Three years ago we moved from Michigan to Asheville, North Carolina with a minivan full of our only possessions and hearts finding a new rhythm of yes and maybe and hope bleeds south.
This afternoon I am sitting under an oak tree with autumn leaves changing before my eyes, reds and yellows and purple ~ beside a red, double-decker bus in the heart of the city. The coffee steams my face as I wait and reflect.
I am not who I was.
Last Sunday I stood in the kitchen and cried. Jamie and I were reading a thank you note from an anonymous giver in our church community, and I began to receive and experience a deep appreciation for this new community of faith. Lives are being touched because I was not silent. Hearts are being healed by the power of amazing grace, a testimony of humiliation and reconciliation. I told Jamie, in all humility, that I am so proud of ‘us’. We kept going and sharing and loving and giving. B.R. and B. J. and the list goes on…, tried to kill us. They tried to bury a family in the shame of confessed sin and guilty pleas. And yet resurrection has the last word.
The gospel refuses to stay silent. The unshakeable resolve of resurrection rises from the ashes of a thousand matches, burning like a wildfire ~ ; a freight train of grace that prevails over law.
Tonight, we will sit together as a family at a downtown diner, to celebrate and reflect on the power of love. We will share a pizza and laughter and probably end up getting ice cream to chase the bittersweet away.