I am overwhelmed at the awesome stories coming in from all over the country. Please keep them coming, my vision is to create an inspirational journal with your story, excerpts from The Treasure, and artwork from hurt people who have found help in Christ. The proceeds will go to serve healing people in recovery.

This is a cool story by an author friend of mine, Julie, parents perhaps you can connect?

Born Too Soon
© Julie Bonn Heath

I was 28 weeks pregnant and 23 years old when my husband mentioned that my face was swelling. I rolled my eyes at him and walked over to glance in the mirror. Unfortunately, his observation was correct.
I must be retaining water.
I had just finished reading a book last week for expectant parents which included a chapter on pre-eclampsia (pregnancy induced high blood pressure), and my heart had twisted as I wondered if it could happen to me.
I brushed off the thought, chalking it up to raging, third-trimester hormones.
But now as I stared in the mirror, I fought a small well of panic that opened—just a little—inside of my heart. I swallowed hard and ducked out of my husband’s sight, avoiding his gaze.
“If it gets worse, I’ll go in.”
The next morning, with my face large and puffy, I drove myself to the clinic and calmly presented myself at the front desk. My logical mind knew that I was just fine—but I wasn’t willing to risk the well being of my baby by being stubborn.
“I’m showing signs of pre-eclampsia,” I whispered.
The receptionist whipped out a yellow piece of paper. “Is the baby moving?”
I nodded.
She handed the paper to me and then walked me back to the back area of the clinic. Her voice sounded strained and rushed as she whispered to a nurse who threw a plastic smile at me and directed me into an exam room.
This is just to make sure everything’s OK, I reassured myself. I will not panic.
Unfortunately, the test results were positive.
“You do have pre-eclampsia.” The nurse affirmed, “We need to check you in at the hospital.”
That quickly, a diagnosis changed our lives forever.
It can’t possibly be right.
“Where’s the doctor?” I asked.
“She asked me tell you.”
“I want to speak to her,” I replied. “I’ll wait.”
The Doctor entered the room and patted me on the shoulder.
“What’s this mean?” I asked. I wanted all the answers—and fast.
“We’ll get you into the hospital,” she replied kindly but firmly. “They may be able to get it under control there.”
With my heart in my throat, I called my husband. He met me at the hospital. The OB doctor on duty checked me over and sat down.
“This hospital isn’t set up for preemies. We’ll transport you to another—the best in the State.”
“I was hoping that you’d tell me that this diagnosis is a mistake,” I countered. “I don’t feel sick.”
The doctor shook his head. No. “The cure is delivery,” he announced quietly. “Although at this point we need to keep your baby in there as long as we can.”
I shuddered. My husband grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly. We held hands, and waited for the unknown.
For the only time in history that I remembered, a major bridge was closed due to ice. The back roads took an hour longer, and stressed, my body started having contractions while I was in the ambulance. I joked with the medics and asked if they had ever delivered before, but I was terrified.
“Of course! You’re going to be just fine!” He said, but he radioed his partner in the front seat to tell him that contractions were starting.
I bet you’ve never delivered one at 29 weeks.
The contractions lightened at the hospital with medication. The second day we were there, an NICU nurse took my husband on a tour of the nursery and showed him a spot reserved for our baby. By then we knew that it was a girl, about 2 pounds, and whether she survived or not, we would still name her what my husband had always requested: Megan. The nurse gave us a book on preemies and he came from the nursery, looking very grave, and a bit pale.
“They have a SPOT for her?” I cried. “What happened to keeping her inside as long as we can?” I turned to the wall and started crying while he tried in vain to comfort me. Only that morning, I had a roommate tell me, “Pre-eclampsia? That’s what I have. I get it with every pregnancy and they send me home on bedrest.”
At the time, hope sang in my heart although my body finally did feel very sick and my vision had doubled. I had to ask my supportive parents to back away from my bedside that day because there were four of them and it was overwhelming.
Four days after my admittance, I knew that it was Thursday, and also Thanksgiving Day. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Happy Thanksgiving, little one.
During the night, my baby’s heart rate had dropped several times and I told the doctor making rounds. In addition, my headache grew excruciating painful over the matter of an hour.
“It hurts so badly that I can hardly talk. My teeth feel like they are pressing forward.” My graphic description caused a quickened pace in my room and outside in the hall.
Two other doctors entered and asked me questions. After examining me, they looked at each other with concern in their eyes.
Oh no. What does this mean?
Shortly after they left, the main doctor overseeing my care returned. “It’s time to take the little one out,” he said gently. “At this point, you and she are both better off with her in the nursery.”
“Now?”
He nodded and instructed the nurse to prep me for surgery. She left quickly.
My husband entered the room.
“They’re going to do a c-section,” I told him—relieved that he was finally there.
“Now?” His shocked voice was higher pitched than usual.
“Yes.” the doctor affirmed.
The nurse returned and administered more shots.
My heart raced and tears of worry filled my eyes. Will my baby survive? Can she survive?
My husband called my parents who pulled their turkey from the oven and made him a turkey sandwich. They rushed to the hospital—but I was already in surgery by the time they arrived.
An entire team of people stood nearby, just for the baby. Specialists; neonatal nurses and pediatricians—their presence should have provided comfort but did not.
This is serious. My baby is arriving eleven weeks early. These professionals are needed—perhaps to save her life.
They rolled me over and I felt the shot in my spine—felt the numbing stretch slowly down to my knees.
Why can’t you just put me out? Less traumatic—but wait, then I couldn’t see her and I need to see her right away.
The anesthesia caused violent shaking of my entire body. They arranged my arms straight out on both sides and tied them down. I felt like I was being crucified.
“Is that necessary?” My husband asked—reading my mind.
A nurse assured him that it was. He held my hand—clear at the end of the strapping board and managed to touch my face with his free hand.
“It’s OK. She’s going to be OK.”
“W-We don’t know that,” I managed through chattering teeth, tears running down my face.
“Yes.” He squeezed my hand. “We do.”
I nodded. I’m so scared for our little girl.
The Anesthesiologist sat near my head and held my other hand. “The shaking is normal, Julie. It’s OK. I’ll be here the whole time watching out for you.”
“S-Sure,” I managed lightly. “I saw that paperback novel you brought in here with you.”
The entire medical team laughed. “She’s on to you, Frank,” one of them said.
“Can you feel this?” One doctor asked as a stab of pain hit me in the stomach.
“O-Ouch.” I clenched my teeth. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry. You’re not completely numb yet.”
A couple of moments ticked by. I looked around, managed a wobbly smile at a nurse and took deep breaths. My entire body rattled the table as I trembled.
Soon the surgery was at the forefront of everyone’s mind—at least I hoped so—and my husband stood aghast at seeing inside parts of me lifted up and away to get to the baby.
The clock ticked more. Silence filled the room as the medical team concentrated.
“W-what’s going on?” I asked. They reassured me that everything was fine. The wait seemed like hours.
As soon as they lifted our daughter from me, I saw normally for the first time in days. And just as quickly, I heard her wail.
She’s breathing. She’s breathing.
A doctor lifted her quickly in the air for me to see and then several gathered around to whisk her away on a table—literally running to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.
My husband kissed me. “I need to make sure she’s OK,” he whispered and I nodded as he quickly headed to the nursery behind her. I felt strangely abandoned and yet at the same time, wanted him near our baby.
For the first time, she was away from me and I felt a hole in my heart. Now that she was gone—I no longer had as much control. Who was I kidding? I never held the control in the first place. But I could no longer say, “her heartbeat is dropping” or ask, “can you make sure she’s OK?” Her life now rested in the hands of skilled doctors—and God. All I could do—was hope and pray.
Happy birthday and Thanksgiving, Megan. Please live. Please live. Please live.
After twenty four hours of breathing on her own, she was ventilated. She was born with a hole in her heart that medication closed and a variety of other preemie issues. The first time we held her, she turned her head to find us when we talked to her. Needless to say, while rocking her gently in my arms, I felt complete for the first time since leaving the hospital without her.
It was forty-one days before we joyfully brought Megan home. Born at two pounds, seven ounces, she finally weighed three pounds, four ounces and could breathe and eat on her own. Although her follow up care was extensive and financial issues loomed large, she is now a healthy and happy teen.
We will never forget the experience of having a baby on the edge of life, and will never cease to be grateful for the knowledgeable team of doctors and nurses who saw her through. And to God, Who has blessed us with her throughout.

Forrest’s Story

Our mission in August1969 was to lay down recon fire 100 meters outside a Vietnamese village to drive out the inhabitants and then disperse CS, powdered tear gas. CS would make this enemy outpost uninhabitable for at least a year. 9 of my buddies and I walked toward the village in a straight line, 4 on my left and 5 on my right, some 15 meters apart. Without realizing we stepped over 3 well concealed Viet Cong bunkers in a dry rice patty. We stopped at the 100 meter mark to begin laying down fire. As I knelt steadying the M16 with my right elbow on my right thigh, I suddenly noticed 30 caliber and AK47 machine gun rounds kicking up the dark earth around me. Grabbing my radio to call in a gun ship I found myself knocked to the ground staring into the humid blue sky. Quickly inventorying my body I counted one right boot, but no left. The popping sounds to the right drew my immediate attention to 3 North Vietnamese Army Regulars (NVA) executing my wounded comrades. The M16 I carried landed beyond my grasp when I was hit…I could not move to retrieve the weapon because my missing left ankle lodged securely beneath my head. The return fire to my left came from our wounded platoon lieutenant crawling toward me. When the LT was hit, I used his weapon to defend myself until help arrived. I only survived.
After the war, I married my beautiful wife Pamela. It soon became evident that getting pregnant wasn’t going to be easy for us. We were both disappointed, but Pamela was especially distressed by it. She longed to be a mother with every fiber of her being. We visited the doctor without result. I suppose we could have taken heroic steps with a fertilization clinic, but Pam developed a vision for adopting a little girl from China. We started developing the dossier required for a China adoption. It turned out to be a complex and daunting task. So we began a passionate life of prayer for our adopted child.
I remember the day we presented our dossier to the adoption agency. We were very excited. Two weeks later, we got a call. Our contact explained that China had changed some rules and wouldn’t allow adoptions to parents who were more than 30 years older than the adoptive child. That new rule disqualified us both. That essentially killed our prospects in China. We were floored, not to mention distraught. Our contact told us we had other options and not to lose hope. We had been entirely focused on China and hadn’t considered anything else. The good news was that the dossier we’d constructed for China was more than adequate for other countries with a few small changes. We considered adopting from Russia, Thailand, India, Columbia, Eastern Europe, and Vietnam.
I had been a combat soldier in Vietnam during 1968 and 1969. I was wounded at the end of my tour and had spent several years in a hospital and in a wheel chair. In spite of extensive veteran counseling and an understanding of the importance of forgiveness, I could not imagine adopting a child from Vietnam. I realized, to my surprise, that I still had some unresolved issues. I tried not to let Pamela know, but she could tell I was having trouble with the idea.
We drove home from the agency and I escaped into a book I was reading at the time. It was a novel by Randy Alcorn called Deadline. I opened it up and almost immediately read, “When you go to war with a people, you dehumanize them to do what you do in war. If you ever expect to reconcile with that people, you have to consciously promote them back to humanity.” I was stunned. It was like God was speaking directly to me through that passage. I shared what I’d read with Pamela. I asked her to give me a few days to work through my feelings. She was gracious to me. I prayed diligently, but also searched hard for a way out. I wrestled with the idea of going to Vietnam. I struggled over working with the Communists. I tried to imagine being the father of a little Vietnamese child whose grandparents tried to kill me. Once I told Pamela that going to Vietnam would be OK, she was on the phone to the agency before I could turn around. It took about a week for my emotions to catch up with my declarations and what I knew was right. But they did, pretty much.
It didn’t take long for my precarious conviction to be tested. We got a call from the agency a few weeks later. They had wonderful news. We actually had an opportunity to adopt twin boys. It would be a while before I felt right about it, but I knew I would. I just stuffed it and followed Pamela’s lead. She knew my heart and trusted me.
We got a picture of the boys a few days later. They were 10 weeks old and each weighed three pounds. They were clearly malnourished, but they had all their limbs and looked beautiful to Pamela. They looked scary to me. We were told they were in an orphanage in a southern province called Tra Vinh, near the Mekong Delta.
The boys’ names were Dam and Dang. That gave us pause. Perhaps the names Joshua and Benjamin would serve them better as they grew up in the U.S. Joshua was a name we both loved and had talked about for years. We began to pray for the boys and as the weeks and months dragged by, we took them into our hearts and they became our own. They became our sons.
On our 6th wedding anniversary we got a call that Dam, our Joshua, had died. We were profoundly shaken by the news. They assured us that Benjamin was healthy and we should still plan on making the trip to Vietnam. We could hardly wait. We were anxious to hold our son in our arms. Once again prayer became our connection with God.
Our agency liaison, Hung, met us at airport in Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) and took us to our hotel. Neither Pamela nor I were prepared for navigating our way in a Third World Country.
On our fourth day, we were scheduled for a very early drive to Tra Vinh. We would meet Benjamin for the first time and participate in the Giving and Receiving Ceremony. Through that, he would legally become our son.
After a chilling ferry ride across the Mekong Delta, and a little over 8 hours after leaving Saigon, we pulled into Tra Vinh, the capital of Tra Vinh Province. Hung drove out of town and turned onto a narrow path that we expected would lead to the orphanage. We were excited, but after almost an hour on that path our excitement turned to anxiety. The country side had become jungle and our surroundings became more and more familiar to me and my combat experience. It was like a flashback. We finally drove into a small compound of three buildings, one that was about 3,000 square feet, and two smaller structures. We were ushered into the smallest. It was essentially a meeting room with a large table and about 20 chairs surrounded be four thin walls. Hung told us to wait there and he would be, “back in few minutes.”
Forty-five minutes later, we were frantic. Something had to be wrong. I assured Pam that they were not being controlling, disrespectful, or mean spirited. I didn’t tell her I knew it was very difficult for people in Eastern cultures to deliver bad news. Hung finally returned and said there had been some complications. The Director of the orphanage would see us soon. Soon was another 30 minutes. The Director came in and introduced himself through Hung. Hung’s English had been pretty difficult to understand up to that point, but manageable. Now that we needed to really understand what was going on, the language barrier became particularly inconvenient. The bottom line seemed to be that Benjamin was sick and had been taken to the hospital a few days earlier. The Director suggested we go home and try to adopt another baby some day. That was not OK. I turned to Hung and asked him if he knew where the hospital was. To Hung’s credit, he discovered the hospital location from the Director in a rather heated exchange.
As we stepped into the Children’s Ward, Hung spotted someone in a white coat and headed for him. We were stunned by what we saw. The room was probably 20 by 30 feet and crowded wall to wall with baby cribs. There seemed to be 2 or 3 children in every crib. Hung pointed to one about a third of the way into the room. It held a tiny infant and a little 2 year old boy. We moved through a sea of cribs to get to it. Both children were tied down, but the larger boy had gotten a foot loose and was thrashing in agony. His leg was inadvertently landing on the infant and I cringed every time it came down. The infant seemed too sick to complain. Hung motioned to the infant and told us he was Benjamin. My knees went weak. Pam leaned against me and started to sink. It was all I could do to hold her up. Ben was so tiny. He looked so sick. There were open soars all over his little body and he had a plastic oxygen tube taped to his little face. He could not possibly be seven months old. He didn’t look like he weighed more than 5 pounds. As I took a closer look at the larger boy, I realized he must be more like six, maybe seven years old.
Pamela and I stepped out into the hall with Hung only to be jostled and scrutinized by scores and scores of people who were either sick or visiting the sick, and all highly curious about us. Standing in that hall the walls seemed to get closer somehow. I shook myself and knew that we needed more help. So we prayed.
It felt like every circumstance was conspiring to defeat us. I couldn’t even think in all the press of bodies, the noise, and intense scrutiny we were under in that hall outside Benjamin’s ward. There were at least 80 children in that room, some crying and screaming, and some too sick to even moan. There was a single doctor, if indeed that’s what he was, caring for them. It was one of the most heartbreaking experiences I have ever had. I felt completely helpless. So, we prayed again.
Soon the hospital released Ben without complaint and we visited the People’s Committee building in Tra Vinh to finalize Benjamin’s adoption before we could leave for Saigon.
At the People’s Committee Building, there was a bunch of paperwork and the formal Giving Receiving Ceremony. It would take well over an hour.
Finally, the paperwork was ready. About a dozen government workers were invited into the room and I was offered a warm glass of beer. Pamela got a glass of soda. We were expected to take at least a sip. Everyone in the room seemed frozen until we each did just that. They asked us to sit at a table with the Director. Finally, we were done signing and it was the Director’s turn.
The Director was probably 60 years old. He took his time and looked at each of us for a long moment. He then reached into his coat. As he pulled a gold pen from his pocket and unscrewed the cap, he looked at me hard and finally said in English, “You in American War, Yes?” I had never heard the Vietnam War called the American War, but I knew what he meant. I froze. Our eyes locked. I wanted to lie. We both knew then that we had been mortal enemies 30 years earlier. I looked him in the eye and decided to be as straight as possible. I gave him the friendliest, most empathetic smile I could muster and said, “Yes, I was.” He looked back at me with a life time of experience scrolling behind his inscrutable expression. I felt a chill. 30 years earlier I faced a Viet Cong with a white knuckle grip on my rifle, today I stared down an NVA Regular holding only my beautiful Benjamin in gentle embrace. At last, the former enemy gave me a small nod, signed all the documents without another word and left the room.
The Vietnamese people were once my enemy. I had adopted someone who was once my enemy and it was one of the greatest things God had ever allowed me to do. In Benjamin, I had not only reconciled myself to these people, I had made a covenant with him to be his father for as long as we both existed. An adoption is not a contract, conditional on each party keeping its terms. Adoption is instead a sacred covenant and is, by definition, an unconditional commitment. No matter what, Benjamin will always know that I chose to be his father and I will always love him and care for him without condition.
I clearly understood that I was once God’s enemy. At some point in my life, I discovered that Jesus had made a way for me to be reconciled to Him. It occurred to me that reconciliation included His adoption of me into His family. He is my heavenly Father. He will never leave me nor forsake me. That’s a reconciliation and adoption that is an eternal covenant, the most important relationship in the history of man. And, God had allowed me to experience that covenant as an adoptive father, as well as His adopted son. What a gracious Father He is.

Hey Gloggers,

This begins a new series of blogs. I will glog the true stories of hurt people who have found amazing help through Christ. In fact I would love to have your story. I will then publish these stories in an inspirational journal. The proceeds will go to help hurt people find help and hope. So I trust that you will have the courage to send me your story soon and I will share it with the world. Glen

Barb’s Story

His love lasts forever…even when life is not fair.

I was born into a violent alcoholic family in the south. My parents excelled at drinking to excess and abusing my brother and me through abandonment, neglect, starvation, physical, and sexual abuse.

My biological father was so sick, he attempted to kill us, but by God’s grace he failed.

When I was married, I thought that now life would be fair to me….not so.

My new husband was involved in a serious car accident and unable to support us financially. This sent me into a deep depression…I found myself in the hospital ready to end my life. Here at the bottom…I found Jesus. His love and grace gave me new hope and help.

The Lord also gave me a gift…to watercolor. The gift of painting helped to heal me and I began to see how Jesus was changing me from the inside out.

We found a church home, North Coast Family Fellowship, and learned from God’s word how to be real, not legalistic, we began to see how our broken places become His strength in our lives. We are loved by our church family, treasured by God.

Perhaps now our lives would be easier…not so much.

In February of 2007 I broke my back. During the evaluation of the x-rays my physician discovered pancreatic cancer. But on the other hand, had it not been for the fractured vertebrae I would not have been treated for cancer. During my treatment I had so many opportunities to share my love for Jesus with the hospital staff. During this time Pastor Glen asked me to contribute my art for an inspirational journal which would help to fund counseling and recovery for hurting people.

Looking back at the trauma and unfairness of my life…I would not change one thing. Jesus has touched the broken places of my life with love and grace. I am a witness…His love lasts forever.

Barb

Hey bloggers, can I share a vision with you? I have a dream to bring healing and help to hurt people through the amazing grace of Jesus. Here’s how: I am writing an inspirational journal entitled The Treasure of God’s Heart: Stories of Healing and Help.

This inspirational journal will have paintings and photographs from artists who have been hurt in life and found healing through Christ. With this artwork I will include devotional material from my book, and real life stories from people…like you.

Would you be interested in sharing your story with the world? I can make yours anonymous by changing places and names.

So, feel free to blog your story for the inspirational journal, or you can email me privately at dr.glenmaiden@gmail.com.

The end result will be an interactive journal with Scripture, stories, a place to blog your thoughts, and the world will be your audience.

One final thing…all the profit will go to fund healing and help for hurting people, you know like rehab, counseling, groups, materials, safe houses, etc.

Next week I will publish a story of one of my featured artists to help you with writer’s block.

Let the revolution of grace begin!

Glen

The Corinthians were a mess. Think about sitting in a living room with 20 Christians. The guy on your right is having sex with his step mom. The contractor on his right is suing the couple across the room for not paying for the addition he built them. A couple of the more spiritual dudes are arguing about who is the greater authority in the church. The large guy next to them is bragging about his recent date with a prostitute before he came to church that day, and the single girl next to him is sleeping with the convert on your left. Not to mention the remaining couple is having major marital issues. What a mess and we are only in chapter 7 of 1 Corinthians.

Help.

I gotta say this is all pretty painful stuff for a pastor to deal with. And has anyone thought about what the community is thinking about this group of rebels?

Paul the Apostle is direct and kind. Listen to his words….”Don’t you realize that those who do wrong will not inherit the kingdom of God? Don’t fool yourselves. Those who indulge in sexual sin or who worship idols, or commit adultery or are male prostitutes or practice homosexuality or are thieves or greedy people or drunkards or are abusive or cheat people none of these will inherit the kingdom of God? 1 Cor. 6.9-10

Now here is the amazing news. Change is not only possible, but is real for you. Look at vs. 11 “Some of you were once like that. But you were cleansed; you were made holy; you were made right with God by calling on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.”

“you were like that once.” Change. And the process is explained…cleansed…made holy…made right by means of calling on Jesus and His Spirit.

The true evidence of the presence of God and His Spirit is…change.

In chapter 5 of 1 Corinthians Paul the Apostle lays down the hammer for sexual sin. He will call out the guy who was having sex with his step mother, Paul will prescribe the treatment, and the long term prognosis. Check it out.

Another sin emerges in this passage. Paul says in vss. 2 and 6 …you are so proud of yourselves (for this sexual sin)…your boasting about this (sin) is horrible.

Pride…the act of firing God.

I am proud, I fire Jesus, I then disconnect from moral conscience. I pink slip the living God and distance his character from the everyday workings of my life.

Another sin results…I do nothing about sin. I wink, slap the proverbial back of sinful choices and pretend I am ok.

Now that is another thing to consider.

The way sin works is that it is not just about me. My sin impacts community. Ever heard someone say their sin is only about them? Not true.

Ask the child of a broken home, or children of parents who drink, drug, criticize, gossip.

Paul prescribes direct treatment for sin to protect the community of faith. He says this sexual sin is like leaven that corrupts the whole.

I don’t feel a calling to be a Holy Hall Monitor, you know getting into everybody’s stuff. But when community is in crisis, family, faith, work community…time to step up…call it like it is…no more abuse, no more sin…time to rehire Jesus and put him back to work in the moral mess of our culture.

Hey bloggers,

In chapter one of First Corinthians Paul talks about Jesus, being holy, he challenges us not to be divided in the way we think of Jesus.

In chapter 2 Paul will speak of maturity and depth. He will present the Holy Spirit as a basis of transformation and change. In 2.18 he will give the end result of the work of the Spirit…”the mind of Christ”.

I would love to hear your reflections on the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Spirit is first Holy. This connects to the premier concern of Paul in chapter one, we are called Holy and we are to be His holy people.

Have you noticed that there is a bunch of activity around the Holy Spirit which frankly is pretty creepy?

You know, the TV preachers of the 80’s doing prostitutes and affairs, the cover ups, the replapses, yada, yada, yada.

How about a few years ago the leader of a major evangelical movement confessing to drugs, gay masseur, and more? His ministry was full of the Holy Spirit…(?)

Check out the major cults in history and you will uncover immorality blamed on the Holy Spirit. This is very similar to the Corinthian believers.

I am not throwing stones, but I have seen a bunch of weird stuff blamed on the Holy Spirit. Have you? I would enjoy hearing your reflections.

The Corinthians had special spiritual experiences which Paul will affirm later in the book. But in this chapter we are led to a deep truth of the Holy Spirit…we will in the end have the mind of Christ.

This means I will think like Jesus in my marriage, and in my work, I will connect my morality to the mind of Jesus, how I drink (I am alcohol free by the way) and what I watch.

So in the end…experience is not the cool stuff of the Spirit…but the mind of Jesus.

Do you have a crazy story or two? Love to hear it. In the end…The Spirit causes me to think, to have the world view, the orientation of Jesus in all I do.

Welcome to the book of First Catastrophes…I mean first Corinthians.

Ever walked into a mess? You know, a room full of drama, deception, danger, and disaster?

Paul the Apostle had the swagger of a UFC fighter. He was shipwrecked, snake bit, side swiped, and shaken to the core by his own faith community as he carried out the great commission to reach people for Christ.

I wonder though was he ready for the Corinthians? After establishing this small group faith community in one of the most immoral cities in the east, Paul left for Ephesus. While there, he learned his small group had a few “issues”; nasty division, immorality, specifically sex with a step mom…eoooh, getting hammered at communion, and more.

What would be the first thing you’d say? You know, without swearing?

Paul calls them holy.

Look at the passage: I am writing to God’s church in Corinth, to you who have been called by God to be his own holy people. He made you holy by means of Christ Jesus just as he did for all people everywhere who call on the name of our Lord Jesus Christ their Lord and ours. 1 Cor. 1.2

Instead of hammering them, Paul shows them where they are. These hard core people stand…holy.

Holy means separate, special, sacred as opposed to worthless, common, and unholy.

This makes me squint and rewrinkle the creases in my forehead. How about you?

As I follow Jesus, he calls me holy. As the Corinthians brutalize their beliefs, Paul points to the foundation of faith…God is holy.

We are followers not because we performed, but because God loves and declares.

I forget where I stand sometimes…do you? I assume that if I am good enough, God accepts. This is heresy. God accepts because He is good.

But when he calls me holy…something happens within…the being holy motivates me to “do” holy. The vision calls me higher than mediocrity. By the way, mediocrity begins with the word…me. Holy touches his being, his holiness declares me worthy, special, and accepted.

I am working with a bunch of marriages right now. Some are catastrophes and others are pending…but all of these marriages are…holy. Holy inspires hope.

I spoke with a single friend this week…she is so grateful for her church. The church is holy, she is holy accepted, beloved, included, has immense purpose and value. I think we have something here.

Is the world a mess and you have no control over the catastrophes? He calls you…holy. Go ahead and unwrinkle that contorted forehead. God is good and HE is holy.

Hosea was a pastor. His life connected deeply to integrity, honor, truth, and high morality. His wife was a call girl which has nothing to do with a phone. Hosea married a ho…hmmmm that kinda goes together…Hosea…ho…. What’s more God commanded Hosea to marry the….you know.

They had children together. This had to be very special to the pastor dude in a macabre sense. He loved her, tolerated her, and yet adored the 3 children they had together. My son Dan looks like me. His son Carson resembles him. Therefore, Carson looks like me. I feel attachment to the little guy. I think the world of my son. I love my family. I think Hosea was torn.

Then, Hosea’s ho walks out of his life to check into a HOtel with another man. Crushed is an understatement for the pastor.

Then in Hosea 3 God speaks to the pastor and tells him to go and love his wife though she commits adultery with other lovers. Hosea HOnors God by purchasing his wife from her pimp.

Hosea takes her home, puts her in proximity to their children. He watches her walk through the home, guilty as sin. Did you know an adulteress was to be killed in that culture? She sleeps in his bed, she eats his food. This was wrong on so many levels.

Each time he looked in his children’s faces he could see her image in them. I am not sure words can fully describe this dysfunctional home.

But if you look close enough you can see the image of God emerging from this crazy family. God seeks…he pursues us when we betray Him…He forgives our sins…. A beautiful word weaves its way through this account…Hesed. It means a love that endures, cares for, is loyal to another. God is love the Bible says….I fear this word cannot convey the depth and wonder of what he feels for us and what he chooses to do in pursuit of our heart.

Today…you are pursued…treasured…cared for. Read this great book and you will see the God who wipes the HOrrible makeup of the oldest profession on the planet from our faces, he brings us tenderly to the home of his heart, he makes a place for us with an amazing family he calls the church.

Recently a young woman in her 20’s came up to me after a church service. She told me her name, thanked me for a wonderful church service, and declared how thankful she was that Jesus bought her from a life of prostitution and drugs.

She is so young, so beloved by God, I see healing touch her heart. This morning I greeted her and she was amazed that I remembered her name. Are you kidding? God has your name written on his hand Isaiah says. She matters, your heart matters, whatever you have done, whatever you have become, he pursues you. Love is only the beginning. For everyone who has betrayed or belittled the greatness of God…you are welcome to come home.

I had an email today from a young friend going through some marriage difficulties. Ok, big time trouble. He asked me how I do it…you know…stay married.

Lori and I are sooooo different. She is dignified, I am down and dirty. She is sweet, I am sour, Lori is quiet, I am obnoxious.

What keeps us together is a deep truth, covenant. This is stronger than the lame idea of love today. You know Jon and Kate separate, or Brad dumping Jennifer.

I live my life to serve my wife…to honor our vows…I try to listen to her pain…heal her wounds…pray for her growth and depth.

What I receive on the other end of giving my life for her is amazing…she is sensitive about my world, she cares for me…is tender.

I see strength in her eyes which draws me to her.

And very little of this is based on the goof ball notions of love we see in the media today. Lori and I stand on the truth of Jesus…his unconditional, tender, committed loyalty drive a deeper love.

So I reflect on the wonder of God’s covenant love for us. His love is everlasting…sure, strong. I love what the writer of The Song says

…place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm. For love is as strong as death, its jealousy as enduring as the grave. Love flashes like fire, the brightest kind of flame. Many waters cannot quench love, nor can rivers drown it. If a man tried to buy love with all his wealth, his offer would be utterly scorned. The Song 8.6-7 NLT

So, let me know how you see love…can you go deeper to covenant?