“Measure twice, cut once,” they say.

That philosophy has simply never stuck with me—just one of the reasons why I would not make a very good carpenter. Or surgeon. Or pharmacist.

I lack precision, I love to estimate, and yes Mom, I can be a tad on the scatterbrained side.

Surely you all agree that you wouldn’t want me to be the brain behind the knife, then.

Or the one doling out potentially deadly combinations of medications.

Or building your cabinets. (Somehow that last one just doesn’t have the zing of the other two…)

Plotting one’s direction in life isn’t easy. It seems ridiculous that by the ripe old age of 18, when all you really care about is finding a prom dress and having cute senior pictures made, you are expected to know beyond a shadow of a doubt what chore you will want to spend the next 50 years of your life doing.

Yet decide I did, and now here I am, for better or for worse.

We humans are such diverse creatures. We arrive with unique goals, talents and shortcomings, and we fill equally diverse roles here on Earth.

I can’t help but marvel at God’s design, beautifully organic yet painstakingly precise—and bigger than life.

(For if it was me creating the earth and crafting hearts, I would have messed up my measurements, gotten frustrated and abandoned the project.)

"Now may the Lord direct your hearts into the love of God and into the patience of Christ."
2 Thesalonians 3:5

It's not about me.

Words are failing me tonight. The perfect story seems just beyond my grasp.

So, for today, all I offer are the words inspired by One far greater than I—words that sing of truth.

“When I came to you, brothers, I did not come with eloquence or superior wisdom as I proclaimed to you the testimony about God. For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. I came to you in weakness and fear, and with much trembling. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit's power, so that your faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power.

We do, however, speak a message of wisdom among the mature, but not the wisdom of this age or of the rulers of this age, who are coming to nothing. No, we speak of God's secret wisdom, a wisdom that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began. None of the rulers of this age understood it, for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory. However, as it is written:

"No eye has seen,
no ear has heard,
no mind has conceived
what God has prepared for those who love him"

— but God has revealed it to us by his Spirit.

The Spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God. For who among men knows the thoughts of a man except the man's spirit within him? In the same way no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. We have not received the spirit of the world but the Spirit who is from God, that we may understand what God has freely given us. This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, expressing spiritual truths in spiritual words. The man without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him, and he cannot understand them, because they are spiritually discerned. The spiritual man makes judgments about all things, but he himself is not subject to any man's judgment:

"For who has known the mind of the Lord that he may instruct him?"But we have the mind of Christ.”
--1 Corinthians 2

Here, Paul pours out his heart to the people of Corinth—acknowledging his faults, explaining his motives and expressing his desire to serve Christ. Like Paul, I come not with eloquence or superior wisdom. Anyone who knows me can testify to that. But I do come with a desire to serve, a desire to honestly say:

“My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on men’s wisdom, but on God’s power.”
1 Corinthians 2: 4-5

Granddaddy's Last Stand

Russian tea simmered on the stove, filling the house with its citrusy-sweet smell. Shiny packages lined the floor around the towering tree. The great-grandchildren laughed and played, all while speculating about what Santa might bring.

It was a Harbison family Christmas Eve, steeped in family tradition and full of love, but last year, a shadow lingered in all of our hearts.

Granddaddy was weak and growing weaker by the day, and our human hearts could not help but compose a single painful question: Would this Christmas be his last?

It was.

Granddaddy died on May 26 of this year, a story I shared with you a few weeks back. Now, as my family and I look ahead toward the holiday season that is stretched out before us, we are filled with a chorus of mixed emotions. This time last year, we were investing time by his side—holding his hand, sharing our hearts, and soaking up what we feared would be his ‘last’ this and his ‘last’ that.

And before I dare begin wrapping my heart about what will be, I can’t help but glance into the past and record the precious moments of that Christmas Eve—moments that I remember as his last stand, his last great moment of courage.

Christmas Eve fell on Sunday last year, and my brother Jason was asked to sing a solo at the morning worship service. By this time, Granddaddy had been bedridden for months. His disease had taken hold, robbing of him of the ability to do the simplest of things. No one expected him to make it to the service—I don’t even know how long it had been since he was physically able to make it to church.

Oh, how we underestimated the will and the courage of Derlan Avis Harbison.

Delightfully stubborn, my Granddaddy was nothing if not strong-willed. When he set his mind upon something, by golly, he was going to do it.

He set his mind upon hearing my brother sing at church for one final time. And he did.

Grandmother bundled him up in his warmest sweaters, and the men of the family hoisted him into his wheelchair and then into the car and on to my church, First Baptist Church of Holly Pond.

My most treasured moments of last Christmas are of that precious morning service. Our family filled a pew, and I sat proudly by my Granddaddy, holding his hand and watching his expressions. I watched the growing pride in his eyes as he listened to Jason sing. I watched members of the congregation, many who had not seen him in months and months, flock to his side. Tears slipped down my cheeks—an overflow of the thankfulness that was echoing in my heart.

I know Christmas is several weeks away, but my heart can’t help but look ahead and wonder what is to come. Our celebration will not be the same without Granddaddy, but the heart of Christmas remains the same—a rejoicing over the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ. We will hurt and miss him, and I am sure that we will cry.

But we will also laugh and drink Russian tea and play Pictionary and talk babytalk to the tiniest of our family.

Granddaddy wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Believing without seeing

Imagine a world painted black—robbed of light, color and shape. Imagine stepping blindly through that world, feeling your way as you move cautiously through a crowd. Imagine relying solely on hearing and smell and touch and other people for your survival.

Imagine. I’m trying.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, as I stroll from Spanish class to mi dormitorio, I breathe in life. I watch ruby red leaves fall to the sidewalk. I try not to step on the cracks. I smile and wave at friends. Nothing spectacular, just a normal, average, regular-old slice of life.

On that path, I also encounter the same set of people every Tuesday. The same old people, strolling to the same old classes, clutching the same old books. But two of them always catch my eye and inspire my admiration.

They’re blind.

The first gentleman walks alone, tapping out his path with a pole. The second holds the arm of a friend as he makes his way to class.

Each time I see them, my thoughts whir into the same circle of thoughts. What bravery, what courage, what faith it must take for these men to venture out into a busy, busy world that they cannot even see. . .

The concept of blindness terrifies me. I cannot imagine stepping tentatively into darkness, into a world where everyone else sees all that I do not. Blindness is a state of being that I can only imagine, but for so many, it is reality. Yet still they overcome. I admire their bravery, and I can’t help but be reminded of my faith in God.

Walking in faith can often feel like walking blindly—believing without seeing, trusting without proof.

I don’t know where this life of reckless faith in God will lead me, but I’m ready to follow. I don’t hold all the answers to life’s toughest questions in my hands. Not even close, but that is okay by me. I wonder and I doubt, certainly, but at the end of the day, I open my eyes and soak up the beauty of His vast creation.

And then I close them to tell Him so.

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."
Hebrews 11:1

Closet warrior

Shag carpet hugged the floor beneath me, and a weave of wire and mattress hovered just a couple of inches from my nose. Bathed in the coolness of shadows, I daydreamed.

Brave warrior-child that I was, I never feared The Monster Under The Bed. The space beneath my bed was instead a sanctuary—a place to curl up with a flashlight and a book and enjoy the quiet. Even when not seeking solace underneath my bed, I have always sought peace and privacy. I began closing my bedroom door as a young girl—not to get away from anything or anyone, but just to snatch a few moments for myself.

When I meet new people, I have to fight my internal urge to not close myself off entirely. I know that when most people meet me, they think I am shy. And, well, they’re right—at least sort of.

But deep within me is the soul of a daring adventurer.

No, really. I mean it. No joke.

I am thrilled by the idea of journeying to a faraway land, living in the most primitive of conditions and dining on the most exotic of foods. I find images of backpacking through the wilderness or adjusting to a foreign city’s culture positively electrifying. But do I have what it takes? Is this the place where God is calling me?

The time has come, yet again, to apply for Summer Missions 2008. Tomorrow, my application folder must be signed, stamped, sealed and sent off. Interviews are in two weeks. I’ll be notified where I’m going about a week after that. Imagine that, in the space of three short weeks, I’ll know where God is sending me this summer. Am I ready for this? Well, no. Not even close.

Thank God it simply is not about me or my readiness—it is about Him and His plan. And He won’t be ‘sending’ me anywhere, it will be an adventure we will traverse together. Whether I find myself stateside, across the globe, in a remote town or urban city, He’ll be holding my hand.

"Then Jesus came to them and said, "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in[a] the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."
Matthew 28:18-20

Pressing on toward the goal

Legs pumping and hearts racing, they sprinted up and down the court. They worked like a well-oiled machine, passing and catching, shooting and scoring. The pace of the game was nothing if not intense.

Well, excluding myself.

There I stood, dumbfounded and trembling near the center of the hardwood. The game pulsated around me, and the action shifted quickly from one side of the court to the other. I jogged halfheartedly in the direction of the ball, avoiding eye contact of my teammates and praying fervently that no one would be foolish enough to throw it to me.

You see, the first basketball game I ever watched….

I played in.

I don’t recall what possessed me, but I endured an odd stage of life—7th grade, to be exact—during which I longed to be an athlete. From where I stood, the life of a middle-school athlete seemed ideal. They were fit. They were popular. And, of course, they got to miss school for ballgames all the time.

I didn’t even care what sport. I just wanted to be on some team, playing some game. I tried out for volleyball first, then basketball. Needless to say, basketball was the final nail in the coffin of my athletic aspirations.

Now, I did give the sport my best shot. I whiled away many hours in my garage, dribbling away. I practiced shooting over and over. I even had a friend train me on the art of a lay-up.

The one tiny detail that I had forgotten was—yes, you guessed it—the game itself. I performed poorly enough in the other tests, but when time for a practice scrimmage rolled around, I was doomed.

As a follower of Christ, I catch myself falling into those old habits. I forget what is important. I forget the object of the game.

What is important? To me, what matters most is living each day like Jesus Christ, living in a way, and with such joy, that my very being echoes His.

To some it may seem foolish for me to dedicate my life to a goal that I know going in that I will never fully achieve. Like dooming myself to a failure akin to mine in the sports world.

I see it differently.

Jesus Christ was sent into this sin-sick world as one of us—a mortal man, as susceptible to temptation as you and I. He lived His life with poise and perfection and was brutally beaten and nailed to a splintery cross, despite the fact that He had done nothing wrong.

Ever.

He took my sin and your sin upon Himself, and He died. For us.

His life and His death and His resurrection offer us a beautiful opportunity to live a new kind of way—to live with purpose and zeal and joy.

Barring a miracle, I will never become a star basketball player. Or volleyball player. Or any-other-sport-you-can-dream-up player. I just won’t. I’m klutzy, slow and I don’t really understand the game(s). Period.

But what I will do is strive every day to be shaped more and more like Jesus. What I will do is use the gifts that He has given me and turn around and try to use them for His glory. What I will do is “get in the game” and play my heart out, work my heart out, and write my heart out, all in His name.

And, every Sunday, I will log on and keep pouring out my soul to you people, whomever you may be.

Open your heart, and let Him in, my friends. Let Him in.

"Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."

Philippians 3:12-14

The Power of a Moment

With Spanish textbooks splayed open upon our desks and Mr. Pacheco rattling on en español, I watched her.

I sat a few seats back and a few rows over, and, bored, I wondered absentmindedly about her life, her family, her aspirations.

Every day, she came to class with a 12 oz. bottle of Coca-cola in tow. She was tiny—maybe not even five feet tall. Her wiry blonde curls barely reached the nape of her neck. She had intelligent, searching, determined eyes.

And then she was gone—killed in a car accident before I ever said hello or asked how she was.
Though I barely knew her, I was shaken by the news of her death. Selfishly, I suppose. My heart ached for what had not been, for missed opportunities and unborn friendships.

I realized the power of a moment—the impact that a bright smile or hello or outstretched hand of friendship can have upon hurting hearts.

More than that, I realized the paramount importance of capitalizing on such moments.

As a college student, my life intersects with hundreds of others on a daily basis. My life is filled with hundreds of daily opportunities to be a friend and to share God’s love.

But how many stones do I leave unturned?

More than I could begin to number.

My classes are filled with faces that I barely know—with people that I have not bothered to reach out to. It shames me to say so, but it is the cold, sad truth: I become so involved in the goings and comings and the mountains and valleys in my own life that I close myself off from the world around me.

But no more, I pray.

The ripples of Karen Lashaye Pesnell’s tragic death stretch far, I am sure. My heart goes out to her family and friends and to all of the people that adored this strong, young soul. My mind cannot even wrap itself around the depths of their pain.

Even beyond those who knew her best, her life, and now her death, are making a difference.

When I walk down a crowded hall, I will remember Lashaye and smile at those that pass.

When I find myself in a classroom full of unfamiliar faces, I will remember Lashaye and reach out.
When I feel a bout of shyness slipping over me like a veil, I will remember Lashaye and make a new friend.

As I live my life, walking the streets and hall of Jacksonville State University, I will remember Lashaye. Her presence in my life was for but a moment, but her absence awakened me to all that my self-centered life was robbing from me.

Each moment is an opportunity.

Each day is a fresh slate.

No longer will I hold my joy inside.

“Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”
Hebrews 13: 1-2

Parched?

After a long week of stressing over tests and papers and jobs, Kenny and I escaped Jacksonville yesterday.

We didn’t make it far—only to Noccalula Falls Park of Gadsden.

Because I hadn’t visited the park since a field trip in the third grade, I got online that morning to check it out.

The park’s Web site proclaimed the waterfall to be a “100 foot natural wonder” and showed off photograph after photograph of the cascading falls. Beautiful. Breathtaking.

I was stoked.

I had also forgotten about the current drought.

The “waterfall” had slowed to a trickle. Okay, a drip.

As I watched the water seep slowly from the parched bed up top, I couldn’t help but think of myself—of my own walk with God.

There have been days, wonderful days, when a glimpse of me was a glimpse of someone living for God. There have been times when I opened my Bible and could barely contain my excitement over each word, each promise that I found there. There have been moments where I felt the presence of God so vividly that all doubts fled my heart.

I look back onto these “snapshots” of my life and smile gratefully. But I would be lying if I said every moment of my days was like that.

Far from it. Each day is a struggle, and many days, I feel like I barely make it through the day intact.

Many days I feel like that sad little waterfall - only a trickle, not enough to make a difference to anyone. The daily stresses that plague us all sometimes drain me of energy and joy.

Yet even as I travel through the parched desert valleys of life (for we all find ourselves there at one point or another) I recall a promise in Isaiah.

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland."
Isaiah 43:18-19

Let not your hearts be troubled...

The moment I heard her voice, I knew.

He was gone.

Tears poured forth and dissolved into trembling sobs.

My Granddaddy, my wonderful Granddaddy, was gone. Memories stabbed at my heart: the precious hours we spent compiling his life story, sitting beside him at Christmastime to hear his dry commentary on the gifts, and watching him bail hay from our kitchen window in sweltering July summers.

Then there, in my heart, was the rich sound of his laughter and his booming “Hey!” each time someone walked in the room.

Oh, how I loved that man.

He died back in May, but my heart still aches with the loss.

Losing the people we love is never easy, yet there is hope on the horizon.

God is there, whether you believe in Him or not, think He is relevant or not, or think He cares or not. He is there, and He does offer comfort.

My Granddaddy had been confined to his bed for the last year of his life, and he was miserable.

Working on our farm was his passion, his love, his dream. His immobility and helplessness were a nightmare for him. As hard as it was to say goodbye, how could I deny him his longing to walk on golden streets? He was ready to go home.

I know my loss, as deeply as it cut me, does not compare with the pain of many. I have never lost a parent, a child, a spouse or a best friend.

I also know that I will see him again.

In his mid-twenties, long before I was anything more than a figment of a faraway dream, my Granddaddy decided to follow Christ. I was not quite six years old when I answered the call of God upon my own heart.

Following God isn’t easy—at all. It is a day-by-day struggle, a constant fight to follow Him. But, oh, how beautiful a life it can be.

Perfection is not required. Neither is a holier-than-thou attitude. All you need is a willing heart that longs for something more.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” -John 14:1-4

Have a question or comment, a rant or a rave? Don't hold back...

The Giving Tree

“TIMBER!”

Everyone’s heads swiveled toward Mrs. Wanda’s front yard, where a towering tree fell in a graceful arc across her driveway.

One of the mission team’s objectives that week was to chop down a tree that was leaning dangerously over a power line. Watching it fall, we all breathed a collective side of relief. It would still have to be chopped up for firewood, but at least the risky part was behind us.

Mrs. Wanda’s neighbor dropped by to check our progress and did a double take at the sight of tree. He told us that the tree was a black walnut, and that just last year, he had sold one from his own yard for about $500. We were thrilled and went into the house to tell Mrs. Wanda the good news. We told her about the tree’s possible worth and that AO would help her find a buyer. Thrilled, she ran to find her husband Gary to tell him the news.

Later, Wanda emerged from the house.

“I’ve decided to give whatever money ya’ll get from the tree to Appalachian Outreach,” she said. “Ya’ll have done so much to help us that it is the least we could do.”

Mrs. Wanda needed that money.

Neither she nor her husband was able to work, her mother was in the nursing home and she was tending to her sick friend. I had talked with her enough to know that making ends meet was no easy thing for her family. From week to week, she could barely scrounge up enough money for the essentials.

But still she gave.

Mrs. Wanda gave freely from the depth of her own poverty. When I remember her, I smile, and I think of the story of the widow’s offering.

“Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a fraction of a penny.

Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, ‘I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.’”
Mark 12:43-44

Giving isn’t all about dollars and cents, but it is about sacrifice.

Mrs. Wanda made for an unlikely teacher, but God used her glimmering example to show me a sliver of true generosity.

I couldn’t forget her if I tried.

Love one another?

Blood-colored rust covered the tin roof, and flakes of white paint peeled off to reveal rotten wood siding.

My heart twisted at the sight of the home.

It was the sixth week of my work with Appalachian Outreach, a poverty relief organization in the mountains of East Tennessee, and I was spent. While my fellow missionary David parked the truck, I glanced again over the list of projects for this home that week and sighed. The list was lengthy.

We were to replace the tin roof, convert a porch into a bedroom, hang T1-11 siding on two sides of the house, replace the exterior doors, completely rewire the home, and paint. I sighed once more.

Then she walked out.

Loud, brash and spunky, Wanda Smith is not someone that I will soon forget. Her skin shone with perspiration and several inches of cleavage peeked out of her tank top. I blinked in shock when I realized that yes, that really was a dollar bill in there. Only slightly quieter than Wanda was the incessant yipping of her three tiny dogs, which ran in and out of the house with reckless abandon.

Mrs. Wanda was so grateful and thrilled that we were there and grabbed us by the arms to take us inside her home.

Walking in, we took note of the state of the kitchen floor. Yellowed in some areas and torn in others, the linoleum was in poor shape. Our project list didn’t include any interior work, however. It was strictly outdoors this time, and even then it was on the verge of being too much.

My heart lurched as we stepped inside the tiny living room. A rail thin woman lay on a hospital bed, propped up on a cluster of pillows. She said little. Mrs. Wanda, however, more than compensated for the woman’s quiet. She chattered on about painting the kitchen recently with donated paint. It was all I could do to take my eyes off of the woman, though. Back home, I had watched my own grandfather get very ill and thin, but I had never seen anyone look like she did.

Chatting all the while, Mrs. Wanda completed her tour and walked us back outside.

“That was Lesa,” she whispered. “She’s got the HIV and only has a few months left.”

Further probing let us know that Lesa was not even blood-kin to her, but a friend that she had taken in because her own family didn’t want her. My heart swelled, and I knew that we just had to somehow make this house into a real home for Mrs. Wanda.

Next time, I’ll finish telling the rest of Mrs. Wanda’s story (the most incredible that I encountered this summer), but I just had to go on and introduce her to you. She is a woman of incredible strength and one that I deeply admire. This same day, the first day that we met her, Mrs. Wanda made a statement that I will never forget. She said that as a teenager she would go, much like we were going, from home to home doing odd jobs for people that needed help but could not afford it. “I never thought I would ever need to be on the receiving end.”

I guess not many people ever really do. Before this summer, I drove by ramshackle houses and trailers without giving thought to the struggling people that sleep within their walls. Even now, I catch myself doing the same thing. It is so easy to become consumed in what I am doing and lose sight of what I could be doing to lend a hand. Whether the idea of raw, painful poverty is foreign to you or not, I encourage you to open your eyes and your heart to the people around you. I believe that the love of Jesus Christ is expressed most poignantly here on earth when we simply take the time to love one another.

"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him?"

1 John 3:18

Fear not?

I gripped a flashlight in one hand and a net in the other as I tiptoed along the waterline, my eyes scanning the water for the slightest movement. My best friend’s laughter rose up behind me and I spun around just in time to see her race across the dunes in hot pursuit. She scooped up the scuttling creature in one motion and then bolted toward me to show off her prize. With narrowed eyes, I scrutinized the sand crab and shuddered.

That night, as we prowled the sands beneath an ebony sky, I tried with all my might to capture one of the offending beasts myself. Each time I spotted one, I sprinted toward it with my net waving in front of me like a flag. As I neared it, though, fear always caught in my throat, sending me bolting for safety.

I was twelve then, and now nineteen—but even seven years later, I find that bravery still often eludes me in the simplest of circumstances. My fears have stretched beyond sand crabs, but for certain, they still exist and still have the power to keep me locked up within my own shell.

It is because of my own fears and reservations that even I am still surprised when I look back at the events of this incredible summer. I spent ten weeks in the mountains of East Tennessee doing home repair as a summer missionary for Appalachian Outreach, a poverty-relief organization. I went because I felt the call of God on my heart, and I came home forever changed.

Christians talk a lot about “getting out of their comfort zones,” a phrase that, as it sounds, simply means escaping the realm of activity where one feels most safe and well, comfortable. We all have them. As this summer began and I learned the details of my new job, my own comfort zone soon became a distant memory.

Appalachian Outreach, which most fondly refer to as AO, offers countless ministries to the impoverished of the area. A food pantry, clothing closet and homeless shelter are just a few of the ways that AO reaches out to the community. I, however, was one of the missionaries assigned to lead teams in doing week long home repair projects.

My fears came alive during my very first week, as I found myself clambering up a ladder and climbing onto a roof. Frozen by my terror, I clung to the ridge cap and gingerly slid shingles down to my fellow missionaries. As I sat there feeling useless, my mind filled with questions and doubts.

I asked God why.

And then I asked Him again. And again.

I knew, and I know, that He could have easily filled my position with someone else, okay, anyone else that could have outworked me. I had never used a power tool in my life. I didn’t know the difference between a drywall screw and a decking screw. I couldn’t hammer for the life of me. I was scared out of my mind.

The result? The most difficult, life-changing, and incredible summer of my life.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but I do know Someone who does. In this blog, which I will write in every Sunday for The Chanticleer, I want to take you along on my journey of faith in God. I intend to hold nothing back, and I ask the same of anyone reading this. Any feedback is more than welcome.

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name: you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the Lord, your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior..."

Isaiah 42: 1b-3a