Empty

I don't feel sad, or torn, or burdened, or heavy. Just empty. I've poured out all that I have in only three days, and I'm already tired of driving in the dark of morning, as I leave for work, and the dark of night, as I come back home. Friday, be soon. 

I keep thinking that it would be fine if I just called it a night, and that one day off from writing for the blog wouldn't harm anything at all, and that the four minutes remaining of my computer battery should be a sign to call it a rest. But these are the moments when I need Him the most. When I can lean into Him, and find whatever it is that I need for the day, and be reminded that He never fails me. And be reminded that it's okay to fail sometimes too.

Like when I don't have anything eloquent to say. 

I had to stay awake long enough, though, to say thank you for this day. Thank you for being the "God who sees" and teaching me to see more clearly, too. I am awed by the reality that you spend time with me. How you never leave my side throughout the day. How I have nothing to fear because of you, and how you push me to become someone better than I could ever be on my own. Thank you for this life, and for this day.

Your Light

It's been a long day, but I don't want to shut my eyes for sleep until I write these things down. I don't want the memory of these things to slip away to some place where I cannot find them later. Before leaving the house this morning, I read these words: let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven. 

I know that you are special, Father. I think of this scripture, and I am filled with humility at the thought of your essence, your guiding light, residing in me. As I close my eyes and try to accept what the words mean, I can see that a bright, white light fades away, and that flashes of color begin to pulsate through me instead. It reminds me of what I felt when I read the pages near the back of your book. I used to think you were the most narrow God. Even in color. Even in shape. But your light is like the cosmic bursts that we chase down with our telescopes and satellites in the black of night. Your light is moving, changing, beaming, sparkling, burning, reaching, and much too worthy for me.

Thank you for the pictures you give. The place in my head where you paint things that I'll never be able to put on a page. For intimacy.

Tower Building

After spending two days asking God why He decided to put a halt to the tower building project in Babel, I’m still in conversation with Him. I’m waiting to learn what He meant when He said, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them” (Genesis 11:6). Nothing? The consequence of the Tower of Babel is unfortunate, considering that, even within the bounds of a single language, it seems impossible to make sense these days. For now, though, I’m okay with waiting for answers—with leaving some mysteries unsolved and moving forward.   

Mainly because there is a different part of the story that pulled me in: “Then they said, ‘Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves’” (Genesis 11:4).

I keep thinking about what these words should mean to a person who has been spending her time exposing her private moments with God, writing in an online journal, stacking up the bricks, forming a tower of sorts—or a name for herself? What is my motivation anyways? As I lay brick upon brick, it’s tempting to just keep stacking them up in my mind and to dream of how high they could go. It’s tempting to want the attention for myself. Even if you begin a project with right intentions, there is a fine line that eventually appears between giving the glory to God and keeping it for yourself. Despite the temptations, I try to find myself up against the line, with my feet fully planted on the side where I can remain unseen.

This is why I hesitated in December when I wanted so badly to share the musical project that Eric had worked on all year. Every time I typed up the announcement, I felt I was pushing him over the line, out of the shadow.

Elevating him like an ancient statue.

But I listened to the whole record today, and I can't wait any longer to share it. I overlooked the fact that when Eric was praying about the project, he heard God assuring him that this would be something they would create together. Togetherness is much sweeter than any amount of glory received on the other side of the fine line. 

Follow the link for more information about "Carry Your Name"-
released by A Jesus Church, December 2013:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/carry-your-name/id777133884

As I continue to write this blog, I pray that I will have the strength to keep tower building to a minimum, and the opportunity to be with God—perhaps even to write with Him, as He invited Eric to do this past year.  

Naked Noah

The new quarter begins tomorrow, so I’ve been spending my day typing out last minute ideas, dreaming about first-day-of-class scenarios, tidying up the house, running laundry, and giving Harvard extra snuggles with hopes they will sustain him for the following weeks apart. It’s a bittersweet day.

And in terms of my reading, I stayed awake until 2 am last night, mixing it in with other tasks :)

After the flood, God makes His promise in the form of the rainbow, and then Noah drinks too much wine. He falls asleep naked, and one of his sons discovers him, and shames him; the other two sons walk in backwards to cover their father. It’s a bit odd that this is the first human story since Noah’s family has reached dry land again, but when I look closer, I see parallels to Adam and Eve that might be significant, or maybe I've lost it completely:

• Eve ate the fruit, and Noah drank the wine—despite the flood, there is still sin, even among the most “righteous”.
• Adam and Eve were ashamed of their nakedness, and Noah was too—despite the flood, humans still face the shame of their sin.
• But here comes the subtle difference. In the garden, God created coverings for man and woman; after the flood, Noah’s sons were the ones who covered him.

Is this the first time in the Biblical narrative when mankind has acted in a manner that so clearly echoes the actions of God? Is this the beginning of our journey to become more like Him?

There is a clear split between the son who acted dishonorably towards his father, and the two sons who gave him respect, knowing that Noah had sinned. And I can see now that the actions of these two sons hold more value than just serving to model parental respect. These sons had compassion for their father, and so they covered his shame just as God would have done. At some point along the way, maybe this point, maybe earlier, God’s invitation was accepted, and mankind joined Him in the work of healing and caring for His children. I can hear the voice of God each day—urging me to reach out my heart and my hands to His children, with compassion, no matter the role they have played in their own shame. Reminding me of how cruel it is to say, you made your own bed. Reminding me to forgive my friends and my enemies, and to cover them. Reminding me that sometimes I am the one who is naked and vulnerable and ashamed, in want of compassion. 

In my previous attempts at “finishing” the Bible, I’ve always been annoyed by this story of Noah’s sons. Are you kidding? Why does this matter? Why did the son who saw his naked father become the slave to his other brothers? Sure, he took nudity lightly and dishonored his dad a bit, but come on, is this really the lesson that I’m supposed to learn? How can I keep reading this book and pretend that I like it? I can have such a bad attitude about reading the Bible sometimes, and still, God listens to me rant, waits, leans in, pulls back the veil from my eyes, opens His heart, and starts pointing things out.

I feel lucky to be a part of this story. Tomorrow I will revel in the chances to be compassionate—as God is compassionate.

Why Regret?

(Genesis 6:7) “So the Lord said, ‘I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.” 

To read that God, the Father, “regretted” is one of the most painful moments in the reading of the scriptures. It is a violently, troubling idea. It is an opportunity to reject Him or to love Him more. I stirred in this tension all day yesterday. I prayed, skeptically.

Regretting God, how could you possibly be all knowing? Flooding God, how could you possibly be good? But other, quite opposite, questions arose in me too. Regretting God, why continue with us at all? Why spare even one of us? Flooding God, why didn’t you make the water to put an end to us entirely? Why make us in the first place? A part of me can understand completely why God would regret making us, and that part of me doesn’t understand why a regretting God wouldn’t just deal with the regret entirely—wouldn’t just wipe us out.

I find myself agreeing with Robin William’s character in Patch Adams sometimes: “Maybe you should have had just a few more brainstorming sessions prior to creation. You rested on the seventh day, maybe you should have spent that day on compassion.” Maybe you should have instilled in us, without room for error, the ability to resist the fruit. The avoidance of the fall.

I don’t deal well with regret. I am human, and humans are exceptionally versed in avoiding and rejecting regret. Regret nothing—you only live once! Yet, I think we are bit turned around on this matter. Jesus came to clear us of the burden of guilt, but regret is a human emotion that is reflective and compassionate—an emotion that leads us to take ownership for our actions and to make peace with our past. I can imagine that God, for all that He is, would look upon creation and feel tremendously saddened by all that we have become, and that He would regret how His own hand crafted us into being. In fact, when I really think about this, I can’t imagine Him any other way. For if He is good, He feels to the fullest extent. In Genesis, God regretted making us because He felt responsible for what had become of us, because He loved us; in the flood, perhaps He suffered more than any living creature that was consumed by the waves of His wrath.

I think again about the line from Patch Adams and my own questions, and I realize that God did instill in us compassion and the ability to resist the fall. He gave us all of this when He gave us Himself. But He also gave us freedom—because in order to love, truly, we must be free to give it. In our freedom, we are the ones who committed the regrettable act. We traded everything for the only thing He asked us not to take.

To love, we must be free. Regrettably, awfully, beautifully free.

As I wrote earlier, regret leads us to take ownership and to make peace with our past. Perhaps, therefore, the regret of God in Genesis was necessary to set into motion His great plan; perhaps this was the moment when the entire story flashed before Him. He would suffer as He flooded His creation, He would spare Noah, and all of creation would multiply again through the Ark. Then, in time, He would give His most precious of gifts to us—He would give Jesus. And through Him, every bit of regret would be taken away. Something feels right about that. We’ve always wanted to be free from regret, but catchy sayings and quotes won’t do the trick. The hard part to fathom is that we should have been the ones to feel the pain of regret, to feel the weight of our sin, and yet God took this upon Himself.

Regret is a painful awareness of something that we wish were not so, but perhaps must be. I can’t pretend to imagine what the alternative would have been for God—how things would have been if He had not made us at all. Ultimately, I recognize that we humans are not a mistake. If we were, He would not have given us Himself. He would not have given Noah the Ark. He would not have given us Jesus. He would not have sent His Spirit.

I’m not a scholar. I haven’t done much research. I am sure that I still have so much to learn about the story of the flood and the magnitude of God’s decisions and emotions, but tomorrow, I doubt I’ll regret these hours I’ve spent talking with Him about all of this. Don’t take my word for any of it; take it up with God Himself.

On Fridays

On the seventh day of creation, God rested; on Fridays, the Lemiere family rests, too. We've been doing this since we moved to Vancouver at the end of September last year (that would be 2013). At first, we felt guilty to be resting when there was so much we thought we should be doing, and it was a challenge to decide what to do with our time when we weren't scrambling to squeeze in a bit of work here and there. Now it's starting to feel normal: breakfast, coffee, reading, long walks, games, antiques, groceries, movies, and time with friends. This day changes my entire week. I can honestly feel my heart resting in the calm of the storm, learning how to be in the moment. Tomorrow, I'll be finishing up my class prep for the frenzy of a quarter that I have ahead of me, and I'll write another blog too. Until then, make a break everyone.

Don't let his face fool you. Eric loves Fridays, too! :)

Love & Genealogies

This morning, I woke up with a plan to write about the creativity of God—about how He has the most dynamic landscape of a mind, and how we are reaching for its beauty in every creative, artistic movement we make. I thrive on Genesis because I am reminded of this grand idea of God as an artist: God who painted the skies and engineered the human body. Genesis also gives me a picture of creation beyond humans, as I am reminded of God’s love for all of the creation and the blessing he gives to the animals as well, as he commissions us to care for them—invites us to be creators and shepherds like Him. These are my favorite things to dream about as I read the first book of the Bible.

But something completely unexpected came up this morning when I opened my Bible to read: 

"and if I have faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.” (1 Corinthians 13:2 )

I write a lot about faith, and I talk a lot about it too—but Burt Baccarat said that what the world needs is love, not faith. To be more relevant, the scripture above ends with the lovely exclamation that the “greatest of these is: faith, hope, and love,” so surely they are all important. It’s just that love seems to matter more. Jesus told the Pharisees that the greatest commandments were to love your neighbor as yourself and to love the Lord God with all your heart, soul, and mind. I feel pretty convinced, at this point, that I cannot write off love as an overly talked about subject to be avoided, or something “already covered.”

However, I assume that everyone knows about Jesus’ teachings regarding love, and the many famous—often shared at weddings—scriptures that the authors of the Bible penned. This is surely why so many people can love Jesus, even if they have no desire to know Him. But when we read Genesis, where is the love? Can we find it within Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, or the cursing God? Richard Dawkins claims that the God of the Old Testament is a significantly different, darker God than the hippie Jesus, who may or may not be your homeboy.

It’s true that the first book of the Bible lacks glitz and glam, at times—it’s not the parables, the Sermon on the Mount, or the intense writings of Paul the thinker. And yet, I found something in the least likely of places. As I was reading the genealogies, I found love. Yes, I said genealogies. And what is sweet to me is that these are the parts of the Bible that so often challenge me most in my quest to “finish” the Bible, as I read through them with guilt for wasting my time (hold that thought).

After Cain kills Abel out of envy, Abel’s blood cries out from the ground while Cain lies to the Father about what he has done. God looks upon Cain with tremendous grief—His creation has put to death His creation. The wonder of all that He made, and “it was good”, has collapsed. Cain has killed both his own brother and a part of himself as well, and God must withdraw His presence. But as He does, He marks Cain for Cain’s protection—and to protect God’s other children who might kill Cain and suffer seven times over what Cain has suffered.

The story of Cain is rich. My heart aches as I imagine what God must have felt. How easy it is to see the punishment without looking deeper into the heart of God, and I can’t help but wonder about His heart above all things. I wonder if we often overlook the challenge that the Father has to protect so many of us from things we cannot understand. We think vengeance feels good, and He knows it does not. We think we understand the means to the end justice, but we do not. We have a fractured, imperfect, dangerously flawed understanding of all that we acquired with the fruit of the tree. We think that because God sewed us garments in the garden after we realized we were “naked” that we are suddenly equipped, prepared for all that has come as a consequence of that moment in time. Despite our greatest efforts to muster up courage and wisdom, we can be rather pitiful at times. Yet, love is patient, love is kind… it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs… it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres… Love never fails.

The story of Cain ends, and Adam’s family line begins. I start to feel as if there are other things I should be doing, but then I remember what I wrote about yesterday, and I can feel God sitting with me. The Bible now seems more like a family album. Each name excites the heart of God in a unique way; everything He loves about them rushes to mind, and I can feel that He wants to tell me their stories, or to tell me how He made them and who they are. I imagine that He doesn’t look at me, but at the pages—reminiscing, loving. This is our family. These are His children. My brothers and sisters. I am to love them. My heart feels full as I start to understand, more clearly, how the creator delights in those He has made, each and every one. He is not like me. He does not wander among gravestones in a cemetery with little curiosity for the lives represented. He is burdened as the Father of all, and for each, He gives all of His time and all of His notice. He does not have “better things to do.”

Captain of My Ship: Master of My Soul

I made a decision last week. I’ve never been one to support resolutions, but after reading The Happiness Project, I’ve resolved to abandon my cynicism and even discovered that New Year’s Eve is my favorite holiday of the year. The truth is that I love reading everyone’s social media comments about gratitude, reflection, and plans for the future. I even love the cheesy shows, like watching a giant ball drop in a crowded, freezing city street, and listening to crummy bands play on the television screen as everyone in the crowd dances like wannabe strippers. My favorite show this year, though, was a review of YouTube’s most popular videos and crazes from the year. We are an odd species, and I appreciate that. I know, without any hesitation, that there is a wealth of darkness in the world, and this is the one time of the year when, collectively, we seem to take a deep breath of hope and turn the other cheek to darkness. It’s also nice to get a kiss at midnight.

So what will I resolve to do in 2014? Well, I’ve made a list, and much of it has to do with Eric, but one of the things has to do with this blog too (we’ll see what happens). The most precious thing to me, however, is my resolution to finish more books. I didn’t care much for reading as a teenager, even though I started reading at a young age, so when I decided to make a Pinterest board to memorialize all of the books I’ve actually delved into cover to cover, I was saddened by the shallow pile. I read a lot, but I tend to abandon books for the newer, shinier cover with the flashier title—I am always searching for the greatest intellectual high. I need to work on savoring.

The hardest thing to face now is that The Bible is not on my Pinterest board.

I don’t think I would have felt much about this before John Mark Comer delivered his “with-ness” sermon on the Sunday before Christmas week. Before, I believed—in all honesty—that “finishing” the Holy Book was more like a Christian initiation project, or an item on a Christian to-do list that would have no return other than protecting me from the shame of being found out. I wasn’t only afraid of what other Christians would think of me (it has been almost 10 years that I have been following Jesus), but I was more afraid of what intellectual non-religious friends might think. I am inclined to believe that they might find it more appealing to befriend a girl with God in her head and heart, rather than the God of the scriptures in her brain. They might also think that “finishing” the Bible would set me straight; the problem with that is that I’ve read most of it, and I know how messed up it can be. Yet, my love for Jesus is genuine—it’s not merely in my head and my heart—and I always find that the toughest of biblical moments can lead me to stronger faith, even when I think that there can be no reassurance for the obstacles I face and questions I ask.

Ultimately, I desire with-ness. What if John Mark is right? What if the scriptures are primarily used for spending time with God? What if when I read I can find myself in a room of my own—a place where Jesus meets me and spends time with me and reminds me of the sweetness of his presence. I hate doing the dishes, but somehow, if Eric and I do them together, the entire task is transformed. I realize now that I’ve always approached the Word of God as a textbook to be studied, understood, challenged, and defended. I’ve even treated it as a Magic-8 Ball of sorts, filled with fantastical stories and written words of wisdom from Jesus that I can use to fine-tune my path and color the world new with narrative and meaning.

I’ve never seen the pages of the Bible as a place—its pages are open and I can hear God whispering, come sit with me.

In the beginning, God made us. He put us in a garden, and I wish I were there now where man and woman could stand naked and unashamed along with all of the animals we named. God told us not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil; instead, he gave us His presence and He asked us to trust Him for all of this knowledge—to believe that He could be our all-knowing guide in matters of right and wrong. Our friend and counselor. Our Father. But the thought of being forever children—innocent and reliant upon our Father in matters of good and evil—was too much to bear. So we traded His presence for the apple, the 10 commandments, and a new order. We became the captains of our ships, the masters of our souls.

Can I steer this ship towards you My God? Can I resolve to savor each and every page of your text in the midst of your presence and live the rest of my days knowing what it means to be with you?

Brainwashing & the "painful dissonance of doubt"

I remember sitting on the couch with our parents, and my younger brother was explaining "his religion" to them. They smiled, and nodded, and asked pressing questions about his former life -prior to reincarnation- when he lived in Chicago. I remember thinking that it would be pretty cool to be born again as a tiger :) But the point is, my parents did not raise us in the, or any, church. They didn't even seem to lean one way or the other. They told us to seek and find for ourselves, and I went on to create my own religion, just like my kid brother did. 

An agnostic friend of mine recently told me that he is going to let his children choose their own religion too, if religion is the right word. But I wonder what he'll do if one of his daughters comes home one day to share her love for Jesus. Because that's what I did. 

And then I married Eric, joined a church, and we started leading worship together. Go big, or go home.

It would be a lie to say that the doubts I had before stopped visiting me. In fact, I often wonder how the bookmarks in the Bible I owned as a non-believer, marking all of the places in the book that enraged and confused me, could still sit there without wrestling my rational mind into reversal. Now, I marvel at God's incredible power, and I thank him for the countless moments when he has met me in prayer, in solitude, or in song, to deliver a bit of intellect or knowledge and soothe my doubts with his incomprehensible beauty. One by one, I've peeled every bookmark away, and today, I live in a constant stream of doubt and receipt. Doubt has become the place in which I can fall in love with him all over again, and the source of my knowing. I don't take my doubts to the world; I take them to the one who made me, and somehow, in time, in his way, he answers. 

If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. (James 1:5)

I've always told people, "Nothing you say can offend me, and I can almost guarantee that not only have I heard it all before, I've thought it, and said most if it, before too." Yet, every conversation, and every challenge to my faith, feels like the euphoria of academic enlightenment, mixed with the comfort of God's embrace -my mind is sharpened, and my heart is stabilized, as teetering leads to an even more realized place of balance. 

I was recently searching for a TED talk for the online course that I am designing, and with all of these thoughts whirling around in my head, I couldn't resist opening the video with the title: "The Doubt Essential to Faith." I hope you will take the time to indulge in the mind and the ponderings of another and find yourself abandoning the hostility of religious and secular debates, able to share in the discussions of faith that plague us all. Brought to you from an "Agnostic Jew," author Lesley Hazleton:

And when you are done, perhaps read "Young Goodman Brown," and remember that the human battle with faith is timeless, and real. As much as we try to leave her, we find her next to us once again, pleading with us to determine where we really stand. 

I mourn for my brothers and sisters who speak loudly about a faith that I fear they do not hold in their hearts as dearly as their tongues confess. My God, would you free them from the guilt of doubt and provide them with your authenticity that comes from asking the toughest of questions. The questions David cried out in the Psalms. 

"People who are insecure in their religious beliefs may feel the impulse to silence and harass those who disagree with them, because their mere existence arouses the painful dissonance of doubt." -Carol Tavris et. al.

"If our faith is such that it is destroyed by force of argument, then let it be destroyed; for it will have been proved that we do not possess the truth." -MacDonald and Porter 

I end this entry with a vision I had today... of my brain being washed. You see, that's the greatest fear I had all along. They'll accuse me of being brainwashed. Or, at least, they'll think it's so in the quiet of their own minds, as they nod along and say such half-hearted supportive comments as, 'Good for you. I'm happy for you,' and 'To each their own." But I realized that the human mind craves to be washed; yes, I believe that we are all seeking a brain-washing of sorts. We all pour carefully selected textual, audio, and visual information over our minds in an effort to invent ourselves. I'll admit that I am brainwashed, but I hold myself accountable. I survey my actions, and I am at peace with who I am; for I strive to share all that Jesus is doing within me with those outside of me, in hopes that I may live the life of a peacemaker and be a blessing to those around me. 

Much love on this rainy day,

Amber

Grape Juice and Crackers

Over the past few weeks, while attending Solid Rock, I have really become overwhelmed by the act of taking Communion. For those of you who do not follow Jesus, this is probably an awkward topic that overwhelms you as well, but that is exactly where I am headed with this. Over and over now, I have stood in the dark lighting of a worship set staring down at the deep purple of grape juice- while in my mind, my chin is extended upwards, and I can almost see the dripping feet of Jesus the king. He is above me, mounted to a cross, dripping, dying, against the background of a massive sky, and saying nothing while saying all that will ever need to be said for all of time. I stand with that vision, and I can't help but want to eject it from my mind and put down the bread and the cup- who am I? Considering all that you are Christ, and knowing all that I am, how could you have done this for me?

Today, I thought of something new- Christ died for all of us- not just those of us who take communion in remembrance of Him. Christ died for all of us, and some don't even know who He is. Some don't even know that the bullet was headed for them, but that Jesus, who is more worthy to life than any of us, stepped in the way. Some don't know Him- but He knows exactly who all of us are, and He died knowing. I want to know Him more.

While there is a part of me that cannot bear the image of Jesus on the cross, there is also a part of me that wants to bow and lower myself in that place and just stay there. My body, despite the efforts of my mind at times, knows its creator, knows the Father, and cannot escape His presence. But my mind agitates itself, and I become like Peter whose lips promise allegiance to God, but reject Him in the face of men. Peter, who stood at the foot of the cross, and saw these images that dance in my mind with His own eyes. Peter, who denied Him. Denied Jesus.

"Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13

I'm not going around saying I don't know Jesus, but then again, no one is asking. At least not anyone who would be displeased with the answer. I honestly believe that they would rather not know- but the more difficult thing to wrestle with is that I would rather not be asked. What would they think if they knew that I attend church every Sunday and eat a cracker and drink some grape juice, calling it the body and the blood of Jesus, in order to remember Him? Surely they would question my sanity in response to the rituality of it, but Christ is the author of metaphors, and as I take communion I am encouraged that He lives in me, He nourishes my body, and He sustains me.

Some would gasp at the arrogance of it all, claiming that they didn't need Christ to step in, and that we have invented a savior in response to a fear-driven belief in the after-life, but they haven't heard His voice. For eighteen years, I watched from the outside as Christians ate His body, drank His blood, and obsessed over His brutal death, and I was appalled by the nonsense. But once I heard his voice, and once He began to show me His nature, it became so easy to see through the oddness of it all and into the beauty.

I look around at all of creation and I see God's beauty etched into every last detail, even in the pain I can find the traces of His mercy and His redemption. I can imagine Eve biting into the apple, falling asleep and dreaming all of this, until she awakes in God's presence again wondering how much could have happened in such a little amount of time. This will be over soon, He tells her. I'll be with you, and I will bring all things together. You will awake in my presence, and all of the fall will feel like a brush stroke compared to the eternity that I will draw you into. These reassurances He gives me persist throughout all of my days, since the day I finally decided to follow His voice, and yet I am often at a crossroads wondering what others would think if they could see the scenes of my worshiping mind.

I used to wonder, with upmost sincerity, how it was possible for Peter to deny Jesus if he truly loved Him as he claimed- now I wonder at my own battle, and press on for the day when I may stand before the masses unafraid.

"They were greatly disturbed because the apostles were teaching the people and proclaiming in Jesus the resurrection of the dead. They seized Peter and John, and because it was evening, they put them in jail until the next day. But many who heard the message believed, and the number of men grew to about five thousand." Acts 3:2-4