Jesus, am I doing Enough? (Of Running and Rations)

 

I’ve elbowed, maneuvered, and shoved my way to the very front of this crowd.   Behind me are the mothers-with-strollers, the adventure runners, and the kids.  But I’m up here at the very front because I’ve been super serious about my training this time.

This is where I need to be, I tell myself.  I’m running my very first 10 km run and I want to gain every advantage to achieve a personal best time.  I bounce lightly on my toes and shake out my hands.  I take deep steadying breaths and think thoughts of endurance and speed. 

“Runners, are you ready?” squawks a voice from over the loudspeaker.

The people around me tense, bystanders cheer and clap, my heart thuds loudly.  Suddenly, a man from the crowd leans toward the men beside me.  A whistle dangles from his neck as he shouts final instructions at them, “I wanna see you finish the first 5km loop in 15 minutes!” he barks and my heart falters.

5 km in 15 minutes?  What!?  I’ve literally never run that fast before in my life. 

In the final seconds before this race begins, as the crowd counts down the 10 seconds before we start running, I glance over at the men beside me.  They are young, fit, lean, and wearing matching maroon and gray uniforms with the words McMaster Men’s Running Team emblazoned across their chests. 

Uh oh, I think, just before the starter gun blasts and the crowd of runners lunge forward. 

Automatically, I match my pace to the people beside me – these maroon and gray clad runners – but I cannot keep up.  Their stride is much longer, their pace much quicker, and their ability to endure much stronger. 

I remind myself of all the running tips I know…..set your own pace, regulate your breathing, focus on your stride and think positive thoughts.

But for the next half hour, one runner after another passes me.

I’m not good enough to do this race. 

The running group from McMaster has long since passed me, several young kids sprint by effortlessly, an old man with bare feet (!) dashes lightly past and I feel my throat tighten.  I feel sick.  I feel a black, sobering cloud settling over this sunny running day.

I’m not good enough.

I thought I could compete here.  I had trained well.  I had devised and followed a running plan to succeed, but, apparently, I wasn’t good enough.  A sea of sneaker-fitted men, women, and children was evidence of this truth rushing past me: 

not good enough not good enough not good enough not good enough not good enough

That was my most humbling race to date.  I was clearly not the fastest runner in the group and this was a serious blow to my sense of self-worth. 

Have you ever had a moment like this?  When you’ve felt like you were not enough?  Not fast enough, not smart enough, not experienced enough, not educated enough, not successful enough, not good enough. 

In moments like this, it seems that others have more to offer than you and you falter, stutter, and stop.  Not enough, you whisper to yourself.  Paltry!  Pittance!  Insufficient!  Small!

What do we do when what we have to offer is not enough?  When we are limited by ourselves?

Do we tuck that meagre amount away?

Once upon a time, Jesus was offered a meagre amount.  He had been teaching and preaching to a huge crowd on a mountain beside the Sea of Galilee and his words were so engrossing, so healing, so enlightening that many people stuck around for three days.  After feeding the hearts, minds, and souls of the gathered people, Jesus realizes that their bodies needed food too.  He had compassion on them.  So he called his disciples over and shared his plan.

He wanted to feed all these men, women, and children before sending them home.  In fact, the Bible says he was unwilling to send them home until they had been properly fed.  He didn’t want them to faint on their way home. 

Imagining the disciples’ reaction to Jesus’s plan makes me laugh.  They must have been aghast and incredulous. 

“What?!  You want us to feed ALL these people?!?  Jesus, there are, like, four thousand people here!  What are you thinking?”  they must have wanted to say; but what they actually spluttered was, “Where are we going to get enough bread in such a desolate place to feed this crowd?”

And Jesus answers calmly and wisely:  “Well, how many loaves do you have?”

What do you have to offer?

The disciples present a meagre amount:  seven loaves of bread and a few small fish.  What was that in the face of an entire crowd of people who have not eaten in three days?  It’s a mockery.  A drop in the bucket.  Crumbs when the crowds are screaming for a feast.  It’s hardly enough to feed a couple of teenaged boys.  Trust me, I have two teenaged boys who are always hungry and they eat A. Lot. Of. Food.  So seven loaves of bread and a few small fish wasn’t really a great option to put together a meal for this massive crowd. 

It was not enough.

And yet, Jesus doesn’t disregard this offering with impatient disgust.  He doesn’t snort disdainfully in Peter’s general direction and state, “Seriously, Peter?  What are you thinking?  We need, like, thousands of loaves and thousands of fish to feed this hungry throng.”  Jesus doesn’t sigh or mutter about the meagre amount, he doesn’t send James and John to search for the nearest local Fortinoes, or beseech Andrew and Philip to quickly run down to the Sea of Galilee and fish for an hour or two; he doesn’t ask everyone to turn out their pockets so that there’s enough money to order pizzas.

Nope.

Jesus takes the offering. 

Jesus takes the offering!

Most likely he could hold the amount in both hands.  Crumbs.  Insignificant in the face of such great need.  It was not enough; not nearly enough.

But Jesus accepts the offering, and he gives thanks.  Thank you, God, for this tiny amount of food.  Thank-you, God for these seven loaves and small fish. 

Thank-you, God, for this offering.

It is enough for what I need to do.

Thank-you.

And only after giving thanks does Jesus begin breaking apart the food and handing it out.  And this must have just kept going and going because apparently all the people in that great crowd ate and were satisfied.  All the men and women and children who had not had food for three days, ate and were filled up.  And I mean, they must have been starving, salivating at the mere mention of food, wanting to stuff great handfuls of it into their empty mouths.  This would not have been a crowd that would have been content with hors d’ouevres or canapes arranged in an artistic pattern on a platter!  This would have been a people craving steak and potatoes with all the fixings!  They were HUNGRY!  But the food keeps on coming, passed around by the disciples as if they are twelve caterers handing out the delicacies of the evening. 

And they all ate – munched, gobbled, snacked, devoured, nibbled, chewed, and licked up the residual crumbs and grease left behind – they ALL ate and were satisfied. 

Maybe small burps of satisfaction followed this feast.  Maybe the men rubbed their full bellies with contentment and the woman sat back on the grass with a sigh.  (After all, this was a meal they didn’t  have to prepare!)  Maybe the children were re-energized from all this food and were running around happily.   I don’t know how the group reacted to their meal, but I do know that they all ate. 

And were satisfied. 

It was, after all, enough. 

Actually, it was more than enough.  Once everyone was done eating the bread and the fish, the disciples cleaned up what was left, and there were seven basketfuls of food left over.    

There was an overabundance of food left over.  More food leftover than the amount begun with.  Clearly, this was a miracle worked by Jesus.

And the not enough became more than enough.

You see, Jesus can work with meagre amounts.  He’s JESUS, after all!  He’s the miracle worker who raises the dead, heals the sick, multiplies the bread and fish, changes water to wine, and makes the blind see.  I think we forget this so often in life.   What we bring to the table or the drawing board or the racetrack is not the point; our willingness to offer up our gifts to Jesus is. 

That changes everything.

When we offer our time and resources and talents to Jesus, the not enough becomes enough time and resources and talents to accomplish that which Jesus needs to accomplish.  He can work with our palty and meagre amounts and this is where I think faith gets tested.  Do I believe this?  Do I really think that Jesus can do something with this little amount sitting in my pocket?  Do I believe that Jesus can work with my limited education or speed or time or resources?  And am I willing and brave enough to step forward and offer this not-enough to him?

Here it is, Lord.  Here’s what I have ..…. my money (it’s not much), my education (my degrees are unimpressive), my running ability (apparently, I’m slow), my heart (it’s fickle and fragile), my life (it’s a mess, Lord.)  But here it is.  Here I am. 

We need to hear this again and again:  what we offer is not the point.  The point is our willingness to offer what we do have to Jesus.  He will take care of the rest.   

So, what do we do when all we have to offer is not enough?

We offer it to Jesus.

We offer it anyway. 

 

In the Name of Jesus

Isn’t it incredible what harm can be inflicted in the name of Jesus?

The residential schools in Canada were funded by the Canadian government and were run by churches.

In the name of Jesus, they were established to forcibly convert and assimilate First Nations, Métis, and Inuit children; to convert these children to Christianity and to assimilate them to English-speaking, Euro-Canadian culture.

In the name of Jesus, Indigenous youths as young as 3 years old were torn from the arms of their parents, removed from their homes, and denied the comforts of familiar language, customs, clothing, and culture. 

In the name of Jesus, the first residential schools were established by Catholic missionaries.  The Roman Catholic Church operated many of the schools, and the Anglican, United, Presbyterian, and Methodist churches were also involved. 

In the name of Jesus, over 130 residential schools operated from the 1830s to 1996 and they existed in every province and territory in Canada except for Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, and Newfoundland & Labrador.   There were 15 in Ontario alone. 

In the name of Jesus, the first residential school – The Mohawk Institute - was established by the Anglican Church in 1831 in Brantford, Ontario.   It is now run by the Woodland Cultural Centre; I’ve driven past it many times on the way to soccer practice with my kids. 

(The Mohawk Institute; photo credit:  Wikipedia.ca)

Isn’t it incredible and horrible what pain, trauma, hurt, and horrors can be inflicted in the name of Jesus?

Today, many Christians will be attending worship services – online, in person, via zoom, at drive-in church – and I pray that this sobering truth is considered.  In the name of Jesus, Christians are capable of inflicting great pain and, in doing so, can gravely and seriously misrepresent Jesus and his beautiful, life-giving gospel message of hope.

Jesus gave the Bible to teach us how to live; He even gave summaries because He knows that humanity is prone to misunderstanding.  He summed up His law and directions in this clear, direct, concise way:

LOVE GOD

LOVE OTHERS.  (Matthew 22: 37-39)

Micah 6: 8, reminds all Christians that God requires us to DO justice, to LOVE kindness, and to WALK humbly before God.

Christians, MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE, must represent the love, kindness, compassion, and self-sacrificial tenderness of Jesus to others. 

Jesus always had time for the little, the lost, the lonely, the rejected, the despised, the outcast.  He called the little children to come and be with him.  He spoke to a Samaritan woman when no other self-respecting Jewish man would; he touched lepers and the dead to bring healing and health; he gave up his life to bring hope to humanity. 

Jesus would never have hurt or abused Indigenous youth.   

Christians must stop misrepresenting Jesus; must stop making the gospel message repulsive to their neighbours, communities, and nation. 

So today, I’m calling myself to represent Jesus well. 

To show love like he showed love; to extend grace and kindness as he would have; to write and speak words that are winsome, and beautiful; to live a life that illustrates a gospel message that is always always always healing, hope-filled, life-giving, and full of love.

 

 

Sources:

·          https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/residential-schools

·         An Overview of the Indian Residential School System - by the Union of Ontario Indians based on research compiled by Karen Restoule

·         Wikipedia online

We Need to Talk About This Dark Secret

We need to talk.

We need to talk because I’m pissed off, sick, and sad.

About a week ago, I first heard about Canada’s unearthed tragedy.   I’ve been processing it, grieving it, and researching it ever since.

The remains of 215 children were discovered in a mass, unmarked grave on the grounds of a former residential school in BC. 

I’m sure you’ve read or heard about this news, but can we just let the horror of it sink in for a minute?

The remains –

The remains of CHILDREN –

The remains of children in a MASS, UNMARKED grave…

These are words and these are realities that should never be strung together.  These are words and realities that make me feel sick and deeply deeply sad. 

I hope you feel the same way.

I hope you are upset, sickened, and disturbed. 

The remains of these children were found buried on the grounds of a residential school and the more I learn about these schools, the more I realize they are a macabre part of Canada’s dirty, dark, sinister past. 

                                       Former Kamloops Indian Residential School.  (Photo credit:  BBC Canada)

Residential schools were established to forcibly convert Indigenous youth to Catholicism or Protestantism as well as assimilate them into what the European settlers were deciding was Canadian language, culture, and customs.  The ultimate goal was to “kill the Indian” in every child.  The schools were federally funded and church directed.  They operated from 1831 - 1996. 

                                            (photo credit National Post)

I was attending school during those last years.  I graduated from High School in 1996, but the teaching techniques at my school were nothing like those used at the residential schools. 

Children attending the residential schools were forcibly removed from their families and everything that was familiar.  They endured beatings, physical, emotional, and sexual abuse, and rape.   According to the Department of Indian Affairs (1907 report), 90-100% of children suffered physical, emotional, or sexual abuse and there was a 40-60% mortality rate.

Now, my school had the strap hanging in the principal’s office where it hung ready to smack any errant student.  I even remember being slapped full across the face by a teacher in front of my entire class, but our school NEVER ever had a mortality rate. 

And the more I learn about these residential schools, the more I realize how much I DON’T KNOW.  I did NOT learn about the residential schools and their attempts at Indigenous cultural genocide.  I was too busy going to my private, Christian school where I was allowed to maintain any custom carried over from my dutch motherland.   No one took me away from my parents, beat me, sexually assaulted me, despised me or tried to “kill the Dutch” in me.

I asked my husband if he remembers learning about the residential schools.  He did not.  His first exposure was through the 2016 album released by The Tragically Hip called “The Secret Path”, a 10-song album dedicated to the story of Chanie Wenjack, a 12 year old Anishinaabe boy who had run away from a residential school in 1969 in Kenora, Ontario.  Chanie died attempting to walk the 600km home. 

                                                    (photo credit:  amazon.ca)

I asked several friends if they learned about the residential schools.  One remembered two short paragraphs in a thick history tome.   That’s it.

My son, however, knew about the schools.  “We learned about them in our history class last year,” he told me.  I threw up my hands and rejoiced.  Good! 

WE NEED TO KNOW THESE THINGS.

In the words of Martin Luther King Jr., “Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.” 

Let’s not be part of the danger or part of the problem. 

Let’s not be ignorant any longer. 

In light of this, I will be dedicating several days to researching, educating, and calling myself (and you, if you want to join me) to action.

My friends, let’s keep talking.

#womenencouragers #nomoreignorance #residentialschools #grievingourpast

#letstalk

From Languish to Lavish

 

What happens when a LANGUISHING heart taps into LAVISH love?

Last night, I read the word “languishing” in an article written in the New York Times.  This morning, I read the same word – “languishing” - in the book of Psalms in the Bible.  When a word I haven’t heard before or in a long time is suddenly repeated around me, I sit up and take notice.  I believe it’s God giving me a cosmic tap on the shoulder and I’ve learned to pay attention. 

Languishing means to be weak, to droop, to be exhausted, to feel forlorn or depleted.  It’s how many of us are feeling right now as we trudge slump-shouldered into our second year of Covid lockdowns and isolations.   We feel stuck, cut off from the life we want to be living.  Our days have lost their lustre.

“Hey mom!  What are we doing tomorrow?” my kids will query night after night.

“Same as we did today, guys…” I drone wearily night after night.

Adam Grant’s article* nailed that feeling I feel; Yup, I’m languishing.  How about you?

If I were an electronic device, I’d plug myself in and charge up my batteries.  If I were a gas tank, I’d glug gas into me real quick.  If I was a cluster of drooping yellow tulips, I’d scream for water. 

It’s quite obvious that I am in need of a fill-up, a charge-up, a replenishing.  But batteries, gas, and water won’t suffice.  So where on earth should I turn?  Where on earth can I go?  Where on earth is the answer?

There are many distractions on this earth that may give us some energy, lift, and thrust but are they enough to let us fly?  To truly grant flourishing and prosperity at a heart and soul level?

Nope.  Though the distractions of good food, great company, a solid education, engrossing entertainment, sensual sex, happy holidays, amazing art and literature will hold and fill us up for a time; they are all finite.  They end or run out and cannot sustain us through the whole season of our complicated, messy, constantly-changing, roller-coaster life. 

Which is why I am suggesting we plug our languishing hearts into the lavish abundance of God’s love.  His love is profuse, extravagant, sumptuously rich, unreasonable, and endless.  It never runs out and when we fill-up with His love, our cup runs over.   That means we will have more, more than enough. 

God’s love can hold and fill us up for all time.  And it fills us with this strength-inducing thing called HOPE. 

Not so much a hope that our circumstances will change; not so much a hope that covid will end and we can collectively rip off our masks and hug and congregate once again; but, rather, a deeper and longer-lasting HOPE that no matter what happens, we are loved and looked after.  A HOPE that even if Covid goes on for forty more years, God has a purpose and a plan for all this and for every single one of us.  For me and for you.   A hope that God will see us through this time. 

And I get it, hope might feel risky right now.  Many of us have had our hopes dashed over and over again over the past year.  Hope for that surgery that was planned.  Dashed.  Hope for covid to be over.  Dashed.  Hope for this birthday to be celebrated with friends.  Dashed.  Hope to sit bedside in the hospital with our loved one.  Dashed.

Hope might feel risky right now because we’ve been anchoring it into the slipperiness of circumstances.  What we need is a firm and secure holding place to grow our hope from.  What we need is the rock-like solidity that is God and his beautiful, glorious, lavish love. 

My friends, let’s tentatively tip-toe our languishing hearts and drooping shoulders into the lavish abundance of God’s love.   Let’s plug in here and wait for the fill-up of HOPE to happen.   It may take a while to charge up, fill-up and renew your strength so just keep plugged in and wait for it.  Wait for it.  Wait for it.  Wait for it.

And, even if covid continues, let the HOPE growing out of God’s love allow you to flourish today.

 

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“Be gracious to me, O LORD, for I am languishing; heal me, O LORD, for my bones are troubled.  My soul also is greatly troubled.  But you, O LORD - how long?”  Psalm 6:2,3

 

“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God.” 

1 John 1: 3a

“I waited patiently for the LORD; he inclined to me and heart my cry.  He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.  He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God.”  Psalm 40: 1-3

 

*New York Times article referred to:  “There’s a Name for the Blah You’re Feeling:  It’s Called Languishing”  by Adam Grant

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/19/well/mind/covid-mental-health-languishing.html?smid=fb-share&fbclid=IwAR1OeLi1YWzF_6LIKzGZqWtFRycrVNuMv2LoEviXF4P14Ywy9EZV-sNf15o

The Sound of Snow

 What sound does a snowflake make as it swirls toward the ground?

Rain pitters, patters, splashes, and sloshes.

But a snowflake lazily drifts, floats, spins in a silent lavish audacious dance toward the earth.

White blanketing the pear tree blossoms; burdening the daffodil heads with glistening weighted drops; coating miss kim lilac branches with intricate lacy cold.

Today, it snowed and more snow is on the forecast for tomorrow.

What do you get when you cross a spring snow storm with a lockdown, I wondered in annoyed and frustrated irritation today. It all seemed like a cruel joke and in retaliation, I decided to not go outside any more today.

"Take that, Outside! No walking with you!" I sneered.

Every year, I laughingly count on that One Extra Surprise Snowstorm that arrives late in spring. Every year I wait until mid May to wash the winter gear and fold it all away for next year. But every year, Spring lures me in with her seductive flowering trees and bulging green tree buds and shy lily shoots. And this year, it happened again.

After all, the maple and willow trees had adorned their green haloes; the magnolia trees were bursting with pale pink blooms; deep purple hyacinths clustered fragrantly in gardens; and bold yellow forsythia flowers colored bare branches.

Plus, it seemed Iike a warm and gently arrived spring would be a wonderful trade-off for our current pandemic-flavoured, locked down state of existence.

But, no. Snow seemed to be the cruel joke of the day and I scowled fiercely at it all day.

Until tonight, when Outside beckoned.

I love love love being in nature; it's my Outdoor Therapy because when I'm in nature, I'm surrounded by God's creation, I feel so close to him, and I spend much of my walk talking with Him (well, when I'm not chatting with the neighbors. Hi, Linda!)

On my evening walk, snowflakes swirled around me, coating my eyelashes with wet cold.

And it was so peaceful and beautiful and wonderful that I wondered what sound does a snowflake make as it swirls toward the ground?

Do you know?

It makes no sound. No sound at all.

And with the loud silence, my heart felt peace.

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#womenencouragers #snow

Covid Can't Steal My Joy

 

• I hear them before I see them.

  Actually, I'm sure the entire neighbourhood hears them because they are loudly laughing and shrieking with delight. They run outside on stocking feet to bounce boisterously together whenever they can. All four of them.
  I watch for several seconds from behind the screen door before I sneak out into the sunshine to shoot a video.
  It's important that I really see and remember moments like this. It's important that we all do.
  Why?
  Because we can get laden and weighed down by the negatives, grievances, and general suckiness of this world. It's easy to be heavy-hearted after hearing about the Provincial emergency and stay-at-home order here in Ontario. It's easy to become frustrated, angry, and depressed. I know I am.
  And all that negativity sucks the air out of the room, doesn't it? It distracts us from seeing the raw beauty that is still there, from witnessing moments of exuberance and unbridled laughter, from glimpsing snapshots of delight.
  Covid has stripped down and stolen so much from us over the past year; but guess what? It doesn't get to steal our joy!

  Nope-on-a-rope!
  Joy is rooted in an unshakable and audacious confidence that God is still in control of all these things, all these days, all this covid. Joy is a condition of the heart that overflows and spills over into the words we say, the things we do, the thoughts we harbour. Joy is not slippery like happiness because it doesn't hinge on our circumstances looking a certain way. This means that even if you and I are not happy about the lockdowns and stay-at-home orders dictated by covid, we can still find joy.
  Listen for the laughter. Look for the beauty. Seek out the signs of spring. Experience the delight. Remember these moments and two-hand cling to joy.
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  "Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning." Psalm 30:5b
  "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths." Proverbs 3: 5,6
  #womenencouragers #seekjoy #covid2021 #StayAtHomeOrder

  #gotthejoydowninmyheart #joy

  
  

All Shook Up! (an Easter Reflection)

 

It’s April 1^st, but I’m not laughing. 

The sun’s out, a long weekend stretches ahead, but I’m unsettled.  I can’t stop thinking about a tale of two cities.

There’s the city of Jerusalem circa 33 AD that's "all stirred up" when Jesus rides into town.

And, in a vast contrast, there’s my city which is currently in a grey-lockdown level of shut-down due to covid-19.

 

A city stirred up and a city shutdown.

 

I worry that all our Easter celebrations will be cancelled for the second year in a row and my heart feels heavy.  There have been rumours of people quarantining; of schools closing early; of numbers in Ontario rising and these feel like the ominous precludes to the impending doom of further shutdowns.

 

And I wonder how to get stirred up about Easter when my sentiments feel like such a far cry from the long-ago sentiments of those who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem.   They were loud and boisterous.  They were exuberant and joyful. They waved palm branches - a beautiful symbol of victory and peace - and shed their cloaks to lay before Jesus and the donkey colt he rode in on. They cheered "HOSANNA" and welcomed Jesus as if he was a conquering hero.

They were not despondent, discouraged, or disquieted.

 

So, I do a little word study because word studies make me happy (also cheerful, gleeful, and delightedly jovial).

 

Some etymology work unearths the fact that the "stirred up" in the story of Jesus' Triumphal Entry comes from the Greek word seiō which means to shake, agitate, tremor, or quake.  The Bible uses this same word (seiō) to describe the earth shaking after Jesus died or the guards trembling when an angel appears to roll away the stone from his tomb. 

 

If being stirred up means to be shaken up and agitated, then I think Hamilton just might be a city that is simultaneously shutdown AND stirred up.

 

In Jerusalem, the source of the agitation was Jesus.  He was ushering in hope and victory at a time when there was oppression and defeat.  In Hamilton, the source of our agitation is covid-19.  It ushers in despair, uncertainty, and divisive opinions at a time when there was seeming comfort and peace. 

 

In both cases, people are unsettled, and this is always a good time to sit up, take notice and seek answers. 

 

Covid has exposed the transience of this world.  It is susceptible to sickness and death.

Covid has exposed our love of the comforts in this world. 

Covid has exposed our argumentativeness and inability to listen to one another.

Covid has exposed the fact that our hope cannot be found in this place called earth.    

Covid has unsettled us, shaken us up, and caused despair. 

 

And the wonderful thing about all this agitation is that it makes us look long and hard for hope, peace, and comfort. 

 

Which was ushered in by Jesus long ago. 

 

Jesus gives hope for humanity. 

Jesus died for the sins of all who believe in him and then he rose again. 

Jesus conquered sin and death.

Jesus promises peace and rest and an end to despair. 

Jesus is the point of our Easter celebrations even if church is cancelled, dinners are postponed, and we can only see loved ones while masked and standing 6 feet apart.

 

The Easter weekend is almost here.  Are you feeling shaken up?

There is hope for you and me today and it’s certainly not found in this covid-contaminated place.  There’s hope today and it’s found in Jesus.