So long ago I said I need a Savior and repented of all the horrible and evil things I'd done up to the age of seven. I tried so hard to be good. I remember at around 8 years old starting my day and challenging myself to go the whole day without sinning. I messed up soon after breakfast. My understanding of grace was limited to the idea that I could try again the next day. My understanding of God had Him loving me very, very much but I thought He wanted me to be better than I was.
On Father's Day I posted on facebook that my best parenting decision, aside from my choice to follow Christ, was marrying my husband Kris. I meant that, and this past week reinforced that idea in my head.
It seemed that Psalm 127 was quoted numerous times over the past week while I was visiting family in Michigan, in different conversations with different people and about different things, but it rang in my heart that there was something important to share and so I'm writing.
"Ugh....where's the instruments? Why can't I hear anything but the alto on the worship team? Why is it so bad? It's nothing but drums and alto...seriously...drums and alto? I am trying so hard Lord, I'm trying to worship, it's not the song, it's not the style, it's the sound! No, I'm sure it's ME! I can see other people with their hands up and tears in their eyes...there's something wrong with me. Help! I can't get past this grating sound in my ears! I'm one of those awful people who can't worship because they're picky! What's happened to me? Should I go tap the sound man on the shoulder and ask him if he could please provide some form of melody just for me? Nah, probably wouldn't be a good idea. Please, do something God...I really want to worship."
Lots and lots of them. Floating around like balloons asking to be popped. Daring us to disagree with bloated analysis of life inexperienced.
We all have them, we all blow them up and admire them. We might even take them out to share with friends or post them on facebook and wait for the masses to ask for more. We've sacrificed our very breath to enclosed ideas that form a "truth" we can't prove, because it's not truth at all, it's opinion, and if it isn't popped from initial scrutiny, it will eventually lose air and shrivel.
Praying for my kids isn't a little thing I do in the evenings before bedtime.
Praying for my kids isn't a ritual around the table.
Praying for my kids isn't a part time practice, spurred by anything that looks like habit or tradition.
Praying for my kids is how I exhale as a parent. It is the full outward force of my breath.
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