random | Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

In which Difficult People are Angels Unawares

I read Gilead by Marilynne Robinson at a difficult time of my life, with a great deal of pleasure, awe, delight, gratitude (and envy at the perfection of her writing style).

However, I did not remember this beautiful passage which Canadian writer Carolyn Weber points out.

This is an important thing, which I have told many people, and which my father told me, and which his father told him.

When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think, “What is the Lord asking of me in this moment, in this situation?”

If you confront insult or antagonism, your first impulse will be to respond in kind. But if you think, as it were, “This is an emissary sent from the Lord, and some benefit is intended for me, first of all the occasion to demonstrate my faithfulness, the chance to show that I do in some small degree participate in the grace that saved me,” you are free to act otherwise than as circumstance would seem to dictate.

You are free to act by your own lights. You are freed at the same time of the impulse to hate or resent that person. He would probably laugh at the thought the Lord sent him to you for your benefit (and his), but that is the perfection of the disguise, his own ignorance of it. (Gilead, HarperCollins 2004, p. 124)

Indeed!

Good News for Those who’ve Blown It

By Anita Mathias

Image: Caravaggio

You can live with Christ in the closest possible

Intimacy; have a Spirit-given breakthrough

Understand that he is the Son

Of the Living God, know

He speaks the words of eternal life.

You can see him on the mountain, transfigured.

And then… babble,

Something about building booths,

Because you don’t know what to say

But you must say something.

And so bossily,

Despite having seen him transfigured,

You decide to take charge, and take him aside and rebuke him

When he tells you that suffering was always part of the plan,

And you get called Satan,

Not long after you have been called blessed.

And then…what you can do,

Is declare you will never ever fall away from Jesus,

Even if everyone else does,

And then you do just that….deny him

Three times.

And then, when Jesus gives you another chance,

You blow that too,

And instead of contemplating your fate

Which Christ has just revealed to you.

What you do is competitively obsess over John’s fate!

* * *

You can love Christ for many years,

And be 83 pounds overweight,

You eat in a sloppy, unthinking way; eliminate exercise

Deal with your feeling through food.

You can lose your temper with some regularity; take offence,

Write people off. Of course you can!

* * *

Your vessel of clay may be different,

Alcoholism perhaps; drugs; an abortion; divorce,

A sexual history so chequered you’d rather not think about it,

Or perhaps you been good for so long,

That you feel very bad and angry inside.

* * *

It’s not the vessel of clay that counts,

It is the treasure within.

Your simple love for Christ,

Your desire to follow him,

Though you, so often, forget him.

For one day, your vessel, my vessel, Peter’s vessel

Shall all be cast away on the scrap-heap of discarded things,

And what matters shall shine forth: the treasure within:

The heart he always loved; the heart that loved him back,

Though it got side-tracked–so very often.

The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth (Part III)

By Anita Mathias

Part III of my extended puzzled meditation on Jesus’s Beatitude “The Meek Inherit the Earth.” Part I is here and Part II here.

Okay, but how do the fiery become meek?

Being meek, I’m guessing, is a learned trait. Moses, later known as the meekest man on earth, once, impulsively, killed an Egyptian he saw bullying a Hebrew.

The murder resulted in decades of “slow time,” hanging out in the wilderness in solitude, until he slowed down enough to notice the bush burning in holy ground. And, at the risk of his life, he learnt to obey, becoming someone to whom God spoke “face to face, as a man speaks to his friend.” (Ex 33:11).

We become meek the same way we develop any of the traits Jesus prizes, like agape love.

Firstly, we ask Jesus to change our hearts and create in us a gentle spirit like his.

And secondly, when he sends us “practice papers,” we try to pass them. People may provoke and annoy us. Will we answer with patience and wisdom and leave the issue in the hands of him who judges justly? Or flare up, answer harshness with harshness, defend ourselves and attack?

Jesus, the Meek, Gentle Man who Changed History

Jesus went to his death with the gentleness and dignity which were foretold of him.

He will not storm or rage,

Nor will his voice be heard in the streets. (Matt.12 19-21)

As a sheep before its shearers is dumb,

So he opened not his mouth. (Isaiah 42:2)

The die was cast against him by the time he faced Annas, Caiaphas and Pilate. He was a man caught in a machine. Had he protested, stormed, raged, cried, cursed, denounced, or created a scene, he would have still died.

But had he not behaved with self-possessed meekness and quiet dignity-(so unusual for a tortured, brutalized man standing trial for his life that Pilate awed, and a little afraid, asked him, “Who are you? Are you a king?”) the death of this innocent Lamb of God who atoned for the sins of the entire world would not have reverberated down the centuries.

The hardened Roman centurion, observing him die, would not have said, “Truly this man was the son of God,” as we say 20 centuries later, as we watch “The Passion of the Christ,” for instance.

And sometimes the meek die with the most toys too.

Here’s a common one from the Book of Untrue Proverbs: He who dies with the most toys wins.

He who dies with the most holiday homes, swimming pools, tennis courts, fancy cars, private planes, boats, jewellery and companies wins.

But read between the lines of their obituaries, and you’ll often find isolation, joyless self-indulgence, depression, paranoia, bizarre eccentricities, addiction, infidelity, divorce, familial breakdown, and lawsuits.

Conversely, however, the blessing of the Lord brings wealth, and he adds no sorrow to it (Proverbs 10:12). Jesus says that it can be our father’s good pleasure to give us the things the pagans run after—(which may take the form of giving us the good sense and opportunity to enjoy things without owning them) and, besides, the beautiful Kingdom.

* * *

I was mentored by a deep Christian woman, Lolly Dunlap, when I lived in America in my thirties.

Now, I didn’t think I was materialistic then, would have hotly refuted the suggestion, and, in fact, looked down on those whom I judged to be materialistic with a touch of disdain.

But oddly, when I chattered to Roy or close friends, you’d hear me say, “Well, when we make some money we will buy a house on the water; or a vacation home in the mountains or by the sea; a boat, a camper van…”

* * *

Well, Lolly was an absolutely unworldly woman, gentle, generous and trusting. She was constantly giving me gifts, her beloved books, poems she had written, beautifully transcribed, or hand-painted capodimonte porcelain roses!

And, to my amusement, I slowly discovered that this God-immersed unworldly women, married to a church-planter passionate about building Christ’s Kingdom, owned all the things I then planned to buy “when I had money!”

She owned a mountain cabin near Shenandoah National Park with 100 acres around it, from which she could see three states. She had a house on the water in Norfolk. She had a boat. She had a camper van, in which she used to go on long holidays in the lake-filled Voyageurs National Park, Canada.

How did she get all this? Her husband, John Dunlap, was a church planter–one of the post war breed of entrepreneurial, visionary American evangelicals–who founded the famous Tab church in Norfolk (which spawned several daughter churches, including the Williamsburg Community Chapel, which I attended), Triple R Ranch, Norfolk Christian Schools, Norfolk Institute of Learning Disabilities, and a long-running very popular radio programme.

They had three children, and were generous givers who lived simply. However, John Dunlap was an insomniac with a gift—repairing clocks. And so he bought antique broken clocks for a song, repaired them, and then traded them. One weekend, he went to a fair in North Carolina, with an antique clock he’d repaired, and traded up, and traded up, and returned with a used camper van. He similarly traded up from a clock to a boat.

Dunlap inherited $10,000 dollars, and used part of it to buy a cabin and a hundred acres near Shenandoah National Park, as well as Triple R Ranch, a Christian camp that has blessed thousands.

Fear not, little flock, for it is your father’s pleasure to give you the kingdom. So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ ³² For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. ³³ But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well, Matthew 6: 31-33.

And so you can die with the Kingdom of God, its righteousness, its shalom and peace (and if it is your father’s pleasure, with the toys which enhance your joy.)

Why is it so hard to believe that the meek inherit the earth?

Because, in the short run, the pushy, the ruthless, the scheming, the manipulative, the deceitful, and those without conscience do seem to win the prize. They apparently get their own way, get away with it.

And this is where practical faith comes in. Christian faith is not mere assent that Christ Jesus was the Son of God, who came to redeem us. That’s just the starting point. Faith is also believing what he taught: that one can walk in gentleness and integrity, and still be given the things the pagans run after (Mt 6:32-33).

Have you—or your children—ever lost something they wanted while they watched more pushy, aggressive or manipulative people get it? I have. But I have not suffered permanent harm because of these out-manoeuvrings, and neither have my children.

* * *

“Manipulate,” literally means taking things into one’s own hands. And then, all you get is what your hands can grab. “God helps those who help themselves” is not in the Bible, contrary to popular opinion; trusting and relying on God, depending on God, however, is a consistent exhortation.

But, in fact, when tempted to take matters into your own hands, to work harder, network harder, hustle harder, it is good sometimes to just stop, and pray for blessing. To re-align yourself with God.

To remember that, ultimately, wealth, power and success are in the hands of God and he gives them to whom he pleases, (I Chron 29:12). To remember that the earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.

To remember that all things are God’s, and that it is our Father’s good pleasure to give us the things the pagans run after. When the time is right, and as much as is good for us.

The discipline of trusting God rather than taking matters into our own hands, using the weapons of this world is a hard one to learn.

But worth it! The meek might lose battles, but win the war. Lose in the short run, but in the long run, develop some of the gentleness of Jesus. Become the kind of people whom both God and man want to help.

By being meek, we often set the stage for another power to rescue us. It has been so in my experience. And we experience some of the mysterious blessings of God. “You shall inherit what others have toiled for.” (Psalm 105:44). “To the one who pleases him, God gives wisdom and knowledge and joy, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and heaping only to give to the one who pleases the Lord.” (Ecc 2:26).

* * *

How can we know that the meek really do inherit the earth? That it is safe to be meek?

We can only know it experimentally and experientially. We just have to try it and see.

And here, I take a deep breath, for meekness does not come easily to me.

But I want to learn of Jesus who was meek and humble of heart. I know his ways are best, and so I am going to set my face to follow him, and so find rest for my soul.

An excerpt from my ebook and paperback, The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth available on kindle and PB on

Amazon UK

Amazon.com

What I Am Up To

By Anita Mathias

Coffee with some lovely women from my St. Andrew’s women’s group

It’s well and truly summer. At last, and long overdue. School broke up on the 12^th of July, which does seem very late, doesn’t it?

The Cwmbran Revival

We went as a family to the revival meetings at Cwmbran, Wales on a Saturday. It was moving to see the hall packed with people, praying, worshipping God. Whether it is a revival or not is irrelevant; that’s just semantics. What I enjoyed was spending hours worshipping God, hours in the presence of God, and I received a vision/image of the future of my work which was encouraging and energizing. In the presence of God is creativity, reassurance that you are on the right path, and guidance. And love, so much love.

My sense is that it is going to take continued surrender, humility and repentance on the part of the leaders of the Cwmbran revival to make sure the revival remains spirit-led, not ambition-led. I think we should adopt the approach of Gamaliel, “For if their purpose or activity is of human origin, it will fail. But if it is from God, you will not be able to stop these men; you will only find yourselves fighting against God.”

* * *

I went to a Festival of Prayer at Ripon College, Cuddeson. Quite a treat to see robed Benedictine and Franciscan monks, Anglican Franciscans. Would have thought that was a contradiction in terms.

Enjoyed the sessions on contemplative prayer, especially the Jesus prayer which we said together like the waves of a sea, rising and falling, profoundly calming.

* * *

Enjoyed coffee with Malcolm Guite, brilliant poet, priest, theologian, and writer. A fountain of free-associating ideas from poetry and theology. What a treat. He invited me to listen to his talk at the Inklings Conference on the treasures of the Kingdom, which was also a treat.

And I’ve visited William Morris’s house, Kelmscott Manor with Writers in Oxford. Beautiful furniture, and a very spacious roomy house—Morris had inherited money, and used it well to support his owncreativity and that of others. Which is a Godly thing to do. The very first thing we are told about God, in the first line of the Bible, is this: In the Beginning, God Created!

* * *

I took part in Oxford’s Race for Life—Wow!! Very ra-ra-ra, all war metaphors, Cancer, we are coming to get you, Cancer, we are kicking your butt.

Six thousand women gathered together for a common cause. I found being there, part of the great democracy of women quite an emotional experience, because I am usually an introvert who avoids crowds.

Women of every age, from toddlers to determined grannies, of several races, and of every social class, judging by the snatches of overheard conversations as I plodded along, and by the accents, for in England, though less so that than previously, accent is a still an indicator of social class.

Thousands of women in pink, some with pink gauzy skirts, angel wings, anteannae, babies in buggies.

I imagine Pentecost happened to such a polyglot motley crew.

It was a triumph of organization. Could churches get together like this, to raise money, say for global universal literacy, perhaps as in Britain’s original Sunday Schools which used the Bible as a textbook for learning to read? Ah, dreaming now…

* * *

Film

We enjoyed “The Way,” a beautifully shot film about the Camino de Santiago, the 500 mile pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, the reputed site of the bones of the Apostle James. It seemed spectacularly beautiful, redolent of history. We want to do part of all of it.

Interesting theme. Most of the characters encountered on the Way had unlived lives, and had not chased their dreams for fear of poverty or failure or being different.

The four main characters had varying degrees of psychological distress because they were holding on to false images of themselves. Jack, the writer, thought he was blocked and could not write, because he was writing what he thought would sell not what he really wanted to. Sarah, the brassy angry Canadian, consumed by anger over her forced abortion and violent marriage, gets in touch with her heart. Joost, an obese kindly Dutchman, is walking to lose some weight, but realizes he really does love food, just not in excess, and makes peace with himself, and his weight. And the grieving father, victim of the American way of work, work, work, and then you die, who has suppressed huge areas of himself, sees other ways of living, explores his unexplored potential.

We are also tremendously enjoying the B.B.C’s “Desperate Romantics” about the Pre-Raphaelite painters.

With our friends, Russ and Malissa Kilpatrick

And Zoe, 18, has well and truly graduated from High School. She won the Head’s Award for Academic Excellence, her school’s Award for Academic Excellence in Religious Studies, and a Commendation for Achievement in Philosophy–a fistful of book tokens.

We put Zoe and Irene in private school after buying our dream house, and I ended up founding a small publishing company to pay the fees. Roy was a mathematician at the time, and I was an aspiring writer. 7 years on, Roy has taken early retirement from Maths (in 2010) and is running the company full time, and I am a blogger, as well as a writer. The kids’ education has taken our whole family on an unexpected adventure!

Zoe has an offer to read Theology at Jesus College, Cambridge. On to the next chapter!

Next on her schedule, though, is an internship at Catch the Fire, Toronto starting in September. Interns come from a minimum of 10 countries, so it should be an amazing experience for her.

* * *

Last week, Irene went on a school trip to the First World War battlefields in France and Belgium which she found profoundly moving. She’s now at a Christian camp at Lymington Rushmore, part of the The Titus Trust outreach to girls and boys at private schools nationwide. A strategy, incidentally, that works.

Irene, 14, is an all-rounder academically. Her reports commented on her intelligence beyond her years! Her passion is reading and English. I am trying to talk her into taking up theology like her sister (unsuccessfully, so far!).

* * *

Favourite book this month—Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly

Linking up with Leigh Kramer

Has Church Attendance become an Idol for Christians? (A Guest Post by Kelly Youngblood)

By Anita Mathias

I was fascinated by an early version of this piece on Kelly’s blog last year. It’s something I’ve often privately thought, but rarely seen expressed so clearly. So happy to host Kelly Youngblood here to day.

(photo credit: khrawlings)

Often, the Sunday morning worship service is the Christian’s high point of the week. It’s considered the most important part of the Christian life. Church attendance is taken, because denominational headquarters like to see numbers. A chapter in a book I recently read was about the Sunday morning worship service, as was an an article I also read recently. This chapter and this article both had a similar feel to it–that the Sunday morning worship service is extremely important in the Christian life and most other events should not interfere with it. One time, I even heard a sermon about how there is really no excuse for not going to church on Sunday mornings.

Here is a quotation from the book I mentioned. I’m not listing the title/author because I think it is a good book, and don’t want anyone to think too negatively of it. If you’d like to know the title, please contact me. The author writes: “Though the form of worship is not the main focus, this does not mean form is unimportant. Form matters. There are basic elements of Christian worship that have been found useful in the development of our relationship with God and others. Though not all Christian groups engage in all of these elements of worship, many groups use use some or all of these practices consistently in their gatherings. We will look at each of these briefly in order to explain how they form us spiritually. I will write the following as if I were writing to my son to explain why worship is worth it.” He then goes on to list and explain these different parts of a worship service: Greeting; Confession and Forgiveness; Creeds, commandments and the Lord’s Prayer; Scripture and Sermon; Communion or the Lord’s Supper; Singing; Silence; Offering Gifts; Benediction or Sending Forth.

It seems somewhat hollow to me to put so much emphasis and importance on our typical Sunday morning church service, especially when I think of the encounter between Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4:

¹⁹ The woman said to him, “Sir, I see that you are a prophet. ²⁰ Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem.” ²¹ Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. ²² You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. ²³ But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him. ²⁴ God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.” —John 4:19-24

The Samaritan woman points out that two different groups of people have two ideas of the proper location for worship. Jesus basically tells her it doesn’t really matter where people worship, because worship is not about location, but about those who will worship “in spirit and in truth”.

I am not sure why we call our Sunday morning meeting a “worship service”. It’s redundant, really. In Hebrew, the word that we translate as worship is avodah which also means “service”, as in, say, avodah zara, service to idols, or as we would put it, idol worship. In Greek, the word for service is proskuneo which means worship; fall down and worship, kneel, bow low, fall at another’s feet. How often do we actually fall down, or kneel, or bow low in a church service? The last time I ever remember kneeling is when I grew up going to Catholic church. Now, I am not saying we should necessarily rush to do these things, because to incorporate them for everyone would be to miss the point of Jesus’ message.

We should feel freedom in worship, and we should feel free to worship, to serve, as the Holy Spirit guides us. It may be in a typical worship service. It may be as you’re on a long drive. It may be when you are helping out at a soup kitchen or homeless shelter or as you are bandaging a child’s scraped knee or wiping away her tears. To only think of meeting in a particular place at a particular time with other particular people as worship is to miss Jesus’ point–and perhaps has become avodah zara, idolatry, itself. Our entire lives should be worship. And, quite honestly, that’s a lot harder than going to a service once a week.

And really, in a “worship service”, it often feels to me that we are not exactly serving God. We are often serving ourselves. The sermon is for us to hear, the songs are for us to sing and to make us feel good, even as we are singing them to God. And while they should affect us as in how we serve God, sometimes, I think that gets a little bit lost. We often feel unfulfilled if we don’t like the music or the sermon isn’t good–and the person sitting next to us could think and feel exactly the opposite. Worship is not the same experience for each and every person. And so, even though at times I feel a little guilty if I don’t attend church and get perfect attendance (first child perfectionist issue, probably), I really don’t mind missing it. Sometimes, “church service” happens when we least expect it.

I’m not entirely sure what the answer is, because meeting together is important. But we live in a flawed world and are flawed people, and so any attempt we make to “do church” the “right” way will end up being flawed, too. And so, I’m going to continue looking for church and worship in the unusual places, because the Spirit is not bound by our rules.

Kelly Youngblood

Bio: Kelly J. Youngblood is a writer who blogs regularly (except when she doesn’t) at Renewing Your Mind. She likes to write about faith, life, doubt, and the Bible. When she isn’t writing, she’s a stay-at-home mom of her two sons, ages 6 and 3, who are very rambunctious and wear her out on a daily basis. In her spare time (ha!), she’s decided to start writing a novel in order to have an outlet for a more creative type of writing. She has a B.A. in English Literature from the University of New Mexico and has worked in the restaurant industry, the legal field, in churches, and for non-profits.

Over to you: Thoughts? Do you agree with Kelly?

In Which Our Lives Are Like Mandalas, a guest post by Holly Grantham

By Anita Mathias

I am so honoured to host Holly Grantham here, whom I first encountered through her gorgeous post, My Broken Hallelujah.

(Photo credit: Mandala by Luis Argerich on Flickr)

So, I have this son who, from the moment he was born, pulled my heart out into the open and now I walk around hoping and praying that the strings that hold it together, now threadbare and fuzzy, don’t come completely unraveled before each day is done. Mothering will do that to your heart, you know—wear it out and in and all around.

We’ve walked a path, he and I … one rife with curves and twists, shadows and light, knowing and unknowing.

And so, it was no small thing, in recent days, to walk with him to the edge of the forest and uncurl our finger locked hands for the first time. I kissed his dewy head, damp with apprehension and fear and excitement, and I hugged his squishy body, the one that always gives into my embrace like lungs do to air, and I said goodbye.

In that moment, I felt the lifeblood flow right out of me, pooling on the ground, while the sun caught its crimson blush and the light danced like a joy dare.

The days that followed would be more than tests of space and time—they would be like a great awakening … an opening to and an awareness of something deep and long and wide.

In his absence, I continued to walk paths, whether out of habit or compulsion or need, I’m not sure. My walking and my pacing and my fretting wore grooves in the casts of sunlight and pulled taught on strings laced with moonlight. My side of the week became this great carving out, wherein my prayers and fears fashioned a mandala, of sorts, and all of my hopes and worries for my son were drawn in the dust of each day.

In this lengthy separation I couldn’t help but marvel at the way life can surprise us so. That, even as we take clay in our hands and warm it with our touch, as we shape and mold it and dream of the shapes it will take and the forms it will embody, there is something else very much at work.

There is not one artist at work when sculpting a life.

As I wholeheartedly pour myself into my child and as much as that informs many of the lines and perimeters of his person, there is also this great expanse of heart space that is being wrought deep within. There are hidden places that have my fingerprints upon them, yes, but they are still being worked and kneaded and forged.

There are other hands at work.

In the days that came between me and my son, those hands were busy.

They arrived the first night in the middle of a thunderstorm. As the sky burst open in a shower of sparks and the clouds answered with booming shouts, words of peace and comfort found their way to my son’s heart. A hundred miles away, I cowered in the shadows, imagining the fear that might be stomping across the tender ground of his heart, all the while, in a canvas tent supported only by poles and wires, my son nestled down in the comfort of his sleeping bag, his arms encircling his beloved stuffed monkey, valiantly riding out the storm.

Those hands would take other forms throughout the whole of that week.

In a test of strength and endurance, my son would swim with new skill and budding power and his sweet reward would be to score higher than even some of the adults.

His legs would lengthen and his middle slim as he walked, mile upon mile, day after day, into lessons and discoveries and friendships.

But, perhaps, the greatest shaping would be revealed on the night I visited him. Apprehension curled around the edges of my resolve as I anticipated our parting at the end of the evening and the drive between hither and yon was riddled with script writing and the practice of separation, once again.

No one was more surprised than me when, upon seeing the more chiseled features of his face and the inches he had grown, my joy leaked liquid down my cheeks. And that boy of mine? His face simply cracked open and love burst through like glory come down.

For in the days that passed between us, those spaces that I had always taken up in his heart? Well, they had found some breathing room. Time and distance had managed to open windows deep within that had too long been fastened. And now there were fresh breezes where once the air had been stuffy and stale. Evidently, there was enough space for more than one Sun to shine in my sweet boy’s heart.

Our parting that night was bridged by tangled arms and warm embraces, soft kisses and whispered blessings. No, I didn’t want to leave him but I released him to the warm summer night and the twinkling of fireflies and to the faith that just as the moon rose and swelled on that eve of the summer solstice, my son was being rocked in the bosom of One bigger and greater than I.

This motherhood journey has a way of expanding heart space in more than just our children. A mother’s heart breaks open when her children are born and then she spends the rest of eternity trying to stay the love hemorrhage that ensues.

This exercise in letting go of my son has revealed much. I can see more clearly now that this raising of children is very much like a dance. There are steps to be taught and rhythms to learn and many times, there are bruised toes to accompany wounded pride. But there is value in the practice and joy in the twirling and there are few places where I have been more open to the choreography of God.

So, my son and I, we will clasp hands and swing arms, always. I can’t imagine a day when such will not be the case. But perhaps it is now time to let someone else take the lead. There is music playing and the floor is wide open. And we can’t help but step into the light and spin.

Holly Smothers Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of two boys (soon to be three), snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.

Other places you can find her words are at her blog, A Lifetime of Days, and at SheLoves Magazine, where she is a weekly editor and monthly contributor.

Follow her on Facebook or Twitter.

If Christ Were to Write to the Pro-Life Movement

By Anita Mathias

If Jesus were to write a letter to the Pro-Life movement, here’s what I’d hear him say:

“I applaud your pro-life passion. The world has need of you. Your passion for life can lead to the saving of many lives and bring much joy.

However, your time on earth is limited. Your energy is limited. The finances I choose to entrust to you are limited.

Might I suggest that you love the neighbour you have seen before you love the yet-unborn whom you have not seen.

You cannot save all the 16000 children who will today die of hunger, one every five seconds. But you might be able to save one who will die tomorrow. Save one family from heartbreak.

You will not be save all the 21000 children who will die today from preventable disease, malnutrition, unsafe drinking water, and lack of a five-cent vaccine. But you may be able to save one tomorrow

I feel the pain of the aborted embryo, and the pain of the born child. But since you can today: Save some those already born, whose illness and death breaks the heart of their families before you insist that every zygote, every fertilized egg, every embryo is borne to full-term, regardless of the physical, emotional, psychiatric, or financial cost to the mother, despite her desperation, devastation or destitution.

For there is coercion in that, but in me there is no coercion. I invite you. I never compel you. Do likewise. [Read more…]