When the Darkness Tries to Overwhelm

We did something crazy this week and launched a website.

Right in the middle of the frenzy of December we did it.

It was scary and dangerous and risky to pour ourselves for months into a little dream and not know what would come. But when we opened wide the doors on Monday there was dancing and there were squeals as person after person responded with such kindness and encouragement.

I am not being metaphorical about the squeals. Or the dancing.

And we chitter chattered and bubbled both at home and online and it was so bright and shiny everywhere.

Then yesterday morning all fell heavy.

The darkness fell as I read about tiny people, beloved by family and God, ripped from this world.

I couldn't do anything but fall silent and fall on my knees. To feel the fingers of ice, the specter of hopelessness.

I stilled my online words. I grabbed the faces here with all their messy hair, and kissed cheeks. I looked into bright eyes and found my own eyes bright with tears.

Then in the afternoon we went to the zoo. The zoo, of all places.

It was a birthday party that took us there, in the gray December fog, with drizzle threatening. A tiny zoo in the middle of the Texas nowhere, filled with rescued and endangered animals. Our host, the birthday boy, had wanted to see the lions.

We were expected, our small party of homeschoolers, and had the zoo to ourselves. The owner had held off feeding the big cats so we could watch.

The time came, and the lion was ready. Past ready. Meal time is usually in the morning.

The low growl of a lion waiting for food send chills up your arms. You want to step far back from the double fence, to grab your babies and cower.

The zoo owner stepped between the fences with a bucket of raw chicken and made the lion show off by raising the chicken above his head so it had to stand on two back paws. While the lion feverishly crunched through bones, the zookeeper educated us.

He told us how male lions have the hardest life of all animals. How fights are to the death. How they eat people.

The lion was slinking again, low growl saying "more, more."  The keeper raised another chicken leg to the fence and it was snatched in a flash.

The zookeeper continued, telling grisly tales that did not seem birthday party fare. Then more growling, more chicken.

And as I listened to the mingle of growls and crunching and horror stories, I heard quiet but strong in my heart:

Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.  - 1 Peter 5:8

Like a roaring lion.

We can not be blamed for looking at lions and feeling fear. Nor can we mamas avoid the sharp knife of terror for our own babies that is mingled with the devastating grief we feel to our core for the mamas who have lost little ones.

We have an enemy.

To dismiss this is to live a delusion.

It is right to recognize danger.

But we who belong to God must also know this truth: Perfect love casts out fear.

As a tornado of death and lions and bright beginnings and Christmas swirls through my mind, simple words take over.

Love

Light

I remember what Jesus said...

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world. - John 16:33

And wouldn't the lion that prowls and brings trouble want us to cower, to hide? Wouldn't he want to chase us into dark corners, to hold close what is dear, to squeeze eyes and not look?

God is light; in him there is no darkness at all. - 1 John 1:5 

That which is evil must have light shone upon it. We must shine that light.

You are the light of the world... Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven. - Matthew 5:14, 16

The slinking lion darkness and evil is all about, yet we can choose to look to the light. To not cower, to not squeeze eyes. To set our faces firm toward God and be lights in this world.

We are only lights because of Him. All we do is reflect. But we must choose to be open to reflecting. To be alert, to stand firm, to shine back His glory.

Little eyes are watching how we choose. If we speak despairing words little ears hear. If we make fearful choices little hearts wonder.

I am determined to choose love.

I have this one living hope...

Shine, mamas, shine His light in you. Be alert. Stand firm. And shine.

  
candle photo copyright

Family Culture - It is Better to Light a Candle Than to Curse the Darkness

I'm sitting in a cafe. The table is piled with my children's school books.  I had been working on school lessons, but my heart's steady beat of write-write-write won't be ignored.

I plop my little ipad, its attached keyboard making it look like a miniature laptop, on top of my son's open planner.

The song of the cafe is loud. I sit and stare at the screen, ready to burst. Nothing comes.

My ears are so full they ache.

Still the cafe-song pulses. Medical terms sing out from the nurses-in-training studying at a nearby, book laden table. The blender whirs its tune of frozen caffeine and sugar.  The speakers blare pop music, jarring, much of the tunes and lyrics meaningless. Some of it despairing.

With a deep breath I plug in my headphones.

Higher and higher I press the volume button, until I am alone in a song of hope. I close my eyes as peace washes over me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's not just the cafe. Distractions swirl around me all the time. Everywhere I go they are fighting for my attention.

How desperately I want the laser-like focus that is required to walk the narrow path in our loud culture. 

I think about how like a magpie I am all day, every day.  So many things on the to-do list, so many shiny electronic distractions. I scurry around from task to task as if speed will keep me from forgetting anything. Then inevitably I wear down and sit to stare at a screen for a minute. I use it almost like a pacifier, a retreat.  Is this where I really want to find rest?

I think about the example this sets for my children.

I can't escape the culture. None of us can. 

The culture-at-large is not a culture of peace. Our culture is not singing a song of hope. Our culture's theme song is "Me, Myself and I in Our Virtual Life."

Moving to the country does not protect you from this culture, in case you were wondering.

And you know, I don't want to be protected from the culture, frankly. It is our world, our mission field. Filled with hurting and hungry souls desperate for the love that does not disappoint.

But the din, oh so loud. So distracting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sally Clarkson encourages parents to develop a family culture. In a way that reminds me of Charlotte Mason's idea that education is an environment, the Clarkson parents strove to surround their children with beauty and great thinkers, with a family culture of unconditional love and acceptance.

My desire for our family is to create a home culture of peace and quiet of soul. A safe place, a nest to which we can return from the clamor of our culture. A place where beauty and truth prevail. Where we are nourished in heart, and soul-fed to return to the sweaty work of loving in this dark world.

We must be in our culture but not of it. And oh how hard to draw the line.

We can not isolate ourselves and walk in the footsteps of Jesus. He who came to this ugly hard world and spent his days amongst the most dirty in body and soul, who loved the unlovable, who served without hesitation.

It is only fear that would keep the door closed. 

Love opens the door.

There is no rule book for this, no manual for how children serve in an unlovely world. For my husband and me, it is a matter of prayer and the individual child. What can they handle? But if we are to live in this world, and walk out the command to love... and if we believe that love is action and serving... we must must walk out into it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sally Clarkson sometimes quotes the old Chinese proverb, "It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness." I feel that truth in my bones.

...each of us in our own little alcove, shining bright, pushing back the darkness...

Jesus lit a candle. He lit one in you and one in me when we became His.

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden; nor does anyone light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven." - Jesus (Matthew 5:14-16)

We get to do this. Shine light into the darkness. Hope. Meet real needs. Even in our own weakness and neediness. Because we do it in Him, for Him.

Imagine. Worn out mamas like you and me, we are lights.

I want to let my light shine into the darkness around me instead of complaining about it. I want to nurture a family culture of peace and love so that when we feel overwhelmed by the culture-at-large, we have a safe haven.

A place of protection from the winds that want so badly to blow out our little flames.

And then I want to go back out and shine.

joining the Write It, Girl and Thought Provoking Thursdays communities this week

cafe photo by naggobot
candle/alcove photo by Dave W Clark
Mighty to Save sung by Laura Story

I Once Was Lost

Last week I shared a wee story at Do Not Depart about Nibbles.  You remember Nibbles? Our orphaned tub-dwelling bottle-baby turned adoptee kid goat?

Well, the very first night that sweet Nibbles was left in the field with his brand new mama, things went awry. In the morning when my fabulous hubby, aka The Bard, went to check on the goats, Nibbles was missing. Gone.

The edge of the sun is just peeking over the horizon when the back door slams.

“I can’t find him,” my husband reports. Happily sleeping with the herd last night, one tiny goat has wandered off and is nowhere to be found.

I pull on my boots and a jacket and head out into the chilly morn. Walking the goat field, I carefully check every hollow and corner. Baby goats frolic near their mothers. It has been a good year for kidding.

But there is no sign of our missing baby. The lump in my throat grows as I open the gate to leave the field.

... read the rest of the story here...

For Such a Time As This

I walk across the yard and there is no hiding it. My boots' crunch on crisp grass and soil loudly accompanies my travels. It is so dry and hot here. So many, so very many, things dying.

Yes, the rain was a joy and a blessing and how we soaked it up! But an exceptional drought takes a long time to recover from. It almost seems like it was a dream.

And yet...

By the road a wild lantana... completely untended, never weeded, never watered... it still lives.

Not just lives, but thrives.

This glorious burst of color, this force of life in the midst of drought and heat and death... it is no anomaly. The lantana survives and thrives because it was made for this.

Its roots were made to withstand dry soil. Its leaves were made to withstand scorching sun. Its flowers were made to bring oh so much joy to the heart of this parched farm mama.

I am captivated by the intricacy of the flowers, the incredible variation from stalk to stalk. I find myself on my knees shooting up in order to capture the stunning blue of the sky.

When I look back down I am moved by a tiny spot of red on brown.

Tiny sprinkle of color on dirt and weeds.

Life amongst the lifeless.

O God, You are my God; I shall seek You earnestly; My soul thirsts for You, my flesh yearns for You, In a dry and weary land where there is no water. ~ Psalm 63:1 ~

All photos by Patti Brown

The Wise Woman Builds Her House

This joy thing.  It does not come naturally.

There I stood, hands in a sink of dirty dishes.  Grumbling.  Silent grumbling... turning over grievances, rehearsing rebuttals.

Yet knowing this grumbling is wrong.  What is it in me, Lord, that makes my brain fill with stinkin' thinkin'? 

The wise woman builds her house,
But the foolish tears it down with her own hands.

It breathed into my brain.  My grumbles paused as I tripped over something new in that well-worn passage.  She builds her house.  Not... she built her house then sat smugly back to survey her domain.  No... she builds.  She is doing.  She keeps doing.

She doesn't stop.

There it is.  The thing that makes me grumbly.  It never stops.  I don't mean the dishes (although their perpetuity elicits grumbles at times as well).

Building my house, my family, my legacy... it never stops.  Seeing my own sin... it never stops.

Having to grow, to try, to ask forgiveness... to start again... it never stops.

There is no resting on laurels.

Funny, a few months back I stumbled over the present tense in another scripture.   He makes the barren woman a joyful mother of children.  He never stops. 

Did I mention?  This joy thing.  It does not come naturally.

Grumbling yes.  But the joy?  Only grows when I give the grumbling over.  When I lay it down at His feet and give thanks.

Like a bud deep within me it waits, needing living water to grow and bloom.  And I hold the handle to the door that lets the Gardener in.

No, it does not come naturally.  It is nothing but a gift when I sense the creaking of unfolding petals.  The melting of snow.

He is making ALL things new.  And He never stops.


scriptures ~ Proverbs 14:1, Psalm 113:9, Revelation 21:5
photo credit ~ Karen Miller

Gleaning Hope in Genealogy

Ruth in the Fields by Hugues Merle 1876

I'm reading through the gospel of Matthew this month.  Matthew starts with 17 verses of genealogy... not usually the most inspiring part of the bible, eh?  But by the time I was at verse 16 I was rejoicing!

A quick glance at the record of the 42 generations sweeping from Abraham to Jesus reveals men.  Lots of men.  But sprinkled amongst the men are a few women, women who were notable enough to garner a mention. 

These are Jesus' female ancestors.  His mother, yes, but also great great great (etc!) grandmothers...

Tamar
Rahab
Ruth
Bathsheba
Mary

Each one of these women, from a worldly perspective, was an outcast or a failure in some way.

Tamar tricked her father-in-law by pretending to be a prostitute, and conceived their son Perez.

Rahab was a prostitute who hid Israeli spies.*

Ruth was not born a Jew but was a convert, a remarkable inclusion given that Jewish descent is passed through the mother.**

Bathsheba cheated on her husband Uriah and had an affair with King David.  David had her husband killed off then married her.

Mary was pregnant before she was married.

I look at these women and I rejoice!  I rejoice because He makes all things new.  He takes our humanness, our brokenness, and from it He brings life.  He knows our situation and He sees our hearts.

Tamar longed for a child but had been denied proper treatment according to custom after she was widowed.  Rahab recognized the Israelites' God as the one true God and honored Him.  Ruth chose to honor God by remaining faithful to her mother-in-law, and converted to Judaism.  Bathsheba was punished for her sin by the death of her infant, but her husband's repentance and God-loving heart allowed for their son Solomon to continue the family line toward Jesus.  Mary was a servant-hearted young woman who joyfully accepted the stunning news that she would bear the Son of God.

God saw their hearts.  He did not look at outward things.  They were human, broken, but He used them for His good purposes.

Reading Matthew 1 I felt like Ruth gleaning in the fields... the genealogy parts of the bible almost seem like the leftover not-so-important bits, and yet right there was nourishment and life!

Remembering that Jesus' grandmothers were broken just like me brings me hope.

What hope has God breathed into your brokenness lately?

* There seems to be disagreement as to whether or not the Rahab listed in Matthew is the same as the Rahab in Joshua.  There is reasonable evidence that she was not.  One does wonder, though, why a previously unmentioned woman would show up in Jesus' genealogy.
** For a dissenting view on Ruth and Rahab, see Rahab & Ruth: Who Were They?
"Ruth in the Fields" image is in the public domain

Being intentional has made me more bold... and more blessed...

Day 75.

Three quarters done.

Ten weeks, five days.

Two and a half months of thinking thinking... how can I bless someone today?

It's funny, I feel nervous as the end approaches.  A sense of but there's so. much. more I want to do.

And there is so much more to be done.

Our is a mad mad world filled with suffering, yet all throughout the pain there twists this ribbon of hope.  Love kindled by beauty in the ashes, beauty in turn kindled by love... ours is to see the hurt and reach out with our hands of love to offer balm.

Fleeting balm, yes.  We can never end the suffering.  But He can.  He has.

All around me, I see beautiful precious children, His own beloved.  All He asks is for me to love them.  When I stop, when I rest quiet and try to hear, His whisper grows louder. 

A whisper of call her.  A tickle in my heart write a letter.  A nudge make a meal.

It just takes saying yes.  And the more I say yes, the more whispers I hear.  And the more whispers I hear, the bolder I become.  Helping strangers, taking risks.

Deeper and wider.

Reaching out further, into places I fear, but must go.  Reaching in deeper, into places so tender, which must grow.

And the question needs asking... who is blessed most by this giving?  Is it not me?

Please, don't wait to reach out

 

Wednesday afternoon.  That time of day when my energy is low, and I need to be getting in the kitchen to start dinner.  Just a little down time first, I think, just a minute, and log in to facebook.

Skimming over the news feed, my eye trips on the first line of an old friend's status...

Lost a dear friend today but rejoicing that he is with our Lord.

My heart stops, then a thump of panic.  No, not... but I read on, and my worry turns to sorrow.

I read the words over and over.

was so kind
I will miss him
lost a dear friend today
with our Lord

I stare at the screen.  My throat is squeezing tighter and my heart is flopping like a fish on land.  Because it happened.  What I have feared for three years happened.

I have lost a dear friend.  Who was so kind.  And I will miss him.

But I didn't tell him.  I didn't even know he was sick.

My disconnect from this kind Texan gentleman, who took two wide-eyed young Yankees under his wing long ago, was bitter fruit of a painful parting from my beloved church home three years ago.

Shall I bore you with a theological treatise on the problems of church schism?  Shall I unload the grief of that parting here?  Like an old scar, that scab has fallen off now, the wound part of the shaping of this child more into the image of her Holy Daddy.

Behold, he makes all things new.  What the enemy intended for evil God has worked for good.  And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him.*

I did not wish it to be as it was, but the circumstances were beyond my wishes.  I did not wish it to impact relationships, but life has a way of making one choice ripple out like water and cause even small things to bob.  And some to float away.

My dear friend whose post brought me sad news is one of those we left, but she, and many others from that time in our life, comfortably navigate social media, and we have reconnected through facebook.

Our departed friend was 78.  His was the world of face-to-face.  But we lived an hour away from each other.  I wasn't going to run into him in the grocery store.

Why didn't I call him?  I can't answer that question.  I hadn't forgotten him.  I thought of calling many times.

If I drill down deep in my heart, I find there something worrisome.  It is a fear.  I think it might be named Rejection.  I turn that idea over in my mind and wonder how that could be.  Never once did he do anything even hinting at it.  Yet time and pain have a way of wrapping things together that I don't quite understand.

And in the center of that fear are lies...

not good enough

and

forgettable

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Saturday morning.  I am driving alone in my van to the city.  As the minutes tick by, I find myself feeling a growing sense of dread.  Soon I will be at the memorial service.  Will I be able to hold myself together?  Will I be able to hold myself up?

As I turn into the parking lot I catch a glimpse of the back of a not-seen-for-three-years head and my hands begin to shake.  I draw a breath and it comes jagged, catching in a constricting throat.  Why is this happening?  Why can't I just be calm?

I park and pray and try to reason with myself.  Be sensible.  Be calm.

It doesn't work.  I pick up the phone and dial my prayer partner, my spiritual EMT.  With gentle yet strong words she settles the oxygen mask of prayer on me and I begin to breathe normally again.

I take up my bible, clutched between crossed arms like an old teddy bear, and walk to the front door.  I begin to see familiar faces.  I exchange quiet hugs.  And then I see his beloved.

I walk over to her, inexplicably nervous.  I put my hand on her arm and she turns.

Patti!  she says, a smile brightening her tired face.  And I know that I am welcome.  We exchange brief words, I lean in to hug her, and she whispers I never forgot you.

I am shaking now.  My hands trembling, my eyes overflowing.  Through a blur I race to the bathroom where my whole body shudders with sobs.  I am a muddle of emotion...

grief... joy... pain... love...

I pray, and amazingly, there is where I leave my tears.  A gift of grace allows me to walk back, with my red nose and eyes, and sit calmly through the service.  It is a time of remembering.  Remembering our friend, and remembering what God's word says about his forever life.  Singing "Amazing Grace"...

When we've been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we've no less days to sing God's praise than when we'd first begun.

After the service, there is a reception.  Friends and family members gathering to reminisce and to catch up.   A swirl of people.  Repeated questions:  How ARE you?  Still way out there on the farm?  How are the kids?

It is love.  So much love.

I sit with older friends and talk and listen.  I hear about frustrations, being stuck at home, not being able to drive, missing grandchildren.

And I realize they are afraid of being forgettable too.

I grab that thought with both hands.  My heart cries "I will not forget them!" I ask if we can come visit.  I make sure that the whirling blur that is my young family will not overwhelm.  I confirm phone numbers, emails, addresses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Later, at home, I worry that the rushing current of life will distract me from doing what I feel an urgent need to do.  So I look at the calendar, pick dates, write emails, make plans.

The current never stops.  It just gets faster.

Hear my story, friends.  Let its truth sink into your heart.  Time is passing.  Your love is needed.

Please, don't wait.

Don't forget.  The days are short.


*Revelation 21:5, Genesis 50:20, Romans 8:28
photo credit bjwebbiz

You can't do it all

I have been blessed with a full life.  We have a little homestead, and we educate our children at home.  We eat mostly from scratch and try to involve ourselves in ministry when possible.  I like to write, knit, sing, entertain visitors, read, and more.

I am periodically asked by non-homeschoolers, or people who don't live out in the country, "How do you do it all?" 

The answer is simple.   I don't!

For one thing, I often don't do it all at once.  There are times when I am intensely focused on homestead-related projects (especially in the spring), and times when the garden is woefully neglected or even non-existent because my focus is on school.  I rarely pick up my knitting between March and September.  We have begun to understand the rhythm of the year and don't try to do everything all the time.

For another, my house is less than pristine.  I am schedule-challenged... I am not one of those women who has the house running like clockwork, meals at a specific time (and punctual), no-compromise bedtimes.  I often fantasize of a perfect life with a perfect schedule.  A nicely paced schedule, a little done on each task each day.  Repeatedly I've tried to translate my fantasies into reality by implementing The New Perfect Schedule and repeatedly I have forgotten to watch the clock, or even look at the list.

Most importantly, people come first.  There have been times when I have had to take a deep breath and make a conscious decision to set my agenda aside, and seize the moment to have a heart to heart with a questioning child.  Or to spend hours addressing a character issue.  Or to listen to and pray for a burdened friend.  Many tasks are left undone when you make people the priority.

I have a friend who is amazingly successful at keeping her large homeschooled family on schedule.  Her house is always tidy, her schedule always intact.  In addition to this, she cooks from scratch and enjoys crafting.  I try to glean ideas from her when I can.  I am in awe of this mom.  Yet recently, I learned that she feels like she spends more time cleaning the house than enjoying her children. This is something she wants to change.

I have another friend who has a lovely tidy home, very well behaved children, and has designed a rigorous and amazing educational program for her children.  Another inspirational mother.  Yet she is yearning for a heart connection with her children that she feels is missing.

These two women, both of whom I love and admire greatly, may be different from me, yet, like me, they want more.  They see that something in their life is not as they want it to be, even though to me, looking in from outside, it looks perfect.

Two things come to mind.

The first is obvious... you just can't judge a book by its cover.   You can't truly know what is in a person's heart by looking at how she orders her life.  And you shouldn't even try (have a look at Matthew 7:1-2).

The second is more subtle.  None of us can do it all.  But each of us has God-given strengths that are blessings.

We are called to do our absolute best and that will look different for each of us.  There is great danger in comparing our lives to others'.  I would go so far as to say we can fall into the sin of coveting (one of the Ten Commandments!) if we don't guard our minds in this area.

It's not that we should be complacent, or wallow in our failings.  It is not okay for me to say "I am just a messy person."  I have a responsibility to try to figure out a better way to manage the details, not only to bring greater peace into our home, but also because my children need to know how to develop habits that will bring peace to their own lives now, and as adults.

However, we need to keep our flaws in perspective.  I have a tendency to look at my life as if through a telescope, bringing certain issues into great focus (and magnification) and leaving the rest to be obscured by that black perimeter.  For me this can become self-defeating... if I focus intensely on, and become discouraged by, my weaknesses, I become less able to function well in the areas which come naturally to me.  If I panic about a messy room and start fussing at my children, I put pressure on the heart connections that we have already built.  When my children look back on their childhoods, a grouchy mother will be more memorable than a cluttered school room.  And I'd prefer to not be storing grouchy-mama-memories up in my children.

We just can't do it all, mamas, but we can trust that God knew what He was doing when He gave each of us our children.  We can also be grateful that because of our imperfections, our children will have one more reason to know that they need a Savior.  We will make mistakes.  We will hurt their feelings. 

Hear it again.

You can't do it all.  

Do what you do best, with all your heart.  Don't compare yourself to the other mothers around you.  They are struggling too.  And join me in offering your failings to God to be redeemed.  When He does, you and I and everyone who loves us will know that it was God's miraculous hand.  And He will be glorified!

Masking Tape

{Mumble mutter} {Mumble mutter}

Busily focused on the task at hand, it took a moment before my brain caught up with my ears enough to discern the slow whisper of "Mas...king...tape.  Mas...king...tape."

I looked up to see Little Warrior, walking toward me, his face fixed in earnest concentration, repeating those words over and over.  When he caught my eye he said, "Papa said to ask you if we have any masking tape."

"We do," I smiled.  "Was it hard to remember those words?"

"Yes!" he said wide-eyed.

As I walked to retrieve the tape I thought how very like myself he is.  The words I often find hard to remember are not so much difficult sounding words, but words I have a hard time believing.  Words like "The LORD, the LORD, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness" (Exodus 34:6).

Why should I have such a hard time believing this?  God's compassion to me all my life shouts this out.  Yet I still wait for judgment, for anger.

And those are words God himself actually spoke to Moses!

To my amazement, I discovered recently that this statement occurs not once, not twice, but nine times in the Old Testament.  Nine times!  And not just in one book; it is spoken in Exodus, Numbers, Nehemiah, Psalms, Joel, Jonah and Nahum.

Oh how I must whisper these words over and over to remember them... The LORD, the LORD, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.

Oh yes... whisper them... masking tape them to my heart.

photo credit