lena love story

Moss and sponge-y dirt coat forest floors as we hike through the closest I have ever been to Narnia. Gnats scatter like pixie dust in the rays of sunlight peeking between tree tops, and our eyes focus on tangled roots I am just waiting to see move and trip us, the tree planning to walk away. This is the perfect setting for a fairy tale, and I half-expect the eagles I hear calling in the trees to swoop down and land on someone’s shoulder.

The path jumps up, then curves around the coast. Glimpses of rocks and water tease us, but as we push through the trees a magnificent view comes into focus. Seaweed and barnacles cover rocks below as the wake of a distant passing ferry gently crashes, the faint smell of salt lingering in the air. A lone sailboat has the cove to himself, and we watch from lichen-covered cliffs 20 feet up. Sunlight reflects off the water, slightly blinding my vision, but I can’t take my eyes off the blue color palette displayed in the waters and sky and staggered mountains in the distance.

A love story happened here.

Not the kind with a chance meet of two strangers in the woods.
Not a Romeo-and-Juliet-esq adventure of running away together.
Not the long-awaited wedding ceremony of a prince to his Cinderella.

But the kind of a Creator wooing a girl to Himself through His creation, her heart stopping in break-taking awe of the detail in every crest of water, in the spray emerging from slight shadows of whales hidden underneath the deep, in the opening of clouds to reveal the sun’s warm rays reaching for her legs.

The kind of love that catches your breath and races your heart, chilling skin with an audacious breeze and drawing her close like arms into an embrace. Safe. Secure. Content. The mark of true love. It continues to pull her near, His presence consuming her every thought.

Waves play tricks on eyes, teasing hope for a second glimpse of the whale.

His love is boundless, cannot be understood. His love is unconditional and foolish in the eyes of those who don’t understand. His love asks her to rest – not perform, not earn, not strive. And in that moment, she wonders why she ever thinks anything else matters. All of the value of life is contained here, in Him.

Yet once she leaves the cliffs of Lena, the memory of that moment fades. Not enough to forget the romance – you never forget your first kiss – but enough to cloud the clarity she once had about life and purpose and value.

Her heart longs to be on the cliffs of Lena again. Time seemed to stop in His presence. Those moments had a storybook glow, a picturesque quality unable to be contained in an Instagram post. Yet time does not stop, so she clings to the memories of that love and tries to push forward in a world where things are earned and lost and transient.

But it’s not that easy. One day, she finds herself breaking down as she feels the weight of all of the things she once knew didn’t matter but has since started carrying. The expectations she has placed on herself and the identity she has sought in her accomplishments have grown into something more than she can bear. In the midst of her tears and her racing thoughts, she hears a whisper of GRACE.

Was it possible that He was there, meeting her in the midst of the flood?

When you can’t carry it all, look to Me. I am here, in the everyday pieces of your life.

Her breath caught in her throat, then she slowly exhaled, feeling the beat of her heart calm in her chest. Maybe Lena was where the fairytale began, but life couldn’t stay there. Her failings and her attempts to do it alone wouldn’t negate the happily-ever-after she was hoping for; they would simply be a part of her figuring out how to find that happily-ever-after in ordinary moments and in ordinary ways. That intense, incomparable love had not ended but only changed scenes, showing up in little ways as reminders of what does matter and how she is loved.

Even after leaving Lena Point, the love story continues.

Posted on June 28, 2015June 28, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

the breaking and the clean up

Thunder’s growl begins to fade as I settle in against the pillows on my bed. The desire to settle in among blankets and drink a cup of hot tea is rare in Arkansas summers, but our air conditioning has tricked me into thinking this weather is “cozy.” I know I will feel differently tomorrow when all that moisture is hanging around in the air, wrapping me in its unwelcome embrace, but for right now this moment finds me content.

A welcome change from the past couple of days.

With my staff team on Cru’s Summer Missions project in Juneau, AK, we did a staff development lesson on StrengthsFinder, and I was surprised that one of my top five was “responsibility.” Not that I think I mishandle responsibility, but it surprised me that it was so high on the list. However, as I look back at this week, I see how it fits in.

Your Responsibility theme forces you to take psychological ownership for anything you commit to, and whether large or small, you feel emotionally bound to follow it through to completion.

So that explains my tears yesterday afternoon, the overwhelming feelings of anxiousness, the slow deep breaths I am forcing myself to take. I over-committed myself on responsibilities and freaked when I wasn’t accomplishing them all – even though all of the responsibilities were things I promised only to myself. No one else expected me to complete my list of tasks this week, not even Eric, who has been out of town but encouraging me to take things more slowly this summer.

Yet the dishes filled the sink, the laundry taunted me from its dirty pile in our closet, and the stack of things needed to still be hung on the walls kept popping up in my mind. That little red icon on my phone reminded me that I had several unread e-mails, and a desire to write more and read more this week were unfulfilled.

I hung a shelf in our bedroom today – a cheap one from Target, one of those “floating shelves” that looks so easy to hang thanks to brackets and grooves and several screws. I found Eric’s level and carefully measured, double-checking before setting screws in drywall. I went to attach the shelf to the wall, laid the level on, and found that it was still straight! Rejoicing, I sorted through unused decorations and decided on a frame holding our wedding vows and a pretty candle. It seemed like it needed one more object, though, so I grabbed my copy of Gone With The Wind as the final touch… and that’s when the whole thing tumped over. The crash coincided with a clap of thunder as glass from the frame shot everywhere, and I couldn’t help but regret that one last addition.

I think that’s my tendency too often – to want to add one more thing. Maybe not even just want, but to have this crazy urge to have to add one more thing. Then I can’t handle everything, so it’s not just the last task that falls but it’s everything because I can’t bear all of the weight.

I think I have felt like more of a failure working from home than I did when I worked 40 hours a week outside of the home. When I was gone all day, I found myself not caring so much whether the dishes were promptly cleaned and put away. I didn’t expect that dinner would be ready by 6 p.m., and I understood that laundry would most likely only happen on weekends. But now that I create my own schedule and manage myself in a sense, I think I should be able to do it all. I put this enormous sense of pressure on myself to do it all and to “earn” the right to continue to work from home, because I do love the flexibility of my schedule and the opportunities I have been given this summer.

Yet I don’t want to get into a habit of prioritizing efficiency over effectiveness. I don’t want the measure of success to be how much I accomplished in a day so I have to limit my time building relationships with people or investing in my personal walk with the Lord. I want to be present in the day and ready to make changes to my plans when good things come up – or when bad things come up and the Lord is telling me to practice surrender and practice rest in Him because of who He is, not because of how I have earned His rest.

Truth be told, none of us can earn His rest. It’s a gift, and I want to stop looking at my life as something to achieve and conquer. I want to be grateful for the responsibilities He has given me and not see how I can push my limit of what I can balance, each time competing with myself to add more and more to my load.

The shelf was fine with just the two items, and now I have to sweep and start over. Thank goodness the shelf didn’t break.

Posted on June 26, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

Reminder in the Morning

spindly branches
remniscent of spider legs, or
gangly teenage limbs
stretch out above
leaving gaps for sky

daylight is normally the sign to get up
yet the alaskan sky is the sneaky type,
attempts wake you at 4:30 a.m.
instead of 7.

evergreen smells crawl into my hammock
tempting the one sense exposed
with the rest of me burying self in a mummy bag
wool socks holding in heat down by my toes
eyes closed, hoping for a couple more hours
of sleep

while those trees stand tall:
reaching to touch heaven
to point to their Maker
whether or not you are looking…

but how can you not look?

Posted on May 31, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

low tide at sunset

His mark is everywhere here.

I know it’s everywhere, everywhere – but here, it calls out to you, determined that you not miss a single detail. It’s almost as if the rocks and mountains and moss are crying out their praise; may my response be louder praise.

Last night, we chased the Juneau sunset in a prehistoric Chevy van with blue tape marking racing stripes and the number 7. 20-somethings tumbled in together to drive “out the road” in hopes of bear sightings. In Juneau, it really is called out the road – and you can get to the end of the road. I have done it before, five years ago when I was here for the first time.

His mark was in the sun, that golden ball of fire hiding and seeking between clouds. The reflection of rays across the water, causing turquoise light to shimmer in the distance – that was Him, too. The mountains in the distance – a watercolor masterpiece with muted hues and blurry details – corresponded in color with the sunset as purples and blues and deeper blues. Charcoal and ink sketched details in the closer ones, outlining snow still thick in the peaks.

He’s a creative one, our God. We walked out through moss and sand and rocks to get as close as possible to the water, hoping to see evidence of whales. At high tide, that walk would have been a swim, but the edges of the sea regularly move back to expose the life and death underneath her waters. Her highs and lows affect fishermen and coastline residents and explorers like us, so we were careful to watch for her to slowly start moving back up.

Removing myself from my everyday life this summer is having a similar effect.

It’s as if the tide is changing in me – not in the cliché sense of new directions, but the ebbing of my routines and my relationships and my regular world has begun to expose the life and death in me, the stripping away of the waters to reveal what’s underneath.

The grime and the mud in my heart is sticky, and I can no longer deny the selfishness and the pride that have been resting below. What is it about life changes that cause the change in tide? The good and the bad come out raw, and I am sure that’s an intentional result by a God Whose mark is, after all, on everything.

The low tide exposes what the dark has hidden.

Yet in the midst of the algae-covered rocks and the still-damp floor, there is beauty. There is life growing in what has been hidden from the eye while the high tide held. And with the laying bare of what’s in me, God’s grace is flourishing with life, spilling over even into the places I wish were not there.

In the end, we aren’t qualified or capable to be used by God. We don’t reach a point where we “have it together” so that we can finally live this life on our own. It’s often only in the change in tides that we (are forced to) stop to notice how broken and dead we are on our own – but it’s also in that place where we are able to see the life God has brought in the midst of our lack. It’s then that we can truly say, “Your grace is sufficient for me.”

Even in the ebb of the waters, His mark is there.

Posted on May 24, 2015May 24, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

flight to juneau

Rolling over in bed, I dare to open my eyes and see daylight streaming in past the closed blinds. My phone says 5 a.m., and my body begs for more sleep, but daylight begs to differ.

Yesterday felt like a long day. I arrived at the airport before 6 a.m. for my first flight, which took off on time but was delayed in the air due to weather. After attempting to run through DFW’s airport to get to my connecting flight, I arrived to the gate five minutes too late. (I do say ‘attempting to run’ thanks to the 65L Osprey pack strapped to me, causing it to be an awkwardly fast walk that felt like a run.) Having never missed a flight before, I of course started crying while the sweet American Airlines lady did some research and put me on two new flights, since missing that second flight also meant that I would miss my third flight. A new two and a half hour layover in Dallas, then a five and a half hour layover in Seattle meant I would arrive much later than planned in Juneau (and a lot later in central time hours than my body was used to staying awake).

But the last flight from Seattle to Juneau was breathtaking. The moment the mountains were visible, I just stared out the window, unable to stop grinning. At first – they were just watercolor paintings in the distance. But as we got closer, they gained dimension and detail. Sun reflected off lakes below, coloring them a brilliant orange as if liquid gold was pooling together. Clouds, snow, sky blended together, confusing where one ended and another began. Fog curled itself around crests of mountains, intertwining itself just below the peaks.

The descent – we hit the layer of clouds, and visibility was nonexistent. Yet as we continued to descend, a light shone through, a reflection from water. Water, land, and sea began to separate, and mountains rose in greeting.

And my heart had this strange sense of coming home, even after being away for five years.

Posted on May 22, 2015May 24, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

marriage letters: on new seasons

Dear Eric,

Our life seems to be all about new seasons lately. We moved out of our rent house – the first place we lived together after we got married – and have moved into our first purchased house. I’m no gardener, but I feel like we have transplanted ourselves from a patio container to the deep, wide earth. This new house is full of new possibilities and projects and places to grow together.

As the old house slowly emptied (thanks to working hands of dear friends), the reality of our move was numbed by my desire to start unpacking boxes and finding a new sense of home. It felt less bittersweet than I expected – rather, it felt right.

Our final week in our sweet Sycamore home was fitting – boxes filling every nook and corner, just as they did when we first moved in. Red tulips, planted as bulbs for my birthday last fall, bloomed that last week. The scissors were packed away, so I grabbed stems straight out of the ground and carried them to our new home in my fist, ragged edges revealing my haste in making sure we didn’t move without taking those blossoms we rightfully deserved to enjoy.

As spring settles in to her unpredictable routine, we, too, now settle in to this new season of home ownership. While you have always been a do-it-yourself kind of guy, I see you in a whole ‘nother element here, planning for and daydreaming about projects you want to start and ways to make this place our own. You have already worked hard to help make this house home, and I am grateful for everything you have accomplished.

As we move forward on this “new house high,” though, I want you to know that I don’t expect it to always feel this exciting. I am anticipating days when the idea of another house project doesn’t seem as fun, or moments when we wish we could just call a landlord to deal with the latest problem. While you get excited now to cross things off the honey-do list, I am cautiously awaiting the day that list becomes a burden on you. As with each weather-related season, the newness will turn to normal, and we once again won’t be able to wait for a change in temperature.

Spring’s moody weather patterns wear on me even now, and I am wishing for consistent sunshine and heat.

The point of this letter, though, is where I want you to find confidence. Whether we are in an exciting seasonal transition or the doldrums of repetition, I am grateful to be growing by your side. I will never tire of crawling into bed, clicking off lamps, and weaving my feet in between yours. I will never long for a seasonal change in our morning routine of prayers and cheek kisses before we go our separate ways. I love the anticipation of new seasons, but that anticipation would not be the same if it was not with you.

In the words of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, “home is wherever I’m with you.”

And even when new seasons turn into monotonous days, I am grateful to God to find myself at your side.

Love,
me.

——————————————–

On the first Monday of every month (or when I get around to it), I’ll be writing a letter to participate with Amber Haines in the “Marriage Letters” series on her blog. I love getting to develop this practice of blessing my husband and our marriage. You should also check out Amber’s most recent marriage letter and the others that are linked up to her post.

Posted on April 27, 2015April 27, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

a goodbye and a blessing for this house

To the tenants who will occupy our sweet home once we move:

Welcome to a blessed space.

We prayed for God’s provision when we were looking for somewhere to live once we got married, and this home was the result of those prayers. We then prayed we could use this house to be a blessing to those in our life, that it would be a place of peace and rest and warmth. It has been a refuge for us during harder days, and an oasis for us when the honeysuckle is blooming and it’s hard to not be happy.

I will miss the creaky wood floors in the hallway – and trying to remember which spots to avoid as I tiptoed to the kitchen in the mornings while Eric was still sleeping.

I will miss cooking on that fantastic gas stove – the house may be old, but the stove is new, and I don’t know how I am going to go back to cooking on an electric stove after being spoiled here.

That screened in porch with double french doors is the crowning glory of the house. Please tell me you will refrain from using AC in the spring and fall, keeping the doors wide open to fill the home with fresh air. The twinkle lights are coming with us, but an easy thing to replace. It’s one of the cutest things about this Sycamore house.

The natural light in that living room is everything. Swoon.

This home is where we learned how to do marriage, how to do life together. We moved in exhausted from wedding planning and a late night drive back from the Memphis airport after our honeymoon. To be honest, I woke up the next morning and cried in the kitchen, not feeling like I was “home” yet. Blank walls and rooms full of boxes didn’t help, and it took a couple of months to settle in. Figuring out how to decorate this space actually took a couple of years as I discovered both my style and the house’s style. You may not have realized yet that homes have their own style that you have to compromise with. There is a unique way to combine your preferences with the things you can’t change, dealing with the sense that something isn’t quite right in that spot.

We battled through multiple instances of one income in this home. God always provides.

We hosted lots of parties and dinners here – the small space creates a sense of coziness that larger homes just won’t. Don’t be afraid to fill the home past the capacity you assume it has; rub shoulders with friends and pull out camping chairs and invade personal space. And don’t be too polite to allow guests to help with dishes after all is eaten and enjoyed. Without a dishwasher, you are going to want the help, and it creates a deeper sense of friendship between people when you let them in to the gunk and the grime of your life (both literally and metaphorically).

Speaking of doing dishes, find ways to enjoy that time with your spouse. See it as a chance for quality time and conversation about the day. So often, Eric and I found ourselves complaining when we didn’t maintain the sink and found ourselves with 45 minutes of soapy work to do. Yet there were some sweet moments at the sink, too. Moments when I saw a husband who wanted to serve me despite that service involving a dreadful chore. Unexpected conversations about life and about us. Eric loved me well through dish washing.

{I do suggest investing in a good pair of rubber gloves, though, or your hands will be dry and raw before winter even starts.}

This house was our refuge during seasons of unemployment and seasons of loneliness and seasons of confusion about how to be a 20-something. It was here we curled up on the couch and cried, prayed, fought – together.

We pray this home will bless you the way it blessed us. And don’t mind me if I drive past every so often, just to whisper thanks for the things started here that will continue their story across town.

Posted on April 8, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 1

connecting my heart to easter weekend

I feel guilty and non-spiritual for making this confession, but here it is: I haven’t been very reflective during this season leading up to Easter.

I haven’t spent time meditating on my sin or my personal need for Christ’s work on the cross.
I didn’t do a devotional plan during Lent that prepared my heart for Easter morning.
The first time I opened up to the Easter story was this morning before church.

I thought often about how I should be doing something more intentional – something to make this season more meaningful. I don’t want to cheapen the significance of Easter into a holiday with a special church service then rushing home to stick the ham in the oven. And while I don’t want to claim that I am more busy now than normal (busy is not an excuse), my mind has been fairly consumed with the home buying process and preparing to close and move next weekend.

I struggle with the road to my heart going through my head – that is, I have a tendency to sometimes think more logically than emotionally about the world around me. I certainly have my sentimental streaks, especially when talking about my stud of a husband. He is really good at the “feeling” stuff, and while I tease him for being overly sappy, my romantic heart bursts that he feels that way about me. I just don’t do a great job of externally communicating my own sappy desires.

And this year with Easter, I have been much more focused on the logic of the holiday rather than the personal feeling of what Jesus’ death and resurrection means. Yet this morning, the roadblock between my heart and my head was removed as I read through Luke’s account of the Easter story before church. God is so good to meet me in those intellectual desires and pursuits, and when facts click together for me, my heart swells up with joy in response to how cool God is.

I read past the part where the women find the empty tomb to the story of the road to Emmaus. Two men are walking seven miles and discussing the current controversial events in town when Jesus shows up (unbeknownst to them) and walks with them. He feins ignorance and lets them re-tell the story of what has happened, then allows them space to confess their confusion that, after the women came back telling about their encounter with the angel, “Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but him they did not see” (Luke 24:24). It’s as if they are saying they were struggling to believe as clearly as the women did because they didn’t get to see what the women did. Jesus affirms their struggle to believe by addressing them, “O foolish ones, and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken!” (Luke 24:25)

These two men were having difficulty reconciling all that they had seen happen over the weekend, and while Jesus calls them out on that unbelief, he takes the time to explain to them all that was prophesied and all that was promised. He wants to help them believe! During the meal together, Jesus breaks the bread and blesses it, then reveals His identity to the men just as He vanishes from their presence.

13914167903_462e03dd48_z The part that grabbed me, though, was their response as they realized who had been walking and talking with them all day – they ran to Jerusalem, found the disciples, and proclaimed, “The Lord has risen indeed!” (Luke 24:34)

This simple phrase is repeated all around me and even voiced by me during this weekend each year, but knowing that it was their proclamation of faith gives a new weight to this statement.

He has risen indeed. We didn’t understand, and it seems incredible, but we now believe Jesus is risen. We wrestled with the facts but we heard all of the prophecies and we see that Jesus came to fulfill them. He is alive!

I believe that He died for my sins, taking punishment I was meant to take, to provide me with redemption I couldn’t earn. But beyond that, I believe that He conquered death and still lives! He is risen, and because of that sacred weekend, I can experience His grace in a loving, unconditional relationship.

So as you finish off that leftover ham and say goodbye to friends and family, take a moment to think about the confession you are making as you call out, “He is risen!”

He is risen indeed.

Posted on April 5, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

in-between

Thunder sounds a warning and the skies deepen their gray hue. A panic-stricken pup becomes my shadow as I walk through the house, boxes in hand. I turn on the ceiling light in the bedroom, then turn it off again. Lamplight always feels more appropriate in the approaching of a storm. I pull things from high closet shelves, things I once decided I wouldn’t need, haphazardly threw up there, hoped didn’t tumble back down. “The Stable Song” plays on repeat – it’s the song I find myself subconsciously humming throughout the day. Fabric and clothes with holes I once promised to repair are stacked neatly into boxes, and decorations are taken off the wall to be packed on top, sealed with a layer of packing tape.

We’re moving.

Just across town, to an inviting house with a front porch and oddly enough a front door the same shade of green we painted ours last summer. A neighborhood with good sidewalks and the promise of many summer night walks and talks with Ridley and Eric and friends who live nearby. It’s a starter house, not a dream house, but a starter house carrying the excitement and anticipation of what the next season of our life will look like as homeowners.

And while I expected the sadness that comes with leaving a home that has been woven through the past three and a half years of your life stories, I didn’t expect this in-between emotion. The sense of walking in the front door and not quite feeling at home, but not sure where to go to feel that way. The evenings of staring at empty bookshelves (never have I ever had a problem with not enough books or having to leave shelves empty) and walls with missing pictures. And maybe it is a blessing, to be allowed to slowly detach from this home, but I feel in-between, and I don’t like it.

I could easily take these sentiments and apply them to spiritual things like how this world is not our home and we were meant for another world and all the things that CS Lewis beautifully describes in some famous quotes. But right now, I think my heart just wants to walk through the process of being in-between yet finding rest here. We still have another two weeks in this house, and the amount of boxes stacked along walls and in the basement will continue to increase each day. Then we will move, and once again I expect to feel in-between for a couple of weeks until we get things unpacked and settled again.

Yet there must be rest in-between.

Posted on March 27, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

stopping to speak “grace”

After three days of sunshine and sixty to seventy degree weather, this rainy morning feels like a let-down. The temperature has dropped back down to the fifties, and I feel confined to the couch again. My plans to go to a coffee shop with my laptop and my Bible were foiled by an intense downpour just as I was putting on my rain jacket. Our border collie looking at me with sad eyes just begging to snuggle didn’t help, either, so I stripped off the jacket and settled back in to listen to the rain.

This week has been full. More so than normal weeks of work. I normally get gaps in my schedule here and there to get things done around the house or sit at a table on campus and catch up on texts and e-mails while waiting for the next appointment. Each spare moment has been filled with various work-related projects, cramming as much as possible into this week before spring break.

Yesterday, I felt myself at the epitome of desperate and shameless. In my thirty minute break between addressing invitations for our fundraising dinner and helping facilitate a class on how to lead a Bible study, I grabbed Slim’s to-go, arrived to the locked classroom early, and sat on the cold tile floor in the hallway. I crammed potato salad into my mouth and halfway glanced up at the students walking past me trying to hide their grins. It was my first moment since my day had started to simply sit and stare.

My nature is not to be anxious about what’s going on in my life. While I have many other sin-patterns and struggles, anxiety hasn’t been a prevalent one in my story. However, over the past couple of weeks, I have started to experience moments of panic. People have described it to me as a weight sitting on top of their chest, and I understand that metaphor now. When I try to take in all that will happen (or needs to happen) over the next two months or so, I feel that heaviness slowly creeping in and wanting to take over.

And the thing I am tracing it back to is a sense of carrying full responsibility for everything going on in my life — therefore negating God at work. I carry the weight that “if I don’t get this done right now, then xyz won’t happen and everything will fall apart.” As if God’s provision were dependent on my performance. I think that I have to get all of the details of my life together now so that I will survive April. As if God can’t sustain me day by day. I worry that I don’t initiate with friends enough and they will therefore stop being my friend because I forgot to text them to check in on their week. As if even my friendships are dependent on my personal efforts and not God using people to be tangible examples of His love. As if He isn’t the One Who provided community in the first place.

I have started a new habit of stopping to close my eyes and repeat “grace” to myself in those moments. A verbal reminder that it’s not all up to me. A powerful whisper that cuts down my pride of self-sufficiency. I once heard someone say that maturing in your walk with God does not mean that you mess up less and less, so that you need less grace. Rather, spiritual maturity is consistently growing to recognize your need for grace more and more.

Our salvation is “not by works, so that no one can boast” (Eph. 2:8-9). Shouldn’t that mean that we live in that same “by grace, through faith” mentality in the everyday pieces of our lives?

In the moments when your schedule feels hectic and you aren’t sure how you will get it all done – grace.
When you are working against a deadline and worry about the results of not meeting it – grace.
As patience wears thin and your shoulder muscles start to tighten – grace.
In loneliness and fear and panic and dread and uncertainty – grace.

When you feel overwhelmed, try stopping to close your eyes and just speak the word grace over yourself and your activities. Take the focus off you and your own abilities, reminding yourself of your place in God’s grand story. He is still God. He is still both the narrator and the hero of the story. He is still the one in control, and in the role He has given to us, we are called to embrace grace.

At the end of each day, even every hour, I will release everything and trust it to His care. I am not enough, but Christ is more than enough. Whisper to yourself, “Grace.”

Posted on March 18, 2015 by Samantha Barnes 0

samantha c. barnes