This morning on the way to school I passed a traffic accident. An old boat of a car was halfway up the little hill that runs alongside the freeway. Two other cars were mangled and tangled up a few feet away. It had just happened. The police had just arrived.

As I passed the wreck on my right, to my left a van came up beside me. The lone woman driving it sullenly made the sign of the cross as she passed.

Due to my own issues surrounding my Catholic upbringing I have not only abandoned the gesture but have come to view it with slight disdain.

And yet…the graceful sweep of the woman’s hand across her heart… an instant response...invoking the care of her Savior for a stranger…

I drove on, noting the sprinklers in the morning sun and my own omission. Several miles later I had still not uttered a prayer of my own.

It is astounding how swiftly God can check my heart. In an instant. In the time it takes for one car to pass another.

Last night when Brad and I were walking after dinner I was reminded of something that happened 18 years ago. And this morning as I sit in front of my computer, it is what keeps coming into my head. So I will tell the story.

On December 8^th of 1988 I was driving down Bullard Avenue in Fresno. I had just left my sister’s house. We’d had babies three weeks apart: Emily (mine) and Jacob (hers), who have just gradated from Bullard High School together.

In those days I was driving a Volkswagen Vanagon just like the one in the picture except considerably dustier and more run down. The stick shift was always sticking, the giant air-conditioning unit made lots of noise but zero cool air, and the sliding door flew back so fast and hard it rattled the teeth of the passengers… but other than that it was a great car for a growing family.

On this day, Emily was in her infant seat on the bench directly behind me. She was two months old. The stick shift was not cooperating again, and I was looking down, working at conjuring up the magic touch that would cause it to engage. Suddenly there was a deafening sound and the wheel just jerked out of my hand.

The next part is hard to describe. I’ll start by telling you what had happened.

In front of me was a PG&E truck carrying power poles. They were strapped to the back of the truck on some sort of flatbed thingy and jutting out behind. I had somehow not noticed the truck (or the poles, obviously) and had simply plowed into the back of the whole contraption.

The power poles came crashing through my front window and filed past my head to the rear of the van. They were huge, of course, being power poles and all, so it seemed as though my van was suddenly filled with wood. Big wood.

There was a moment when I was afraid to turn around. I will remember it forever. I had pieces of glass covering me, and I was dazed, but unhurt. All I could think of was my baby. Emily. Recall that she was in the seat behind me. I remember breathing out the name of Jesus, and turning around slowly to face what was behind me. I didn’t even know if my baby would be there. In tact. It is horrifying to think about, even now.

And what I saw is something else I will never forget.

There was Emily, in her car seat, power poles lodged a scant inch over her head, sprinkled with glass, sleeping soundly. I was stunned.

I jumped down from the car and started around to get to the other side where the sliding door was. Suddenly there were two men on either side of me, asking me questions I don’t remember, and I was just pushing past them to get to Emily. “I have a baby,” I remember saying, and the men stopped in their tracks. I went to the door and slid it open. There she was, awake and blinking now--looking for her mama.

I tried to undo her infant seat belt but my hands were shaking. One of the men next to me was able to get it loose. I can still see his hands as he reached in to get Emily. He had to slightly lift her little body and then duck her head under the giant pole to get her out. Then he handed her to me.

In that moment, when I brought her to my chest and held her against me, breathing her in, I knew I had seen a miracle. I knew God had held us in His hand as we crashed. I rested my cheek on her fragile little head and could feel the pieces of glass coming through her soft hair against my face. All three of us just stood there. It was as if we could not move, for the moment was so huge and powerful, and we were so small.

All of the expected things happened next. Police showed up, and people pulled over. It was quite a sight, after all. The Vanagon was skewered all the way through, power poles entering in at the windshield, and exiting a good four feet out the back window. Much of this is rather blurry. I know my brother-in-law somehow showed up, and he used a big sponge in a bucket of water from his truck to gently wash some of the glass off of Emily’s head. The PG&E guys were trembling. One of them was crying. A police officer told me to always remember this day, December 8^th, for did I know it was the day God had saved me? I knew He had saved me long before, but the officer’s point was not lost on me.

A couple of months after the crash I was home making dinner, and had just sat down to feed Emily. The phone rang and when I answered it this is what I heard:

“Hello. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Manuel. I was in the PG&E truck you hit. I pulled your baby out.”

Manuel went on to tell me that what happened on December 8^th changed his life. He had, the very day of the accident, just left his wife and daughter. His daughter’s name was Emilia (the Spanish form of Emily). At the time of the crash Emilia was two months old.

When Manuel put his hands on my baby to lift her out, he felt his baby. When he looked at me holding my infant, he saw his wife. He was so moved to his core that he left the accident and went home to his wife and child, asking for forgiveness and pleading for another chance. They were now doing well, and he had to admit he had seen God at work. His faith and marriage were both restored.

After that phone call I sat for a very long time, my baby safe and well at my breast. I cried out to God, and wondered at Him, and the precise and powerful love He has for us.

As I looked down at Emily, thanking God again for sparing her, He told me something. His presence was real, and peaceful, and felt very natural. He told me that He has great plans for Emily. That she will touch people. That she is very special.

And I knew it to be true.

Today, 18 years later, Emily is away at a camp where she will have the opportunity to serve and love many children. For the past couple of years she has faithfully and with intense devotion loved the kids God brings to Dakota House. She has wisdom I sometimes find astounding, and enough of a rebel spirit to keep her on the edge—her eyes searching and her heart full of questions. She is a treasure.

I thank God for His command of us. When I worry and fret and endeavor to manage and control, I need to stop and remember. Remember that God has it all in hand. Things set in motion by us can be thwarted by Him in a heartbeat, and often are. Sometimes what seems to be disaster is in truth a stroke of His hand.

And I thank Him for His whispers to our heart. A mother can hear nothing better than her God proclaiming His love and design for the child He has given her. Many times over the years God has shown His love for me in this way. He knows how to speak to each of us…knows our hearts intimately… I believe we could all share moments when God’s voice or presence or intervention has stirred our souls.

How great is our God. And how deep is His love for us.

Always His,

Jamie

A friend of mine works at the zoo. She gets to feed the animals, and clean up after them, and all that sort of thing which I think sounds like great fun. The reality is probably less glamorous than I have made it in my mind. I suspect sometimes it is great fun…and other times it really isn’t all that enjoyable. Like most things.

She has made friends with an aging bear and—against the rules—shows the old girl affection and gives her special treatment. I love hearing about my friend’s encounters with the animals. It’s kind of sad, though. For all the obvious reasons by which having ‘wild animals’ living in cages is sad.

It got me thinking this morning, when I saw these words in Psalm 145:

The Lord upholds all those who fall and lifts up all who are bowed down.

The eyes of all look to You, and You give them their food at the proper time.

I was actually looking up ‘timing’, because that’s what I felt like talking about. God’s timing. Interestingly, according to my online Crosswalk search, there is not a single use of the word ‘timing;’ in the Bible. ‘Time’ has about a gazillion references, though. And this was one of them.

We talk a lot about God’s timing. It shows up in my life constantly. This past week I have pretty much been on autopilot, and God’s timing has taken over. I even lost my watch for a couple of days, and wandered in a bit of a fog, just showing up when I got there and seemingly always being in the right place at the right time.

I love the first line of that scripture where it says: ‘upholds all those who fall’. Once, a few years ago, God gave me this amazing picture of Him carrying me in the palm of His hand. And during that same season (in a very long story which I will save for another time) He told me a name in my sleep, which I had never heard. It was Amasiah (though I wasn’t sure how to spell it… I just looked it up phonetically in a half-asleep state). In Amos and 2Kings and 2Chronicles there are references to Amasiah, who volunteered his service to the Lord. His name means ‘one whom the Lord carries.’ He also fought mightily for the Lord, and God had also—during some listening prayer—given me a picture of myself as a warrior fighting for Him.

I know it’s getting a little complicated, and perhaps I shouldn’t try to cram in so many details. And I realize to you it all might sound a little crazy. But to me, everything all tied in together; I was amazed and astounded and my hope was renewed. To me, these gifts from God were lifelines.

When I was little I loved Tarzan stories. The movies…the comic books…There even used to be a weekly Tarzan show on TV. Ah yes…the good old days of television. I couldn’t wait for that jungle music to start. But the thing that scared me was the quicksand. There was always quicksand around, I’m telling you. If you were running away from a charging elephant, or a ferocious lion, or an angry native, you could bet there would be a big ol’ pit of quicksand in your path. And before you knew it, you’d be going down.

I would call out to the TV…to whoever was running… “Look out! Watch for the quicksand!”, but to no avail. They always fell in. Arms waving (didn’t they know more movement meant faster sinking?!), screaming, gurgling, it was horrible. The only thing that could save them was a large branch or a vine they could grasp onto. How my little eyes searched for that life line to get them out of the pit.

And so it is today. I still find myself falling into the pit. The pit doesn’t always look the same, but the feeling is way too familiar. The sinking. The heaviness. The helplessness.

All my struggling only makes things worse. The only thing that saves me is a lifeline from God.

And He sends them.

They come in different forms.

Sometimes it is a call from someone who just felt like she was supposed to call me. Because God put me on her heart.

Other times it is a song. An answered prayer. A moment that fell together in just the perfect way. Or a whisper to the deep of me, that moves and comforts. He gives it to me ‘at the proper time.’

Which brings me back to that sad old bear at the zoo.

That bear does not belong in that zoo. It is not her real home. She is not living the life she was meant to live.

And neither are we.

We are beautiful and pure spirits, made in the image of God. Yet here we are. In these bodies. On this earth and in this world where things are not as they should be. Not as God designed them. It is all a poor substitute for the real thing.

Someday we will be living with Him, free from the entrapments of this world in which we now live.

Until then, He takes care of us, and He instructs us, and He has not left us here alone. We look to Him, and he gives us our food at the proper time.

He sends us a lifeline when we need it. He teaches us a lesson when He needs to. He gives. He takes away. He lifts us who are bowed down.

Sometimes I am bowed down. Often it is in prayer. Or humility. Sometimes it is under a heaviness. Today I am thanking Him for providing, and I am asking Him to continue. I am also looking to Him, my eyes up, always on the watch for that lifeline.

His,

Jamie

The past few days two of my children have been sick with colds and flu. They are (mostly) grown kids who have busy lives and jobs and friends, so these days I see them less than I used to. Yet here they are, even as I write this, laid up on sofas in my living room before a warm fire, under quilts, looking up at their mama gratefully as I bring them homemade soup, juice, or stroke their face and lay a cool cloth on their head.

There is a surge of joy in me at these times. Though I try to foster independence in my kids, and am pleased when they do well on their own, I must say there is nothing like those times when they are in a weakened state and need their mom. Oh, how I love having them right here needing me. Gone is the stubbornness of “I can do it myself” or the rolling of the eyes when I offer suggestions of how they can better care for themselves. Now it’s “Mama…I need you.”

A couple of nights ago when one of my daughters was staying here at the onset of her illness, she and Brad and I sat in the living room for a long time talking. She shared her deepest desires for her life. She wanted to hear what we had to say about her doubts and fears. She was seeking our counsel. It was a beautiful gift to have the chance to share God’s enduring love for her, and His plans to give her hope and a future--even in the face of this world we inhabit, which especially to young people often seems quite bleak.

The fact is, if she had not been sick, and tired, and needing her mama, we would not have had that time together. It got me thinking about us—you and me—and our Father.

When we are broken, and needy, and tired of the struggle to live strong in this hostile civilization, we are--like my children when they are sick and hurting--more likely to call out to God to come to us. We need Him to tend to our hearts, feed our souls with His nourishing love, counsel us with His word and His whisper to our hearts.

It is our very inabilities and flaws and limitations that allow God to connect with us.

And in that crazy only-God-would-do-it-like-this way, it is that same humanness that allows Him to shine out of us. Our weakness is His glory.

Yet, many times I have heard people talking about how they don’t “have it together” or refer to the mistakes and blunders of their lives, or their own emotional issues, and use this as evidence that God could not use them. I wonder at this insistence some of us have about being a certain way before God will call us to serve Him.

John Wimber, who was one of the founding fathers of the Vineyard church, was an atheist. The first time he went to church he asked rather loudly, “What the hell is wrong with these people?!” Before he died John Wimber and his wife led hundreds of people to God.

Donald Miller, a gifted writer whose books are exposing many people to the love and grace of God was a clumsy, fatherless, misfit of a young man who once told God, “You don’t exist.” (Which is a little bit funny, if you think about it. If you don’t believe someone exists, why would you talk to him? Just a side note….)

When God told Ananias to go to the house where Saul was staying and lay hands on him to restore his sight, Ananias protested. He said to God (in essence) “Are you kidding me? I’ve heard a lot of bad stuff about this guy. Seriously. He’s a jerk.” But God replied: "Go! This man is my chosen instrument to carry my name before the Gentiles and their kings and before the people of Israel.”

I think it’s safe to say that these people didn’t exactly ‘have it together’ when God chose them.

I have heard people say things like: “I’m too: shy, old, young, ordinary… or “I’m just me,” they say. “I have a lot of questions” or “I’m not that good of a Christian.”

To them I say, “Um…Saul? You know…the one who became the apostle Paul? Yeah. Not that good of a Christian.”

The young man who prayed and led me to Jesus was quiet, shy, ordinary looking, and had struggled with homosexuality for most of his young life. His prayers and kindness and faithfulness to what God chose him to do changed my life. Eternally. In the most significant and astounding way there is: he brought me to my Jesus.

Today as we thank God for His provision for Dakota House, and continue to place our needs before Him, I am also thanking Him for choosing us. You and me. Silly, weak, hurting, wonderful us. With all our flaws and wounds and limitations, He still chose us. To love in His name. To extend a kind hand. To tell our world and everyone in it that Jesus loves us all.

I shall end with a paragraph from Donald Miller’s book, Blue Like Jazz, in which he speaks of those entirely fallible and very human disciples of Jesus, as well as our own ‘immense worth and beauty.’

It must have been wonderful to spend time with Jesus, with Somebody who liked you, loved you, believed in you, and sought a closeness foreign to skin-bound man. A person would feel significant in His presence. After all, those who knew Christ personally went on to accomplish amazing feats, proving unwavering devotion. It must have been thrilling to look into the eyes of God and have Him look back and communicate that human beings, down to the individual, are of immense worth and beauty and worthy of intimacy with each other and the Godhead. Such an understanding fueled a lifetime of joy and emotional health among the disciples that neither crowds of people jeering insults, nor prison, nor torture, nor exclusion could do. They were faithful to the end, even to their own deaths.

One of the hardest things about this ministry is sending the kids home.

This feeling is a bit convoluted, of course. Because I am normally quite tired at the end of a camping trip, for instance, and am relieved and grateful it has all gone well and is now over, and rest is looking like something that might actually happen for my family and me.

But there is the other.... the element that is so hard to settle into my heart. It is the issue of the home life of so many of our kids.

While some of our kids return to loving homes where parents await their arrival, many others do not. Most of our kids drag their heavy bags across the hot asphalt on Dakota Avenue, no one to welcome them, nobody at home who will be present or sober enough to ask them how their trip went.

Several of them will walk through doorways and enter filthy apartments with strangers asleep on the couch; where refrigerators are empty; violent, hate-filled 'music' is blaring; and adults are intoxicated, fighting, or absent entirely.

One of the beautiful things about taking the kids camping for three days is that they are free of all these things that make their hearts hard and their souls ache. For just a few days they can be children.... playing in the creek and toasting marshmallows over a fire. I see their faces change. They look happy and free. I love it.

Yet, these days of freedom make the contrast all too clear.

One young girl, on the way up in a staff member's car, wrapped her seat belt around her arm and tapped at her wrist, emulating the drug use she has seen so many times at home. She said, "Look! Just like Mama does," and then asked her driver "Are you gonna do this?" When she was told no her sister chimed in, "That's because she's a good girl."

Another boy asked me several times, "Are we really gonna eat three times today?" This is the same boy who calls Dakota House impersonating his mother so he can get groceries from our food pantry to feed his little sisters and himself.

It breaks our hearts. It seems impossible to us. But it is the life some of these kids live.

So we pray. And we keep on. And we love them and tell them about Jesus and His plans for their lives, and we pray for their parents. We ask God for miracles. We have seen them. We have witnessed Him change lives and save families.

We believe His love is the only thing that can change the world.

My husband and I gave in to the rain last weekend and dug about in our house, cleaning out closets and re-organizing the office. I found lots of long-forgotten items. Like a play I wrote when I was 15, pictures of kids loved and lost, and a note from my old friend Renee, gone to Jesus now.

And this. Written in my friend Katharine's hand on the back of a church bulletin. Because she read it and she knew. It is us.

Imagine a ragtag collection of surrendered and transformed people who love God and others. They are mesmerized by the idea that this is not about them, but all about Jesus. They are transfixed by His story and His heart for their city.

They are seed-throwers and fire-starters, hope peddlers and grace-givers, risk-takers and dreamers, young and old. They link arms with anyone who tells the story of Jesus. They empower the poor, strengthen the weak, embrace the outcast, seek the lost. They serve together, play together, worship together, live life together. Their city will change because God sent them.

They are us.

We believe that small things done with great love will change the world.

-Vision statement of Vineyard Community Church of Cincinnati.

Last night Brad and I went to a Maundy Thursday service, and it was nice and all. Being in a place to try to focus all my thoughts and prayers on what happened the night that Jesus knelt down before His closest followers and washed their feet. And then sat with them and shared His heart and prepared them for the future. All amazing and beautiful things to think about.

As usual (for me) it was hard to stay focused in the church atmosphere. Marching in a line to get the little bread pieces and grape juice always feels wrong somehow. My Bible's translation says that Jesus said this:

"You've no idea how much I have looked forward to eating this Passover meal with you before I enter my time of suffering. It's the last one I'll eat until we all eat it together in the kingdom of God."

I like that.

Donald Miller wrote this (it is how I feel but he says it way better):

I confess that at times I have thought of Communion as a religious pill a person takes in order to check it off his list, and that the pill is best taken under the sedation of heavy mood music, or silence.

How odd it would seem to have been one of the members of the early church, shepherded by Paul or Peter, and to come forward a thousand years to see people standing in a line or sitting quietly in a large building that looked like a schoolroom or movie theater, to take Communion. How different it would seem from the way they did it, sitting around somebody's living room table, grabbing a hunk of bread and holding their own glass of wine, exchanging stories about Christ, perhaps laughing, perhaps crying, consoling each other, telling one another that the person who had exploded into their hearts was indeed the Son of God, their bridegroom, come to tell them who they were, come to mend the broken relationship, come to marry them in a spiritual union more beautiful, more intimate than anything they could know on earth.

And so there I was last night. The oppressive music, the audience-like structure, the struggle to be there... and yet. It always happens. When I face whomever it is that is standing there in front of me, balancing a little silver tray of bread pieces, and then the person clutching a big glass of grape juice floating with crumbs, and I hear them say the words: "This is the cup of His blood, poured out for you..." something happens. There is a clutch in my throat, and a leap in my gut, and somehow Jesus has made it through all the stiffness, and the ceremony, and it is just He and I.

And I shuffle back to my seat, and I hold the moment in my heart. And then I thank Him. For once again He has met me there, in the most unlikely of places.

Don't Forget Your Vegetables

In our Girls Only group I'm trying very hard to make the Bible come alive, or be user-friendly, or what ever phrase you want to use that means 'We like this and it makes Jesus real to us.' I've sort of been struggling with the whole thing and have become a bit frustrated, to tell you the truth.

Last week I read aloud a virtual story that I wrote about the woman who touched the hem of Jesus' garment. By 'virtual story' I mean that I tried to put the listener right into the story by describing the sensations of being there. In other words I said things like this:

There is dust under your feet and it is settling across the top of your toes. For a while it is quiet and you can hear the sound of your shoes as they hit the ground. Then the sound of the crowd in the distance begins to get a bit louder.You keep walking, and soon you reach the edge of the crowd. You still can't see Him.

I spent a good deal of time--several hours even--writing this story out. I tried really hard to make the reading of it captivating. And it went over fairly well. The girls listened and asked a few questions and it was pretty good.

Tonight I tried something else. And you might think it sounds silly, seeing as how they are teenagers and all, but I showed them a Veggie Tales video. The story of Esther.

And guess what? They loved it. They were full of questions and they really understood the story. I simply followed it up with some explanations and drew parallels with the actual Bible story and talked about how it all might apply to them. It was hugely successful as far as my goal of bringing the story alive.

Prep time: about half an hour.

So yeah. You just never know what God will use and how He will use it. I've just got to trust. The battle is not mine.

The battle is not ours.
We look to God above
for He will guide us safely through
and guard us with His love.

So do not be afraid.
We need not run and hide
for there is nothing we can't do
when God is at our side. --Queen Esther the zucchini

Faith of a Child

A couple of weeks ago I sat in the living room of Dakota House with a little boy on my lap. He is the only boy who has the coveted privilege of being the solitary male allowed at Girls Only. If he were not allowed to attend, his sister could not either, as she is his main caretaker. So... every Thursday, there he is. Breaking the rule, knowing it, and smiling with his entire being.

On this Thursday we were watching the second half of The Gospel of John. I was very tired, having one of those days in which my body brings me somewhere and my heart and brain follow reluctantly. I was content, sitting there with him on my lap, his dirty little fingers occasionally stuffing the popcorn he was sharing into my hand.

The amazing gift I was given that evening was to see the whole of the Jesus story unfold before a believing child's eyes. This boy believes in Jesus with that legendary faith of a child we have long heard and talked about. He believes in Him because Miss Irisa and Miss Jamie have taught him to, and because the Holy Spirit is alive and well in his heart. He knows very little of the Bible and the stories we all know by heart.

So it was all new to him. His running commentary was pure gold.

When Jesus was calling Lazarus out of the grave:
"I think it's going to work, Miss Jamie. I do."

When the pharisees were after Jesus:
"Why don't they believe He is God? I would believe Him, Miss Jamie."

And when Jesus was dying on the cross, (whispered gently with hands clasped together) :
"I'm sorry Jesus. But I love you."

I left there that evening transformed. The faith of a child is a wondrously beautiful thing. I wanted to grab him up and take it in through my skin by osmosis... to somehow get to that place of sheer trust and pure belief. I drove home praying for just a glimmer of that kind of faith.

I pray for it still.

A Space for Jesus

Last Thursday night at Girls Only we sat huddled together watching The Gospel of John. It isn't the best movie I've ever watched...well it's not the worst either. It's a little cheesy, and the acting isn't the greatest. But it does a fairly good job of portraying Jesus. At least he smiles a lot, which is rare in the Jesus movies of old.

The reason we watched it was twofold. I had been sick and had not had the energy to come up with a 'lesson'. And while talking to Jesus was reminded that though I am asking the girls to talk to Him, even write letters to Him, they may not have a good idea of who He is. Of course Irisa and I share from our hearts about Him....but still. Someone gave me the idea of this movie and I grabbed it up.

So there we sat, eating chocolate-covered popcorn and Flaming Hot Cheetos, and drinking cranberry soda... shoes off and snuggled up in the dark with only candles and the glow of the TV lighting the room. It was intimate. It was nice. The girls asked a ton of questions. "Miss Jamie, why is Jesus mad?" "Miss Jamie, why are the priests trying to kill Jesus?" We would pause the movie as I answered their questions as best as I could. They were listening intently...engaged in the story before their eyes.

One girl arrived late, and was obviously troubled. She was unable or unwilling to talk about what had upset her but her body language was closed up, withdrawn. I felt she looked as though she had been violated in some way.

She snuggled up with the rest of us, feeling some sort of comfort from the snacks and the intimacy and the presence of Jesus there with us. Soon she pulled out her G.O journal and began to write, pulling the candle closer to light her pages. She wrote and wrote and wrote, occasionally looking up to see Jesus healing the sick, loving the children.

Nothing huge happened that night. Except this: I realized once again that sometimes the very best thing you can do is to step aside and just allow a space for Jesus to be there. The rest takes care of itself.

His Love For Me

Thursday was an especially hard day. Not even sure I can accurately explain why. It just was. All little things went wrong and personal issues seemed huge. It had been a long busy day and I was not in my best state by the time Girls Only came around at 5:00. I didn't even want to go. My feet brought me there but my heart stayed behind.

For about an hour I sat in physical closeness and intimacy with those beautiful young girls. Their hearts opened and poured pain out right before my eyes. I stammered. I prayed. I cried. We laughed and held each other. We looked deep into one another's eyes and felt a pull. We are women together. This world is big and mean to our hearts sometimes. So we hold on to each other and listen for Jesus. We wait for Him in our quiet places. I was held fast to the place where we sat; the power of the truth is what held me.

Then one young girl said this to me: "Jamie you always tell us that Jesus makes all things new. I want that." This girl is 16. She is not a virgin but wishes she was. Her mother walked out the door when she was 13 and never looked back. Her father is 'happy' only when he is drinking. She is the oldest in a family of four kids whom she mostly takes care of. Yet she smiles from a deep place and looks hopefully into her future. She believes God has plans for her life and she wants in on it. She is an encouragement to me.

And so that's how it came about that on that Thursday which did not seem like a good day I had the privilege of bringing this lovely young woman to Jesus. She stood before me, eyes shining, face aglow, and became new. As I touched her forehead with sweet smelling oil, and declared her a Daughter of the King, a new creation, one with Christ, her future changed before my eyes. And--once again--mine did too.

Jesus I do not know why You have allowed me this privilege. I only know that You have, and by this I know Your love for me is vast beyond words.