Taking Jesus Seriously (& Not Much Else)
WriterCaroline.com - Taking Jesus seriously and not much else
Most of the pains we experience are separation pains at their core: the loss of a loved one, a severed or damaged relationship, being misunderstood or unheard, the feeling of being different from others, the yearning for a child or spouse, the betrayal of a friend, divisive words, the loss of a church home. I think this is part of why this year has sliced so deeply into our souls. Separation is sharp.
Read MoreWith ears accustomed to the sound of death, the hiss of shame, the clanging of guilt…
Can you hear it?
With shoulders sagging under weights of your own creation, with a heart plagued by devils you fed and let flourish, with a body acquainted with rejection, jaw tense with the anticipation of rejection again…
Can you feel it?
With eyes that have magnified self, that have sought and settled on whatever they desired, that have seen destruction of self and sisters and shrugged…
Can you see it?
“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him” (Luke 15:20).
Read MoreI love to read, but man, I have had a TIME trying to read this year. Between the ages and needs of my kids and the, well, world, it’s been difficult to find time to be still, and then when I’m still, it’s hard to focus. Often the words seem to bounce around on the page, or fall off the page entirely and make a mess. So rude.
Nevertheless, I’ve truly benefited from the books I’ve read (or the many that I’m in the middle of)—particularly this little batch of Christian nonfiction. Each of these is a 2020 title, and it’s the kind of thing where the author, of course, had no idea the context to which her book would enter the world, and yet somehow, the content offered precise ministry to my 2020-weary heart.
If you’re looking for Christian nonfiction to minister to your 2020-weary heart, here are four recommendations for you.
Read MoreI’ve held on to these stickers for years. There’s been no reason for keeping them except that when I first encountered them (in some kind of packaging or something), I joked with myself, “Oops I dropped my name tag.” It looks oddly like a name tag, and it feels like it, too: “Hi, I’m Fragile.”
I gave myself the name out of compassion for myself, not out of shame. Because it’s a lot to live in a world like this. We’ve been bombarded with sharp words that found entry through our phones into our supposed safe places, and we suspect no place is safe, no place is quiet. We’ve been overwhelmed by unexpected limitations and grievous failures and nauseating news stories that burrow into our organs and make it hard to breathe and think and stand up straight. We’ve been asked to bear the pain of friends and acquaintances and complete strangers. We’ve been tasked to give solutions for problems bigger than our wingspan, and our microwaved wisdom isn’t working like we thought it would. Everything is falling apart, including our insides. Our name tag says Fragile. Of course it does.
Read MoreIt was a series of “nos” and “not yets” that felt unbearable to his four-year-old sensibilities. Even though I wanted to change the answer (I love to say yes!), I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. He collapsed into my arms yet again, legitimately devastated over something I knew was small in my reality, but big in his.
“Buddy, you want that really bad, don’t you?” He nodded though tears, and I put my hand on his heaving chest. “It’s grabbing your heart really tight.” He knew the sensation I meant, that feeling when you want a thing so bad it’s like it’s wrapped your insides into a strong grip, and he sobbed for a bit.
So I told him what I know, the only thing I know sometimes:
Read More
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