Cling to Hope

The last two weeks have been gut-wrenching.

It is difficult-and, I suppose, a bit against our inclination-to look for hope in moments of despair, and yet, those are precisely the moments when hope is so desperately needed. In my writing, I often compare struggle and trial and heartache with darkness-specifically, night. Joy, conversely, is light.if you’re sick of hearing me make these comparisons, you can blame David, for his psalms are full of this idea. But it is those times when the sun is so hidden from our lives that we need and crave the hope of dawn. We live in a time and place where we are so wired all the time that we don’t really know what it is to be without light. We are almost always only a flipped switch away from light. Imagine that you were alone in the dark canvas of a long night with no electricity. Would you not find comfort in even the smallest flicker of a candle? In the faintest glimmer of starlight? In the soft reflective light of the moon? Stars,you know, do not “go dark” in our daylight; they are simply hidden from our sight by daylight from our own star. Moments of hope,I think, are the same. They don’t go away or cease to be during good times, but we don’t need them as much or as often because we are comforted by the warmth of the sun’s rays.

In the gut-wrenching black night of my little existence lately, I have struggled. Hope is not my natural disposition. I tend not towards pessimism, but despair. Recent events, I believed, were going to break me into a million tiny pieces and fling them to the furthest reaches of the universe.

My sister-in-law had a death in her family that has been heartbreaking for several reasons. The Littles came to spend an evening here while she was with her family. She picked them up late, and as they were pulling out of the driveway, my cell rang. It was my sister-in-law, saying that J was not taking it well and he asked to come back and hug us. It broke my heart.

In another perpetually dysfunctional situation, I said on the telephone that I loved this person and was worried for him and I desperately wanted to help him, but he never speaks to me or reaches out unless he is in crisis mode. He felt that i was exaggerating (I wasn’t), and so he did the only logical thing you can do when someone basically asks if you’re using them: He hung up. On me. Yes, he did. And I recounted all those times that well-intentioned Christians have told me the problem in this particular relationship is that I “haven’t forgiven.” And for the millionth time in my life… It broke my heart.

I dared to dream a big dream. To give opportunity to a piece of my life that I’ve always feared. Every step of the way was open door after open door. I was afraid to believe it was coming to pass; I didn’t want to be disappointed if it fell apart. But it looked like everything was set. And then the door slammed shut, crushing my fingers. The pain, the discouragement, the anger… It was more than I could handle. It broke my heart.

Each of these situations has left me in a bit of grief. The darkness truly seems to have swallowed the light.

But just in typical God fashion, the sky began to light up, one star after another.

J’s sadness broke this adoring auntie’s heart, but that’s not all it did. It also reminded me how very tender his young heart is. He is like his father in that way-he seems to feel deeply, and to love deeply. What an amazing thing for any person, but a four year old? The thing that broke my heart also whispered hope to my spirit. The world is changed by men and women with such great love and emotion. This little man… Is a game changer.

In the dysfunctional hangup, my already wounded heart was broken yet again over something I cannot fix, over a love that is mine by right but has never been mine. But in that split second after the click, just after I heard myself say, “he just hung up on you, Sar” in utter shock, I felt a lightness I’ve mingled with in the past but have never quite known. It is no longer my decision. He hung up on me; he chose to end a difficult dialogue rather than even simply reassuring me of his love. The fact that he opted out sort of released me. Don’t mistake me-I would give anything for a different outcome, a healthy outcome. But I think very few people realize the chains of a dysfunctional relationship and how it can make you feel culpable for decisions others have made. And in the aftermath of sorrow, my hope is in the knowledge that it was his decision. Not mine.

Finally, when my passionate pursuit crashed down around me, the grief was so tangible and so bitter that I didn’t know what to say or think or do. The broken place in my heart longer for a solitary place to play my guitar and just sing my prayers and sorrows to Jesus. But… I’ve been avoiding my guitar. Without any knowledge of what was happening, two friends in the past twenty-four hours have mentioned my music. And so I spent a quiet hour with my guitar this morning, and what did I find? I found hope. I found willing fingertips and gentle resonance. I found songs I had forgotten but they came back like heirlooms of my existence. I found that though my passions are many, music has always been my language.

Hope. In the dead of night. In all of these dark places. In the deepest hours of the night. In the most bitter cold. There is hope.

Cling to it, I urge you. Hold on til morning.

Pax,

semmie

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Child Sponsorship in 3 Easy Steps

Step 1: Pray these words: “Jesus, open my heart.”

Step 2: Click this link: https://www.compassion.com/

Step 3: Click on the golden button of hope that says “Sponsor A Child Today.”

That’s really all there is to it, friends.

You’ll find a slew of search choices–birthday, age, gender, country. Some choose a child who has been waiting the longest (some have been waiting more than a year to be sponsored–that should break your heart). Some choose a child who lives in an AIDS-affected area. Some choose a child who lives in an area susceptible to exploitation. And then there are the less obvious ways to choose a child. The eyes?–yes, I’ve known sponsors who’ve chosen a child because of the look in their eyes or because they just “looked so precious.”I’ve even heard of people who do the “close your eyes and randomly drop your finger,” and the photo your finger lands on is the child you sponsor.

These are all valid ways to choose a specific child.

As for me? I couldn’t tell you why I chose my boys. I’ve been sponsoring Joseph for nine years now, and I don’t regret one moment of it. There was something at the time that captured my heart, and I’m so thankful–it has never let go. But the truth is that the longer I know Joseph, the more I realize that I didn’t choose him at all; God brought Joseph into my life. Sponsoring changes your life, to be sure, but…since sponsoring Moise, I’ve grown very aware that each sponsorship relationship is entirely unique. I could never have with Moise what I have with Joseph. I could never have with Joseph what I have with Moise. In each case, however, my life has been utterly changed, utterly challenged, and utterly edified in ways that are unique to the boys…in ways that I could not have chosen from a photo or a birthday or a country.

The important thing isn’t how or why you choose. The important thing is that you choose.

When we choose compassion and love for those in extreme poverty, we are speaking volumes. Sponsoring tells a child that he is important…that he is cherished…that he is not a mistake…that there is hope and a future for him…that he can be free to dream and to learn and to grow…that he need not fear starvation or malaria or the spread of AIDS or the weather…that he belongs. And if you’ve ever read anything I’ve written, you know that belonging is a theme I find particularly important. We all need to belong. Children living in poverty are certainly not the exception.

Make the choice today. Chances are…you really can afford it. And if, when you really get to the core of it, your answer is that you just honestly cannot afford $38 a month, then consider going together on a sponsorship with a friend…with family…with a Bible study group…with your knitting circle…with your fantasy league…with your co-workers…with your youth group…with the houses on your street…with your top ten f@cebook friends… with your church choir…with your pen-pal…with your barber…with your barista…with the parents of your kid’s soccer team…

I promise…you will not regret it.

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The Importance of a Vote

I heard it again today.

You’re wasting your vote.

I suppose if the question is whether or not my candidate has any chance of winning the election, the answer is no–and therefore, I am, in a sense, wasting my vote.

Unfortunately, for every Republican that tells me that a third party vote is “a vote for Hillary,” there are equally as many Democrats to tell me that it is “a vote for Trump.” And listen, I get it. I really do get it. My heart is equally divided on the matter of not wanting Trump or Clinton as my next President, so I feel the tension and the temptation of desperately wanting to vote against one…and then the other. I really do get it.

I suppose most people who vote outside the safe bubble of the two-party system get it. That’s probably part of the story of how they became third party voters. I can’t say that for certain, because I have neither studied the history of third party voters in the U.S., nor the history of third party platforms. All I know is what I’ve observed, which–I freely confess–is a limited and somewhat controlled perspective. That being said, I really do believe that most of the third party voters I’ve encountered (whether in person or online) didn’t begin as staunch representatives of the party platform; most began as deflectors of a main party.

So do we understand the desire for some ginormous egomaniac to not become the next president? Do we understand the desire to not elect the next person in a dynasty? Sure. We get it. I get it. And we understand that you’ll think it’s our fault if your guy or gal doesn’t win. Fine. That is…what it is.

But I want you to understand…I honestly do…why I’ve come to a third party position this year. I want you to understand why it’s important–even necessary–for me to go this way. And I want you to understand why it’s unwise to tell a free American that her vote is wasted.

I recognize that many of the Christian leaders in America that I highly respect have come out in recent weeks and months to encourage Christians to vote for Donald Trump–not because he stands for everything we stand for, but, unfortunately, because he is Hillary’s opponent and we must stop her. And if that’s your conviction…I strongly encourage you to vote that way. I understand where your heart and spirit are on this, and I do not feel any animosity or judgment toward you.

When this election cycle began–even before it began–I promised myself one thing: That I would not give my vote to someone who was a name-caller, who slung mud, or who turned the conversation into sarcastic belittling of another person. I have seen how such things can ruin relationships…families…friendships…churches…it is not pretty, and it is entirely not necessary. If my expectation in my own life is to speak words of truth and honesty–even in heated moments of disagreement–without attacking a man himself, then that is going to be my expectation of my President, also. Are we, any of us, perfect? Certainly not. But there’s a big difference between a stumble and a habit. So my promise to myself was that I would not vote for any candidate that I knew to be a name-caller, because I think when we’re trying to decide who our next Commander in Chief should be, name-calling and belittling distracts us from the things we really need to know. And unfortunately, it tells us far more about the person speaking the words than the person at whom the words are directed. For additional thoughts on this, please see my post from earlier this year entitled The Search for a Presidential Candidate: A Prologue.

Ladies, if you’re being pursued by two men, do you fall head over heals for one who badmouths the other? Hopefully not. Hopefully you see it as a tactic to try and make one look better by making the other look worse. At best, it is simply impolitic; at worst, it is an indication of insecurity (and likely, thus, a promise of future manipulation).  And if they both belittle one another, do you say to yourself, “Oh, well…? I suppose I have to marry someone!” I sure hope not. My point here isn’t that we fall in love with a candidate; my point is that we would never follow such loose standards in other important relationships in our lives–why then do we allow it in our governing hopefuls?

But no matter how you feel about all of this, my conviction is simply this: That a man (or woman–I’m not assigning gender based on experience; I’m using “man” as a generic term for “a human being,”) who is concerned with speaking respectfully of another man, whether they agree or disagree, is likely more trustworthy, and will likely pursue stances (politically) that I can support–whether or not I fully agree, because such a man values the most important thing: His fellow man.

So how can I, with clear conscience, vote for Donald Trump? He has had belittling, rude, disrespectful, and flippant remarks about almost every other person on the campaign trail. And how can I, with clear conscience, vote for Hillary Clinton? Her very behavior in having a private server and then trying to cover it up by deleting thousands of emails and feign innocence with America has proven, to me, that she counts herself above you and me. Neither of these attitudes suggest to me that these candidates value his/her fellow man.

Therefore, for myself alone, I cannot–and I will not–give my vote to either of the main party candidates in this presidential election. It is quite unlikely that my vote will make a difference to them; but it will make an enormous difference to me.

If I vote against my promises to myself, then my vote, indeed, is wasted. I will have violated my own convictions and principles.

And I hold the same regard for each one of you–my friends, my family, my co-workers, my neighbors, and my fellow Americans. Your vote is your voice. And no matter who you vote for, I implore, vote your conscience!

All of this wasted vote talk reminds me how beautiful and precious a thing it is to even have a vote, to live in a nation where my voice–though it may affect no change–is allowed to speak truly of my convictions without fear of harm or imprisonment or even alienation.

Being forced to vote one way or another? Being forced to vote at all? Being forced not to vote at all? Being forced to support ideas and values which make you swallow bile? These are wasted votes.

Let’s try to remember what a blessed freedom we still hold, and what an amazing thing it is that you and I should have a voice in the governing of our nation.

pax Christi;

Sarah

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My personal apologies to Dr. Livingston for my blatant overuse of ellipses, em dashes, and sentences that begin with “and.” I try not to overdo it, but I confess–sometimes I use them when I know I shouldn’t, just because it makes me think of you and smile.

 

 

 

 

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The Anniversary

I very specifically intended not to write about the anniversary of 9/11.

My reasons seem rational to me. First, I believe wholeheartedly that there are many individuals who have worthwhile things to say about that moment, and I am not particularly one of them. Second, I believe there are far too many individuals just talking. I don’t want to talk for the sake of talking. Third, this year has been a difficult one for me, and if you recall, I sometimes stumble into periods of having ridiculous awful (and realistic) nightmares; I quite sincerely did not want to flood my senses with thoughts and sights and feelings and memories of that day.

But…

…you can’t ignore the world around you.

So here I am… and I’m about to do some reflecting that may be more uncomfortable than I’m willing to admit.

One of the few things I have actually contemplated in the last forty-eight hours is that 9/11 is, now, actually history. It’s a remarkable transition. It’s almost impossible for those of us who remember it so vividly to even comprehend a generation who is just now learning about it in school. It’s unfathomable. And did you hear about the Mattress Sale? Unbelievable.

For those of us who lived that moment in our nation’s history, it won’t matter how many years pass. Fifteen…fifty…if we were still here in five hundred years, we would still recall the day with a clarity unmatched by any other moment in our lives. Ask anyone. No one will forget where they were; no one will forget what they were doing; no one will forget how they felt; no one will forget the live footage. And the trauma of those memories are magnified three-thousand-fold, I’m sure, for those who experienced the attacks firsthand. The smell, I’ve heard, lingered in the nostrils of Americans long after the air cleared. The sights and sounds were just as intractable.

I suppose it is the logical progression of time, though. We cannot stop it. It may break our hearts to realize that the younger generations don’t realize what an enormous and profound turning point that was in this nation (and in the world). Maybe some of that is our fault, for not remembering as we promised we would; but maybe some of that is simply a nation learning again to live and growing somewhat naive about the peril we still face. Maybe it’s that we don’t want to call anyone or anything “evil” anymore. Maybe it’s that we’ve grown so concerned with not offending anyone that we cannot speak openly about the dangers of radical ideologies. Maybe it’s that we are so wrapped up in ourselves and our 24/7-wired existence that we can’t even recognize how the world is changing at this very moment. I don’t know, friends. I don’t know.

But as I’ve wrestled with these thoughts yesterday and today, I’ve realized something that is really shaking me up.

I am someone’s younger generation.

I’m sure there are many instances of threats and dangers that my parents and grandparents actually lived through that I simply viewed as a moment in history, a multiple choice answer on a high school history test. The easy, obvious example, certainly, is Nazi Germany. I think of my grandfather, who served in the US Army in World War II. What a loving man he was when I knew him! I know his life prior to my arrival was not always easy, and he wasn’t always as gentle and affectionate as I knew him. But I can’t help now but wish that I could talk with him tonight…take him out for coffee and ask him about his time in Germany during that perilous moment in history. Not the facts…we know the facts. I want to hear his memories–the sights, the sounds, the smells, the emotions–the things you don’t read in a history book, the things you don’t take away from a memorial etched with names and dates, the things they spoke to one another in those moments.

What are the things he swore he’d never forget?

What are the things he recognized that I and my siblings didn’t understand?

What lessons did he hope to pass on to us from those experiences?

I have to confess, I’ve never been particularly offended by the expression “Grammar Nazi.” It seems light-hearted and good-humored. But I wonder now if it would have offended my Grandfather? The man who told me not to say “got to.” The man who taught me to know and respect the Statue of Liberty. The man who wore red, white, and blue suspenders. Would he have found it funny that we compared someone finicky about grammar with a Nazi?

Somehow…I doubt it. And I say that now, not as a gal who can’t take a joke, but as a gal who realizes how inappropriate she would find it if someone called a poor driver a “jihadist.” It’s just not funny, and it kind of minimizes the very real struggle that others have lived and experienced firsthand.

So what is my point in all of this? Is this just a blog where the Barefooted Semmie tells you which historical moments you can joke about? No; that’s not my business. You can think and joke about whatever you want.

My point is self-realization: I am someone’s younger generation. I am someone who thinks of historical moments as dates and names and events when people I have known and loved lived the experience.

How very much history we are losing for lack of storytellers.

All of this, my dear friends, to encourage you (however hypocritical it seems, after I’ve told you that I have no desire to share my memories of 9/11)… tell your story.

Speak every word of it.

Use ink.

Use paint.

Use clay.

Use words.

Use sound.

Use blog.

Use photo.

Use dance.

Use theatre.

Use carrier pigeon.

Use synchronized swimming.

Use balloon animals.

If you don’t tell your story, it will be lost.

And if none of us tell our stories, 9/11 will be forgotten…and it will become just another day and event for high school kids to study before the big test.

Tell the stories. Speak the names. Never forget.

And though I still have no desire to blog the details, I must follow my own advice. So I leave you with the one name I have determined to carry with me to my last breath.

Douglas Oelschlager.

I remember you, Douglas. God rest your soul. May He grant continued peace to those you left behind. May He fill their hearts–those empty places that still yearn for your voice and your embrace and your presence–with a stillness and knowledge that you were, and are, and always will be the very best of what America represents.

Pax Christe.

semmie.

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Sunflowers & Prose

Writing is hard work. It requires time, planning, dedication, and effort.

It’s like gardening, in a sense. It’s especially like gardening in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. You can’t just throw seeds in the ground and walk away, expecting a lovely, fragrant, healthy garden to magically appear. It is almost year-round preparation in some cases–even Autumn sometimes needs the soil to be turned and leaves or compost worked into the ground in anticipation of Spring. I cannot speak for everyone, but I know that in this household, we spend our Winter months comparing seed varieties and reviews, now that we’ve started using more heirloom seeds. We usually make our first order of heirloom seeds in late January. And here? In Upper Michigan? Many flowers and crops cannot be direct-sown into the ground, mainly because the Spring is too cold. Peas do fine, to be sure, but many others require weeks (sometimes months) of indoor greenhouse time.

Gardening is hard work. It is never as simple as plant-water-BOOM!-A-FLOWER. Even in cases where it really is that simple (marigolds, for example), there’s always a question of where they will be planted. There’s a selection of seed. And when the flowers dry, there is collecting the seed for future planting. So even when it’s simple, it requires time and attention.

Writing really is the same way.

I’ve been contemplating recently the matter of voice. One thing my favorite authors all share in common is that they have a strong and distinct voice in their writing. Reading Lewis, I have said more than a few times in my life, always feels to me like I am sitting in his office and we are conversing about some lofty matter that he must help me get to, inch upon inch. His voice is very clear. Finding voice in your own written words can be something of a struggle. I’m sure there are writers out there who have a very natural gift, and their voice pours out of their writing without much effort, but I am definitely not one of them. My blog is mostly unedited ramble; my other writing, even letter writing, I work very hard to create and maintain my voice.

The last, oh, eighteen months have thrown me for loop after loop, and one of the tragedies of it has been silence. In many ways, I feel I’ve lost my voice. And so, I’ve been contemplating. And I’ve been struggling. And I’ve been digging deep into the fissures of my spirit to find whether there is any lingering sound of the voice I once had. Or thought I had. Or pretended to have. Or something. Maybe, I thought–maybe there would be some lingering resonance deep within.

Aaaaand there wasn’t. The sound had silenced. Complete stop.

I have been struggling, since I realized that, to find the note again. And it has been a lot of hard work. A lot of planning. A lot of editing. A lot of pruning. A lot of turning the soil. A lot of scrubbing dirt out from beneath my fingernails.

But there’s something remarkable about both writing and gardening.

You know, this year, I purchased sunflower seeds. I did. I was so excited to plant them and grow beautiful, tall sunflowers. But guess what happened? They died. (Complete stop.) After all the effort and work and desire and hope…they died. Just like that.

And then something crazy happened, which I understand has happened to many others time and again–but it was certainly a first for me!–I guess some seed fell from one of the birdfeeders in the yard. And there in front of my marigolds, with no plan of my own, without even my knowledge or care, a seed tumbled to the earth, broke itself open, dug its roots down, and blossomed a beautiful sunflower.

Without my help.

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As for my writing voice…

I started a new project recently–one that I didn’t really intend to start. And before I had even determined that it was worth continuing, I found myself thoroughly immersed in what I was writing. I re-read my first few pages and realized–just like that sunflower–I had stumbled back onto that note, my voice, quite by accident. Quite beyond intent. Whether it will resonate is another question altogether, but for the moment–I’m content to be astounded.

So here’s a word of encouragement, to gardeners and writers alike: Work hard, give it all you have to give, don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty…

…but remember…

…seeds don’t always need your help in becoming flowers.

It’s what they were meant to do.

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Reunion Stuffs

If you’ve followed my blog for some time, you’ll remember that in 2013, I was anxiously planning the first Schmitzer Family Reunion of my lifetime. I think back on those weeks and months leading up to the Big Hoorah, and there are so many moments, so many thoughts, so many conversations that were never recorded. So many tidbits began in beautiful fashion, with well-defined shapes and edges that sparkled and held us captive, only to melt away in the palm of our hand. We lose so much. So quickly.

A dear friend of mine named Liesl came to the 2013 Reunion as an honorary member of our Clan. With a good German family like ours, Liesl and I joked that if anyone asked who she was, she should just say, “Oh, Aunt Thekla! Don’t you remember me? I’m Johann’s girl!” And believe me, we have many Johann’s in the pages of our history. She looked the part, and if she’d played the part, no one would’ve been the wiser.

Liesl had a purpose, however. A woman with an impeccable eye and a habit of grabbing exquisite candids, she was there to capture the Reunion in photographs. And she did, quite well, I might add. When we arrived home, she asked me for a list of the names of everyone who attended the Reunion. She had been working on a lovely cross-stitch pattern depicting the cross of the Christian faith. As she continued working on it, she felt led to stitch a border around the piece, carefully spelling out the names of everyone who attended our first Reunion.

Blog Pic A

We framed Liesl’s beautiful work and I’ve been holding onto it, not sure where it belongs.

As we began really hunkering down on planning the 2016 Reunion, Mom suggested that we bring a photo of the group along with the framed cross-stitch as a sort of souvenir display of that first Reunion. As we talked more, we thought it would be nice, each year, to have one project or craft that commemorates the Reunion. I am sorry to say we didn’t do anything for 2014, but I may still have an idea–I’ll keep you posted on it. We didn’t hold a Reunion in 2015. And so we began poring over the interwebs to find a great idea for 2016. And boy, did we find it!

I stumbled into the idea when I was perusing Pinterest one evening. The original (found here) was used at a wedding, but I was so excited to apply this to our family heritage. I reached out to Jen, a friend of mine with amazing art skills, and she gave us a beautiful tree to adorn! The idea is to have everyone stamp their finger or thumb print somewhere on a branch of the tree, symbolizing our common heritage (the tree!) and ancestry (our roots!). I could tell you how it turned out, or I could show you and let you tell me how it turned out! I will say, I’m very pleased!

Blog Pic B

I would like some feedback from any friends or family or random passersby, however. This year, we lost two men in the family very close to the Reunion. I want to commemorate them, but it obviously doesn’t seem right to put them on a fingerprint leaf with everyone else. I thought it might be nice to do a few fingerprint hearts down near the base of the tree, and write in each one the name of someone who has passed on since our last gathering. I’ve made some on white paper just to set down and get an idea of how it would look. What do you think, gang?

Blog Pic C

And speaking of those we lost this year, I saw this memorial candle idea on Pinterest, also, and felt it would be a very comforting and appropriate way to honor not only the lives of those no longer with us, but also to recognize the sorry and struggle of gathering without them. As with most projects, I wanted to be sure that the sign had a personal touch to it, not a generic “I printed this ten minutes ago with TimesNewRoman font” feel. For this, I reached out to my amazing niece, Hannah Lynne, and asked her to draw something artsy but not over-the-top–just a nice sign to help us remember those we’ve lost. I dare say, she did a fantastic job. I’m very happy with how this turned out also, paired with an LED-candled lantern from W-mart (open flame candle in a beautiful, green, tree-filled park didn’t seem like a great plan).

Blog Pic D

I hope some of these ideas help anyone out there who’s planning a get-together. It’s so nice to have “props” to help tie everything together. We sometimes forget words, but images and tangibles help us with recall.

Pax,

semmie

 

 

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150 Days in the Psalms

Most of you know that I’ve been working on a Psalms Project for some time now. I still have quite a ways to go with it, and every time I think I’m making progress, I find that I have so much more to learn. The Psalms have always been my favorite passages of Scripture because of the musicality and rhythm; the longing and gutwrenching honesty; and for the deep, rich theology. But in the midst of my studying and reading and writing for the Psalms Project, I confess that my time has become more studious than intimate. It has been so long since I’ve read the Psalms with the intent of simply praying and communing with God. So when my friend, Nicole, mentioned 150 Days in the Psalms, I knew I had to jump in, face first.

The plan, from the Mercy Is New blog, is this:

Each Day:

  • Read 1 Psalm.
  • Write 1 verse from that Psalm as your focus & prayer for the day.
  • Pray through the Psalm.
  • Journal through the Psalm.

Seems simple enough! If you’d like to participate, let me know! We begin August 1, and this journey will take us through the end of 2016. We have a small facebook group started where we can encourage one another, share any insights or prayers that God is impressing upon us. I will gladly add you to the group!

And if you’re not sure what it means to “pray through” or “journal through” the Psalms, go subscribe to the Mercy Is New blog! It is packed with resources to help you learn how to pray Scripture and use journaling to grow your relationship with Christ. I am new to her blog myself, but I am loving it! She also provides a printable schedule for an easy reminder of which Psalm you should be on each day.

It has been so long since I’ve journaled Scripture. It has been so very long. I confess that I’m nervous about this. While I don’t think the journaling is mandatory, I want to really dig into this experience with all of my heart. It will be a good exercise for me after being so focused on the studying part for so long.

What do you say? Will you join me on this exciting journey?

Pax Christe.

semmie

 

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