Category Archives: Sacred Mundane

It was quite the weekend around here (this picture is how I feel inside!). It’s late Sunday night and I haven’t had time to process enough to write, but suffice it to say God showed His amazing grace in spite of me. In the midst of feeling the lowest and most unworthy of His blessing and power, He poured out both in abundance. I’m overwhelmed by His goodness and reminded of this story. I pray it encourages you too:

~

I had just received the email from my agent: She had sent over the book proposal to a certain publisher and they were interested. It sounded promising. Chances were they were just receiving it and perusing, perhaps googling my name to figure out who this no-name blueberry-girl was. I clicked down to my next email, from a reader: “Your site hasn’t been working all day…”

What? I click over to here to see. Nothing.

What?! The site is down? I email Jeff. He’s busy, in a meeting. Though I know it’s ridiculous, I feel panicky. We finally have a lead with a publisher and now in the very same hour my site is gone? What on earth?

I begin to pray. And pray. Keep clicking. Still not working. Finally I practice what I preach and go into my bedroom and lower down on my face. Flat.

And remember who He is and who I am.

As clear as an audible voice I hear,

“Everything I have done, I have done in spite of you.”

Three clear pictures come to mind. It’s true:

When I was a Senior in high school I had an interview for the full-ride Ford Foundation Scholarship. Though I was an organized person, I forgot about the interview. The day of I was tooling around the house, when I suddenly realized with horror that my interview was scheduled for that very moment. I threw on clothes, cried my way through the hour drive into downtown Portland, drove the wrong way down a one-way street, and ran in a dead sprint down the sidewalk in high heels. The scholarship committee had waited an hour past the time they were supposed to leave for the day.  I had spent zero time preparing and apologized a hundred times for being late. In spite of my failure, God gracious gave me the scholarship which paid for my entire undergrad and seminary education. Amazing grace.

When I was 22 and God had broken my heart, I had forgotten about Jeff and was convinced no man would ever love me so why try. I was down, discouraged, depressed. I certainly wasn’t doing anything to “get” a guy, in fact if I were a guy I certainly wouldn’t have wanted me! And it was at that lowest point, when I felt ugly, unwanted, and unloved, and God swooped in brought Jeff to me. At the exact moment I felt most unworthy, He showered me with my husband’s love. Amazing grace.

When we were selling our dream home, and I had worked so hard for almost a year trying to sell it, there came the weekend when I hosted a girl’s retreat, and left the house a mess. Jeff had been home with kids and had scurried out the door for church with the house in complete disarray. After 90+ showings of the house being perfect, it was this day that our house sold. It was this day, when our house was most imperfect, that the perfect buyer came and made us an offer. In spite of our mess, our weakness, our imperfections. Amazing grace. 

Isn’t that the beauty of the gospel? God loves to do His work in spite of us. On the day we feel most unworthy, in the midst of a situation we’ve thoroughly botched, when failure is the only emotion we feel, in a way that leaves no shadow of a doubt that He is God and we are not, that all glory and honor belong to Him, who works all things according to the counsel of His will, for the glory of His name.

Everything He has done, He has done despite us.

Rest in that today, dear friends. He does it all despite us.

~

(Thanks for reading.}

• Weekend of RENEWal (truly!) at Riversong, basking in God’s presence with precious sisters in Christ, while the men worked on my rustic writing cabin/office for Jeff, out in the garage. 
• Creative wood-panelled walls from pallets (free!) torn apart.
• Imagination.
• Little Heidi with me for the girls’ weekend. Praying she will grow a heart and hunger for God all her days.
• Receiving.
• His truth, His life, His love, washing over us.
• Stumptown.
• Addie Zierman.  Intrigued by this girl; captivated by her writing.
• Desiring depth.
• Going outside.
• Ernie.
• Pioneer Woman cinnamon rolls (again).
• Too impatient to wait for local … caving for Costco’s California strawberries. Not the same but still Oh! So good. Come, June, come!
• A subtle shift that changes everything.
• Letting go of pressure. Stepping aside.
• Rest in the midst of work.
• Love … obedience.
• Unplugged.
• First Sunday at the Revival Building!
• Believing, believing, believing.
• Sonflowerz.
• Heidi’s bird-chirp voice early this morning trailing down the hall: Your love never fails, never gives up, never runs out on me …

Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the water, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

Isaiah 43:1-2

 Thanks for reading.

Something inside said, “Take him the Jan Hagels.”

These are Dutch cookies–a cinnamon flavored shortbread my mom always made growing up.

Heidi dumped in the flour and ate half the chopped walnuts before we could sprinkle them on top. Dutch supervised and asked (repeatedly) when they’d be done.  We baked, cut, cooled, and plated the beautiful nut-covered squares. Then we headed over, up the statue-lined driveway.  There were even more than I remembered. Stone frogs and bears, several deer (including Bambi), butterflies and squirrels, a tall madonna holding the baby Jesus.

I rang the doorbell.

We waited, and waited. No answer. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder. No answer. Really? Was he not even going to open his door for us? The kids were getting impatient, “Let’s just leave the cookies on the step.” I leaned in and could hear the TV on. I could just leave them …

I glanced down at the mail-box mounted by the front door. “The Gerksons.”  I reached over and touched the etched name. The metal was so cold.  I looked at the statues, all lined up like graves.

One more try: Pound, pound, pound. 

Then, a sound. A shuffling, scratching sound. A click at the door. Ever so slowly, it opened.

I don’t know what I expected, but he wasn’t it. Grumpy Guy was bent over a walker: frail, weak. Gray, several-day stubble covered his cheeks; his hands shook slightly as he gripped his walker for support. For just a moment I hated myself: Why didn’t I come over here months ago??? The inside of the house was dark behind him and he squinted, holding his hand across his forehead, as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine streaming in.

“Hello there. We live next door … We, um, made you some cookies.” For a second he just took it in.

Then he smiled.

“Yes.  I know Jeff. He’s come over here a few times.”

“Yes, well I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to come over.” 

He returned to Jeff. “I always see your husband outside, playing with the kids. Those other people who lived there never had any G** d*** time for their kids. Never any time. Always workin’, always busy. Their kids died, you know that?”

I nodded.  I had heard the unthinkably tragic story.

“Well they never spent time with ’em. Shoulda been put in G** d** jail, that’s what I think.”

I shifted a little and glanced back at the kids. They were picking dandelions, oblivious. I looked back at him and he was watching the kids too. A shadow of sadness covered his face.

“I’m so sorry. I hope we can be good neighbors for you. Do you need anything?”

“Nah. I’m ok. I see you have a good garden going.”

“Yes! I’m trying. I don’t know much, but we have a few things growing. Do you garden?”

He looked out at the yard, but farther away, like he was seeing what it all used to be. 

“I had flowers. So many flowers. Fifty rose bushes. I had fuchsias all along here, and an arbor out back with clematis climbing all over it.” He paused, still lost in thought, and smiled to himself. “I had a garden too. Big garden. Tomatos and cucumbers, and parsnips. I love parsnips, I’d leave ’em out there all winter, you know, that’s what you do. And they’d get so big. I love parsnips. Can’t buy ’em really. They’re expensive.”

I made a mental note.

“Yeah, not many flowers here anymore…” his voice trailed off, looking out over his land, looking for flowers. 

“Can I plant some?”

His eyes snapped back to me. “What?!”

“Can I plant some flowers? I was noticing you have that empty flower bed right by the fence. I could reach it without even coming through your gate. The kids and I were going to plant sunflowers … could we plant some seeds there, for you?”

“Sunflowers …” He went back to his faraway world, then told a story of the sunflowers he planted once upon a time. He looked down at Dutch, “They were 104 inches tall!” Dutch’s eyes were wide.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I smiled and patted his shoulder. “Well, I’m sorry you had such a hard time with your old neighbors. We’ll try …”

He interrupted me and looked me straight in the eye: “We’ll get along great.”

“Yes sir, I believe we will. Would you come over for dinner sometime?”

He started to fuss, “Ah, I can’t get around that well…”

“We’ll bring it over here!”

“No, no. Yeah … I’ll come over.”

Just as we were saying goodbye, he looked out and saw an enormous purple dahlia opening right beside the porch.

“Well, I’ll be. A flower.” He inched his walker slowly over the threshold, and shuffled, carefully, outside. The screen door and the darkness closed behind him.

We stood, in the sun, in silence, looking at the flower, both breathing in beauty, life, hope.

We said goodbye and he went back in the house. We piled in the car, ready to tackle our long list of errands. Grabbing my grocery list, I jotted down one last item:

Parsnips.

~

The next morning I looked out the window:

His blinds were pulled open wide. 

And that afternoon, in the bright sunshine, to my everlasting amazement, he was outside, looking at his yard, pointing and cursing and hollering at two workers as they spread barkdust around. I was so overjoyed I didn’t care a bit when the f-bomb floated our way.  He even shuffled down the long length of sidewalk and greeted us by name.

“Just sprucin’ the place up a bit,” he said.

Indeed. God is doing just that. 

{Praying you find–and share–beauty in whatever everyday situations you find yourself in today. Thanks so much for reading.}

I pulled down hard on the cord—it had been a while.  The large, heavy blinds heaved upward, disturbing the dust and clicking, one against the other, slapping together at the top.

The room filled with light. I looked down the street—our house is taller than all the others—and took in the bird’s eye view. The hospital at the very end, the incongruous dumpy duplex with a new Hummer and a Mustang out front, the 100-year-old bungalows, like ours.

The small ranch next door with statues lining the front yard.

Nothing ever moves over there. We’ve been here almost four months and I’ve never seen the owner. (That’s mostly an indictment of me.) Jeff went over straight away, discovering an 80-something-year-old man who drops F-bombs with alarming frequency. (Partly why the kids and I haven’t taken cookies.) His first words to Jeff were, “Hey! I keep getting’ all your f-in’ mail!”  Awesome; great to meet you too.

But the statues stumped me. Old grumpy guys are no anomaly, to be sure. But the statues. Why the statues? One of Snow White and several little dwarfs. A few Dutch-children and two little frogs. Their color has worn and faded, the edges chipped.

They sit at slight angles, settled in the soil like ancient tombstones.

The door on this toolshed always hangs open. The day we moved I took this as a sign that he’d be back and forth, active, at work. But the door never closed. It just hangs open, slack, still, every day. I can see tools inside. A small tractor is parked just outside. Many signs of a life once lived.

The blinds are always closed. The back of his house has large picture windows—they’re beautiful, really. But never once, in all our time here, have I ever seen the blind slits open wide, or pulled up to the top.

Blinds. Such an odd thing.

It was on Jeff’s third or fourth visit that he found out:

She had died.

Of course. The statues, the tools, the signs of once-life, all sifted into place.

And now the blinds are sealed tight, a tomb.

Debra, our housemate, had said it just that morning. “When we share our stories with each other we give the gift of a glimpse into redemption.” God is always redeeming. Always taking broken things, broken lives, and making them new. When we isolate, seeking to protect, we close the blinds and become just that—blind. We lose sight of hope. CS Lewis’ words came to mind:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket–safe, dark, motionless, airless–it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

I turned from the window, resolving to open the blinds more often, and called for the kids to follow me into the kitchen. I plugged in the Kitchenaid as they pulled stools up to the counter.

“Who wants to make cookies for the neighbor?!” 

“ME!” both hands shoot up.

“Good,” I glanced out the window. “I do too.”

{Thanks for reading.}

It was a toss-up, whether the kids and I would be more hindrance or help, but the together factor trumps all these days. We’d go.

I slid steaming bowls of oatmeal across the counter. “We’re going to the Revival Building today to work!” I braced myself for protest. Saturday mornings usually involve making The List. It’s our rest-renewal day and we each choose one activity that fills us up,  then throughout the day we enjoy all four things together. Daddy often serves us by making his one item “go for a run” then promptly crosses it off with a smile because he’s already done it while we were still sleeping. This leaves extra time for other exciting list items such as “read about tarantulas,” “dig for worms,” and, Heidi’s personal favorite, “do fabric.”

But today  “Renovate The Revival Building” was the only item on the list. Our “new” church space is a 100-year-old historic brick building right in the heart of downtown Oregon City. Over the last century it’s gone from church building to office space to big-abandoned-spooky-place. We walked, ran, and prayed circles around this building for 8 months, knowing the $800,000 price-tag was out of our budget by at least $795,000. It seemed silly to pray this big–the building is enormous and we have exactly 12 families. (At this point each family could have their own room.) We are dead-set against debt, so we weren’t even sure what we were praying for. But more than once the neighboring hair salon would look out and see us standing like loons, our palms placed firmly on the brick exterior walls, praying for God to do something bigger than we deserved. Mark Batterson says in order to see God move in big ways we must have a dream beyond our resources. 

Check.

So imagine our surprise when a Dance Vision sign was hung up out front. And imagine our surprise when I took a wild leap and called and they said, “Yes, we’d love to rent out our space to you!” And imagine our surprise when we walked inside and they’d remodeled the main room beautifully, to period, with massive exposed beams and old pendant Edison bulbs hanging from forever-high vaulted ceilings. I’m not much for aesthetics, but I walk in this room and want to fall on my knees. I can feel it in the walls–this room held glory at one time, and The Revival Building is no misnomer. 

It’s history and prophecy all at once. 

But outside the central dance-studio rooms, the building remains in shambles.

Insert a little band of folks called RENEW.

The owner laughs when we tell her. Dance Vision‘s vision is to see girls renewed through devoting themselves to dance. Their vision was to renew the building. Our vision is to renew the city, and all the lives in it, by sharing the hope, love, and grace of Jesus Christ.

We shake hands.

To renew is to “make new” and the making part means work. So I fill the back-pack with oatmeal bars and vinegar-cleaner, and we set out, the kids on bikes, and trek to 7th and Jefferson. Dutch dons a tool belt–wrapped almost twice around–and goggles. Heidi chooses baseboards and vinegar-cleaner. Both take themselves very seriously. I clean the bathroom, wipe blackened window blinds, pull weeds. Dutch talks incessantly about tarantulas over the sound of the table-saw and Heidi empties an entire bottle of cleaner in ten minutes (“Babygirl, just ONE squirt, then wipe.”)

I know we are little more than obstacles for the men to step over.

But the only obstacles I’m worried about are the ones we put in front of little ones, the ways we make faith a grown-up thing, keeping them quiet and out of the way. Jesus gathered them up, held them, blessed them.Told us to be like them.

And then He said, “Behold, I make all things new.” And He lets us wear the too-big toolbelt and join along. Let’s us spill stuff and talk loud and use far too much of the vinegar-cleaner. 

We are little more than obstacles for Him to step over.

But He lets us make new because He’s making us new.

Heidi leans in close to the wall, sprays the baseboard, wipes.

“Look, Mommy! I’m making it new!”

I smile and kiss the top of her head. “Yes, babygirl. That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

{May you enjoy making-new along with Jesus this week. Thanks for reading.}

• Both kids eager to work at The Revival Building (yes, that’s our new church home!). Scrubbing walls, wiping floorboards, and dust-busting the sawdust.
  

• Both kids riding bikes all the way there. Pushing them both up the hills, one hand on each seat. 
• Heidi’s outfit for the work-party: Ruffled floral bathing suit, black tights and a white t-shirt with light-up Dora tennis shoes.
• Meeting Ian. A crazy God-story unfolding.
• Mary. So proud of Mary.
• Believing God for just the right worship-song leader. Watching and waiting.
• Dutch Brothers.
• Heavy quilts.
• Quiet mornings.
• Her sleepy eyes as she stumbles in early.
• Coffee.
• Matt’s peanut-noodle-something-rather dish that’s so good I can’t even carry on a conversation while eating it.
• Walking On Water.
• Heidi’s voice and English accent.
• Watching my man thrive.
• A quiet afternoon, all of us lost in creativity.
• Lots of great advice on how to get the stink out of towels. 🙂
• A target gift card so I can just go buy new ones. 🙂
• Words of encouragement that lift, inspire.
• Sleep.
• That “many days” always pass as we wait on the Lord.
• Learning faithfulness.
• A good word: “Endurance.”
• Laughing ourselves silly.
• Uncle Jeremy & Auntie Melea.
• Acts.
• The prophet Elijah. Oh to trust and obey like that!
• Your love never fails, never gives up, never runs out on me…

Happy Sunday. Thanks for reading.

There is nothing I want to do. That’s the problem. I’ve unknowingly become a slave to hankering, and without sunshine, a burst of energy, or a strike of inspiration, I’m left lethargic and unmotivated. I have a hankering to do nothing.

I don’t want to write and I don’t want to do laundry. And I most certainly don’t want to listen to my children bicker which is exactly what they are doing while I lie on the couch with my eyes closed.

Get up. Do something. 

I’m getting should on. The shoulds come hard but they beat down, don’t lift up, and so I’m just dead weight, still on the couch, heavier than ever.

“Please stop arguing and just clean up the loft.”

I escape, like an addict, to the office. Flip open the laptop. I know full well I am escaping but I do it anyway. The wheel spins, I wait, the screen brightens and I feel the false hope rising.  Will something happen here that lifts me from this dullness? That can somehow wake me up? I know what I’m looking for and know I shouldn’t but do it anyway. Some praise or affirmation. Something stimulating. Something besides this long day of wiping crumbs and correcting tones and calming ridiculous overreactions …

And repeating, repeating, repeating.

We head down for a snack, and there I look again.  The computer offered no solace, just a feed full of faces laughing longer and harder and loving life more than I, apparently.

I open the cupboard and try again.

Anything here?

But I’m still full from breakfast and there’s no pleasure in food when the senses aren’t heightened by hunger.

I’m just not hungry for anything.

We head outside. I can almost always count on air and earth to jostle me to life. It’s cold and wet, but I kneel in the dirt and see the dozens of green shoots poking brave heads above the dark soil. Peas. Spinach. Radishes. It’s so cold. Yesterday it hailed. But they’re undaunted, and I’m sure it must be boring for them, to grow so slowly?

But they keep growing. And I suddenly have a strange compassion for them. Out there, cold and bored to death and still growing. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude that they haven’t altogether quit, haven’t packed up and gone home. I’m overcome with a desire to weed, for them. It’s personal. It’s not duty. I want them to live. They’re so darned faithful out there, braving the hail, holding up their tiny 1/2″ necks. I pull weeds carefully and smooth the soil around each tiny shoot. Gently. Like dabbing the milk from a baby’s chin. It’s ridiculous but I’m so grateful for those plants.

And as I’m dabbing their dirty earthen chins, she pulls up. My forever friend. And how’d she know I’d love a Dutch Brothers’, right now, at this exact moment? And how’d she know to say, “Of course!” when the barista asked if I’d like whip?

She hands me the drink, “Just thought you might like this.” My hands are covered in dirt and I hold the cup close and feel its warmth. Her four kids are lively in the back of the minivan and she ignores them and smiles at me and I just look up at her face and all the weight is gone. I’m beaming ridiculously because one person did something ridiculous for me. And I’m suddenly just so glad that she does what she does, day in and day out, raising those kids and cleaning that house and driving that minivan and being my friend and saying yes to whipped cream every now and then.

It hails on her too; I know that.

“I haven’t even brushed my teeth today,” I tell her, and I don’t know why I say it but it says everything. And she smiles and I’m known and loved and accepted all at once.

She says goodbye and the kids wave and we head inside, now hungry. Apples crunch sweet and grilled cheese oozes salty and the hummus is cold and creamy. And though it’s already afternoon I’m grateful to have finally woken up.  There’s still a lot of glorious day ahead. 

{In case you have these days … Thanks for reading. 

“What if God planted RENEW Church just for Julie?”

Several of my close friends have posed this question to me. Of course I smile because it is the same question the Holy Spirit has posed to me more times than I can count, in different ways.

It’s a fair question. Would God take a family and send them on a wild goosechase of selling their home and seeking after an Isaiah 58 lifestyle, plop them in another city, on a street corner in front of Bus Stop 32, and have them plant a little ragtag church full of odd characters (I say this with endearment, guys–we’re included in this description!) patched loosely together by a passion for the gospel and serving the least?

Would He go through all this effort just to find The One drug-addicted woman and lure her to His love through this church’s fumbling efforts of generosity and grace? 

Is that it?

If it is, is it worth it? Just for The One?

A few weeks ago I had the hair-brained idea to bake up a huge batch of The Pioneer Woman’s cinnamon rolls and hand them out to homeless folks Easter morning. Sure, there’s no better news than “He is risen!” but “Here’s–an-ooey-gooey-buttery-handful-of-sweet-sticky-goodness-because-Jesus-loves-you!” is a really close second. So I had this grand idea to find out where they’d be sleeping and go find a whole slew of them.

But when I sought how to find them I was informed  that a large church was already hosting a huge pancake feed at their church building, so “all of them will be going there.” When I asked if we could just go out looking for some on the street, as I wanted to go to them, she said, “You can, but you probably won’t find any.”  Though I felt deflated at first, I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, “If only for The One … go.”

So we piled into the car Easter morning. My kids sat in back and my mother-in-law in the passenger seat holding the pan of ooey-goodness.

After weaving in and out of the downtown streets under the railroad, we caught sight of him.

The One. 

He sat alone, on the ground, in the shadows, hidden back in the corner of a vacant lot lined with dumpsters from the nearby produce stand. His head was down. I wheeled the car around, loaded up a napkin with rolls, pulled out a babywipe for cleaning his hands after, and stepped out of the car.

I stood and looked across the long, empty lot where he sat. Between us lay shattered glass and strewn trash. I was wearing bright yellow and white and high-heeled sandals. My Easter best. My eyes blurred as I stepped over the broken bottles.

He looked up. His eyes widened. I smiled. The sun poured through the trees.

He watched me walk across the lot.

“Good morning, Sir. Would you like a warm cinnamon roll?”

He smiled, mostly toothless, probably in his 60s, handsome.

“Wow. Well, yes. Yes, Ma’am I’d love one!” I held out the rolls and a baby-wipe. He reached out his hands, open, palms up, black with grime. They brushed mine, every so slightly, as I handed him the napkin-bundle.. “They’re kind of messy,” I explained.

I looked into his eyes and smiled again. Yes. Kind of messy. All of it.

“Sir, do you know that it’s Easter?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Do you know Jesus loves you, Sir?”

He smiled again. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

I said goodbye, walked back to the car. Coming out of the shadows, the light of the sun was so bright my teary eyes couldn’t see.

But I could see clearer than ever.

He was The One.

At The Faith & Culture Writer’s Conference William Paul Young, author of The Shack, spoke on the importance of The One. Considering his book has been read by nearly 100 million people, it’s surprising to interact with him and see his genuine concern for each person he meets. He knows no handshakes, only hugs. He treats the college-freshman sound guy the same as the other award-winning authors. And one of Young’s main points was that if God wants you to write a book for one person, is it worth it?

Am I willing to write a book for one person?

Am I willing to chase after one ridiculous baby goat?

Am I willing to hand out just one cinnamon roll?

And could it be that sometimes the crowd must be small so that that one person can be found?

In the words of John Piper, “There are saving works that God will only do through small churches and ordinary people, not through large churches and more sophisticated people.”

Both large and small churches are needed. Both large and small events, retreats, conferences. We need large-scale reform and we need to walk across the street and talk to our neighbor. We need huge pancake feeds and a single cinnamon roll. I’ve been impacted by the 90,000+ attended simulcasts by Beth Moore, and I’ve been impacted by my husband, housemate and I quietly keeling together, faces to the floor, to pray. I value the energy of a large group, and I value the sacred intimacy of small circles.

But above all, hopefully, I’m learning to value The One.

Because I am The One. 

I have been and continue to be The One. This past weekend I was the broken woman, the prostitute washing Jesus’ feet with her tears. I was so convicted of my own filthiness at one point all I could do was escape to the prayer chapel and lie on my face before Jesus. I was that woman. I am her. And Jesus continues to seek  me. 

Those who understand they are The One are more likely to seek after other Ones.

I am The One.

You are The One.

Our simple task is to move through the world with eyes to see The Ones God brings across our path.

Is it worth it?

Absolutely.

{Praying for spiritual eyes peeled for The Ones you may encounter this week. May He chase you down with His extravagant love. Thanks for reading, and please check out the opportunity below.}

*I’d like to invite any of you local readers, if you wish, to a small, private opportunity for renewal — a short, one-night retreat April 19-20. There’s just a few of us–some women from our church plant, some friends, The Sonflowerz (the precious sister-duo worship leaders from Colorado Springs), and me. I’ll be teaching from God’s Word, we’ll worship, pray, listen. You can interact with others or you can retreat into the woods. You can hike or nap.  Seek fellowship or solitude. It’s free, it’s relaxed, and there’s just room for a few, so if you are interested, please contact me here and I’ll share more information with you.