. My cell mates are lost in their own thoughts. The new girl is tossing and turning, as if there’s actually a way to get comfortable in here and fall into a peaceful sleep. Boy does she have a lot to learn. I’m laying with my feet on my pillow, turned around on my cot so I can glimpse the fraction of sky that’s framed in black bars and metal wire mesh. I see a bolt of lightning and start counting like my papa taught me. One…two…..three….and there it is, the gentle rumble of thunder in the distance. Three miles away if my papa was right. He loved the rain too. He wasn’t a church goer like my Granny. He seemed to prefer to worship the God of outdoors instead of the God of pews and hymn books and offering plates. He always said, “I hear God a lot better out in the open than I do when a preacher is pounding a pulpit.” When the skies grew dark, I knew right where Papa would be, on the back porch with one foot on the stoop, one foot swinging free and a coca cola in his hand. I don’t know why he didn’t choose to sit on the big swing on the front porch. One time I heard Granny holler out the door that his back would hurt him less if he’d go prop on the swing and he yelled loud enough for her to hear “Woman, I ain’t got no time to swing” and under his breath I heard him continue on, “and I don’t need nobody stopping by to chew the fat if’in they were to see me. I’m good right here with my little missy.” “Little missy” is the name Papa gave me. No one else ever used it. He told me once that when I was just two and half years old, he walked into their bedroom and there I was, on the floor, with Granny’s shoebox that held her favorite necklaces, and I was trying to put all of them on at once. He said I always tried to act bigger than I was, like I was the little “Misses” of the house. But the way he said it never sounded like he was making fun of me, it sounded like he believed that one day I would grow up to be someone he would be proud of. The clap of thunder is so hard and loud I feel it through the steel bed frame. I’m glad Papa isn’t alive to see me here. He would have hated this. Even as I think of how awful it would have been to see disappointment on that beautiful, rugged face, I know I would never have seen a look of abandonment. My Papa would never have given up on me, like some of my family have. I know this because Papa wasn’t the kind to give up very easily. He believed that struggle only made you better; that you really weren’t worth much until you’d had your life turned upside once or twice. Papa never told me about the things that had turned his life upside down but I knew something had to have by the way he treated people, especially the people that most folks in our town avoided. One of them I remember most vividly was Old Joe. He sat outside the Five & Dime. Papa would take me and my brothers to town on Saturday afternoon when we’d finished our chores because the Five & Dime had the best root beer floats you ever tasted. Granny would always frown when we left cause she thought anything that had the word beer in it, shouldn’t be given to kids. But Papa would just laugh and give her a kiss on the cheek and sometimes he’d whisper something in her ear that I swear made Granny blush. Old Joe was almost always there, sitting on the bench talking to himself perhaps hoping that someone walking by would be interested in the words he was saying and stop. But nobody ever did that I saw. Except my Papa. He’d send us on in the store with a handful of coins and would tell us to be sure and get one for Old Joe. We would all get our root beers and sit up at the counter like we were grown. My brothers would blow the foam till it was a sticky mess on the counter much to the dismay of Mr. Sam, the man who made the floats and I later learned, owned the Five & Dime. When we were all finished, Mr. Sam would make one last float and hand it to us. I was the one who got to carry it out to Old Joe, only I was kind of afraid of him, so I always gave it to Papa. And every time it surprised and amazed me how much Papa seemed to really enjoy sitting there talking to that old man. And if you could hand someone a root beer float and at the same time extend love and grace to someone, well, my Papa could and he did it to Old Joe every Saturday. Laying here with the rain pouring, I close my eyes a little tighter so I can still see us all there. I can see Papa giving that root beer float to Old Joe and the look in Joe’s eyes as he accepts it. I think I finally understand what Papa means about hearing God a little clearer outside. You can see Him too. *this post is part of the Through Her Eyes Series. A fictional look at the life of an inmate. “In order to succeed, we must first believe that we can.” Nikos Kazantzakis
Belief is a big deal. Daddy is in the pool with his little four year old daughter. They’ve been working for weeks on all the techniques, blowing bubbles with their faces in the water, floating on their backs, holding on to the side of the pool and kicking the water until the pool became an ocean of current and waves washing over them. Now Daddy wants her to learn what it feels like to jump in from the side of the pool. She’s made it up the steps and looks back at him as if to see if he’s changed his mind. “You can do this, pumpkin!” He smiles and holds out his arms, “I’ll be right here to catch you.” She steps to the edge of the pool and looks down. “Hey sweetie, I’m right here. Look at me”, Dad pleads. “I won’t move. I’ve got you!” She looks at his face and never taking her eyes from his, she thrusts her body towards him, never thinking about the water, only about how Daddy will catch her. Belief is a big deal. And someone believing in us can be the difference between success and failure. “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” Eleanor Roosevelt Belief in ourselves is vital too. I have to believe in me. I have to believe in the calling that’s on my life. And I can’t compare my calling to yours. You’ve been given your own gifts, your own unique ways you bless others, your own unique style of living life, your own special way of noticing the needs around you and doing something about it, your own flair of writing cards and encouraging others, your own personal passion for prayer and the ability to touch the Throne on behalf of others, your own gifts of coloring the world around you with Jesus’ love and the colors He gave you to use. So I have to believe in what He gave me. The songs I write, the songs I sing, the words I share with the women in jail, or the women at a conference. There are many moments I feel inadequate. I can’t imagine how He will use me. I’ve been such a broken mess. Then I remember, He uses broken messes. In fact, when I thought I had it “all together”, I was probably the most useless of all. I went around doing things in my own strength, as if I were some Christian super hero, “Christian cape” and all. What was that Edna said to Mr. Incredible? “No capes!” And I have to believe in the dreams that God gives me to dream. Never believe that a few caring people can't change the world. For, indeed, that's all who ever have. Margaret Mead This may be the toughest of all to believe, that I can make a difference. The world is such a cynical place. It asks you “what do you think you’re doing?” It demands to know “why are you trying to accomplish that? Do you think you’re special or something?” It screams “you’re so mediocre, just give it up!” Maybe that’s why I love the story of the girl on the seashore. Yes, I know you’ve heard it, but just read it one more time: A young girl was walking along a beach upon which thousands of starfish had been washed up during a terrible storm. When she came to each starfish, she would pick it up, and throw it back into the ocean. People watched her with amusement. She had been doing this for some time when a man approached her and said, “Little girl, why are you doing this? Look at this beach! You can’t save all these starfish. You can’t begin to make a difference!” The girl seemed crushed, suddenly deflated. But after a few moments, she bent down, picked up another starfish, and hurled it as far as she could into the ocean. Then she looked up at the man and replied, “Well, I made a difference to that one!” A friend gave me this beautiful box that says “Believe” (pictured above). I have begun filling it up with those things that remind me that God can use me to make a difference….it’s rather personal to me so I’m not going to tell you all that’s in there. Instead, I want you to picture what would go in your box. What are those things that will tell you, YOU count in this world? Please BELIEVE. I don’t remember what Bible study class it was, but I remember the exercise. Draw a timeline showing your teens, your twenties, your thirties, your forties, (continue to insert the appropriate decade). Draw small vertical lines on the timeline, marking the “God moments” in your life. Your salvation, a calling you received, answers to prayer, times you knew unequivocally that God was there.
A timeline that traces the Hand of God in your life. At first I thought it would be hard. To look back and examine the years and see if I could pinpoint those moments when God had truly come close. For me, it seems it’s easier to see how God is so clearly working in others’ lives, but not always so evident what He’s doing in my life. I closed my eyes for a moment and thought about the songs on the road with my sister. No, I’m not talking about a “sister act” that traveled and sang together on tour, I’m talking about an old dirt road in Tennessee. The school bus would stop at the top of our dirt road, wait patiently for my brother, sister and me to exit and continue on down the paved country road. I think it may have been a quarter mile to the end of that dirt road where the Parsonage was located, but back when I was five, it felt like it had to be at least 10 miles. So to entertain ourselves, my sister and I used to make up songs about anything and everything. Someone would start a verse and it might go on for several minutes. It never had to rhyme and obviously had no structure, but to us, it was a great song. My sister would sing a verse and when she’d stop, I’d pick up and continue the music saga. By the time we got home, we’d built quite a story in that song. I had no idea that years later, I would actually begin to compose songs at my piano. I believe, now looking back, that God was on that road. I believe that He was planting the love for melody and words in me. He was helping me discover and develop what would one day be a true passion of mine. I’ve shared before about my experience of beginning to write that first song and “test” it out on people. After I began to write a few more songs, people began to offer their advice about what I could do with my songs. I had graduated from Trevecca Nazarene College in Nashville, TN so I had several people tell me to call friends in the Nashville area because that’s the music mecca and certainly someone there could give me some direction. So that’s what I did. I called friends I’d attended college with and friends who were still in Nashville. I got advice as to what kinds of songwriting seminars are available, about places you could go to record your music and about who might be some good producers. As they talked, I made notes. Over and over again, the one repeated name I heard was Dave Clark. To be honest I wish I could tell you that I knew all about him, but I didn’t. I was new to writing so I had no idea the number of amazing songs he’d written and ALL the artists that have recorded his works. Suffice to say he’s a legend in the songwriting industry. As soon as someone would mention his name though, in the next breath they would go on to tell me how incredibly busy he was, and so I would scratch his name off the list of contacts that I was collecting. All along, God was up to something. And in a few short months my friend, Leisa, would invite me to sing at her church in Ohio and another friend, Margi, would invite me to sing at her church, since I was headed up to Ohio. Guess who the music minister at her church was? That’s right. Dave Clark. It was quite a God moment. He became an encourager and mentor to me on this songwriting journey. He would introduce me to the conference, Write About Jesus (which would CHANGE MY LIFE), and he would go on to produce the two CDs I made. At the time, I had no idea the significance of all that was happening. I couldn’t fathom that God was placing people in my life that would be so incredibly important to me. I couldn’t know that He was going to help me meet people that would help me develop as a writer and as a follower of Christ. I had no inkling of the days ahead, the trials I would face, or that I would one day stand in a jail cell leading women in songs that I had written just for them to sing. But looking down at that timeline, I saw it all. I saw the faithfulness of a God who dreams bigger dreams for us than we could ever imagine. I’ve only shared a couple of moments with you; there are so many more, that it would take too many pages to write it all down. The Hand of God that was there through it all. If you haven’t ever done your own spiritual timeline, I would encourage you to do it. Grab a cup of coffee, a smoothie, hot tea, or ice cold coke……find a corner somewhere, some paper and a pen, and think back……. She’d been crying ever since I asked who wanted to testify. I was by myself at the jail this Sunday, so I thought it might be encouraging to start the morning by having the women share, out loud, as a form of affirmation, what God had done/was doing in their lives. I reminded them that God “inhabits the praise of His people” and that once in a while it was a good thing just to stop and brag on God. There were 8 women around the tables, and three sitting upstairs, outside of their rooms, just listening. That’s when I noticed her tears, and saw the lady next to her lean over and put an arm around her. I wondered if I should put a halt to the testimonies, but something told me that perhaps she needed to hear them. So I let them share on. They talked of how they knew God had been working on them. How even though they never wanted to end up here, they could see how the locked doors were keeping them safe…..from people posing as “friends” who never really were that. We talked about the one friend you could count on, Jesus. Upstairs she seemed to be listening intently, tears and all. So we opened to Psalm 25 and talked about those who waited on God, how they would never be ashamed. We talked about what it’s like to be ashamed of things we’ve done. We’ve ALL been there. Isn’t there a song that has a line “buried underneath the weight of guilt and shame”? I’m sure there are several songs that reference that because it’s so true, shame buries us. Shame is quite a load to carry. In fact, it really can’t be carried, it ends up being something that brings you down to your knees if you live in it long enough. It will trap you, make you immobile and cause you to lose your hope. That’s what shame does. So how awesome to share Psalm 25: In you, Lord my God, I put my trust. 2 I trust in you; do not let me be put to shame, nor let my enemies triumph over me. 3 No one who hopes in you will ever be put to shame, “Let’s pray you guys”, I said to the group, then lifting my eyes upstairs to my dear sister I said, “would you like to come down and pray?” Immediately she nodded yes and with the help of her friends, stood up and came downstairs. “What would you like to pray about?” I asked her. She began to tell me about how everything was falling apart, family, friends, life, it was all going to pieces and there wasn’t one thing she could do it about while she was here. And she needed some peace, but couldn’t find any. I told her something I’d experienced first-hand, when there’s absolutely nothing left to do, no one else to turn too you discover that’s exactly where God can be found. He never abandons us, He’s never gives up on us, and in fact, He’s waiting patiently for us to surrender, once we’ve let go of everything else. Always easier said than done. I told her we were going to pray that the peace of God would fill her and replace the worry and fear. I invited the women, who by now had all stood up to listen to what was happening, to form a circle and lay hands on her and each other as we all believed together. What happened next is the thing I enjoy most about prayer….those moments when you know the Holy Spirit is prompting you how to pray, what to say, how to intercede. So I followed His leadership and placed my hands on her head and began to pray that the worry and frustrations would begin to flow out of her. I moved my hands to her shoulders and prayed all the tension would begin to release its’ hold on her. I moved my hands down her legs to the hard cement floor and prayed that all the fears and doubt would be released to that floor and would harden in that floor and never be released. I began to thank Jesus, she began to thank Jesus, and the women echoed “thank you, Jesus” together as if a chorus from heaven were now singing in perfect harmony. What changed in those moments? Everything. Because when God washes over us, He brings a tide of love, forgiveness, and peace. Her face said it all. “I’ve got peace like river….” I never thought I’d be looking at her through the glass again so soon.
She picked up the receiver and I picked up the receiver on my side. It was time for the truth. Obviously she’d been lying to us. As much as everything in me had not wanted to believe that. I had wanted to believe that she was really willing to change this time. I’d heard all the “stats” of repeat offenders. I’d been told in the jail ministry, that some of the faces I was seeing, would leave and be gone a few months, and I would see them again. But not Rosie*. I just knew this was different. “Would you like to tell me what’s been going on?” I asked. “What do you mean?”, she hesitantly asked. I wondered if she even had it in her to tell the truth. When you live a lie for as long as she has, can you remember what it feels like to be honest? To come clean? Shoplifting was the least of her worries. “I mean obviously somethings been going on, Rosie. Do you want to tell me what that is?” I studied her face as she struggled with what to say next, as if the crease of her brow, or the tightening of her lips, or the downcast eyes were clues in a mystery novel that if I read clearly enough would show me the truth. “I’ve been using again”, she whispered. So there it was. The truth. “For how long?” I asked. “Probably a month and a half” she replied. At least that long or maybe longer, I thought to myself. We had being seeing signs that something wasn’t right. It started like it usually does with folks who go to church. When they start walking “behind light” (we used to say at church), then they start missing services. She would say she wasn’t feeling well, she was on medication that made her sleepy, and a thousand other excuses that we knew were just that. Excuses. She started dressing more risqué. I remember when she first got out of jail and was attending Bible Study with me. I’d pick her up and she’d have a dress on and her hair done as if it was a Sunday morning. I assured her she could just come in her jeans or whatever she had on for the day, but she wanted to “look nice”. One morning a few weeks ago I came to pick her up for a doctor’s appointment and when she walked out of the house, I have to admit I was taken aback. Tight pants, a shirt that only covered half her stomach and that revealed her black bra underneath. I know we’re not supposed to judge based on appearance, but I knew it meant something was shifting. I just felt in my gut that old influences were back in her life. Everything in me wanted to grab her and shake her and at the same time, hug her until she loved herself like Jesus does. “Why, Rosie?”, I asked her. Knowing even probably she didn’t know the answer. Does anyone know why people go back to destructive behaviors? Why would they jeopardize the children they love? For a brief moment of what? Ecstasy? She looked at me with tormented eyes. “I don’t know”, she said, and tears of remorse were falling down her cheeks, running down the hand that she’d propped her face on, and dripping from her elbow to the table. I only wished she’d shed tears like that before she did drugs. Tears that were falling in prayer, asking Jesus to help her get through. Asking Him to take the addiction away. Why do we always turn to Jesus AFTER we’ve fallen off the edge? Why don’t we turn to Him when our foot is on the precipice? We talked about her kids. And that they were safe for now. “I’ll just DIE if I lose my kids!” she cried out. And I tried to be gentle as I said, “But Rosie, they’ve already lost you. You can’t be the mom you need to be when you’re on drugs.” Who knows that they’ve seen in their short lives. Who knows what all they’ve endured. And how cruel that addiction blinded Rosie do what she was doing to her kids, or at least numbed her so much that for those brief moments, she didn’t care. Then in the most hopeful moment I saw the whole time I was there, she cried out in a plea that was as if someone was yelling for help from the crashing waves and the oncoming storm, begging for the life raft that was the only thing that would save them, “Would you please bring me a Bible?” And she cried and cried and cried. It’s what I do every Sunday. Go the jail and sing and give out Bibles. This time, I’ll be giving one to my fellow choir member and friend. *name changed “Will we see our mom again?”
That was the question the kids wanted to know. Rosie’s* kids have been staying at our house during the day. We were about to take the boys back to a friend’s house and keep Marie* with us for the night. “Kids I’m not sure what’s going to happen. We will know more in a few days I hope”, was the best answer I could come up with. I know this happens at a thousand other homes in a thousand other cities, but that doesn’t make it any easier. How do you ever come to terms with what addiction does to the ones that are left behind in its’ quake, as if they’re a piece of drift wood afloat in the sea, violently thrown from side to side after the Hotel-size cruise ship passes by? They have no choice in that matter, they are tossed back and forth, only to wait for the foaming waters to settle down so perhaps they can come to the surface and take a breath. I’m getting a front row seat to a drama I never bought tickets for. But the show is starting and turns out not only did I get a front row seat, but “front row seaters” get to be part of the drama too. I’m trusting this is all part of God’s plan. In a way, maybe an answer to the prayer I prayed that started something like this, “I wonder what happens to women when they get out of jail?” I didn’t actually speak those words out loud, it was just a thought that would come to my mind after we had spent an hour or so with the inmates. I’d witnessed baptisms from ladies who’d been saved the week before, and then new commitments to Christ and names on lists for Baptisms the following week. I’d heard women declare they were tired of the life they’d been living, they wanted better, different, they wanted freedom. Then invariably reality hit and the women began their lists of the obstacles they were going to have to face…..”I need to get back home to Michigan”……..”I need the judge to be lenient”……”I need a place to stay……..” Maybe it was God placing the thought in my mind….”what’s gonna happen to these girls?”….I believe that happens. Ever have a crazy good idea? God. Ever come up with a solution to a problem that turns out to be just what was needed? God. Ever think about someone out of the blue and give them a call? God. Ever wonder if that children’s worker at church might need help? God. God urging you on. God encouraging you. God letting you know that sometimes, YOU are the answer to pray. What happens when women get out of jail? Well, how about a front row seat? How about she goes to church? How about she joins a choir and a Sunday school class? How about a bunch of people start loving on her and her three kids? Taking them into their homes for Sunday lunch, making sure the boys get to teen movie night, or teen camp? And that her kids go to VBS? And how about, in spite of that, she falls back into old habits? That’s just one story. But it’s been very educational. It tells me that people will surprise you, sometimes in a good way, and sometimes in a not so good way. It tells me that that the Hand of God is still working through people who love Him, and that other people have the freedom to receive it or to let it go. There are other stories out there, I know that too. I’ve met women who were tired of being dragged down into the pit with their addiction, and they finally looked up beyond their circumstances, and took the hand that was extended. And they believed God meant what he said, “there are new mercies every morning.” Great is His faithfulness. Now God, show me how to be faithful. It was Independence Day, but Rosie* was being locked up.
I got the call as we were heading into the theater to see “Finding Dory.” A neighborhood friend had taken her to Walmart. I’m not sure what she needed so bad that day that she had to steal it. I had just taken her to the grocery store the day before. And several friends had been donating clothes to her. We did our best to check on her to see that her needs were met. It was our simple way of loving her and her sweet family. Maybe she needed something to trade for drugs. As I was to find out later that evening, Rosie had been back on drugs for several months. Addiction is an awful weapon of the enemy. The one who comes to steal, kill and destroy. I despise that weapon. I hate what I have seen it do to people. Every Sunday in the jail I hear the same stories…….”I never wanted this to happen, I can’t believe what I’ve become, My life is over.” Just this past Sunday we were praying for an inmate who wanted to be released from depression. She had allowed addiction to take everything from her and the anguish in her voice as she said, “I’m going to lose my daughter” was almost unbearable. Addiction is blinding. It shines as bright as the sun. It’s all they can see. It beckons to them to come and find happiness, or relief from the pain that’s around them. It tells them they don’t have to worry any more. It tells them to forget everything else. It tells them everything will be alright. Then they wake up. They look around and don’t recognize anything. They might be in an unfamiliar bed in a stranger’s house. They might be in an alley, alone. They might be in the back seat of a police car. Or they might be staring into a mirror in their own home, and looking at a face they don’t recognize. Addiction devours everything in its path. Everything. Rosie is beginning to see that. Maybe. My prayer now, is that it hasn’t devoured her children yet. That they will see better days than they have seen. That whoever takes them, will be compassionate and kind---will understand that these children have already lived through some awful things. And Sunday morning, I’ll be at the jail. I don’t know if I’ll see Rosie. I have no idea what cell she’s in, or what cell we will minister in. One year ago, if you’d said someone was going to jail, I wouldn’t have really understood what that meant. Now I know all too clearly. I know what the long walk down the hallway feels like, I know the sound of the big heavy key that looks like it was first fashioned in the 1800’s and what it sounds like as the guard turns it in the lock, and I know the way the cell door echoes in the room as its slammed shut. There will be gray walls, and a steel table lodged on the side. A large fan sits on the floor circulating the already hot and muggy July breeze. She’ll be assigned a bed and a plastic cushion they call a mattress. It just breaks my heart. And last night we sat under the stars and watched the fireworks in celebration of a freedom we enjoy that was won long ago. And she sits in bondage, not truly knowing that a price was paid long ago for her as well, to buy her freedom. Still she chooses chains. *Name changed
I love sharing things that make me happy. Fridays are going to be reserved for the sharing of happy things…..it may be a book that I’m loving, a new store I’ve discovered, or music that’s moving me.
Today, since you’re reading my blog, I figure that you are a reader of blogs. You probably have your favorites that you click on every day. I know I do. So to kick off my FRIDAY FAVORITES, I’m going to share some links to blogs that I love to read! You’re welcome to check it out, or not. Totally up to you. But I hope that something you read inspires you. Shannon is a writer and her husband is a Chaplain at the prison. They've adopted several children and she shares life on her corner of the world honestly and with humor!
www.shannanmartinwrites.com/
I've just discovered this blog. Another mom, Casey, loving life and sharing what inspires her.
http://www.thewiegands.com/
This last blog inspires me daily. Kristen opens her heart to the world and has started a ministry called Mercy House.
http://wearethatfamily.com/blog/
ps. sorry the links don't work. Haven't figured out how to do that yet i guess. Feel free to copy and paste into your browser!
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AuthorHi! I am Donna and I'm traveling. It's a journey to discover who I am in Christ every day....no looking back, face to the Son! Come join me! Archives
October 2017
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