Set Free

This is only the second time I blog. Already I've learned that you never feel like you have anything to say. Everyday life is so, well, everyday like. I know someone out there is waiting for me to write something (Hi Twa), so the only thing to do is sit down and write. 

There is a fifteen year old at EVI who wants to grow bigger and stronger. Except that, he doesn't want to grow bigger and stronger by himself. He wants me to climb South Peak with him every Sunday with thirty pounds each in our packs. I don't know how far it is, but it took us sixty six minutes to go one way. It's probably a gain of a thousand feet elevation. We were soaked when we reached the top. What he doesn't realize is, I am probably as big and strong as I'm ever going to get. Now I am big and strong and worn out. (I actually want to do this. I promised myself that I would climb a mountain with my great grand children. Hurry Nessa, I ain't gonna last forever.)

Happy New Year. 

Yesterday, my secretary lost a sheet of paper covered with plastic and held together by a spline. She had it in her hand in the morning and very early on she lost it. She went through her office, my office, the accountants office. She scoured everything for half a mile radius. Nothing. And she never stopped looking, all day. Sometime before lunch I invited her to pray with me about it. At quitting time I was leaning by my office door talking to her about the lost paper when I caught a peak of it behind some stuff. Now, that isn't so grand an event. I understand that. But the feeling I had when I spotted the paper was like as if an Angel said, "See God answers prayer. You didn't have to be standing there, you know. You didn't have to move that little pile of papers. There is an army of angels just waiting to serve you, even over little things."

Sometimes God speaks to me over such mundane, little things. I had to walk away, I couldn't be seen with tears in my eyes over so little. Or, was it so little? 

We had an Agape Feast last night at EVI. What better way to end an old year; what better way to start a new one than to focus on Christ's sacrifice for us. The food was great, the spirit was tender, and the fellowship was grand. 

I've started to write an editorial for the magazine Faith Ventures. The thought I am trying to express (with great difficulty) has had more impact on my mind than any other concept in six months. Here goes: I believe people are not ruined by external demons. I believe people ruin themselves. Yes, by self-destructive habits, but that isn't what I mean here. I'm talking about what we say to ourselves about ourselves. People are plagued with depression, a poor self image, debilitating insecurities, fears and discouragements. They plunge into destructive habits because, in their minds, it doesn't matter -- they don't matter. They buy into all kinds of lies about themselves, and they believe them. All the while, their sits in heaven a gracious God who doesn't think those things about them/us. He says, I have redeemed you, you are mine. I love you with an everlasting love, you are the apple of mine eye. You are talented. Through Christ you are sanctified. And He goes on and on and on about us in such loving terms. Now, here is the question: Who speaks the truth about me, God or me? Who is likelier to be a liar, God or me? If God says He loves you, are you going to argue with Him and say, but I'm not lovable. The Bible says, "You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free." Is this talking about doctrines? That's what we usually say, but pardon me, I think it applies more here than there. If we believed what God says about us instead of what we say to ourselves about ourselves,  we would be set free from fear, insecurity and depression. And, we would act dignified, respectable, and princely. Christ's sacrifice bought that gift for us, so we need to be careful what we say about ourselves to ourselves.

Janet is sitting in an airport in Ethiopia as I write. She will be home tomorrow. That will be for me a Happy New Year. Happy New Year to you all -- all six of you. Dad