I gave up on Bonhoeffer—Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, that is—and returned it to the library. Too thick for me to get through at the moment.
We had pizza with friends. That was fun.
One afternoon I was at Kroger with my youngest daughter. The two of us were browsing eye shadow, looking for a neutral color combination that I could try. I don’t wear much makeup, and she doesn’t wear any, so it was one of those blind leading the blind moments.I pulled out a little container that showed three colors together. “How can I know which color goes where?” I wondered aloud.My daughter shrugged. We moved down the line and found another pack that had instructions. On the back were diagrams of an eye that indicated where each color would be applied, one, two, three; base, lid, crease. On the colors themselves—on the actual makeup—the company had stamped the words “base,” “lid,” and “crease.””Look!” I exclaimed. My daughter raced over. “Look how simple they made it,” I continued, pointing to the diagrams and markings. “Step one, two, and three. It’s all labeled and everything.”She flipped it to the back and then to the front. Then she looked up with a huge grin and exclaimed, “Idiot-proof makeup!”I laughed out loud. “Perfect!”
On Sunday, our pastor reminded us of the beautiful reality that Jesus made it possible for us to have His Father as our Father. Through Jesus, we’re adopted into the family of God and can be called children of God.We are precious, so precious. “See,” God says to His people, “I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.”Seth Irby wrote a song that we sang that morning. Part of the chorus says:
You were not ashamed to call us Your brothersGiving us Your Father as our own.Your mercy is enough for us to sing Your praise,But You give so much more. You give so much more.
And from the bridge:
You did not leave us orphaned, Lord, cleansed of sin and nothing more.You called us “children of the King,” gave to us the family ring.And that same power that raised You up lives in us and fills us up,Teaching us to cry out “Abba Father!”
As the pastor spoke, I scribbled a quick drawing of a hand in my notebook—an open hand, palm up. On it, in very small print, I slowly wrote the three letters of my first name…a shy reminder of my Father’s love.
Hm…not much to report.
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Credits: All images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.