I write often.

Mostly about silly things– yellow backpacks and coffee and Christmas.  It helps keep writing fun, because research and theology papers have the ability to suck all life out of writing.

Also, I kind of want to prove to my grandchildren that I lived an entertaining life and didn’t merely sit around and knit (though I’m realizing more and more that my life is becoming one of a grandmother: my body shuts down with the Sun, I swear by Denny’s, and I do knit and like books).

Lots of things are fun and lack purpose though, so I don’t ever want to dismiss my purpose in writing (or going to class or serving or being in Pi Phi or whatever else my scattered schedule holds this week).

I write to bring glory to the God Most High.

Whether I’ve made it clear or not, it cannot be overstated or understated, repeated too many times, shouted too loudly or whispered more sweetly or with more force.

I desire to live for Christ.

I deserved hell and still do, but by dying an excruciating death with nothing but a perfect, yes perfect, record, his hands were pierced on my behalf.

And yours.

Blood flowed, tears fell, and payment was paid.  A giant payment that makes grace impossible to comprehend.  If I ever claim to understand it, it’ll only be when I’m standing before the throne of God and He’s personally explaining it.

Knowing this God is my goal.

I fail often- so often that when I see glimpses of Him I want to smack myself on the face and then am taken back to the classroom of grace.

I’m learning.
Learn with me.
I promise you it’ll blow your mind.

and heart.