(image by  Bethany Small) 

We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised hope with both hands and never let go. It’s an unbreakable spiritual lifeline, reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God where Jesus, running on ahead of us, has taken up his permanent post as high priest for us, in the order of Melchizedek.

Hebrews 6:19

The Message

And so, God willing, we will move forward to further understanding…

Hebrews 6:3

NLT

Dear Dad,

There is so much I do not understand. So much that remains a mystery to me, veiled by a mist of what I don’t know, can’t grasp, don’t like.

I don’t understand why you, of all people, would suffer.

Why every breath comes as a gasp, why talking ends in spasms of body wrenching, back heaving coughing, why you must remain tethered to that tube of oxygen in order to breathe at all.

I don’t understand why we have to say good-bye.

Why, after having you always there; my stability, my fixer of broken things, my logic-minded advisor— why soon I won’t.

You, who have spent the better part of your life explaining why, showing how, teaching me over and over again the way to do life in fine, ordered, rightness— won’t be with me anymore.

I don’t understand why life ends in death, why you have to go away soon, why you can’t stay and watch my grandsons be like you, why you can’t keep holding my hand and squeezing it just so I know you’re with me.

I don’t understand why Mom will be alone.

After all these years of sticking by your side, or figuring it out, of learning and growing so that your differences are all ironed into one workable weave of cloth like a blanket around these generations to follow. Why will mom have to end life alone?

And what’s more, I don’t like it, not one bit. I want you to stay. I want you strong, hiking in your mountains, taking me with you, talking to me about my dreams, telling me I can do this, telling me I’ve made you proud.

Oh Dad, I do not understand. 

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t have to get this right.

Maybe having you all these years as my dad has shown me that I don’t have to understand, that I can hold on and trust. That clinging is okay because the Father does understand even when I don’t and He can be trusted because He is like you… or maybe it’s that you are like Him.

Maybe learning to trust you has taught me how to trust the One you trust.

And maybe someday I will understand. Maybe someday I’ll smile and nod and even laugh at God’s audacity to take the incomprehensible and make it good.

I don’t understand, Dad, but I trust the One who does, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

From my heart,

Di

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(photo by Bethany Small)

Back when I was high school during the now-vintage era of the 70’s, computers were monstrous machines. They were housed in massive buildings, attended by men in white lab coats and thick glasses. No home computers, no laptops.

As students, we wrote our essays and term papers on typewriters— the electric kind if we were lucky.  Usually by hand first, then plucked out laboriously on the machine, slow and careful lest we hit the wrong key, leaving a permanent imprint on the perfect white paper.  Most teachers allowed no more than 3 errors per page.

My dad allowed no errors. A typo was a mistake. Why wouldn’t I aim for perfection?

Dad was not normally a tyrant, but he knew me well. Papers were my ticket to the grades he knew I could get but wouldn’t if I didn’t use my strengths. And tests were not my strength. My befuddled mind just wouldn’t grasp such unimportant details as dates— Was that signed in 1776? Or was it 1667?

But assign me to write a story about what life may have been like back whenever-it-was, and I’d bump those grades back up to where they belonged.

How many hormonal implosions did I unleash on poor dad when he red-marked my papers? And believe me, I could implode with the best of them! Drama and you-don’t-love-me and no-one-else’s-parents-torment-their-kids-like-this!

But nothing moved the man.  Instead, he calmly waited out the storm and told me, Good job, you’re getting it. Now do it again. 

And so I did. Until I got it right. Until it was good-grade worthy and I could hand it back to my dad to see his smile and that slightest nod that meant more than my name in lights.

Stretch back a few more years. We lived in Germany, in a small hamlet surrounded by fields and forests. A magical place. Dreamer that I was (and am) I remember all the wild and wonderful imaginings as I stared out my bedroom window at the castle one town away.

But on Saturdays I had to unstick my head from the clouds and do chores. Dusting, emptying garbage, wiping windows and cleaning the car— a tiny Opel sedan that carted our family of five all over Europe during the days we lived there.

Back then cars had windows that locked by pushing a small lever that looked like a golf ball tee. But when ten-year-old hands washed the inside of the Opel’s windows, that tee inevitably got in the way, leaving fingerprints unwiped. And Dad just marched me back to do it again. After all, he’d paid a whole dime for the job!

And do you know what? I still get in the corners. And I still proofread and correct over and over again, wanting to get it right, all the way right.

Because my dad taught me that details make the difference. Whether writing a paper or a book, or washing windows or making friends— details matter.

Was Dad picky? Yeah, a little.

Was Dad unreasonable? Never.

Did I respond well to his insistence on doing things well and right? Uh… hardly ever.

Am I glad he did? Absolutely! So very thankful that he instilled in me a sense of honor about work and pride in doing it well.

And do you know what? I really don’t think that Dad cared all that much about finger smudges on windows. I doubt he enjoyed reading my clunky papers about dinosaurs or the history of the printing press.

I think he just cared about me. He loved me enough to uproot my natural laziness and make me uncomfortable with less-than.

He wanted me to know the satisfaction of a job well done, of life done well.

And he was willing to do what he needed to until I got it right all on my own.

Thank-you Dad, I’m so glad you did.

From my heart,

Diane

Six Things My Dad Got Right:

1. He had values of his own that he determined to instill in me.
2. He was nice (mostly) about it.
3. He didn’t let my whining and wailing cause him to slack off.
4. He taught me to focus on my strengths.
5. He told me what my strengths were— out loud and often.
6. He kept at it even when his job demanded his attention.

P.S. Right now my dad is very, very ill. Would you pray with me for him? I leave in a few days to go to be with my parents at their home in the Sierras. Knowing you're praying would make all the difference to me. And if these Dad Stories have helped, will you leave a comment? It would bring me great  joy to bring him stories of how his own story is influencing yours.Thank you.

You can see previous DAD STORIES here.

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repost.2011

When my children were little they had chores.

Somewhere I’d read about the importance of each child participating in the every day tasks of running a household so that they would feel fully at home there. Those assignments were good for their self-esteem, “according to the experts”, and who was I to argue?

So I made lists. And Chore Charts. And we stuck stars next to tasks completed and handed out allowance and pats on the back and lots and lots of praise for a job well done.

Or at least done.

But I didn’t realize that I had chores too. Chores assigned to me by a loving Father who knows I need to belong.

I just thought I had work to do. Too much work. Work that harried and harassed and made me crabby some days.

Work is different than chores. Work is endless and pointless and exhausting and defeating. It’s over and over again without end and without purpose.

Work is getting things done…that have got to be done …that I don’t want to do.

( an original quote from the lazy wisdom of Diane Comer)

But one day I stumbled upon a story about Jesus that changed my mind about all that work.

It’s a story about a man who was born blind. Couldn’t see a thing. And because he was blind he had to beg or die.

He couldn’t work.

That man would have loved a list of things to do. But he just sat by the side of the road, choking on dust, begging for a bite of bread. Pitiful.

And Jesus came along that road with His entourage of disciples and critics and hangers-on. Lots of dust, lots of noise.

And the man must have looked a mess because someone saw him and wanted to know why he had it so bad.

Whose fault was it? His parents? His own?

Right in front of the man whose ears worked fine, they questioned and probed and snickered and said things loud that they should have whispered.

And I think Jesus got a little annoyed at their rudeness.

But I don’t know because He didn’t say. I’m just guessing.

His next words aren’t about blindness and finding fault, but about glory and God and the way He does the most amazing things because He is amazing and bigger than we think and better than we are.

And then He launches into a lecture about doing to this crowd of talkers.

“All of us must quickly carry out

the tasks assigned us

by the One who sent Me,

because there is little time left

before night falls…

and all work comes to an end.”

~Jesus (John 9:4)

Next thing you know, Jesus makes a pack of mud for the blind man’s eyes and gives him an assignment.

“Go wash off the mud.”

And the man did. He did what he was told. Exactly what he was told. And he did it right away. He didn’t argue. He didn’t debate.

He just went and washed.

And that is sometimes- oftentimes- the way God does things.

He gives us a task to do. Something simple. Inglorious. Like scrubbing mud from blinded eyes…

Or getting up at 4 a.m. to open at Starbucks…

Or lacing on running shoes…

Or going to school for what seems like forever…

Or wiping babies bottoms and toddlers tears…

Or embracing broken husbands…

And we get a little dirty, splattered with the everyday stuff.

No glamour. No applause. No fake smiles.

Just mud.

But it’s our task. Yours… mine. And if we don’t do it...

if I won’t do it... it won’t get done.

And that will be the end of a story that should have ended better. Could have ended better, if only I’d obeyed.

I don’t know what your chores are. I haven’t seen the chart He’s constructed or the stars He’s gathered to stick next to your name.

But I do know mine. And they’re different sometimes from the things I’ve put on my list for the day. Different even from what others expect me to do. If I tried to do what everyone else thinks I ought to do I’d just curl up and give up and cry and never try again.

But His list is different. Custom made for me. For now.

I know what He wants me to do so its time to stop talking and go do it.

And I’d better hurry because pretty soon I won’t be able to. Night is falling. He’s getting ready to tuck us into bed and tell us His bedtime story and sooth us with His songs and let us rest there until the real work begins.

And I can hardly wait.

From my heart,

Diane

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 “She looks well to the ways of her household…”

Proverbs 31

If you are one of those people who organizes, arranges, orders, and tidies  every part of your life and home, I have a project for you.

Me.

Here’s the deal. In just a few weeks I’ll be packing up the guest house where we’ve been since October and moving into our fixed up new-old home. (No, it's not nearly as cute as the one in this picture but it's coming along…) And I’m loathe to move in all my not-very-organized-ness along with us.

I need systems, ways of storing and hanging and generally keeping my house clutter free and efficient to use as well as easy to clean. Because, you see, I am neat but not organized.

And more— I am a perfectionist with a craving for cleanliness living with dear, beloved, frustrating people who are, quite frankly, not all that into perfect.

Most people walk into my space and think I must be organized because I am tidy. But I’m not. Underneath that illusion of organization is a messy layer of chaotic cupboards and a never-neat garage.

And it bothers me. A lot.

This cottage is the smallest house I’ve ever lived in. For now, until we build the Great room onto the back, we’ll be living in 1250 square feet with the barest minimum of storage space.

And my lovely, pampered vintage red Mercedies needs to live in the garage. She’s looking so bedraggled and abandoned these days waiting for me in the mud-splattered driveway. She’s way too old to be outside.

The bathrooms in our cottage are tiny. The two of them together take up less room than our Master bath in our last house. Yet I’ve managed to stuff a boat of a bathtub into “my” bathroom, leaving barely enough room to turn around.

I’ll have 2 really great six-inch cabinets tucked into the wall behind the door. In there I’ll have to fit my plethora of pretties: lotions, hair goo, make-up and bubble bath. All those products that make me feel and smell and look like what those brilliant marketers want me to want to feel and smell and look like.

Is there a way to organize all that stuff in a way that appeals to my inheritantly feminine love of beauty?

Our walk-in closet is about half the size of the one I’ve left. And that’s after robbing the hallway of its linen closet and pushing the guest room back a bit.

Where in the world will I store towels? And toilet paper?

I do, however, have a pantry. A real pantry with a door and not-yet-built shelves. Any ideas on that one?

I have this idealistic idea of creating a space that is delightful to look at. Not rows and rows of plastic (Portland’s greenness is rubbing off on me), but something fetching. Old canisters mixed with… I don’t know what… but I’m hoping some of you get the idea and can give me ideas.

I will have a nice big shelf in the garage to put some overflow. My husband is a fan of Costco shopping after running out of niceties like toilet paper too many times. (See what I mean by not being organized? The poor man has stopped trying to fix my mind and just stepped in to stock up.)

Here are a few questions for those of you who do this kind of thing: 

1.    How do you keep under your sink from becoming a goopy mess?

2.    Where do you keep stuff? Kitchen towels and all those random lids that don’t fit anything? Plastic wrap (I’m not that green) and toothpicks?

3.    How do you store spices? I wish there was a mandatory same-size spice law.

4.    What do you do with your hair dryer and curling iron and flat iron? Mine are always a tangled mess. I have to extract all of them to get to one.

I envy those of you brave enough to cut off your hair and simply swing it in the air to dry but I think Phil might just have a heart attack if I did that.

5.    Anybody have any workable systems for keeping your house clean without having a fully dedicated cleaning day? I no longer have four kids to clean up after… but neither do I have four kids to delegate chore lists to.

I think this may be the first blog in all of history to be asking questions about organizing… so if you have a fantastic blog (either your own or one you love) that is all about this, please pass it on to me.

And I love pinterest pictures too! Send me great looking storage ideas and I’ll pin them to my board.

I love you girls,

Diane

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repost/2012

There is a story tucked inside a bigger story that grabbed my attention this morning and just will not let go. I keep seeing me there, and some of you. Maybe a little of all of us.

And I wonder what the Father means by it.

It is a story of a people who grew up with nothingness. No houses, no pantries full of special treats, no rich memories of a place to come home to.

Their fathers had messed up badly, their moms right there with them. Even though they’d seen the miraculous, been set free from horrendous enslavement, heard the actual voice of God, still they just couldn’t… or wouldn’t believe. Not really.

And they raised a generation who watched all that. These kids saw the suffering caused by unbelief. Experienced the consequences of their parent’s faithlessness. Smelled the scent of fear that caused a generation to turn away from God.

And chose different.

When these men and women grew up they decided to follow hard after God. No compromise, full on faith-filled obedience.

Over their tent doors hung cross-stitched motivations like:

Love the LORD your God,

Walk in all His ways,

Obey His commandments,

Be faithful to Him,

And serve Him with all your heart and with all your soul.

Joshua 22:5

And then these men and women were offered a rich land to live in. A land unlike the dessert they’d known all their lives.

Instead of tattered tents, they’d live in cozy cottages clustered within the walls of friendly villages. The women would gather each day around a well with an endless supply of fresh water. Instead of that tiresome stuff to eat each day that they’d grown up on, they would have fresh vegetables, meat, fruit, maybe even a glass of wine.

Bliss.

I can just imagine their hunger for home.

For hope.

But for a small segment of these young men and women, that hope would have to be put on hold for a while.

They had made a promise, a commitment that they dare not break. They’d seen the consequences when their own parent’s choose to renege on God.

You see, two of the twelve tribes of God-followers were assigned space on the eastern side of the Jordon River. The rest got the west.

The two tribes in minority loved the land they’d been given because it was perfect for them— rich with the grazing land their livestock needed.

But their brothers in the remaining ten tribes needed their help to clear out the western lands before they could occupy it. That meant months and months more of living in those worn out tents…

They feared God more than they feared their own raging wants and so they choose to obey no matter what.

Days and weeks and nights spent being faithful when all they wanted was to go home.

And I wonder this morning how they kept going.

Every day.

Through battles and weariness and boring weeks of waiting.

How did they do that kind of faithfulness?

How do I?

And the answer lies tucked into end the story.

Their leader, Joshua, is old now. His hair is grey, his once strong back bent.

Yet fierce words of challenge and choice boom from his mouth as he looks his people in the eye.  He doesn’t cushion his speech with niceties.

Choose today whom you will serve…

All those alluring idols their parents pursued? So easy, so satisfyingly safe, so undemanding… or

as for me and my family, we will serve the LORD! 

Without the slightest doubt, this new generation of God-followers chose-

We are determined to follow the Lord! We will serve the LORD our God. We will obey Him. Joshua 24:21,24

And they did. Every day. A whole generation

They weren’t perfect. They made mistakes. But they did it.

They chose.

From my heart,

Diane

Can you tell us how you choose? Every day? What helps, what makes it possible when all you want to do is whatever you want to do?

Because I see a whole new generation of Jesus-followers who are choosing to be faithful.

May your tribe increase!

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The sun sleeps, tucked in tight, as I write these words, still too early on a winter’s morn to rise and melt the frost from the ground. In the dark my family slumbers on, wrapped in the downy warmth of dreams, serenely oblivious to the stresses that will rise with the dawn.

I am wide awake. Teapot half empty, my mind fills with rumblings of ideas. Words catch my listening ears in the stillness. Words from a Father who speaks in the silence.

I have always loved these earliest morning hours. On the rare times when I awake to others already awake, I feel the loss, the disappointment— as if I’ve missed the mystical magic of the morning.

And I know why…

Every morning when I was growing up, my dad got up first. Quietly, he’d patter down the stairs, plug in the coffee pot filled with Folgers the night before. While the perking and burbling filled the kitchen, scents drifted to my bedroom at the top of the stairs. And up he’d come.

Every morning.

“Di, it’s time to wake up.” He’d nudge my shoulder while I pretended to sleep. “Honey, wake up, it’s time…” the allure of sweetened coffee surrounding him like priceless perfume.

Eyes open now, my first glimpse of every day was him. My father: gentle, firm, kind, in control.

Every morning.

And I wake the same way still. Gently, sensing something, someone. Happy, ready, wanting to wake up, I rise as if my dad were hovering close with kind urgings to meet my day. A smile.

How many mornings have I sensed the Father’s breath on my face, His invitation to come, to meet Him before my world awakes? Just like my dad.

Come and be with Me.

And I do.

Far away, high in the mountains he loves, my dad is awake too. Wrapped in his plaid robe, slippers on, hair all ajumble. He’s got the coffee going, a light by his chair. He watches the sun rise, filling the silence with his own thoughts. Plans and hopes for the day ahead.

And I wonder, Dad, do you remember? A little girl, grown now, with wrinkles of her own. Did you know then that you were ushering me into the magic of the morning? Did you sense my need to be with you first? To share the quiet?

Or was it the Father of us both who knew? That one day I’d want these mornings with Him. That in the quiet I’d hear. That I’d need to get up early and He could make me want to by giving me a dad to love me this way.

My dad wasn’t perfect, of course not. But he made perfect mornings for me and he did it by just being himself… and by letting me be with him… and making me want to.

The sun is up now, the teapot empty. And I linger a while, my heart overflowing with memories of a childhood marked by joy. I wish, oh how I wish, that every child could say the same…

… and that alarm clocks would fade out of fashion… because of dad’s like mine.

From my heart,

Diane

5 Things My Dad Did Right:

1. He knew my need for a gentle touch.
2. He stayed the same, guaranteeing the security everyday sameness brings.
3. He didn’t let the stresses of his job interfere with quiet mornings.
4. He instilled in me the habit of preparing for the day ahead rather than flinging haphazardly into the fray.
5. He showed me the way of the Father without saying a word.

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Trust in the Lord and do good;

Dwell in the land and feast on His faithfulness.

Delight yourself in the Lord…

Psalm 37:3,4

(NASB margin)

For several weeks I’ve pondered a quandary: How should I order my morning Bible reading for 2014?  Should I read it thru fast? The 90 day plan? Or should I go chronological? There is something to be said for getting the stories in their right order.

Which way is best? Which way is best for me? What does God want?

And all I hear as I ask is nothing. Like I’m missing something. As if His silence is a waiting pause… Like He’s waiting for me to know what He’s already said.

I think listening to God is sometimes like that. Long silences that pull me close. I stand on tippy toes to catch the words. Lean in to hear.

What is He saying?

My disorganized mind needs lists. Left without direction, I wander in circles, taking inordinate amounts of time to get nowhere.  I want a system; a chart with boxes to cross off.  A way forward to achieve what I want.

And so on January 1 I start with a chart. It’s the one I watch my God-following man plod through every year. Every single year. It took time for him to devise his way. A beautiful balance of Old and New, wisdom and worship.  He slips it between the yellowed pages of his well worn Bible, marks it forward , knows right where he’s headed.

I try.

Day One: Genesis 1,2, Matthew 1, Psalm 1, Proverbs 1.

A 20 minute read, ½ hour at most. I have the time, I have the will.  I’ve done this before.  I can do this.

But those beginning words…a poetic weaving of mystery and science, of who He is and who I am.  The Beginning pulls me into a heart so huge, I am caught and held in wonder. I cannot hurry through. I dare not.

Created in His own image… God patterned them after Himself… to be like Ourselves.

Perched in a window, mysterious morning fog veiling the view, I cannot get past those first words. Cannot help but reach into the closets of my mind, filled with so many sermons and studies, so many silent mornings, so much beauty.

That word, “good”, tob in the Hebrew; it means so much more than simply fine. More than a good dinner, a good book, a good day. He created light and it was beautiful.  He delighted in the best-ness of His made-by-hand craftsmanship.

Which means… that He made me with all my messiness. He saw the crazy chaotic workings of my brain, knew all about the random way words would catch and hold me… and He saw beauty. Not a mistake. Not someone who needs something to get it all together.

He said it was good.

And I’m an hour into this Listening time, still lingering in the first few verses of the first chapter of the first book. How will I ever drink it in fast enough? Shouldn’t I hurry up? Who gets behind on day one?

That’s when I hear the whisper…

And what is it you want? 

I want to learn. I want to achieve. I want to get it all in. But mostly, really, I want to fill up. To savor each delicious bite of goodness He offers, to chew and ponder and swallow His way of truth.

I want those toxic, addictive, go-to words of not-wisdom cleansed out of my system of thinking and knowing and feeling. I want to fill up with Him.

And that’s when I know I’ll never stick to the chart. Because I can’t. Because I shouldn’t. Because He made me random and slow and He says I am beautiful that way.

Instead, I’ll follow a path. I’ll start in the beginning of the Beginning and meander through to the end. I’ll take my own sweet time. I’ll taste and twirl and swallow and write it down in tidbits that stay with me. Then I’ll start over.

And all the while I’ll “feast on His faithfulness”. Climbing into His lap, I’ll open His Book wide and ask Him to read it to me. I’ll listen to the rumble of His voice with my broken ears right up close against His chest. I’ll feel Him. I’ll learn more of Him and from Him.

I’ll be just who I am with Him… because He says I’m beautiful.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. What about you? Do you have some sort of plan to direct the steps of your walk with God through His Word?

Might you take a moment to share it with us? What has worked and what hasn’t?

I’d love to know.

P.S.S. Here is Phil's Bible Reading Chart. It's also posted on the website for A Jesus Church. The great thing about this method is that it keeps you going back to Jesus' words all year long… and you'll fill up with the straight-forward wisdom of Proverbs by reading it through every month. 

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For we are God’s masterpiece.

He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.

Ephesian 2:10

Dear girls,

Today I thought I’d give you an update on the house we’re remodeling.  We had hoped to be in by Christmas but, like all remodels, this one is taking longer than we’d planned. And maybe it has something to do with the fact that I keep changing the plan. Every time I say, “I have an idea…” I see Phil shudder a little and sigh.

Because it’s nestled in a grove of fir trees and because the name of the street is Firwood, I’ve fallen into calling this house Firwood Cottage.

Which is really much too poetic a name for what is still a pitifully plain 1960’s box. But it encapsulates my dreams for what this home will someday be: a darling little cottage on the edge of a clearing down a bumpy lane from the village called Lake Grove.

(Still ugly on the outside.)

(Wood floors and new windows, moved walls and rewiring, pipes and panels and can lights… our little house is getting a complete make-over.)

Just as my name for the fixer-upper we’re remodeling is a bit grander than reality, it would seem that God’s name for me is almost embarrassingly boastful.

He calls me His masterpiece. 

And you, too! Just because He’s taken ownership of our lives and He knows the beauty He has planned.

In the same way that I see what my ugly little house will someday be, God sees who you are becoming. He can overlook the ugliness because He’s sketched out a plan and He’s crafting and carving and recreating the way He wants you to be.

That, my dear friends, is what redemption is all about. Beauty.

God taking my sorry mess and revisioning, recreating, reimagining who He knows I really am.

Sometimes the process is painful— ripping out the old wiring hurts.

Sometimes the process is messy— sweeping away the debris we’ve accumulated isn’t pretty.

Sometimes the process of creating beauty in our lives seems to stall— that’s when He’s doing a deeper work, down underneath where no one sees.

He knows all about the pain and the messiness and the delays and He isn’t in the least bit worried.

He loves you.

He loves working with you, loves coming close, loves who He knows you are becoming.

He’s not comparing you to the big house down the street because He loves cozy cottages where He is welcome and brought in, where He is wanted.

And He sees you.

He sees the nooks and crannies that add character, delights in the way you’re made. He knows how it all fits together and how you will turn out in the end.

And I think He just can’t stop smiling your way. I think He’s surrounded by that great crowd of witnesses and He’s pointing you out and telling all those redeemed ones exactly how you’ll look when He’s done.

I think He’s proud of you.

And that He’s got a new name just for you. A name that tells the truth about who you are.

From my heart,

Diane

Read about who you are and how He feels about you in the first 3 chapters of Ephesians. And about your name in Revelation 2:17 and 22:4.

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I believe in God because something inside me cries out for Him. That ache inside that no one sees; no one says; no one dares. The reaching, growing, longing part of me that must believe.

I believe because my body and my soul yearn for something more.

Because to not believe is death of hope, deadness of soul. The end of me.

Because I crave God.

I want Him.

Because if I don’t believe I’ll waste my life filling this hole with every kind of good and it won’t work so I’ll reach for evil and that won’t work either and then I’ll die having missed the meaning.

I believe because He is mystery and I sometimes know moments of brightest clarity when the fog lifts and I see His face.

That’s why I believe in God.

I believe in God because of beauty and because children do and because He makes sense and because I must believe.