In Gennesaret

I’m organizing in my house. Because that gives me joy. (And it’s also in response to the call to simplify in The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry , which I recommended in a previous post. And which I am recommending again. Highly.) And part of that job has been going through crap in drawers. One of the things I found is a copy from a page from a book I know I haven’t read: To Hell with the Hustle by Jefferson Bethke. I suspect one of my friends gave this to me, and it would have to have been quite a while ago to be in the spot where it was in my drawer. Interestingly enough, reading it right now was very timely. Bethke says on this page, “I’ve begun to understand that we are created for formation, not goal-setting. . . Formations . . . aren’t about doing something but about being someone . One is usually about activity, while the other is about identity. . . One is about a result; the other is about a process.” Yes. YES. I could have started my house re-organization endeavors wi...

I recently read a monstrous tome by Randy Alcorn called Heaven . It’s not a book I would have necessarily chosen on my own; among other things, it is, as I just said, a monstrous tome: more than five hundred pages. I read it because the ladies in my book club chose it for our discussion. So, I’ve been rather absorbed in the New Earth idea for several months. And that has made for some interesting mental fodder. Because the New Earth will be a place where we are no longer under the curse of the Fall. Still humans living on what is still an earth (this is Alcorn’s take on it – many will argue otherwise) . . . but no longer affected by sin. This brings some interesting ponderings to mind – in particular, what exactly in my personal life and experience is part of the curse of the Fall? For instance, my fat cells. God made fat cells. I suspect they existed under Adam and Eve’s skin in some proportion; I don’t believe their existence is a result of the Fall. But the number of fat cell...

When my daughter moved back home last summer, she brought with her a beautiful white housecat named Prince who turns two years old next month and behaves pretty much like a teenager (although I’ve been reminded that this means he’s behaving pretty much like a cat ). Because I’m almost always the first one up in the morning, he generally greets me at my door expecting some attention. That used to be playtime, but lately, it’s become cozy time. Case in point: after I emerged from my bedroom this morning and planted myself on the living room loveseat, he nonchalantly hopped up there by me, tenderly stepping over my body a couple times to get his head in the vicinity of my hand where chin scratches are easy for me. Then he settled down on the seat cushion snuggled up to my leg, purring and enjoying the weight of my hand on his body. As I felt that contented rumble under my hand and looked at his peaceful, closed eyes, I found myself praying. Jesus, this is what I want. I want to curl u...