On Sunday, I was taking my daughters downstairs to their Sunday School class when I passed a couple of women on their way up to the sanctuary. One of the two women was looking down; the other was holding her arm and whispering into her ear. It seemed odd to me, but I was most concerned that the visitors feel comfortable; and I just assumed that the woman looking down had a disability or something. She didn’t.
Back in 2008, I followed the advice of a dear friend and interviewed a few people about the impact my life had on them. The interview questions were designed to illicit mostly negative responses, and boy, did they ever.
Last week, I posted a status update on my Facebook page asking the readers of the blog to pray for a miracle for Wanda Harrison, the wife of my friend Kevin. She had unexpectedly suffered a brain bleed that left her in a coma and without much hope for surviving. I concluded the status update by saying, I know that it’s hard to figure out how to respond to status updates like this one. Nobody wants to ‘like’ bad news. So here’s an idea: if you will join me in a simple prayer for God to do a wild miracle…
When I was a little boy, my mother would regularly tell my brother Caleb and me to go outside and play. We were happy to oblige for a half hour or so, but then we would get hot and bored and decide to go back inside. However, when we came back to the house, we would often discover she had locked us out.
After aggressively saving for a while, my wife and I just purchased a home that was totally remodeled. When the inspector was going through the house, he warned us that during the course of the first year, the new structure would settle, leaving cracks in the walls. Then a friend who purchased a similar home warned me that no matter how good the house looked, I would find all kinds of things wrong with it during the first year. Despite getting this advice from an experienced home inspector and a trusted friend, my internal reaction in response was, My house is going to be different.
Three weeks ago, my family and I picked up and moved everything from the suburbs of Raleigh, North Carolina, to the busy streets of Washington, DC. I’m grateful for the chance to return to DC, but at the same time, everything about life feels upside down.
One time I agreed to go tubing down a river with a bunch of friends, thinking it would be something akin to whitewater rafting. It wasn’t. We basically just sat in inner-tubes for several hours and took a slow-moving ride down a shallow river. It sounds easy enough, and generally it is, but the hard part is keeping up with all your friends.
Most of my childhood and teenage years, I grew up without a father. My dad left our family a handful of times, and even when he was home, he usually had a job as a truck driver, which meant he was on the road most of the time.
My oldest daughter recently graduated to big kids’ Sunday School. What that means for her is: goodbye coloring sheets and eating Goldfish; hello memory verses and eight-year-olds.
I’m currently waiting on some news that’s important to me, and it’s starting to get a little uncomfortable.
I thought Anna and Don Walker* had the kind of marriage I wanted – maybe they did at the time. That was 15 years ago, when I was in college. Back then, Anna and Don were the kind of couple you never dreamed would divorce. They were steady, salt-of-the-earth folks who effortlessly served others and gave the impression that they really liked each other.
I had just met the elderly, heavy-set woman at the dinner party. Without any prompting from me, she told me I needed physical healing (I did; I had a long-running, chronic illness). She said the reason I hadn’t been healed was because I had allowed Satan to keep me in bondage, but if I started praying in faith, God would take my sickness away.
I was in my thirties before I realized what a weird game we played at the church Christmas dinner of 1987. It seemed ingenious at the time though. Someone took a large goblet, pressed play on the tape deck, and passed the goblet around the room. The 19 or 20 people of our little church were expected to drop money in when it passed by. The object of the game was simple: when the music stopped playing, whoever had the glass got to keep all the change.
I have a Jewish friend named Jared who grew up in southern California and has minimal experience with evangelicals. Every once in a while, I introduce him to elements of our sometimes-odd subculture. The other day, a short conversation provided an opportunity to explain the all-important evangelical phrase, “I do/don’t have a peace about it.”
“Trusting God in the Face of Cancer” shared the first part of Stephanie and Jason Weathers’ faith journey, and it’s already one of the most highly-read posts on this blog. This week, we conclude their powerful story. Please note that the conclusion of this story is painful, and reader discretion is advised if you know someone who has been removed from life support. However, beyond the painful details, at its heart, this story is a testament to the God who gives us grace when we are suffering and at our weakest.
Joshua Rogers 