Happy Birthday Katie

A journal entry from January 2, 2009. In honor of my little sister, Katie, on her 18th birthday.


As She Dances

It's cold tonight in Pleasant Plains Cemetery. As we jump out of the van, I grab the tissue box. I know we'll need it. As we walk through the headstones and footstones, we try respectfully to avoid stepping on anything. I observe the eerie silhouettes that are cast from the many headstones around the graveyard, but I try not to think about them. I greatly dislike graveyards. Not because they are scary in general, but in particular, I dislike this graveyard. It is an emotion that began very early in my childhood, perhaps because of the memories kept captive here. There is always an undertone of sadness when we come here, but we rejoice even still.

The moon is hiding tonight, and it's raining just enough to coat my hair with a shiny sheen. I can feel the wet coldness creeping through my socks. The creeping wetness resembles my growing anxiety and dread. It’s ever approaching, and never ceasing. Whenever we come here, it’s always like this. Dark and wet, cold and foreboding. In fact, most dark nights remind me of this place, only because it’s always nighttime and very dark when we enter these wrought iron gates. It's almost as if the weather anticipates our arrival.

Robert, my oldest brother, beat us to the cemetery with his small family. As we trudge through the slick grass, weaving around family markers that go back generations, Robert's two children run to meet us, announcing, "She's over here! Next to Mama Polly!" Mama Polly was there that day, so long ago. She had just buried her husband, H.A., only a short time before. Then she had to return once again, to bury another loved one. In fact, my dad made that same trip when his dad, H.A., died, and then again to the same place, only inches away and merely weeks later, to face a different kind of sorrow.

As we approach the little section of grass where a number of our deceased family members lie, I visualize in my head the enormous headstone bearing our family name. We all bear this name proudly, because of those who have gone on before us. I'm named after my dad's grandmother who lies here as well. Mama Sallie was Papa H.A.’s mother, and my namesake. She was a woman who worked with her hands constantly. Quilts, blankets, clothes, you name it, she did it. She blessed absolutely everyone around her. I’m rather humbled and very grateful to carry her name.

I see my brother has already started pulling weeds. You see, it's tradition to clear out the weeds that have grown up since we've been here last. I usually help, but tonight I can't. My hands are too cold. I can’t really feel them, and I know that once I start pulling weeds alongside my brothers, the emotions will start rolling. And the pride in me begs for avoidance of the emotions that leave me vulnerable and scared.

The only sound I can hear is the sound of everyone sniffing. It's not just because it's cold, although it most definitely is. Everyone is lost in their own memories of that short time, so many years ago. I don’t have many memories, but the ones I have are vivid and childish. I remember things like smells, colors, and voices. I remember tears and wondering why we were there. I remember life being so very different, but so very beautiful. Our family was different, and I knew it. Even at 18 months old.

You see, Katie only lived 68 days. She never even came home. My parents didn't know anything was wrong until the day before she was born on August 27th, 1992. She had many problems, including being born blue from the lack of oxygen, severe downs syndrome, and a missing heart valve that caused her heart to be greatly weakened. An emergency C-section was performed to save her life. Being as young as I was, I don’t remember her birth, or much of the days that followed. I called her "Kakie". My childish mouth was not able to fully pronounce her name. No one ever tried to correct me.

I stuff my hands into my pockets to keep them warm as I watch my brothers on their knees, clearing Katie's footstone and revealing the design we have all traced in our memories too many times to count. Robert designed her footstone. He was only 14. My sister, Polly, is now reaching for the tissues. It’s a good thing I brought them. I know I’ll be using them soon, too. I haven't started to cry yet, though it's always just a matter of time. Right now I'm too busy searching for answers, asking God why we're here. I'm not angry. I'm not bitter. I don't have a reason to be either. I hardly knew Katie, really. But I'm more than familiar with the way she impacted our family. My dad places his hand on my shoulder. That's why I'm crying. Yes, the tears have started, though I barely even noticed when they began. I'm crying for him. For my mom. For what I don't remember. For what they do remember.

My brothers step away from the stone and join the semi-circle the rest of us have created around the small marker that reads "Precious Daughter, Beloved Sister". My niece, Robert’s little girl, runs up to my dad, her arms outstretched. He gathers her up like a precious gift. She is a precious gift. Her name is Katherine. We call her Kate. She is named for Katie. To see Katherine in her aunt Katie’s father’s arms, breaks my heart. My tears intensify and become more painful. But I think Katie is smiling above us. I know she’s still a part of our family because we refuse to let her be anything else. I know she'd like to be the one in his arms instead of Kate. When I see Kate, more often than not, I think of Katie. When I see Kate dancing, I imagine Katie dancing. If she had lived, she would have been severely retarded. But she still would have danced. I know she would have. Because I would have taught her to dance with abandon. We would have danced while Dad played the songs that we know so well. Kate loves to dance. Almost every time I see her, she's dancing. That's how I know Katie would have danced too. It’s in our blood. The joy, the understanding of life, how short and sweet it is, and how we can’t waste a minute regretting anything. We just dance because we can, and we prefer dancing to anything else.

My dad starts to pray now, tenderly, brokenly. My ears are very cold. I pull my hat down farther, and wipe my nose on the back of my near-frozen hand. Even my tears are cold. I feel raw, broken, ripped up and completely shredded to pieces. "Father, thank You for Katie." His voice breaks. I didn't think it possible, but I now feel even worse. "There are things we don't understand." Ah, yes. The million-dollar question: Why? "But You are a great God." So they might know Me. Is it possible that through our pain, our crippling, blinding, and breaking pain, that someone might see Him in us? Yes, it is most definitely possible. God knows how Daddy feels. In fact, He's felt it first hand as He watched, in anguish, as His Son died a torturous death at the hand of men. So they might know Me.

We sing "Will The Circle Be Unbroken". I can't sing. I’m crying too hard. Dad then asks us to share something, anything, about our memories of Katie. Christopher goes first. "It was such a long time ago." I never see him cry. He’s a tough guy, a macho man who loves to make people smile. "But it was such an important time in my life." Polly goes next. I can't really hear what she says, because she's crying so hard. Mom follows her, "I'm so glad she has brothers and sisters like you guys". Mom always knows how to make us feel like a million bucks. Dad's next. He tells us how Katie spoke to him with her eyes. They held pain. And love. They told him Goodbye, I love you Dad. Joshua says he is proud to be her brother. He wasn't even born until 1994, two years after she was born. When he was born, Mom told us he was God's gift, straight from heaven. I thought it was ridiculous at the time, but he was a balm for her broken heart, purpose after she lost hers. It's my turn now. I say that she made our family strong with the love she gave. Robert says that he remembers holding her while the van pulled around for mom, and how much it meant to just hold her. I think he means at the funeral. I didn't even know he held her there. That makes me cry even more.

We sing the last verse of Amazing Grace. I'm holding Kate now. She wants to know when it will be her turn to say something. I tell her that I don't think she'll have a turn tonight. Dad walks around the group, hugging each of us with the strength that only fathers can posses, and telling us that he loves us. Then he falls to his knees at Katie's grave as if to embrace her as well. He begins to sob from the depths of his heart. I've never seen my dad cry so. Even now, I wonder why he cried like that tonight. I don’t know why this night was different, but I know that it was. The tears began to fall again, cascading down my face, blurring my vision and landing on my wet coat. I’m crying for my Daddy, and the pain that is wrecking his soul, his mind, and his heart. My dad is a strong man, one of the strongest I know. And to see him on his knees in the dirt that harbors the mortal body of my little sister is earth shattering. I don’t understand it. Any of it. But I know it’s worth crying about. So I cry.

I'm still holding Kate, precious, precious Kate. She sees me crying and tenderly touches one of my tears as it makes its way down my wet, cold face. Then she, too, starts to weep. She buries her face in my shoulder as her sobs take over. She doesn't know why I'm crying, but she knows whatever it is, it's worth crying about. So she cries.

Mom joins Dad at Katie's grave, crying with him as her heart bleeds along with his. Then, they stand and trek across the darkened, frozen cemetery, back to the car, holding each other for the strength to walk. The rest of us follow at a distance. I carry Kate, my sister carries the well-used tissue box. She's still using them. Actually, I think everyone is.

As I buckled Kate into her car seat, I wipe a tear from her face as her lip continues to tremble. I whisper, "It's alright, Katherine," and kiss her lightly on the forehead to comfort her. She’s confused, I know. But she trusts me. If she understood the reasons why we are all in tears, she would be crying too. This child who honors her Aunt Katie by carrying her name would understand that the joy she feels when she sings and dances, is the same joy that Katie would have felt had God seen fit to leave her with us longer than He did. And if Katherine could understand that, her tears would surely fall.

As I walk away, I add a thought to myself. Katie is dancing with the angels now. And that is so much better than anything we could have offered her here.

A Fit of Anger

Have you ever read a passage in the Bible that completely wrecks you? I’m sure you have. If God is working at all in your life, He is wrecking it in some way through His word.

Last month, my dad bought me a new Bible. It was a complete surprise and a huge blessing. I had had the same Bible, an NIV translation, since I was an early teenager. I had been researching the different translations, and decided that the ESV Bible was the one I wanted. So, one day my dad bought me a very nice, leather bound, journaling ESV Bible. I’m thoroughly enjoying reading it… it’s so nice! It’s almost like I’m reading the words with new eyes. I don’t know, but there’s something special about a new Bible, a different translation, and a mindset to learn. I decided that I was going to read through the entire New Testament in no particular order. I’m a marker. I love to highlight and underline and make notes in the margins and so forth, so I’m honestly enjoying reading straight through books much more than one would think. Well, as you can tell from my previous blog post, I’m reading through Galatians. Tonight, I read how one should walk by the Spirit in chapter 5. I’ve read this passage countless times before. I mean, come one, it’s the fruits of the Spirit! But, remember how I said I was reading with new eyes? Well, this is a perfect example.

Tonight I lost my temper. It was long in coming, I’m afraid. I tend to hold things in, and it’s to my disadvantage. My anger gets pent up and then it explodes. Tonight was the exploding part. Something that shouldn’t have triggered my anger at all, completely did… and I totally let it. You see, anger isn’t bad in itself… it’s the lost control that comes with anger. It’s like a paralyzing emotion. My good sense was paralyzed and I said things that were hurtful and ungrateful. So after the explosion and a good cry after a post-midnight shower, I opened up my Bible to Galatians. And read that the works of the flesh are evident. Those works include impurity, sensuality, enmity, strife, jealousy, envy, and fits of anger. This is the second time we are warned that these things cannot and will not inherit the kingdom of God. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. Guess what? Total wreckage. Of me, that is. My little pity party/releasing of the beast was me giving into my flesh. And the flesh is opposite everything I strive to be.

Talk about a wake-up call. It’s times like these when I realize just how much I need Jesus. Cause I’m absolutely nothing on my own. I am a failure on my own actually. That is the one thing I have no problem being. But now that I know Jesus, failure doesn’t cut it anymore. For if I walk by the Spirit, I cannot gratify the desires of the flesh. For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh.

Love.
Joy.
Peace.
Patience.
Kindness.
Goodness.
Faithfulness.
Gentleness.
Self-control.

Against such things there is no law.

Claimed

I’m reading Galatians right now. I just finished 1 and 2 Corinthians and the topic switch is awesome. Paul is a brilliant follower of Christ, who God is allowing to change my life.

I have come to the conclusion that the Corinthians were confused idiots. They didn’t get the gospel. They didn’t get how their lives were supposed to reflect that of Christ’s life. They had many, many issues. But most unfortunately, many churches and individuals are modern day Corinthians. Paul goes from dealing with basic issues and questions that the Corinthians had, to defending his authenticity as an apostle of Christ, despite his sufferings and the thorn in his flesh. He pleaded with the receivers of his letters to support him in his work and to be unified among themselves. In Galatians, (one of my favorite books) he hammers the truth that we are not justified by works of the law, but that we are saved through faith in Jesus Christ, the Son of God. He speaks of the freedom given to us, and instructions on how to live as followers of Christ. The people of Galatia were also a foolish, messed up people, confused and led astray by the old law. Paul rebuked them with that tough love of his.

“We know that a person is not justified by works of the law, but through faith in Jesus Christ, so we also have believed in Christ Jesus, in order to be justified by faith in Christ and not by works of the law, because by works of the law no one will be justified.” – Galatians 2:16

It is completely understandable how the law became such a stumbling block to the early believers. It is still a stumbling block to many people today. Paul explains the purpose of the law and why we are no longer under the law, therefore, we should no longer hold on to the law as if it will save us.

“Why then the law? It was added because of transgressions, until the offspring should come to whom the promise had been made, and it was put in place through angels by an intermediary… Is the law then contrary to the promises of God? Certainly not! For if a law had been given that could give life, then righteousness would indeed be by the law. But the Scripture imprisoned everything under sin, so that the promise by faith in Jesus Christ might be given to those who believe. “ – Galatians 3:19-22

He goes on to say “before faith came, we were held captive under the law, imprisoned until the coming faith would be revealed. The law was our guardian until Christ came, in order that we might be justified by faith. But now faith has come, we are no longer under a guardian.” (3:23-26)

It distresses me that some people still consider themselves under the law of the Old Testament because I know that if they follow this law, they do not have the freedom that followers of Christ have. I say “followers of Christ” to mean those who consider themselves free of the law, because anyone who feels otherwise does not know Christ. Paul explains this issue quite clearly to the Galatians who were struggling with the same problem. The law, that which acted as a guardian for a people led astray by sin, became a stumbling block when the Son of God came down to fulfill that law. Because he said he did not come to abolish it, but to fulfill it.

God is a God of kept promises. A God of freedom. A God of mercy. A God of second chances.

He is not a God of confusion. Or bondage. For if we are slaves, we are slaves of love and bound in the furthering of the faith to all nations. (Galatians 5:13.) But that bondage is a privilege. It’s a freedom, ironically. Because once we give our God our life without reservation, he then turns around and gives it right back to us, with blessings beyond what our pea-sized brains can think of.

We are the aroma of Christ to a dying and bereaved world. We are privy to the secret wisdom of God. We are free of the bonds of the law because Christ became cursed for our sake. (Galatians 3:13, 4:4-5) We are called for greater things. We are given another chance when true justice says we are condemned. We are children of a promise made by a God who invented honesty. We are sons and daughters of God, heirs in fact. Our Father claims us with the purest love.

Wednesday is Pink, Because it's Complicated

I am a late night thinker. Sometimes I stay awake in my bed, after all the lights are out in the house, and I just think. It’s honestly where a lot of my songs come from. Nighttime is when I come alive in my head. I can actually be a really thick person, and miss the totally obvious sitting right in front of my face, so I wouldn’t call myself brilliant, or smart or anything. I’m just creative. I think differently than anyone else does. Let me give you an example.

What color is Monday? Yeah, you read that right. What color is Monday? I’ll tell you what color Monday is. It’s an olive green. On the darker side. Tuesday is yellow. A happy color. Wednesday is pink, because it’s complicated. Thursday is brown because it’s usually boring. Friday is grey, in between black and white, those spots that are uncertain. Saturday is red, an exciting and vibrant color. And Sunday is, of course, white.

Did you know that numbers also have colors? Oh yeah, they totally do. 2 is blue. 3 is red. 5 is orange. 10 is light blue. 12 is like a rosy pink. 16 is purple. Those are just a few. Obviously, some numbers have the same color, because duh… there are a lot of numbers.

I think there’s a name for people like me, but the name is escaping me at the moment. I think in color. Some people think strictly in personalities. I don’t think that way as much as colors, but I do assign personalities to letters and numbers. I also think in genders (No, I am not sexist), AND I add a mean/nice aspect. I guess mean/nice is sort of related to personalities, but it’s more like the flavor of said number. Or letter.

D is green, but he’s also a mean letter. I think of Ds with angry eyebrows. G is orange, and a good letter. He’s nice. N is light green, a girl, and she’s perky. What to do with the mean/nice aspect? I really don’t know. It’s just how I perceive stuff.

I actually didn’t realize how strange it was to think like this until pretty recently. I realized it one day when someone was talking about Wednesday, and I said something about Wednesday being pink. This was probably within the last 5 years or so. The people I was conversing with stopped and stared at me like I was crazy. I was like, “What? Wednesday isn’t pink?” Not that I doubted myself, because I KNOW Wednesday is pink. Lol. But I was just trying to figure out what was wrong. They honestly had no idea what I was talking about. I asked them what color their Wednesdays were, and they looked concerned for my mental health. It never occurred to me that not everyone thinks in color. Now, whenever I find people who think the same way I do, I give them a huge high-five. It’s actually pretty rare. Which makes it that much MORE awesome.

Cupcakes, Checks, Cherries & Comics

It’s been months since I’ve blogged. I’ve thought about it. No doubt there. I’ve meant to. Yep. But I’m a terminal procrastinator, and my life does not hinge on me blogging. I journal, and there I gather my thoughts, like daisies in a field. A bouquet in the making. Sometimes I get a weed or two. I throw those out. But if I don’t gather, I can’t throw out. It’s a way to keep me sane. Sometimes a favorite daisy gets stuck in my hair, right behind my ear so I can see it out of the corner of my eye. It makes me feel beautiful and agreeable. Innocent. Are we talking about daisies or thoughts and perceptions? Maybe both.

Sometimes I imagine really weird and rather hilarious things at random times. I guess that makes me really weird, hilarious and random. Like tonight, at work, I was eating a real cherry. Not a fake one mind you, but the good kind. The juicy, sweet, natural red cherry. Anyways, as I was eating, I observed how cherries look like hearts. But there is a pit in the middle that has to be avoided. It’s really hard and I’m always afraid I’ll break my teeth on it. Then I got to thinking. Is there a hard “pit” in my little cherry-like heart that people try to avoid? Idk. I just think stuff like that sometimes. That’s not a good example of hilarious, but it is random. A good example of hilarious would be me imagining a basketball game going in stop motion with stars and comic book effects animated above the heads of the players. Boom. Pow. Dunk. Squeak. (that would be the shoes.) A ref blows his whistle and points angrily at a player with the little squiggly lines circle above his head. Idk. It amuses me.

You know, recently, I’ve stopped apologizing when I say stuff like that. Like, “oh wow, that was so random and weird. I’m sorry.” Or, “Man, that made no sense. I’m sorry.” I’m tired of apologizing for thinking the thoughts that make me who I am. I’m me. I’ve stopped being someone else. Sometimes I subconsciously imagine I’m living like Buddy the elf. I’m a stranger in a foreign world that doesn’t appreciate the brilliance within me. Have you ever had cheetos and chocolate chip cookies for breakfast? It’s awesome. Do you ever lie in bed, fighting sleep, just so you can finish the story you were making up in your head? The late night stories are best because your mind is befuddled by the fuzziness of unconsciousness. Sometimes I rearrange my furniture in my bedroom at 2 am. Sometimes I use a hammer to kill spiders. I thoroughly enjoy being someone nobody can figure out. Is that wrong? Or bad? Or weird? I’m not apologizing for it, I’m just thinking out loud.

When I was little, I’d make Ken kidnap Barbie and make her wash his dishes because he didn’t want to do it. Then he’d give her a cupcake. And take her home. I’d also rollerblade through my kitchen. Or see how long I could jump rope before I either collapsed or had a bout with the ceiling fan. At church, I’d beat up boys and make friends with lonely cats. Once, I walked into a metal pole. Ok, it was more than once. I could never find good hiding spots for hide and seek. I loved playing baseball and I had a natural affinity for causing trouble with the neighborhood kids. I dreamed of my someday “happily ever after”, and made my own house by tying vines to a cluster of trees, and making rooms and doors and such. Then we’d play “farmer boy” with Cai, the weird neighbor kid, and use the local dogs as our best friends. We argued about what our names were and who grew what vegetable and who would own the store. I don’t even know if we ever got around to playing. We loved setting the scene so much.

Now, I attend school and daydream while pretending to study. I work and daydream while pretending to pay attention and get stuff done. (I really am capable of being a hard worker. I promise.) I watch a lot of movies. I love movies. I can’t even really explain it. It’s a love of mine. It’s more than escape. The different story lines and plots fascinate me. Because it only takes 2 hours for someone’s life to be fixed or changed forever. And I’m so ADHD that I find great pleasure in watching someone else’s life go so fantastically in such a small amount of time. I especially like it when one of the lead characters is quirky and unusual.

I can listen to a song a thousand times and not get tired of it. I can write songs like some people can write checks. Some of my songs bounce, but others get deposited into some bank somewhere.

I get a kick out of stringing a bunch of really random facts and facets and thoughts and observations together. I like to keep things lively and unique. Different and entertaining. It makes my life seem brighter, more exciting, more meaningful and distinctive. I like being spontaneous. I hope I can rub off on some really boring people.

Hey, that’s a heck of a bouquet.

When God Shows Up...

This morning in Sunday School, we were in Exodus 2 and the first part of 3. The lesson was about God showing up and using us when we didn't even realize we were in a place to be used. Here's what I thought was so cool...

At the end of chapter 2, specifically verses 23-25, we see the Israelites crying out to God. They were "groaning in their slavery" and their cry for help rose to the Father. God heard their cry and his heart hurt for them. (Sometimes we forget that God has emotions too.) He looked on them with concern. He wanted to help them.
Alright, so get this. The VERY next verse, which is the beginning of chapter 3, starts out with, "Now Moses...." We go from a problem right to the solution. It gives Moses' location and then says that an angel appeared to Moses then the Lord spoke to him. He tells Moses that he has seen his people suffering (Actually, they're Moses' people too) and that Moses is going to go speak to Pharaoh and take care of this situation. At first Moses is like, "No sir, I'm not the man for this job. I just tend sheep!" (God liked those sheep tenders...) It was true! By man's standards, Moses was the least qualified for this job. He was wanted in Egypt and had run away as a young man after killing a guard. He wasn't eloquent in speech and he certainly didn't have a lot of faith. But God gives him the confidence and the signs he needs to believe in God and in himself. Still, Moses keeps making excuses... "I can't speak well!" God sets him straight by saying "I made your mouth! So go to Pharaoh and I'll teach you what to say."

Two things I've been thinking on today... First, when we ask for help in a certain situation, God may send someone not entirely qualified by our standards. When you ask for help, don't expect the angels to come blasting down from heaven to rescue you. Look for it in the least of us.

Second, when God assigns us a task that we think we can't do, or we haven't ever done, or we're scared to do, guess what? He doesn't care what you think. Lol. He made you for goodness sake. He knows what you're capable of doing and saying and making and teaching and learning and accomplishing. He knows you better than you know yourself. And guess what again? If you can't, he's going to teach you how. If he's chosen you for a task, or to touch someone's life, or to make a difference in those around you, he'll equip you to do it. You may not look like a superstar to some, but if you have faith that God will see you through and that he'll show up in your life, you will be blessed beyond belief.

So, what to take away from these ramblings? Don't fear what God has for you and what he wants you to do. You should be excited when he chooses you to do something marvelous and world changing. Oh yeah, and when you ask for help, don't decide beforehand where it's going to come from. You'll probably be surprised.

:)

<3 Sally

Pursuit

Now that you're a Christian, you've found God. What do you do now? You've searched for something to fill the God-shaped void in your soul, and now you've found it.

.... What next?

Those who know the answer to this question are probably sitting there right now, thinking, "wow... she's really stupid." But I beg you to simply erase the knowledge that you, as a Christ follower, have engrained in your brain, just for a few moments. Escape from the religious connotations and look at it from a different perspective. Think about what someone, specifically a non-Christian or a non-Christ-follower, would think when you tell him or her that you found God. Imagine that person thinking, "Alright. They've done it. They found him." The end. Ask yourself this question: When you find something you've been looking for, what do you do with it? Do you put it on a shelf to pull it down sometimes and admire it? Do you lock it in a box so you won't lose it? Do you frame it and put it on a wall for others to admire. Maybe. Honestly, it depends on what the object is. Think about this: when you find God, do you do this to him? Do you stick him on a shelf to pull down and admire him when you feel like it? Do you lock him away where you won't have to worry about him? How about this doozy, do you frame him and put him on a wall. Do you adorn your relationship with him for other people to admire? Honestly, think about what you do with God.

Think about this illustration. We call ourselves God-followers. What does that mean? Well, I think of a child, following her mommy, trailing behind her at a steady pace in a grocery store. The mother is very aware of her child behind her, checking constantly to make sure she's ok and still following her. But the child is choosing to follow her mother. There is no leash, no string, nothing connecting the child to her mother. The only reason that she's following her is because, well, her mother the only person she trusts in the store. She's choosing to pursue her mother throughout the store. Did you catch that? She has her mother. She sees her mother, she knows who her mother is, we could even say she's "found" her mother in the sense she knows that she belongs with her mother, but she's PURSUING her mother. As in following intently. (Bear with me... I know all children aren't perfect angels who follow their mother without a bribe of some sort. But a scared child always runs back to someone they trust... therefore, a smart child stays close to them.) And as she grows up, she'll make greater efforts to pursue her mother at a deeper, emotional level. Now, take that and loosely apply it to us God-followers. We know who God is. We've "found" God. We see God and the effects of his work in our lives and those around us, but in order to keep him in our sights, we have to pursue him. Like a patient mother, God may figuratively stop and wait for us to catch up if our short, stubby legs fail us and we fall. But we have to make the effort to get back up and have the desire to actively follow him. Even after we've found him and filled that void, we must pursue him.

Now, you're probably saying, Duh. That's so obvious to me. But I think that sometimes, it's most helpful to go back to the beginning and review the basics. Ask yourself this: Are you pursuing God right now? Actively and intently? If you're not, then get back up off the ground and start pursuing your Creator. He's waiting for you.