So I’m driving to work, shooting up some popcorn prayers to the big guy, when I turn my head and see these cool signs. I roll down the window, grab my iPhone and snap a shot.
I’m transfixed. There’s a sign that says ONE WAY with an arrow that got a wee bit cut-off in the picture and another sign proclaiming WRONG WAY.
It’s like God is whispering to me (maybe because he knows I’m attracted to danger).
Sam-You can go down the wrong way, the long way and the hurts like hell way to find me or you can jump straight into my arms baby girl.
I sat at that sign until the cars honked behind me.
Each day I get to choose between life and death, beauty or destruction, love or selfishness…
Choices, decisions, judgements…
I can choose to make the extra effort and snuggle into to my husband’s arms tonight or pretend to be asleep. (Yes…I’m referring to sex for all of you scratching your head about what snuggling means)
I can bite back my critical comments when I come home to a ginormous mess after a long day at the office and instead simply say, “Hi there kiddos, I missed you.” (Breathe in peace, exhale bitchy mommy)
I can make the effort to call my friends when I’m sad or I can park my butt in front of a basket of chips, salsa, and a skinny margarita nursing my emotional boo-boos all alone at Casa Ranchera (Not that I would…just saying I might).
I can choose to take baby Kolby to the park, rub Faith’s back, or listen to my son Kyle go on and on about expensive blue Nike’s until my head spins or I can check my Email and be distant mommy.
I can choose to not launch back verbal abuse to my co-worker after he has just asked me to cut up his steak for him at an office luncheon. (Ok, maybe that’s too much to ask of anybody?)
I turned my car towards the ONE WAY sign. At least for today, I’m heading in the right direction.
Mark Twain once said, “If Christ were here, there is one thing he would not be—a Christian.”
I pulled my car up to the drive through at McDonald’s last Sunday before church to grab an Egg McMuffin and the black SUV in front of me caught my eye. The car was rocking back and forth.
I peered more closely at the vehicle and noticed a church sticker on the back window saying “You Matter to God.” There were also multiple banners representing the Fire Chief and Fire Department from a nearby county as well as a large decal on the back promoting a home-based business.
As I rolled down my window to order, I heard screams from the car. Surprisingly, it was a woman shrieking so loudly at her husband the car was vibrating. She was berating him with a mouth worthy of the foulest sailor and pummeling him with her fists.
In my entire life, I have never heard such filth spew out of a human being.
She was going on and on about her husband going through the “f-ing drive through instead of eating her GD f-ing home cooking.” And on and on it went.
Nasty, nasty, nasty…in front of her kids no less. (I’d be afraid to eat her cooking too if I was him)
It was a slap in the face to my gender, embarrassing to the fire department and a devastating blow to their business. I’m certainly not EVER going to use them.
But most of all, it was humiliating as a Christian.
I’m thinking…please take down the God stickers.
Order the Happy Meal.
Back off your husband you evil troll.
And wishing, with all my heart, that the man beside her would have the balls to tell her to zip it.
But he didn’t. He let the she-devil abuse him and go on and on.
I am left with more questions than answers.
What sort of anger has this woman so bent out of shape? Maybe the husband played a role in her diatribe and his passive behavior was simply guilt? Should I have intervened, at least for the sake of her children? Is she postal or just crazy PMSed?
I sat there in my car dumbfounded as tears rolled down my face. They were tears for the innocent kids, their marriage, and for the vicious cycle of verbal and physical abuse this poor family endures.
I pray they seek help.
And I am convicted all the more to seek my Savior in all things…in the hurt, in the anger, and in the pain of life. I know my own heart and it’s capability for depravity. On some level, aren’t we are all capable of being monsters?
It makes me think about the moments I argue in public with my husband-loudly. I guess that makes me a hypocrite too.
I certainly don’t ever want people to notice my sticker (or worse point me out as the pastor’s wife) and scratch their heads in confusion.
And then call me a hypocrite, one of “those Christians,” or worse, a Pharisee.
I opened up my tattered Oswald Chambers’ devotion early this morning for a little Holy Spirit self-examination. There is something about this old guy, some super-duper Jesus power he has to make me feel both wretched and sorely convicted every morning.
It’s my favorite masochistic book; I feel terrible and yet continue to come back for more. Today’s lesson did not disappoint. It was on judgment, something I barely struggle with (yes that was sarcasm).
“Judge not, that ye not be judged.” (Matt. 7:1)
Whoa, now, slow down there Mr. Chambers, are you telling me God says the stick I measure others with will be used to measure my faults? Because I have a pretty short stick for those I deem to be idiots.
Now in my defense, my measuring stick has certainly grown over the years for family members and friends. I am far more patient and loving then I used to be, but I must confess passing criticism on my enemies far too often then I would like.
“Sam, what sort of enemies do you have?” you ask. Generally, sweet pastor’s wives aren’t out marauding or pirating and making enemies.
And while this is true, I certainly don’t go looking for trouble, I do have opposition. Every writer pisses someone off eventually.
In my case, I have the atheists who hound me with nasty comments, the puritanical swim trouser folks who find me indecent, and a few random blokes who spam me incessantly. (Ok, maybe they aren’t true enemies, but I don’t like their evil antics.)
Then there are the worst offenders, those few who simply don’t like me for no reason that I know of. This is where my judgment button kicks in to high gear. I don’t really care if they don’t approve of me, because in recourse, I simply write them off as having ridiculously poor taste.
Bang-judgment!
I’ve read the biggest reason people don’t like other people are because they sense the other person doesn’t like or appreciate them. Yep, that rings a bell.
Oswald reminds me, “There is always one fact more in every man’s case in which we know nothing.”Basically, he’s saying to give them the benefit of doubt. This is so hard!
I can choose to give the atheists grace, because though their words are poison, it’s obvious I have been given grace far beyond measure. And the bikini bashers, I will choose to love them but not agree with them. (By the way, I’m not referring to the modesty crowd here, I’m talking about the over the top ones who steal my articles and insult me.)
But to give the haters mercy, well…this one is more tricky. I have to acknowledge most importantly, what an idiot I was until God picked me up out of the miry pit, delicately brushed me of, and set my feet back on solid ground.
I’m glad Judgement Day won’t be here until October now, because Oswald and me have got some more work to do.
I was born with the blessing or possibly the curse of champagne taste. Either that or I read too many Jackie Collins novels at a young and impressionable age. Regardless, I like luxury, pampering and pricey elegance. I am certain without the influence of God, money would be my master.
And there were many years, as a follower of Christ, that I managed to justify materialism and consumption as markers of a successful and affluent life. It was a large gaping blind spot in my faith. Acquiring wealth was my impetus to achieve, but when I married a pastor, my paradigm imploded when confronted with the idea of true financial stewardship and sacrifice, a concept far beyond the proverbial ten percent tip( tithe) to the Lord.
I remember the exact moment I let go of the American Dream. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I was watching Oprah and The Secret (a new-age self-help book/movie) was the feature. I sat there glued like a freight train. I knew, theologically speaking, it was a bunch of baloney, but emotionally the message triggered an off the chart response in my heart.
And it was this yearning for something more, for love so deep and raw, that I was willing to walk away from all the perceived security of money and risk my life for something better. Something that felt right and something that whispered of God.
All my best laid plans to marry a rich man, my scheming and striving (for beauty which equals power which attracts…you guessed it-money), were put to rest, when I made the decision to open my heart to a man who cared more about people than things, hearts and not cash, and building a community instead of building wealth.
Simply put, I said yes when Jesus called. And there was no going back. The next day during church service, I leaned over and nuzzled Tim. His eyes were wide with shock because I had been avoiding the conversation about our next step in the relationship. “You can’t do that unless you are my girlfriend,” he exclaimed, ever the appropriate pastor with physical boundaries.
I whispered in his ear, “So ask me.”The smile on his face was from ear to ear, and less than a week later, he formally asked if he could court me and pursue marriage.
Ministry is a unique calling in that it requires the relinquishment of financial striving. Pastors generally don’t have the newest, latest and greatest (unless it’s an iPad). And if they do, eyebrows are raised and assumptions are made about misuse of offerings. So playing it modest becomes de rigor and it was a huge relief to stop the comparisons. It was if someone handed me a pass to not have to keep up with the Jones’.
And to my utter surprise, I (usually) enjoy being chic and a little shabby; wearing my clothes and shoes to threads, not feeling the pressure to be fashionable, and living simply without the need to find acceptance through my image in the material realm. I like hand me downs, clothes from Target, and the less is more mentality. Once I embraced simple abundance I couldn’t go back.
But that being said, it’s hard to struggle financially. Our family has two modest incomes and five mouths to feed and we honestly have a tough time juggling it all. I catch myself feeling entitled to things like a gardener and bi-monthly housekeeping. I can justify the expense because I devote all my extra time to ministry, but the truth is, cleaning the house makes me dang grumpy.
I try to make these little bargains with God, “I’ll serve you some more if I can just get a little help around the house, please.”
I can just imagine the Lord saying, “Sam, let me teach you to serve me by cleaning the house I gave you.”
I just love those conversations
Then there are those moments of “if only I had…” I am human after all and a woman. I still love True Religion jeans, but I try to remember that true worship involves a sacrifice of obedience, and jeans that cost an arm and a leg could probably be better spent on saving someone’s arm and leg in Haiti. So, when I am at the mall, it’s best to repeat “Haiti,” over and over until the temptation passes,
My bigger struggle is my desire to stay home with my kids. This burden didn’t go away when I married Tim, though it became less important. My income is necessary for our family’s very survival. This is what draws me closer to the Lord because He hasn’t delivered me out of my deep longing. The desire remains and I live in the tension between wanting and needing, knowing that God knows the difference and trusting him to make the call.
Materialism and financial discontent (always wanting more) are like a large glass of water with little leak. You can’t see the water disappear, but your cup is never full. I carried this discontent around with me for years without fully understanding the deeper desires of my heart; security and contentment. But as I began to understand the greater meaning of living simply, putting my treasure where my heart is, it meant I had to reevaluate what I treasure.
Do I really believe my treasure is relationship with God? Do I serve and love my neighbor? Does it radically affect my decision-making process? Do I want what I have or do I always want more? And if I choose to wear fancy jeans that are the dollar equivalent of supporting an impoverished child for a year, can I even sleep at night?
I have to believe, even though the journey is hard and the road is fraught with diversions, that I am better off choosing to live counter-culturally, even though it’s tough to keep your eye on the prize when the Nordstrom’s half-yearly sale is fast approaching
So, don’t be surprised if I drool at expensive denim and make little squeaking noises when a Gucci purse passes by. I’ll just be over here praying through my weakness and slight envy issues…(Haiti, Haiti, Haiti)
No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money. Matthew 6:24
I hear a lot about God’s favor these days in the church. Some people have it and others less fortunate get overlooked. The favored few rise to the top and those that lack favor end up floundering in the land of mediocre. And though some might argue that the floundering builds character, sometimes it also builds bitterness.
I get the impression from current theological minds, praying for favor is a cop-out. It’s the Prayer of Jabez-y (to use my friend D’s term) prosperity touting gospel. It’s the name it and claim it kind of Christianity which seeks personal happiness instead of Kingdom suffering.
But what if the favor we desire is simply to be used by God? No one faults David for wanting to be the guy to build the temple. Even though God said no, his sincere longing for favor was legitimate. What happens when we ask like Isaiah, “Here I am God, use me,” and all we hear is crickets?
Disillusionment with God’s Timing
Some stories I encounter have me scratching my head in bewilderment. What about my friend Jonah, a missionary who felt God’s call to attend Bible College and enter pastoral ministry. But due to unexpected circumstance, runs out of money for tuition. When he interviews at church after church for a pastoral job, he is told to finish seminary and then reapply. So, he heads back into the workforce disillusioned. Years later, he is tentatively opening his heart again to be used by God. In all reality, he was a pastor doing Kingdom work as a missionary, but no one in the church was willing to take a risk on field experience vs. academic accreditation. Or did he merely lack favor?
Radical Obedience
I’m watching the Catalyst updates on Twitter as I write this. Ironically, Andy Stanley is speaking on radical obedience being a pivotal component to Kingdom sized dreams. Is God’s favor somehow mysteriously intertwined with obedience?
Stanley suggests, “Often, a single act of courage is the tipping point for something extraordinary.” He also mentioned the church would have kicked Peter out of leadership, but Jesus, on the other hand, put him in charge.
The State of the Heart
Hmmmm? I guess that brings me back to favor. If the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much (James 5:16 WBT), then the condition of our heart influences the outcome of our prayers. If we pray for God’s favor regarding doors opening and opportunities to glorify Him, then our will cannot be out of alignment, but the means to achieve this glory may be. To put it simply, we have to want what God wants.
Courage then, in light of favor, can be seen as the relinquishment of personal agenda. It is letting go of our expectations and embracing the circumstances of God’s timing.
And favor, therefore, is the exact moment when our innermost desires meet with God’s timing.
Call me Jabez-y, but I will keep praying for those moments, not only for myself, but for all the Jonah’s out there that want to be used, like Peter, for the Kingdom. They aren’t looking for a comfortable G6 ride instead of a bumpy broken jalopy; they just want an opportunity to travel down the Kingdom road of favor.
Yesterday morning the ministry bat phone went off (ok, maybe it was my husband’s I Phone, but you get the point). A red alert was issued for the women’s bible study that very night. The leader was down, hospitalized with a vicious migraine, and backups were being called.
Back-ups, oh right…I guess that means me. Sometimes I forget that leading the Women’s Ministry also means being the understudy.
It was the very first night of the new ministry season, kicking off the working women’s study, and canceling the event didn’t seem to be much of an option. So, I took off to work in a panic and picked up the leader guide at lunch, skimmed over it during the day, grabbed the workbooks, and then rushed home from work to throw my kids in the car and head over to the church for set-up. Whew!
I expected the study to be small, just a few women gathered to dive into the word, but as our church has grown, so have the studies. Women quickly filled up the room. Women who were all staring at me for guidance. I felt the weight of their expectations drain the lightness from my heart.
The air was thick with awkward giggles and pauses. The very same women, who would eventually spill their tender and fragile hearts, now eyed each other with cool appraisal. They were anticipating a spiritual giant and here stood a bumbling and unprepared third string quarter-back.
I tried to break the ice by playing a silly name game, which generally has a high success rate at connecting groups, but they were a wily bunch, and weren’t buying my juvenile ploys to get them to relax. So, I rambled a bit more, tried to sound like I wasn’t winging it, did some introductions, and then finally, gratefully, turned on the video DVD by Beth Moore.
The women seemed to enjoy the video, but I was acutely aware that a certain element was missing. The group hadn’t bonded and I had only fifteen minutes left. A spirit of suspicion seemed to permeate the room.
I sensed that prayer was the right direction, but the group was so big, if we all shared it could take hours. So, I went out on a spiritual limb, asked the women to split in pairs and pray with each other. I knew I was taking a risk in a group this big, not really knowing if some of the women had ever even prayed out loud. Mutiny was looming in the back of my brain.
And all of a sudden, as if a bomb went off, the room exploded in voices. They were happy voices that rang out and reverberated off the ceiling.
I sat and watched dumbfounded, realizing a profound truth. Even though women say that Biblical learning and instruction are a priority, from their reaction it seemed like what they really wanted was connection. And it was desperate greedy need.
More and more often, I am confronted with the idea that our community of believers is literally starving for human interaction. People are becoming tremendously isolated, despite the advances in technology (or maybe because of them) and working women, maybe even more so, because they miss out on the community of mothers and play dates, classroom parties and volunteering. Sitting in a cubicle all day staring at a computer does little to strengthen the bonds of communal living. And it is eating away at our very souls.
We weren’t designed for this. God created us to be in relationships within in a community of believers and to live in fellowship. Our relational connection was never intended to be fulfilled with an I Phone, Face Book, and Tweets.
And so, women come to Bible Study for far more than the Scriptures. They come to find friendship, solidarity, and support in a world that is destroying the very nature of our relational design.
Lesson learned for this Bible teacher. Next session we do group time first, and then study time!
Intentional, interactive, chatty time that is cathartic for the soul; for a generation of women that are subconsciously mourning the loss of a shared lifestyle and needing nothing more than a smile, a hug and a little empathy from some Godly gals.
My baby was diagnosed with RSV this week. It’s a respiratory virus that causes infection of the lungs and breathing passages in young children. After discussing treatment and symptoms with me, the doctor forgot, possibly on purpose, to explain the potential side effects on the mother. So, while I was adequately prepared for the baby’s illness, I was completely unprepared for my part in this journey.
As the home healthcare van pulled up to my house to deliver the torture machine, aka nebulizer, my insides started to quake. We were instructed to administer breathing treatments every four hours for one to two weeks to baby. The directions should have said, place gas mask on the child and brace yourself, because the baby will morph into a feral cat as soon as she sees the machine…a biting scratching little creature fighting for her life.
One week into this illness, I understood on a much deeper level, how God must feel when He watches His children suffer for their own good. Our baby fears and despises the very treatment that will help heal her. Over and over, her screams rip into my heart as she stares at us with eyes full of distrust and betrayal.
My husband and I sound like broken records, repeating how very much we love her in our best soothing voice. But it’s not enough. Our baby is mad and angry. She even howls at the machine, as if to rage against the symbol of her supposed injustice.
Of coarse, only a baby would doubt a loving father and mother’s intentions, right? I mean, we would never question our Heavenly Father, even when he leads us into the desert that borders the Promised Land…or would we cry and fight, every single time, just like a little child?
After eight nights of little to no sleep, fretting over each toss and turn, and straining to hear any variation to my beloved baby’s labored breathing, I have pretty much reached the end of my own strength. Her desert has become my desert, and the Promised Land but a memory I cling to in exhaustion.
This desert has no sense of humor, limited grace, and very little patience for my spouse. We bicker and pick at each other, ridiculously fighting over who is more tired (me, of course), until we remember who the real enemy is. And so last night, I prayed and cried out to God, to see Him more clearly in this dark night of the soul, on what has become a dry and barren road of nebulizers and endless mucous.
As I closed my eyes, long before my head hit the pillow; I sensed God’s comfort in this rest, more than the usual catatonic crash as of late. I felt drawn into His warmth, as though I were beckoned with waves of restorative manna for both my body and soul. And though I awoke on the hour, it was enough sleep to sustain me for one more day.
Today the baby actually relaxed in her treatment, closed her eyes and leaned into her wee mask. She opened her small mouth and deeply breathed in the medication that allows her find the air she so desperately seeks.
For this mother and child, God’s manna is rest. His provision is air to breathe. And his sustenance is not only for us, but for for all the weary sojourners traveling through the deserts of life seeking a glimpse of the Palace Gates and His everlasting glory.
There is a simple truth about our culture that can only be found in the midst of suffering. When great things happen, we rejoice, when good things happen we celebrate, from our normal mundane living, well, we escape, and when bad things happen, we generally do our best to avoid the pain.
And this rampant avoidance applies not only to ourselves, but those around us as well. It’s only when you are smack dab in the middle of pain do you see, really see, as if you had special goggles, how uncomfortable everyone else is with it.
Ever notice how people are afraid of catching pain? It’s as if divorce, depression or death were viral. So instead of leaning in and being present in the messy, we stuff it, hide it, and put on the Christian happy face. We all too quickly forget that joy in Christ doesn’t mandate a perpetual façade of gooey sweetness.
We avoid the old folk’s home, complain about the smell, hide from the abandoned wife at church, and quarantine ourselves away from illness, regardless if it is contagious. We sanitize empathy down to a Get Well card or some flowers and remain aloof from intimate relationship in the darkest moments. Genuine and heartfelt mourning seems to be so passé, as if they were thrown away with the old traditions of widows wearing black and communal lamenting
My husband has a dear friend who is extremely ill, and the other day, they had a long visit in the hospital. By my husband’s own admission, it was a visit that was long overdue. My husband didn’t want to admit or acknowledge that his friend wasn’t doing well, because it was easier to live in the land of hope, where everything remained in the status quo. Fortunately, another friend intervened, and he was forced to confront both his own avoidance and the reality of the situation.
Somehow my husband missed out on the blog that his friend started. It’s an online journal, that keeps his friends and family updated on his condition, and though it chronicles his physical journey with cancer, it also gives voice to his spiritual battle with this unseen and vicious enemy attacking his blood.
After recalling his emotional day, my husband mentioned that his friend noticed an unusual occurrence with his blog. When he updates positive news on his status, the comments and prayers come in abundance, but when the news is dire, which has been more the case recently, very few if any comments show up in the guest book.
Why is it that our praises seem to dry up when circumstances go down the drain? And when there are no words left, we conveniently disappear, because suffering interferes with our busy agendas. Mourning, compassion, empathy… the sheer ability to be present in the Valley of the Shadow of Death with anyone, even sometimes those closest to us, seems desperately lacking in our society.
When I look at Middle Eastern culture, I envy their ability to emote, to wail like banshees and cry and grieve with passion. It seems so much more acceptable to feel emotions. The tough guy American demeanor never drops a tear. It’s probably why I always apologize when I cry, as if tears were an affront to good manners.
Is it our fear of the dark, of death and the unknown that causes us to push away and to hide? Could any temporary relief of an awkward moment or an uncomfortable confrontation ever be worth the loneliness and abandonment of those dear to us?
Yesterday my husband wept, prayed and laughed with his dear friend. The cancer was only a reason for their relationship to grow deeper. They mourned and looked to Christ, unsure of His plan, with unanswered questions and heavy hearts, but resolute in their double fisted faith of a Holy and mysterious God.
They were precious moments, stolen and sweet, because time has become like gold as the shadow deepens. These were moments of friendship, based on eternal brotherhood and bonds forged on Christ’s sacrifice.
And so my husband’s friend has hit on a profound truth, we are a culture of avoiders when it comes to pain. And as the lines between heaven and earth blur for him, clarity comes like waves as he assesses his life.
The Psalmist proclaims that “though weeping may last for a night, joy comes with the dawn.” (Psalm 30:5)
True joy, it seems, can only be discerned on the other side of the deepest pain. For how would we recognize the light if we had avoided the dark?
Rom. 12:5 (NIV) Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn
I got that giving itch from God today. A little tickle on my spirit, saying “My daughter, do you see I have a child in need?”
Every now and then, this burden descends upon me to give financially to a specific person. It’s as if God is sitting on my heart and pressing, firmly adjusting my internal vision to see the crisis at hand and move towards it on behalf of my Father’s will.
I have learned through trial and error to heed this call, avoiding second-guessing and justification,(i.e., does He really want me to go without my monthly Sushi treat or Starbucks?) choosing simple obedience and giving out of my blessings, or lack thereof, depending on the season.
The first time I felt this compulsion to give, I drove over to the family’s home that I felt God nudging me towards and handed them a check. And though it felt good to be obedient, taking credit for the giving proved anticlimactic. It felt awkward and rather prideful taking on the role of a Christmas benefactor.
There I stood at the door, having no idea what to say. Somehow, “Hark, I bring tidings of good will and generosity,” didn’t seem appropriate.
The “secret sauce” was missing and the key factor was taking “me” out of the equation and adding in the actual “secret.”
The next time God put someone on my heart; I got out-of-the-way and allowed Him to be the Giver of all Good Gifts. I simply played the humble steward, using the gifts and talents He had given me to run his estate.
And yes, this time my joy was complete. I got to watch God get the glory and revel in the delight of being a small part of an answered prayer.
Remaining anonymous is like playing Secret Santa without the big reveal, where only you and Jesus know who the real Santa is. It’s a covert mission from God for the average Christian, a little slice of heaven, to be eaten in the company of angels and not men, for the rewards of this obedience can only be seen in the celestial realm.
When a financial gift is given to someone in need, and the giver remains hidden, something mysterious happens in the spiritual world. The person sacrificially given to, though they know not of the giver, has become all the more tender. They have secretly joined in on a “story” of God’s provision.
When I encounter someone whom God financially blessed through me, there is an unexpected seed of compassion deeply rooted in my heart that God has planted. It’s completely beyond my normal and slightly selfish paradigm, unnatural even, but effortless because of God. It is His love weaving through my crusty heart to bless both the giver and recipient.
My story and their story intersect, our journeys of faith swirled in layers of sacrifice, obedience, comfort and provision.
So when the Christmas bonus comes this week, what face comes to mind? A single mom you know, the unemployed father sitting next to you in church, or maybe the family losing their home in your neighborhood?
But please, oh please…don’t forget the “secret sauce” when you put on that Santa Suit!
I got my first negative comment today on my Everyday Christian blog. Actually I got three of them. I’m pretty sure one of them was from Satan.
The really scary part is they called me “Sammy.” I am blown away by how the commenter knows me so well. It was such an intimate association, and so assumptive to call me by such a fun nick-name. I’m flattered.
Of course, no one actually calls me that. And maybe that’s best, because if they knew my real nick name that would be border-line stalker… and that’s really scary.
I knew this would happen. I figured eventually I would write something controversial enough to stir the pot and piss off someone. Fortunately, it was about my belief in God.
Is it a sin to be proud that you got persecuted for Jesus? Because, I might have a little banner made that says, “I took one for the team,”
So, here’s a little excerpt from my new demonic friend…
“Too bad you were not strong enough to shirk the shackles of fables and myth. In fact, it looks as if you have fully submerged yourself in your chosen fairy tale.
Life is worth living in and of itself, my dear Sammy. No need to give credit to imaginary friends.
There is no hell. There is no god(s). Death is exactly like things were before being born. You simply no longer exist. Why does this scare you so?”
I replied…
It doesn’t scare me. I know where I am going and more than likely will be so overwhelmed by the glory of God that I won’t even remember this temporary pain. I have a hope and a promise of eternal life. It just makes me sad for those that take a different path.
Many Blessings to you and thanks for the comment. Sam
I am afraid I have started a battle. The comments continue to come in.
