Hi. I’m going to be real honest here. Real honest. This is Whitney-is-not-perfect honest. Confession time on steroids. If you're a Grace student, sorry--your secretary doesn't have it all together right now. If you didn't already know that from all the mass emails I've written, and corresponding mass emails correcting the first ones. But this post is probably my most raw one I've ever written, but I'm proud of myself because these past few days made me wonder if I’d ever blog again. You see, these past few days. Have been horrible. And I may keep using that word—horrible—throughout this post. Excuse the repetition. There really is no other word I can think of, despite all my AP English teachers’ lectures on word choice and variety. Sorry, six traits. You are taking a back seat because I still have reading due this week. It has been horrible partly because I am a horrible person. Wednesday of this week I called up a friend and told her that despi...
Our Story: I feel like I’m supposed to tell you a romantic tale of distress and bleakness, and how Jon rode in and saved my heart with his rippling muscles and enchanting blue eyes. I feel like I’m supposed to tell you how he turned it all around, how he made everything better. Unfortunately, that’s not the story I have for you. This story is one that shows much more glory than the romantic love between a crooked-nosed Iowan and a freckle-faced Nebraskan. You see, when I first met Jon in October of 2011, he was everything but an answer to my prayers. My heart was confused and was at a point of crawling through piles and piles of mess and filth. My memory (thankfully) fails me when it comes to the details, but fragments of memories include desperately praying (which turned into rage-filled screams) in the car, taking an hour to get out of bed to face the hopelessness of the day, and being too exhausted to wipe the tears t...
No name Just "Samaritan woman" Approached by a well by an odd man At an odd time: no one is supposed to be here right now, right now, when her shame forced her to draw water alone But shame was no match for the Living Water that baptized the isolated whore, raised her into prophetess, evangelist, beloved. "our Father Jacob," she said, but did she see? Jacob's wife was found at the well, and Isaac's too. Two matriarchs, fountain-heads of descendents, carriers of promise, approached the well and left betrothed and grafted into a covenant. Those women came and offered water, but you came and received it. Do you see, nameless Samaritan woman? You have left the well just as your mothers did: betrothed, dignified, grafted in, chosen. thirst quenched. A new mother to the many who believed your testimony A new matriarch for a new covenant. A new Bride to God himself.
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