The blood

Right now our church is doing a mini series on The Lord's Supper. It has been awesome so far and there is still more to come. Last week when we took The Lord's Supper as a congregation, it was the sweetest one I think I have ever been a part of. Usually in a big room full of people, it is never really quiet. There is always a baby babbling or a woman unzipping her purse or pages turning or people whispering. ALWAYS. But I promise you, if the room hadn't been carpeted, you could have heard a pen drop. Everything was quiet, everyone was still, and we all knew that He is God. It was the kind of quite that I have only heard in empty places. That sounds contrary to what is was, if it was empty--I think it's because hearts were being emptied of sin and making room for the Holy Spirit. It was beautiful.

The worship team came up for a last song, Nothing But The Blood. And the hope that comes along with the atoning blood which washed me white as snow was overwhelming for me. I thought "I cannot imagine existing, much less living in this world if the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus had never happened." Then for the first time an important light bulb lit. "For those who haven't been told, it is as if none of it ever happened. They live in the darkness of a world with no hope. That is why it is good news. It did happen."

Once I lived in darkness, but someone gave me good news. I think for the first time, I really get that. I really get how important that is.

Not spiritual, maybe funny, definitely a rambling

So I found this author that I like...no dare say I love. I loved reading her book, just reading her words, I honestly didn't even care if they were happy or sad words. I just loved the rhythm she wrote in and the way she described things. It was therapeutic for me. Then I made a massively huge mistake. A mistake I will never make again. After finishing her book, I googled her. I googled her and I found her. Then I found a video of her reading from that beloved book. It was the biggest disappointment. She didn't read it the way I read it. She didn't read it with the confidence and ease that I think she wrote it in. I'm sure the way that I was feeling is the grown-up equivalent of finding out there is no real Santa (yep thats right, I never believed in Santa as a kid, and I'm not even sad about it). Unfairly, I decided I couldn't bear to read any of her other books. (In case you can't tell I'm an all or nothing type of girl.) I find myself getting lost in the words and rhythms of a few new authors these days and I have used all my self-control to keep from googling, especially videos. I don't want to lose anymore heroes and heroins, day dreams and poignant perspectives.

Here is the kicker though. Last night Austin and I were watching a movie about a girl who lost her arm in a freak accident. As I was watching her learn how to slice an orange a new way, I thought to myself "what would I have to re-learn?" Then I was relieved when it dawned on me, "my writing comes from my brain so I could totally dictate it or something like that." Then came reality, clashing like a noisy gong. If I couldn't physically type out the words I think I would lose my rhythm. I don't ever speak the way I write. I don't journal the way I type. I only type the way I write. Or is it write the way I type? Either way, I need to work really hard to wean my "writing rhythm" away from my "typing rhythm," is this making any sense?

 I can conclude that one day if I'm lucky enough to have a book that someone loves as much as I loved the previously mentioned book, then I would probably break her heart too if I ever read aloud.