How to Read the Bible - Session 9 - The Gospel [Video]

Session 9

How to Read the Bible: The Gospel

The New Testament contains four ancient biographies of Jesus of Nazareth, and altogether they are called “the Gospel.” Each one tells the story as an announcement of good news that the crucified and risen Jesus is the true ruler of the nations. In this video we explore why these accounts were written and how you can read them with greater insight.

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

How to Read the Bible - Session 8 - Design Patterns [Video]

Session 8

How to Read the Bible: Design Patterns

Design patterns are one of the key ways the biblical authors have unified the storyline of the Bible. Individual stories across the Old and New Testaments have been coordinated through repeated words and parallel themes. These patterns highlight core themes of the biblical story and show how it all leads to Jesus!

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

Groundhog Day Was a Horror Movie All Along

Taken from the Atlantic. https://www.theatlantic.com/culture/archive/2020/04/groundhog-day-horror-movie-quarantine/610867/

MEGAN GARBER

APRIL 30, 2020

In February, during the Super Bowl, Jeep ran an ad doing what Super Bowl ads so often will: It converted a beloved cultural product into a marketing message. This time around, the alchemy on offer involved the 1993 film Groundhog Day. Cheerfully soundtracked with the film’s most memorable song, Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe,” the spot featured Bill Murray reprising the role of Phil Connors, the misanthropic weatherman who relives the same day (and relives it, and relives it, and relives it). Instead of the existential agony posited in the original film, however, the commercial Murray delighted in the repetition. Because this time around, he faced his monotonous eternity as the owner of a Jeep.

A lot has changed since February. This month, acknowledging the shift, Jeep came out with another edit of its ad. In place of scenes of Murray joyfully navigating Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, in a candy-colored four-wheel drive, this version begins with a black screen and sober text: “We understand that every day is starting to seem the same,” it reads, flashing briefly to Murray waking—again—at 6 a.m. The text shifts, abruptly, to the imperative: “Stay home. Stay healthy. When this is all over, the trails will be waiting. Jeep: #StayOffTheRoad.”

At the start of the coronavirus pandemic, the movies that were most resonant for many people were ones that directly confronted the calamity: Contagion. The Thing. Safe. Outbreak, for a time, was one of the most popular movies on Netflix. But Jeep understood, with the canny intuition of the advertiser, that as the emergency became more permanent, viewers might be seeking a different kind of catharsis. As the days blend and blur—as the weeks become months and the tidy boxes of the calendar melt into formless liquidity—Groundhog Day, now more than 25 years old, has adopted a new kind of urgency. Earlier this month, the Today show featured a video essay explaining “Why Every Day Feels Like Groundhog Day Lately.” Esquire offered tips on “How to Avoid Groundhog Day During Social Distancing.” On Facebook and Twitter, a meme has been proliferating: an image of Murray, as Phil, announcing, “It’s quarantine day … again.”

The comparisons are signs of privilege; they are typically made by and for the people who have the luxury of doing their jobs remotely, of schooling their children from home, of counting boredom as a hardship. But the comparisons are reminders, too, of how easily quarantine, that act of physical separation, can also cause people to feel distanced from time itself. I’d remembered Groundhog Day, hazily, as a comedy above all, its profundities packaged as a love story, its message hopeful about the giddy possibilities of self-improvement. Watching it again, though—watching it now, in the interstitial space between the Before Times and the After—I was struck by how dark the film is before it gets light again. And I was struck most of all by the film’s suggestion that the true source of Phil’s agonies isn’t repetition alone; it’s the fact that Phil endures the endless days not knowing how, or whether, the repetition will end.

Here is the basic premise of Groundhog Day: Phil, a Pittsburgh-based weatherman, is assigned for the fourth year in a row to report on the Groundhog Day festival in Punxsutawney. He is extremely indignant about the assignment. And so Phil spends his day in Punxsutawney doing a version, the film implies, of what he does pretty much every year: mocking the festivities, belittling the people who partake in them, generally assuming that the celebrations—and their adherents—are beneath him. (Phil refers to himself, at one point, to his cameraman, Larry, and his producer, Rita, as “the talent.”) The pique continues apace, until: A blizzard blows in. Phil, Rita, and Larry have to spend another night in Punxsutawney. And for reasons that Groundhog Day, in a twist of filmmaking genius, leaves unexplained, Phil wakes up the next morning … to realize, slowly, that it is February 2 once more. He is doomed to repeat the day, caught in a loop of unknown origin or duration, until, finally, he is able to live a day of selflessness, of joy, of love—and, therefore, to break through to February 3.

Groundhog Day’s action is structured according to a classic redemptive arc: This is the hero’s journey, set in the small-town wilds of Punxsutawney. But as Phil moves from confusion to resignation to despair, the movie grows darker in tone. Trapped, panicked, desperate, he tries to escape the time loop by alternately jumping from a building, plunging a toaster into his bathwater, and driving himself and the groundhog, Thelma & Louise–style, off a cliff. He uses his compounding knowledge of the people around him to manipulate them. (“I’m a god,” he tells Rita at one point, wearily.) He experiments with consequence-free living: driving on train tracks, mocking a policeman, insulting people so insolently that they slap him. But he never gets any bruises. And so Phil, at once invincible and confined, comes to ask questions such as this one: “What would you do if you were stuck in one place, and every day was exactly the same, and nothing that you did mattered?”

This is comedy that operates, at its edges, as horror. It understands what Phil comes to realize: how easily time itself, when it refuses to move forward, can become monstrous. Groundhog Day has been interpreted as an allegory for ethics, for religion, for psychoanalysis, for self-help, for economic theory; it is also, however, widely recognized as an analogy for the dread of unchanging circumstances. The Oxford Handbook of Military Psychology offers a chapter on the psychic effects of contemporary modes of warfare. It is titled “Boredom: Groundhog Day as Metaphor for Iraq.”

That interpretation does a lot to explain why the film has become a meme in this moment. For those fortunate enough to live a life of easy monotony, time looms. Monday becomes Wednesday becomes Sunday; the activities that differentiated them have largely fallen away. What day is it? has been spiking as a search term on Google. Todd Meany, an anchor at Fox 8 News in Cleveland, has begun hosting a regular “What Day Is It?” reminder during the station’s broadcasts. The segments, which Meany said arose from the very real recognition that “nobody could remember what day it was,” are only partially a joke. New York Governor Andrew Cuomo, while providing sober updates about the state’s handling of the coronavirus pandemic, often adds reminders such as this one to his slide decks: “Today is Saturday.”

But also: “There’s no such thing as Saturdays anymore,” Tom Hanks, hosting the first quarantine edition of Saturday Night Live, said earlier this month, noting the new irony of the show’s name. “It’s just, every day is today.” In a subsequent episode that aired over the weekend, Pete Davidson performed a song that contained these lyrics: “For like two months I’ve been on my couch / Runnin’ out of things to talk about / It’s quarantine in my house / I’m going crazy, and crazy, and crazy / I’m going crazy, and crazy, and crazy.”

And so, Groundhog Day. Groundhog Days. “At first I was like, ‘This is great—I get to chill out, be in my pajamas, do breakfast whenever, slow and easy,’” Lisa Devlin, a stay-at-home mother, told The Washington Post recently. “And then I realized very quickly that just turns the day into an amorphous mess.” That stark shift in mindset, experts suggest, is a common experience. “Some psychologists,” The New York Times notes, “have compared the coronavirus’s effects to the aftermath of a natural disaster, except the disaster is moving in slow motion, taking place everywhere and has no end in sight.” In mid-April, CBS 4, a local news station in Miami, aired a segment that began, “It’s not February 2, but it sure does feel like Groundhog Day lately.” The reporter, Lauren Pastrana (“reporting from my garage, again”), remotely interviewed the psychologist Raquel Bild-Libbin, who noted how easily unstructured days can give rise to anxiety and depression. The doctor also noted the irony of that twist: “We have gained something that we have always wanted, which is time.”

This is another way that Groundhog Day speaks to this moment. Unstructured time, initially, might seem like a gift. “Let me ask you guys a question,” Phil says to two Punxsutawney residents he meets in a bowling-alley bar: “What if there were no tomorrow?” They consider the question. “No tomorrow,” one answers. “That would mean there would be no consequences. There’d be no hangovers. We could do whatever we wanted!”

But one of the lessons of Groundhog Day is that accountability is its own kind of asset. Without it, Phil is rudderless, and doomed to repeat his unending day. And one of the things that makes Phil’s predicament so unnerving, to him and to viewers, is that its dynamics are so deeply unclear. What happened to make time—Phil’s unique experience of time, at any rate—repeat itself? Why February 2? Why this particular February 2? The current moment brings similar questions. “We Still Don’t Know How the Coronavirus Is Killing Us,” New York magazine announced this week. On Tuesday, Yascha Mounk wrote a piece for The Atlantic that contained the following line: “After weeks in which it made sense to hope that something would happen to end this nightmare, the prospects for deliverance are more remote than ever.” Yesterday, Ed Yong published a sweeping essay headlined “Why the Coronavirus Is So Confusing.” Its sub-headline: “A guide to making sense of a problem that is now too big for any one person to fully comprehend.”

The unknowns, like the disheveled days, loom. The plot trails off. Groundhog Day is a comedy, ultimately, because of its ending: Phil, finally, uses time to become a better person. He learns from the past. He comes to care about people in the present. He breaks his curse. Imagine what Groundhog Day would be if he didn’t. Imagine where we might be, too, if we fail to find a better way forward. There will be a tomorrow, and a tomorrow, and a tomorrow. But will they bring a happy ending? That is one more thing that, in this moment, is profoundly unclear.

How to Read the Bible - Session 7 - Setting [Video]

Session 7

How to Read the Bible: Setting

Every story has to take place somewhere, and very often locations have a special meaning or significance evoked by events that already took place there. In this video, we explore how biblical authors use settings in the narrative to meet the reader's expectations or to mess with them. Paying attention to locations and timelines in biblical stories unlocks deeper layers of meaning.

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

The Acquittal of Our Guilty Pleasures

Music is always a near-essential for me when I hit the road. But now, more than ever, having a soundtrack to drive to feels absolutely critical. Typically, I have a playlist cued up to inject some presence into the errand I’m running to offset the Leftovers vibe I pick up everywhere I look around. 

Sometimes, though, someone’s using my Spotify account, and if I haven’t thought ahead and brought CDs (Ron Howard voiceover: He almost never does), my only recourse is the radio which can be a chore. But, when my choice is between listening to the radio or enduring the anxieties and withering self-doubts intruding upon my consciousness in the silence, well, you know what’s going to win out. 

Which is about the only way what I’m about to describe could ever happen. The other day I was surprised to hear the stuttering beat to Dave Matthews Band’s “Ants Marching” stagger out of the radio. Unsettled, I flicked the tuner in no particular direction, fleeing “anywhere but here” in sheer animal panic, reminded uncomfortably of it being my favorite song when I was ten and the subsequent growth in taste I’ve hopefully accumulated since then.

But that hopefulness only continued to be called into question as it went on the duration of my drive: ”Sorry” by Justin Bieber, “Sex Type Thing” by Stone Temple Pilots… Songs that I’m hesitant to admit used to set my heart beating like a defibrillator, and yet—oof, they did. They do.

What was going on? Aren’t I under enough psychic pressure from the cabin fever of sheltering at home already? Do I really need to grapple with why on Earth these songs should pluck some secret lyre in my heart?

I think two things can simultaneously be true: that DMB can be the ideal band for frat guys to get hammered to while assuring themselves they contain multitudes, and “Ants Marching” can excite the nerve endings in the hidden recesses of my soul and set them vibrating with delight in spite of my awareness of the first point. I don’t want that to be true, but it is.

Our guilty pleasures rupture the husk of our confirmation biases. They testify, “You are those things you let on to the world, but you are also these things.” They are acknowledgements that there’s more to us than our carefully curated public images would suggest. They extract and exclude the evidence of a concealed self we don’t want to let on. We suppress those things that make us feel guilty and ashamed, those things that will not let us forget how we fail to measure up to the standards we set in place for ourselves. The guilty pleasure is Exhibit A in our masochistic self-trials whereby we carve out selves we would prefer to be.

Even the label “guilty pleasure” is a way to cloak our attachment to these songs in the shade of a term implying distance. The phrase inoculates the song’s side effects by dismissing its significance and the resonant frequency with which it rings in sympathy with our being. It reassures us that we know better and regularly choose better, but much like catching a cold, can any of us ever be vigilant enough?

It’s an attempt to distance the self we project to the world and, most importantly, the ideal self we imagine and wish we could become from the irrational dilettante we routinely are in our unguarded moments of simply being. This distance is deceptive, however, because in the act of dissociation we end up burying the pleasure deeper within the self we don’t dare allow to see the light of day. 

The problem here is that that excluded self is still us. Georg Simmel emphasizes the uncomfortable point that

[t]he individual does not attain the unity of his personality exclusively by an exhaustive harmonization… of the contents of his personality. On the contrary, contradiction and conflict not only precede this unity but are operative in it at every moment of its existence.

(Georg Simmel, On Individuality and Social Forms: Selected Writings, ed. D. N. Levine [University of Chicago Press], pp. 71-72)

To be an I, in other words, is always to be a contradictory I. There’s no way around it.

“Do I want to be loved in spite of?” Tim Kreider via Donald Barthelme asks us, and the answer surely is, “No!” That sounds too horrifying for words. I want the love others pour into my prim, manufactured self to be imputed to the actual, unedited me silently behind the scenes. If I can’t earn that love, then by God, I want to smuggle in approval for a bogus self and worry about the divide later. Or never. 

Guilty pleasures essentially say, “Others might enjoy such drivel, but not I,” which is only slightly less obnoxious than the classic, “I thank you Lord that I am not like other men” (Luke 18:11). They serve as boundary markers for who we think we need to be, and who we will fight the outside world’s disciplining scrutinies to become. They’re bowling alley bumpers for our actual selves to ricochet within to safely arrive at the destination we assure ourselves is best. Guilty pleasures can be readily surrendered, we think, when the Thought Police break down our door and read us our charges under the Categorical Imperative of Cool. 

But they never actually arrive, do they? Sure, some of us have been embarrassed when we’ve been asked our favorite album and we’ve said, “Kiss’ Dynasty.” It happens. But the music magisterium we fear is really the oppressive voice of our own inner moralist, spoiling the fun by applying real aesthetic criteria beyond their legitimate bounds with no breaks. That’s no way to live, but that doesn’t stop that voice. 

The deepest, most fundamentally good news usually comes cloaked in the form of its opposite. So hear the good news: only phonies need Christ; positively put, inauthenticity is the price of admission. Maybe most of these songs really, truly aren’t good in any critical sense. But if I could be honest with myself for half a moment, I know the deeper issue my guilty pleasures refract back to me is that I’m not all that good, either. But Jesus wants me anyway. And he doesn’t agonize under any scruples that would try to indict him: “You are woefully inconsistent! Are you taking seriously the implications of the moral heart of your being and the objects of your affection? You can’t love Ian—what would that say about you? How can you be the true, the good, and the beautiful, and bring him into the sphere of reconciliation?”

In a way that evades our attempts at comprehensive understanding, God is both just and the justifier of nincompoops like us (Romans 3:26). Our clumsy likes and ill advised favorites won’t count against us at the eschatological tribunal. We’re just not all that good at consistently liking the best stuff. We might as well just own it. But God isn’t ashamed of you for the Bread records you inherited from your parents or your Big Daddy Weave CDs, or because Weird Al was your first concert. You, delighted by questionable tunes, are vastly preferable to him than dour-but-refined-and-checking-your-Top 5-list-“correctly” you. 

So crank that Starship song; get so severely down to Carlie Rae Jepson. Now is a time when we really don’t need yet another Law choking out our attempts to cope. Your guilty pleasures and mine have been acquitted, their questionability annulled by the superabundant righteousness of Christ. Add your favorites—your actual favorites—to his open-sourced mix. For his triumphal procession blasts all manner of music as we are led in the captivity of freedom (2 Corinthians 2:14). 

How to Read the Bible - Session 6 - Character [Video]

Session 6

How to Read the Bible: Character

Most of us think of characters in Bible as either sinners or saints, good or bad. At least that’s how Bible stories are presented to children. In this video, we’ll explore the ways biblical authors present characters as more complex and morally compromised than we usually imagine.

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

How to Read the Bible - Session 5 - Plot [Video]

Session 5

How to Read the Bible: Plot

An important part of reading biblical narratives is learning how to understand the nature of "the plot," how stories are arranged into a pattern of conflict and resolution. In this video we'll see how ignoring the sequence of the plot can lead to distorted interpretation of biblical stories. We'll also explore how grasping the multi-layered nature of the narrative can help you see the unified story that leads to Jesus.

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

How to Read the Bible - Session 4 - Ancient Jewish Meditation Literature [Video]

Session 4

How to Read the Bible: Ancient Jewish Meditation Literature

Episode 4 explores the unique literary style of the Bible that is meant to draw its readers into a lifelong journey of reading and meditation. The Bible is designed as a multi-layered work, offering new levels of insight as you re-read it and allow each part to help you understanding every other part. The Bible is the original meditation literature.

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

How to Read the Bible - Session 3 - Literary Styles [Video]

Session 3

How to Read the Bible: Literary Styles

Episode 3 shows how reading the Bible wisely requires that we learn about the ancient literary styles used by the biblical authors. These writers expressed their ideas and claims through a variety of different type of literature, and this video will explore why it's important to tell them apart so we can hear their message on their terms.

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

How to Read the Bible - Session 2 - Biblical Story [Video]

Session 2

How to Read the Bible: Biblical Story

Episode 2 summarizes the overall story of the Bible as a series of crossroad decisions. All humanity, followed by the Israelites, redefine good and evil and end up in Babylon. They are followed by Jesus, who takes a different path that opens up the way to a new creation.

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

Email Blast May 11 20

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How to Read the Bible - Session 1 - What is the Bible [Video]

This is a starter video series that helps you read the Bible while understanding its unique design and literary devices.

While the Bible is one unified story, it cannot all be read in the same way.

The How to Read the Bible series walks through each literary style found in the Bible, and how each uniquely contributes to the overall whole. Each literary style lives by its own rules and structure. First, lets see what the bible actually is.

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Session 1

How to Read the Bible: What is the Bible?

This is episode 1 of an ongoing series that explores the origins, content, and purpose of the Bible. Here you'll be introduced to a condensed history of how the Bible came into existence, and the different forms of the Bible in the Catholic, Orthodox, and Protestant Christian traditions.

All Content, Lessons, and Videos are taken from the Bible Project. https://bibleproject.com/explore/how-to-read-the-bible/

Table Talk: Apologetics [Video]

[Announce] Live Streaming + Covid 19 and Grace

May Drone Footage

Very Nice Post from Alzheimer's Community care's Facebook Page

Ed’s wife, Barbara, has attend the Specialized Adult Day Center in Port St. Lucie since early in 2018. Barbara has thrived there and he has thrived as a caregiver, due in part to the wonderful care and support his wife has received., “ACC has provided a wonderful experience for my wife and I now have time to take care of her and our home.” When his church, Grace Lutheran Church - Port St Lucie, FL, wanted to dive deep into a community outreach project, he recommended building a second Day Center is Port St. Lucie on their property. He knew that the need was growing and that it wouldn’t take long to fill another Center in Port St. Lucie so he advocated for it with his congregation. It was an easy sell and the members quickly embraced the mission of Alzheimer’s Community Care and as they say, “the rest is history”. Ed shared these photos recently of the progress taking place. We are so happy to partner with Grace Lutheran Church - Port St Lucie, FL and their wonderful congregation. Thank you for being the “community” in Alzheimer's Community Care.

The Freedom to Do Nothing

Source: https://mbird.com/2020/04/the-freedom-to-do-nothing/

The following was written by Sarah Denley Herrington.

What a time to be alive!

I’ve been comforted and inspired by the frequency of seeing a gracious word here and there on social media. But it gnaws at me, the guilt I feel when I don’t do enough. I recently decided to get on Facebook (which is always a good decision) and respond to this meme that’s been going around saying that if you don’t do all of these things (learn a new skill, start your side hustle, etc.) you’re lazy. Its perspective is absurdly privileged. The truth is, we’re experiencing collective trauma. But I’m convinced that if I don’t take people to task on Facebook, I’ve done a disservice to those around me who are struggling who could be comforted by my hot take. Sigh.

I recently listened to a podcast in which the guest, Celeste Headlee, who wrote a book called Do Nothing shared research about how, when people were asked their hourly rate for their work before listening to a beautiful arrangement of music, they said the piece lasted too long. The piece was three minutes.

I stay at home with my three children and homeschool them, so my hours have no such worth. And yet, I’m constantly thinking about time, work, and what Headlee called the “cult of efficiency“. And more often than not, I’m tying it to my personal worth, in conscious and unconscious ways.

I realized almost immediately when we began streaming church that, for the first time, I could monitor how much longer church would last. I felt an odd sense of control and also an incredible sense of guilt. I told myself that a large part of operating on countdown mode was my anxious personality and my unruly children who unsurprisingly seem to behave less well in the comfort of their own home, watching a screen than in the confines of a pew where some (very small, in their case) amount of decorum is expected. I also reminded myself that this wasn’t specific to a worship service. I often find myself fixated on how many episodes are left in a season of a television show or how many pages are left in a chapter of a novel. I am unquestionably a neurotic person living in a neurotic age. I did feel such satisfaction hearing about the musical piece that, at three minutes, was just too long for folks.

One thing I did manage to catch last Sunday was our pastor asking what we were grieving. I paused the service and asked my children. The first thing my big kids both said was New York. We had a trip scheduled this month. We were going to spend the last part of Holy Week there and I was planning on attending a conference that I’ve missed for the last several years and that, in very real ways, sustains me. The children were mostly going to enjoy revisiting their old favorites in the city they once spent a year and a half growing up in and sharing it with their baby sister who has been to visit once but doesn’t remember anything about it. I had tears in my eyes. What a better use of our time than all the Pinterest and home improvement projects I was scheming about and mentally writing on a list.

This hasn’t sucked entirely. In fact, we’ve been some of the lucky few who have really enjoyed this time. We’ve thrived. Largely, I think because I decided VERY early on that I did not have the energy to erect arbitrary and artificial frameworks in our days. I knew that attempts to block schedule things like “art” and “exercise” would be fruitless with my crew and would result in mutiny.

But it was hard to wrap my mind around at first. So I did the thing — I grieved it, the structure and the tidy, predictable blocks of time we operated in, for however long this would last. You can be damn sure I grieved the three mornings a week I dropped my favorite three year old off at the Methodist church preschool with the pithy, if occasionally preachy, church signage and completely precious director who gives the children lollipops with very little restraint and toddler buddies whose names filled our days. You can also be damn sure I did not grieve the multiple nights a week on the soccer field. And now we mostly just do what we want.

But the thing that has been hard has been feeling like that’s enough. Like it’s enough for me and my children and my husband (when he’s home from his essential job in the health care field that he doesn’t like to be fawned over for) to just be.

I’ve heard a lot of people talk about this “historical moment” and this “current moment in time” and one that sticks out is this “present moment.” It just seems so difficult to be present in this present moment — mentally and emotionally and spiritually. I’m certainly here physically but sometimes that feels like about all. My preteen is experiencing the onset of teenage ennui early and my little boy who is nine but developmentally about seven recently asked, “What even is this life?” And my little one, who has more energy than the other four of us combined, has been missing preschool and the sibling run-around in the afternoon and evening. We are so in our feelings. I feel the tediousness and mundaneness of this vocation on an entirely new level. I so often feel the numbness, the dull ache which I’m terrified is the depression I had finally gotten a hold of in the past year.

When I get sad and lonely and afraid, I am reminded of a great comfort and that is that Jesus is present in this present moment. When I am distracted and impatient and at the very end of my rope (or roll of toilet paper), God is in this mess beside me.

Our pastor reminded us of another fabulous truth on Easter Sunday. She said “In Christ’s resurrection, we experience the liberation from saving ourselves and the liberation from praising ourselves.” But man, do I find myself going back to those chains. I need a daily (hourly?) reminder that my worth is not found in a failed (or unattempted) house project and I also need the reminder that my worth is not found in a successful one.

For the past decade, God has used my children to show me this truth and in 2020, He is using a pandemic to show me.

Praise God for the days when I check everything off my list and for the days when I am unable to accomplish a blessed thing. And praise God that my worth is tied to neither.

Ordering Online

Roofing the building

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1st Zoom to Coffee

It was a great seeing all that joined in.