You know me better than anyone I see on a weekly basis.
We’ve historically been heavily involved with our church.
No one cares about my story.
No one cares that I think about God or what those thoughts are.
I am not orthodox enough.
Cheerful enough.
Don’t have enough kids.
I’m not submissive enough.
I don’t give the Sunday School answer. Enough.
A handful may ask my opinion, but they aren’t looking for Bible truth.
They are looking for a pass. Which I can’t give another adult. That’s between them and God.
I don’t think I’ve ever said this out loud.
Hurt goes in. To preserve one’s dignity, at that point, is pride.
Humiliation is also, pride. Who am I to concern myself with my image? Worth?
If I have a story to tell,
If I have something worth sharing,
If I have something to contribute,
I’ll save it for who wants it.
If that’s heaven, I’m okay with that.
My name means ‘a pearl’.
My story a string of moments God wrought into something valuable.
You know a pearl started out as a little grit.
Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls. When he found one priceless pearl, he went and sold everything he had, and bought it.
