tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29141081755064774682024-03-05T12:46:19.339-08:00grace.Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-32100190619194559832020-05-28T06:21:00.001-07:002020-05-28T06:21:58.654-07:00He Wanted to Breathe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I cannot breathe"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t watch the news. Instead I watch Philip DeFranco on Youtube whose content revolves around current events. George Floyd was the center of his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGecrIMn_Ds" target="_blank">recent video.</a> As I watched and listened to a man beg for his life my stomach soured. I can't not talk about it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m having such a hard time writing this. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say it. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But I lay awake last night thinking about it. I have this thought that I can’t touch on this because I’m not a person of color because I haven't experienced racism. But I am a person. Just like George. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The original police statement said that he was resisting arrest, offering that as a reason for excessive force. But when a video went viral on Facebook we got a glimpse of the truth. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And that’s what makes this whole case another level of terrifying.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What would George’s death had been like if the bystander’s video hadn’t offered reality?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> His family would have been left thinking their brother, their cousin, their friend had fought against law enforcement. Instead they know how he begged them for air. Instead we all know that he wanted to breathe.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What is this lie that your skin color defines value? </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">And why, why the hell are we believing it? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where do we get off deciding that one person is more valuable than another, and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>why</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is that lie centered around white skin? </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve heard it said that the ground at the foot of the cross is level. No one is higher, no one is lower, no one is more or less. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We look differently to reflect the creativity and beauty of God. And we ought to embrace that, not put our knee on it’s neck.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">George Floyd was murdered. Men made a choice. They chose pride, ignorance, and power over life. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ll be damned if I ever do the same. </span></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-30026345230734717252019-05-05T16:24:00.000-07:002019-05-05T17:40:37.355-07:00I'm Not The Mom I Was Ten Weeks Ago<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I feel like I could throw up.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That’s the title I found as I scrolled through the notes on my phone. Curious, I tapped on it and read. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> “We’re at 9 weeks. And about 4 days into a sleep regression and 2 days into sleepless nights. I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">According to the American Psychological Association, <a href="https://www.apa.org/pi/women/resources/reports/postpartum-depression" target="_blank">one in seven women experience postpartum depression.</a> And now, you’re reading the blog of that "one". And it felt like <i>one</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I can’t be alone. I can’t even put my kid to bed without waking her up. When she cries, my stomach lurches. I can’t do this.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My postpartum depression made me feel like I was the only one struggling. The only mom who felt this way. The only one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I ask, and I ask, and I ask God to help. To help her sleep. To help me sleep. And it doesn’t come.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It didn’t matter if Will was by my side. It didn’t matter if I knew my mom was almost to my house. It didn’t matter if I read that God was always faithful. I had never felt so alone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> “I’m alone. I feel so alone. I’m just so goddamn tired.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don’t cuss in my blog, I barely swear out loud, but I didn’t want to edit anything out. Because this was real. This was the mom I was just ten weeks ago. I was sitting on the bathroom floor listening to Zara cry through a closed door wondering if life would ever be enjoyable again. I had happy moments, but moments are moments. And moments don’t last. My depression and anxiety were eating me from the inside out, a parasite I couldn’t shake. Just when I would think I was doing better something new would set me back. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then I got help. I was already receiving counseling, but it wasn’t enough. I needed medication and that was hard to stomach. But now, two months later, I feel like me again, and a new me because now I’m a mom. I was a mom before, but just the shell of one. Now I don’t cry on the bathroom floor (or the kitchen, or living room floor). Instead, I fall asleep on the landing and laugh about it later. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m not the mom I was ten weeks ago. I’m not the Molly I was ten weeks ago. She was smothered in sadness and uncertainty. Now I’m smothered in baby drool and breast-milk and I wouldn’t have it any other way.</span><br />
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-55038396434185581022019-04-23T08:37:00.000-07:002019-04-23T08:40:47.889-07:00Zara means, "princess; to blossom"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">How did you pick the name Zara?” That’s a hard question, because I’m not sure if I really did. It was like Jesus whispered it into my ear. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">When we found out that we were having a girl that I could have sworn was a boy, the name Zara came to mind. I had never met a Zara, had never shopped at Zara, or really heard it very much, but I was fixated on it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We found out baby was a girl in July and I was very confident in her name which wouldn’t need to be decided until the end of December. But how could I be so sure about such a big decision? Then a list started and grew to 17 names over the months. 17 went to 7 and then 3 and then 2. We were driving to the hospital with 2 names in mind, not sure which one would win out. Then, I was sitting in the hospital bed ready to push and still not sure what to name our baby. And last, I was laying on the surgery table not knowing what to call this little girl. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was told that when I saw her, I would know, and I would always raise my eyebrows and nod. I had heard of others that were in similar situations and named their baby right before being discharged. I assumed that we would be in the same boat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But, when they held my daughter over the curtain, my first thought was, “that’s a Zara”. I knew, I knew Zara was her name. It had been Zara all along. And we joked that only a princess would demand a c section. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Zara is wild. She is funny, and sweet, and sassy. She is expressive and observant. Zara like to be cuddled when she wants to be cuddled. She likes to be noisy and enjoys when we’re noisy along with her. Zara likes to meet new people, flashing her gummy smile, bringing her chubby cheeks closer to her hazel eyes. She coos like a morning dove and shrieks like a pterodactyl. She is Zara. And she has been Zara all along.</span></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-24044537578408148062018-01-16T07:20:00.002-08:002018-01-16T07:20:22.057-08:00Finding Love at Summer Camp<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If you know me, you know I’m summer camp obsessed. Today, I was laying on the floor in my living room, listening to the
song “<a href="https://youtu.be/l1XX1hHEevc" target="_blank">Only One”</a> by Harvest Bashta (or just Harvest on some sites). And I realized
why I’m so camp obsessed when these lyrics came up: <o:p></o:p></div>
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“So, come back, come
back<br />
I'll take you to the start<br />
Come back, come back<br />
I'll take you to your first love”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I fell in love with Jesus at camp. That’s where it all
started.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At camp. At Camp Aldersgate in Carrollton, Ohio. In the
woods and on the dock stretching over Leesville Lake. That’s where I met my
first love. He came and swept me up with a love I don’t know how to put into
words. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Just like my relationship with Will, I remember little
moments when I started to fall in love. I remember the first time I saw him. I
remember the first time we held hands and how my chest was about to burst when
he told me he would like to date. Just
the same, I remember when I felt God’s love, when Jesus came and placed his
hands on either side of my face just to look at me. I couldn’t take my eyes off
him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve never felt that same feeling of falling in love. Just
like I’ve never felt those exact moments when I started to fall in love with my
husband. And that’s okay, because love grows deeper. But I can’t ignore where
it all happened. At camp. It’s one of the reasons why I love it so much, why I can’t
get enough. Even if it’s not Aldersgate, I can’t get enough camp in my life.
Because I found my first love there, and he found me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-91654783898440184502017-05-09T15:00:00.002-07:002017-05-09T15:02:25.412-07:00I See You, "Molly McCully"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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To the “Molly McCully” in class. I see you. I know it’s
hard. I know the numbers don’t make sense and others don’t seem to understand
why you haven’t caught on. I know the steps don’t add up, but your fingers do,
even though you don’t want people to see that you still count with them. I know
the times tables are hard to memorize, and division takes forever. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know how uncool it feels to raise your hand again and
again, asking the same question you asked the day before. I know the feeling of
wandering eyes, hoping your neighbor knows what they’re doing. I know the pressure
to feel smart like your friends, hoping they don’t notice your low-test grade.
I know what it’s like to take those tests home, feeling the uneasiness as it sets
in your bookbag. I know school isn’t
always much fun. It’s hard. Sometimes, it makes you feel like your falling hard
in the dirt, over and over again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But, you know what? You’ve got the strength to get back up. Know
how I know? Because I hit the ground hard many times, and I got back up. Thankfully
for me, I had friends and teachers that helped dust me off after I was on my feet. And you
do too. And you have me, because I know a little bit about what it’s like to be
you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, take heart, “Molly McCully”, it gets better. I know you
want it to get easier, but that’s not a promise I can make you. What I can tell
you is that you’ll make it. And, hey, maybe someday you’ll sit across from a
younger you, pencil in hand, math book open, hoping they understand that it can
get better.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-47536026466418407502017-03-29T05:33:00.004-07:002017-09-10T18:37:34.637-07:00It Was All A Lie. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This morning I uprooted a ridiculous lie- my life should be
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Nope.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, let me back that “nope” by saying that my life is so
good, much better than I could have orchestrated on my own. Sometimes Will and
I look around our apartment and wonder how we acquired all that we own. Whenever
we came to the realization that we needed something else, an affordable option
would wiggle its way in front of us. Super blessed, and very grateful for the
way God used our friends and connections to help us fill, and find our first
home. And that’s just our home and possessions. We both have jobs, loving
families and our wants, not just needs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, enough about what we do have, because that’s not what
I started this post about. I started by talking about a lie, a dirty, conniving
lie that told me, “Psst... Molly. Your life. It should be better than this!
Your missing out on something. God must be withholding it from you, because
girl, you don’t got it.” Now, I’m very well aware who told me this lie. And I’ve
had a little education on how to detect when I’m believing his lies. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you look at what’s in quotations, you’ll find the word “something”.
All I knew was that I was missing out on
something. Something, oh gosh I can feel it in my chest when I type now. Something
is missing… but what? Nothing. Nothing is missing, but this lie made me accuse
God that he was holding something back, something I needed, something to make
my life… easier. Not better, easier. Easier so my life could feel good. And
then this feeling of entitlement creeps up, and I’m laying in bed, with bitter
tears rolling down my face, wondering why God isn’t loving and blessing me like
I deserve.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Are you annoyed with me yet? I sure am. This non-specific
lie I was being fed caused my heart to hurt and point the blame to the man on
the cross. It’s his fault, he’s supposed to make my life better once I choose
him! I’m supposed to be blessed, protected, loved! But that’s not what I signed
up for. I asked for an anchor for my soul. An anchor that keeps me still
through the storm,<i> through</i> the storm,
not an easy pass out of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My life is so good, because I asked Jesus to lead it. And I
don’t always like where he leads, but then he reminds me of a specific prayer I
prayed, “Jesus, I’ll go anywhere you want to send me.” And right now, he wants
me here. In a small school, in a small town, going to a small college to teach
small children. But these small things I’m experiencing now are gearing me up
for something big. This is a different something than the one I was believing before.
This something makes tears come to my eyes, and dreams flash through my mind.
This something has hope. And hope is the anchor to my soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-74512858780164711862016-10-21T20:33:00.004-07:002016-10-21T20:33:53.496-07:00From Pages to Nepal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You know what books do? They inspire. They introduce you to friends, enemies and role models. They hold your hand and guide you through the Chamber of Secrets and allow you to walk through the wardrobe endlessly. Books open worlds, minds and hearts to unknown passions. And the people that love books never keep the good ones to themselves.<br />
<br />
In 10th grade my favorite trick was slouching in my seat and propping the text book between my stomach and the desk. But sandwiched in between myself and my education was often a book. I'm sure my teachers noticed, because what teenager looks <i>that</i> engrossed in a text book?<br />
<br />
Whether they noticed or not, I only remember one teacher recommending me books. She didn't just recommend good books, she suggested ones that she thought I would enjoy. And, as every excellent teacher does, she went above and beyond by recommending books that jived with existing passions I had.<br />
<br />
But no book could compare to <i>SOLD </i>by Patricia McCormick. Suddenly I was sitting beside a Nepali girl in a dirty, Indian brothel, fighting for her freedom. I reread her story. Her hike through Nepal into India. Her days of being broken into the sex workers world. Her longing for hope when none was visible. Suddenly I had an unlikely friend that I had to set free. I had to meet her. I had to walk the roads in Nepal, a country I could barely locate on a map.<br />
<br />
So I went. In 2015 I carried my own copy of <i>SOLD </i>into the very country that birthed the main character. I put the book in my purse and waited for the right moment. I wanted to take a picture holding the book with some Nepali girls. When my moment happened it was even more beautiful than I had planned.<br />
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These girls surrounding me are from a people group that was enslaved until just 10 years ago. Some of them were born into captivity, but because of those willing to fight, they no longer have to live enslaved. They are free. And I got to meet them. And hold hands with them and dance with them.</div>
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They're real, not held to the pages of a book. But without a book, I would have never met them. And without a great teacher I would never know what a giant impact a good book can make.</div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-17134045028118691492016-05-23T12:39:00.001-07:002016-05-23T12:39:18.841-07:00A Closer Look At Our Not Very DIY Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here are some pictures from our very not DIY wedding. Enjoy!<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><a href="http://www.warrenwoodmanor.com/" target="_blank">Warrenwood Manor</a>, Danville, KY, Venue</span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<a href="http://www.gourmetgoodiesbythelma.com/" target="_blank">Gourmet Goodies</a> , catering</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<a href="https://sweetsbycindyky.com/" target="_blank">Sweets By Cindy</a> , cake and cupcakes</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/mollysflowers/" target="_blank">Molly's Flowers and Things</a>, bouquets and boutonnieres</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<a href="http://www.morilee.com/bridals" target="_blank">Morie Lee</a>, dress designer</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<a href="http://henris.com/bridal/" target="_blank">Henri's Cloud </a>9, Minerva OH, dress and belt </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/AngelaKarlaBridal?ref=condensed_trust_header_title_reviews" target="_blank">Angela Karla Bridal</a>, custom veil and all alterations</div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.menswearhouse.com/" style="font-size: 12.8px;" target="_blank">Men's Wearhouse</a><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">, groomsmen's outfits</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<a href="http://www.kristinvermilya.com/" target="_blank">Kristin Vermilya photography</a>, photographer</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<a href="http://gofftents.com/" target="_blank">Goff Tents & Events</a>, chairs</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Kara Smith and Betty Miller were our coordinators</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Kelly Taylor did my hair and Taylor Morris did hair and makeup for bridesmaids</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Meredith Glover MC'd our reception and Elle Smith was our DJ<br />
Kaylee Morin was my bridal assistant<span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Anna, Elijah, Kristen, Will, Anna C, Ian, Kara, Betty, Ed, Mom and Dad helped with set up</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Libby Thorngate was our ceremony pianist and Mike Harper ran sound</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Pastor Jeff was our officiant and marriage counselor</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Ben Fitzwater and Elijah Gates were our ushers and Courtney Raymond was our greeter<br />
Our niece was our flower girl and my second cousin was our ring bearer</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Tons of friends and family helped clean up</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-52183703525074012972016-04-09T08:59:00.002-07:002016-04-09T10:49:16.174-07:00Skip The DIY Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My wedding day is very much a blur at only six months since. I was warned it would be and those people proved to be right. It wasn't perfect like they turn out to be in the movies, and it wasn't a disaster, like they turn out in the movies. It was ours. It was our day. And although I felt like I waded through mud (very thick mud, similar to quicksand) throughout the preparations I was glad I did a lot of it on my own and with the help ( a lot of help) from family and friends.<br />
<br />
There were pieces of our lives scattered throughout our wedding. The windows from my childhood home were painted and propped up as decoration. The table that held our communion bread and wine (just kidding, it was juice) was built by Will over the summer. The spray painted mason jars came from camp and the sweets on the tables were Will and I's favorites. Every decoration had thought because almost every decoration was made by yours truley. What we didn't save on time we saved on money.<br />
<br />
A Do It Yourself wedding isn't for everyone. It's stressful, even if you enjoy crafts and projects. But a DIY wedding is laced with you and those around you. It felt like everything that made up our wedding was held together by those sitting in those cheap plastic chairs (sorry, tight budget). Alterations done by a lifelong friend and music played by an old roommate... I guess our wedding wasn't really a DIY. We didn't do it on our own. Screw DIY. DIY is the opposite of what a marriage represents and it's not what the church represents either.<br />
<br />
Skip the DIY wedding and allow the tribe around you to lend a hand and hold you up. A wedding day really does go by in a blur, and who better to spend that blur with not just the one love of your life, but the many.<br />
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-33104591988934740752015-12-15T13:33:00.003-08:002015-12-15T13:33:53.476-08:00Courage, Dear One.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know what’s scary? Change. Now. Sometimes I like and
invite change because I'm one who bores easily. But those changes are ones I can control and are normally pretty small or something to divert my attention. Like most people in the universe I
need time to transition. But life doesn’t always give you time to do that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had no time to transition when I felt the impact at the
back of my car and crashed into the sign I was suddenly careening towards.
Car accidents offer no transition other than the ride to the hospital. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not every life changing event happened at 45 mph, some
happened over the course of 11 months as I planned our wedding. As much as I
wanted to get married I felt myself digging in my heels, hoping that time would
slow down. In the end I walked away, not only a wife, but full of memories I’ll
cherish forever. Like the barn doors sliding open as I stood, waiting for my
groom, arm and arm with my dad. That one’s my favorite from the day. And it
only took about a year to plan.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a lot of coming and going in 2015. Packing and moving and
leaving and crying and goodbyes. Some goodbyes were short lived, and some will
last a lifetime. But there were also hellos. New ones and old ones and salvaged
ones. Some lasted for only a second and others were practiced weekly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dreams were had. Streets were walked. Skies were flown. Seasons
came and went and a year went by. Big (and sometimes scary) things happened in 2015. But I know bigger (and sometimes scary) things are yet to come. Things
scarier than wedding dates and job offers. And I guess they don’t have to be
scary. Instead they can be grand and beautiful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew a year ago that I had a choice. I could choose fear
or simply think of 2015 as an adventure. I longed to stick to the adventure but
fear crept in, as it does so often in life. But it’s when fear is
overcome that character is deepened and courage is gained.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m not sure how much courage I gained over the past year. It
may have been little and it may have been much but I do know one thing; this
adventure isn’t over yet. In fact. It’s only just begun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-27869874510006531202015-10-02T10:18:00.003-07:002015-10-02T10:18:28.726-07:00I'm so sorry, Mr. President. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"...our thoughts and prayers are not enough. It's not enough."- President Obama</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm sorry. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I truly believe that Jesus is my all and everything and
that he is who he says he is then I must disagree, Mr. President. Just because
you have given up hope, doesn’t mean I have to. It doesn’t mean we have to.
Terrible, terrible things happen every day to people. But I don’t have to give
into hopelessness. My soul is with hope because I gained hope. I showed a crowd
of witnesses when I came back up from the water that my life is with hope. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sorry you’re so hopeless Mr. President. I’m so sorry
that you’ve given up hope that a great God works ugly things for our good and
his glory. I’m sorry. You were appointed to lead us. So lead us to hope. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t let death win. Death loses. Death dies, Mr. President.
Don’t worry. These trials and tribulations here on earth hurt and drain and are
terrifying. Sometimes life just sucks and it feels like our hearts will ache for ages. But don’t let that win. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be courageous. Be brave! Hope again. Hope in the Lord. We
have nothing else. We can’t win these battles, both unseen and in our face, without Him. We’ll lose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lead this nation to hope again, Mr. President. I know it’s
scary, but He’ll come through. Even in the darkest of times. Hope will shine
through. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-48259033381279293122015-05-21T18:13:00.000-07:002019-03-03T12:25:37.885-08:00Constipated Much?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m five days constipated. Too much information? You should
read some of the articles I’ve been reading to help with my flow problem, now <i>that’s</i> too much information. Anyways, here
I am, day five into constipation, learning what it really means to count my
blessings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It started at camp on Tuesday. (Well, it actually stopped on
Sunday, but you get my drift.) On Tuesday I noticed that this wasn’t a normal
catch in my schedule. My bowels run a pretty tight ship, so when something goes
off course I notice. I tell some people at camp and they give me Miralax and
one of the girls runs into town (which takes about 20 some minutes) to get me
apple juice. Nothing. Now I’m in pain, waddling to the toilet at almost every
cramp. I wake up every 2 hours that night to have a less that satisfying trip
to the bathroom and decide in the morning to go into town to statcare. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I’m driving into town I’m praying for healing. But then
my heart hits a wall. I miss my friends. I miss my fiancé. I miss my mom. I
feel alone. My prayers are no longer focused on how uncomfortable I am. I just
want to know I’m not alone. I just want my Heavenly Father to whisper, “Molly.
I’m here. I’m with you. And I’ll never leave you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was Wednesday, this is Thursday and I’m still backed
up. My camp director let me go home; home to my comfortable bed, loving parents
and my own bathroom. As my mom cooked dinner the radio was playing and I heard
them talking about the hardship in Syria. Then an ad came on about the lack of
Bibles throughout Africa. And then I thought, “I am so grateful that I’m only constipated.”
With a new perspective I prayed for the people in Syria and my mind was brought
back to just how grateful I am for the people I have in my life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a mom that takes care of me, a workplace that wants
what’s best for me, and friends that pray for my butt. My life is
blessed. My cup overflows with goodness from the Lord, allowing me to see how
faithful he is. He’s not just faithful to me, but to the suffering in Syria as
well. Circumstance doesn’t define his character because HE IS. He simply IS.
And he cares for me and my troubles just as he cares for yours and those less
fortunate. That’s who he is. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So take a moment, let your perspective change from one of constipation
to gratefulness and praise. Give thanks for the people in your life and lift up
praise because we have a God who simply IS.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKIO_xTSWAcbwtT-9G-nt7k4uk_Y2QPYCg1fESBlYtMX14gO-4ze-m_inDcYF3DGbcimcTya7-IyWFqxgoFgUqjEGmv1dnYwKgvlWFMIkFY2gzQY73geYhfxBD33P3-kcj_QkI5-1orE/s1600/IMG_4827+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKIO_xTSWAcbwtT-9G-nt7k4uk_Y2QPYCg1fESBlYtMX14gO-4ze-m_inDcYF3DGbcimcTya7-IyWFqxgoFgUqjEGmv1dnYwKgvlWFMIkFY2gzQY73geYhfxBD33P3-kcj_QkI5-1orE/s640/IMG_4827+cropped.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-84483886348939655052014-12-31T09:45:00.000-08:002014-12-31T09:45:09.491-08:00Hopelessness, Fear and a Wedding Date.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTkaPjva_IqsLdx9Jq9bkD3Waf5RpRZztDBxzTJPUXOd1kq9iMHrDwXghLSq1KZ5gxBZ35sPaDxxPPfXmjiIdd_OfUefxw4_J-zGHeXsfkroF5DXMPGDv5ycnqVTSo9LGfhwQHwoocnk/s1600/wedding+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTkaPjva_IqsLdx9Jq9bkD3Waf5RpRZztDBxzTJPUXOd1kq9iMHrDwXghLSq1KZ5gxBZ35sPaDxxPPfXmjiIdd_OfUefxw4_J-zGHeXsfkroF5DXMPGDv5ycnqVTSo9LGfhwQHwoocnk/s1600/wedding+blog.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
What have I learned so far in planning my wedding?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hopelessness sets in fast and fear is hand in hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dresses. I went to three dress shops. The first one I liked
two dresses a lot. The second one I liked one dress overall. The third shop I
found nothing. Absolutely nothing. Diddly squat. That’s when it came. Fear. My
thoughts went instantly to never finding a dress, settling on an ugly dress, regretting
my decision and on and on it went. Wait.
Didn’t I already find one dress that trumped all other dresses and that I
couldn’t get out of my mind when I tried others on? Yes I did. So I picked it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Venues. I’ve emailed and looked and searched for a venue
that can accommodate and best fit what Will and I have in mind. What have I
found? Booked. They’re all booked. Oh gosh. We’re never going to find a place
and if we do it’s going to be $50,739. Lord have mercy, let’s elope! Wait. Didn’t
one place say to email back in a few days because cancellation happen? Aren’t there
plenty more places I haven’t heard back from? Aren’t there places I haven’t
contacted yet? Yes there are. So I’ll continue to look. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Details. Colors. Food. Music. Housing for out of town
guests. Style. Decorations. How do I do this? Is this possible? Can I make this
all happen? Where will the money come from? Who will help? Now my inner self is
in the fetal position, crying and blubbering about flowers and tablecloths. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then I look down at my ring. It’s beautiful. More than
anything I had hoped for. And I think about who I’m marrying. He’s wonderful,
much more than anyone I had dreamed of.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s not about what I
can do or what I can plan. Sure, there’s hard work
involved but if the birds have food and a home won’t I, a daughter,
have a wedding that works? Won’t I have a wedding that at the end of the day I’ll
be able to look back and be amazed at how God pieced it together? If I allow
him to do so, then yes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ll allow God to be my planner, provider, and all around
hope for my wedding, my future, and for my life. It’s not hopeless. It’s never
hopeless. And fear? Well, that’ll be something I have to kick to the curb
because there’s a wedding to plan and I won’t let anything stand in my way.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-46756361224457114532014-09-16T15:42:00.000-07:002015-05-21T18:46:57.337-07:00Betsie ten Boom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“And I saw it all, still I chose
the cross”</span></span> <span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">– Out of Hiding, song by Steffany Gretzinger</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i>Yes, yes, it’s a great song, but I don’t
want it stuck in my head at the moment; I just want to read.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
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I had been reading <i>The
Hiding Place</i> by Corrie ten Boom and I couldn't put it down. <b><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">(If you plan on reading this book there are some spoilers
on the way, just a heads up!) </span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“And I saw it all, still I chose
the cross”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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There it was again, a line from a song that I listened to
the previous night. It kept playing in my head over and over again as I read
about Corrie’s life in the concentration camp during World War II. At this
point in the book I was in awe of Betsie, Corrie’s sister who went to the camps with her. The way she lived
and loved and extended grace was so much like Jesus it floored me. How could
someone live that way with such unthinkable hatred and cruelty around her? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then she died.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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No. Betsie couldn’t die. She had to survive! She had to make
it out alive! There was so much God was speaking to her. <span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">They killed
her. </span>They did.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“And I saw it
all, still I chose the cross”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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No. Corrie had to just stand watch as her sister, her kind, gentle sister died. She didn't deserve it! <span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">They killed Betsie, they left Corrie alone!</span>
They did, they did, they…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I died for Hitler.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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The still small voice that whispered to Betsie in the concentration
camp whispered to me in my living room. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“And I saw it all, still I chose
the cross”</span><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
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That’s when the tears really started rolling. I listen to
all these sweet songs about how Jesus loves me and died for me and I decided at
some point along the way that Jesus didn't die for the <i>really</i> bad people. (Yeah... It doesn’t
make sense, I know.) What Hitler did was evil; he allowed evil to triumph over
millions. But Jesus still died for him, he told me so. He loved him and hoped
for him and longed for him to come close. Just like he does for you, just like
he does for me. Just like he did for Betsie ten Boom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL06dkQ8T64v472QDEoSDebHmaFgT-wM7tXeyMVdgmChB72FwoZ3BInGVsEv-JxlPec5PHhKJKwXv1PSGc_T4CHDvF0KiIBDvO197N1cjtSHNi_9uoo4dggAqcYeJfR9R-LwWGqOcNo7s/s1600/369+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL06dkQ8T64v472QDEoSDebHmaFgT-wM7tXeyMVdgmChB72FwoZ3BInGVsEv-JxlPec5PHhKJKwXv1PSGc_T4CHDvF0KiIBDvO197N1cjtSHNi_9uoo4dggAqcYeJfR9R-LwWGqOcNo7s/s640/369+cropped.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What used to be lined with barracks for prisons is now a vacant piece of land of the Ravensbruck concentration camp, the camp that Bestie Ten Boom died at. I had the opportunity to walk the paths of Ravensbruck and go through the memorials; it's a day I'll never forget.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Like the lyrics? <a href="http://bethelmusic.com/albums/the-undoing/" target="_blank">Click here</a> to check out Staffany Gretzinger's album, The Undoing.</div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-81488349247696749392014-04-22T09:17:00.000-07:002015-05-21T18:47:12.505-07:00The Big Picture<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we see the <i>whole</i> story of the cross we
can truly be grateful.<br />
<br />
When we look at it one sided we miss out. One side is
just sin; dark, depressing, filthy sin. Then when you look at the other side
all you see is Jesus. Yay Jesus! And he really is great, don’t get me wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when you pull back to see the whole thing, you see a gruesome
picture of your sin and Jesus in an earth shattering collision. You see “Yay
Jesus” taking on all of your dark and filthy sins. Then you realize just how
dirty your sins show up on white. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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When you turn the page you see only darkness. You can’t wrap
your mind around it. Your heart starts to drop and you find yourself on your
knees. How could this be? I thought he was our hope… but now he’s gone. The
realization that <i>your</i> sin has
consequences and that someone else had to pay for them just doesn't make sense.
It’s a realization that weighs too heavy on your shoulders to stand again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But the next page turns itself.</div>
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You’re no longer looking at
your sin, but Jesus. He’s different. If possible, he’s more pure, even lovelier
than before. He's more powerful, majestic and bearing new scars. And while you’re bawling like a big baby he leans down and tips your chin to meet his eyes. He takes your trembling, clean hands into his pierced ones and says, "My child, it is finished.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hallelujah, what a Savior! </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-7359594497744302552014-03-11T07:24:00.000-07:002014-03-11T07:24:52.019-07:00A Journal Entry.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why do you love me, Molly?</span></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why do I love you Lord? </span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because you saved me.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You remade me, rescued me all the while delighting in me. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Because you defy the odds of society. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love you because you don't force me.<br /> You're gentle and humble and whisper and tickle.<br />You give my life warmth and something to hold onto when I'm freezing cold. <br />You love <i>me</i> and hold me and call me your own. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Why do I love you?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Because you first loved me.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because you died for me, cried for me and continue to provide for me.<br />You comfort me and let me weep, you let me mourn and sing, let me dance and swing.<br /> You send me on adventures I could never have planned.<br /> You give me gifts and never expect anything back.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> You say promise after promise that never ever lack. <br />
I love you because you created life.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Life in abundance, you breathe art and</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">hope and </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">stars. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
I love you because You Are.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"> I love you because you first loved me</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-65944876366506773832013-12-19T07:23:00.001-08:002013-12-19T07:23:38.747-08:00It's Where I've Felt at Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Home. I have felt it in many places.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have felt it sitting on the porch swing at my parents’
house in Ohio, as I look out into the woods and pastures I have known my whole
life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have called different camps home, as I walk through the dining
hall or sit on the dock. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I now call my house I live at in Louisville home. I feel it
when I grab my coffee and a chair and sit in front of the sliding glass door
and look at the backyard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought maybe home was places you are familiar with. Then I thought about how I have said, “It
just feels like home” when I have only been there for a few days. Why is that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have felt at home walking on the sand in the Outer Banks
on vacation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have felt at home sitting on a roof in India, riding a
bike though a town in Germany, reading a book in Nicaragua, and dancing with
gypsies in Turkey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, the feeling of home can come in a place I have only just
stepped foot in.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I have felt at home in places I didn't blend in or didn't
speak the language. I think that home is where you have a sense of belonging,
even though I didn't look like I belonged while walking down the road in India. And I
didn't sound like I belonged when I opened my mouth to talk in Germany. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe it’s not that I have to look the part or sound the
part, it’s simply the fact that my heart yells “I belong here!” But how can I
belong to so many houses, to so many bunk beds, to so many nations? I don’t.
But I belong to a God that walks and runs with me. He has made his home in my heart
and my heart travels with me wherever I go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But where is <i>my</i>
home? If God has made a home in my heart, where is <i>my</i> home?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s not here, not yet. My home is in heaven and heaven has
yet to come to earth, but we’re bringing it here, one day at a time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s in the places that I have felt at home
that I have seen a glimpse of heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s been while sitting on the floor, walking down a road
and laughing with others that I have known home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s where I have seen his Kingdom come; his will be
done, right here on earth just as it is in heaven.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Welcome Home. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWOnemtETL-hIoE5y0W6n4zd14DLIbuZGaGTzq8G6DpF7FVVHuIMeTyJlTgjExI9oUcf7yO0eupbMXIPrQcXH8phnXAI_GLOY7JmZOmVw2fm7uFB-W64jfTIdkzqrbT9Moqeel0Wt8Kc/s1600/109+cropped+and+colored.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWOnemtETL-hIoE5y0W6n4zd14DLIbuZGaGTzq8G6DpF7FVVHuIMeTyJlTgjExI9oUcf7yO0eupbMXIPrQcXH8phnXAI_GLOY7JmZOmVw2fm7uFB-W64jfTIdkzqrbT9Moqeel0Wt8Kc/s1600/109+cropped+and+colored.jpg" height="321" width="640" /></a></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-80899981661773957432013-10-10T12:26:00.001-07:002013-10-10T12:26:54.145-07:00O taste and see<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
It was afternoon ministry and we had made sandwiches to
take to kids that hang out at the local trash dump. Their families live off of
the trash. I don’t think they eat what is there, but they use the resources they find while scavenging the mounds of junk. These families use another’s
waste to maintain their homes. It was heart wrenching.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mothers pushed and orchestrated their kids into lines to receive
a simple chicken sandwich. I watched and took pictures as they were handed
their lunch. I saw no life. Only sadness.I saw them smile but there was no joy. No hope. How do you find hope in a trash heap? You can’t. It’s lifeless.</div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9K9tFbGpgX7h-nUrLyVqMqIr-kt8aMW9K-YTi6J6QQK_kyLJu2LY_JFuBoISpJQMScr6ScERwRbMPebYPyM8Z4s546NUXkjXOzEnUw8xWfTI0znvT_njcBjEzaTM6UZzqrn9kHbun1RE/s1600/135cropped2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9K9tFbGpgX7h-nUrLyVqMqIr-kt8aMW9K-YTi6J6QQK_kyLJu2LY_JFuBoISpJQMScr6ScERwRbMPebYPyM8Z4s546NUXkjXOzEnUw8xWfTI0znvT_njcBjEzaTM6UZzqrn9kHbun1RE/s1600/135cropped2.jpg" height="227" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I passed out bracelets to little girls, took pictures and
made small talk with the moms. (And when I say small talk I mean very little
talk. I only know a handful of Spanish phrases.) I walked around the enclosed
area taking it all in. The dirty hands, the putrid smell, the downturned faces.
Everything was so dull for a country that I lived in color! The rest of Nicaragua
is vibrant and this place was hues of gray. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsBQTFvUHtdC67RNDwJDm9YL2ssGIHrHzzbUUUAmbfUj82pn02wSjL41m8HEl6uTBlv-Tgf245oQZ79nSbZXyvZkOSXzb90J6SV8wxkLeZMqrPe8cRiIFubVpKZ5ZlgaI02drlSjeRq8/s1600/133cropped2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsBQTFvUHtdC67RNDwJDm9YL2ssGIHrHzzbUUUAmbfUj82pn02wSjL41m8HEl6uTBlv-Tgf245oQZ79nSbZXyvZkOSXzb90J6SV8wxkLeZMqrPe8cRiIFubVpKZ5ZlgaI02drlSjeRq8/s1600/133cropped2.jpg" height="214" width="640" /></a></div>
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Hearing someone yell, I turned to watch a dump truck pull in
and drive towards the back of the property. Then I saw the older boys begin to
sprint towards it with their younger siblings trailing behind. Once they
reached the moving vehicle, they jumped on the back and began to throw bags of “new”
trash towards their siblings. Trash was being thrown and dragged towards their
mothers and I watched with my mouth hanging open. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had never seen something so disgusting. As I processed it
later I realized I had seen that play out in my own life. I have chased the
garbage truck too, hungry for new trash. The world was the truck and its hallow
ideas of identity and satisfaction were the waste. You think it’s going to
bring you something good, but it’s the same old thing just in a new shiny
wrapper. But if you know nothing else, if you have never tasted hope, then why
not keep chasing? <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ihj3VrzCZLc2L2-23136JcyNGcvd0IvMNJBW6Vdtmy9kuxWunlNJmVldbMYI_JuYHDgqRiToDvb-mupUSHFmcgFsQNBJ0erooKv9XrKKUPWlPcTZN2eaCQOeNuhq513U2TXnH_tt61M/s1600/130cropped2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ihj3VrzCZLc2L2-23136JcyNGcvd0IvMNJBW6Vdtmy9kuxWunlNJmVldbMYI_JuYHDgqRiToDvb-mupUSHFmcgFsQNBJ0erooKv9XrKKUPWlPcTZN2eaCQOeNuhq513U2TXnH_tt61M/s1600/130cropped2.jpg" height="268" width="640" /></a></div>
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These families knew no hope; they had never tasted the
riches of a relationship with the King. I have. I have over and over. New
mercies are poured out on me every day. Mercies that give me a visual of how
ridiculous I look chasing after the world instead of the Lord. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have tasted hope. And I’m never going back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-73028016850898764542013-09-06T10:44:00.000-07:002013-09-06T10:44:40.646-07:00A Most Common Question<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">Why do I do what I do?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
I could give you a lot of reasons. I mean first and foremost, <b>I do what I do because God has called me to do it</b>. I mean, sure that’s a great “missionary” answer and what not, but it is actually true. If I didn't feel like God was supporting me and instructing me, I wouldn't be here. Why? Because that would mean he had something better in mind.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Next, is that<b> I do this because I love it. </b>Yep! I love it. Here are the things I love about it:</div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWqcQ54x0Cg10EmdAy_c2PCQSgKUc0yIHjBN1QgklrdlgsKSDE99-CN_-0GwuxtFSfhBOTtQxQahu3otN0gqu5GBVdM41nVOMOSglsXcNsKtXw493_k1o7psMqSMZC_hiVQXrWHrQn3BU/s1600/IMG_5019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWqcQ54x0Cg10EmdAy_c2PCQSgKUc0yIHjBN1QgklrdlgsKSDE99-CN_-0GwuxtFSfhBOTtQxQahu3otN0gqu5GBVdM41nVOMOSglsXcNsKtXw493_k1o7psMqSMZC_hiVQXrWHrQn3BU/s1600/IMG_5019.JPG" height="133" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl3uM-hS0BFX0lOqk_q0ffLXrbnkVvyi71PclmLdFim-ibpfOqjZRKGB-HtdHGsUGTWggQNEHI9gTdF3ridvnU4ll-RSJLEQtmS2cz_kYdLJmodsgkK2lBFMDg_QBVIaOMMDHh57UZiE/s1600/IMG_1110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl3uM-hS0BFX0lOqk_q0ffLXrbnkVvyi71PclmLdFim-ibpfOqjZRKGB-HtdHGsUGTWggQNEHI9gTdF3ridvnU4ll-RSJLEQtmS2cz_kYdLJmodsgkK2lBFMDg_QBVIaOMMDHh57UZiE/s1600/IMG_1110.JPG" height="133" width="200" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I love being able to do what I do best; hanging out, making friends, speaking truth. These are legitimate gifts God has given me. I love making friends. And what I love even more is when I have the opportunity to see transformation in the friends I make. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipwSVBt5pB-lxhRYXyLbInoVZcl2XUJ7EDLkahi68B9av33Gcbo5Ys6EPc_q4Jgy7Xq6cRcANXuoT-k_bVVabexgWh7OrkxgshMPmyBXNQxVQXnjncYMA2-SzTw2mKtbratBraUCCYu6o/s1600/india-3213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipwSVBt5pB-lxhRYXyLbInoVZcl2XUJ7EDLkahi68B9av33Gcbo5Ys6EPc_q4Jgy7Xq6cRcANXuoT-k_bVVabexgWh7OrkxgshMPmyBXNQxVQXnjncYMA2-SzTw2mKtbratBraUCCYu6o/s1600/india-3213.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjgl2MnAu2piGApy2EOckCJJi4doGA0brW4i_0pq2Q6i0d6F4D3T65lGVhWIoxTqqcIC9MRFdL4N0ztcrS5He6lYk0td08hZtf2unbWbPEncZFA_KzKpLqnBa1fDtu02HM6UYWqEwqic/s1600/5618598_orig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjgl2MnAu2piGApy2EOckCJJi4doGA0brW4i_0pq2Q6i0d6F4D3T65lGVhWIoxTqqcIC9MRFdL4N0ztcrS5He6lYk0td08hZtf2unbWbPEncZFA_KzKpLqnBa1fDtu02HM6UYWqEwqic/s1600/5618598_orig.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>I love interacting with teenage girls. Yeah, I’m not far from my teenage years in age, but God has taken me far from the mess I was as a teenager in high school. I enjoy being able to share my story and still share a laugh. I love leading them in prayer and then hearing them say, “I feel so much lighter now. Like, I feel like a physical weight has come off of my shoulders.” Most of all, I love being there when they hear God speaking to them. When they hear God whisper, “I love you.” </div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipwSVBt5pB-lxhRYXyLbInoVZcl2XUJ7EDLkahi68B9av33Gcbo5Ys6EPc_q4Jgy7Xq6cRcANXuoT-k_bVVabexgWh7OrkxgshMPmyBXNQxVQXnjncYMA2-SzTw2mKtbratBraUCCYu6o/s1600/india-3213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I love that I can have fun. I love having fun, it’s so important to me! I love that I get to lead others into fun and that God is having fun with me. I love that my life is far from boring. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmCqL-veD3p30vJzFYyJJoAO8c8CkC0MM1YMV5pxFnlV_4aJITUn9B-PZCblBg13zfRHpR7DzUY5KllrvvqTW1hEmQd7oNYU1iv_j1FuFhXQpbxUX5u7FPdBywfLrvqECVnLPf-6ty1k/s1600/IMG_5758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmCqL-veD3p30vJzFYyJJoAO8c8CkC0MM1YMV5pxFnlV_4aJITUn9B-PZCblBg13zfRHpR7DzUY5KllrvvqTW1hEmQd7oNYU1iv_j1FuFhXQpbxUX5u7FPdBywfLrvqECVnLPf-6ty1k/s1600/IMG_5758.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I mean, who wouldn't want to play with a 6 ft soccer ball?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I love being interwoven into someone else's story, just as they are now a part of mine.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePLXxiqEubS4MNSVHeTTkjbQ8bJcYySAL1f3wZ0GtSUVSPhHnpe84XTE2Nzo94khU_P_5hZiLLp7rG7r2nZfPP1Aqp6iQO9ouxloEzk0reo8BtzCSEpUcAm9S8GNxrD5GynVVBv-9O34/s1600/7833481542_e7931523e6_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePLXxiqEubS4MNSVHeTTkjbQ8bJcYySAL1f3wZ0GtSUVSPhHnpe84XTE2Nzo94khU_P_5hZiLLp7rG7r2nZfPP1Aqp6iQO9ouxloEzk0reo8BtzCSEpUcAm9S8GNxrD5GynVVBv-9O34/s1600/7833481542_e7931523e6_b.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I do what I do because I love doing it and because God loves me doing it. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Plain and simple.<br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: left;">If you would like to know more about what I do, visit our website at </span><a href="http://www.ywamlouisville.org/" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">http://www.ywamlouisville.org/</a><span style="text-align: left;">. Or click </span><a href="http://www.ywamlouisville.org/pages/our_family.html" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="text-align: left;"> to go directly to the staff pages to meet my YWAM family.</span></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-20087288589700979452013-07-02T08:10:00.000-07:002013-07-02T08:10:36.607-07:00It never leaves. His love is here. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But the Lords love for us is unchanging.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It reaches high, high into the trees, past the clouds and on
into the starlit sky. His love is as vast as our oceans, and stretches even
past the arms of our Milky Way galaxy. His love is here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">His love. It never leaves. How could it if it is continuous?
How could His love even fathom straying for a second? It doesn’t. It never leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> It’s never failing,
never ceasing. It never leaves. His love is here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I can
feel His love. It wells up inside of me, bringing warmth into my heart. It makes
me bring my hands over my heart and seems to force my eyes close. I can feel it
pulsating in my fingertips, and my mouth has to curve into a smile. His love
literally lives in my heart. It bustles around and sways to the music. His love
is here. It never leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">His love has been
chasing me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And sometimes I run. But other times I allow it to catch up. And
when it does, He mulls me in affection. It’s a sweeping hug and it knocks me
off of my feet. His love surprises me. It never leaves. His love is here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> When I take my eyes
off of His, a new identity sets in. It tells me I don’t deserve His love. It
tells me that I am unworthy, too disgraceful to receive a pure, limitless joy.
The world whispers into my ear that I am to go back to the love I once searched
for. The love that felt so empty, it could never sustain my constant thirst.
That is the love the world offers, it is a love I have drank from and it never
satisfied me. Never. It left me alone, feeling hopeless, humiliated. It came
with no plans of staying, that love left. And I don’t know where it went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> But just as the Lord never leaves you, He never leaves me.
He held out His hand in hopeful expectation. And when I look up, finding Him
there, I reach for his hand. It is then that I notice the scars, wounds deep
into His flesh. And I know. I know those are because of me. Because I drank
from a shallow well. But Jesus isn’t concerned with that. No, He’s too busy
staring into my eyes, holding me close. He wipes away my tears and my shame melts
away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">His love, it is here. And it never leaves.</span></span></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-69310732576525311412013-05-08T14:55:00.000-07:002013-05-08T14:55:46.024-07:00So, so proud.<br />
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I had this thought. Someone was praying today, and I had
revelation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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God
could do it all. (Hold out, keep reading) But really, He can do it all. He
could whip this world back into shape in a blink of an eye! But He allows us to
do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He gives us tasks
and hurdles to tackle. He has given us missions and callings. He has given us
the Great Commission. That’s a large amount of work there. <b><sup>18 </sup></b>Jesus
came and told his disciples, “I have been given all authority in heaven
and on earth.<b><sup>19 </sup></b>Therefore, go and make disciples of all
the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the
Holy Spirit. <b><sup>20 </sup></b>Teach these new disciples to obey
all the commands I have given you. And be sure of this: I am with you always,
even to the end of the age.” <span style="font-size: x-small;">Matthew 28:18-20</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So, what I’m getting at, is God entrust <i>us</i> with things to
do. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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And a lot of the time we butcher it. We do it half- heartily.
We give up. We ignore the request. We choose in our hearts that the outcome is
bad, we choose in our hearts to have a repulsive attitude. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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But other times
we follow through. Other times we run, head on into the fog. We set our eyes on
the prize. We fall, but we get up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes we even think we ace it! We think we do it exactly
as needed. And maybe we do! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But I think when we choose to try, when we choose to
strive. I think when we choose to jump without seeing His outstretched arms,
that’s when He is most proud. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We may fail miserably. Like... bad. But I think those
moments, when <i>we</i> want what <i>He</i> wants, His heart swells. I get this picture of
Him looking at us, smiling, nodding, clapping. He might even do a fist pump.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I know when I get
excited that I accomplished something God has called me to, I want to run at Him
and give Him a hug. I want to bury my head into His chest, so close that I hear His
heartbeat. But what I feel in my heart is even better. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When I’m
faithful to do what God wants me to do, no matter the results I get this impression
in the depth of my soul. I picture God taking my face in his hands, so gently,
and saying, “I am so proud of you, my love. So, so proud.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I wouldn't trade that for the world. I would rather
endure the hurt of falling while trying to accomplish something just so I can
feel my Father telling me that I have made Him proud. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, so proud. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-6066113720209239642013-02-28T12:05:00.000-08:002014-09-25T10:52:17.276-07:00Aneshea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>(2012) Location: <a href="https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/maps/maptemplate_in.html" target="_blank">Madurai, Tamil Nadu, India.</a></b></div>
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I met Aneshea outside of the little slum church we
led Sunday class in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She was sitting on the step, clutching her stomach. She
was skinny, her hair unkempt and her face had a green tint from a paint that
Indian women wear to make their skin lighter. In India, to be lighter is to be
more beautiful. In America, to be lighter is practically a sin.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just kidding, but not really. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyways! Aneshea didn’t stay for Sunday class. One of the
Indian YWAMers picked some lice out of her hair and she walked home. But I didn’t
forget her. And I don’t think she forgot me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The next time we came to visit, she was sitting on the
church step again, waiting for us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This time she
came over, grabbed my hand, like she knew me and led me through the slum as we
recruited children for Sunday class. This was my favorite part about Sunday
class. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We would
walk the narrow path behind our translator, single file, like ducklings,
avoiding low roofs and stray dogs, yelling, “Sunday class! Sunday class!”</div>
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Throughout
my visits I learned that the other girls didn't like Aneshea. They called her
crazy and pushed her to the back of the room. Whenever this would take place,
she always retaliated and before I knew it people were being slapped and I was to <o:p></o:p>intervene.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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I felt obligated. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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I later found out that Aneshea <i>was</i> actually a little crazy. When she was younger she contracted typhoid.
The fever altered her brain, basically my translator told me that,
“her brain got too hot.” Aneshea was known for constantly lying and from what I
observed; she often seemed to be off in her own world. It was as if her mind
drifted above the tin roof, far away from India. And then, she would get up in the
middle of a lesson and leave. Just like that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But
I loved her. I loved her so much. I had no reason to love her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She was rude, she lied and she smelled bad. But I loved
her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She memorized
my name, “Moooly Grraacce McCooooly”. And I memorized hers. I tried my hardest
to make sure I loved on her as much as possible when I was there. Talk to her
as much as I could. Every visit she was different. Cleaner, more respectful and
appeared healthier. And after every visit I prayed for her. It seemed like the
only thing I could do. I had to pray for the young Indian girl in the slum, because
who else would? <o:p></o:p></div>
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The
last night we were there I took a picture with her sitting on my lap.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbF7-eaMDoyPf69D1kFeDP7yPGP3Aj8p1_JVSj8KJ-ZOFtCyyEVJcSMx_Uh1TMSIc9B8ANn0GTCjlvf3lTj3WpNa3_npL-nPNglcwVvKk8d0Cikz4x-x5sOISosYqb9yy2HIyen_MCQA/s1600/097.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbF7-eaMDoyPf69D1kFeDP7yPGP3Aj8p1_JVSj8KJ-ZOFtCyyEVJcSMx_Uh1TMSIc9B8ANn0GTCjlvf3lTj3WpNa3_npL-nPNglcwVvKk8d0Cikz4x-x5sOISosYqb9yy2HIyen_MCQA/s1600/097.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b> (2013) </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Another DTS went to India. The same place I went. Visited
the same slum that my friend Aneshea lives. I asked Ben, the group leader, to
take Aneshea a picture. The one we took together the last time I saw her. Ben knew
who she was, he had been the India before, but when they went to visit the
slum, she wasn't there. He never saw her and to be honest, I assumed the worst.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But the Lord is good. As I was going through pictures with my friend who was just in India, my heart fluttered with hope. A group picture popped up. There was one tired girl off to the right, her eyes were so sad. But I knew them. Aneshea. Aneshea!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdvP78ZJIAAPIuJPMqTQwkbyfI57b5f0HEnCX_c3XKtpbhYfP5uPfp4XVZqe8M6nLMI5nAgjSXkoiR2cOoUqAL73krWElHPCxWflxLBXsmcH9R1VvORGAfm6MqJk0viKT6cWh-wJIvXEc/s1600/aneshea+one+year+later.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdvP78ZJIAAPIuJPMqTQwkbyfI57b5f0HEnCX_c3XKtpbhYfP5uPfp4XVZqe8M6nLMI5nAgjSXkoiR2cOoUqAL73krWElHPCxWflxLBXsmcH9R1VvORGAfm6MqJk0viKT6cWh-wJIvXEc/s1600/aneshea+one+year+later.jpg" height="320" width="304" /></a></div>
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I have faith that this is my friend. That is the girl who stole my heart a year ago. And in one picture she has stolen it again. </div>
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It gives me more reason to pray. More reason to pray in faith. Because this picture is a testimony that my God is faithful. My God is loving. My God is trustworthy. My God is the God of me and my small Indian friend Aneshea, who I will continue to pray for. And hopefully, someday meet again.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">If you would like to know more about what I do, visit our website at </span><a href="http://www.ywamlouisville.org/" style="-webkit-transition: color 0.3s; background-color: white; color: #4ba976; display: inline; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline-style: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.ywamlouisville.org/</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">. Or click </span><a href="http://www.ywamlouisville.org/pages/our_family.html" style="-webkit-transition: color 0.3s; background-color: white; color: #4ba976; display: inline; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline-style: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"> to go directly to the staff pages to meet my YWAM family.</span></div>
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914108175506477468.post-90145460295810295622013-02-05T13:01:00.000-08:002013-02-05T13:01:54.908-08:00overview.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There are many things one could say on a blog. I could complain. Or get on my "soapbox". Or tell a story.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I would love to tell you stories.</div>
Whether it be a story about myself, or others, I know I will have many to tell.<br />
I am a YWAM-er I am in YWAM. I am on staff at Youth With A Mission, in Louisville, KY. A city you can only pronounce correctly once corrected. I am in an organization that trains people, young and old, and sends them out into the nations. I have now been in YWAM for a little over a year. 10 months as a student, 3 months on staff. Half of my time here was not actually here, but in Europe and Asia, on outreach.<br />
I don't have a story in particular to share today, but I wanted to get a move on with this blog thing. Here is a little about me, if you didn't know it all already <span style="font-size: x-small;">(I'm a talker)</span>...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxNBmBLB1kPyAnzMhajX9NUc8_X30STST8hSyIm39PP1xMkBBvsVVCVLrvjfW96GdGiWgX3OaeTv8l_AWUodtq0wWGzGeRtYo7mJ2BOuV56pb959lB48xSqSRfmggc2P-MRVUexO6a2M/s1600/366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxNBmBLB1kPyAnzMhajX9NUc8_X30STST8hSyIm39PP1xMkBBvsVVCVLrvjfW96GdGiWgX3OaeTv8l_AWUodtq0wWGzGeRtYo7mJ2BOuV56pb959lB48xSqSRfmggc2P-MRVUexO6a2M/s1600/366.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm the one on the right. I love working with children, and am especially passionate about working with handicap children. I enjoy spring, because it's not too hot and not too cold. I like to drink coffee, coke, cranberry juice and sometimes water.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEfhBUohPLhQw87HgIjEf5c4nx8fckLxfIgdBh85mJMp_ZQ0FAeAqB2PHhhpYSx_G9086MR00Jw0hnbH7zknTO88rqwJK44vzKBz4Bs85Tw2rkFgHe_VrWR4ePY38H4oEbXi7xUUXn2Ag/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEfhBUohPLhQw87HgIjEf5c4nx8fckLxfIgdBh85mJMp_ZQ0FAeAqB2PHhhpYSx_G9086MR00Jw0hnbH7zknTO88rqwJK44vzKBz4Bs85Tw2rkFgHe_VrWR4ePY38H4oEbXi7xUUXn2Ag/s1600/019.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is my family! We are all from Ohio. (L to R Dad, Mom, Molly, Kyle)<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(my eyes are NOT shut, I'm just squinting) </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGujqSKxAEwF7C41zvuCHQ5CW_xwhnbFHtEmNcFmaGqWCgxi8qU-2wmSkd_2SdKxPH3pWU6ZXxp4klfHDI3Xy7zeZ7qMpdLZYCIycPcqmAhuq4SNDluAoVhDw8dm_MFUzLQsJ52BcTtU/s1600/8199924457_5cc74d1c13_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGujqSKxAEwF7C41zvuCHQ5CW_xwhnbFHtEmNcFmaGqWCgxi8qU-2wmSkd_2SdKxPH3pWU6ZXxp4klfHDI3Xy7zeZ7qMpdLZYCIycPcqmAhuq4SNDluAoVhDw8dm_MFUzLQsJ52BcTtU/s1600/8199924457_5cc74d1c13_b.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm big into worship.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSY8spVoOMcst1el1rsB1JL7vvWUN-Ku9h6Zot_351KlEmdNQOLOV6BcWbmcm9PA2V6FRagAnEWvS995RBsajQz-N-pDX_74BkG7hGNvscE063K7iH4Dq-IJcCbIWioGSam1ppA3B2To0/s1600/7932433072_8253b192e1_h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSY8spVoOMcst1el1rsB1JL7vvWUN-Ku9h6Zot_351KlEmdNQOLOV6BcWbmcm9PA2V6FRagAnEWvS995RBsajQz-N-pDX_74BkG7hGNvscE063K7iH4Dq-IJcCbIWioGSam1ppA3B2To0/s1600/7932433072_8253b192e1_h.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And I'm big into friendship.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggXElJ38yuyutRsbjiwOiIUoQLO5UFEX96EGxisFlrNvLYrc4yyBcDECxA7lJkIxmtr1_7Xg4QwvreCg7ks0O6ty4O3CcfdKZQeHNAm4p42urwZIEwbRiS136OAppqu2n67XCu4RdvaQo/s1600/india-3158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggXElJ38yuyutRsbjiwOiIUoQLO5UFEX96EGxisFlrNvLYrc4yyBcDECxA7lJkIxmtr1_7Xg4QwvreCg7ks0O6ty4O3CcfdKZQeHNAm4p42urwZIEwbRiS136OAppqu2n67XCu4RdvaQo/s1600/india-3158.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have a passion to see those in India and Nepal know the Lord, especially young girls.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrDomjxjrGZ41bqaHup1im8cgEWK_mPF4ZjLQk6M8FU-UID5qCz3M5mTBM1SPNWs4NxOWa-6AS5PbTkJzo8rGWLZFDTC9pSFhKOQEO50BkFCT4sG6BTX_8fysbg05ajvawPd_vdd02to/s1600/DSC_0778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrDomjxjrGZ41bqaHup1im8cgEWK_mPF4ZjLQk6M8FU-UID5qCz3M5mTBM1SPNWs4NxOWa-6AS5PbTkJzo8rGWLZFDTC9pSFhKOQEO50BkFCT4sG6BTX_8fysbg05ajvawPd_vdd02to/s1600/DSC_0778.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love doing dramas! I believe that skits and plays can be used as a tool for people to come to know Christ.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you would like to know more about what I do, visit our website at <a href="http://www.ywamlouisville.org/" target="_blank">http://www.ywamlouisville.org/</a>. Or click <a href="http://www.ywamlouisville.org/pages/our_family.html" target="_blank">here</a> to go directly to the staff pages to meet my YWAM family.<br />
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Molly Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00189137335558356994noreply@blogger.com2