“It’s not you, it’s me.” That’s what you seem to be saying, Church. I tried to share my heart with you; the heart of me and thousands and thousands of
I may not know you but I know something about you. I know that you’re hurting. I know that you’ve been bruised and battered and wounded, that you’re reeling from the hits and
We church folk love, love, LOVE to tell people we’ll pray for them. It’s the quickest, conversation-closing, most religious sounding thing we know we can fire-off in difficult situations, and both
When my father died suddenly back in September, I began doing what I always do: I started writing. These six posts, (the first one written just three days after his passing,
“It’s not you, it’s me.” That’s what you seem to be saying, Church. I tried to share my heart with you; the heart of me and thousands and thousands of
I may not know you but I know something about you. I know that you’re hurting. I know that you’ve been bruised and battered and wounded, that you’re reeling from the hits and
We church folk love, love, LOVE to tell people we’ll pray for them. It’s the quickest, conversation-closing, most religious sounding thing we know we can fire-off in difficult situations, and both
When my father died suddenly back in September, I began doing what I always do: I started writing. These six posts, (the first one written just three days after his passing,