whitney dziurawiec

I sit here with a hot mug, cheeky cheesy Christmas notes fluttering around my ears begging me to smile, to be happy, and I just can't. I wish the aching in my heart was only due to yet another loss of a favorite garment (an inevitable byproduct of all our moving), or some other triviality that I easily elevate to Disaster Level. But my heart aches for Sydney, for Afghanistan, for children who know more terror now than I may ever feel in my lifetime. For hostages and martyrs whose heads roll at the feet of those whose minds somehow think this is right. For hurting rioters and the policemen who do care. For those who raise their way to fly to these places, with the balm of a Healer in their carry-ons, and a heart of compassion in their chests, only to meet death, disease, broken marriages, hurt children on the other side. Missionary life is so glorified, but oh how it is a constant ache to those who actually do go. Oh come, all ye faithful Joyful and triumphant I s...

A whole year! What does it feel like? It feels like it did when I first held a driver's license in my hand, like when I first walked onto my college campus. It's that blank feeling when my senior recital was over, or as I finished my last collegiate assignment. The fuzzy blankness and well of emotion when I saw him down on one knee, when I tried white dresses on. It feels like everything and nothing and it just feels normal, both like nothing and everything has changed since I couldn't wait to get my driver's license. We sit here in our apartment for a night before we travel again and I'm reeling over the year. My striving heart wants to write practical marriage advice and lessons learned but the one slamming into my hard heart over and over again, kneading it like dough, is the concept of grace. And I'm not talking about the tattoed, Scotch-drinking, hipster grace that attacks only the rules it doesn't like with the accusation of legalism but the hear...