For the last eleven months I’ve known anxiety, fear, emergency plane rides, surgery, more surgery, emergency surgery, more emergency surgery, infection, infections that occurred while on antibiotics from the previous infection, non-healing surgical wounds, more surgery, and, not least in my litany of self-pity, twice daily dressing changes for wounds that will not go away. How can I glorify God?
The pull to becoming a worse Christian—cold, distant from God, hypocritical, and even involved in burn-down-your-life scandals—is far stronger when you are ministering to others than are the benefits that may accrue by daily association with spiritual things.
When life is raw and wretched, the only stability to be found is the truth, wherever it exists.
I hate change. I hated it as a child, when I dressed my Shirley Temple doll in her nicest outfit and sat her on my dresser, never to comb her hair (my sisters did, and it ruined it) or change her clothes (why trade down?) again.
I hate it even more, now that age is creeping up.