Pulling away from the looming white house tucked away from the world.
Framed by tri-colored trees.
I ask:
How?
How do I share in their sorrow and and count all as grace?
I pictured the tiny pink body wrapped up tight, secure inside his plastic world.
How does she look at her baby and hear things like:
"If you were below sea level things would be different."
So if this satin skinned, human had been born here, or there, or any where but where his heaving lungs rest, life would not include this darkness?
Pressure from residing in the mountains of Colorado suffocate his tiny lungs.
I watch as the carshop, the church with its massive brick front, the empty business all fade into the past and ask again:
"How?"
I hit the middle button on my radio.
The radio preachers.
There is nothing wrong with them, only that I feel compleatly inadiquite to listen to them and determin truth from fraud with out my bible and maticulous notes to check after the sermon.
Something about this man caught me though.
The story of the twelve spies was being read.
The ten spies who refused to believe that God was bigger than the giants awaiting them in their promised land.
The people again grumbling of circumstances.
But then,
Joshua.
Caleb.
They spoke.
They believed.
Is that it?
To look not to the circumstances but to the one who has promised.
This list I'm writing,
it hasn't brought about the amazing turn around in the last four days that Ann saw in her year long journey, but it will won't it?
The spiritual immaturity I am now so aware of and the maturity I crave will come.
To know Him.
To be aware that I am known by Him.
To speak with pen and ink the promises God has provided.
To believe the Most High is greater than circumstances.
To journey aware of the giants, the mighty people, and the strong men not blind to any of it.
To journey aware that the Most High has already promised victory.
That is how to see all as grace isn't it?
