God, today my finitude is rubbed on my forehead. The reality of my limits, my fragile body, spoken over me like a curse: From dust I was made, to dust I will return. Some days I need to be reminded that I am not the perfectibility project I set out to be I am full of bounce and brimming with hope. All woes, solvable. All problems, a distant whisper. When I don’t feel like dust, bless me O God, in the ways I trick myself into believing that my life is something I’ve made, that all my accomplishments and successes and mastered mornings add up to something independent of you.
But on days like today, when my head hangs low, sunk with the grief of my neediness, bless me o God.
When my joints don’t work like they should, when I grow sick or turn gray too soon, when my body betrays me… or perhaps it is doing exactly what it is supposed to do. Tell me again exactly how you made me: from dust to dust. Blessed are we, a mess of contradictions, in our delusions and deep hopes, in our fragility and finitude.
Sim Shalom
Kings and Rag Dolls
In the Rubble
The Reading of The Will
A Wee Little Man
The Pearly Gates
In the Middle of the Night
The End of My Rope
Unmeasurable Faith
Unfixing Chasms and Creating Connections
It’s Who You Know
The Joy of Being Found
A Dose of Reality
Where Do We Go From Here? (I’ve Been Meaning to Ask...)
What Do You Need? (I’ve Been Meaning to Ask...)
Ask The Pastors (I’ve Been Meaning to Ask...)
Where Does It Hurt? (I’ve Been Meaning to Ask...)
Where Are You From? (I’ve Been Meaning to Ask...)
At The Feet of Jesus
Among the Wolves
Fruit Season
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