Shadow of Death

Back to blogging..

So I am in Italy, I have a lot to write about regarding Italy, and a lot to write about in genereal. Im going to reformat this blog and my other ones, and maybe start some joint ones with more dedicated bloggers. I miss all my friends and family.

God is still good and very faithful.

I wrote this in response to a post on my facebook wall by Cat. Thanks Cat.

Seek God





I am completely formatted in a way that needs Jesus. My heart simply pulsates in desperation of the Spirit of God. I can't imagine life without Jesus. My heart needs Jesus, my bones need Jesus; all I am is entangled with Christ. For some reason, God looks down at us with undying love, and I can do nothing but bask in this love and return in my feeble ways.

God is God, treat Him as such.

Discontent

The following passage is from an article written by Heather Coaster. She is a missionary in Bolivia who attatches herself to woman whos intractable poverty has lead them into the sex industry. Read the full article here, and the website its found is awesome.


It’s such a convenient conversation. Sure, it strikes me. I read the staggering numbers, attach the unfathomable data to a story just to make it personal, and the somatic injustice rises up in my throat or turns in my stomach or threatens to keep me from sleep. There’s a reminder again that things are not the way they’re supposed to be, that all is not quite right. Iam bothered by a sense somewhere between restlessness and calling. So I write essays and maybe even checks and I think about writing a letter to my Senator. I read the book or pick up the latest New York Times Magazine. Over a drink I discuss the theological, social and economic roots and implications. I pride myself in being aware. I appease my social conscience, thinking that my conversations and benefit dinners are all contributing to some global solution.

And maybe they are. God, I pray they are.

And I keep eating. I even end in dessert. I close the book, put a The End on the story, toss it all aside, pull the sheets back and climb into bed. There’s not much more I can do, not tonight. And lucky for me, I don’t have to. I have the unfathomable luxury of walking away, of signing off, of saying good night. While my conversations are coming to very neat, concise closes, she’s tucking her kids in, putting her shoes on and taking the rest off. The red glow of her night is on and she’s tossed from one set of dirty hands to another. There are rules in place, rules against going without protection, rules against sexual violence. But once her door closed, the only rule is his desire. She only knows that tomorrow her kids will again be hungry, and this is the cost of her love for them. Yes, it matters today. It matters tonight, because there are still six hours until morning. And while we can afford those six hours, she cannot.

If all I have to offer her is conversation, awareness, words, then yes, I will give the rest of my life to the talk. But its not. It can’t be. It’s not all I have and it’s not enough.

The moon

Sometimes looking up at the stars I get depressed.

They seem to be in such a sad state, shining yes, but never really finding themselves in the vast void of black.

Yet when I look to the moon I find hope for the stars, hope for man.

The moon seems to set the stars in place, every one of us.

All so appropriate.

It sets the standard of beauty while extracting beauty out of this myriad of lesser lights.

This lesser light.

The moon tells us calmly, don't worry; you don't have to be great, im already everything for you.

The moon.

Like a big blue lighthouse, like a teacher; a friend.

The moon.

The moon.

The moon,

and me.