Where, oh where?

Where can I go from your Spirit?

    Where can I flee from your presence?

 

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

 

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

    if I settle on the far side of the sea,

 

even there your hand will guide me, 

    your right hand will hold me fast.

 

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

    and the light become night around me,”

 

even the darkness will not be dark to you;

    the night will shine like the day,

    for darkness is as light to you.

--Psalm 139:7-12

How often we try to escape, it seems-- or at least, I try to escape. Oh, it's not that I don't enjoy spending time with God-- but sometimes, every now and again (and again), I just don't want to feel God's gentle pokings.

You know. Those days when I have been just a little expedient in my dealings with others, when my agenda takes the front seat to God's agenda. When there is something I just need to get done-- now. 

Something's gotta give. And it is usually my God time that gives.

Then it hits me. 

I didn't really want to get away from God's presence. (Maybe just out from under his loving, just gaze. It can be focused like the sun through a magnifying glass at times.)

So earlier this week, I went in search of God. I didn't find God.

God found me.

Isn't that the way? Always? 

I took me bad mood, my grumpiness and my impatience and set out on a brisk walk. I wound up on a trail that led me far from the beaten path, unfrequented by people (unless they were on horseback. . . ). Lots of under-the-breath muttering, a wee bit of outright shouting, all with the hopes God would answer.

Nothing.

But after a couple of miles, when I finally settled down and slowed down and shut up, already, guess what.

Into the quiet, into the calm surroundings that smelled of springtime God came. (Of course, God had never left.) 

In the little black dog's yip-yip-yipping and the wag of its tail, in the tree trunk chapel for elves, replete with a preacher.

In the parting of the clouds, as the rays of the sun streamed through and shone on the distant treetops.

And ultimately, in my heart. The calm returned, the peace and quiet-- and even in the pokes and the mild conviction, I welcomed God's "return." Even as he had never left.

Ever-present, ever-loving God, open my stubborn, folded arms to your love. Touch my angry, puzzled, furrowed brow with your healing comfort. And always, help me be mindful that wherever I go-- there you are. Amen.

Shout it out.

Very truly I tell you, whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing, and they will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father. And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it. --John 14:12-14

Sometimes I think we forget whose we are, and with whose power we have been imbued. This is a story I heard just a few days ago from a friend, and my heart compels me to share it with you. I pray you will also boast in the power and grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.

A young man, I will call him Simon, was admitted to the hospital following a suicide attempt. In desperation, this broken soul had tried to hang himself. When he arrived at the hospital, it was believed his brain had been without oxygen for at least ten minutes.

Ten minutes without the breath of life. After only three or four minutes, things begin to look very, very grim.

Simon's parents, understandably, began the practical task of planning Simon's funeral.

But they never stopped praying, and the prayers of many others were united with their own, prayers for healing in whatever form God's will might presume. It takes a strong faith, not only to pray for healing, but to believe the form it might take.

Imagine this.

Imagine the doctors walking in to Simon's room carrying the results of a myriad of tests, MRIs, CT scans and whatever else they might think up, trying to figure out what happened here.

Doctors who have spent their adult lives in the diagnosis and treatment of all things cerebral, who have developed many caring ways to share bad news with the family when they have to.

Imagine these doctors, scratching their heads, puzzled looks on their faces.

Because today, they come bearing the best news a parent could ever hope to receive.

Simon's brain, deprived of life-sustaining oxygen for at least ten minutes, in all the tests and scans this hospital has to offer, showed no evidence of any such deprivation. Simon's brain was unscathed, unharmed by his actions.

I believe there is only one explanation. 

The only possible way I believe such perfect healing could have occurred was by the perfect touch of the One True God whom we profess to serve, the One who answered the prayers of the faithful before a single syllable was uttered.

The One to whom all praise and glory is due. 

Most awesome and amazing God, we thank you for hearing us, even when our prayers seem tired or empty. Help us to truly know and believe that you do hear every word before we speak it, and that you answer our every prayer, in your perfect time and in your perfect way. Amen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7nZVtZFE0A 

Sensible shoes?

He has showed you, O man, what is good. 
   And what does the LORD require of you? 
To act justly and to love mercy 
   and to walk humbly with your God.

--Micah 6:8

Someone told me today that I have "sensible shoes faith." That when life is dire, when things seem all crazy and out of whack, somehow I seem to bear a faith that still makes sense. 

A faith that fits, that is up for the long walk. No high-heeled faith that looks sensational, but is wobbly under pressure, or flimsy, flip-flop faith that doesn't stand the test.

Sensible shoes faith. Wow. High praise, indeed-- and perfect imagery.

My faith is comfortable (most of the time). I have forged it with the Almighty, allowed myself to be relentlessly pursued by his love (even though I am known to squirm and twist in his loving embrace, try sooooo hard to get away).

Like an athlete in training, I attend to my faith regularly. I spend time in quiet; I pray; I engage with Scripture; I gather with others in a faith community. (Not always as diligently as I would like, or as I should. Some days I spend paving that road to you-know-where with my good intentions.)

A sensible, living faith may, at times, need adjusting, tightening or loosening a bit for a particular leg of the walk. The foundation, the support remains firm and steadfast, but sometimes, a close examination of what is going on is needed. (This, in my faith walk, is where those tough conversations happen. The ones about what the Bible has to say about loving one's neighbor when one's neighbor is a jerk, for instance. Things like that.)

Jesus reminded his disciples, "I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven” (Matthew 16:19). In other words, as I read it: Be careful making declaratory statements about the fate of others, because in the end, if it applies to them, it just may be applied to you, as well. 

Sensible shoes. Easy to lace up. But on a broken, difficult path such as the one we call life? Don't even think about kicking them off and going without.

Lord Jesus, I am ever so grateful that you sent your Spirit to dwell within us. Help me walk closely in your path. May my shoes stand up to the journey-- for the long haul-- one day at a time. Amen.

Nice genes!

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. 

Against such things there is no law.

--Galatians 5:22-23

There has been recent research that shows that some people are, by the existence of a gene in their DNA, genetically predisposed to being "nice." And, conversely, others who lack this gene are more prone to be-- not nice. Here's the article:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2128067/Born-bad-Niceness-gene-makes-people-kinder--lack-tight-fisted-selfish-cruel.html

Interesting, isn't it? 

Will this somehow now twist around and become part of the next Flip Wilson routine? A variation on "The devil made me do it," for those too young to remember Geraldine?

Honestly, judge-- I just couldn't help myself. It's in my genes.

Hmmm. Having a hard time with that one. 

But here is what else the study showed:

People who have this gene tend to give more to charitable organizations. They are more likely to tithe to a church. They are more likely to be active in social justice issues such as fighting poverty and helping the homeless.

And here is what I think about all this: (It's my blog. Remember that. I am allowed to opine ad nauseum.)

The Psalmist, St. Peter, Augustine-- and so many more-- have written about there being a hole in the human soul that can only be filled by God. 

When Jesus asks the Twelve if they also will leave, Peter asks, in somber tone, "“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God” (John 6:68-69).

Augustine confesses to a rest-less soul until he (we) rests in God.

Pascal proposes that there is a hole in the abyss of the human experience that can only be filled by the presence of the Almighty.

Almost sounds like something in our DNA, doesn't it?

I won't even begin to try to explain why or how some people do not get this genetic niceness, or how some can be "nice" while disdaining the Creator.

But what this does say, to me, is that when we allow the Lord to work in our lives, our lives are somehow altered. We discover there is so much more besides ourselves worth paying attention to, worth living for.

As if we were created for Love.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0B2ybZpDeM

Gracious, wonderful God, thank you for the gift of you, manifesting itself in us. May we see through your eyes, and when the "stuff" of you fills our souls, may the overflow pour out into the lives of others. Amen.

Patient hands

I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; 

so the potter formed it into another pot, 

shaping it as seemed best to him. 

--Jeremiah 18:3-4

I spent a long time in the yard this morning, trying to get a jump on the weeds. It was almost too late already. 

In the middle of the primroses was a giant dandelion. Its leaves spread out bigger than a dinner plate, and shooting up from the middle were at least eight lovely puffballs of dandelion seed. 

Over alongside the house, the money plants were taking over. (No, money does not grow on trees or plants, not even in my yard.) These things look lovely when they bloom, straight-up spires with purple clusters of blooms about the size of pennies. But they are terribly invasive, and once the blooms depart, the seeds set on. Uh-oh.

And the thistles. Enough said about the thistles. 

Ugh.

I stood back and surveyed the landscape, trying to envision how lovely it could look if I just took the time to remove the things I found displeasing, then nurtured and cultivated what remained, the "good" parts of the garden.

I realized it is an ongoing project, never-ending. And that sometimes, even when I have carefully removed (I thought) all the dandelions-- I turn around and there is another one.

And I stopped and thought about-- me. And God, the master gardener in my life.

How often he must come into my life, look at me and think, "I thought, child, we took care of that last week. Why are we going through this--again?"

He prunes and he trims, pinches and polishes, till my life is pleasing-- and I turn around and go back (again) to the same way I was before the latest poke and prune.

That's where the similarity between these two gardeners ends.

Because after awhile, I look at this garden and am ready to throw up my hands in despair. No more! Call the asphalt company! Let's just pave over it. I can't stand it any more!

Thankfully, God is not that way. No, God may shake his head at my digressions, but he never gives up. Never, ever considers washing his hands of me. Because unlike this impatient, short-sighted child, God sees in each of us the potential to be-- perfect.  And God is willing to stick by us, work on us , polish and prune until we again reflect the brilliant image of our Creator.

Lord God, even when it hurts, even when we disagree, thank you so much for desiring us, pursuing us in love. Amen.

Yes.

Jesus said to [Martha], “I am the resurrection and the life. 

He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; 

and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” --John 11:25-26

Context: Lazarus, the brother of Mary and Martha, has died. Jesus has arrived, only to have Martha tell him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." Following Jesus' statement, Martha affirms her belief, albeit in haste, and runs off to fetch her sister, telling Mary the Teacher "is asking for her." (That bit of Scripture seems to be missing.)

This brief passage, more than any other, speaks to the heart of who I am-- who we are as Christians. At least I think so.

Jesus offers us the gift of eternal life. Life beyond death. He is the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through the Son. This is what we profess. This is what I profess. Whatever path we walk, ultimately, the path to life eternal passes through the Cross. 

Or, to put it succinctly, Jesus Saves. 

Do we believe this? Do we live our lives with an eternal focus? 

When we awake each day, do we remind ourselves of the hope and promise the Christ gave when he died on the Cross?

As we go through the day, as we see others whose lives are challenged by poverty or ill health, do they look at us and see the living promise-- in our smile, in our gentle touch or patient ear?

Do they believe us?

If we profess eternity is ours, do we keep this to ourselves, like some guarded secret? or do we live our lives proclaiming mercy and salvation, hope and promise-- not just with our lips, but with our very lives? 

What does a life bounded by eternity look like?

I believe a life that dwells securely and comfortably in the eternal arms of the Lord begins not at death, but today, here-- now. 

We are the Hands and Feet of Jesus until he returns to this broken place, to heal once and for all, to usher in the new heaven and the new earth and reign for all eternity in peace, faith, hope and love.

The greatest of these is always, always love. 

If I speak in tongues of angels-- but have not love-- I am nothing. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WuE3_GN1gSY

Do you believe this?

Have a seat. Let's talk.

Whoever is united with the Lord is one with him in spirit. --1 Corinthians 6:17

This photo I innocently snapped with my $100 Kodak digital point-n-shoot has garnered many a gasp and dropped jaw from friends-- and even from the tech support guy in India to whom I had to give over remote control of my laptop yesterday. 

It is a powerful image, the way the light and shadows interplay. But let me tell you what I see in it.

Six empty seats. (Five if one guest has a jumbo bum; seven if they scootch.) A perfect, serene setting. Divine light streaming down. So who is in those seats?

I imagined it was a Divinely orchestrated meeting apart from time, an invitation from the One True God, to the many philosophers and theologians over the centuries. Many invitations; six acceptances.

I will leave it up to you to decide who showed up.

But here is what I think happened:

I think, once these great minds all sat down and actually listened to one another, they came to understand that there is, truly, one true God. That perhaps this God has been called by different names-- Yahweh, Elohim, and more-- but at the heart of all creation, in the center of life, lies the one true God. And the very nature of that God is Love.

I think the light streaming in from the left in this shot, clearing away the shadows, is the Almighty's way of making them-- us-- aware. Aware that we may never be able to "see it all." Especially if we remain in the dark.

I think maybe one of those chairs was empty to the human eye, filled only by the Spirit of the Creator. 

And I think maybe, just maybe we need to follow this example, slow down, sit down-- and listen. 

We are so eager to divide. Why not try, instead, to unite?

It is a big, BIG Tent, and a big, BIG Table.  Because we serve a big, B-I-G God.

Almighty God, you take my breath away! You show me but a peep of yourself, and I am awestruck before you. Help me, Lord, to remember that it is not about me, only about you. Let me stop and listen-- to my fellow travellers and especially, to you. And may I remain aware that while you may speak to us in many ways, in many voices-- yet you are still, always, the One True God. Amen.

Play nicely. Really.

 But now, this is what the LORD says— 

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; 

   I have summoned you by name; you are mine." 

--Isaiah 43:1a, 2a

[Neatly prooftexted. Apologies all 'round.]

I thought about calling this post something else. But since we are, after all, children of the Almighty-- well, playing nicely seems to be what we all should manage.

We still have nearly seven long months until the presidential election here in the good old United States of America. 

It seems to me we have a couple of choices:

We can allow our candidates to call each other every name in the book, true or untrue. We can listen and cheer (or jeer) as they disrespect not only the man (or woman) but also the office to which they seek election. We can pick up the nearest overripe lump of produce, heft it gently, take careful aim and . . . .

-OR-

We can choose, deliberately make the choice to behave differently.

I look at my friends' posts on Facebook and realize: some of the people I really enjoy reading have very little in common with me. Yet because we look beyond our differences and embrace the heart within-- it's just remarkable, the respect-filled, loving conversations we can engage in, without changing anyone's mind-- or even desiring to do so-- but just listening, learning and thanking.

Let me tell you what I think. (It is my blog. I am allowed to do this.)

I do not care if you love guns or butter. (I am not a fan of firearms, and I will never be a vegan.) 

I do not care if you love men or if you love women. All are worthy of the love of God. (Heck-- I even have a friend whose child used to be one and is now the other. Still the same beloved child of a Creator who makes no mistakes.)

I do not care for simplistic labels. I am conservative and I am radical. And I am liberal. Oh-- and I am also progressive. It simply depends on what we are talking about. 

Look at the deeper meanings of each of these words, beyond the media definitions designed to divide us. 

Conservative. Finding value in our traditions from the past. 

Radical. Getting back to the radix or root.

Liberal. From the same root word that gives us liberation. 

Progressive. Progressing. Moving forward, being willing to change.

The next seven months will be exhausting, no doubt about that. But don't let them wear you out because you allow yourself to be sucked in to the jargon of hatred and divisiveness.

The Lord, the father of all Creation, has called each one of us-- by name.

We are God's. Every last one of us.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyHvO4xoEh4

Heavenly Father, who loves us like no other, help us to see through your eyes, and especially, to speak your language of hope and promise. We are one Family, and we are grateful for our loving Daddy. Amen.

So-- NOW what?

I have fought the good fight, 

I have finished the race, 

I have kept the faith. --2 Timothy 4:7

So my Lenten challenge to myself is complete. I survived forty days-- plus Sundays of committing to blogging every day. There was only one day when I was just too sick to write anything fresh. (Today would have been a second day. I really love my Avery-- but she did share her lousy cold with her Grandma Mars!)

So what have I learned through this very public exercise?

I have looked over what I wrote. There were some good days-- and some that felt, to me, like clunkers. Some of those clunkers were read by more of you than some of the ones I thought were good stuff. 

Which just goes to show you how much I know.

I discovered I really enjoy writing-- even when I am "forced" into it. And I am grateful that my words have found their way into your world. I pray they have, in some way, added light, whether through humor, affirmation or perhaps the occasional conviction. 

I continued to be amazed at the way sometimes things just "write themselves," with seemingly little input from me. Thanks be to God for that!

I also must admit: I am a bit glad my forty days (plus Sundays!) are done.

I love blogging, I will continue to blog-- but probably not every day. Unless I get a barrage of comments on this post begging me to do so, I will probably pull back to weekly or occasionally more often than weekly.

Thanks for reading! Don't stop now! 

peace, hope and love,

heidi

Not the end at all

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. 

Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”

But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away. 

As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed.

 “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’” --Mark 16:1-7

Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed!

And there really is nothing more to say.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

In the In-Between

Now that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem. They were talking with each other about everything that had happened. 

As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came up and walked along with them; but they were kept from recognizing him.

He asked them, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?”

   

They stood still, their faces downcast. One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, “Are you only a visitor to Jerusalem and do not know the things that have happened there in these days?”

   

“What things?” he asked.

   

“About Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied. “He was a prophet, powerful in word and deed before God and all the people. The chief priests and our rulers handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him; but we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel. And what is more, it is the third day since all this took place. In addition, some of our women amazed us. They went to the tomb early this morning but didn’t find his body. They came and told us that they had seen a vision of angels, who said he was alive. Then some of our companions went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but him they did not see.” --Luke 24:13-24

It's Saturday. Holy Saturday. Tonight, many churches will hold vigils, spending time in prayer and darkness and uncertainty, yet knowing, hoping of the Resurrection which awaits us at Easter.

We know the end of the Story. Christians are fond of saying this. "We win! We win! We have read the end of the story and we win!"

True enough. But this is kind of like flipping to the post-game wrap-up without listening to the actual game.

(Who are "we"? And what, exactly, have we "won"? Does this mean there is a loser, as well?)

Imagine not knowing the rest of the story. 

Imagine watching this drama unfold before your eyes. First, the one we have waited for shows up, is proclaimed the Messiah-- but he does not come with might or arms or soldiers or anything that a "real" king would need to wrest power from Caesar. 

This King is beaten and scourged, whipped and crucified-- and he never said a word. Never defended himself in any way. Ever.

Imagine not understanding what he meant by "raising up the Temple" after three days.

And even as the truth begins to be revealed, through the women, through Peter and the disciple whom Jesus loved, still-- so many questions, so many doubts!

Saturday was a rough day. That day in between was a doozie.

And yet-- this is where we live. In the in-between times, between the Christ's first appearance and his promised second coming. Between the "already" and the "not yet."

The difference is, we have seen-- and we believe. Don't we?

Do we live our lives in glorious anticipation, preparing the way (again) for the Lord, making straight the pathways of our King?

Have we learned anything from the way Jesus lived and loved? Does it show in our lives? On our resumes?

Think of your life-- as Saturday. Time to live out the truth we proclaim. Time to offer ourselves poured out for those who hunger or are in need of whatever we may be able to offer.

Jesus gave us one mouth . . . two ears . . . and two hands and two feet. 

Stop talking. Start being and living and doing. 

Christ has died. Christ is risen.

Christ will come again. Amen.

Seriously-- even him???

[Jesus] got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. --John 13:4-5

I know, I know. We were here in these verses yesterday. But I keep coming back to this passage, having really spent time with it while preparing a sermon. 

What struck me, among other things, is this: Jesus washed at least twenty-four feet. He washed the tired, dirty feet of all twelve of his disciples-- at least. (We are not given a guest list. There may have been others there.)

These were not the well-groomed, neatly scrubbed feet of a twenty-first century gentleman. These men likely wore sandals, if any footwear at all. The sandals would have been crudely (by our standards) crafted from animal skins. Ever noticed how the mingling of tired, sweaty feet and "leather" creates a remarkable odor all its own?

The disciples' feet would have been heavily calloused, nails rugged and jagged. 

Jesus did not have a ginormous beach towel to wash and dry those feet. His towel was likely about the size of a large hand towel.

Imagine this: You are on your knees, washing these feet, drying them with a towel so small, your face is right there next to those same tired, dirty, smelly feet.

And as if that is not enough? Jesus knew he would soon be betrayed by one of these twelve whom he had brought into the "inner circle" of his ministry, taught and loved on patiently from the time he called each of them to come and follow.

Wow. Now that's love.

Lord Jesus, teach me to love as you have loved-- even him (or her). Amen.

Just as I am.

Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God; so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. --John 13:3-5

I have been sitting with this passage about Jesus washing the feet of his disciples for awhile now. Here's what I think:

Jesus did not critically examine each foot, notice an unseemly callous or snaggled toenail. He just washed the disciples' feet in love, their hot, tired, smelly feet.

He did not correct them or offer them ways to better themselves and have better-looking tootsies.

He washed their feet. He lovingly, gently, sacredly washed their feet.

What's her point, you are thinking.

I am concerned over the lack of grace offered of late, in smallish ways. So often recently, I have observed people seemingly setting themselves above or apart from others-- by correcting them-- on Facebook. A lot.

A missing apostrophe. An extra apostrophe. "It's" instead of "its." "Who's" instead of "whose."

Seriously. A little love, please? 

I am a grading assistant, a writer and a former copy editor. I know the value of a carefully-chosen word, a properly punctuated sentence-- and in those realms, I have been known to bleed out an awful lot of red ink. It is my job; it is what I am expected to do.

But it hurts me to see a young girl tell the object of her affections, "Youre so cute," and have the young man point out she missed an apostrophe. (I cannot help but wonder if she still thinks he is the "bee's knees," or da bomb. I would be hurt.)

When Christ called us to hold one another accountable in love, I really do not think he meant policing our grammar. (After all, the early languages had no punctuation and used no contractions.) 

There is a time and a place for such things. But there is a greater time, a larger place, simply for love. 

I have "dancer's feet." Even though it's been many, many moons, I still have calluses on my feet, lumpy bones and all that. My feet are probably gorgeous by comparison to the feet of those men who walked everywhere, barefoot or in ill-constructed sandals, who bathed weekly at best, and then in relatively slapdash fashion, compared to my leisurely showers with fragrant gels.

Jesus did not care. These were people he loved. He did not love them (us) because of. He loved them (us) in spite of. In spite of the rough spots. In spite of the stink. 

This is a difficult path we walk together. Always, there are people ready to denigrate us in order to elevate themselves. 

Be gentle. Be loving. And for goodness' sake, be willing to overlook the things that just do not matter. 

As my mother taught me: Pick your battles.

Lord Jesus, so grateful we are that you looked beyond our dirt and our stink and our mistakes to see the beautiful children of God we were created to be. Thank you. May we see others through your eyes. Amen.