All posts tagged: freedom

Afternoon with the Trembling Giant

I’m convinced that there is no more beautiful spot on earth on the first of June than Cherry Lane. It runs just south of my back yard. When the afternoon spills its light just before dusk, brilliant and lavish, the field grasses on the hillside seem lit from within, topped with flames of white fire. It’s holy. * There’s a stand of a half dozen aged poplar trees on the west side of the lane growing near a small culvert and behind a low, stone wall. The stones cracked free from some ancient lava flow, and now they rest one atop the other covered in lichen and last year’s moss. The poplar leaves rustle in the slightest breeze and always make the sound of a rushing mountain creek. The wet, pungent scent of poplar and the small watery roar instantly pulls me back to when I was a little girl. Dad would drive the old camper truck off onto random forest service roads in Colorado and while mom cooked lunch on the propane stove, we’d …

Fear, Failure, Faith, Google Search and Bear Poop

“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.” {Hebrews 11:1}

So fear could be the “insecurity of what we worry about and the terror of what we do not see.”

“Do not fear” is God’s phrase for reminding us that he can see every possibility and he’s got it. Faith is a viable option.

Why You Don’t Have a Sin Problem {But you do have a decision to make}

Qualified. Delivered. Transferred. Redeemed. God’s word says you can jump off the wheel, you can be done trying to measure up. Your identity and your inheritance is to be a saint in the kingdom of light. Take that, Satan. Shut up with your murmurs that we have to stay stuck in the rut of sin, of “not-measuring up”. We are redeemed. Saints. Qualified. Pre-approved. I don’t have a sin problem anymore. It’s not my responsibility. In fact, it never was.

When Your Story is a Dumb, Sob-Story {How to Handle Harsh}

He called my story a sob story. That would make me the “sob-ber” –not really attractive. He then proceeded to call my story and how I told it –dumb. Three times dumb, said he. And it cut a little, like a strip of stray wood cuts the soft flesh of a palm, digging into the cutaneous layers, unwelcome. And my first response was to flush pink in a rush of hurt and anger. After all, I am my story and my story is I. And yours is you, is it not?