Lord, I pray that you will show me the truth of my life. I see Your hand and I am often fearful that I am trying to please my personal aspirations rather than You. Lord Jesus, let my joy come from the inside and not what people perceive from the outside.
Here I am send me
Darlene will head to Nashville tomorrow in order to find a job, visit friends and perhaps look for a place to stay. We’ve tried to make Louisiana School system work for Caleb but he has been unsuccessful here so we’ve made the decision to be apart for the year so that Caleb can graduate. Praying for God to really show us what to do and how to make things work
Message for me. Maybe for you too.
I will sing of the loving-kindness of the Lord forever. I will make known with my mouth how faithful You are to all people. 2 For I said, “Loving-kindness will be built up forever. You will make known how faithful You are in the heavens.”
Thanking God that the song doesn’t end. Nothing can stop the rhythm and meter of this melody. Death, separation, doubt and despondency are no match for the strong and unchained sound of God’s grace. It has passed through ages of war, pain, oppression, bondage and unthinkable holocaust and yet the sound is steady and strong. It is tall enough to reach the heavens and powerful enough to break the bounds of oppression. It was sung as a dirge on a cruel cross on a Friday but returned as a dawn-breaking, triumphant wakeup anthem on Sunday. Thank You God that the song never ends.
“Our longing to know who we really are—which is the source of all our discontent—will never be satisfied until we confront and accept our solitude. There we discover that the truth of our belovedness is really true. Our identity rests in God’s relentless tenderness for us revealed in Jesus Christ.”
Lord, I pray that you will help me completely identify with Your saving grace that covers me.
Lord Have mercy…
On the lost in foreign lands
On the hopeless needing helping hands
On the broken- desolation’s child
On the unwed mother’s lonely mile
On the blind who stumble in the dark
On the ones who miss the mark
On the hungry, void of bread
mourners ’round their loved one’s bed
On secret shame, remaining still
On those embattled for Your will.
On an outcast soul’s despair
When broken hallelujahs fill the air
Amidst the wreckage, You are there
May we be angels unaware.
In a culture of stark cynicsim and impossible statues, He pulled the rug out from under of the palaces of religion. His hands were busy in the workhouse of mercy. His eyes turned toward the desperate. His feet stepped toward the outcast. His voice uttered grace and truth. Every step was questioned by those in power.