Blog
From and about women who love Jesus and want to share His message through Scripture, everyday inspirations, and relatable stories.
Situated between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, the Bay of Fundy had fascinated my husband and I many years ago when we were passing through the area on our way home from Prince Edward Island. Now on a vacation to Nova Scotia, Canada, we decided to visit Burntcoat Head National Park to see the Bay once again—this time from the other side.
Your word is a lamp to my feet, a light to my path. These simple words from Psalm 119:105 (NKJV) form the spiritual backbone of the Christ follower’s journey of formation. In short, the God’s revelation—His Word—in inspired Scripture marks our path and lights our way as it leads us home.
Church splits are painful. Excruciatingly so. Having grown up as a pastor’s kid, I am well acquainted with church strife. It wasn’t until my early thirties, however, that I experienced the separation of a body of believers. Together, we had celebrated weddings, welcomed new babies, and enjoyed the ordinary, beautiful moments of life.
Embrace the finite. Writing the words in my journal, I was unsettled somewhat as I read them again. I love permanence. It’s not only the idea of having started, persevered, and completed something, but permanence is the assurance that something will remain consistent and unchanging.
Patience is not one of my virtues. In my mind’s eye, I imagine the desired outcome—an herb garden, a refinished piece of furniture, a perfectly organized closet. Once started, the true timeline becomes apparent, and in the cold onslaught of reality, my commitment wanes. Weeds sprout. Less than thorough sanding becomes good enough. And clothes no longer hang according to season and color.
Fear is a faithless friend, one I have known all too well. Some days it is nothing more than a twinge of concern that lingers a little longer than needed.
As a kid, I was infamous for shortcuts, especially when it came to hems that happened to be coming loose. More than once, I would hear an exasperated exclamation (usually my name was somewhere in it), when my mom had found yet another one of my makeshift solutions in one of my pants legs or along my skirt hem while she was doing the laundry.
As a kid, I never really liked tug-of-war. From the sidelines, it always looked more fun than it was. The thrill of winning, of being stronger, would beckon me to come and take my place on the line. The moment I picked up the rope, though, I would realize I had once again made a mistake.
It seemed a logical decision to make. I was nearing forty, and my husband and I would soon be launching a church plant in a new community.