Walking in Faith

Blog for the Summer

2008-04-27T19:02:00.000-07:00

Hello all!

I promised you a link to the blog I'll be keeping this summer while in Siquijor Island, Philippines, so, tada! Here it is:

http://filipinosummer.wordpress.com

May you all enjoy the summer that awaits you.

In His love,

Bethany

bethanyharbison@gmail.com

Farewell for now

2008-04-16T20:47:00.000-07:00

Only a few days of classes stretch before us — and after that, a week of exams and we’re through. Done. Finished.

This semester has left me battered. And if the tired looks and dark circles that grace the faces of my classmates are any indication, I am far, far from being alone in that sentiment.

As the remaining days dwindle, we seem to be losing steam — as evidenced by my abandonment of this blog for the last couple of weeks.

My body is still here — mechanically carrying out the motions of life as a student. I go to class and sit in the desk, but I am doing little more than occupying space.

Part of my heart has gone home, yes. Home to Holly Pond, where I hope to spend the precious month of May with my family.

And another part of my heart — a part filled with excitement and apprehension — has taken up residence on the other side of the Earth, on a tiny Filipino island called Siquijor.

I’ll be spending roughly two months there, doing missions as a part of Nehemiah Team, and I’m thrilled and terrified about it all at the same time.

If you wish to keep tabs on me and Kenny (who will be doing Habitat for Humanity work in a different area of the Philippines all summer), we’ll be updating a blog throughout the summer. Well, I will. We’ll see how often he updates. Keep a check on this site for the link.

Thank you for reading, friends. Thank you, whomever you may be, for allowing me this place to spill out my heart. God bless.

I stand amazed

2008-03-30T06:30:00.000-07:00

Before I could walk, before I could talk — I was in church. Year after year shifted me from Sunday school class to Sunday school class, but the message remained the same. For a week every summer, I joined my peers in drinking syrupy Kool-aid, playing games, making chintzy crafts and learning stories and verses from the Bible. As I grew older, I loaded up on mission trip after mission trip and took my turn sharing the stories so deeply ingrained into my mind.

I said all that to say this: This Christianity business is nothing new to me. I know the stories, many of them backwards and forwards. I know the characters, sure.

But I also sit here on this Sunday morning and admit that all the knowledge I have — and many of you have as well — doesn’t mean too much. It’s only one piece of the puzzle.

The past two weeks have allowed me the privilege to be a part of a study of the book of John with a friend who is learning it all for the first time. And I must say that as I sat in that circle, watching the expression on my friend’s face as they hear of Jesus’ birth and miracles and sacrifice — God has convicted my heart.

For as my friend takes it all in with wide eyes and a big smile, I have realized that my own wonder, my own awe has faded as I have grown older.

Take the Christmas story, the story of Jesus’ birth. How many of us can say we take the time to be amazed — shocked, even — by the fact Mary was a virgin?

Take the story of the woman at the well. How often do we sit and reflect upon how Jesus used a Samaritan adulteress to help spread the news of His identity to Samaria? And how did he know of those five husbands of hers anyway?

And take good ole John 3:16—

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, so that whosoever believed him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.”

It is memorized by church children early on — myself included — and is used as the theme of many a sermon and many a tract.

And rightly so. For its words, though few, sum up the theme of the thousands of pages that fill the Holy Bible. But how many times do I stand and mechanically recite the precious words? More than I dare say.

But on this morning, join me in reflecting, with hearts full of wonder and awe, on this mighty God we serve. One who loved us so much, even in our sins and blunders, that he offered up his one and only, pure and perfect Son for our sake. And he sent Him here knowing full well, even planning, that we would kill him — brutally and cruelly. Why? To offer you and I an opportunity to delve into the pages of His word, believe His story and live with Him forever in heaven.

The stories we teach our children and absorb ourselves are key, yes. But let us not forget to take time to sit in wonder. And let us teach our children to stand amazed.

“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord. You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.” Psalm 139: 1-6

My humble purpose

2008-03-12T20:16:00.000-07:00

This morning, as I sat at my desk making final changes to this week’s Chanticleer, the stresses of my work and my life seemed smaller somehow. For as my own brow furrowed with concern over whether to capitalize this or that and whether to place this comma here or there, a gentleman sat quietly in my office, while all the while he ran the largest news organization in the world.

Arthur Sulzberger Jr. is the chairman and publisher of The New York Times Company, and for one day, Mr. Sulzberger descended upon Jacksonville State University as this year’s Ayers Lecturer. But before he took to the podium, he sat in my office for a couple of hours.

So, I went on with tackling the issues of my life — such as which reporters I should send to which lecture or blood drive (riveting, I know) — while he sat reading his newspaper. His newspaper.

I felt small, yes. Insignificant, yes. But would I trade places with this man? No, never.

By no means does my life boast as large a footprint as Mr. Sulzberger or others, but at the same time, it is a life I have been given by the grace of God, and it is a life that I am determined to live with vitality.

To some, my ambitions for my future seem small. And they’re right. This small town girl has no desire to make a city like New York City, Washington, D.C., or heck, even Atlanta my home. My ambitions are less career-based — though I do love the work I am doing now and hope to continue bettering myself in my field for a long, long time. My ambition, in a nutshell, is to love and befriend people. Period.

And whether or not that ambition leads me to an impressive position with an impressive organization like The New York Times (emphasis on the not), I am satisfied — satisfied with the life God has carved out for me. I believe in my God, the God who has saved me from myself and the ways of the world, and I believe in the purpose He has set in my heart.

I hope Mr. Sulzberger can say the same.

An ambassador

2008-03-11T04:42:00.000-07:00

"We are therefore Christ's ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ's behalf: Be reconciled to God. God made Him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God."
2 Corinthians 5:20-21

The word ambassador inspires in me a mind full of images, but one dominates —that of a dressed-up dignitary from a foreign country, serving as a peacemaker between the nations.
An ambassador is, essentially, a representative. A go-between. Someone to be that one person, one life that will form the world’s view of whatever or whomever he or she represents. We can represent countries, clubs, businesses or families, and whether consciously or not, we do every single day.
And as a Christian, as someone who has dedicated my life to the work of Christ (though each day I slip at fall while working at this task), I am here on Earth to represent Him. And whether my decisions are positive or poor, whether my friendships are strong or struggling, whether I walk tall or fall, I do represent Him — for better or for worse.
Christ did the unthinkable for me and for you. He was innocent and pure, yet He took the weighty sins of the world upon Himself and died a death of thieves and murderers.
And it is up to me (and you, if you know Him —and I pray you do) to stand up, wherever we are and whatever we are doing to represent Christ, and represent Him as best we can.
The world is rarely going to like what we have to say, but it is these words (for they are His, not mine) that can save. It is His words that will change this world. So speak up and speak out, speaking His truth in love, and if you see me around campus, remind me to do the same. We are therefore His ambassadors, and we implore our friends, our families, those we love on His behalf.

Shades of gray

2008-02-27T23:19:00.000-08:00

"In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

Romans 8:26-28

'We do not know what we ought to pray for,' Paul says. Have you ever felt like that-- as though your words have slipped away? Have you ever looked around and saw this world as one of mottled shades of gray-- and found yourself wishing for the crisp, clean comfort of black and white? Have you ever sank to the depths of depression-- and wondered where, if, how there is a way out?

I write to you tonight from the bottom of the pit. The deep, dank, dark pit. The walls impose upon me, and a chill rises up from the floor. I am cold, I am tired and my heart longs for the voice of my God.

Loneliness seeps into my heart, but I am not alone. There are others here, but they too are wounded. They too have been silenced by the ways of the world.

But here, the burden of misery isn't lessened with company. Here, we speak words of hurt to one another. Here, we are too busy and too tired to extend a love that is patient and kind. And here, we become so consumed with the chill of the pit that we forget how we arrived.

My story is just a wisp of a memory to me now, but one thing I know:

I crawled down here. Of my own volition, of my own choosing. Of my own fault.

It was I who invited sin into my life. It was I who crammed my days with meaningless work. It was I who turned my heart away from the love and forgiveness of my Father.

And it is I who, tonight, relinquish the reins once again to God. Each time I jerk them away from His hands, I find myself here. Here in the deep, dank, dark pit, with tears welling in my eyes.

"Oh God, you are my God,
earnestly I seek you;
my soul thirsts for you,
my body longs for you,
in a dry and weary land
where there is no water.

I have seen you in the sanctuary
and beheld your power and your glory.
Because your love is better than life,
my lips will glorify you.
I will praise you as long as I live,
and in your name I will lift up my hands.
My soul will be satisfied with the richest of foods;
with singing lips my mouth will praise you.

On my bed I remember you;
I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help,
I sing in the shadow of your wings.
My soul clings to you;
your right hand upholds me."

Psalm 63: 1-8

Why am I here?

2008-02-17T18:36:00.000-08:00

By the time I could walk, I'd already been pelted with the age-old question countless times:

What do you want to be when you grow up?

My answers and those of my peers changed from year to year and day to day . . . for a brief time, I replied, "a singer," my friend Mary once dreamed of being a garbage-man (well, garbage-woman, I suppose) and my cousin Stephanie used to dream of being an Indian. As we all grew up, we grew wise to the ways of the world and our aspirations became more logical. Concrete. Attainable.

I, who could not and cannot carry the proverbial tune in the proverbial bucket, had no hope of catching my big break in the entertainment industry. I went on to dream of being an artist, and for a long time, I found the term "starving artist" glamorous and appealing. Then I wondered about illustrating and writing children's books. Or writing and designing greeting cards. Or this. Or that.

My dream morphed each day, and I recall being a senior in high school (not that it was too terribly long ago) trying so hard to figure out where I was supposed to go, what I was supposed to do. I prayed, prayed, prayed for direction. I searched my Bible for guidance. I knew that whatever I did, wherever I went to school, I wanted to serve God. I wanted to live a life that spoke boldly of His beauty and grace.

So. Here I am. I wonder every single day if I made the right choice . . . and from a career standpoint, I'm not at all certain. I do, however, feel confident that skills in writing and communications can and will translate into a number of fields, leaving me with endless possibilities.

Amid all the wondering and the questions (like do I seriously want to live from daily deadline to deadline in the newspaper world?), the words of a great man, one whose devotion to Christ is an inspiration, came at the perfect time Tuesday night.

"You are where you are on this campus, doing what you're doing for a reason. Your life touches people that no one else in this room could touch," said campus minister Gary Brittain.

The best part? Gary wasn't just talking to me-- he spoke to a roomful of college students who, like me, long to make a difference on this campus and in the world.

I am where I am (at the corner desk in the Chanticleer office) because God put me there.

So, friends, it is with a smiling heart and a brighter spirit that I will walk the path that is my life. And we all will wait and see what it is that He had in mind.

Because He first loved us

2008-02-09T21:49:00.000-08:00

“We love because he first loved us.”
1 John 4:19

Pink plush teddy bears smile down at me from their perches. Heart-shaped boxes of chocolate span an entire aisle. Valentine’s Day stickers, baskets, wrapping paper, muffin tins, cards, toys, flowers and candy, have exploded into a very red and pink section of Wal-mart.

For a holiday centered on love, a look down those aisles tells me that, like all other American holidays, it has become a holiday centered on “stuff.”

As a lady in love, I happen to enjoy Valentine’s Day. But as much as I am anticipating spending the day with Kenny, the idea of a day that celebrates love directs my heart heavenward.

In love, God formed this earth. He lovingly fashioned each creature of the land and sea, and He crowned his creation with man and then woman. Instantly, he loved them, and it was a love so strong, that even after Adam and Eve deviated so badly from His plan, it did not cease. Instead, with grace, His love abounded even more.

In love, God looked down to the earth and saw a world sick with sin. He saw that the rituals of worship and sacrifice and atonement were boxing his people into a life devoid of joy. And so he gave again.

In love, God send his only son, Jesus Christ, away from the safe haven of heaven, into a world whose inhabitants He very well knew would kill Him. He watched as His son was embraced by some but rejected and feared by others. And He looked on, tearfully, I imagine, as His precious son was crucified to save the souls of his murderers.

If that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is. God is love—utterly, fully, completely.

And it is His example—one of selfless sacrifice—that serves as the model for you and I to imitate. Love means more than romance, and lust has nothing to do with true love.

Love is, to me, about trying with all our might to love one another in the way that Christ loves all of us—unconditionally.

Falling apart

2008-02-03T07:52:00.000-08:00

I am consumed by the happenings of the day-to-day.

Get up early, head to the office, check my e-mail, log out, check my other e-mail, check the News Wire, check the event calendar, consult my planner, interview, interview, interview, write, write, write, eat a protein bar on the way to class, sit in class worrying about how I’m going to get everything done, run back to the office, call reporters, call photographers, write, write, write, dash home, do a bit of homework, then collapse. And then do it all again the next day.

I write of this not to highlight myself as a “busy” person—quite the opposite. I know of many whose lives are far more stressful, far busier and, quite frankly, far more important than mine. No, I write of this because I know you are busy too. I write of this because my intent when taking on the responsibility of writing this weekly blog was to share my heart. So, friends, here is
my heart:

This semester has been a difficult one for me. I was shoved into a position on this newspaper staff that I didn’t really want and I took on a second job (to boost my portfolio, not my wallet)—all while trying to earn A’s in my classes. Again, I know that this plight is most certainly not unique, but for me, it has proved to be too much. Way too much. So much, that my body is protesting. I spent all of last week broke out in welts and hives and this week with a constantly aching stomach.

Yet, I, like you, continue to trudge on. Day by day, week by week, hoping, quite frankly, for time to melt away quickly. But last night, I took a rare moment, and I stopped to think. And I remembered that it was not always like this.

Take last semester. I was fresh from two months of serving God by mending roofs and laying tile, and the joy that Christ brings was fresh within me. I remember walking through my days with a veritable spring in my step and a heart full of joy. I remember being so grateful for the opportunities that my work here at the Chanticleer would bring, and so excited about being an active part of the BCM and mentoring a group of freshman girls.

I was happy, at peace with myself and with God.

But as time went on and responsibilities mounted, that joy and zest for life slowly drained away. I knew my life was no testament to the beauty of my God, and that knowledge, I think, broke me down a little more. I felt like a failure, and I didn’t know a thing to do about it.

I sit here on this Sunday morning broken. I come to you today, not with lofty words, but to write to you, from my heart to yours. I am here to say that my body is exhausted, my heart is broken and that I am a flat-out failure. Those words ring true, yes.

But I am also here to tell you (and to tell myself) that it doesn’t have to be like this. God promised us a life more abundant and free, and I believe in that promise. Sometimes, guys, we just let ourselves and our plans and our jobs and our relationships and our “this” and our “that” stand between us and our creator.

I’m here to be honest. For the past two weeks, I have barely cracked my Bible—the Holy word of God, His letter to you and me . . . and I wondered why I have felt my joy slip away?

Guys, stop and think for just a moment. Stop. Think. Look around you at the world outside, the incredible work of the Hands of an incredible God. The One who made all of that in just a week made you and loves you, too. Just revel in that beautiful truth for a moment.

In the past months, I set my life to spinning so fast that I didn’t stop. I didn’t think. I didn’t pray. Or read His word. And here I am, hurting and crying as a result.

But, friends, today is a new day. Today is a day that for me marks the beginning of a new journey—my return to the arms of the One who loves me most.

I wrote a blog last night… “SPAM and Tootsie Rolls” or some such thing. You can read it below if you so choose. And when I was done, I smiled, happy to check one more thing off my to-do list. This morning, though, as I sat down with an open Bible and heart, I knew that I’d be in the wrong if I didn’t invite you all on the journey. So, come. Join me. I am putting my heart out there, for you all to read and dissect, and all I ask is that you open your mind and come along.

God is good. All the time.

“As the deer pants for streams of water,

so my soul pants for you, O God.

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.

When can I go and meet with God?

My tears have been my food day and night

while men say to me all day long,

‘Where is your God?’

These things I remember

as I pour out my soul:

how I used to go with the multitude,

leading the procession to the house of God,

with shouts of joy and thanksgiving

among the festive throng.

Why are you so downcast, O my soul?

Why so disturbed within me?

Put your hope in God,

for I will yet praise him,

my Savior and my God.

My soul is downcast within me;

Therefore I will remember you

from the land of the Jordon,

the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar.

Deep calls to deep

in the roar of your waterfalls;

all your waves and breakers

have swept over me.

By day the Lord directs his love,

at night his song is with me—

a prayer to the God of my life.”

Psalm 42:1-8

SPAM and Tootsie pops

2008-02-02T14:59:00.000-08:00

He heaved a case of SPAM onto the whirring conveyer belt. Next came a super-sized box of puppy chow. Then two cans of Barbasol shaving cream. Three bags of off-brand cheese puffs. A package of Tootsie Pops.

I leaned over my own overloaded cart, wishing and waiting for my turn, and my mind wandered over to the eclectic pile of groceries that continued to mount and to the man who was adding to the stack.

His weather-worn complexion told of days toiling in the sun, and his white hair whispered of years gone by. He wore a light blue button-up shirt with an American flag emblazoned on the left sleeve and a black leather vest.

The beep-beeps of the cashiers’ scanners and the murmur of small-talking voices melted away, and for a moment, I found myself wondering what the life was like to which this gentleman was going home.

I pegged him as a bachelor immediately. With a dog, obviously. I imagined he must have some children in his life—nieces or nephews, perhaps. I just knew that those Tootsie Pops were headed to a jar in the middle of a kitchen table somewhere. Maybe the cheese puffs, too.

Startled, I blinked.

I realized with a start that my eyes were boring into this unknowing man and his groceries. Clearing my throat, I began to load my own selections onto the belt.

As the cashier handed him his change, the man glanced back at me and our eyes met.

I was instantly ashamed of myself and of the wanderings of my mind.

Each day, we all encounter people—people from every walk and discipline of life, people of every color, people of every belief system, people of every political conviction. And far too often, I find that I, instead of offering a hello and a handshake, I find myself drawing conclusions, closing my mind off to what is and opening it to what my snap judgment tells me is so.

This week, as I work and learn and play, I know my path will intersect with those of many people. It’s inevitable. But instead of allowing myself to yet again stay shut off from the world and cling to my stubborn set of stereotypes, I hope to instead smile and make a new friend . . . or perhaps better understand an old one.

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it."
Hebrews 13:2

Our Father's heart

2008-01-27T11:28:00.000-08:00

“God is our refuge and strength,

An ever-present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way

And the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,

Though its waters roar and foam

And the mountains quake with their surging.”

Psalms 46:1-3

We smiled as he poked fun at we Alabamians and the way we launch into hysterics at the slightest possibility of snow.

“We have to go buy food because we might be forced off the roads for as many as five, maybe even six hours,” he explained.

We laughed when he told tales of the antics of he and his five children.

And yes, we couldn’t help but grin at his “famous” adage, “Never have a pet that can take you.”

Saturday, January 19, 2008, I sat toward the back of a stadium-style auditorium, and listened to the words of Rick Burgess.

We laughed, sure, but more than that, hearts were stirred that night. Rick spoke of his relationship with Jesus Christ, and he spoke with the conviction of a man affirmed. He spoke with the assurance of a man that knows that his life is no longer his own.

Rick spoke. We listened. God moved.

And, as Rick later explained, his cell phone was vibrating within the confines of his pocket. Over and over and over, the phone rang with persistence.

But still Rick spoke, and still we listened, and still God moved.

That night, as Rick would discover backstage and as we would hear at the next morning’s service, his little boy, Bronner “Cornbread” Burgess, fell into the family pool and drowned.

An innocent life—gone, wiped out in the space of the slenderest of moments.

Tragic. Impossible to imagine. Unfair.

There Rick was, away from home, giving of himself and his heart in the name of Jesus Christ, and tragedy struck. It would have been so easy for the Burgess family to fall apart, reject the name of God and stand frozen with fear forever.

But that was not to be. Instead, with a broken heart and spirit, Rick, his family and the radio show “Rick and Bubba” sought to glorify God with their story.

Please visit these links to see for yourself. Rick delivered his son's eulogy, and below you can view it in three parts.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

And remember, that as incredible as the life and testimony of the Burgess family is, it is not because of them that they are able to go on. It is not because of any unique strength or ability that this family has-- it is, quite simply, because they carry the love of Christ in their hearts. Do you know Him? And if you do, are you clinging to Him in this moment?

I'm not, not the way I need to be or long to be, but in this moment, I am seeking His face.

Feeling old at age 19

2008-01-19T20:21:00.000-08:00

I feel old tonight.
Old, I say. Old, set in my ways and flat-out boring.
Perhaps it is an exaggeration, but something about setting off for a Bible conference with a group of excited, giggling youth has aged me somehow—maybe because I remember so well what it was like to stand in their shoes. I remember being at home, packing my cutest sweaters and jeans, all while calling my comrades to see what they were wearing to so-and-so and such-and-such. I remember sitting there with my girlfriends, scoping out the cutest boys, wondering what we might say to them if we ever actually brought ourselves to speak.
I remember heart-to-hearts in the middle of the night. And as we bared our secrets and whispered dreams, I remember how friendships were deepened.
As sweet as some of those memories are, and though some of those moments are enough to make me still laugh out loud, I wouldn’t go back even if I could.
In the few years since I stood in these “kids’” shoes, I have done a lot of living… and God has made a lot of changes in my heart.
So as I look at them, I smile—but not forlornly.
I smile because I see them as stories yet unwritten, tales still untold, promises that remain unbroken. Their futures (and yes, God willing, mine too) stretch out before us, a wide open adventure yet to be explored.
Growing up isn’t a bad thing, it’s just part of the journey. And so as I sit here writing tonight, with the gleeful shouts of youth all around me (though I began longing for sleep hours ago), I am feeling blessed. Thankful for this moment. Grateful to be a witness to the work that God is doing in these young hearts. And yes, appreciative of the challenges that He is issuing in my own life.
“But now listen, O Jacob, my servant, Israel whom I have chosen. This is what the Lord says—he who made you, who formed you in the womb, and who will help you.” Isaiah 44:1-2
My heart is at peace, listening tonight for the sweet whisper of my God.
Is yours?

Looking past the "letdown"

2008-01-04T20:45:00.000-08:00

The tree is back to its dank basement box.
Half a dozen bags of holiday trash line the curb, much to the garbage man’s chagrin.
The Christmas lights have been taken down—or at least turned off.

The holiday is over, and, as my Grandmama says, the “letdown” ensues.

But as the first few days of the new year melt away, I find myself joining the masses in wondering what’s next. I wonder how the events of the next 365 days will leave me changed. And, like so many others, I wonder how I should use this flip of the calendar as a fresh start.

We all know what we should do. I should exercise at least three days out of every week, eliminate fast food and sodas from my diet and take my vitamins faithfully.

I should change so many things about my attitude and my habits and my appearance, but for me, as long as a change is just something I should do, I won’t. And if I do, my well-meaning actions will fizzle long before December 31st of 2008.

If I am going to truly change, the knowledge of what I should do must be coupled with a desire of my own.

As constricting as I find the rules for achieving a healthy lifestyle, I realize that for many, the laws that govern the lives of Christians seem even more unforgiving and rigid.

My desire (for 2008 and always) is that I can be a part of helping people to realize that following Christ is far more than just adhering to a lengthy do and don’t list. Following Christ means going on an incredible journey that is anything but boring. It is about hope and grace, and it is about truth.

I don’t know what 2008—or even tomorrow—holds. I can’t predict what will—and won’t—happen during the span of this upcoming year. I don’t know if I’ll actually get in shape, learn to better manage my time or accomplish any other of the ambitious goals I should achieve for myself.

This world we live in is unpredictable, and, as humans, so are we.

Yet:

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” Hebrews 13:8

2007-11-25T06:05:00.000-08:00

“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.

2007-11-17T20:06:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-11T11:36:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-03T20:56:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-28T16:52:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-20T22:42:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-14T15:40:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-10-07T06:57:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-09-30T06:42:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-21T19:54:00.000-07:00

“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?

2007-09-16T19:56:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-09-09T01:11:00.000-07:00

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