in the love of Christ

New mercy, whispered at my ear as I opened my eyes and took in the soft light through the bedroom curtains.  My feet hit the carpet and my hands reached to cradle my still swollen, tired face. The day before crept into my mind. It was a really tough day - the kind you cannot be proud of or even believe really happened as awfully as it had.  But, this was a new morning and new mercy was being offered to me.  I could take it or I could leave it. Head in my hands while my family slept for a few more minutes, I could decide to accept this new mercy or live another day engulfed by whatever dark cloud had carried me the day before.  Mercy was the better choice.  The Oxford Dictionary defines mercy as “compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm.” That’s what I needed that morning. It wasn’t just that I should accept this mercy from God. I would have to give this new mercy to myself.  Only the Lord and I knew the depth of my need for merc

Late-night social media scrolling left me staring at a family photo that looked slightly like my own. Striking East African features blended with a hazel eye and fair complexion on the countenance of a sweet toddler just loving his ethnically diverse parents full-heartedly.  I looked down at my own nursing baby. What will she know of her mother’s mother’s homeland? Will she be asked the same questions I have faced in my life? Will she know that most blonde-haired babies don’t swallow mouthfuls of injera with delight?  This little corner of the internet looked a lot like me with commenters that looked just like me sharing culturally ambiguous names. So, I wondered, Is this where I belong?  When we moved abroad to Ireland, I was questioned by a colleague about my intercultural experience.  It was assumed that, because I came from the United States of America and spoke with a twinge of a southern accent, I must not be “cultured” and would need help navigating intercultural conversations. 

The dormant things are coming to life, waking up in the warmth of our days. The sour smell of the Bradford pears and the chorus of birds coming in through the back door remind me this morning that Spring is not only coming but blossoming here. Getting the yard and garden ready for all that spring, summer, and fall will hold is our main task for today. It’s one thing to know that you have a job to do and it’s another thing to put on your shoes and go do it. I stepped into the backyard to answer my husband’s questions about where each garden bed should go and re-starting our compost when I looked up at the fence line. We both stood there, hands on our hips, contemplating what will stay and what has to be pruned back or uprooted. The warmth and the water have started something that is not easy to stop. The vines cover everything and new, infantile trees are reaching for the sun. They are all so beautiful when well placed and tended. But, this morning, they are a mess. And so am I. Weeks o