For a good portion of my married life, we were blessed with an annual vacation on the company dime. We stayed at high-end resorts where the drinks always had enough fruit for a salad, the pool floats cost more to rent than I spent on groceries each week and women wore a different swimsuit each day. We were way out of our league, we skipped the meals that weren’t included in the event, we hovered on the edges of parties with cash bars. Struggling to buy a dress for the big banquet evening, I certainly didn’t do any prep to get my winter body resort ready. Even as the years of financial struggle eased into ones where we didn’t hide our old luggage, I never felt comfortable with the sudden thrust into baring my arms, my legs and for the love of God, not my feet.

To my better manicured friends, this is not a judgement but a confession. I have had maybe 3 pedicures in my 56 years. I wish I could assure you all that I have attended to those calluses, have painted a pretty pink enamel on my toes, that I have sloughed and buffed my feet on my own, saving money but still taking care of business.  The truth is that I just don’t. I am rough on my feet. I go barefoot around my yard all summer. I walk on gravel and in the mud, I mostly pretend no one can see my beat up feet, that they aren’t a reflection of my self-care, that they are merely tools that get me from the front porch to the back. They often hurt, I always sit with them raised, I take medication to ensure I can put weight on them, still I spend no time caring for them cosmetically.

Having read about Jesus washing the disciples feet more times than I can count, having listened to sermons that described the humility of Christ, I never considered just how vulnerable those folks felt as Jesus grabbed the pitcher of water and a towel and began to  scrub. One year when money was a bit more accessible, I went for a pedicure before the conference, engaging in much self-talk to prepare myself for the experience. I remedied myself that I wouldn’t know the person doing the washing and trimming, that I would likely never see them again so their judgement wouldn’t really matter. Even if they shared stories at the end of their shifts about the worst feet they ever saw, the people bent over the basins couldn’t really impact me. We wouldn’t be lunching together later, we didn’t go to the same church, they wouldn’t be at my grandson’s school events. There was comfort in distancing myself from the person who provided the service.

The vulnerability I felt as my feet soaked was excruciating. I was sure they were judging me, that all the words flying around in a language I didn’t know were mocking me and my battle weary toes. They scrubbed with a vengeance, they clucked and tut-tutted at my cuticles. We both knew that the paint they applied couldn’t hide the state of my feet and I really should stick to tennis shoes and skip the scrappy sandals. No, I don’t go for pedicures, I have given up on a luxury that is outside my socio-economic status and my courage. My feet are a mess and probably a great indicator of my soul. But I can’t get it out of my head that Jesus washed the feet of those gathered around him, those men who had been walking with him on the journey to the cross.  Surely those feet too were calloused and dusty and in need of a good pair of clippers. Can you imagine the smell? I wonder if Jesus regretted his decision after the first whiff. Last night when my Plum slayed his legs across my lap, I recalled the funk of adolescent boy and realized that no amount of love for him would keep my arms from scooting those toes further from my face.

I get the point of Jesus’s actions. What I hadn’t considered is just how vulnerable the disciples felt. The first guy surely protested, the second and third may have been filled with anxiety, regretting  that they hadn’t done a prewash. As Jesus moved down the line, the urge to sneak away and find a pumice stone surely heightened. I imagine they ached show Jesus their best selves, to prove that they weren’t uncouth and unclean. What information about the disciples was Jesus gaining from the state of their heels? The last pedicure I had, a surprise bonus at the resort with several other wives, was the second one that week. I entered into the spa with a sense of peace, why I had visited the local salon at home only days before! Surely the technician would marvel at my smooth skin and coo at the pretty nails. Ah, this is the life, I thought, as I confidently sat in the chair and offered my feet as a pretend rich lady, sipping on cold wine in a real glass. All was good until she took one look and advised me that I needed to pay more attention to my feet. She explained a bit haughtily that my feet were a mess and I should get pedicures on a regular basis. Shamed, I gulped my wine and wondered if running out right then or sitting in my shame was worse. I was unworthy of the surroundings, I was marked as not belonging.

When Jesus bent over the feet of His disciples, it was without judgement, from the One who rightly could judge. It was with gentleness that he lifted each foot, it was with acceptance that He wiped away the dirt of the journey.  We know His love for us extends even to our most shameful places.  We hear often about the grace He offers even our rugged, battle-scarred souls. His willingness to serve us is preached and written about daily. The real question is whether we are brave enough to stay right there, looking into His eyes as He offers cool water and a warm towel.  I don’t know that I will ever enter another spa but today I am considering baring my feet, exposing my very foundation, risking condemnation, in the hope that Jesus will see through my pretenses and shame. What if I find adoration and an intimate invitation into vulnerability and honesty? What I let Jesus wash my feet and my heart today? What if I sit down and patiently accept my turn and stop worrying about being good enough?

 

Friends, I have to come clean about following the bible reading plan I have selected.  Some days the readings are powerful, they bring clarity and strike me in exactly the place I need. Other days, I want to skim. Do I really need to study the lineage? Is it critical that I read again all about the dimensions of the tabernacle? Cubits and the number of curtains, the specifics of the lampstand, the need for acacia wood? C’mon, we all know these passages are not really for us, let’s get to the “don’t worry” parts, I want the “follow me” nuggets. The readings assigned the last few days made my eyes water and my mind wander. With great sighs of martyrdom, I crossed off each reading when “completed” and hurriedly moved on to the new testament. Yet today, when I slowed down and really looked, sure there must be some point I was missing, some truth amidst all the repletion of how to build that tabernacle, it hit me. I stopped groaning so loudly that I was able to hear God speaking to me.

I can admit that I have always wondered about a God who wanted an ornate space in which to dwell, a fancy site to come down from on high to chat with Moses.  Wouldn’t those gold earrings be better given to the poor? A bit showy and wasteful, hard to reconcile with the teachings of Jesus, in my mind. (Yes, I am that person questioning the expensive oil poured out to wash feet.) Then today it hit. God asked the people to offer all the materials to make the tabernacle. The items needed to build it already were in the possession of the people, they merely needed to offer them up to God, share them for the good of all the people. I am sure you already got this, you might be filled with the desire to say, “Duh, Lisa” and I am good with that. I encourage you to say so when next we meet.

Exodus 35.21 says: “Then everyone came whose heart was stirred and everyone whose spirit was willing and they brought the Lord’s offering for the work of the tabernacle” Verse 29 says: “The children of Israel brought a freewill offering to the Lord”   This text is in line with the new testament section I am reading, Matthew 6.19, remember that part about storing up our treasures?  God didn’t want a fancy dwelling for His sake, but for ours, that it might be built with our sacrifice. Lightbulb moment! God knew what each person was storing up, the bits of treasure they hide form their fellow travelers. I get it, they were wandering around in the desert, they relied on the manna and quail that appeared, those gold earrings and fine tapestries were 401(k)s for former slaves. They gave up stability even if it was cruel in order to journey into daily reminders of just how little control they had, how small they were and how big God is.

We too are asked to give our most prized possessions to build His kingdom, we are invited to offer up the treasure we amass, whether it is is our gold earrings or our pride, our money or our artistic gifts, we must give those to the One who gave them to us in the first place. God is in the details of our wealth, our security, our big tv and our artfully arranged book shelves. God wants us to offer up every last bit of what we have in order to build His kingdom. Those gifts are not to make Him bigger, but to make us smaller, to make room for more of Him in us. The people gave according to their abundance and it was more than enough to build the tabernacle. More than enough.  God said share your wealth and I will reside among you. I am embarrassed to say that in countless readings of the later chapters in Exodus, I didn’t get it until now.

Lent has begun, the season of sacrifice. We are asked to wander with Jesus and discover that less is more, that clearing out the clutter of too much chocolate or Netflix or pride creates more room for God. I am searching my soul for those bits I have stored up, for anger and hurts I wear like fine jewelry, for the self-doubt that I allowed others to nurture into robes of splendor. I am doing some soul searching and finding out-dated ideas and too-small dreams that I have held on to in order to justify timid steps into becoming a kingdom builder. I have also found too many bags of chocolate chips hidden in the pantry, but I digress. Or maybe not. Because God is into the details, is in the details.  Skimming over the boring parts of a reading plan or of my day means I just might miss the message. Also, the book of numbers is next… Lord help me.

It occurred to me that January was the perfect time to begin not an exercise program or a new diet or a resolution to get my home organized again, but to read through the bible again. Last year I joined a reading challenge, something that wasn’t a stretch for me but more a plan to keep track of what I read and I easily met the goal of 52 books. The new year offers many opportunities to set goals to better ourselves but it had been several years since I made the commitment to read the bible each day, something that is probably a given for my fellow Christians. Somewhat sheepishly I will admit that scripture hasn’t been on my “must read” list for several years. I was content to listen each week in church, giving one hour out of 168 to absorb the Word of God and then going about my business. This year though, I have dedicated the first 15 minutes of each day to this practice, following a reading plan I first used in 1996 that ensures I will have covered the bible by year’s end. What I am discovering won’t surprise anyone, least of all those who habitually begin their day with a devotional, who start each year reading the bible again.  The old stories are bringing fresh understanding of our world today, of the ways God wants me to move forward, and clarity to relationships and opportunities. That 15 minutes each day is shaping the other 23 hours and 45 minutes.

With all of my social work and psychology training, I know that children re-experience trauma as they develop, that each new developmental phase into adulthood has them adjusting and making sense of their own stories, to fit into higher levels of thinking and greater understanding of emotions. As a child of God, I need to re-experience the stories shared in the bible anew, my lens has changed, shaped by loss and my steps toward regaining hope. I can truthfully tell you that I figured I knew the books of Genesis and Exodus well enough that a bit of skimming wouldn’t hurt. Instead I have found richness in the lives of some folks that just didn’t seem remarkable in previous readings. The Psalms have always been a source of comfort but now I am underlining different sections, ones that didn’t speak to me directly in the past. The Gospel of Luke has me thinking more about the disciples than ever before. Yes, I am re-experiencing the stories of old friends and finding many new ones, but more than that I am thinking about what the next edition of the bible would say about my life and choices.

What if this is just the first edition, what if the second installment of the story of God’s people is being written even as we speak? Would my life be worthy of mention? Would my story be a cautionary tale or an example of what happens when grace is offered? Will readers 2000 years from now read of my mistakes and think snuggly that they would have of course recognized Jesus as He stood before them, unlike me who misses signs all the time? Will those reading the next edition question why I don’t get that God is speaking to me, that the bush is on fire, that the road is being paved and yet I move forward so fearfully? I whisper “here I am” rather than shout it out? I wonder if my story will be a highlight, an example of caring for the poor and the oppressed. Maybe it will be a tale of one who was given much and yet little return was seen for the Kingdom of God. I am beginning to think a diet plan would have been easier.

Friends, what would the next edition of the bible, the story we are writing with our lives this very day, say about your walk? Give yourself grace if it isn’t the story you want recorded and then start living into your redemption chapter. Maybe you have it all figured out and are pleased with the words on these new pages, yet I encourage you to go  even more boldly into sharing your riches. We each have a story that is being written with every choice we make, will you join me in making today the one worthy of the highlights?

 

Luke 22 The Message (MSG)

The Passover Meal

22 ^1-2 The Feast of Unleavened Bread, also called Passover, drew near. The high priests and religion scholars were looking for a way to do away with Jesus but, fearful of the people, they were also looking for a way to cover their tracks.

^3-6 That’s when Satan entered Judas, the one called Iscariot. He was one of the Twelve. Leaving the others, he conferred with the high priests and the Temple guards about how he might betray Jesus to them. They couldn’t believe their good luck and agreed to pay him well. He gave them his word and started looking for a way to betray Jesus, but out of sight of the crowd.

 

Friends, this has been a heavy week.  The news of the death of Kobe, followed by the realization that his young daughter was lost as well, then more clarification of other children and moms and another dad, the pilot, all tapped into my own grief at the loss of my son and threatened to send me spiraling back to bed, devoid of hope. Next came Holocaust Remembrance day and with it the awareness that 6 million people were lost to us forever, that families were devastated and destroyed and our world will forever be gutted. The weight of loss, the anger at those who chose not to speak up for the marginalized, where could I possibly find hope again? When death comes to those who have achieved greatness and those whose names aren’t know outside of their families alike, the capriciousness of it all leaves me with little reason to believe that one person can really impact the greater good. With our very democracy threatened, seriously, what is the point? Unable to make sense of my grief and despair, I wanted to lay down. Instead, I went to Temple.   As a Jesus follower, seeking out the voice of our local Rabbi may cause many to wonder if  I have lost my way or my mind. It is possible that I have it all wrong, that I should stick with my traditions and not stray from the path that has led me back into hope. Yet I heard the invitation from God to go worship with people who know loss also, who understand how to find hope in the darkest of days, who keep showing up to do the work God has put before them. I want to temple and rediscovered hope.

The scripture readings this week in the book of Luke illustrate again and again that we live in a fallen world, that our basic humanity causes us to put pride over humility, the times we seek our own comfort over the needs of others, how we let our weariness win over doing the next right thing. The chief priests and scribes wanted Jesus gone but didnt’want anyone to know they were pulling the strings behind the scenes. Under the cover of secrecy they conspired to do evil and lured in Judas, a character we often mock as a sellout who could be bought so easily, cheaply. We have people in power today who are also conspiring behind the scenes, who want to alter the course of our country, who want to divide families and cage children and lock up people of color and defund our schools and and and. It is just too much, that people with money and influence can control the rest of us. But the plan always requires a Judas, someone to carry out evil, someone on the inside, someone to take the blame, someone who can be persuaded against all they know to be true. I have to wonder if I am that person? Is the currency used to buy my soul dispair? Can I allow my heart to harden to the needs of those around me, allow it to be starved of hope, crushed by fear and desperation?  I want to be one of the 11 disciples, not Judas, but how tempting it is to close down, shut out, give up, retreat. Such actions are as cheaply purchased as the small bits of silver handed over to the one who would betray God.

I can’t promise to always make the choice to stand up to evil, yet for one more day I said no to hate and hopelessness and I went to temple. I heard a beautiful message about deep hope, a coming together to help carry the load that recognizes the trauma of today and offers support to deal with today.  Not based on some utopian idea that tomorrow will be better, that young people will not die from tragic accidents or from addictions, that people in power will vote for the greater good, that black mothers can let go of fear every time their children walk out the door.  A deeper hope, that we will come together today and do the next right thing, that we will speak up for those who have no voice, that we will refuse to be filled with hate and we won’t sell our brothers and sisters out for shiny pieces of glory or social status.

I want to temple and was reminded that our God gives us a new chance to embrace his children with every sunrise. Together we can restore our deep hope, we can agree to share our heartaches and our celebrations and show up even when we are too tired.  Today I am praying for you all, that you might find the strength to reject the evil being offered. Won’t you pray for me as well? Let us chose today as the one where we seek not to cover our tracks but instead to pave the way so all can travel smoothly.

When I read scripture, when I read a blog post, when I listen to a friend vent, I now ask myself, “Who am I in the story?” My pastor taught me to listen deeper, to wonder more about what role I would take, to question whether I really would be the hero or am I the one questioning God or remaining silent when an ally is needed.  Are all the people around me being difficult or is it me? As in introspective person by nature, this practice has shifted my role into personal accountability and away from helplessness, dramatically increasing my understanding of our interconnectedness.

Musing this week on the story of Jesus and the disciples on the boat when the wind kicks up, a storm hits, and the frightened followers wake Jesus to share the bad news. Can you imagine the terror of the roaring wind, the waves crashing into the boat, the water covering their ankles? Yet Jesus is sleeping. While they worry and fret, while they shout out their fear, Jesus sleeps. Oh how I wish I could be the one in the story that calms everyone, reminds them they are in the company of God, encourages them to marvel at the sky filled with lightening. Of course if I were there on that boat, I could calmly trust that God is aware of the high sea and that His love for me provides all the safety I need.

The truth is I would be leading the disciples in worrying. I would be enlisting others to grab cups to scoop out the water. I would forget to pray until I had taken charge of securing all losses items, and closing all the windows. I would try to wake God up, giving Him my report on the situation and outlining the “10-point plan to fix this mess,” graciously sharing my vast knowledge. Oh if only just one time I could let go of trying to wake Jesus to the storms in my life. He asks the disciples who they think controls the wind and the water, why they can’t trust Him when He is right there with them. I am sure He grows weary asking me the same question. How many times must I witness Him commanding the water to storm crashing about me before I know it wants my intervention that did it, it was always His plan?

My worry list has grown much longer than my gratitude account and life feels stormy.  Today I am striving to be the disciple that reminds others that God has this. If God can silence the storm he can surely quiet mean people and protect addicts and restore relationships. He isn’t worried. He isn’t staying up all night, wringing his hands and admitting maybe this problem is just too big. He has yet to concede, saying, “I better call Lisa so we can get this situation back under control.”  His call is always to trust him not to lead him.  That is the person I want to be in the story.

We are all probably quite familiar with the story of Adam and Eve, maybe even too familiar.  Is it right the Eve gets all the blame? Should Adam have thrown her under the bus for his own choices? Why even have a tree that is off limits?  Doesn’t our humanity filled with curiosity, a trait we nurture in our children, mean we are destined to nibble where we are told not to? Yet today as I read the story anew, I wondered what tree I am eating from.

In the story, there are 2 trees, one that brings life and one that bears fruit not meant for me.  It struck me that those same trees are present every day in my life.  Do I reach out for the lush fruit that God has grown especially for me, fruits that come from following Him? Does the juice of His word run down my chin, spilling onto all that I touch? I am reminded of the fragrance of a sweet, sun-ripened peach in the summertime, a smell so alluring I can’t wait for that first bite.  Inhaling a peach, eating it so quickly I am covered in juice and lick my fingers so as to not miss a drop, I wonder why I don’t realize the greater joy of breathing in God’s Word? Maybe I am eating from the wrong tree.

Eve had all she needed, she had it all and wasn’t satisfied.  I think my name is Eve. I want what isn’t available to me right now, what has been called off limits in this moment.  Yet to many in the world, I have it all.  Certainly housing security, food in the pantry, more clothes than I can wear in a month, relationships I treasure, and opportunities to serve God.  Why am I unsatisfied, looking over at the tree that bears wealth and status to others? I grab fruit from trees that bear fear and judgement, that encourage incite division and blind me to those in need.  The juices from these fruits stain my hands, grow bitter on my tongue and multiply my resentment and pain.

My prayer today is that we all see the trees of hope and joy that God has offered to us, that we dine on His Word and offer these fruits to our loved ones and the stranger we meet.  When you catch me heading to the wrong tree, friends, please remind me of my love of a good peach and steer me back to the right garden.

 

My friends and I often joke that we are grateful that social media didn’t exist during our teen years, that we are ever grateful no one had a camera at the ready during our college exploits. We laugh and nod and not so secretly know we are telling a deep truth. Whew, we got by with some stuff, didn’t we? We worry for those who are coming of age in a society that documents and publishes everything. Now that we are older, wiser, calmed down and less prone to public drunkenness, we breathe many sighs of relief. And still we speak judgement on those who are now getting their comeuppance, on those who have some power or notoriety and have their sins or folly or one poor judgement exposed for all the world to see. Where is the grace, when does that enter into the discussion, how do we decide to offer that life-changing gift to others? How does one cross the bridge from exposed sinner to forgiven saint?

Grace, redemption, restoration. These concepts often feel so far away, meant for others, out of my reach. Other times I glow with the knowledge that I am included in the forgiven club, that I truly get a fresh start. What is the difference between a forgiven day and a shaming one? Mostly I find that when I let outsiders define me, people who don’t know me and want to dig up salacious history or repeat gossip, who need to feel righteous…those are shaming days when the reminder that I am made new again in Jesus gets lost in the noise. Then begins the slow crawl back to grace, shutting out the whispers and innuendos, listening more intentionally to the nudge of the Holy Spirit that says I am more than my past, yesterday is over. Choosing to focus on the thread that pulls me closer to God is ever challenging but maybe more so in the greater culture of #metoo and the publicizing of old yearbook pictures and long forgotten emails. I am left with the question of who deserves forgiveness, who gets a second chance?

Accountability. I think it all rests in accountability. Confession of sins plays a critical role in the forgiveness equation, at least for me. What hides in darkness is scary, powerful, soul-crushing and only loses steam and the ability to hurt when it is brought into the Light. For many years, I hid, I avoided relationships and feared exposure of my past. Meeting each overture of friendship with dread, distrust, desperation, I stayed home, stayed quiet, stayed alone. Anyone who continued to push, asked for lunch dates or invited me into their club, ministry, children’s play group mom gatherings brought anxiety and a long discussion with Chef. Dare I risk connecting with her? What if she finds out? How long before they find out that I carry a monster label and they back away, judge, begin whispering? No, better to be safe and not invest in a friendship, not pour any effort into building a program or sharing my gifts only to have the inevitable phone call that says thank you but no, the email that says my help is no longer needed, the summons into the manger’s office telling me it is over. This is shame, this is the darkness. I built a castle, a fortress for one, that kept the outside away and while it was a new prison, I was at least in control of who crossed the moat.

Two significant events began to open my eyes to living into grace instead of shame. I can’t remember which came first, but together they offered me a hand across the bridge and both involved accountability and Light. A trusted neighbor who knew my story began to spread gossip and judgement about me to others on the street. Why he would do that is still many years later a question I cannot answer. Yet his behavior gave me the opportunity to face a shame, to question and confront an accuser. I faced him and stepped into the light. I felt my shame melt away, the weight of secrecy and worry lifted by using my own voice to say, “You know me, I am more than my past and a label and I have given you the story before I accepted your friendship.” I sought accountability for both of us, only one walked away with the Light that night, a glow that dims sometimes but has never been fully extinguished. I lost a friendship but gained myself.

A conversation with a trusted pastor, a man who spoke many truths to me, was the other awakening I needed, the encouragement to leave the safety of my prison. When I shared with him that a now highly trusted friend had invited me to lunch, began pursuing a friendship with me, and she had small children and I wanted to spare her the high cost of a relationship with me, that I had finally succumbed to her advances by sitting on the patio in the bright sunlight for a lunch I couldn’t eat and listed out for her all the reasons she shouldn’t be friends with me, he didn’t congratulate me on my honesty or thank me for keeping the reputation of others intact, he didn’t high five me for choosing to quarantine myself lest others catch the virus of my sinful reputation. No, he was appalled that I would begin every conversation that way, that I wouldn’t trust others to forgive and that I had such little faith in their genuine delight in getting to know me. What? WHAT?!! No, he said, stop it. Just stop it. Who else begins a relationship with a recounting of their past, he asked me. “Lisa, accept the grace that is being offered to you.” He guided me across the bridge into a relationship with the One who had already forgiven me, who wanted to rejoice in my redemption. Life changed after that talk with my pastor.

So what can these experiences teach me about the current climate of outing old emails and yearbook pictures and stupid teenage choices? My constant companion of old, anxiety of being exposed, tries to squash me to this day. I avoid the spotlight but hear the Holy Spirit reminding me there is no glory in rejecting the gifts I have been given. For the record, I am not saying that there are no consequences for wearing blackface or pretending to grab a woman’s breast. But can one event tell our entire story? Is that one photo a true indication of our character? No, I think that grace accepted for our own secrets requires us to offer it to others, to make space for apologies and seek out evidence of atonement as well. Owning my history and poor choices and devastating decisions, I am free to cross the bridge into grace. The price of that grace though is the demand that I look back not into my own past but to those who desire assistance to get to the crossing.

My advice to those who have covered their painful pasts, who fear the exposure that a Google search could bring, I say own it. No, don’t begin every conversation with your sin list but yes, say it happened and express the remorse that precedes grace. The truth is we have all done hurtful things, we all were young and dumb and self-centered. Many of us ruminate on choices made during school years, on the mistakes we made parenting or the ways we have taken our spouses for granted. Getting stuck in shame robs us though of the healing that comes with accountability and claiming our status as a child of God. Then live each day as if we have another chance to get it right, make each choice better than the last one, look to the vulnerable people and hear their pain and then do what we can to stop the cycle of shame.

I was heartbroken when another favorite actor was exposed as a sexual predator, when a politician I admired was found to have no respect for women, when a beloved celebrity appeared in disgusting pictures that we know today are offensive and perpetuate injustice. With each new headline, I wonder why, why didn’t this person get out in front of it and tell us all that they made choices yesterday that they have spent many todays atoning for? The new ministry at church that is healing my heart is bringing us into relationship with those in the community that have been incarcerated. As we strive to convince them that they are more than their last bad decision, they are greater than the Department of Corrections number that follows their name, that they are deserving of a second and third and fourth chance, I recognize that this is a hard sell when we are taking down others with our phones locked in video mode. We revel in righteousness every time a person of the opposing political party makes the news for a 40 year old decision. Instead, let us ask if this person would make the same choice today? Has this public figure or now-public figure behaved consistently to display a contrite heart?

I get lost in the space between seeking accountability for victims of injustice and offering grace to other sinners like me. I can’t find any easy path forward beyond continuing to cross the bridge into forgiveness and handing our grace like candy. We all want to be heard and validated in our pain, to believe our experiences are unique. The truth is that we all hurt others and are hurt. Some of us stop there, get stuck there and hoard forgiveness as if it is ours to dole out. Today I am grateful for a pastor who told me otherwise, for friends who have persisted in relationship with me, for a new 24 hours to get it right. You have your own new day, will you join me in seeking the best in others and allowing the worst to pass without our amplification? Join me as I cross again into grace, where the Light is warm and bright and available to all.