Monday, December 1, 2014


It feels worth celebrating. Because 100 marks more than a number of posts, but as I look back, it points me to the story that God has carefully woven in the past year -- threads of joy and pain stitched together in a beautiful display of His faithfulness. 

I could easily list 100 things I'm thankful for (and I'd start it off with the fish tacos I had this weekend). But I won't. I'll share just one thing -- the one at the true forefront of my thankfulness.

It starts with a collection of verses and quotes on the wall above my desk. When someone sends a bit of encouragement my way, I like to post it alongside what I've found or at least tuck it nearby so it doesn't get lost in the day-to-day flow of e-mail and Facebook messages. As I was cleaning my room yesterday, my eye caught the torn journal page in the very middle and I readily recalled the summer day that I had written it.  The verses spoke to my longing for peace in a season characterized by worry and unrest that worked overtime to cloud my heart with discontentment. 

I committed to make the Scriptures taped up on the wall my prayer.  And to beg God that all of me would be so wrapped up in all of Him, that there would be no other option than for peace and contentment to flow out as I reflected Him. Some days it was with the same simple words. Some days it was as I walked my city streets. Some days it was with tears. And yes. . .some days it was forgotten altogether. 

Then yesterday -- sitting on the cool wood floor of my bedroom, back braced against the wall, and paper in hand, what I read anew looked more like proof of answered prayer than anything else. Circumstantially, not much has changed. Yet through it, I can see ways in which I have been tenderly cared for that surpass what I could have hoped for or imagined. And in that -- my heart is at rest. 

I'm celebrating today. Because the same God who cares about the state of my heart is a God who acts.


Speaking of celebrations, here are some photos from Independence Day this year. . .

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