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a letter to my son
Our oldest son got all busted up back at the end of March, healed quicker than anyone expected, then took off on his next adventure--just like that. For the past two summers Gabe has been an intern at a camp nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. For 8 weeks he works his arse off from 5am and plays hard in between mucking stalls, weed whacking the fields and cleaning toilets--among other camp-related responsibilities. He also eats up…
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the value of suffering (part 2, 3, and 4)
{image by Gabriel Morrison} Part 2 I have this affliction, you see: I can’t fall asleep in my bed where it’s snug and soft and safe without first lending my thoughts and prayers to all the people who don’t have what I have; all the people who rest their weary heads on park benches and bus stop seats or who lay hidden under the bushes with their backs against the bricks of Trinity Lutheran Church. Almost every night between the…
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the value of suffering (part 1)
It’s hard to measure and express in words the exact feelings I carried around inside me, even before the accident happened. I had reached the absolute end of my energetic resources and for quite some time felt as if I had been watching little bits of my soul and skin fracture and fly away in slow motion. There were different points in the last year when and where I would feverishly attempt to catch my own drifting particles and reattach…
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the offensive truth
“To the natural eye it looks like the relative strength of two armies fighting on the battlefield determines the outcome of the battle. But the eye of faith should see that this outcome is much more affected by a man standing on a hill raising his arms in prayer (Ex. 17:8-13). Faith understands that the fate of nations may hinge more on whether a kingdom person is praying than the decisions of its leaders (Ezek. 22:29-31).” --Greg Boyd, The Myth of…
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let us not forget our enemies, also known as: brothers
When the news broke yesterday that 21 Egyptians were beheaded by ISIS for being “people of the cross” and this picture circulated with headlines everywhere, I found myself thrust into the bosom of sorrow; my unhardened heart was--and still is--laid open upon the ground, bleeding. And my prayers came free and barely above a whisper because how does one even speak when confronted with an image of brother against brother, cold blade to warm flesh? The tears weren’t mine to…
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just touch them!
“One day in Gubbio, a woman with severely deformed hands ran up to St. Francis. “Just touch them!” she pleaded as she raised her misshapen hands to him. Francis clasped her hands in his, gently moved his fingers over hers, and she was healed. What do you think she did next? What any Italian woman would do. She used her restored hands to cook. She went off and baked a cheesecake for Francis. He ate some of it and sent…
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an open letter to new years – a guest post by shea petaja
I have known her since the day I was born and she has been by my side ever since, even though we live 900 miles away from each other. She texted me last Monday to say: "I'm in Florida, at a retirement community with ample time to write. Give me a prompt please." And I replied with these five words: "The hard road to beautiful". She accepted my challenge and two days later I received an email, which she permissioned…
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we wish you
We wish you and yours all the happy, all the merry, all the joy this holiday season. Love, The Morrisons. {Photos taken by my best girl, Rachel, from Resting Roost. If you live in the CT area and need some amazing images, you can contact her through her website!}
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nothing less than a love affair
Advent does something different to me: Messes my insides up; makes goo from my guts; urges me out of bed in the deep of night to sit with darkness and silence and tears I don’t understand;  leaves me with an ache of want so big I sense I could expire from it. The striped chair in the living room is a witness to my watering and wanting, to the fiery clamp of my palms on both armrests. To the veins…
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