All I can do is hold your hand, my brother, my sister. I will shout and scream with you. I will curse this day for you. I will bear with you, for the Glory, for the newness. Until we get home.

All I can do is hold your hand, my brother, my sister. I will shout and scream with you. I will curse this day for you. I will bear with you, for the Glory, for the newness. Until we get home.
When the grief of chronic illness strikes, I am Adam and Eve, homesick for Eden, looking at the angel barring the way back. My sickness is part of the metaphor that reminds me of the brokenness of the world. When I am paddling in the clear Mediterranean, I am John in Patmos, with a glimpse of heaven and the riches of eternal life with the Creator.
There are times when life is a whirlwind and we are whirling within it. Our days had been full of flurry and preparation and whirlwind and now we sat, waiting.
Waiting for Jesus is something we do as we go about our daily lives. It is not an airport lounge. It’s a very long third trimester.
Groans preceded Christ’s coming. He was born in pain into a world of pain. And as we wait, groans precede His second coming.
We too are refugees. We travel and pass through this world, but it is not our home (1 Pet 1). Even our bodies, they are not permanent, they are our temporary, make-shift accommodation (2 Cor 5).
We wait for Christ’s return, living in the in-between, without knowing when it will be. To wait is to surrender our control. To wait is to trust in God.
I had said to myself I wasn’t going to write this week. As of two days ago, I went on strike. I wasn’t sure if it was my body or my emotions that were the part I had overdone but either way, I felt like an elastic band that had snapped, and was wandering […]
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