flashes

If this day could be condensed into a few brief, bright flashes; if I could gather a handful of September sun-warmed vignettes and put them in a memory box marked "today," here's what I'd tuck inside:

--a flock of white homing pigeons that burst sunward over our neighbor's trees as though sharing one single thought, only to dip left, drop abruptly below sight, and rush skyward again ... winged joy.

--"One day only" 50 cent McDonald's cheeseburgers ... and a slender girl so hungry from swimming that she ordered--and ate--five.

--an unexpected visit from my no-longer-here boy, and the feel of his arms around me when he hugged me hello (and again, too quickly, at good-bye), his whiskery chin against my forehead, and his cheek, where I kissed it, soft like a memory.

--a transformation in my pantry, where chaos yielded to order and left in its wake neat rows of corn and black beans, and a special spot for brown basmati, and an eye-level stack of walnuts, pecans, pignolia and almonds ... bounty I will use in the coming months.

--a satisfied sigh from my husband at his first bite of dinner--plain though it was, and simple. I'm grateful for a man who is content with warm bread and corn chowder on a fall afternoon.

--an amber stream of home-harvested honey dribbling into a steaming cup of green tea.

--the hum of a dehydrator on the counter. Five plump onions, sliced and separated and scattered inside, will be crumbled into a waiting canning jar when they've cooled. And not long from now, when fall becomes winter and sunshine turns to drizzle, those crumbles will bring a bit of our garden to a waiting dish.

--the breathless tremble I felt one minute and thirty-five seconds into Vivaldi's Four Seasons: Winter (1st movement), and again at 3:04 ... just like every other time I listen to this bit of splendor.

--the whiteness of my journal page before a torn bit of art found its place, pasted along one edge, and my pen met that expanse and gave release to a bubbling prayer of gratitude.

But I find, yet again, that words aren't quite enough.

abundance

From the time I was a child, I've been aware of "girly" behavior. I don't think mannish behavior looks good on a woman. So you'll never find me sitting backwards on a chair with one leg slung left and one leg slung right. I wouldn't crop my hair short, or wear clothes that could go either way.

And the only reason I'm telling you that is because you need to know the power of crab. Put a plate of crab in front of me, and I forget all about girly behavior. Sleeves are for wiping; fingers for dipping; silverware nothing but optional.

We went crabbing yesterday with people so lovely that in ten years of knowing them, I've yet to spot a single flaw. I've long believed they're really angels masquerading as humans. I've told them my suspicions, to which they just laugh nervously. But what else would you expect compromised agents to do? No one else has caught on. One day, however, all the earth will know that John, Laurie, and Elaina Watson (now Elaina Scougale) are angels. (Scotty, their son, is a real boy. I'm not sure how that worked out).

We rose early and took John's boat out. I can't tell you where. Even angels like to keep their best crab-hunting grounds secret. Let's say it was somewhere in the neighborhood of Camano Island. Let's say it was near a green buoy. Let's not say anything more.

Blue sky, bluer Puget Sound waves, and just enough breeze to ward off sweat. Laurie brought perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwiches packed in perfect, uncut rectangles in the very bag the bread came in. Along with that we had peaches from Costco, ice cold water, and little bags of Cheetohs. I'd brought along bags of raw nuts, but you can probably see the end from here. Cheetohs trump raw nuts any day of the week.

John and Dave loaded all six traps with turkey legs while Laurie, Tera and I led cheers from our perching spots. After dropping the traps in a long, bobbing line, John taught Tera how to drive the boat. Somehow, I felt relaxed enough while she bounced us along Puget Sound that I managed to knit several rows of a black, baby Alpaca wool scarf.

We ate and laughed and told each other stories. We talked about church, and God, and how good He is to have brought us all together. And in between all that, we (meaning the men) snagged 15 Dungeness and 3 Red Rock crab.

In really good stories, you don't have to follow the main character while she sorts through junk mail or maneuvers her car back and forth into a parking space or brushes her teeth. You skip all those boring life details and go right to the good stuff. So I won't tell you about emptying out the boat, or snapping the tarp back into place, or driving home, or cleaning all those crab. Let's just go to the table.

There was butter. Lots and lots and lots of butter, melted just so, with a layer of translucent yellow floating over an opaque collection of creamy, salty loveliness. I knew going in that some of that deliciousness would end up on me; sure enough, I wore a splatter or two when I arrived at church later.

I'd brought along marinated T-Bone steaks from our own home-grown cow. While the steaks cooked, I sauteed mushrooms in butter, garlic, worchestershire and sherry. Laurie made corn-on-the-cob; John handled the crab. Dave watched expectantly.


The table bowed in the middle under all that bounty. John, knowing that crab is the thing of my daydreams, teased that he was going to pray a long, long time--just to make me wait. I laughed nervously (angel payback, I'm thinking), but then, looking at the faces I love so much and the abundance of God's provision, it occurred to me that we could pray for a half an hour straight without really making much of a dent at all.

How does one begin to say thank You for a mountain of blessing?

america

We were birthed in the light of His favor, nourished on the truth of His Word, sheltered under the might of His arm and raised up for His sovereign purpose. May we not discard our heritage. May America turn back ... and bless God.

7:25 a.m.

I'm pretty sure the last time we slept in on Christmas day, Zac was a toddler and didn't know any better. But that was fifteen years ago. Every year since then, when his internal, 4:00 a.m. Christmas clock has dinged (or Tera's ... he gave her one when she arrived in the Woodward household), our door has creaked open and a little hopeful, expectant voice has asked, "Is it time to get up yet?"

Every year ... until today. Today, Dave and I opened our eyes at 7:00 to a silent house. Tera slept in. Zac slept in. We're up, and we're alone.

So many changes, most of which sneaked up on me. Zac's Playmobile Pirate Island has given way to a microwave, flatware, and towels--items he'll need when he gets his apartment this summer. Tera's Barbie Dream House has given way to teenager fleece boots and an iPod.

But some things will never change. When we wake them (and I'm really thinking we're going to have to wake them), and they stumble into the living room, I'll still steer them, first thing, to the creche arranged on the end table, and ask, "What's different today?" They'll point out that Baby Jesus has made His appearance, finally, after waiting these long weeks in tissue-paper limbo, hidden away in my bedroom.

Dave will pray, just like he does every year, and thank God not only for the blessings we can see--these children, and this home, and the precious friends and family He's surrounded us with, but also for the blessing none of us witnessed--that long ago miracle, when God left the beauty of heaven and came to visit earth in human flesh.

Amy Grant's Christmas album will be playing in the background, just like it's done every year since it came out. Though we live in Washington state, our accidentally official Christmas morning song is "Tennessee Christmas."

Dave and I will watch the unwrapping with twin mugs of coffee in hand, and only open our own at the insistence of the kids. Like always, the best part will be watching them open theirs (although this year, I really can't wait to watch Dave open one particular gift: a set of Rock'em, Sock'em Robots. I had to get it for him. Whenever the subject of his childhood comes up, he mentions those robots, and always with that, "Oh, to be a boy again" look).

When Dave opens his stocking, he'll find new wool socks, smoked almonds, Almond Roca, and Toffee Symphony bars (4), just like he finds most every year.

When the kids open their stockings, they'll find jars of Nutella, and big jars of mandarin oranges, Pop Tarts (which I never buy otherwise), and socks.

We'll tear into those packages. We'll make giant, gift-wrap mountains. We'll ooh, and aah, and hug each other, and say thank you. Later, we'll have biscuits and gravy. We'll nap. We'll go visit family, and start the happy process over again.

Some things don't change. And I'm so grateful for that.

Here's hoping that all your most beautiful habits warm you today, and that you remember that Baby, that miracle, and the Hope that was born in that dark, cold cave.

all's right

My daughter sits at her computer, headphones in place, hands flying over the keyboard as she types in a homeschooling schedule for herself. Tera is most happy when she's in "secretary mode." I couldn't say no when she asked, awhile ago, "Mom, can I please make up my own work schedule for school?"

So she sits there, oblivious to my own flying fingers in my office fifteen feet away. She's oblivious to the sounds of the Seahawk's game drifting from the living room below. She's unaware that I can hear her singing along with her new favorite CD.

Tera's happy.

My son is walking around his Bible College campus, wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and black slippers he bought at the Murrieta Walmart. "I love being able to walk around campus in my slippers, Mom," he told me when he called a half-hour ago. He also told me that he nearly drowned yesterday while surfing in Oceanside--information I could have done without. But I'm reminded that God is in control of my child, and once again, He's done His job well. Zac tells me all the details of his surfing incident, tells me how good it felt to sleep in this morning, tells me there are no classes tomorrow, tells me what he's going to order at Jack in the Box when he runs across the street for a bite.

Zac is happy.

Dave is in our bedroom, prone, watching that Seahawks' game in his usual Sunday afternoon garb--flannel pajama bottoms and his favorite gray robe. "Beautiful!" I hear now and then, when his outburst defies our bedroom door and drifts upstairs. He's full of spaghetti and meatballs, and if that wasn't reason enough for lying around, there's also the fact that he's been up since 4:00. While Tera and I kept sleeping, he rose in the dark and worked a bit more on his sermon notes. After a long and busy morning, he's earned the right to that robe, and those pajama bottoms, and the nap I know he'll fall into soon.

Dave is happy.

My family is safe. My heart is full. My house is warm, and filled with the scent of wood smoke, a hazelnut candle, a fresh pot of coffee, and just a hint of spaghetti sauce. God is in His heaven ... and all is right with my world.

basking

For the second year in a row, I've returned home from teaching the women's retreat for Calvary Chapel Carson City at the Zephyr Point Conference Center on Lake Tahoe feeling both refreshed and blessed.

It's too bad I have so much work to do. If I didn't have a looming deadline, I'd tell you in detail about the condo Pastor Pat Propster and his wife, Kelly, loaded with gifts for Dave and me (all right ... here are a few details: French roast coffee, candles, popcorn, cookies, fruit, juice, English muffins (2 kinds!), a beach bucket filled with sparkling cider on ice, a journal, and a beautiful clock to commemorate our anniversary). I'd describe the squirrels and blue jays that entertained us while we had coffee on the condo balcony. I'd bring you along while Dave and I skirted giant geese on our walk from our lawn chairs to the waters off Tahoe City. And I'd share minute by precious minute the message we ladies received from Jesus--a reminder that we bear His name, that we're spotless in His eyes, and that the best lies ahead for us.

I truly love that group of women. They are all wonderful in their own right, but they also bear the mark of their pastor and his wife. You'd be hard pressed to find servants more dedicated to the Lord and to their flock. It would be difficult to find a more loving, more gracious, more Jesus-focused body of people than what God has created there. In fact, I'd like to suggest that if you're anywhere at all within driving distance of Carson City, Nevada, and you're not already plugged into a loving, Bible-teaching church, go meet the wonderful Bride at CCCC.

I didn't mean to let so much time go by before posting again. How did a whole month go by that quickly? But I truly have not been out lying in a hammock. I've been working ... and it's all been good. He's in our rest--that's for sure. But He's in our productivity too. And for that, I'm grateful.

this moment

It's just a bowl of oatmeal. Scotch cut; nonfat milk; a hint of real maple syrup, added in a last-second burst of indulgence. The coffee is a tad on the cool side--enough to notice; not enough to drive me from this chair. But I ground it just seconds before it met my French press, and the smell, as it rises to my lips, is so potent I have to pause to draw it in deeper.


I'm conscious of the fact that when I go downstairs to heat this cup, I'll also have to deal with the stove, because while I sat upstairs in a posture of gone-away delight, listening to an old Billy Crockett CD (I so love Billy Crockett), that oatmeal boiled over and left a milky puddle beneath my burner.

I'm conscious, too, that in a moment, I'm going to have to forget this oatmeal, forget Billy, and turn my attention to the document hiding just beneath this blogger page. An editing deadline looms.

But in this moment, I need to look up. He's there ... and it's my turn to speak.

How often do You do this, Lord? How many uncaught hints do You send in an ordinary day?

It's just a bowl of oatmeal. But I'm aware of something sobering. He could have just given us Manna. He could have run the calculations, gone to the kitchen, and pulled out the one item that would keep our bodies blinking and breathing and crossing space. One flavor. One texture. Manna.

He could have skipped the whole notion of coffee beans.

He could have stopped just short of breathing rhythm into being ... and we wouldn't have known. Our lives would be stilled and silent. No soundtrack. No angst. No moments where we caught the heart of another in the lines between lyrics. We would have lived and died without once closing our eyes in a stark moment of connection and shared worship.

And we wouldn't have known. We wouldn't have known.

It's just a bowl of oatmeal. It's just coffee. It's just music.

Oh God, how You love us.

surprises

See that cup? A half hour ago, it was filled to the brim with frothy swirls of espresso and steamed milk. I wanted to savor each sip, but I couldn't keep my hands off for long. Now it's but a happy memory.

The really nice thing about that cup is that it was free. It seems I stood in line at Panera for just a bit longer than the lady behind the counter felt comfortable with. We had a nice talk while she made my latte, and then when I pulled out my wallet to pay, she waved my money away and said, "You had to wait too long for this."

That was a nice surprise. Almost as nice as the free wireless that came with my free latte. I still can't believe I live in a time where you can whip your Mac open and just check your email--just like that, with no modem, no cords, no hassle.

Two happy little surprises. But they don't compare to the surprise I got earlier this week, when I spoke with a long lost cousin (and friend) for the first time in twenty-six years.

How do those years go by? Why do we let people go? I don't have an answer. I just know I'm thankful events transpired in such a way that Tracy found my number and called. Hearing his voice brought on a memory fest; I've spent the last few days letting myself go back. I've been eleven again this week ... and fifteen ... and nineteen. I've remembered faces and laughter and happy times, and though it's made me grieve for some who are lost to me forever, it's made me grateful for those who remain.

The sun has just broken through the gray canopy we've been living under for three days. One bright shaft finds its way through the bronze scaffolding outside the cafe and bathes my table in warmth. Sitting here in this place, warm and happy and thankful, I can almost forget yesterday's rain.

little house in the snowy woods

I am living in a snowglobe. Every handful of minutes, the wind visits the alders and maples and evergreens surrounding our house and sends a shower of white billowing about. Inside this globe, I sit in front of the woodstove and watch the orange glow on the other side of the tempered glass. The sounds of David Lanz's Christmas CD fills the house. To my left, our 15-foot Christmas tree towers. If I had my druthers, the massive fir would be draped head to toe in white lights; for the pleasure of my children, I opted for the green, red, blue and yellow variety.

Fourteen inches of snow presses against the outside walls. Larry is so intrigued with the seldom-seen blanket of white that he keeps insisting I let him go investigate. The dog doesn't own enough dignity to stay on the porch. He doesn't understand that snow is not for lying on--at least not longer than the time it takes to make a snow angel. "Silly pup," I tell him. But he just grins and smacks a trough with his snakey black tail.

If you could enter this snowglobe and sit awhile, I'd offer you a taste of our tradition. Since the year we married, 21 years ago, I've been making homemade cinnamon rolls to celebrate our first snowfall of the season. This year's batch is fresh from the oven (a twin batch just went into the freezer for later baking). The moment I pull the pan from the oven, I slather creamy swirls of cream cheese frosting over the spiraled tops. It melts on contact and drips its sweet, buttery self down between the crevices of cinnamon and sweet dough.

Dave likes a big pat of butter on his, and a glass of ice cold milk on the side. I give him the largest roll; he finishes in a half-dozen bites and heads straight back to the kitchen. From my perch on the couch, I listen for evidence, and when it comes--when I hear the sound of the spatula sliding into my stoneware pan and the clink of the butter dish cover being lifted--I smile. He's waited months for that second helping.

More snow is expected tonight. Maybe we'll have ourselves a repeat of last night. Maybe we'll don our winter gear and walk again along the trail that borders our property. At most any other time, we'd have companions on that trail. Bikers, walkers, rollerbladers, and those on horse-back would share our travels. But last night, we owned the world. In an hour of trekking, with only the brightness of snow at our feet to guide our steps, our only company was the creaking of heavy-bowed trees.

I hear those trees now. Every so often, a white-coated branch gives up the battle and drops to the ground, trailing shivers of dust as it falls. I've spent most of the morning listening, and looking skyward. I'm watching for boughs, but I'm also looking past those massive sentries--and thanking the God who lives beyond. This scene is His gift ... and I'm grateful.

contented

I already love today.

I woke to the sound of wind chimes, which meant we'd have a blustery morning. There's none better. As I do automatically, every morning, I went in the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, and just as I did so, the wind hit the front porch and squeezed through the cracks in my front door. I have no idea why I love that spooky, haunted-house sound, but I do. It makes me shiver, in the best sort of way. My brother-in-law, who built our house for us three years ago, heard that noise one day while visiting and jumped to his feet. "I can fix that for you," he offered.

"Don't you dare," was my response.

As if starting my day with bluster and howl wasn't delightful enough, I then went and poured just the exact right amount of hazelnut creamer in my coffee cup. I never measure, and I always pour the creamer in first, before the coffee, because that way I don't have to dirty a spoon. It's a hit-or-miss operation, generally, but today I hit it dead-on. You should try a sip.

This day will only get better. Sometime this afternoon, I'm going to pack up my laptop and head to the livestock auction. I'm writing the second to the last chapter of my book today, and it happens to center on a conversation I overheard at the auction a few years ago. So I need to put myself back in that place and soak in all the noises and odors. I can almost conjure that earthy smell right now, but I don't want to deprive myself of the actual pleasure, so I'm going.

Going to the auction, to me, is like taking a trip to my childhood. I went frequently with my grandfather back then, and I believe some of these cattle men--the big wigs, the ones who sit in the first interior ring with their feet up on the arena railings and their names burned into wood plaques behind their chairs--are the same cronies my grandfather swapped howdies with back then.

I don't have a first-ring seat, of course. I'll perch up near the top, where I can watch the kids begging for a cone from the auction cafe, watch the livestock-handlers try to keep their feet out of the path of stomping, irritated cows, watch the anxiety grow as people outbid each other for the healthiest goats.

I could almost make myself believe I was ten again, and sitting with my grandpa, except these overall-clad farmers have a cell phone in their front pocket and a double-tall latte in their hands. Other than that, it's 1971.

I always think of those lattes when I'm heading out to the auction, and it triggers a hankering in me. No need to fight a thing like that, so I'll stop at the Starbucks on my way and pick up a cup.

Who could ask for more? Bluster, howl, memory lane, and two cups of perfect coffee. I am one contented woman.

blessed

Last night, from the back seat, my nine-year old said, "You're a lucky woman to have that man."

I laughed. That's what you do when a child says something fortyish. "Well, yes ... I am. But why do you think so?" I glanced back and saw that she was watching her dad out the window and shaking her head, as if in disbelief.

"Look at him," she said. So I did. Dave stood in front of our church fence tossing wood scraps over and onto our property. He'd spotted the wood when we cruised the theater parking lot behind the church. Teenagers, no doubt, had stacked the pieces so they could more easily climb our fence on their way to and from the theater.

"Dad carries all your wood and stuff."

I didn't point out that it wasn't my wood he was carrying. No need to correct her, because she's right. At home, he carries in firewood for me, and groceries; when we return from a trip, he brings in all the suitcases. Tera sees that. At church last Sunday, he wouldn't let me stack the extra folding chairs, even though it was killing me to see them scattered about. Tera watched him take a chair from my hand and stack it for me. "You don't need to be doing that," he said. She heard.

The girl's right--I'm a lucky woman. And to think I almost missed it ...

Dave and I met the first week of college. We felt an immediate attraction. From his end of things, there was no reason not to pursue that attraction. But I was fresh from a broken engagement--an engagement I ended just three weeks before my planned August wedding. I had good reason for giving my fiance back his ring. You'll just have to trust me on that, because this post is about something else. But after I did that, I had a long talk with myself. I looked back and realized that for five years, I hadn't had a break in my dating life. I'd gone from one boyfriend to another, and it made me wonder if I was capable of being single, if I could get by without a relationship. The bottom line, for me, was that I needed to know God could be enough for me.

I didn't immediately tell Dave my thoughts. I played pool with him in the college game room, and let him walk me to and from classes, and accepted his invitations to sit in Tony's Coffee Shop and sip espresso and listen to beanie-clad flutists play Beatles songs. But after a few weeks, I had to stop. "I can't see you anymore," I said.

He asked for a reason.

"I need to know I can be content to be the bride of Christ," I answered.

Dave had been raised in the church, but he hadn't yet realized that God wanted more than a Sunday morning nod from him. I may as well have been speaking a foreign language.

"I have no idea what you just said, but I respect your right to feel that way," he told me.

Our walks and coffee shop dates ended. He watched for me; I avoided him. But he kept a journal during that time, a journal he showed me years after we married. He poured his heart out on those pages. He'd be in his apartment and hear me coming up the stairs to mine, and he'd write about wondering where I'd been and with whom. He'd see me on campus laughing with someone, and later that night he'd write that he wished I had been laughing over something he said. And every night--for six months--he ended his entry with the same prayer: God, either change her heart or take away my desire for her.

At some point that spring, I decided I'd proved my point to myself. A friend set me up with one of his friends, an older man who was already settled in life. He owned a house in Seattle and a boat on which he spent most weekends. He was a trained vocalist and an incredible pianist. He overwhelmed me.

One night, he took me to dinner at his favorite downtown Seattle restaurant. (I have to insert here that my track record with fancy restaurants is bad. A man I met and dated just after becoming a Christian took me to such a restaurant one night. I figured that was as good a time as any to tell him I couldn't date him anymore because he wasn't a Christian--and I had just learned that I wasn't to be unequally yoked. When I told him, he informed me that he had brought me to that restaurant to ask me to marry him.)

So I'm sitting with Piano Man, listening to a strolling violinist, and my date begins describing for me the kind of life we could have if we married. He pointed out that we could live in the country, but enjoy the city on the weekends. He was laying a pretty good case, when all of a sudden, God answered Dave's prayer. Literally mid-bite, with a forkful of pheasant nearing my mouth, I thought, I wonder what Dave Woodward is doing right now?

I don't remember exactly how I extricated myself from that near-proposal, but I do remember racing back to campus, where I "stalked" Dave for a day or two. Because I don't hide my emotions very well, he noted my change of heart and took action. Within two months, we eloped.

That was almost twenty years ago. In that time, Dave has taught me, loved me, forgiven me, and held me through the most difficult moments of my life. He's the most perfect example of Christ I've laid eyes on--and the best pastor I've ever had. He's gentle, patient and pure-hearted. And there are many, many days when I look at him and think, How on earth did I end up with you?

The answer, of course, is that God's ways are higher than our own. His plans are beyond our comprehension. And often--more often than we're aware of--he gives us what we don't deserve.

The fact is, I'm not lucky at all. I'm blessed.

the trade

The only things I can move right now, without wincing, are my fingertips. That's why you're getting a post.

If you watched me walk across the room this morning, you'd think I was trying to recover from injuries I sustained when I failed to jump my motorcycle over twenty brand new Mini Coopers down at Bellowin' Bob's Autos. Or at the very least, a mugging. But no. Mine are "exercise wounds," and lest we all forget--it's a "good" pain.

It's been a week of water aerobics, weight lifting, eliptical riding, walking and biking. No, I'm not training for the Iron Man. I'm trying to get back into my spring clothes.

I'd already had my belly full of exercise by yesterday afternoon, but Dave came home and said, "I brought you a surprise. Come outside and see." I followed him out to his truck and saw a new (to us) 14 speed, automatic shift bicycle--with shocks. It's really a beautiful bike, and I was so taken by his gesture that the words "Hey! Let's go for a ride!" popped out of my mouth before I saw the calamity coming.

He was all over that. "Yeah! Let's see how far down the trail we can get." Several months ago, a paved, 9 or so mile trail opened along our property. At any time of the day or night, you can watch a sea of roller bladers, bicyclists, walkers, and horse riders meander past our pasture.

Last week, an old shirtless guy with a Santa beard came riding up on his bike and told us there'd been reports of bear and bobcat sightings along the trail. I've never yet known a shirtless, Santa-bearded biker to lie, so when I went inside to grab my cell phone, I also grabbed my mace. Geared up, I headed back out and found that Dave had hooked up the air compressor and was filling the tire on my old bike. It was once beautiful, but the law of entropy has had its way with it. Parts of the shiny burgundy paint are covered with rust; the seat is somewhat moldy and ripped in one spot (the rip screams "Zac," but that won't hold up in court), and the kick stand wobbles.

I felt terrible that Dave was going to ride that old bike while I had this beautiful new bike, and I told him so. His answer? "I don't mind--I just like knowing you have a good, dependable bike."

He's like that. He'll take the dilapidated bike so I can ride the nice, new one. He was happy to take my old, simple cell phone so I could have the nice, new, picture-taking phone. He was perfectly content to take my old lap top so I could have a nice, new, faster model. He's very good to me.

So we had our ride. We went all the way to Lake Cassidy and then some. And sometime during the ride, maybe 50 minutes into it, I began to think about Dave's sacrifices and how often he puts me in mind of my other Groom--the One who was willing to take the punishment of the cross so I could have a new nature, a new name, and a brand new hope for the future.

I don't deserve to be this loved; I know that. But I'm glad ... and grateful.

The Trade

Mine was Your only sin
Yours is my only righteousness
Mine was Your only shame
Yours is my only confidence
You took all of me; I want all of You

Mine was the pain You bore
Yours is the healing I received
Mine was the nails and thorns
Yours is my life abundantly
You took all of me; I want all of You

I'm waiting here to feel Your touch
The weight of sin it seems so much
The freedom that You offer me is You

Mine was the the victory
Yours is the blood that purchased me
Mine is a blessed way
Yours is my love eternally
You took all of me; I want all of You
~ Brett Williams