When people describe Jesus as a guy who loved hanging out with sinners and those on the margins, I think they’re right. As long as it’s understood that it had purpose.

Yes, he had some characters around him, and they certainly weren’t perfect. The difference between those guys and “the sinner,” is simply a matter of direction.
This is where we seem to have difficulty in much of our modern social justice and evangelism. 

We want to reach out to those in need (whatever that need is), to be kind, to be loving, to be inclusive, but often we do so at the expense of the truth.

The truth is that Jesus did, in fact, spend time with sinners, with the most despised people of His day. He loved them and we should, too.

But, when He did so, the invitation was clear: He was inviting them to come follow him, to go where he was going and do what he was doing – to build the Kingdom he was building – and it would cost them something. They must change their direction.

He was, and still is, asking, “Are you gonna go my way?” (to quote Lenny Kravitz)

He asked everyone to repent – which literally means, to change directions. That’s the invitation. He’s doing something new, something better, will we join him?

The invitation was never for him to change his direction and go with people into what they were doing, into their sin, into their way of life. He comes to transform our ways.

We love the story about the woman caught in adultery, because it’s such a picture of mercy. I’ve noticed people have begun referencing it to show how kind Jesus was, but without his last words to the woman:

“Go and sin no more,” or in another version, “go and leave your life of sin.”

Jesus said he didn’t condemn her AND told her to leave her life of sin.

Those are really important words, y’all. They may not be popular words, but that’s no surprise. We can’t leave that out or we aren’t giving a real invitation into new life.

We will all continue to fail and yes, we will sin, fall short, struggle with things, or whatever you wish to call it. The question is are we falling down while traveling the road behind Him?

That’s the issue.

 He never stops reaching toward even the “worst” of us, His hand is always outstretched, His love never fails. 

But, this is what He’s asking:

Are you gonna go my way?

[This post, from my old blog, was in my FB memories today. I wrote it a year after Summer passed away. Many of us will have this experience at some point with a loved one. I’m still touched by the tender words of Charles Spurgeon and the experience I had – it was an awful goodness that has marked me permanently in ways that are hard and beautiful. So much about faith seems paradoxical, on this side, doesn’t it? Today, I don’t wallow in sorrow. I celebrate the memories and rejoice that she has crossed the finish line. I am bringing it over to Brazen Joy mostly for me – to keep it within close reach.]

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His faithful servants – Psalm 116:15

It was on this day, one year ago, that I got in the car to drive to Birmingham with Lori and her family. I had driven to Birmingham with Lori many times before to visit Summer while she was receiving treatments and then while she was in the hospital the last couple of months.

This trip had a very different feel. No laughing or stopping for Doritos Locos tacos or Fruit and Maple oatmeal.

This time we knew we were going to say goodbye. It was time for our sister, our friend, to go Home to her Daddy. I personally had never been in a situation like that and haven’t really lost anyone I was very close to and lived life with. I had no idea what to expect, what to say or how I would react.

(I’m writing this in a public coffee shop. I find I’m having to stop after every sentence to look around and distract myself so I don’t burst into tears)

When we got there, Summer was not awake, so I didn’t get to speak to her directly. Though I wish I could have said goodbye, I trust that I said everything I needed to say in the months and weeks prior. Honestly that moment wasn’t about me at all. She didn’t have a need to hear from me. It was I who felt the need to make sure she knew certain things and that I loved her.

Anyway, the next day and a half is a time I will treasure for the rest of my life. I can’t fully grasp the mind of the Lord, but I feel like I tasted what it means for the death of His faithful servants to be precious.

Now, hold on…I’m not saying the fact that she left this world too soon was precious. No. That? Well…it sucks. Big time.

What I mean is that I count that time spent as the highest privilege (outside of raising my own children) I’ve ever had. To have been able to sit and hold her hand, to sing (I’m sorry, Summer – I’m not a good singer), to pray, to be silent and just be present is so precious to me. I had made a promise to stay with her to the end of her journey. Whether the journey ended in physical healing or in her homegoing. It was mostly a statement of friendship and loyalty, but I was literally able to be there to the end.

Charles Spurgeon said this about Psalm 116:15:

“The Lord watches over their dying beds, smooths their pillows, sustains their hearts, and receives their souls. Those who are redeemed with precious blood are so dear to God that even their deaths are precious to him.”

What a sweet image of a loving God, a loving Father, caring for His child. It’s what I saw taking place in the room, literally, in people caring for her and wanting to be sure she was comfortable. Sheets were smoothed, pillows adjusted and feet rubbed. And it’s what I felt in the peaceful and sweet atmosphere.

(I have now vacated the coffee shop to retreat to the safety of my car)

Y’all, I don’t know how to explain the mixture of sadness and joy. It’s a paradox. It’s indescribable but I felt it. Those hours are so special to me that I almost don’t want to let you into them. It’s not like I was the only person there…there were many people present. But it’s a sacred thing that Jeremy and her family let me into. I am deeply grateful to them for it. I want to protect it somehow. Is that weird? Probably.

When she finally left this world there was a flood of emotion and surprisingly much of it was joy. The grief came, believe me, and it hit like a brick wall. But right then it was a precious thing to know her incredible suffering had ended and she had safely arrived home, into the presence of a loving God.

She crossed the finish line.

And I was there. It’s probably the closest I have ever felt to the Lord. You see, this isn’t the kind of precious we use to talk about a little girl in a cute outfit. It’s the kind that stands at attention, that holds its breath, that’s fixated on someone so valued and so special and handles her with great care.

It’s not the death that’s precious. It’s the saint.

The last year has been a roller coaster of emotion and memory, but I hold to the thought of her with Him, interceding for us, even now, just like she did in life.

And she is whole. And that is, indeed, precious.

This post is one I’ve been working on for a while, mentally. Recently these events came back to mind with details I had forgotten, and with new relevance and understanding, so I felt it was time to write it all down. 

I’m not sure why I feel compelled to share this story, but I’m venturing into it, nonetheless. I’ve never written anything quite this personal, and I almost fear it’s too much, in parts. 

I know my experience is not unique and if any of you are sensitive to talk of miscarriage or are longing to become pregnant, you might want to skip this one. I tried not to be graphic, but it comes close, at times. 

In November of 2000, I found out I was pregnant. It was very unexpected because Dave was still in pharmacy school and we were trying not to become pregnant again just yet.

Despite that I was excited from day one. I told a few people and began imagining what it would be like to be a mother of two kids. Would it be a boy or a girl? What would we name him or her? 

I took a black and white photo of a bun sitting in our oven and gave it to my parents, to tell them we were expecting. It really was cute,  if I do say so myself.

A few weeks later, on a Friday morning, I was at work and I began having the tiniest bit of spotting. I went into panic mode and called the doctor. They told me to keep a watch on it.

It continued throughout the day and when I called again, the nurse basically said, “It’s the weekend. If you are miscarrying there isn’t anything that can be done about it this early in the pregnancy, so just wait it out.” It felt like she was saying, “Look, it’s Friday and I’m ready to go home. This thing that’s happening is inevitable so I’m not wasting my time on it.”

I was pretty upset by her callous way with me. What she said was true, but it wasn’t helpful. I thought she sounded like a woman who had been at her job a little too long because she had lost her compassion. I wanted to call back and suggest she find a new occupation, among other things I might have wanted to say. I didn’t say anything at all, though, except, “Okay.”

I went through the whole weekend trying to go on as usual, trying to not to panic. Monday morning is when I finally, fully miscarried the baby. It happened in the bathroom.

At that point, I began swinging wildly back and forth between what I call “clinical mode” and emotional turmoil. I’d begin thinking logically about how this clearly wasn’t a viable pregnancy and I knew from my genetics class that it’s very common, so this wasn’t unusual or a big deal. 

Then I’d think about the contents of my womb which were now in the toilet and I wondered what I would do, because I could never flush it again. How could I flush it away?

Thankfully (I think) I was instructed to gather what I could from the toilet bowl and bring it in to the doctors office, so they could determine whether I had completely evacuated the pregnancy and whether I’d need a D&C. 

I walked into that office alone, with a ziploc bag hidden inside a brown bag, hidden inside my purse, and tried to act nonchalant. Thankfully, the doctor didn’t feel I needed a D&C and I was sent home to rest.

Before I left the doctor told me that he could tell I was a very low key person, so next time I really needed to speak up for myself and demand attention. He promised to talk with the nursing staff so nobody else would be left to wonder and suffer over a weekend, without being seen, the way I was. I was grateful for the way he validated my experience.

I continued to vascillate between clinical mode and my emotions and never could get the contents of the ziploc bag out of my mind. After several days, I called the lab to ask for it back, because I knew someone who worked there. Yes, I really did that. I couldn’t bear the idea that my lost child would be disposed of without being acknowledged. I don’t know if I ever told anybody I did that. 

She let me know that they didn’t find any signs of life in there, which partly gave me relief and partly made me think I was crazy for grieving something that maybe never really existed (it did exist, I wasn’t thinking straight).

Due to circumstances and schedules, I was alone for most of the day. An older friend checked on me a few times, and offered to meet me at the doctor’s office, but I declined because I didn’t want to make a big deal or inconvenience her. 

Really, I didn’t think I could hold it together if she showed up. I did end up going to her house for a bit, but I felt like I was on the spot – expected to feel a certain way, respond a certain way, say certain things. I ended up going home to an empty house to try to rest. 

On one hand I was kind of glad to be alone. I wasn’t used to sharing hard feelings with anyone. In my life I rarely gave voice to my pain. For one thing I learned that weakness is like blood in the water – just like a shark, a bully can sniff it out and will make you his or her next meal. For another, it was simply too uncomfortable to be seen as needy. I believed that people don’t like needy.

Sometimes people just don’t know how to show up and sometimes it’s plain awkward. To be in the presence of others when I’m in pain is hard for me – probably for most of us.

On the other hand I was really angry that I was alone. I had to go to the doctor’s office alone and go back home alone and recover alone.

In medicine there’s the concept of staying ahead of the pain. It just means you had better medicate yourself before the pain has a chance to set in because if you don’t it can be difficult to manage it, or make it go away. 

That works really well with physical pain, but when it comes to issues of the heart, it’s better to let the pain come and deal with it head on. If we don’t it will just keep coming back until we do. It will manifest in different ways until we address it, until we agree to feel it, and grieve it out. 

On that day in November, I opted to try to stay ahead of it. As I lay in bed I couldn’t fall asleep, so I turned on the TV as a distraction. 

Before long a commercial came on for the Black & Decker Scumbuster. Basically, it was a power tool for cleaning. You need to know that I have a deep love for power tools and my go to distraction when I’m hurting is shopping. I want some little something to numb myself – it need not be expensive, just new. 

As I watched the commercial and saw all the magical things it could do, I knew I had to have it. The last thing I needed to do was shop (I needed to stay off my feet) but I grabbed my purse and keys and headed to Sears, because I figured they’d have the Scumbuster on the shelves. I did not have time to order from a 1-800 number. I needed my bandaid right then. 

I walked into Sears, sure I would find it, but it was not there. I searched the aisles to no avail. 

And that’s when I broke. 

They didn’t have my Scumbuster, there was no bandaid, and all the pain from the past four days came up to the surface. I quickly left the store before making a scene, but finally began to fall apart in the car. 

It was good. It was needed.

Unfortunately, after that, I managed to package it all back up and it was months before I let it out again. Clinical mode took over. 

This story is a prime example of how I’ve gone through life, trying to dodge pain, trying to keep it inside, trying to appear strong. That was a day I should have been free to fall apart, but no. 

I’m forever trying to stay ahead of pain, but that leads to a shut down heart. It’s been said that we can’t numb one part of ourselves, without numbing everything. 

I do all that despite the fact that I also have a deep desire to be known and loved for everything I really am. Sometimes when you’re known you aren’t loved. And that’s the risk.

I wish I had been able to ask for what I needed from people in that situation. 

I wish I had said, “Yes, I need you here with me.” 

I wish I had said, “I need to see the doctor today. I need help. I need you to pay attention to me. Your bedside manner sucks, get another job.” 

I wish I had even known what I needed, to be able to ask for it. I wish I had been able to sit and feel the feelings right then and there, for as long as it took. 

Trying to keep ourselves busy or distracted so we don’t feel doesn’t make pain go away. It only prolongs the inevitable and makes us sick. 

The pathway through is to go through. 

I wish I could say I was much better at this today than I was then. At the time I had no idea how to engage with the Lord in situations like this. That’s one area in which I’ve grown. I’ve learned to listen and learned to sense His love and compassion. 

What I haven’t gotten much better at is asking for what I need and being honest about my feelings. It’s vulnerable to express a deep need because what if it isn’t met? What if the person doesn’t show up? What if he or she blows me off? What if I’m just being selfish or whiny? What if I end up feeling that I don’t really matter? 

This is where I am right now. This is what’s front and center for me. It’s the heart of relationship: honesty and true communication – good, bad and ugly. 

One thing I know for sure is that I was made for community. I was made for relationship and that’s one of the primary vehicles God uses to heal us. 

Relationship requires vulnerability. It requires an, often, uncomfortable level of openness. The question is, am I willing to do it? Do I want everything I’m meant to have? Am I willing to work on me so I can be there for others?

I believe meaningful relationships are what we need most outside of the grace of God. In fact, it takes his grace, his empowerment, to do it and do it well. It’s hard to live a wholehearted life alone. We were never meant to try. 

•••

What about you? Is this hard for you? Are you able to show who you really are to the people in your life? Are you willing to let yourself be loved? Are you willing to ask for what you need? (If you’ve got it figured out, let me know, teach me your ways!)

Scrolling through FB, I realize I’ve got a lot of young mom/new mom/soon-to-be mom friends – so many new precious babies!! Kind of makes me want one, but as my kids said, I don’t have a baby house inside me anymore. I digress 😉

To the point…

One thing I decided when I was caring for three babies/toddlers/preschoolers all at once (plus a teenager), is that I think we are doing it wrong as a culture. Maybe not wrong, but not as right as we could. So many of us moms are kind of lone rangers out here, trying to figure everything out for ourselves, wearing ourselves out trying to keep it all together – some by choice, some by circumstance.

Throughout the centuries kids have been raised in communities of women: mamas, aunts, grandmamas, great grandmamas, sisters, friends, neighbors. Now, a lot of us live far away from family, far away from people in the same stage of life or we isolate ourselves purposely.

If I could offer one [unsolitcited] piece of advice to young moms, it would be to take every bit of help you can get. If someone you know and trust offers help, the answer is, “Yes, thankyouverymuch.” Be careful of the pressure to be independent or to know what you’re doing. You probably won’t sometimes.

If you’ve got trustworthy, healthy family nearby and they are willing to participate, you are blessed. If not, I’d find someone to mother you in your mothering. Find some other moms and see what works for them. Don’t reinvent the wheel – learn from the successes and failures of others. Ask lots of questions and when you’re struggling, reach out to someone. 

There’s no reason to go it alone, if it’s within your grasp to do otherwise – in my humble opinion, of course. Community is just so very helpful in this wonderful, challenging, delightful, tiring, thing called motherhood.

Okay, that’s all. Carry on. You’ve probably got a diaper to change, anyway. 

​At some point in my life I gave up on the idea of hope. Well, sort of. It’s more that I gave up expressing or acknowledging my hopes. I didn’t want it to be known that I had my hopes up for something. I suppose I still wished for things, hoped for them, but I’d be danged if I would say so. 

I remember the moment when I officially decided not to say out loud, or indicate in any way by facial expression or other subtlety, that, yes, I actually wanted a thing. Sixth grade, Mrs. Quinn’s class (I think): three kids who came to be the ruin of my entire sixth grade year, asked me if I wanted to join their club. I was skeptical but thought maybe they were being nice. I went back and forth in my mind, smiled, but said I didn’t know. I didn’t trust them enough to commit. 

And I was thankful a short while later, when I found out the club was People Against Ashley Roper. I don’t think it was an actual thing, with actual members. It was just a few mean kids with nothing better to do than pick on me. I’m certain they’re all lovely, mature, humans today, though. 

That absolutely affirmed to me that I would not, should not, look too excited or hopeful when some carrot was dangled in front of me. I’d just end up looking like an idiot. I was going to be too smart for that.

That idea carried into all the areas of life where opportunities could present themselves: job interviews, contests, awards; anywhere I could be recognized for something, win something, be invited somewhere, receive a gift – I took on a low key approach. Don’t look too excited and for heavens sake don’t actually say or imply you want the thing. It was just a way to protect myself from looking foolish, even if I still felt foolish. 

It seemed stupid to get my hopes up for something just have them crash later. 

I first recognized it as a problematic way of thinking about 16 years ago, when I had a miscarriage. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I actually felt stupid for getting my hopes up for this baby, only to have the pregnancy end. This is not a thing to feel stupid about, but it inhibited my ability to grieve because I was talking myself out of it being a big deal. I was alone throughout most of the day it happened, which only increased my need to “buck up, buttercup.” If it’s not a big deal to others, it’s not going to be a big deal to me, either.

Still, other women knew it was a real loss and were there to help me process. Except I wasn’t processing. I felt pressured both not to feel and to feel. I don’t know about you, but I don’t respond well to pressure. Nothing shuts me down like pressure to be or to feel a certain way.

Eventually I did allow myself to feel the loss and the grief, but it took a few months – years, really. 

I say all this to say that I know sometimes hope feels foolish. When we experience disappointments or heartbreak over dashed hopes, desires and expectations, it’s easy to let our hope muscles atrophy. But, we are made for hope and to look for better days and fulfilled desires. 

There are no guarantees in life. We really can’t always get what we want. But I believe the deepest needs and desires of our hearts can be met. One of the things I’ve been learning over the past few years, through trial and suffering, is that our hope can’t be placed in circumstances, ultimately. 

Our hope has to come to rest in God. In Christ. We shouldn’t give up praying and asking for the the things we want. We should continue to turn our attention toward Jesus, to know Him in our suffering and longing. The hard thing to accept is that pain is a part of the human experience, right alongside joy. Our culture, in particular, is very uncomfortable with that. We feel we ought to be immune.

But we aren’t immune. One of the greatest things for us to do is to connect with other people when we are suffering. I believe it is a God ordained prescription for getting through life – shared joy and shared pain. Deep, real, friendship can heal our hearts. 

We need to let people in to those places and we need to get really good at sitting with one another’s pain without trying to fix it, one up their troubles with our own, or apply a quick band aid bible verse before we run off to something more comfortable. 

It’s when we hide our hurts or hopes or fears that we’re most open to being overcome by the pain. Relationships are essential. It’s not easy, but let’s not hide. We need each other. 

It’s really a return to innocence, to the untainted heart of childhood, where joy, pain and hope all roam free. 

Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Romans 12:9‭-‬10‭, ‬12‭, ‬15 ESV

Those who plant in tears will harvest with shouts of joy. They weep as they go to plant their seed, but they sing as they return with the harvest. Psalms 126:5‭-‬6 NLT

This morning my mind was on this passage from the Psalms. I’ve heard it a thousand times and somehow never really understood the picture it’s painting.

It’s found in a joyful song/prayer about the Hebrew people returning to Jerusalem after a long captivity. Mingled with that joy were tears because of the losses experienced. The farmer must now make his land fruitful again, and so he plants his seeds in grief. The hope here is that though losses have been incurred, if he will plant anyway, there will be a harvest. There will be restoration, there will be joy and laughter again.

As I thought about that my thinking shifted, somehow, and I remembered that it was exactly four years ago today that I had a hysterectomy. Time flies. 

Then I realized it was when I was in recovery from surgery that Lori called and told Dave that she was on her way to the hospital because Summer was in distress. She might not make it. 

I was so mad at myself because I had a feeling that something would happen while I was incapacitated by this surgery. I had already put it off a month so I could possibly be useful to Summer after her surgery in August, but decided to go ahead with it. She pulled through that day, but that’s when they put her on the ventilator and she never came off of it.

I don’t want to rehash all of that, though. I’m just taking you for a ride on my train of thought. It’s what was going on in my head alongside the verses about sowing in tears and reaping in joy. This time of year always takes me back through those last few months of her life.

To tie these things together with a neat little bow and to get to the purpose of the train ride…

Sunday morning we went to the service of a new church that’s meeting in a middle school gym. It took me back to our early days at Church of the Highlands, when we met in the old furniture store. Those are some of my favorite memories. My closest friendships came out of that place.

During worship I remembered how Summer was always on the front row and how she gave her whole heart when she sang to God. It’s like nobody else was around. 

Then I felt sad. I felt sad because I had this thought: she died with my secrets. She knew me inside and out – it’s not always easy to build that kind of friendship – and now she isn’t here. The person who knew me, who I knew, who I had done the work with, was gone. 

I was comforted with the knowledge that I am fully known by my father in heaven, but we all have a desire to be known in meaningful friendships (and I do have some amazing friends, so y’all don’t think I’m discounting you – you understand what I’m saying here, I think).

As I thought about all of that I was hit with a new idea. I looked around and realized that though this place felt familiar, it felt like our home church in Alabama, I am not the same person. I’m very different than I was when I first walked into that furniture store.

Summer was one of the first people I met at Highlands, but it took a long time to build the friendship we had because of all the baggage I was carrying. It was a lot of work to get where we were at the end and I still regret that I was so closed off for so long. 

But, over the last few years, through many painful situations, through a lot of tears, I’ve been refined. I’m changed. In the midst of grieving losses, in painful circumstances, I’ve sown seeds with tears falling into the soil, and I’ve come out better for it. The Lord has refined me through it. I’ve learned that it’s through pain that we gain the most valuable things.

As I realized that I’m different I was filled with thankfulness and hope. I’ve got the opportunity to build new friendships, better relationships, to engage with people, to serve, to love, from a much stronger place – from a more open place.

In several areas of my life I see restoration on the horizon. Though losses have been incurred there will be joy and laughter again.

I think I’m on the verge of a harvest and, for that, I’m filled with gratitude.

In the beginning God created man and woman. In his very own image he created them. Woman was called “ezer,” in the Hebrew language, and the charge was given to them both to take dominion over the earth. 

And then, they fell. You know the story, so I won’t tell it.

When woman is called Ezer we need to understand what it means. It’s been translated as helper or help meet  (old English I’m sure) but I don’t think that communicates the full meaning. 

In the beginning stood a woman, created in the image of God, capable of taking dominion over the earth, alongside the man. She is not presented as weak or a second string player or one who can’t be trusted. She is shoulder to shoulder with her man. 

They have distinct roles and ways of being and relating, for sure, and each reflects different aspects of God’s character. She is the weaker vessel in the physical sense, but it’s only in our upside down world where muscles and bravado entitle a person to power. That isn’t the way of the Kingdom of God.

The word ezer is used many times in the Old Testament, and many of those times describe God’s working on behalf of his people. It’s when they are in need of rescue, refuge, help, salvation, redemption and deliverance, that He is seen as ezer. 

I don’t dare say women are to do exactly what God is doing, play by play, but I say that to demonstrate that ezer indicates a position of strength, not weakness.

After Adam and Eve fall God tells the woman that her desire will be for her husband and he will rule over her. I’ve heard it said that God wasn’t commanding this curse, but rather, announcing that this would be the result of their sin.

I don’t think it has to be that way. I don’t think it was His plan for us to stay that way, especially once Jesus came to change everything and break through the systems we had created.

I don’t really want to park there too long, though. What I’ve got on my mind today is that I think we, women, need to be reminded of who we were created to be. 

We are God’s image bearers. We are created to be strong, though we are nurturing and tender. It makes me sad to see what history has done, what fallenness has done, to women, and to men. 

I don’t believe men were made to carry the burdens of life alone, to “rule,” alone, and I think one result of women being reduced to sidekick status, is that men carry an inordinate amount of weight on their shoulders.

Women are seen as weak, therefore our emotion and nurture are seen as nice, but weak. Therefore, men aren’t allowed to show those things.

And many women try to run from it, too. To have the ability to feel and experience pain, to empathize, is not weak. Weakness is when we try to escape it, so we don’t have to feel it.

I’ve tried that and it didn’t bring me life. I don’t think I ever felt more alive than when I was crushed with grief and couldn’t get away from it. It was horrible but I knew I was feeling it because I had loved and lived. That’s not weak. 

 I don’t really know where I’m going with this, other than to remind all of us ladies that we were made for more. 

More what? I’m not sure what that means for you, but for me it means I’ve got more strength inside of me than I realize. I am not weak, unless I choose not to tap into the Spirit of God that became available to me when I was born anew in Christ. 

In a moment of overwhelming anxiety today, I felt the assurance that I can do hard things and I can face hard things. I’m not alone. My emotions don’t have to be scary. I can show up as myself. 

I don’t have to put on a performance or try to feel or be what is expected. When I’m faced with my own brokenness I know I can be made whole. I can love and serve in humility, without fear. I can put others first. 

I believe Jesus came to return us to original manufacturer specs. It’s like hitting restore on an iPad – everything added after months or years of use, and misuse, gets removed and it’s wiped clean. It might look a little banged up on the outside, but it’s a fresh start inside.

I’m just not sure we know it. It’s hitting me in a fresh way today that I am Ezer (and thank you Mom and Dad for not actually naming me that). I’m created in the image of God and I carry great potential inside of me whether or not I ever choose to tap into it. 

I want to tap in.