Gospel of God

I notice more and more the religion so many churches preach is the gospel of me. God loves me. God is all about me. God is committed to me. God creates his will and commands around me. God wants me to be happy. God wants me to be free. The risk in holding fast to these statements is that we forget the basics of who God is, himself. While God does love us, we tend to focus the gospel solely on ourselves, and somewhere along the line start to believe this idea – God exists to love and please me. While many of us
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2015 – The List

Since I posted my “Hopes for 2015” post, I’ve had at least three people ask me if I would be willing to post the whole list. Initially, I refused. It’s too personal. While I do put myself out there a lot on my blog, posting a list like this names things I hope will happen. What if they don’t, what happens? Will people think I’m a failure if I don’t succeed in all of my aspirations? Will I feel like naming them aloud, making them public, will change them from hopes to resolutions? These are the types of questions I
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Hopes for 2015

Earlier tonight, while getting Martin to bed, I was contemplating the year. Not just 2014 or 2015, but the idea of the year. I’m about to head into my last year of my 20’s, which seems young to some but quite old to others. I was thinking how when I was in elementary school, anything over 18 seemed old. Once I was 18, anything over 55 seemed old, and here I am, almost 30, and 55 doesn’t seem quite as ancient as it used to. In fact, my parents are over 55, and they don’t seem old to me most of
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A Month of Thanks

Do you ever have seasons where you just feel off? I’m crawling through one of those right now, and what I’ve noticed is it takes me longer to process everything. It takes me longer to think through decisions, to let go of silly arguments, to write a sentence, or to realize how blessed I am. These days, I’m doing well if I can simply focus on having a good attitude. I grumble, complain, and fuss like none other. I’m short-tempered and bitter. So I decided it would be more beneficial if I, instead trying to tackle my frustration with only
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Fear Builds Walls

I’ll be honest, sometimes I avoid the computer. I won’t sit down in front of it for days because I know if I do, I’ll write. I pretend I don’t want to write, that I have nothing to write. I’m quite good at convincing myself there are other things that must be done, other good things I might add. But when I sit down in front of the keys, they type for themselves. One or two ideas become a paragraph or two. Before I know it, I’ve written more than I should post. Every good writer must edit. It’s easy
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Broken Words and Weeks

My words are spent. I am speechless and empty. At least that’s how I often feel. I’m realizing that in this season of life, I often have no words. I don’t mean words in the everyday kind of sense. I don’t have a hard time saying, “Please clean up your room,” or “How was your day?” I don’t have a hard time jabbering without really saying anything. I apologize if I’ve done that to you. I can’t think. I can’t write. I methodically put one foot in front of the other day by day. I have plenty of ideas, but
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Eating Well: A State of the Mind

You know, food is one of the most interesting things we interact with daily and yet so infrequently recognize for its multi-faceted features. It’s a necessity. It’s beautiful, colorful, natural, or unnatural. It’s comforting. It’s filling. It’s exactly what we want. It’s exactly what we need. It’s a “solution” to all kinds of emotions – boredom, fear, grief, nervousness, excitement, anger, celebration. It’s misused. It’s delicious. It’s greasy, dry, brittle, flexible, chewy. It’s served frozen or bubbling hot. It’s created for the purpose of sustaining you. It’s been manipulated into worship of the body. It’s spicy, sweet, bitter, tangy, pungent.
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Cabbage Leaves and Closed Doors

I’m going out on a limb here and sharing a poem I recently wrote. Until this poem, I hadn’t written anything in years. Writing poetry used to be ingrained in me, almost a habit I couldn’t break. And then I did. Somewhere along the way, I stopped writing, and I hate that it happened. It’s a practice, like anything else, but something I want to do. I need to do. To write. Slowly, surely, it will come back again. For now, this is what I have to offer. Cabbage Leaves and Closed Doors, for Martin, my sugar lump his back,
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Confessions from a Recovering Pack Rat

My grandparents were pack rats. I blame it on them. It’s possible my mother could have been a pack rat except that my father is neat as a pin (where did this saying come from?), so she has not been allowed to collect things except in her sewing room. Maybe the vice skipped a generation. Either way, I’ve got it, and Tyler doesn’t force me to get rid of things as he struggles with the same issue, so we’re a hopeless case of clutter and fuss.   Not only am I physically cluttered, but I also internally hold on to
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Sugar-Free Stomach

Quick Note: This might get TMI for some of you. So read on if you’re interested in a dissection of my boy’s gut from birth to present. For as long as I can remember, literally since he was born, E has struggled with lactose. They call it lactose intolerance, though he’s never been properly diagnosed. His father is lactose intolerant, so when problems quickly arose after E’s birth, I assumed it was from the copious amounts of milk I was drinking. I would drink a glass or two a day. I probably drank skim milk back then, and not the
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