Being Perfect is…Ridiculous

It’s not easy being perfect, believe me. In fact, it’s exhausting. Quite exhausting. Overwhelming. Ridiculous.

But, feels like it’s the right thing to strive for when things get crazy. I lose footing and scramble to make it up.

The last 2.5 years have been very hard. Not like, I’m-being-persecuted-hard, but more like My-life-has-changed-more-times-than-my-hair-color hard. It started with our decision to leave the church we loved, start a business and try something new. Followed up with our son having a terrible allergic reaction to eggs and hazelnuts on the same day. Soon after that I was packing up the home where we had lived for 11 years, brought two babies to and left with two more. Move to Nashville, freak out, get in over our heads in an apartment, sell said house, move to the country (where it’s beautiful, by the way) and here I am.

Exhausted. Irritable. Dissatisfied.

Bad me. I know Jesus, for cryin’ out loud! I KNOW the truth. Yet, I am whipped and beaten and then whip and beat myself for not pulling up my big girl panties and “live for Jesus” no matter what.

It’s too much. And it came to head. The beautiful thing is that the wisdom of God’s love and grace came to me through my husband. He has watched me grow more and more tired, more and more irritated with myself and finally, with God. JT said that if he felt as distant from God as I do, he would be tired and irritated too. He’s right. Trying to “find God” in this is well, freaking stupid.

There is no “finding God” for me because I don’t have to look any further than my own breathing. Pssh, Sunday School answers. What’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you. I’ve lost my Kindergarten understanding of love and grace. I’ve mucked (go ahead, replace that “m” with an “f”) it up to the point that I figure I need to straighten up and do all things right in order for God to give me a new directive here in Nashville. New orders please, Sir!

What I have to come back to is that God isn’t in the business of barking out orders to a tired and weary woman who just turned 39 and is a bit overwhelmed with the fact there she is but a few moons away from being 40. I digress.

In fact, it’s the opposite of barking out orders. Jesus said, “Come to me, you who are weary and burdened and I will give your rest.” But, but…. I KNOW ALL THE ANSWERS. I know I’m supposed to have a passion and love the unlovely and give to the poor and feed the hungry and spend myself on behalf of others and raise my kids, and support my church, and, and, and…..

Come to me all who are weary and burdened…

I am weary and burdened with my own running and trying and whatever. Give me the basics again, Lord. Teach me new of grace and hope and love. Teach me again the awe of the cross and the wonder of the resurrection. Brighten my eyes at the sight of the manger scene. Astound me with your love because I simply can’t muster it up inside. Isn’t that the truth? I can’t muster up in me something that comes only from Jesus: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness,…..

I can’t.

You can’t.

So, it brings me to the end of myself. I drop my arms in surrender only because I can’t lift them anymore to pretend I have it all together. My known Sunday school answers although true, cannot be made new in me on my own, or in my own, power. So, on a walk in the hills of Tennessee I asked for new start. A redo. Overs. I asked Him to do all that I can’t, which is…. everything.

It’s all grace. And I want it back. I want to be simple in mind and pure in heart. I want this to ring in my mind and heart until it’s all I know:

Jesus loves me this I know
For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong
They are weak but He is strong
Yes, Jesus loves me
Yes, Jesus loves me
Yes, Jesus loves me
The Bible tells me so



Posted in Being Real, Prayer, Vulnerable Moments | 7 Comments

I Laugh At People Who Fall Down

When I’m sitting somewhere where I can just people watch, a sickness rises up in me. I am secretly looking through the masses to see if someone, anyone will trip and/or fall. I just want to see one person do that trip-over-the-invisible-bump-and-look-back-at-what-isn’t-there thing.

I know.


But, let’s be honest, the show Wipeout is designed for people like me. I honestly can’t imagine that there might be people out there who do not think Wipeout is funny. I can’t imagine the gaping whole in your non-funny heart, or the lack of the funny bone (where ever it may be. I guard mine against sadness and depression just so it won’t shrivel and die.) (Then where would I be?) (Sad and depressed, I suppose.)

What a joy it would be for me to be sitting, say, in an airport and someone were to walk by and fall down. Of course, I would open my mouth aghast and say something like, “Are you okay?!” Whilst trying my darndest to not laugh. (Is darndest a word?) That would be a grand day. A day I would ride the sky with a mini-movie in my head of someone falling down. Oh the scene. Oh the hilarity.

Perhaps had you seen me the other day maybe you’d be more like me. I was out walking, exercizing like a good person, when I spotted a little dog sitting so cute looking the same direction I was so he didn’t see me coming. As I approached his left side, he saw me and did a huff bark trying to show me he was so tough. His owner was out so, of course being an extrovert, I say, “Oh, he’s so tough.” We laugh and I took about 2 more steps when bam!, rolled my right foot in a hole in the street and down I went. I scraped up my left knee bad and felt the adrenaline rush of “what the heck just happened” rush through me.

Am I okay? Did I break anything? Dang it! I broke my iPhone glass even more!

The neighbor stops to see if I’m okay as he holds a giant plastic bumper I can only assume he was going to put on his truck. He asks me about my ankle and I gave him the “just a minute” finger. Yes. Yes, I think I’m fine. I walked home and my kids were angels. Ice and ibuprofen and a pillow. I had my chance that day to watch movies all day and I didn’t take it.


Three or four days of a little swollen ankle and a very tender knee and I’m getting better. I just think that had to look hilarious. Me falling down after talking to a man about his dog. Come on. That’s funny!

What’s not funny is when someone falls in their faith. What’s not funny is to talk about them behind their backs about all their bad choices and holes in the road they tripped on.

Not funny. Not godly.

When someone we love falls in their faith it is not the time to air it on Supernatural Wipeout. That is the time we stop, help them up, brush off their knees and hold them as they walk back to where they can rest. We help them manage their next few steps so that they won’t find themselves back on the ground after being distracted by sin again. They need us to help them, not judge or mock them. Without healing and without each other we cannot fulfill our destinies that God has given us.

Laugh at Wipeout. Pray for those who trip in their faith.

Do you know anyone who needs you to help them recover?

Posted in Being Real | 1 Comment

What the Heck is a Sender, really?

I have to admit, there was a silent sigh of relief many years ago when I realized that God had made me a Sender. Shew! I didn’t have to “go” anywhere. But reality soon sets in. Being a Sender is no small task. It’s purposeful, deliberate, challenging, time consuming …and I have failed miserably at it. However, as I sit and think back over the last eight years from that Perspectives course, I can see how God deepened some things in me regarding this calling.

If you’re thinking, “Hey, I wonder if I’m a Sender,” maybe some of this will resonate with you.

For example, every time I spoke at a church or taught a class, I instinctively wanted to get to a point in my message where I talked to my audience about their part in God’s story. Somehow, regardless of the theme of the night with chicken and rice and delicious salads, I nailed the point that we are all a part of this amazing, radical and world changing thing the Bible calls the Great Commission. That part of my message would be the point my whole spirit, mind and body would come to life. Those moments where when I felt like I was firing on all cylinders and that God was speaking directly through me. I desperately wanted them to know they are valuable to His work. If you look around at the Church and think, “I can totally encourage her to go out there and kick booty”, then you might be a Sender.

Something else that may mark a person as a Sender is that they don’t every really land on a particular mission, organization, or group. All seem equal in their importance. All are deeply loved by a Sender because not only is the purpose of that mission or organization important, but the people who run it strike a chord deep in the Sender, thus making all missions valuable. A Sender sends those to what they are called to do. (However, as a Sender you might be called to one person or group. If so, just go with it!)

Senders are usually concerned for the well-being of a missionary, pastor, or group leader more than the outcomes of their mission/church. When I think of my international missionary friends, pastor’s, pastor’s wives, organization leaders, my first thought isn’t about their outcomes, their numbers, their goals. My first thought is, “I wonder how they are doing. How is their relationship with God? What do they need?”

From the Perspectives course book here are some other things that may mark a Sender:

  • Live very normal lives.
  • Have a heart that yearns for people they have never seen.
  • Work very hard to love and make connections with people they may only see once every 4-5 years.
  • Noted for zeal to make disciples where ever they are.
  • Caught up in a war that many of their friends and family may not or will not acknowledge.
  • They give away up to half of what they earn.
  • Their lives are simple.
  • They speak often of distant people.
  • They relish extended times of prayer.
  • There is a joyous detachment yet and earnest involvement in the affairs of the world.
  • Senders serve with a singe-hearted joy: the joy of laying down their lives so that other’s obedience will be abundant.

Maybe you’re a Sender. Maybe you’re like me and when you think of the throne room of heaven, you’d gladly take a stool in the back, in the nose-bleed section, looking down at the Throne of Grace and applaud (while crying and snotting up your new duds) those coming in who faithfully laid it all on the line for the One they loved.

They deserve the front row… and back stage passes.


Posted in Holy Spirit, Missions | Leave a comment

Made for This – Part 2 “Why I’m Not Called to ‘Go’”

When people ask me what I do outside of being a mom, you know, what’s my passion, my heart’s cry, I usually say things that range from being a speaker to a Bible teacher to even a writer.  All of which is true. I’d say it and really try to believe that yes, that was my calling. However, in all my years of describing myself that way it never rang deep and true in me that I had actually landed on why I was created. I was good at things that felt like they should be my calling. I could make myself a great speaker and actually being a Bible teacher was something I loved, but there was always a deep unsettling feeling about those things. While good, and even the will of God at that time, I never walked away saying, “Yes, this is what I was knit together to do. This is why I wake up!”

(sidebar: I’m sure those gifts and talents will be a part of my life still, but they will be a catalyst to what I’m about to explain. Ok, on we go.)

In 2002, JT suggested I take the Perspectives course on the Christian Movement. Like a loving wife and faithful woman of God, I didn’t go. Why? Because who wants to hear about what a low-life they are because they don’t want to go out on the mission field? Who wants their heart changed and have to move to some remote village void of toilets and light switches? Not. Me. So I didn’t go to Perspectives until two years after JT.

What I found was quite the contrary. God didn’t whisper to me “Gooooo! GOOOOO!”

Something else happened. He said, “Stay. Send.”

Fast forward eight years later, a lot of wrestling, a lot of trying to find my place to land and call my passion, I finally get it.

I am a Sender

Like my parents before me and their parents before them, I was created to love the Body, uplift her, encourage her, teach her, send her on her way, and care for her as she lives out her purpose.

Even typing that my heart beats a little faster. Unlike saying I’m a speaker or teacher, saying I’m a Sender resonates so deeply I’d dare say it is supernatural. It makes sense to me in ways I can’t fully explain in English. I’d try Spanish but then I’d just be making a fool of myself, but many of you would be like, “Yes! She got her prayer language!” (Some of you would be like, “Wait. I think she’s trying to communicate, I just know it.”)

Now when people ask me what my passion is I can truly and deeply and with all my heart, without a shadow of a doubt, from the very soul of who I am, say, “I…am a Sender.”

(Tomorrow: What the Heck is a Sender, really?)

Posted in Being Real, Home, Missions | Leave a comment

Made for This- Part 1 “It Runs in My Family”

Their house was huge. Four stories. Four. It was magical, fascinating, timeless. Huge open living room with widows that spanned the entire house, overlooking a lake. Dark, creepy basement that held treasures of old architect drawings and smelled like a library. Furniture so amazing in the 60′s, I’d love to have it now. I can still see every room, make out the familiar patterns of the fabulous and wild wallpaper choices. I can hear the doors and the grandfather clock. The Red Hots in the pantry. The orange swivel chairs in the breakfast room. The secret panel in the wall of the staircase. The warmth from the morning sun still touches my face. It was their home. My Grandparents, the first Senders I ever knew.

In that fascinating house I met even more fascinating people called missionaries. One man brought back tales from across the seas, and with him real snakes that intrigued and captured my child’s mind. Exotic. Wild. I had no idea where he lived or what he did, but he stayed at my Grandparents house and they loved him, so I loved him. He took me to Jr. High one day in torrential rain on his way back to the church after breakfast with my parents. Who does that? I told him where to turn and where to drop me off. I thanked him, ran in, and had no idea that would be the last time I would see him.

Another lady was an American living in the far off place called the Philippines. She had dashing red hair, colorful clothes and long red fingernails. Something about her made me want to be wild and live somewhere else. She sat on the stairs at my grandparents and I watched as she laughed with my mom and hugged her like old friends.

She too stayed with my Grandparents.

My Grandparents, Harold and Eugenia Short, lovers of Jesus, lovers of missionaries. Their home, a safe place. Their money, given freely. Their time, available. They were Senders, though I hardly think they knew that’s what they would be called. They “sent” the ones called to “go” and they did it well.

Their son, Glenn, and his wife, Jolene, my parents, are Senders. Again, I doubt they know that’s their title in the Great Commission, but that’s what they are. They too have the gift of giving money to whomever needs it. They have housed missionaries, spent time and money on those they love who have chosen to Go. They’ve heard the stories, stuffed the check in the envelope and hugged their friends on furlough.

One friend, Don, was murdered in his own front yard.

I’ll never forget the day I heard. The man who had driven me to Jr. High that rainy morning was slaughtered by the very people he went to love. By that time I was in high school. I was at my home church doing something there on a weekday, making copies for who knows what when my pastor came in and told me the news. I sat on a nearby stool and stared off a bit. Even though I had barely met the man a few years back, his story, his life touched me deeply. I went into the sanctuary alone. It was dark except for the sun cutting through behind the green shade of the stained-glass window above the stage. I walked to the front row, looked at the stage, and wept.

To comprehend what had happened as a white, middle-class girl in the middle of a country was near impossible. All I knew was this man was murdered. My heart broke into a thousand pieces. He smiled and laughed and hung out with my Grandparents and parents. Who would want to kill him?

“..he comes to steal, kill, and destroy.”

I didn’t learn what the term “Sender” meant until 2004 when I took the Perspectives course. Undoubtedly the most amazing course on the history of the Christian movement. Things began to click inside of me. I loved missionaries, but had no idea how to help. I prayed for them, even wrote a prayer journal for those Stateside to pray through.

What did it mean to be called a Sender? I had no idea. It didn’t strike me until a few days ago that I’m a 3rd generation Sender. What wild things will God have for me? But, I get ahead of myself. Recognizing the historical significance of this is astounding, to say the least, but looking back at all the things leading up to just the last few days is only God.

Being a Sender is in my blood…and from His.


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This Is Messy

Oh God!

I read this and was stopped in my tracks. Jeremiah 22:16

“Is that not what it means to know me?” What? Where did that come from? How have in my 30+ years of following Jesus did I not see this before? Too consumed with Jeremiah 29:11 just a few chapters to the right, maybe?

I went through my Bible looking up Scripture that had to do with the poor, oppressed, widowed, orphaned and can I just tell you how ashamed I was (am) that most of them we not underlined. You see, I like to underline. Everything that is awesome and wonderful about the Word of God that inspires me and changes me and makes me feel amazing about being a Christ follower gets an underline.

Most of the passages I read concerning “the least of these” are naked in my Bible.

Naked and overlooked. 

Much like the people themselves. I am stooped low over this.

But, you see, I KNOW God! He’s changed me, He’s saved me, He’s loved me and kept me from falling to pieces. He’s blessed me and given me more than I can imagine!! Yes, all this is true, but in light of that verse…..

do I not know Him?

I’m wrestling with this. Don’t you know I know you Jesus? I know your voice. I know your heart. I know your breath. I swear I know you!

What I’ve come to begin to see, what I’ve come to begin to swallow is this:

What I do not know is his brokenness. 

I recently thought,

When you start praying like this, things start shifting. You start looking at life differently. The car we drive, the food we eat, the clothes we wear. They start to diminish, make you feel a little sick. They make me look down at my hands and wonder, “Who are you really serving?”

What are we doing? What am I doing? What am I not doing?

It’s time for those passages in my Bible that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with them to start having hard lines underneath them. Not only that, but I have to ask myself, “Will those lines move me to action, or will they simply be an underlined thought?” Will I pride myself in more pen in my Bible or will I risk having love and blood on my hands?

Will I risk more?

Will I give more so that someone else might live? Will I dare to run the risk of looking like a foolish American, giving up the “American Dream” so that someone else may have a chance to dream at all? Will I do things that make us less comfortable (which might mean, what? that we have to give up a meal out?)? Am I willing to even abandon what I think might be the road to “my” dreams so that I can see more clearly His road to His dream?

I think the answer to all of these must be Yes. If it’s not yes, then what am I doing? Who am I serving? Who do I really know?

This is messy right now. Please hold for more underlined passages, or more messy wanderings around what I call comfortable. It’s not so comfortable now, but then again, He never said it would be.


Posted in Being Real | 3 Comments

How Many Times Do They Say “Mom!” Before You Look Up?






Usually when this happens I am reading a book, typing on some sort of computer gadget or watching TV. Something happens to my ears when I am engaged in an activity that requires even the slightest amount of focus. The electrical things that go from my ears to my brain to say, “Hey, someone is talking to you and it’s your kid.” is somehow shut off.

 I can hear them. I can. I just can’t seem to get my body to turn and look at them. It’s like they are far away in some other room, in some other house, calling from the other side of the world. I hear you child! I really do. I think you’re trying to communicate! Hang on child! I’ll be there in juuuuust a minute.

One kid could come in and tell me an entire story only to have me look at them and say, “What honey?” The eye rolls. The starting over. The sighs and huffs because they thought they had my attention. Honestly, the should know by now that when my face is down, illuminated by the tiny screen of my phone, I can’t hear them.

I have learned, however, that I need to physically disengage my eyes from whatever I’m doing, turn and look at them, then I can hear them. Listening is so much more than using your ears.

Many people have asked me, “How do I hear the voice of God.”

Well, it’s simple…


Not simple? Why isn’t it? Why is it that we are promised the very essence of God lives in us, that we can have the mind of Christ, and know the will of God, and yet hearing his voice eludes us, escapes us, tempts us?

What’s the problem? Is it that he isn’t speaking, or we aren’t listening? And it’s not just closing your eyes, letting out a sigh, leaning your head back, and waiting while the dang cricket chirps in the corner of your mind.

I know when MY kids are talking to me. In a crowd of hundreds, I can pick out their voice. Why? I’m with them all the time. I know them. I understand them. I spend time with them.

Jesus said that his sheep (us) know his voice and he knows them. The only way to know a voice, to know who that is on the phone when you pick it up (before caller ID), to know who is behind you when someone says your name, is to spend time with them.

No other way to know if you are hearing the voice of God or not, but to spend time with him daily, hourly, minutely, secondly… well, not secondly, firstly, but you get the point. Disengage from the distractions, engage in the relationship. 

Before you ask, “How can I know when I hear the voice of God,” ask yourself, “How much time to I spend with God I want to hear?”


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The First Thing Homeschoolers Should Think About: Or anyone else for that matter… if you’re breathing…. think about this…

I have four kids. Yes, yes, I know…. AWESOME! 

We honestly have loads of fun. So much fun. More fun that you have with your kids. Okay, that was rude.

Anyway, I hope and pray and beg God that one day they will grow up and have kids so that I can be the most awesome Grandparent on the whole planet. Make that the entire universe! I am stupid crazy about this baby I had at 36. What am I going to be like when my kid’s kids are toddling around me? Die, I tell you. I will die from the love oozing out of my body.

Why the weird blog title? Because I was going to write to just homeschoolers, but shoot, this is good for anybod-eh!

I’ve been getting Facebook messages about homeschool and I usually shoot them what I’m about to share below. However, I want anyone who is breathing to think this way. Regardless if you homeschool or not, or even have kids, thinking 200 years down the road is vital to the way we handle life today. Here’s what I tell people.:

Define your vision as to WHY you want to homeschool (or live, or breathe, or do whatever).

For instance, JT and I homeschool for many reasons, but our primary reason is because we want to instill in our children that they will receive a vision a call on their life from God and we want to equip them to receive that call in our homes.

We homeschool also because we know that what we do today will define generations to come.

We homeschool because we don’t want to get up early and catch a bus or make lunches because I’m not a morning person.

We homeschool because it works well for our family.

We homeschool because we believe we are the best equipped to get them ready for the world, mulit-generational work and ministry and we are the best to instill what we feel is the most God-driven things in our lives.

We homeschool because regular education (math, science, history) is SECONDARY to their relationship with Christ and his calling on their life.

I encourage you to take a lot of time with your spouse uncovering your vision for your family and talk about what you do as a family directly affecting eight generations from now. Yes, EIGHT. Once you hash that out, then what you do for “school” becomes very easy and very defined.

School, as we define it from our perspective, is very short sighted. Why do we “school”? We school to get them to college. Why? Why is our primary focus college? For a job? Why? Why do we focus so much on jobs and careers? If we spent half the time thinking about how we can get our children to have a vibrant relationship with Jesus so they can know what HIS plan is, then we would find that we have excelled far beyond just planning for college and career.

These are the things you need to think about. Learning to read and doing math will come. It’s really no big deal. Lift your eyes beyond that! Get a vision. Write it down and from that, what you do with school will be an easy direction. Not that is will be easy, but you will have the fuel to get you through it.

That’s why we homeschool, but really, the concept of looking at how our lives will affect eight generations will really make us reconsider what we do on an everyday basis. If you could envision your family 200 years from now, what do you want them to look like?

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One Truth, Please

If it’s not too weird, or if it doesn’t make me out to look like a glutton, I usually opt for two plates at any kind of buffet. Two reasons: I don’t want my food touching. And, I want to be able to get a little bit of a lot. And since I don’t like my food touching and I want a little bit of everything, two plates will hold a lot of littles without having to heap them on one another. Ew.

Really, three or four plates would be best. One for protein, one for veggies, one for salad, one for dessert. REMEMBER, I’m not heaping stuff on, just doing little bites of said categories. #notaglutton

I’ve done this in my personal life as well. A little bit of truth over here, some over here. Let me sample that one first. Mmmm, that’s a good one. As much as this kind of eating in the physical world works, I wonder if when we sample truth if we are doing ourselves any favors.

You see, I’ve met people (and been this person) who will listen and listen and eat and eat spiritual truth all day long. We have heard a buffet of truth, but it may not have done any good. Nothing changes. Nothing touches. It’s the same little bit of truth spread out over a mess of plates.

I’d say, maybe we need to pick one truth we really struggle with and feast on that for awhile. Ingest it. Wrestle with it. Get angry about it. Argue with God over it. Think of the one truth of God that you really have a hard time swallowing and just stare at it for a long time. Pick at it for awhile, if need be. Shove it around the plate. Look it over.

I dare you. I dare you to stop eating dumb little portions of Jesus to feel better about yourself, and just stare your ugly right in the face. Stare at what scares you to believe and what might make you think differently. Eat on that ONE truth that you avoid.

Avoiding what you’re so afraid might not be true, is the best way to ensure you stay a slave to that which you already believe is true. 


What is your One Truth you need to eat on for awhile?




Posted in Being Real | 2 Comments

Coffe Dates Will Change Your Life

I sat across from a friend at Starbucks who shared with me the lousy choices she had made the last few months and wanted to really get back with God. We talk and laughed. I think I helped a little bit.

I met a gal from Abolition International to talk about what’s going on the world with modern slave and sex trafficking. She talked. I consumed every word (with my bagel). She shifted me that day.

Another Starbucks, another friend. She sat there staring at me while I cried (sobbed) when I was desperate to go home and thought we’d made a mistake coming to Nashville. She was a balm. A true balm.

Sitting in desk chairs in the church office another friend spoke truth straight in to my rebellious heart. Stopped me in my tracks. She did more than shift me. Her words derailed me.

Countless date nights with my husband means laughter that if put in hot air balloons would fill the sky and take your breath away! He also gives me wisdom. Tenderness I do not deserve. Shifts me.

A phone call back to Oklahoma City. She is so dear to me I can’t stand it. She’s called me out, lifted me up, given me a stomach ache from laughter, and has listened with no answer to give me but a hug and a cry. More shifting than most people in my life.

I meet these people. We talk. I am changed. Most of the time these meetings have been put on the calendar. The texts actually say “I’m putting it in my calendar!” And we do. And we meet. And I am a better person for it.

What a wonder for a human, with all her failings and brokenness, to be able to sit across from another human with her failings and brokenness and we are better for it. What a wonder! What a gift!

And yet, we have access to coffee dates, lunch dates, shower dates, evening, morning, afternoon, bed time, running, walking, breathing…. we have all these opportunities to meet the only one who cannot only cause shifts in us, but transformation. He doesn’t just hear what’s going on and nod his head and pray with us; He infects us, changes us, establishes us, calls us to a higher life that will literally change the very direction of future history…and yet, we feel as though we can’t talk to Him.

Don’t have the time.
Don’t know how.
Don’t know what to do.

Do what you do with the gifts of humanity.


Put your time with Jesus on your calendar…at then meet him for coffee. 

You’ll never be the same. I promise. 

Posted in Friendship | 2 Comments