Waiting…

It isn’t too late.

You can still return to me

with all your heart.

Start crying and mourning!

… turn back to me

with broken hearts.

I am merciful, kind, and caring.

I don’t easily lose my temper,

and I don’t like to punish.

Joel 2:12-13 (CEV)

 

 

Valentines Confession

My husband is out of town this Valentines Day. I’m not worried, though.

Even though I’ll miss Rich, I’ll be fine.

You see, I’ve another lover.

Tucked inside a bedside book reside his letters.
They kindle my fire, deepen my desire…

You’ve captured my heart, dear friend.
   You looked at me, and I fell in love.
   One look my way and I was hopelessly in love!
How beautiful your love, dear, dear friend…
The kisses of your lips are honey, my love,
   every syllable you speak a delicacy to savor.

The sweet, fragrant curves of your body,
the soft, spiced contours of your flesh
Invite me, and I come. I stay
until dawn breathes its light and night slips away.
You’re beautiful from head to toe, my dear love,
beautiful beyond compare, absolutely flawless.

…you’re a secret garden,
   a private and pure fountain.
Body and soul, you are paradise…

You’re so beautiful, my darling, so beautiful…

As night arrives on Valentines, I’ll make flame, place icons and play chant.

As I wait, I will rise and sway, and whisper His name.

Open and ready, I will hear “Jodi,” then see His face, His eyes full of love.

My Lover, my Bridegroom will come.

Swaying softly in his embrace, we will become one. Forever we are one…

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Although I’ll miss Rich this Valentines Day, I am looking forward to One-on-one time with Jesus, the Lover of my soul.

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*Italicized text is taken from Song of Solomon (The Message version).
(By and large, the Church sees the Song of Solomon as an allegory of the love between God and His people, Christ and His church and Christ and the soul).

Three in a Week

I thought only death, broken appliances and bad news came in threes.

Maybe I was wrong, maybe good news triples up too…

First off, last week Looking for God made a short list at the online Christian magazine and community, The High Calling. Along with nine other posts, my Why I Like Blue Jeans made it into Great Posts from Around the High Calling Network. This is a big honor and one I keep jumping around the house about! The High Calling community consists of  1,800 bloggers, an editorial staff and top-notch articles and resources for Christians looking for God in their “work, family and broader culture.” Pop in, be blessed and if you blog, do join.

Secondly, I’ve been invited to work temporarily for a previous employer, First Presbyterian of Maple Plain. I served almost three years there as an administrative assistant and am looking forward to serving again. Clerical skills brush-up, great staff moments and serving God’s people with pencil-in-hand are some of the things I’m most excited about.

Most recently, I’ve been nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award by Jonathan at 237blessed. I am thrilled and honored to receive this peer-to-peer nomination! Jonathan “loves the spirit” of Looking for God and says it has “something truly important to declare concerning the Kingdom of Heaven.” It doesn’t get any better than that! Thank you so much, Jonathan!

At 237blessed, Jonathan brings hope and blessing through his use of Scripture, spiritual insight and sensitivity to the Spirit. If you desire a blessing or want to hear from God, visit 237blessed. Grateful I get to be your Sister, Jonathan, and your blog friend.

Of course, with nominations there are rules…

THE RULES TO FOLLOW FOR THE VERSATILE BLOGGER AWARD:

1. Add a picture of the award to your blog post.

2. Thank the blogger who nominated you and include a link to their blog.

3. Share 7 random facts about yourself.

4. Nominate 15 other Bloggers and inform those 15 they have been nominated.

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Seven random facts about me

1. Cemeteries are cool.

2. I read, write and never spit.

3. Some people call me charismatic, others contemplative.

4. I say “Woosh” too often, people wonder.

5. My 1992 Honda has 223,000 miles on it.

6. I suffer most when I can’t find Jesus.

7. Migraines come and go, but God is forever.

The nominees are, in no particular order:

1.Quirky, compelling and insightful, Nori takes you into her life and lets you sit awhile at Rambling on Regardless. Lucky me, I’ve slogged through bogs, danced in a kitchen and savored raspberry chocolate with Eleanor. She’s a keeper I call friend.

2. Joyce at Joyce de Vivre has a knack for creating Christian community and has created Featured Scribbles to foster Christian blog community. Tireless and passionate, she reminds me to stay rooted and reach high.

3. A-Musing is a newly birthed blog written by an old family friend. Jim shares his heart and always points to Jesus. Glad I get to share him here with you.

4. Bernie at Daily Light uses Scripture, practical insight and prayers to bless his readers. His devotions help me lean a little longer on my Lord. I’ve studied, prayed and joked with Bernie. He’s a Brother I call friend.

5. Brother James came to Looking for God with encouragement and profound presence. When he’s around I breathe easier.  His site, Domini Canes, is beautiful and his words never fail to make me pause and reflect. A new blog friend I sense kinship with.

6. A dear old blog friend who once spent hours interpreting one of my dreams, Cindy at  Anyone’s Guess write wonderful poetry and prose and is soon to have a baby. Her heart is fixed on Jesus, and that means everything.

7. Another long-time blog friend who nominated me for the Sweet Friend Award, blogs at So Much, So Little Time. Kate is, among a few dozen other things, a devoted Catholic, a prolific writer and a published author. Oh, and she just gave birth to her fourth child.

8. Dan at The-Fatalistic-Smile writes deep, mythic poetry that rattles your unconscious and steals your heart. Back in 2010 he guest blogged here, at Looking for God: Into the forest he wanders. He’s a wise soul who has been known to climb rock walls, even with me.

9. Claire is a stay-at-home-mother and blogger from New Zealand. Her One Passion One Devotion says it all. She’s all about one thing and one thing only. More times than not, I leave her site lifted, closer to God.

10. Lizy, at Follow Lizy, is on adventure in Glasgow. She’s a brilliant writer who takes you with her and makes you smile. For a sure-to-delight-you peek into Scottish university life from the perspective of a college student from my home church, stop in and stay a spell.

11. New to the blog scene and fresh to my world, forthefrustratedchristian give me encouragement and helps realign me when I’m ready to scream. Thank you and welcome Sid!

12. Estherlou at Estherlou’s Blog has been around the block and is refreshingly herself. She also runs a bakery and sometimes posts photos that makes mouths water. As a new blog friend, I look forward to getting to know her better.

13. Antigone’s Clamor is well written, often takes a stand and makes you think. Sometimes I find myself cheering. Lara has a way with words and loves her Lord. Visit and see.

14.  Jocelyn at Celine is a Filipino living in the U.S. who is sold out for Christ. She’s a bright light in a dark world and helps keep my head where it belongs, in the heart of God. She’s a blog friend who gives great encouragement.

15. Jessica at  booshy makes the mundane delightful and humorous. She’s got dogs, runs marathons, oh and she’s about to give birth to her first child. Never a dull moment by a gifted writer. Glad to call her a long-time blog friend.

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Those are my three and they all happened in one week! As I look for God, I see Him everywhere! Thanks for your presence, prayers and praise. May God bless you because…

Why I Like Blue Jeans…

A repost for those who like blue jeans…

I threw out an old pair of Levi’s yesterday. Into our bedroom’s small, green trash can I stuffed them.  Faded blue was white, frayed edges hung low, loose threads here and there. Even so, not worthy of trash, I thought…but then the hole just below the back pocket, that forced the issue. I don’t mind wearing worn jeans, but “holes in questionable places” jeans just aren’t me. So, these dear old friends are quickly becoming landfill tenants.

By and large, what I wear matters little to me–any of you who know me, know it’s true. A quick glance through my closet would horrify any fashion consultant. Most of what I own was given as a gift or as a hand-me-down. I hate shopping for clothes, so tend to go with what is on hand: sweaters from the 90’s, turtlenecks rescued from our teenaged son’s trash, dresses from my great aunt’s cast-offs, items dubbed “did you get that from Laura*?” by my teenaged daughter. Not so with jeans, though. No one can successfully bestow jeans on me, my body shape sneers at anyone who thinks they can…

So, I’m forced to shop. And, for me, shopping for jeans is an arduous task fraught with peril at every clothing rack. Different cuts, sizes and colors overwhelm my psyche and trigger a primal instinct for flight to the nearest exit. The thought of a wall of denim gives me a certified case of the creeps. Guaranteed is umpteen trips to the dressing room, therefore abundant amounts of unhurried time is required; all limbs must be in good working order for the dressing room workout; and shopping friends must remain scarce (I don’t want to know WHAT you think. This is a private matter between me and the mirror–thank you very much!)

My relationship with blue jeans is a personal one…one that began long, long ago…  Levi’s and I reach all the way back to my twelfth birthday when I received my first pair of  jeans (thank you Aunt Sharry!). After ripping the gift open and squealing with delight, I ran to the bathroom, wriggled into them as fast as I could and bolted back for family viewing. They all agreed: they fit well, except for the waist where they hung a bit big and at the bottom where Aunt Sharry quickly folded a cuff. Once a belt was in place, I looked great and oh, so grown up. Finally, I’d moved from polyester to denim–twas a big deal for my tween self!

I wore them often and eventually broke them in (for young whipper snappers: back in the old days new jeans were stiff and unyielding, requiring time, washing and bending before one could move without discomfort–I’m not kidding!). They served me well, til puberty kicked into high and they couldn’t hold me anymore. Blue jean graveyards should exist, landfills just don’t do them justice.

What do these hip hugging mainstays mean, though, I wonder? Maybe I feel a cultural connection with other Americans when I wear them. Maybe I like their versatility, as all fashion experts assert that anything can be worn with jeans (although none of them would couple anything in my closet with a pair of jeans). Maybe a bit of that or a bit of this fits here…could be.

What keeps coming back to me, though, is that they’re a constant through time. To think my twelve-year-old self wore a pair of Levi’s blue jeans and that my forty-four year old self still wears Levi’s blue jeans carries some comfort. They’ve been at every turning point, heartache and joy in my life. They were there when my parents divorced, when I went on my first date, when I got my first job, when I went to college, when I said “I do”, when I nursed my first child, when that child went off to college…. I’ve prayed, sung, wept, laughed and screamed in blue jeans. They’ve been there all the way, fully present and soothing me with their quiet touch.

In a way they remind me of One who has been present through all those times and more…and, thankfully, I’ll never have to throw Him in the bin. Nope, He has stuck closer than any inseam Levi’s could devise.

The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. (Deuteronomy 31:6)

Thank you, Jesus, for sticking closer to me than I am to myself…for sticking closer to me than anyone else or anything else and through absolutely everything I’ve ever known. How to express my gratitude, I don’t know…but I am forever grateful…yes…forever I am grateful…

*name changed to protect the innocent, kindhearted soul whose taste in clothing I like

–pic taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Denimjeans2.JPG

 

Maybe a hell house is the way to go

According to the CNN Belief Blog’s article, A Christian debate over Halloween: Counter, co-opt, or embrace it?, there are varying Christian opinions on how to approach Halloween.

I’m not sure how they can call this in-house debate news, as this isn’t new–Christians have struggled with this pagan holiday since its inception 1400 years ago.

Christian options, noted in the radio broadcast, are: attend a church’s harvest carnival instead of  trick-or-treating; go trick-or-treating, embrace the fun and indulge your sweet tooth; go to a hell house–listen to the broadcast or watch the video below to get a visceral feel for this alternative.

Historically, our family has wavered.  Most years we either took the kids trick-or-treating and/or had candy ready for the neighbor kids. Some years we darkened the house and disappeared.

If it comes up on Judgment Day, I’m not sure what I’ll say. “I wasn’t sure, I was confused,” comes to mind.

I don’t want to give Satan celebration, simply don’t. But, then again, I wonder if it can be innocent fun, with innocent consequences. A way to face one’s inner dark parts, put them on display, acknowledge they are there without letting them get their way or take over. Of course, some use the holiday to celebrate evil; some do heinous, dark deeds. I can’t nod to that.

Maybe the hell house is the way to go. I’ve never heard of a hell house before. I suppose it is too late to check one out this year…

Hell House in New York video:

Blame God So He Can Take the Credit

Image via Wikipedia

Chronic complainers are the pits. They grumble and groan about the latest mishap or injustice. They grind on our nerves with their “poor me” stories and negativity. I don’t know about you, but when the wheels of discontent start spinning, I start looking for the exit, plan my dip out of sight.

Anger and resentment often accompany complainers. Some, like me, hide their emotions and put on a good face, but we all know in their heart they sneer and judge.  Some express discontent, bring it forth and wear it well. We all know who they are.

Usually complainers point at a person, they complain about another: the boss didn’t follow through, the pastor forgot to call, the neighbor’s dog “did what?!” Others become the problem, the source of pain.

Complaints can be constructive, though. When presented well to the right person, they can be a catalyst for change, a way to move toward improvement, relief, better days. Chronic complaining to the wrong person, though, pollutes and denigrates. Morale sinks, faces drop, shoulders stoop.

This morning I read Exodus 16, a story about whining Israelites in the Wilderness that occurred shortly after God, through terrible plagues and a bout of military men at the bottom of the sea, “convinces” Pharaoh to release the Israelites from slavery. Standing before Moses and Aaron, the whole community complains: “If only we had died by the LORD’s hand in Egypt! There we sat around pots of meat and ate all the food we wanted, but you [Moses and Aaron] have brought us out into this desert to starve this entire assembly to death.”

Even though God is leading this motley crew of Hebrews, the people blame Moses and Aaron for their suffering. They wag fingers at fellow human beings, even though God orchestrated or, at the very least, allowed the event. Moses and Aaron, wise as they are, point back and wag away: “Who are we? You are not grumbling against us, but against the LORD.”  Moses and Aaron remind the Israelites of the One responsible, the One leading, the One who placed them in this barren and deserted wasteland without provision.

Then God whispers into Moses’s ear and Moses turns to Aaron and says, “Say to the entire Israelite community, ‘Come before the LORD, for he has heard your grumbling.’”

God takes the blame, gets an audience and then He wows them. For forty years quail come to the camp every evening and manna blankets the desert floor every morning. Meat and bread, enough for everyone.

The take away, for me, is this: when I’m right were God wants me to be and things go awry, the earth starts to shift, suffering sets in, I need to quit pointing fingers at others and start wagging away at my Lord. If He has placed me where I’m uncomfortable or searing pain wins the day, then it is certainly okay to give Him an ear full. I think He prefers it, actually, for when we’re at our wits end, on our face before Him, we tend to get out of the way and make space, space for Him to show up and save the day. He gets the blame, He gets the credit.

Why? I wonder…maybe it is an opportunity to grow in faith, to release an idol or two, to remember Whose we are and Who’s in charge.

The Unmentioned Victims of September 11

There are victims of September 11 no one talks about, no one has held a service for, few have signed a card for. Undoubtedly, they sit sick, humiliated and horrified by the tragedy and approach the tenth anniversary of 9/11 with grief, anger and sadness. Yet, you won’t hear about them in the news or on the radio. They won’t be mentioned in any memorial.

Who am I referring to?

The families of the hijackers.

From what I can glean on the internet, almost all of the September 11 hijackers came from run-of-the-mill Middle Eastern families who weren’t especially religious or political. They are plain folk, ordinary sorts who, somehow, have to come to terms with what their loved ones did* and find ways to live in the aftermath. Somehow they have to reconcile the one who shared their table and laughed at their jokes with the one who flew a plane full of people into a tower full of people.

Has a family member ever scandalized or humiliated your family? Has a felony ever sat on your back step or an infidelity ever climbed into your bed? Has your name ever been run through the rumor mill? Have you ever felt a neighbor’s scorn or pity because of what Uncle Joe did? If not, well, congratulations your family may have super genes or uncanny spiritual protection or, just maybe, it is better than most at hiding its dark side.  If so, though, I’m with you, I’ve been there. Even though we wish we hadn’t been “slugged” by our loved one, it does put us in a position to relate, in a small way, to the struggles of the mother, father, son or daughter of a death-dealing terrorist. We know that even if forgiveness is granted, some things don’t easily slip away: confusion, anger and grief ebb and flow for years, like a great tide.

I wonder, do we dare include the hijackers’ families in our inner and outer spaces tomorrow? Can our hearts hold those whose loved ones killed our loved ones? Whose sons and husbands brutalized our mothers and children? Are we that forgiving, that compassionate? Ten years later, can we do it?

I don’t know…

Maybe if we try…

Light a candle, say a prayer…dear Jesus, please help me, I’m going to try…

* For instance: the father of two hijackers, Muhammad Ali al-Shehri, is reported to have said, “If that turns out to be the truth, then I’ll never, never accept it from them. I’ll never forgive them for that.” (Wikipedia: Wail al-Shehri)

How Do You Make Decisions?

How do we make moral decisions?  Do we rely on our gut or do we opt for what gives us the most pleasure or do we use reason, or, or, or? Or, do we choose evil…

Cannot view? Visit http://www.ted.com/talks/damon_horowitz.html

Ethics, justice, morality, philosophy are divorced from faith and religion in this talk–Mr Horowitz doesn’t go there, which is understandable since his audience is known for being a techie bunch that bulges with agnostics and atheists. I forgive him. He only had a few minutes, after all.

In the clip, he invites the audience to reflect on how they made their last big decision.  I joined in on the time of reflection and found that I didn’t line up with any of his philosophical decision-making options. I’m not saying I’ve never used any of them, I think I’ve used all of them at one time or another–even recently.  But, with the one that came to mind, I took a different approach: I prayed for God to show His will for my decision and I, who was freaking out about doing the responsible thing, asked Him to take responsibility for making the decision. In letting go, the answer came and when it came, the struggle ended and peace and joy flooded my soul. I followed through, and, when the going got rough, I found peace and assurance in knowing I was right where I belonged and was doing what I was supposed to be doing. I expect great good came from my obedience. For sure, blessings bathed me…

As life would have it, I’m in the “trying to make a wise decision” boat again, I’m actively seeking God for the next step.

Horowitz talks about how hard it is to make ethical decisions, what a struggle it is.  I suppose without God’s will, God’s wisdom leading, we’ll always struggle and, undoubtedly, we’ll always come up short.

No-Man’s-Land

Image via Wikipedia

OK.  It is time.  Here is an update.

Since Who is Responsible?–a post where I shared inner struggles and my desire for God to show up, take responsibility and lead me through a treacherous no-man’s-land–much has changed.

(Quick aside: Who is Responsible?, to my delight and surprise, is highlighted on The High Calling’s, Articles about Faith webpage. THC is a fabulous network of Christian leaders and  bloggers).

It began when a dear friend invited me to visit her while she was staying with her mother in England.  My husband’s frequent flier miles came into view, my calendar was free–the trip was possible.  I wasn’t sure, I kept it in prayer.  Having recently gussied up my resume, I was starting to send it to possible employers–there was momentum in that direction.  Going on vacation felt like a cop-out.  The thought came, though, that if I went, maybe I could tack on a week at a remotely located Christian community in the United Kingdom, as a visitor.  I brought my “find work vs visit-my-friend” dilemma to my counselor, where I mentioned, in passing, a pop in at the community. Surprisingly, she honed in on the community and we spent time discerning whether I should look for work or visit the community. Visiting the community was discerned, we both heard God leading me there.

So, I Googled the community, found their website and inquired about coming for a week, maybe two. Timing-wise what they had available didn’t work out with the time I would be visiting my friend.  The discernment seemed like a complete bomb, like I’d stepped on a land mine.  Once again, I figured, I’d heard God wrong. I’d surrendered responsibility for my life to Him and He was playing cat and mouse with me. I wondered if I’d always live like this…if psychic storm would be the new norm.

Rooting around on the community’s website, I found they took volunteers for weeks at a time.  I swiftly filled out an application, forwarded them my resume and inquired if there were any last-minute openings. A day later, at the end of February, they responded. They had an opening and I needed to set things in motion quickly.

Suddenly I had tunnel vision–everything was about or geared toward getting to the community. The biggest hurdle was a UK work visa. The bureaucratic process was a time hog.  Brits in New York City needed forms, applications, money, passport-sized photos, fingerprinting (which one fine bureaucrat moved me to the front of the line for, overriding my fiv- day- later fingerprinting appointment!), documents and…yes, and…my passport–my ticket out of the country.  Mailing my passport felt like I was surrendering my freedom to British bureaucrats.  It was unnerving. I hesitated. Standing at the shipping counter I wondered if I’d ever see my passport again.  Time was short, I feared sending it would mean I’d miss visiting my friend while she was in Britain….

I overnighted it.

Day after day passed waiting to hear whether they’d grant me a visa. Day after day passed wondering when they’d grant me a visa. Day after day passed wondering why they hadn’t granted me a visa.  I planned nothing, not even a flight. Again, I wondered what God was up to.  Was this part of the cat and mouse game I felt He’d been playing with me?  I wondered would I, in the end, completely miss hopping the pond (you know, the big one between North America and Europe)?  Was all this just a carrot on a stick, leaving me nothing but exhausted and hungry, completely carrot-less, in the end?

Two weeks, bureaucratically speaking, is not  long, I know.  But when they note 2-5 days for processing, it is.

Word finally came.  In an utterly ordinary email, the British Consulate announced that I’d been granted permission. My passport and visa arrived at my doorstep the very next day, St Patrick’s Day.

St Patrick’s Day is my personal holy day. Pat and I are buds, we go way back and very deep, and it ain’t because I visit the bar. (If you wanna know more, visit St Patrick’s Day.)  I’m not sure how to interpret this “coincidence”, this timing.  Hmmm…maybe a healing touch from God through St Patrick has something to do with it…the thought of that came just now…oh my, could it be…

My passport and visa arrived on Thursday. I flew out on Sunday (a week ago yesterday) as my friend flew back to the States, we passed each other somewhere over the Atlantic Monday morning.  I’d missed her. It was awful. Yet, I couldn’t shake that somehow, it was okay.  God was responsible, His timing was in this. I arrived at the community on Tuesday.

Yes, I am here and will be here through the end of May.

As I transition into community living (sorry, I’m not allowed to share the community’s name or revealing details in a blog posting) and walk the paths of this beautiful countryside, I have no idea why I’m here.  All I know is that He is responsible for me and, so help me God, I’m gonna hold His hand and let Him lead me through this no-man’s-land.

Who is Responsible?

Image via Wikipedia

As I meander through the week, tripping over bad news and looking for good, a desire for peace, deep peace, pounds inside my chest. Yet, I’m in no-man’s-land, a place difficult to maneuver, a place riddled with land mines–how to move forward is unclear.

It is only Wednesday, yet we’ve endured a full week’s worth of bad news, thank you very much. Today, dollars flew out the window, as the glass guy replaced a broken one.  Yesterday, “close, but no cigar,”  I just missed getting a job interview.  Last night, my husband’s credit card number was stolen.   Perimenopause–a long-term “guest” that throws grown women into a reversal of the hormonal and emotional “joys” of adolescence–sneered as it settled in.  Other things, too private to mention, slapped me hard. I flounder like a fish out of water, wondering if I’ll die like this.

In many ways, I make my bed and lie in it.  I guess we all do.  I choose to persevere when I could run and seek security on my terms; I choose to pause and wait for wisdom and perspective; I seek professional guidance; I choose to move when God says “move.”  Sometimes I hear Him and respond, other times I hear another and miss the mark.  I seek His healing, I refuse to drop and die. I move in fits and starts, it is ugly–onlookers worry and wonder.  Friends listen, support and share opinions, yet each friend’s opinion conflicts with another.  I hug them close, listen and pray.

I take responsibility for my actions, I know what I do matters.  My life is a blip, yet what I do endures and affects those near, far and many who come after. Conflicting emotions compete for power, letting them “be” without letting them control is tricky.

Closer than the fearful thoughts that rumble around in my head, is my Lord.  Sometimes–fleeting moments, really–I see His face in front of me. His beautiful brown eyes brim with kindness and shine with power.  Silently, He reminds me: even when I do not see Him, He sees me.  I am not alone, even in this.  For a moment, I relax and breathe easy.

Something I’m just beginning to realize keeps coming back; like a string around my finger, it keeps coming into view.  Not only am I responsible for my actions but like a good Parent of one still maturing, God is responsible for me.  He’s in charge of ordering my life for my highest good and His glory. I have freedom, I can choose, but I am not independent.  No, as a child of God, I am dependent on Him and He is responsible for me.

Funny, I have no trouble seeing myself before Him, answering to Him, but like sunlight through a dirty window, I struggle seeing Him as my Father, as One responsible for my spiritual growth. I try to carry all the responsibility.  He must smile. Like an attentive father watching his two-year-old struggle to tie her shoe, He must smile…and wait, until she gives up and asks Him to do it.  And then, when she is ready, He shows her the intricacies of loops and knots.  For awhile, they will tie her shoes together, then she will go solo, and then, eventually, it’ll come automatically and she’ll be ready to learn something new.

Yep, He is responsible for teaching me how to do this life thing well, He is responsible for getting me through this time.

Okay God, I can’t maneuver this no-man’s-land.  I give up. You be responsible for my safe passage, for You have the bird’s-eye view and x-ray vision, You see the barbed wire and buried land mines.  Ready when You are.  Please, oh please don’t let go of my hand…