tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68154561906569659952024-02-06T21:45:01.039-08:00by the watersIrene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.comBlogger248125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-30716532309873831922018-12-22T07:34:00.000-08:002018-12-22T07:34:56.356-08:00Christmas declares the glory of the flesh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSiJkp4r5fIehZR8f-RDtYinOPbU5T2xHaGenS2V8TvbsEPydbE6_div5nzkzpE0Lf0x06pW5jMNeIuwsKeW4_nuEM-mYvWAmWK8dAAM9hVktBfNWMz9bpzkAxCL8RUAbp3Kzd8u1E5gin/s1600/image0005+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="796" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSiJkp4r5fIehZR8f-RDtYinOPbU5T2xHaGenS2V8TvbsEPydbE6_div5nzkzpE0Lf0x06pW5jMNeIuwsKeW4_nuEM-mYvWAmWK8dAAM9hVktBfNWMz9bpzkAxCL8RUAbp3Kzd8u1E5gin/s400/image0005+%25281%2529.jpg" width="303" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter (1853-1928), a sketch in her journal</td></tr>
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Christmas declares the glory of the flesh:<br />
And therefore a European might wish<br />
To celebrate it not at mid winter but in spring,<br />
When physical life is strong,<br />
When the consent to live is forced even on the young,<br />
Juice is in the soil, the leaf, the vein,<br />
Sugar flows to movement in limbs and brain.<br />
Also before a birth, nourishing the child<br />
We turn again to the earth<br />
With unusual longing – to what is rich, wild,<br />
Substantial: scents that have been stored and strengthened<br />
In apple lofts, the underwash of woods, and in barns;<br />
Drawn through the lengthened root; pungent in cones<br />
(While the fir wood stands waiting; the beechwood aspiring,<br />
(Each in a different silence), and breaking out in spring<br />
With scent sight sound indivisible in song.</div>
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Yet if you think again<br />
It is good that Christmas comes at the dark dream of the year<br />
That might wish to sleep ever,<br />
For birth is awaking, birth is effort and pain;<br />
And now at midwinter are the hints, inklings<br />
(Sodden primrose, honeysuckle greening)<br />
That sleep must be broken.<br />
To bear new life or learn to live is an exacting joy;<br />
The whole self must waken; you cannot predict the way<br />
It will happen, or master the responses beforehand.<br />
For any birth makes an inconvenient demand;<br />
Like all holy things<br />
It is frequently a nuisance, and its needs never end;<br />
Freedom it brings: We should welcome release<br />
From its long merciless rehearsal of peace.</div>
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So Christ comes<br />
At the iron senseless time, comes<br />
To force the glory into frozen veins:<br />
His warmth wakes green life glazed in the pool, wakes<br />
All calm and crystal trance with the living pains.</div>
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And each year<br />
In seasonal growth is good – year<br />
That lacking love is a stale story at best<br />
By God's birth<br />
Our common birth is holy; birth<br />
Is all at Christmas time and wholly blest.</div>
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<div class="rteindent1" style="text-align: right;">
Anne Ridler (1912-2001), "Christmas and the Common Birth" </div>
Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-90064985856676242152018-11-24T14:08:00.000-08:002018-11-24T14:08:48.705-08:00Love that loves unto death<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5blF_XTVt1MjA7tW9iURzPha703DQ_u0EZscCjLD5RxPJPSahk4e8bzi619SNHi6hSx9F4IOghDv29C71IfecM9EmVyw3iEroiJ83PnrRBNvIlqCsS5rLjhy6LOvu5ecVX9abime_2Ukc/s1600/image0004%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="737" data-original-width="1600" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5blF_XTVt1MjA7tW9iURzPha703DQ_u0EZscCjLD5RxPJPSahk4e8bzi619SNHi6hSx9F4IOghDv29C71IfecM9EmVyw3iEroiJ83PnrRBNvIlqCsS5rLjhy6LOvu5ecVX9abime_2Ukc/s640/image0004%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter (1853-1928), a sketch in her journal</td></tr>
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Our family has been waiting upon the Lord for our next steps. As we pray over hundreds of job postings and application forms, I am reminded of how Amy Carmichael responded to those who expressed a desire to serve with her in her home for orphans in India.</div>
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In one correspondence, she bluntly stated, "Not a word of attraction can I write to [you]. It
will be desperately hard work, iron would snap under the strain of it. I
ask for steel, that quality which is at the back of all going on,
patience which cannot be tired out, and love that loves in every deed,
unto death."</div>
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To those who apply, she asked them this list of questions:</div>
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<ul>
<li>Do you truly desire to live a crucified life? ("Ditch-digging," she warned, "gives no dignity.")</li>
<li>Does the thought of hardness draw you or repel you?</li>
<li>Do you realize that we are a family, not an institution? Are you willing to do whatever helps most?</li>
<li>Apart
from the Bible, can you name three or four books which have been of
vital help to you?</li>
<li>Apart from books, what refreshes you most when tired?</li>
<li>Have you ever learned any classical or continental language?</li>
<li>Have you ever had opportunity to prove our Lord's promise to supply temporal as well as spiritual needs?</li>
<li>Can
you mention any experience you have passed through in your Christian
life which brought you into a new discovery of your union with the
crucified, risen, and enthroned Lord?</li>
</ul>
<br />
"Do not come," she emphasized again, "unless you can say to your Lord and to us, <i>The Cross is the attraction</i>." I am amaze that the Lord continued to provide workers who labored with her in the field!<br />
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Praise be to God. My faith is strengthened.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaaaZDNnkH2yEo_15XpstfSOs-RrjLMzm7l-_LYXpZtokqVPnIqNvVQ4dDyAby_Ybk9gd66Auv56Gj2yG6Ua9hWLh31d4iWd_8VGM42ZnsG_sBUrNi0mVlLgcAgEGtxrsOG5a4c08ij5o/s1600/image0005%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1157" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaaaZDNnkH2yEo_15XpstfSOs-RrjLMzm7l-_LYXpZtokqVPnIqNvVQ4dDyAby_Ybk9gd66Auv56Gj2yG6Ua9hWLh31d4iWd_8VGM42ZnsG_sBUrNi0mVlLgcAgEGtxrsOG5a4c08ij5o/s400/image0005%25283%2529.jpg" width="288" /></a></div>
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Christ our Captain, hear our prayer,</div>
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Warriors we ask of Thee,</div>
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Comrades who shall everywhere</div>
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Stand for love and loyalty;</div>
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Servants who with souls aflame,</div>
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Kindled from Thine altar-fire,</div>
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Live to magnify Thy Name,</div>
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Live to meet Thy least desire.</div>
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Lovers who in love abide</div>
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In the Secret Place of rest,</div>
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Yielded to be crucified</div>
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That Thy life be manifest;</div>
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Labourers who joyfully</div>
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Choose rewards unseen today.</div>
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Cause us, O our Lord, to be<span class="il"> </span></div>
<div>
<span class="il">Like</span> to these for whom we pray.</div>
</div>
Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-30516334068971964532018-07-13T16:14:00.000-07:002018-07-13T16:14:53.249-07:00Fires, alive<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkf7l6IWUv7Re6zOO88u2F-aWMJPk8_mv7r5tuKFyZkIT5wrM7CilXjD6bwIovY28V6ZwGb2o45ea66cvv5DFxZ-7YTGa1Wehvi1UP4fPZUMncfp4340bWoivPe511p49odojr42ZRJHuB/s1600/image0000%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1599" data-original-width="1361" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkf7l6IWUv7Re6zOO88u2F-aWMJPk8_mv7r5tuKFyZkIT5wrM7CilXjD6bwIovY28V6ZwGb2o45ea66cvv5DFxZ-7YTGa1Wehvi1UP4fPZUMncfp4340bWoivPe511p49odojr42ZRJHuB/s640/image0000%25282%2529.jpg" width="544" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter (1853-1928), a sketch in her journal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
His earnest love, His infinite desires,<br />
His living, endless, and devouring fires,<br />
Do rage in thirst, and fervently require<br />
A love 'tis strange it should desire.<br />
<br />
We cold and careless are, and scarcely think<br />
Upon the glorious spring whereat we drink,<br />
Did He not love us we could be content:<br />
We wretches are indifferent.<br />
<br />
'Tis death, my soul, to be indifferent;<br />
Set forth thyself unto thy whole extent,<br />
And all the glory of His passion prize,<br />
Who for thee lives, Who for thee dies.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
Traherne, 17th century</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
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Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-62851589935227960562016-11-09T18:24:00.000-08:002016-11-09T18:24:59.145-08:00Not far from us, those starsA voice and a song from long ago, from our dear Amy Carmichael.<br />
<i>Gold by Moonlight</i>, 112-113, 156<br />
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But continually we look at things about us without seeing more than a very little of what is there.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We look up into the sky at noon and know that familiar constellations are passing over us, but we do not see them. Empty blue, or grey, or masses of cloud—that is all we see.</blockquote>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeejuCzWqNEIaXxtQSDBFL6i1BQDdV5rhLXlqndQK6nI-LhyH2cAoarREdN_MBceFx_eRBQ7t5zVgVVDBlE3usIERElYW7Q1-WC3RN0gn1M0CF_EXbX_WbmfW4V9rTS8M6yTHMsexlOPAD/s1600/WP_20160515_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeejuCzWqNEIaXxtQSDBFL6i1BQDdV5rhLXlqndQK6nI-LhyH2cAoarREdN_MBceFx_eRBQ7t5zVgVVDBlE3usIERElYW7Q1-WC3RN0gn1M0CF_EXbX_WbmfW4V9rTS8M6yTHMsexlOPAD/s640/WP_20160515_001.jpg" width="358" /></a></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We look at a pool or any little runlet of softly flowing water; we are looking into fairyland; but we do not catch even a flutter of a fairy scarf. Water and the reflections and colours on its surface—that is all we see.<br />
<br />
We know that we see in part where the material world is concerned. Why should we not be comforted where the spiritual is in question by remembering that there also we only see in part?<br />
<br />
We dwell perpetually in the presence of far more than we can see. Our feelings say, "How can this good thing be?" but if God declares it is, that is enough.</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Make me Thy labourer,<br />
Let me not dream of ever looking back,<br />
Let not my knees be feeble, hands be slack.<br />
O make me strong to labour, strong to bear,<br />
From the rising of the morning till the stars appear.<br />
<br />
Make me Thy warrior,<br />
On whom Thou canst depend to stand the brunt<br />
Of any perilous charge on any front.<br />
Give me skill to handle sword and spear,<br />
From the rising of the morning till the stars appear.<br />
<br />
Not far from us, those stars—<br />
Unseen as angels and yet looking through<br />
The quiet air, the days' transparent blue.<br />
What shall we know, and feel, and see, and hear<br />
When the sunset colours kindle and the stars appear?</blockquote>
</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxRhWNhQ-ptDiGkdxHYRBy2Hr9h-3MOV9yNr6HpB4LBZcybB6uMO8S76cBDs4iE5pmdnedgdBp8t8wBxO6WhqrvQ71OqZ9LliOkmwBn-dpW4ckGKnkAYGcHrLKbiEzjgRloAv2OftQlPF/s1600/WP_20160425_021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxRhWNhQ-ptDiGkdxHYRBy2Hr9h-3MOV9yNr6HpB4LBZcybB6uMO8S76cBDs4iE5pmdnedgdBp8t8wBxO6WhqrvQ71OqZ9LliOkmwBn-dpW4ckGKnkAYGcHrLKbiEzjgRloAv2OftQlPF/s640/WP_20160425_021.jpg" width="358" /></a></div>
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-56512801338667587502016-10-29T12:17:00.000-07:002016-11-01T15:31:57.702-07:00Stay<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtGgmt3cNPy-KMOp6DlWyOdaa_dX7kVmn5BAg3n7msAGk6p3Ge6gwAT8PbcgEAkmK_p__6g8FiIKTjTojW8UX0lyPxIPTtrYI4cUwfoeYUljYWjeL8jXR8IR8wViblpG2xBPBQ90U8M8gL/s1600/image0007+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtGgmt3cNPy-KMOp6DlWyOdaa_dX7kVmn5BAg3n7msAGk6p3Ge6gwAT8PbcgEAkmK_p__6g8FiIKTjTojW8UX0lyPxIPTtrYI4cUwfoeYUljYWjeL8jXR8IR8wViblpG2xBPBQ90U8M8gL/s640/image0007+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter (1853-1928), a sketch in her journal</td></tr>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Love, traveling in the greatness of His strength,<br />
Found me alone,<br />
Footsore and tired by the journey's length,<br />
Though I had known<br />
All the long way many a kindly air,<br />
And flowers had blossomed for me everywhere.<br />
<br />
And yet Love found me needing Him. He stayed;<br />
Love stayed by me.<br />
"Let not thy heart be troubled or dismayed,<br />
My child," said He.<br />
Slipped from me then, all troubles, all alarms,<br />
For Love had gathered me into His arms.</blockquote>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2015/01/be-more-than-mother.html" target="_blank">Amy Carmichael</a> (1867-1951)</span></div>
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-11210177389445330802016-10-24T12:30:00.000-07:002016-10-24T12:30:30.630-07:00Hold me fast by Thee<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMNYX_Z2l-gquAX8uV89eFu9X1308E7tvEx7wEmW-7Z7YRsILXLcFJxBaJppxxS2pbakEZyxe876P_T8L8A1YwZP4nTlNZBpw_zWUajsNtiMw4fbXYsN7vLzBLr17IOmvPwkMSCbG56yq/s1600/image0000%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMNYX_Z2l-gquAX8uV89eFu9X1308E7tvEx7wEmW-7Z7YRsILXLcFJxBaJppxxS2pbakEZyxe876P_T8L8A1YwZP4nTlNZBpw_zWUajsNtiMw4fbXYsN7vLzBLr17IOmvPwkMSCbG56yq/s640/image0000%25284%2529.jpg" width="386" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter (1853-1928), a sketch in her journal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lover of all, I
hold me fast by Thee,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ruler of time,
King of eternity.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is no
great with Thee, there is no small,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For Thou art
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</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The new-born
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</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The falling
dew-drop falls into Thy hand.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">God of the
firmament's mysterious powers,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I see Thee
thread the minutes of my hours.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I see Thee
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That walks
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Was ever wayworn,
lonely traveler</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But had Thee by
him, blessed Comforter?</span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Out of my
vision swims the untracked star,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thy counsels
too are high and very far,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only I know,
God of the nebulae,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It is enough to
hold me fast by Thee.</span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2015/01/be-more-than-mother.html" target="_blank">Amy Carmichael</a> (1867-1951)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mEcZBZCB2osVpJ4QDjBECT0cLHpmbZV9QkCpjxPw3x__icexjtHk0UeVhZqKq5Lz2WRtH8Nh3cofQFa3RrXzPUiEnPXFPZ5oSX_FwBC9rbYa29KTc3YOWysVcyxC0kAeuuxGunPIjC6X/s1600/P7297815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mEcZBZCB2osVpJ4QDjBECT0cLHpmbZV9QkCpjxPw3x__icexjtHk0UeVhZqKq5Lz2WRtH8Nh3cofQFa3RrXzPUiEnPXFPZ5oSX_FwBC9rbYa29KTc3YOWysVcyxC0kAeuuxGunPIjC6X/s640/P7297815.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-10174067994139191272016-10-21T14:58:00.001-07:002016-10-21T14:58:05.695-07:00Make me thy fuel, flame of GodHear us, Father, we are weary.<br />
Help us, Spirit, with our tasks unfinished.<br />
Feed us, Yeshua, with yourself — bread and water, living and broken.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDMs-nf1zUl89NCt2QmR1OTcFOPC1yh1-Ii9Rs1v5vZxniitD3q9Of7ovOPdS2x8Q7D2zNtzGEgVgGUAPUrPlYceK1DZ1ugTUjRSIjYolWe0YJkMqKZd9VIqVvSDKvtsiH-JCmx3fwUOe/s1600/image0004%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDMs-nf1zUl89NCt2QmR1OTcFOPC1yh1-Ii9Rs1v5vZxniitD3q9Of7ovOPdS2x8Q7D2zNtzGEgVgGUAPUrPlYceK1DZ1ugTUjRSIjYolWe0YJkMqKZd9VIqVvSDKvtsiH-JCmx3fwUOe/s640/image0004%25284%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter (1853-1928), an unfinished sketch in her journal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From prayer
that asks that I may be</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sheltered from
winds that beat on Thee,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From fearing
when I should aspire,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From faltering
when I should climb higher,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From silken
self, O Captain, free</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thy soldier who
would follow Thee.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From subtle
love of softening things,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From easy
choices, weakenings,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Not thus are
spirits fortified,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not this way
went the Crucified,)</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From all that
dims Thy Calvary,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">O Lamb of God,
deliver me.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Give me the
love that leads the way,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The faith that
nothing can dismay</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The hope no
disappointments tire</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The passion
that will burn like fire,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let me not sink
to be a clod:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Make me Thy
fuel, Flame of God.</span></div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2015/01/be-more-than-mother.html" target="_blank">Amy Carmichael</a> (1867-1951)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-903337233530171772016-08-04T18:20:00.000-07:002016-08-04T18:20:09.331-07:00Thy love will not let me go<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqIqisA-ULHX7OjCTWTM23l2fNM9ew6-9v6gJKJmvDlul09m68wMEMxmhTVLLXZ-jw1HYw7QCqCl-qLmDUJVSKdcARHrLlYm1c9l4wMBaI_aId9jsAIHSG4wNg0sz3gxv1Hr1evk8u9Hw/s1600/image0006+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqIqisA-ULHX7OjCTWTM23l2fNM9ew6-9v6gJKJmvDlul09m68wMEMxmhTVLLXZ-jw1HYw7QCqCl-qLmDUJVSKdcARHrLlYm1c9l4wMBaI_aId9jsAIHSG4wNg0sz3gxv1Hr1evk8u9Hw/s640/image0006+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter (1853-1928), a sketch in her journal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Lord, I thank Thee<br />
that Thy love constraineth me.<br />
<br />
I thank Thee<br />
that, in the great labyrinth of life,<br />
Thou waitest not for my consent to lead me.<br />
<br />
I thank Thee<br />
that Thou leadest me by a way which I know not,<br />
by a way which is above the level of my poor understanding.<br />
<br />
I thank Thee<br />
that Thou art not repelled by my bitterness,<br />
that Thou art not turned aside by the heat of my spirit. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
There is no force in this universe<br />
so glorious as the force of Thy love;<br />
it compels me to come in.<br />
<br />
O divine servitude,<br />
O slavery that makes me free,<br />
O love that imprisons me only to set my feet in a larger room,<br />
enclose me more and more within Thy folds.<br />
<br />
Protect me from the impetuous desires of my nature<br />
—desires as short-lived as they are impetuous.<br />
<br />
Ask me not where I would like to go;<br />
tell me where to go;<br />
lead me in Thine own way;<br />
hold me in Thine own light—Amen.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="http://cyberhymnal.org/htm/o/l/oltwnlmg.htm" target="_blank">George Matheson</a> (1842-1906)</div>
Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-13054578556038251062016-07-19T05:18:00.001-07:002016-08-04T18:39:32.046-07:00Love knocked on my door<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_q3HJP0pzxqJ44sEEVPSpcsDL1dXSHHfcdjk6KHubaisujCadKxyLIrcAaOAKIjtgCenPm_uMHQPenSpK0gT0OK59QJ3ObhU4T08gR-ggg6UHwyj3I65corZpiYOG8bgJ9QeM67cTb-s/s1600/image0001%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_q3HJP0pzxqJ44sEEVPSpcsDL1dXSHHfcdjk6KHubaisujCadKxyLIrcAaOAKIjtgCenPm_uMHQPenSpK0gT0OK59QJ3ObhU4T08gR-ggg6UHwyj3I65corZpiYOG8bgJ9QeM67cTb-s/s640/image0001%25284%2529.jpg" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter (1853-1928), a sketch in her journal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Love knocked on my door, yet my soul drew back,<br />
guilty of dust and sin.<br />
"Please," I said, "don't come in."<br />
Love knocked again, sweetly questioning,<br />
If I lacked anything.<br />
"I am unkind, ungrateful," I answered,<br />
"Please don't look on me. I cannot look on thee."<br />
"Who made the eyes but I?"<br />
"Truth, Lord, but I have marred them;<br />
leave me in my darkness and shame."<br />
"And know you not," said Love,<br />
"who bore the blame?"<br />
"My Lord," I opened the door,<br />
"then I will serve."<br />
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,<br />
"You must sit down, and taste my meat."<br />
So, I did sit and eat.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
Adapted from George Herbert (1593<i>-</i>1633), <i><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/core-poems/detail/44367" target="_blank">Love (III)</a>.</i></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Tjv4OjSuGJFW4jSdZ7Ul2cO-aPYJJ8Le11dmQDM8Zzk7nEea4wWAJWSfdEZnUMGNfjysTsEgdG4dAOc6e1YyOlntcyZOe55uTqpy3pwBg4yJgty8xTT_GxC5cQ4FtqrhkXcNmZwnJZO6/s1600/image0003+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Tjv4OjSuGJFW4jSdZ7Ul2cO-aPYJJ8Le11dmQDM8Zzk7nEea4wWAJWSfdEZnUMGNfjysTsEgdG4dAOc6e1YyOlntcyZOe55uTqpy3pwBg4yJgty8xTT_GxC5cQ4FtqrhkXcNmZwnJZO6/s640/image0003+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-9817093545006882372016-05-06T16:14:00.000-07:002016-05-06T16:14:30.206-07:00She waited<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother went out to sow. And as she sowed, some seeds fell along the path. The birds came and devoured them. Other seeds fell on rocky ground. They sprang up but the sun scorched them and they withered away. Other seeds fell among the thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them.<br />
<br />
But she kept sowing. <br />
<br />
My mother is the sower and we are her field, her four daughters. I am rocky and thorny and generally unhelpful with the birds. <br />
<br />
She sowed in stories and songs, good food and clean laundry and kisses. She pulled weeds. She chased the birds away. She sowed in laughter; she sowed in tears. She sowed in prayers through the years. Every hour we were together, with every touch, she sowed life<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>life<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>life<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>life.<br />
<br />
A few seeds fell on good soil. The black dirt swallowed her seeds, and her words were buried in the ground. There, in the dark, they stayed hidden for a long, long time.<br />
<br />
She waited. Until one day<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>life.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAVaRXHJY2aQ0F-yLMvEBWtSvdgUv4p7nIW2fN71ves-oifokl57bari1Q2Z9RBhvwHoX8jhxc0hlHVo58YmvlUNSATTCprdGJVd_z4a6kDKZJtshfWErRMVk5wNiUbddm8CulTfiBRK0/s1600/image0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAVaRXHJY2aQ0F-yLMvEBWtSvdgUv4p7nIW2fN71ves-oifokl57bari1Q2Z9RBhvwHoX8jhxc0hlHVo58YmvlUNSATTCprdGJVd_z4a6kDKZJtshfWErRMVk5wNiUbddm8CulTfiBRK0/s640/image0009.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter, 9 July 1907.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Father, hear us, we are praying,<br />
Hear the words our hearts are saying,<br />
We are praying for our children. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Keep them from the powers of evil,<br />
From the secret, hidden peril,<br />
From the whirlpool that would suck them,<br />
From the treacherous quicksand sand pluck them. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
From the worlding’s hollow gladness,<br />
From the sting of faithless sadness,<br />
Holy Father, save our children. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Through life’s troubled waters steer them,<br />
Through life’s bitter battle cheer them,<br />
Father, Father, be Thou near them. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Read the language of our longing,<br />
Read the wordless pleadings thronging,<br />
Holy Father, for our children </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>And wherever they may
bide,</i><br />
<i>Lead them Home at
eventide.</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: right;">
Amy Carmichael, <i>Toward
Jerusalem</i> (1936).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptgDAQ0wLZ8qzpH4l0w3OXQL47RhnzHjASmwssT4bLpn0qKTiTkSoTJsnoBdBn4N6upQDlWCc8xm2bjKEj7tIPRF7zKj4TF_mYK2YUuAUnEU3GTg7q2kx2QxW7jhdEBM_ucsUZVpKbtx3/s1600/image0006+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptgDAQ0wLZ8qzpH4l0w3OXQL47RhnzHjASmwssT4bLpn0qKTiTkSoTJsnoBdBn4N6upQDlWCc8xm2bjKEj7tIPRF7zKj4TF_mYK2YUuAUnEU3GTg7q2kx2QxW7jhdEBM_ucsUZVpKbtx3/s640/image0006+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-11100448122318076772016-04-25T18:03:00.000-07:002016-04-26T08:38:42.994-07:00Sacrifice<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A flower that stops short at its flowering misses its purpose. We were created for more than our own spiritual development; reproduction, not mere development, is the goal of matured being<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>reproduction in other lives.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tf1eAP4LQSe-_O8DIvucBDYD1TNpNYMvGNRSc3Ak4BDs6WJRBmfh0Twj0ntqLnj1BWwVDiEG-GkKm0He3ykI0r1X0JGPuW6J_FrbGAcNw1HdS_x4KW_aTBTMnTD2xc0khpWLUXf6BZe3/s1600/image0003+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tf1eAP4LQSe-_O8DIvucBDYD1TNpNYMvGNRSc3Ak4BDs6WJRBmfh0Twj0ntqLnj1BWwVDiEG-GkKm0He3ykI0r1X0JGPuW6J_FrbGAcNw1HdS_x4KW_aTBTMnTD2xc0khpWLUXf6BZe3/s640/image0003+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
This dandelion has long ago surrendered its golden petals and has reached its crowning stage of dying<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>the delicate seed-globe must break up now<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>it gives and gives till it has nothing left... There is no sense of wrenching: it stands ready, holding up its little life, not knowing when or where or how the wind that bloweth where listeth may carry it away. It holds itself no longer for its own keeping, only as something to be given: a breath does the rest.</blockquote>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Lilias Trotter<i>, Parable of the Cross</i> </div>
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Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-8123150339858050002016-04-20T18:23:00.000-07:002016-04-21T06:20:45.834-07:00Nothing to keepExcerpts from <i>Parables of the Cross </i>by Lilias Trotter.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Look at this buttercup as it begins to learn its new lesson. The little hands of the calyx clasp tightly in the bud round the beautiful petals; in the young flower their grasp grows more elastic<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>loosening somewhat in the daytime, but keeping the power of contracting, able to close in again during a rainstorm, or when night comes on. But see the central flower, which has reached its maturity. The calyx hands have unclasped utterly now<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>they have folded themselves back, past all power of closing again upon the petals, leaving the golden crown free to float away when God's time comes. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Have we learned the buttercup's lesson yet? Are our hands off the very blossom of our life? Are all things<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>even the treasures that He has sanctified<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>held loosely, ready to be parted with, without a struggle, when He asks for them?</blockquote>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NQ8N8Ul5MZ5F04zuCEYScPJTLIIANHIlQhXngLAtqatBK3_c3EWYFeuO5zKuI1SarSXu2_NgFF3VSiDDt7qig14BedVm1D-vhn1L4TvwY6HkwtWBTrNNf7xeKX5dpLiIJaUCEsosT8lo/s1600/image0004%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NQ8N8Ul5MZ5F04zuCEYScPJTLIIANHIlQhXngLAtqatBK3_c3EWYFeuO5zKuI1SarSXu2_NgFF3VSiDDt7qig14BedVm1D-vhn1L4TvwY6HkwtWBTrNNf7xeKX5dpLiIJaUCEsosT8lo/s640/image0004%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter, <i>Lesson of the Buttercup</i></td></tr>
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
And a like independence is the characteristic of the new flood of resurrection life that comes to our souls as we learn this fresh lesson of dying<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>a grand independence of any earthly thing to satisfy our soul. The liberty of those who have nothing to lose because they have nothing to keep. We can do without anything while we have God.</blockquote>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-14137269322052100822016-04-18T16:22:00.002-07:002016-04-19T06:31:27.379-07:00Resting in deep waters<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqek9CgVEaRX3ND1Eh2ggkOHzoL12tW6ggv-EFBLIN9v-Do4q0Rth7V7pp4BrcMzWaxTUopogGthrxaf-scQFdUWx2XICRr6Sj0R_fcarblvnSevcjSsz4Jz4Df2hA9X7iL_xZiLhiAoWb/s1600/image0001%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqek9CgVEaRX3ND1Eh2ggkOHzoL12tW6ggv-EFBLIN9v-Do4q0Rth7V7pp4BrcMzWaxTUopogGthrxaf-scQFdUWx2XICRr6Sj0R_fcarblvnSevcjSsz4Jz4Df2hA9X7iL_xZiLhiAoWb/s640/image0001%25285%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
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<br />
Lilias Trotter, <i>a journal entry</i>, 20 December 1927.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I am come into deep waters" took on a new meaning this morning. It started with perplexing matters concerning the future. Then it dawned that shallow waters were a place where you can neither sink nor swim, but in deep waters it is one or the other: "waters to swim in"<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>not to float in. Swimming is the intense, most strenuous form of motion<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>all of you is involved in it<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "crimson text"; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">—</span>and every inch of you is in abandonment of rest upon the water that bears you up.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"We rest in Thee, and in Thy name we go." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-32533248863685494502016-04-11T09:43:00.004-07:002016-04-11T09:54:04.804-07:00How to help God<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmYkQmtaJfUYCEhNfFwYVEV9qAfC-gOaCvMCMX3gqLuvMrGcPq0Oxw9i1hAp4x6dOGB6hlM5fZn_-cJWaRpHhXGgq8Vy8uwLOjmb5GoSLNteXSWssUtyb8FappBNYMPazqw9W5zH68NZOQ/s1600/image0001+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmYkQmtaJfUYCEhNfFwYVEV9qAfC-gOaCvMCMX3gqLuvMrGcPq0Oxw9i1hAp4x6dOGB6hlM5fZn_-cJWaRpHhXGgq8Vy8uwLOjmb5GoSLNteXSWssUtyb8FappBNYMPazqw9W5zH68NZOQ/s640/image0001+%25283%2529.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter, <i>The Miracle of Cana</i> (13 February 1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />
The prayer of a lump of clay.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But thou art making me, I thank thee, sire.<br />
What thou hast done and doest thou know'st well,<br />
And I will help thee: gently in thy fire<br />
I will lie burning; on thy potter's wheel<br />
I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel;<br />
Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell,<br />
And growing strength perfect through weakness dire.</blockquote>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
George MacDonald, <i>The Diary of an Old Soul </i>(1880).</div>
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-14447633232751202982016-04-08T19:18:00.000-07:002016-04-09T21:14:30.034-07:00Thy clear air<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFN6zBhcf5GPkU2sPvQSVR_LbtieJCnKbZCuE6_Nk_dL714CkwpWldmTwz1doYJojaOxFzJgXj6oV9FStOzc5Xl5Uvf1tcjPegMYMQutLs3h2O3NuNPoxvAPwsx1fUErQYucnFeqG67T8I/s1600/image0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFN6zBhcf5GPkU2sPvQSVR_LbtieJCnKbZCuE6_Nk_dL714CkwpWldmTwz1doYJojaOxFzJgXj6oV9FStOzc5Xl5Uvf1tcjPegMYMQutLs3h2O3NuNPoxvAPwsx1fUErQYucnFeqG67T8I/s640/image0008.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter, <i>Wings of the Morning </i>(2 May, 1914).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The pen on the desk is kept clean and filled with ink. The pencil is kept pointed. Both are ready, both are at hand; sometime one is used, sometimes the other; if only the work be done, what does it matter which does it? There can be a subtle selfishness, a kind of covetousness which is idolatry (of self) in the perpetual cry, Use <i>me</i>.<br />
<br />
But there is nothing of that in the prayer, Cleanse me, O Lord, and keep me clean; make me sensitive to the approach of sin. Make me quick to hear Thy question, "Whom shall I send?" and quick to answer, "Here am I," quick also to be glad if another be preferred before me. Nor is there anything selfish in such a prayer as this,</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Love through me, Love of God,<br />
Make me like Thy clear air<br />
That Thou dost pour Thy colours through,<br />
As though it were not there.</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Amy Carmichael, <i>Gold by Moonlight</i> (1935).</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
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Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-39284898837407228012016-04-05T21:36:00.000-07:002016-04-06T17:31:32.733-07:00Weak with himDear friends, our family is learning to swim in strange waters. And the learning consumes all of our effort and limbs and souls. Our people have surrounded us with their arms of love, and food.<br />
<br />
Familiar aromas wafted softly into our kitchen, like chicken soup, along with some new flavors <span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody">—</span></span> like the picadillo that Chanelle made last Sunday. I love how their dishes bear tiny whiffs of their souls, and what they love. Berni brought us a roast chicken, along with a bouquet of roses and daisies and lilies, and creamy popsicles.<br />
<br />
They gave me an idea of what to put on this empty table. You are kind to still drop by. Though I am not able to serve you and fill the table with the fruit of my own hands, I thought I would share some words and paintings that have been feeding my soul.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlbUzEfjT4F6_rzSnvQWLu5wrh0u5IbD3qO6EBI_HxppOA05JaVBx8pLs8_bHreht736FtCQEIjwaRLuAnpdakqpdWC8CkvI6f8KY_CSI63D1ljWyc7qjSFAjjdZtecKp1V2cZ6a9phNf/s1600/image0001%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlbUzEfjT4F6_rzSnvQWLu5wrh0u5IbD3qO6EBI_HxppOA05JaVBx8pLs8_bHreht736FtCQEIjwaRLuAnpdakqpdWC8CkvI6f8KY_CSI63D1ljWyc7qjSFAjjdZtecKp1V2cZ6a9phNf/s640/image0001%25281%2529.jpg" width="486" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilias Trotter, 1888, age 35</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Lilias Trotter was a penfriend of <a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2015/01/be-more-than-mother.html" target="_blank">Amy Carmichael</a>, who was a spiritual mother to <a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2015/06/that-nothing-be-lost.html" target="_blank">Elisabeth Elliot</a>. Lilias Trotter was casting the light of the Gospel in the deserts of Algeria, while Amy Carmichael was clipping thousands of toenails and turning orphans into daughters in India. Through the span of years and lands and oceans, they wrote letters to each other. When Lilias Trotter laid on her death bed, she dictated letters to her friend. Perhaps these three mothers of mine are sipping tea by the crystal sea.<br />
<br />
I will tell you the story of Lilias Trotter little by little. She was an artist. She painted with words and colors. I love seeing the world through her eyes.<br />
<br />
Here are a few casual strokes she made in her journal entry, of a mother cradling her child. She painted this in the closet of her soul, for the eyes of her God. I can almost smell the sweet baby's breath, and feel the warmth of the mother's lap.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
27 October, 1924<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Two glad Services are ours,<br />
Both the Master loves to bless:<br />
First we serve with all our powers<br />
Then with all our helplessness.</blockquote>
Those lines of Charles Fox have rung in my head this last fortnight<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody">—</span></span>and they link on with the wonderful words "weak with Him." For the world's salvation was not wrought out by the three years in which He went about doing good, but in the three hours of darkness in which He hung, stripped and nailed, in uttermost exhaustion of spirit, soul, and body<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody">—</span></span>till His heart broke.<br />
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So little wonder for us if the price of power is weakness.</blockquote>
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-34985657610764764412016-02-10T14:52:00.000-08:002016-02-17T16:57:40.064-08:00I am HisI recently realized that the first letters of Hans' name and my name make a sweet word. H and I make "hi." I don't know why it took me ten years to see this. Is it too late to re-make our wedding invitations? Oh well.<br />
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Also, Hans' last name begins with the letter "S". Together, we are H.I.S.<br />
"His" would have gone nicely on our wedding feast menu. "His feast." Oh well.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwoRxXkVlprArjfprv86H9lKB3hQlnP2fSsD8yoQ32dRPL3nlvxbgK-iPMVM3ZvF8pUw6zVv9AA199T3N3a-NA8T3wfj-3FQ9HHDSG0xaEZnvibPTKaIIbaNzY_W6JwL51KgVBTX6nZ9w/s1600/P1299304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwoRxXkVlprArjfprv86H9lKB3hQlnP2fSsD8yoQ32dRPL3nlvxbgK-iPMVM3ZvF8pUw6zVv9AA199T3N3a-NA8T3wfj-3FQ9HHDSG0xaEZnvibPTKaIIbaNzY_W6JwL51KgVBTX6nZ9w/s640/P1299304.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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My orchid plant had five buds this winter. Only two of them survived and bloomed. I was a little sad at first, but I love watching these two waiting for winter to end, side by side.<br />
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I cannot wait to greet my Beloved on the other shore. We will walk side by side. We will enter His Feast, the marriage supper of the Lamb. <br />
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-67633371500134645412016-02-04T07:58:00.000-08:002016-02-05T05:30:42.054-08:00Useless, yet wantedA few months ago, my tooth broke. Eight years of pregnancies and nursing can do that, apparently. Being awful at taking (postpartum) vitamins did not help, I'm sure.<br />
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For weeks, I preserved that piece of broken tooth like a priceless treasure. I painstakingly made sure I would not lose it before the dentist appointment. That thing had been attached to me for nearly three decades. It was a part of me. I'm sure the dentist would find some use it,<i> </i>somehow.<br />
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The appointment day arrived. I carefully presented the tooth to my dentist. She did not take her eyes off me as I jiggled the tiny zip-lock bag in front of her. <i>Don't you want to see this important specimen? </i>She continued listing my options, and none of them included using my tooth. <br />
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I hate useless things. And I am sad that my tooth is now useless.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyppN9XB6H01ZXTJpobmBtpSZz37A8AtxhnVrIgjd_Y_jbDwMp5qxPOPj-kScl3a7CScEauG9G4aKJqdzIjVuO6u5DcVsFIaqVfPd7BOGJnwflO3XSkgcznkJR0bTUMc-mTTUgZQMss72X/s1600/Ps+51+-+Broken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyppN9XB6H01ZXTJpobmBtpSZz37A8AtxhnVrIgjd_Y_jbDwMp5qxPOPj-kScl3a7CScEauG9G4aKJqdzIjVuO6u5DcVsFIaqVfPd7BOGJnwflO3XSkgcznkJR0bTUMc-mTTUgZQMss72X/s640/Ps+51+-+Broken.jpg" width="446" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My tooth in a zip-lock bag.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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All of us want to be used by God. We want our lives to mean something. We don't want to miss out on God's purposes for us. So, we ask, what is God's will for my life? <br />
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<span class="block-indent"><span class="indent">To be used by God, however, is not that special.</span></span> The Lord can use anything, anyone. In fact, he uses everything for his glory. He used the hard heart of the pharaoh and the betrayal of Judas for his purposes. He can speak
through anyone; he spoke through a <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Numbers%2022%3A22-41/" target="_blank">donkey</a>. So, it is not a special thing to be used by God.<br />
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Mark, though he wrote the shortest of the four gospels, he often embedded details within his stories that other writers did not. For example, it is Mark who tells us that Jesus not only called the rich man to sell all his possessions, but Jesus <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Mark%2010%3A17-22/" target="_blank">loved him</a>. It is also Mark who tells us that Jesus not only called his disciples to him, but <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Mark%203%3A13-19/" target="_blank">he desired</a> them. Jesus, the Maker of Stars, wanted them.<br />
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Being wanted by God far surpasses being used by God.<br />
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Jesus did not call his disciples to use them. He did not need them. He called them to follow him, to be with him, because he loved them and he wanted them. Some followed Jesus not for his sake, but for their own ambitions. Jesus wanted Judas, but Judas wanted other things.<br />
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The reality is that we are dust. Like my broken tooth, we are useless to him. Yet, he wants us. He makes us his. He died so we can be with him, to be a part of him.<br />
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In the scope of eternity, it would not matter that I had lived. No matter what I achieve in this life, even if it was for "the glory of God," it would not matter that I existed. My footprints will not stay on the sand. I matter only because I am wanted and loved by the Maker of Stars.<br />
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When Elisabeth Elliot turned 65, she said, one of the splendors of being old is the heightened
perspective on all of life. The higher she went, the more she could
see. The things of the earth became strangely small. "There is only one thing
in the whole universe that matters," she said, and that is to know God.<br />
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Betty Scott Stam was a missionary to China. In December 1934, Betty and
her husband John were captured by the Communists, and paraded through the
streets in their undergarments. They were then beheaded.<br />
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Betty wrote this prayer when she was eighteen:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Lord,<br />
I give up all my own plans and purposes,<br />
All my own desires and hopes,<br />
And accept Thy will for my life.<br />
I give myself, my life, my all,<br />
Utterly to Thee, to be Thine forever.<br />
Fill me and seal me with Thy Holy Spirit.<br />
Use me as Thou will,<br />
Send me where Thou will,<br />
And work out Thy whole will in my life,<br />
At any cost, now and forever.</blockquote>
Elisabeth read this prayer and then copied it into her Bible when she was twelve. These women gave up their own plans and purposes, all of their desires and hopes. They gave themselves to him, to be his forever. And they accepted God's will for their lives.<br />
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God's will for them, and for us, is to know him. God's <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Romans%208%3A28-29/" target="_blank">purpose for us</a> is to conform us into the image of his Son. God is calling us to follow him, and to obey him in small, <a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2015/02/come-and-do-ordinary-things.html" target="_blank">ordinary things</a>.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Take me, Lord, I am yours.</blockquote>
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-9041290718071489122016-01-14T06:41:00.000-08:002016-01-14T17:27:47.202-08:00His face on us<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I didn't want to turn 34 because I didn't want to be older than Jesus. Hans reminded me that Jesus rose from the dead. So, strictly speaking, he is much older now.<br />
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I was being ridiculous, I know. <br />
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Yet, God met me, as he often does, in my ridiculousness. On the day before my birthday, we walked into my most favorite garden in the world. There, waiting for us, was a rainbow hovering over the face of the waters.<br />
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Nature holds for me the signs of my living God. The Lord paints and pours out his quiet explosions of grace so generously<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody">—</span></span>over the face of the waters, and onto my kitchen floor. They are visible signs of my invisible God.<br />
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Years ago, my friend Beng Cher gave me a book, <i>The Mystery of Marriage</i> by Mike Mason. She told me it gave her great encouragement. I read it, but I found it difficult to understand. Recently, I heard Elisabeth Elliot recommending this very book in one of her lectures about marriage.<br />
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I am now turning the pages as though for the very first time. When I first read the book, I had just been married for a few months. Nine years later, the words that once seemed so dark and vague, now glow w<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody">ith meaning.</span></span><br />
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This line smote me at my core: "to be in the presence of even the meanest, lowest, most repulsive specimen of humanity in the world is still to be closer to God than when looking up into a starry sky or at a beautiful sunset." To my sunset-obsessed, starry-sky-loving heart, this was absurd.<br />
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I used to climb Mount Kinabalu for the sole purpose of seeing the world from the top. We would begin the second day of climbing at 2 a.m. under the dome of stars. At 6 a.m., we would watch the sunrise from the peak of Borneo. Above the clouds and looking over the mountains, I felt God's existence, his mystery, his power.<br />
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I do not feel this way when I look at people.<br />
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Yet, if every person "really is fashioned, more than anything else, in the image of God, then clearly it follows that there is nothing on earth so near to God as a human being." Therefore, we are to love God and love our neighbors. These are the first two commandments. Two sides of the same coin. The words and the tune of the same song. Love God, love neighbors. <span class="text John-13-34" id="en-ESV-26653"><span class="woj">Not </span></span><span class="text John-13-35" id="en-ESV-26654"><span class="woj">the sunset or the sunrise or the starry sky.</span></span><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj"> </span></span><br />
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<span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj">Jesus <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Matthew%2025%3A31-46/" target="_blank">says</a>, "As you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me."</span></span><br />
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It is difficult for me to imagine that when I am wiping the drool off my baby's chin or when I am pouring out cups of orange juice, I am nearer to God than when I am <span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj">watching the most gorgeous sunset</span></span><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody">—</span></span>by myself.</span></span><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj"> As </span></span><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj"><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj">I wash the dishes and fold the laundry, I am washing the dishes and folding the laundry</span></span></span></span><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj"><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj"><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody">—</span></span></span></span>for Jesus. </span></span><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj"></span></span>When I </span></span><span class="text Matt-25-40" id="en-ESV-24045"><span class="woj">(learn to) serve my husband and (learn to) think about his interests before my own, I am submitting my life "as to the Lord."</span></span><br />
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For my birthday, the Lord sent two of his image bearers to stay with us. Esther flew in from New York City and Joshua, her brother, flew in from Seattle. They entered our door with the reality of God himself. Visible faces of my invisible God.<br />
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To be nearer to people is to be nearer to my Lord.<br />
To love people is to love my Lord.<br />
"I have set my bow in the clouds," <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Genesis%209%3A8-17/" target="_blank">declares</a> the Lord.<br />
But he sets his face on us.<br />
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*Both quotes are taken from Mike Mason, <i>The Mystery of Marriage</i>, 46.Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-74712273366633306002015-12-03T06:13:00.004-08:002015-12-03T06:13:38.982-08:00Do the next thing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our path has been quite narrow lately. "Do the next thing" brings great comfort and clarity. The next thing is often painfully obvious. Vacuum the floor. Teach the children. Read to them. Shop for food. Cook the food. Eat the food. Wash the dishes. Look for missing puzzle pieces, again. Praying, waiting. Discipline, discipline, blessed discipline (for me, not necessarily for the children).<br />
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The way is paved for us, and I am grateful.<br />
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Narrow is the path that leads to life. This narrowness leads to the gates of splendor, where there is an entire universe waiting on the other side.<br />
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My dear friends, I have missed you. Thank you for dropping by. This space is collecting dust, again. I cannot wait for that glorious day when we will have forever to feast, and praise the Lord for the all the ways he leads us. How he is always with us, never forsaking, always helping.<br />
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For friends who will be in the Chicago area during the holidays, Hans and I will be teaching at <a href="http://graceconference.org/index.html" target="_blank">Grace Conference</a> this year (December 27-30). Beu Love Batayola will be teaching on the power of God's Word, Hans will be teaching the Five Solas of the Reformation, and I will be teaching from the book of Psalms. We would be so glad to see you, to feast on God's Word with you.<br />
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-82542448257572988612015-10-20T18:42:00.000-07:002015-10-20T19:17:10.996-07:00Learning notes: First drafts are always ugly<b>Things we did</b><br />
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Two months ago, I found a frame at the seminary's thrift "store" (where everything was free). It held all kinds of re-purposing possibilities. The shape of the frame reminded me of Chinese calligraphy, long and narrow. But my Chinese handwriting was—outside the realm of possibility. Definitely, No.<br />
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So, I thought I could write something in English, with black paint to imitate the ink in Chinese calligraphy. It seemed like a good idea, simple enough at the time. But it turned out that my brushstrokes in English were also a definite No.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1U3b15rWTS7u5TPv5wDEdXN2sPeeei7NK-j7fhQrGuXRBHY3HJaoey6T8GbqmypuqA1xJKrYPBptOFQn7OG-b0bQh82yeW-YTsShDuVDMmCOYg8NU_w7g7QiW6QPvwOMhqESBaZsj49BU/s1600/P8067862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1U3b15rWTS7u5TPv5wDEdXN2sPeeei7NK-j7fhQrGuXRBHY3HJaoey6T8GbqmypuqA1xJKrYPBptOFQn7OG-b0bQh82yeW-YTsShDuVDMmCOYg8NU_w7g7QiW6QPvwOMhqESBaZsj49BU/s640/P8067862.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full of possibilities.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWiucjQKhg6YJcNaKWLuNHoJUcxjVkfZLCPhBpw23zL9xTi1MOEYu_XaLfQtZVNjku_WdqeQJ2FKOxBHEeVYNPIl1qefCTCcx1sQos5YT7LKmQYzRc7XEkwccCxlEhFbSTil05KV3pBNPs/s1600/P8177983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWiucjQKhg6YJcNaKWLuNHoJUcxjVkfZLCPhBpw23zL9xTi1MOEYu_XaLfQtZVNjku_WdqeQJ2FKOxBHEeVYNPIl1qefCTCcx1sQos5YT7LKmQYzRc7XEkwccCxlEhFbSTil05KV3pBNPs/s640/P8177983.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A definite no.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Things we cherished</b><br />
<br />
I often tell the boys to "practice, practice, practice," and "first drafts are always ugly." In my case, however, my first <i>dozens </i>of drafts were ugly. So, I practiced, and practiced some more, and then some more. Last week, I finally got tired of having papers and brushes and that big frame taking up my floor. And because some friends were flying in for a visit, it was time to frame—something.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusL6iJP_OjzYZkoRzXOO7v3OhSR8xaMcsuX9gWBZdEQAZVIuMVpVNNOw1mwvQmJuRbpb258IG_zf7qXeiKAjufgX5rTk-xEQUxSveFmvcL7ZghtcnOMOg4K_siyr3ailYKtVc28ROciv3/s1600/P8198015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusL6iJP_OjzYZkoRzXOO7v3OhSR8xaMcsuX9gWBZdEQAZVIuMVpVNNOw1mwvQmJuRbpb258IG_zf7qXeiKAjufgX5rTk-xEQUxSveFmvcL7ZghtcnOMOg4K_siyr3ailYKtVc28ROciv3/s640/P8198015.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practice</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span id="goog_1144180732"></span><span id="goog_1144180733"></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_J3fvdluQg0_JipFQK6mTNe70nBsItCKKG7SMTIQAffJeFwhDyPBZ7LIGhrdt0sogZtkIdhxJLBFEvN9EgMXFnMSnwzNLkoeQWo2Lkx3KXJnPfqgdZuYdNV2OIZV-1iSbm7_Ou_jQkfK/s1600/PA098666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_J3fvdluQg0_JipFQK6mTNe70nBsItCKKG7SMTIQAffJeFwhDyPBZ7LIGhrdt0sogZtkIdhxJLBFEvN9EgMXFnMSnwzNLkoeQWo2Lkx3KXJnPfqgdZuYdNV2OIZV-1iSbm7_Ou_jQkfK/s640/PA098666.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practice</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQNb_MS4RhEAfOEqyHlwO25Xv-YUni21LnM2hYHuGiAGJBAbqpqYFaJJIhRnb8LW3OohoEfn3TIsDXBERF4FrLji8M9ZOIkyOu2CvVAHw5u2TXQBgzb2xAXF8y9DiVQfFOWmvSL5wnIqG/s1600/PA098672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQNb_MS4RhEAfOEqyHlwO25Xv-YUni21LnM2hYHuGiAGJBAbqpqYFaJJIhRnb8LW3OohoEfn3TIsDXBERF4FrLji8M9ZOIkyOu2CvVAHw5u2TXQBgzb2xAXF8y9DiVQfFOWmvSL5wnIqG/s640/PA098672.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practice</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Things we pondered</b><br />
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Learning takes time. This exercise helped me to be (a tiny bit) more patient with the boys.<br />
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I found that learning one skill often requires the practice of a dozen other smaller skills. While writing with a brush, I needed to control the hair on the brush, the amount of water I use, and the color of the paint. In order to distinguish my thinner lines from my bolder lines, my hand needed to incline the brush at certain angles and assert varying degrees of pressure.<br />
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Whether my children are learning to multiply or to love vegetables or to sit still, I have to remember that they are fine-tuning more than just that one skill. As their mother, I am learning to isolate their specific struggle, and help them by breaking the challenge into smaller, bite-size pieces.<br />
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Learning to write with a brush also taught me to pay attention and appreciate the details, especially in other people's art. What may seem like nothing in our eyes may have taken the artist hours, perhaps days or weeks or months to capture.<br />
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I was catching up with my friend Tina after the service on Sunday, and she shared a few yummy morsels of <a href="http://www.powbab.com/" target="_blank">powbab</a> with our family. These superfruit-chews were <i>amazing</i>, and I could not believe that she created the recipe and is now selling these across the country.<br />
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Do you see that butterfly logo on the corner of the packaging? She
spent an entire year earning that detail. One year. Non-Genetically Modified Organisms. I am taking a moment to appreciate
the butterfly.<br />
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The story behind powbab was even more shocking. Back in 2009, <a href="http://www.powbab.com/pages/about" target="_blank">Tina</a> fell and hurt her knees. The medication severely affected her entire body, and her mind. For a year and a half, she could not stand or walk and was bound to a wheelchair. Her parents brought her home and nursed her back to health. During that time, she learned about <a href="http://www.powbab.com/pages/baobab-tree" target="_blank">the baobab tree</a>.<br />
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"Look! I am wearing heels today!" She showed me her tan pointy heels. I like her taste, in shoes and vitamins. I am all the more grateful to be worshiping the Lord with her, standing.<br />
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Learning and detailing takes time. A lot of time.<br />
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p/s I'll be going to the <a href="http://conference.thegospelcoalition.org/2016" target="_blank">Gospel Coalition Women's Conference 2016</a>! I've been watching (and nursing) from home during the last two conferences. Extra early (and least expensive) registration ends on October 31.<br />
<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-89579488273567287212015-09-30T17:42:00.000-07:002015-09-30T21:22:42.815-07:00Hate enough to loveWeeks ago, I had a nightmare where the government was forcing parents to kill their children. All parents were given an orange bottle of pills, and we were to administer the drug to our children. In the dream, I saw girls in pink dresses, their arms wrapped around their tummies, laying on the floor. Little boys were disappearing. My sons were crying, holding unto my legs.<br />
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Perhaps the most unsettling of all, there was no sound. Even the children's cries were silent.<br />
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I woke up disturbed. In the dream, I had refused to give the drug to my children, but I went about life in the usual way. Why did I not take my children and flee? Why was there no riot? Why was I not doing something to save the other children? Why did I not care enough—to fight?<br />
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I woke up, and see that my world is not all that different. Mine, too, is a violent world. Here, too, children are being slaughtered. <br />
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I woke up, and see that I am as I was in my dream. I do not care enough.<br />
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Some of our close friends are fighting for the lives of children. A few committed themselves to be foster parents. We have a brave number of friends who adopted children. There are those who are advocates and helpers of refugees in their communities. Others are voices for the unborn in high places. Another friend is a counselor to battered women. I long for their sense of urgency, their fierce compassion.<br />
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<a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2014/12/my-professor.html" target="_blank">Rosaria Butterfield</a> saved me from some kind of folly when she <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBwv7TxQ4v0" target="_blank">said</a>, we are to "love the sinner, and hate our own sin." I don't love my neighbor because I don't hate my own sin. I am not revolted by my self-centered, this-worldly priorities. I am, in fact, quite comfortable with my lack of love for my neighbors. I find excuses to guard my space, my time, and my reputation. I cast blame. I console myself by imagining how righteous I am in other ways.<br />
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I had several bouts of hives this summer. My entire body, from toe to scalp,
was covered in red, swollen patches. The itch, and the pain from my own scratching, nearly drove me
mad. My reflection in the mirror was revolting.<br />
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I must hate my selfishness the way I hated my hives. I need to pray as David <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Psalm%2038/" target="_blank">prayed</a>, "My wounds stink and fester because of my foolishness, I am utterly bowed down and prostrate; all the day I go about mourning." His prayer of repentance in the <a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-psalms-story-of-place-between-two.html" target="_blank">following psalm</a> is so unexpected, so different from my own: "O Lord, make me know my end and what is the measure of my days; let me know how fleeting I am!"<br />
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The fight to love life must begin in my heart. I don't love my neighbors enough because I don't hate my sin enough. I don't hate my sin enough because I don't <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Psalm+97:10/" target="_blank">love my Lord</a> enough.<br />
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<i>Lord</i>,<br />
my sin crucified you to a tree.<br />
My heart is foul, harden, and foolish.<br />
Help me know how fleeting I am,<br />
Give me hate enough<br />
to love.<br />
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-61122560496576829232015-09-24T06:51:00.000-07:002015-09-24T18:52:53.216-07:00Learning notes: It takes a village<b>Things we did</b><br />
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There are countless ways a homeschooling parent can feel inadequate. The feeling of incompetence can be quite uncomfortable. This has been one of those uncomfortable weeks.<br />
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For our <a href="http://waitinginthewaters.blogspot.com/2014/09/learning-notes-appendix-led-us-to.html" target="_blank">language study</a>, we are reading Longfellow's poem, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Revere%27s_Ride" target="_blank"><i>Paul Revere's Ride</i></a>. Being Malaysian, Boston Tea Party and Declaration of Independence are subjects completely out of my depth. Also, I know so very little about horses.<b> </b><br />
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<b>Things we cherished</b><br />
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I found a ranch that offered riding classes to children. It was only about ten minutes away and I thought, "Why not?" So I called them to
arrange a visit, asking simply whether we could come and watch the
horses.<br />
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When we arrived, Ellen, a 14-year-old young lady, was receiving her riding lesson. The boys and I were awestruck by the sheer power and height of these creatures. Ellen's mom, Kate, offered to take us on a tour around the ranch while she waited for her daughter to be done with her lesson. I told her she was a homeschool mom's dream come true.<br />
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Kate was patient with the boys, understanding their initial fears. She took us to the stables and showed us all the nooks and crannies that might amuse us. She taught us about all the gears Ellen needed to ride a horse. We met Elva, the farrier who was trimming and balancing the horses' hoofs. He gave each boy a horseshoe and taught us about horses' hoofs.<br />
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<b>Things we pondered</b><br />
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Education really does take a village. I am inadequate to teach, but I am not on my own.<br />
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The children are learning—from and because of—the kindness and sacrifices of people, people, and more people. I am moved by the generosity we have received from strangers. The boys (and their mother) have had countless of educators at zoos, botanical gardens, butterfly conservatory, museums, grocery stores, and libraries. And most importantly, we have you — our friends and family. Thank you for reading, drawing, listening, playing, sharing meals, and sitting on the floor with us.<br />
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Thank you for teaching us, and learning with us. We are so grateful for you. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A horse on his treadmill</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpO1Siilf0X8a-JflrcuO8Uo95Wgt0BTdMQ5jvHxNhEJpE6qjwIMkVT20UszGC_-qKI75qIEF0lJUoTAV6n_cu-8WFMiwCvXGHkbtO2p9GHOSIaNKFX4ouvE5UyOb_sho3vOY-QQ1KzqS/s1600/P9238427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpO1Siilf0X8a-JflrcuO8Uo95Wgt0BTdMQ5jvHxNhEJpE6qjwIMkVT20UszGC_-qKI75qIEF0lJUoTAV6n_cu-8WFMiwCvXGHkbtO2p9GHOSIaNKFX4ouvE5UyOb_sho3vOY-QQ1KzqS/s640/P9238427.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elva the farrier.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What he thought of us humans.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What he thought of my camera.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys making horse faces.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strawberry eating her favorite food.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The triceratops got to try on the horseshoe, "so she would not get lost."</td></tr>
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<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-30237138828144568762015-09-15T05:31:00.000-07:002015-09-21T14:20:10.642-07:00Dust, not donutsAs I child, I often wondered what God meant by "you shall
surely die." Adam and Eve were walking and talking after they
ate the fruit. Did God mean they would die a slow death? Or that they lost their "eternal" life? What was this death?<br />
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I had a song stuck in my head."Life without Jesus is like a donut. There is a hole in the middle of your heart." I learned it as a child in Sunday school.<br />
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But life without Jesus is not like a donut, not even one little bit. Life without Jesus is death. And death is nothing like a donut.<br />
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Adam and Eve chose death. The serpent counseled Eve to love herself. She should get to decide what was good and evil. She loved the
fruit hanging from the forbidden tree, more than she loved her God. So, she took, and she ate. She then gave it to Adam; he took, and he ate.<br />
<br />
Death came
immediately. They died the moment they ate the fruit. No, Adam and Eve did not die a slow death. God <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Genesis%202%3A16-17/" target="_blank">said</a>,
"in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die." Their eyes were opened, just as the serpent promised, unto death. They lost not only their eternal life but life—altogether.<br />
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Death was never walking beside your God in the Garden again.<br />
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Death was choosing to believe a lie, instead of the truth.<br />
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Death was seeing the bone of your bones, flesh of your flesh—ashamed.<br />
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Death was losing the bold, unhindered trust you once had in your friend.<br />
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Death was being afraid of your Father when he called—because you betrayed him.<br />
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Death was homelessness.<br />
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Death was hunger.<br />
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Death was losing both your sons, because your firstborn child killed his brother.<br />
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Death was hate, jealousy, pride, shame, fear.<br />
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The rest of Genesis echoed this death. And he died, and he died, and he died.<br />
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No. Death is not like a donut. The "hole" in our hearts are not holes. Our hearts are aching abysses of desires, universes of emptiness. We rebelled against our Father who made us. We betrayed him to please ourselves. Lost in sin, we are dead souls, shells full of dust.<br />
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So, Jesus wept.<br />
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Jesus wept as he stood before Lazarus' tomb. He wept not over Lazarus' physical death; he knew that Lazarus would rise again. Jesus was weeping for death—altogether. He was weeping for his broken people. Mary and the Jews—the flesh of his flesh, and the bones of his bones—were dead in their hate and jealousy and pride and shame and fear.<br />
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So, Jesus said, "<a href="http://www.esvbible.org/John+14:6/" target="_blank">I am</a> the way, the truth, and life. <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/John%2010%3A9-10/" target="_blank">I am</a> the door to life. <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/John+11:25/" target="_blank">I am</a> the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die."<br />
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<i>Soul</i>, come.<br />
<i>Soul</i>, there is now therefore <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/Romans%208%3A1-2/" target="_blank">no condemnation</a> for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death.<br />
<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815456190656965995.post-9816702104171663382015-09-03T05:06:00.000-07:002015-09-03T05:06:05.922-07:00Choose the harder wayEsther and I met in the rain. She found me under a tree.<br />
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Hans and I were newly married, and he was the new minister at our new church. He was playing ultimate frisbee with everyone else, and I did what I always did when I felt insecure — I hid behind a book.<br />
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Esther, seventeen at the time, came over in her pale blue t-shirt, with a smile that unveiled her perfect teeth. She said, "Hi, I'm Esther. Which high school do you go to?" I didn't look like the pastor's wife, apparently.<br />
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She saved me from sulking that day.<br />
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I came across a strange advice from Elisabeth Elliot:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Choose the harder of the two ways. If you have eliminated all other possibilities and there still seem to be two which might please God, choose the more difficult one. "The way is hard, that leads to life," Jesus said, so it is likely that he is asking us to will against our will (<i>A Slow and Certain Light</i>, 115).</blockquote>
She placed this counsel at the very, very end of her book on knowing the will of God. After all is said and done — after we prayed, searched the Scripture, evaluated the motives of our hearts, counted the cost, listened to the counsel of those wiser than ourselves — if both choices seems to be equally good and right, choose the harder way.<br />
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But what if the harder way is not God's will? He commands us not to be afraid. God is with us and he is near those whose hearts are bent on knowing and doing his will. Just as he prevented Abraham from sacrificing Isaac, and David from building the temple, he will help us know if this is not the right way. Trust him.<br />
<br />
The Lord is always looking at the hearts of his servants. Are we willing to take up staggering tasks for his name's sake? Are we willing to sacrifice, to die to ourselves? The Lord was please with Abraham and David because they were bent on doing hard things—for him, "You did well that it was in your heart" (I Kings 8:18).<br />
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"Choose the harder way" has been most helpful in my ordinary, daily deaths to self. Should I wash the dishes or check Facebook? Should I wake up when my alarm rings or sleep for another "five minutes"? After the service on Sunday, do I hang out with my friends or introduce myself to the new person? When provoked, do I speak my mind or sulk or pray for the one provoking me?<br />
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Clearly, I am not applying Ms. Elliot's advice quite right. I think she meant it for bigger decisions, when the all the options seem right and faithful. My daily choices are neither big nor are they equally "pleasing to God." The better thing to do is most of the time painfully obvious. The question is whether I would do it.<br />
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But—because I am prone to wander, "choose the harder way" pulls me away from my tendency to take the easy route. Ms. Elliot reminds me whom I am following, and why I am doing the things I am doing. I am to follow the pierced feet of my Lord. He chose the steep and the narrow, all the way to Golgotha.<br />
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Esther could have just focused on playing frisbee. And our lives would have gone on. And I would have kept pretending like I was reading my book. But the Lord was, and is, gracious. Esther chose to stop playing, and she came over to the lonely person under the tree, in the rain.<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
O to grace how great a debtor<br />Daily I’m constrained to be!<br />Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,<br />Bind my wandering heart to Thee.<br />Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,<br />Prone to leave the God I love;<br />Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,<br />Seal it for Thy courts above.</div>
<br />Irene Sunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14146448074068127644noreply@blogger.com3