bust the windows outcha car

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Thanks to a big black guy and a Mexican, my life just got a bit more complicated.

Poor Mercedes.

She’ll be fine. She’ll get some great new windows from a junk yard that my grandpa apparently found. She already is a conglomeration of different parts of other cars, this just adds to her variety. I’ll still love her no matter what. She runs like she’s new, except for sounding like she’s going to fall apart.

Not to put in a cheesy metaphor here or anything (though that is one of my favorite things to do), but I love that when we are broken, Jesus does not replace the pieces with random things He finds from junk yards. Amen.

The only thing I keep thinking about are the men who stole from my car. I wonder what their home life was like. Was it good, and they just rebelled? Were they neglected? Did they have a father in their life? How much hurt and brokenness do they carry? And goodness sake, do their mothers know what they’re doing? Do they even care? My heart hurts for them.

I’ve found myself praying for those guys throughout the day. I almost wish they had taken my whole car, since the radio stations were set to Christian ones. Maybe, just maybe, they would have heard something, been convicted. Something.

A friend suggested I start leaving Bible verses in my car. I just may do that. Is it sad I’m planning for my next attack? Life at Grace has come to this, I guess. I think I’m most angry at Deb Osmanson for not emailing me back about campus security.

SUCKurity.

I’m in love with how He shapes us. Because of all the things that have made it so hard to still trust Him, this was just a piece of cake. I’m fine. I don’t care. He’s still good, and He’s still in charge.

I love the easy tests after the hard ones. I feel like I’ve gained something.

I guess my pleading of the blood of Jesus will have to encompass more than just Mercedes running smoothly.

I’ll have to pray that she’s protected from big black men and Mexicans.

And pray that He forgives those thugs, because they probably don’t even know what they’re doing.

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