tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31668245816178741102024-02-06T21:21:59.954-08:00The Daily Heretic Thoughts for free people. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-37979956279544733222017-10-30T14:45:00.003-07:002017-10-30T14:56:42.193-07:00This is not Advice <br />
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<b><i>[10/30/2017 - I found this piece today, a draft I never posted. I don't remember writing it, or why I never finished it. It was written three years ago in 2014.</i></b></h4>
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<b><i>As of today, Jeremiah have been divorced a little over a year. We spent the year before that separated. We lived together for 3 months between separation and divorce.</i></b></h4>
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<b><i>The decision to divorce was mine. Reading this now, I expected to feel something like regret or sadness. I don't, so I suppose posting this now is the logical next step.]</i></b></h4>
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Jeremiah and I have been married three years as of Thursday, August 28. Two of my best friends (and house-mates) Ken and Jen will be getting married this Saturday, August 30. So, with all this wedded bliss in the air, I'm feeling inspired to share some wisdom.<br />
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LOL.<br />
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Three years of marriage certainly doesn't give me any great clout in the marriage advice arena. I'm not saying I'm doing it right, or well, or that you should do it too.<br />
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So far, marriage is just as frustrating and magical and insane as I imagined.<br />
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Seriously. It's crazy. And stupid. And hilarious. And amazing. And stupid. Absolutely weird and ridiculous.<br />
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So, what I present to you here is not a list of wisdom that will help you achieve a happy marriage. Achievement isn't really the goal here. Instead I give you…<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Un-Wisdom</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Shit I learned from couples and the media about love and marriage that freaked me out and made me think crazy stupid fictitious crap about love and marriage:</i></b></span><br />
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<b>1) I watched </b><i style="font-weight: bold;">The Notebook - </i>In the early days of my relationship with Jeremiah, back when we lived in separate parts of the state and wrote letters and texted 24/7 to get to know each other, he asked me (I'm paraphrasing) "Why aren't you in a relationship?"<br />
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"I don't believe in love," I told him.<br />
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"What do you mean? How can you not believe in something as fundamental as love?"<br />
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"Have you ever seen <i>The Notebook?" </i>I asked, then proceeded to explain how fruitless I imagined it would be to live your life with someone you love only to die. Or worse, only to watch <i>them</i> die.<br />
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"I hate that movie." He replied, in all seriousness. "<i>The Notebook </i>is fiction, first of all. It's completely unrealistic. Girls want to look like Rachel McAdams and bang Ryan Gosling, so they watch it and convince themselves it's real life. That romance and love are interchangeable."<br />
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And then I re-watched <i>The Notebook, </i>and laughed at how childish and ridiculous a movie to create such life-impacting philosophies as "I don't believe in love" and "Death is greater than Love" around.<br />
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Which leads me into the next point on my list…<br />
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<b>2) I believed the phrase "'Till death do us part" - </b>Having no concept of what Jesus actually did on the cross, apart from take away my sins as I frequently chanted at AWANAS when I was a kid, I had no idea that he defeated death.<br />
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Defeated death?<br />
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Defeated death.<br />
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I'm still not entirely sure what that means, because people are still dying. Daily, and in horrific ways. But the revelation triggered an idea - if death is defeated, then it has no power over love. I went from thinking death makes love meaningless, to thinking life is meaningless without love.<br />
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To progress this point further than I'm capable, and to prove that my logic was un-sound whether Jesus is your homie or not, I present to you comedian and atheist Tim Minchin:<br />
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Watch the whole video if you want, he's a wonderful speaker with really powerful ideas. But for the purpose of this conversation, skip ahead to 10:30.<br />
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"I said at the beginning of this ramble… that life is meaningless. It was not a flippant assertion. I think it's absurd, the idea of seeking meaning in the set of circumstances that happens to exist after 13.8 billion years worth of unguided events. Leave it to humans to think the universe has a purpose for them. </blockquote>
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"However I am no nihilist. I'm not even a cynic. I'm actually rather romantic. And here's my idea of romance. You will soon be dead. Life will sometimes seem long and tough, and God it's tiring. And you will sometimes be happy and sometimes sad. And then you'll be old. And then you'll be dead. There is only one sensible thing to do with this empty existence. And that's fill it."</blockquote>
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So far, my experiences have been made most full when I've shared them with another person. In particular, with Jeremiah. It's like the difference between masturbation and sex with another, real live person. Both are orgasmic, stress relieving, and good for your health. One (most often) leaves you empty and alone.<br />
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<b>3) "You're not the person I married" - </b>I've heard spouses shout this or say it with heartache on their tongues to rationalize a split or divorce. At first, I thought it sound logic: I married a person, you're not that person, so why should I be married to you?<br />
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Then I realized that progression and change are part of the human experience. I am not the same person I was yesterday. I'm certainly not the same person I was a year ago. Three years ago? I'd graduated college, got married, turned 21, and got a puppy in a matter of months. All of which are life changing.<br />
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When I met my husband, I literally didn't believe in love. I'd never seen Jesus heal anyone, let alone at my hands. And I was very close to dropping out of college.<br />
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Relationships change people. And people change relationships.<br />
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Humans ebbe and flow, stretch and grow and break. And then do it all over again. Peace is not a constant, nor is happiness. We all experience bouts of depression, fear, anger, rage, sadness. Maybe we even get stuck in these bouts. But everything about us is both temporary and eternal. We are spirit beings with souls in bodies. We are eternity and mortality crammed into one box wrapped in a bow, splitting at the seams.<br />
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For those who identify as Christian, change is intrinsic to your religion. Repentance is to change your mind. To literally change the way you think and process information and emotion. It's a constant, life long process. If that doesn't make you a new person, you haven't done it.<br />
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So to tell someone they've changed as though it's an insult, or a sound reason to leave them, is shortsighted and a slew of other profanities that would tarnish the relevance of this post. I didn't marry Jeremiah for the person he was. I married him for the person he eternally is, changes and all.<br />
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<b>4) Divorce is the worst thing ever, but it's <i>happening</i> to everyone - </b>People change. That's great. That's not to say they can't change for the worst.<br />
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I am less convinced that divorce is the worst thing ever, though more convinced that most people have no idea what marriage is in the first place.<br />
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Marriage is a union of two people (and God, if you're in to that sort of thing). What that union is, how it's lived out, and what it looks like to everyone else, is completely up to those two people.<br />
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For myself, marriage is a commitment to constantly grow and progress. Not on my own, but alongside Jeremiah. I am as committed to Jeremiah's growth as my own (or at least that's the goal). If I didn't believe that Jeremiah was as committed to growing as to enabling <i>me </i>to grow, this arrangement couldn't work. Without equal participation, this arrangement becomes abusive and will quickly shrivel and die.<br />
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We learn and grow and progress most when we fail. We can fail and still remain married. Jeremiah and I fail all the time. Daily. And we have grown leaps and bounds in the past three years, let me tell you. Divorce is a choice, not a transmittable, incurable disease. I'm not anti-divorce. I genuinely believe it is the absolute best course of action for some relationships. Particularly for those marriages that have forgotten that they are, at their core, a relationship. However, I'm no longer afraid of it "happening" to me, because I'm convinced relationships are a series of choices not a series of shit happening by chance. <br />
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I'm also convinced that I'm a grown ass woman, whatever choices I make are my own and I stand by them. <i><span style="color: #783f04;">[ALERT: I'm about to give advice. You've been warned.] </span></i>If you haven't convinced yourself of this, do so before you get married.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-5748680016073247142014-04-24T11:36:00.001-07:002014-04-24T11:37:45.197-07:00Anti Anti This will brief.<br />
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If you're feeling anti social, fight it.<br />
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I'm telling you, I have never reaped so much joy from a social event as when I have to force myself to attend against my will.<br />
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Lately - perhaps because I've been writing more and therefore spending a lot of time growing things in the garden of my mind - engaging socially with people has been draining. I spend my time at work chatting with customers; when I leave, the idea of chatting further feels overwhelmingly tedious.<br />
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There are a select few people in my inner-circle who are exempt from these moods. Jeremiah my husband, my little doggies, and the folks we cook dinner with throughout the week (stomach defeats whiny mood, always).<br />
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I've made a point the past couple days to involve myself in social activities after work. Simple things, like pizza at our friends' house or beers with another couple. Particularly, things involving people who aren't in my "inner circle." I've been leaving work feeling like the art of making small talk has been lost to me, and ready to dive into a book with headphones and ice cream. Instead, when opportunities for social gathering have presented themselves, I've accepted them.<br />
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It's been a little painful, all this acceptance.<br />
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But the more time I spend in conversation, <i>hanging out with people</i>, the less anti-social I feel. A weird tingle is generated from my bellybutton to my lips in these social gatherings. I find myself smiling, laughing even. I'm not sure what to call this tingle, but I'm pretty sure it's happiness or something. Maybe even joy. (That said, I value alone time. Thrive from it and need it. We're talking about balance, here; I'm not suggesting forgo alone time.)<br />
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Some Mormon Missionaries came to my door recently. They were rather nice, took my trash out for me and even conceded when I told them they could pray for me if I could pray for them. In trying to convince me I needed to go to church, the concept of Communion was presented.<br />
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"I do that all the time," I explained.<br />
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"Well, the thing about Communion is that it's about the right mindset. It's the blood and body of Christ; someone in authority needs to bless the bread and wine," they explained.<br />
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Two thoughts occurred to me. One, I expressed: "I think you're right. Really, it's about Jesus. When we focus on him, our mindset is aligned with his. And ya know, in the Bible Jesus says 'All the authority of heaven and earth is mine; I give it to you.' So, I've got all the authority I could possibly need. And so do you." (Authority examples: Matthew 10:8 and 28:18, Luke 10:19)<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perhaps friends are like spiders that help keep the <br />
garden of our minds pest free. <i>Photo by: Josiah McLain </i></td></tr>
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The second thought, I didn't recall until I began this post. "The Last Supper," from which Christianity has derived the communion ritual, was definitely about Jesus. But it wasn't Jesus alone, it was Jesus surrounded by his friends. It was a social gathering; a shared experience.<br />
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We don't need bread and wine to have communion, though they are convenient symbols. We need each other.<br />
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I have a hunch our Oppressors would do anything in their power to keep us from communing - giving and receiving life - with our friends and Jesus. Without communion, we who are rivers at our healthiest, dry up into deserts.<br />
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While our moods are strong, we are stronger. The longer we go without breaking out of a bad mood, the harder it might be but the more enlivening the end result. It's a new struggle every time I feel an anti-socail mood coming on; it's yet to become easy to say H<i>mm, this mood is damaging me spiritually. I need to stop bitching and get over it. </i>Practice, I'm hoping, makes perfect.<br />
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Click <a href="http://kaylanitheheretic.blogspot.com/search/label/Communion" target="_blank">HERE</a> for more posts about Communion in my heretical life.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-71652940905450074202014-02-27T12:28:00.001-08:002014-02-27T14:33:32.921-08:00Justified Servants<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Kingdom reality turns earthly reality inside out and backwards. “To be first, you must be last and serve everyone,” Jesus told his disciples as they argued about who was best (Mark 9:33-35).</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Humility. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Humility is the key to the kingdom. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So what’s the key to humility? I can tell you, it isn’t powerlessness, as I often find myself thinking. Neither is it enslavement - doing good deeds or good work while receiving nothing of value in return. Those who follow Jesus are heirs to his kingdom. We’re world changers; the most powerful, free people on the planet. Humility doesn’t negate this truth, humility makes this truth reality. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was working a morning shift at the coffee shack a couple weeks ago. Mornings are busy enough to require a two man team, so I worked with a co-worker named Ray. Mid-way through our shift, some friends of mine came in. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A mother (Sue) and daughter (TJ) duo, I’ve never seen my friends together sans laughter. They told me a story about a time they laid hands on Sue’s back with a group of friends. They prayer warriors gathered around Sue in the hot seat, made declarations and spoke in tongues and all was very lovely, though not particularly healing. Until TJ started laughing. Before they knew it, the laughter had spread out of control. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As the giggle fits subsided, without further ado, Sue stood, said thanks, and walked away healed. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This day at the coffee shack they were particularly bubbly. They’d been listening to a song from <i>Dispicable Me 2 </i> called “Happy,” they told me. As they walked in, they were still singing raucously. Ray tried without success to focus them on their drink order, shrugged and resigned them to me. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I barged into their happy parade, took their orders, and they waited in the window across from the espresso machine chatting and giggling merrily. Perhaps 20 minutes after they left, a woman in plaid came in and stood in the same window, waiting to be helped. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“How are you doing today?” Ray asked, while I busily pulled shots and steamed milk. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The woman in plaid paused, scrunched up her face in confusion for a moment, then answered, “Literally two seconds ago, until you asked me that, I was feeling really irritated like I was having a terrible day. But suddenly I feel really, really good. Thanks!” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I want to utilize this post to speak to a specific group of people: Customer Servants. Those of us in the customer service industry often feel abused, demeaned, and pretty pissed off about it. Those of us who makes tips can easily find ourselves measuring our worth by the amount of money people are willing to put in our jars. Some days, despite our best efforts, we feel utterly worthless. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve written about customer service in the past. It’s a common topic for me to share on <i>The Daily Heretic</i> because I believe in Jesus’s commission to “go out” (Matthew 10:8). So strongly, I’ve shaped my life around it and chosen to make my everyday a mission. Most days, I find myself at work. To recap, I am a barista and my husband works at Trader Joe’s. And so, customer service. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A day of customer service can leave me feeling a sense of hopelessness unlike any other work I’ve ever done. It’s so easy to notice the flaws in the people I interact with - ingratitude, pride, narcissism, ignorance. By the end of the day, I feel completely justified being fed up and miserable. After all, I’ve spent hours laboring to cater to the whims of wealthy people who don’t deserve it. I could be in Africa, or India, or Haiti serving people starving and dying. They’d be grateful, right? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My friends Sue and TJ brought a cloud of kingdom joy into my coffee bungalow so thick it stuck around after they left. The woman in plaid stood within it totally unable to access it, until Ray unlocked the door with humility. That very simple “How are you doing today?” - a question we in customer service ask thousands of time in a week - was all it took to unlock the kingdom at hand and instantly change the course of the plaid woman’s day.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A few months ago I had a dream about a sushi feast being served to demons (if I find the dream, I'll link it here). Since that dream, I’ve started to notice that the negative feelings I occasionally have toward customers were feeding the demons they were carrying in with them. Whenever I noticed myself slipping into anger (or annoyance or impatience) I started to simply say “I don’t feed demons,” and that was enough to re-engage my spirit with the Kingdom and end the feast. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The trick isn’t ending the feast. That’s easy. The moment I engage with Jesus, the feast is over. The trick is recognizing that a feast is happening. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Following the dream, I realized my mood toward a person often shifted the moment they stepped out of their car. I’d watch them walk in, and a steady stream of reasons justifying my bitterness about serving them coursed through my mind. By the time they came in, I’d force myself to smile knowing full-well they didn’t deserve even common courtesy. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Until I recognized this, my job was very difficult to enjoy for the entirety of a day. It was thanks to the customers who took care to beam their light and love my direction that I’ve kept my job as long as I have. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After a period of weeks doing my best to diligently declare “I don’t feed demons,” the practice became second nature. Now when I notice a shift as someone steps out of their car, I begin asking Jesus what he likes about them. Sometimes, asking that question feels like pulling teeth. I seriously don’t want to hear it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But even if I want to ignore Him, I declare “I don’t feed demons” and make myself ask them “<i>How are you doing today?</i>” By the time this person I deigned to smile at minutes ago leaves, we’ve had a meaningful and worthwhile interaction and I feel good. Like, joy of Jesus good. It wasn’t until I watched Ray unlock the joy of the kingdom with that same question, that I began to recognize the power I wield as a humble servant. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If you’re not relating to this, please at least don’t think I’m a rotten person you never want to get your coffee from. I should clarify, I don’t go through this with every person I serve. Gracious that would be tedious. Though I serve about 70 people per shift, it takes only few badly handled or unrecognized demonic encounters to really ruin my day. I’m describing those select few, not the vast majority. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The problem with an unrecognized demon encounter when you’re serving people, is they’re simultaneously unrecognized Jesus encounters. Jesus said “When you serve the least of these, you serve me” (Matthew 25:31-46).</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Though refusing to feed demons has become second nature, there are times when I’m duped. I’m distracted from the person directly in front of me, and my attention is draw outward to the general state of America, or the coffee industry, or democracy. The flaws in these over-arching, oppressive, de-humanizing systems make me feel, once again, my bitterness is justified. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Recently while at work, after refusing to feed a demon but reflecting on the sense of justification I’d felt, I asked God, “Aren’t I justified, though?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A strategy my husband shares with me often, but I’ve never been able to grasp, came to mind: “Let yourself enjoy them.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yes, you’re bitterness is justified. It’s true, that guy was needy, sexist, and didn’t tip to boot. And that lady cut you off mid-sentence to order her latte. Let yourself feel joy anyway. When you serve the least of these, you serve Jesus. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The customers we serve may not seem impoverished and likely candidates to be the focus of our mission. But when Jesus was being tempted in the wilderness by Satan, he said “Man shall not live on bread alone.” If we look beyond material wealth, we will see we’re surrounded by deep, dire spiritual poverty; we’re surrounded by “the least of these.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve shared some battle strategies, that I might release this word over the customer servants: </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The King of Heaven has placed you in a position of unparalleled authority and power. Those who are last will be first. Those who are least will be greatest. Those who are powerless will be mighty. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You’ve been position to serve, to put others before yourself, every day. When you step into your position as a humble servant, your spirit takes your throne beside Jesus. From your throne, all that you declare must come to pass. From your throne, while scrubbing floors, pouring coffee, driving busses, bagging groceries, cleaning dishes, you set the captives free, heal the sick, cast out demons, feed the hungry. Before your throne, the powers of darkness cannot stand. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Before you write these off as encouraging, even powerful words, but nonetheless wishful thinking, let's look at some <a href="http://blogs.salesforce.com/company/2013/10/customer-service-stats-55-of-consumers-would-pay-more-for-a-better-service-experience.html" target="_blank">customer service statistics</a>:</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Customer service is the #1 factor influencing whether a consumer trusts a company.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">89% of consumers have stopped doing business with a company due to poor customer service.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">70% of buying experiences are based on how the customer feels they are being treated.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">55% of consumers would pay more for a better customer experience.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">It’s 6-7 times more costly to attract a new customer than to retain an existing one.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">A 10% increase in customer retention levels result in a 30% increaser in the value of the</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">company.</span></li>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The power to make or break the company you serve is truly in your hands. A generation of servant leaders is being raised. If it's not your job to If you’re in the service industry, you’re on the front lines paving the way that others may follow. You hold the keys to the kingdom of Heaven. You’re doing revolutionary work that gives honor and worship to Jesus while crushing Satan with your pinky toe. Well freakin’ done. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-3101294993031671492014-01-25T17:31:00.003-08:002014-01-25T17:31:31.295-08:00Favorites of 2013<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXcjbKNaQ_bFDUujltlJFzRVqWxmvvEDZjNpKkXcBEbWzVghfwkQGnA6GmftwInZE1Q7hVLtnqau_LlCG1i3UtAYIrMUQr_OjdTAE4hOYYLzxv813Kgqs5ZFnYAAHOQXw_qBOvDP7bGqro/s1600/Aug26.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/AVvXsEgXcjbKNaQ_bFDUujltlJFzRVqWxmvvEDZjNpKkXcBEbWzVghfwkQGnA6GmftwInZE1Q7hVLtnqau_LlCG1i3UtAYIrMUQr_OjdTAE4hOYYLzxv813Kgqs5ZFnYAAHOQXw_qBOvDP7bGqro/s1600/Aug26.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>In honor of February's quick approach, I want to recap my favorite stories from 2013:<br />
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<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/09/through-open-window.html" target="_blank">"A Dream and a Healing"</a></b><br />
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<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/08/my-dog-my-bills-and-my.html" target="_blank">"Hearing Business"</a></b><br />
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<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/08/my-dog-my-bills-and-my.html" target="_blank">"The Sky Is Falling"</a></b><br />
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<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/public-intimacy.html" target="_blank">"P.D.A."</a></b><br />
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<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/01/oh-hell.html" target="_blank">"Oh hell."</a></b><br />
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<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/11/divine-dice.html" target="_blank">"Divine Dice"</a></b><br />
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Criteria for favorite posts:<br />
Made me ask, do I believe this?<br />
Reminded me of productive, community building conversations.<br />
After re-reading, I had new questions.<br />
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<br />
Did you read any of these posts? Did they make you ask questions, throw your pen across the room, laugh until you pee? I would not one bit mind feedback; let me know what you're interested it. Maybe we have similar interests. Maybe God is talking to us about the same things. Like, wow.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-84336868183863519462014-01-25T16:08:00.003-08:002014-01-25T16:55:49.845-08:00Hints of Failure: Update <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92hM2jfWrgSDIQCt5Tsxj8l0Sdaj77rnBQNnXbv-l685NzpBUJZGDMKC7NDow74bAljJo-8uiENExwQ-_F3A3ioU3d6dOfedujMta-C_OsgPhh5qgY6iA27HZWo2EmvTIEjGk5pwUYzNM/s1600/Jan23.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/AVvXsEj92hM2jfWrgSDIQCt5Tsxj8l0Sdaj77rnBQNnXbv-l685NzpBUJZGDMKC7NDow74bAljJo-8uiENExwQ-_F3A3ioU3d6dOfedujMta-C_OsgPhh5qgY6iA27HZWo2EmvTIEjGk5pwUYzNM/s1600/Jan23.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>On January 23, after 3 months and 3 days, 3 breaks, 3 casts, and 3 surgical incisions, Kendal's cast was removed. And that was that.<br />
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We hoped he would be given a walking boot. We made declarations that he would not be casted again. And next thing I know he comes crutching into my cafe with nothing on his leg but a striped sock and paint splattered shoe.<br />
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His bones are still healing, and are still essentially broken as you can see in the photo. But he's been told to put as much weight on it as he wants. And we are laying hands like mad.<br />
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I went home the week before Christmas to visit my family. The day I returned to Olympia, my sister Brittany went in to surgery for an ACL replacement.<br />
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The process of putting an IV into her arm was traumatizing enough that the nurses doped her up with sedatives as soon as the IV was completed. When I went in to visit her, she was out of it to say the least. We talked about the mini-dreams she was having every time she closed her eyes, while our parents talked to the surgeon about things like cadaver tendons and recovery time.<br />
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I'm certain that my own knee problems and hers are spiritually related. As I learn about my own knee, I'm learning how to approach laying hands on hers.<br />
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My brain is melted currently; I've spent the month creating a business plan in order to open a coffee shop when I move (soon!). I have some stories, dreams, and learning experiences to share, but until then I just wanted to update anyone who has been reading along.<br />
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Thanks!<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-57636047654806290082013-12-28T19:03:00.003-08:002014-01-02T18:17:32.181-08:00Hints of Failure Part 4 <h3>
Part 4: Earthquakes and Turkey Soup</h3>
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I went to see <i>The Chariot </i>when they stopped at Studio Seven in Seattle during their farewell tour in November. This was a momentous occasion for my husband and I. Our first date as an official "long distance" couple was a meet up at a <i>The Chariot </i>show several years ago. We've seen them about five times since. </div>
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We mosh and thrash and scream, worshiping Jesus with the band. They jump off the stage onto our heads and hands. We pray with them and they invite us to eat with them after the show. We listen to their albums all year, eagerly anticipating our next joyous worship session together </div>
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This show - the final show we'd share with them - was not like the others. </div>
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More people attended this show than ever before. A beautiful sight.</div>
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As we waited and listened to the opening bands, I started imagining an earthquake and wondering what I'd do in the event one occurred in this crowded, stuffy place. <i>Too many people, not enough doorways, </i>I thought. But as soon as The Chariot began setting up on stage, my misgivings were forgotten.<br />
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Jeremiah and I spent Thanksgiving together, just us and the dogs. We cooked all the things we look forward to all year- a turkey, stuffing, rolls, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, two pies, a cake - and ate as much as we could.<br />
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Needless to say, we had ample left overs.<br />
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The following day, we boiled the leftover turkey bones and made broth. With our broth, we made turkey soup. Again, we ate as much as we could.<br />
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We had ample left overs.<br />
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Our friend Kendal (who you read about in <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-1.html" target="_blank">Part 1</a>) is a culinary artist. I am not particularly fond of seafood, and the thought of eating anything besides fish makes me squirm. But when Kendal made seafood gumbo, complete with shrimp, clams, muscles, and octopus, I ate it up. And asked for seconds.<br />
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Being rendered essentially immobile by the breaks in his leg, Kendal has been reliant on others to cook meals for him; in particular, Jen. Though I know he is grateful for every bite (he has an unparalleled gift of gratitude), I also know it can be tiring to be the person stuck cooking and cleaning every day.<br />
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It was Jeremiah's idea to pack up our abundance of soup to The Keep, where Kendal and some other friends live. We had enough to feed all four friends who were home. And thankfully, they ate the chocolate cake we brought over too.<br />
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While they ate, we shared stories from our Thanksgivings. I found my mind wandering, taking note of the number of doorways and people in sight, again wondering what I'd do if there were an earthquake. My thoughts were jolted back to the present when Kendal began to catch us up on the state of his leg. He'd just gotten X-rays and a new cast, so we were eager to hear of his progress.<br />
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Turned out, there had been no progress.<br />
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Not slight progress. Not mediocre progress.<br />
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None.<br />
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Despite all the healing I could have sworn Jesus and I were giving, after a solid month of rest and immobility, there was no visible improvement to speak of. His leg was exactly the same.<br />
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I knew what I had to do.<br />
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Jeremiah is a musician. Most often, he plays the guitar.<br />
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For a year, he was the guitarist and vocalist for a band called Simon the Leper. We lived in The Yellow House with Simon the Leper's drummer, Jared Bugg. The band practiced in the basement of The Yellow House, and even recorded an EP there.<br />
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Simon the Leper broke up last spring. For nearly nine months, Jeremiah has been stuck playing guitar alone in our apartment, amp turned low as possible. As of November, Jeremiah was invited into two bands almost simultaneously. In one, he plays bass. In the other, guitar.<br />
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The bands have been progressing in parallel since their respective inceptions. Both began practicing the same week. Both named themselves during their third practice.<br />
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One of those bands, "A Friend," was formed by Jared Bugg. They practice in the basement of The Yellow House, where the drummer now lives. A Friend had their first show December 17. They played at Le Voyeur, a restaurant and bar in Olympia where Simon the Leper played countless times.<br />
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Le Voyeur is kind of a dive, though they have surprisingly delicious food and an excellent beer selection. We like the venue in part because the shows happen in back, and Le Voyeur patrons can choose to come watch rather than be bombarded with something they're not in to. Also, shows there are both all ages and free.<br />
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At least, every one of the dozens of times I've been there before to watch my husband and friends play a show, it's been free.<br />
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Thirty seconds into The Chariot's set, while I stood at center stage close enough to touch their vocalist, Josh, I had an anxiety attack. Overwhelmed, I tried to shove my way out of the pit but was unable to budge an inch in any direction. I turned to Jeremiah in a panic. His first instinct was to boost me onto the crowd so I could surf out. He was nearly trampled in the process, though. Instead, he shoved backward through the sea of thrashing kids and pulled me to a place I felt safe. </div>
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From our safe place, we could hardly see what was happening on stage. We were separated from the worship we'd been craving, like wine-os with a new bottle and no corkscrew. </div>
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We went to our car for a smoke, trying to tell ourselves we were still part of the show... We could hear the band loud and clear anyway...</div>
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When we went back into the venue, I stood at the back of the crowd, well outside the mosh pit. Jeremiah made it to the front again, crowd surfing and thrashing to the end. </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/VFubTufiJrY?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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My imagined earthquake returned. Do I run outside, risking getting trampled in the herd of people and crushed as the building falls? Do I find a doorway? There aren't enough doorways for us all...</div>
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"We don't do encores," Josh was explaining, desperation in his voice. An hour long punk metal set is no easy feat. "We love you guys so much, I hope this song does it for ya..." </div>
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And the encore dropped. </div>
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I stood behind a girl sporting "666" and upside down crosses on every surface of clothing from socks to jacket, watching the worshipers with her. As I stared at the anti-Christian logos on her back, wondering if she knew who we were worshipping, finally I found myself singing along. Finally, my legs stopped shaking and my ragged breath steadied. For a fleeting moment, I was part of the Church. </div>
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In the heat of the moment, I was thoroughly disappointed. Here was one of my dearest friends sitting before me totally unhealed, despite our shared and fervent belief that Jesus is our healer.<br />
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Recently, my sister Brittany described a meditation class she took. "Our teacher told us to clear our minds," she said. "Whenever a thought comes, let it drift away like a balloon." That's what I did with my doubts. Whenever one entered my mind, I simply let it drift away.<br />
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When the meal was over, I made my move. I scooted over by Kendal and placed my hand on his leg. The moment I did, nerves in his thigh started twitching violently. The nerves had been pinched off before his surgery to eliminate feeling in his leg. I moved my hand away, the twitching slowed. I moved my hand closer, the twitching increased.<br />
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I kept my eyes focused on Jesus and my hands on Kendal's leg for several minutes. When I spoke, it was in tongues. Sometimes I hummed, or blew air onto his cast. When Jen came in, Kendal explained what was happening. We began talking about healing and various methods people utilize to release the body's inner-healing power. From Reiki to hypnotism we let our conversation wander, while we soaked in the healing presence of Jesus.<br />
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This time, as I made my way to the door, I noticed a boy sitting on a stool, stamping a friend of mine as she walked by. When I walked up, his expectant stare made me pause. "Hi," I said. "What are you doing?"<br />
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"Taking money for the show. Do you want to go in?" He asked.<br />
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"What's the cover?"<br />
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"Six dollars."<br />
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"Six dollars? To see my own husband play a show? I don't know, maybe I'll just sit at the bar..."<br />
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"You could buy a t-shirt instead. They're twelve dollars, and you get into the show for free."<br />
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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/AVvXsEia477Otb7LX_ixwjqcfUOx185OQVKtpmA141Alk5eq-0o7saezkGsCX7iw1TmR1XfhKNjdcK9yoGtIfGIZtkN9bG4GTeDdCRLoK9TezDqKbBlKgrI1sxfS6kyJ-HY2EFBzx-ykYx5YvuYF/s1600/HappyBoys_+Dec27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia477Otb7LX_ixwjqcfUOx185OQVKtpmA141Alk5eq-0o7saezkGsCX7iw1TmR1XfhKNjdcK9yoGtIfGIZtkN9bG4GTeDdCRLoK9TezDqKbBlKgrI1sxfS6kyJ-HY2EFBzx-ykYx5YvuYF/s320/HappyBoys_+Dec27.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">A Friend at Le Voyeur, Dec 17<br />
<i>Photo By: Claire Sorrell</i></td></tr>
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There was something familiar about this situation. My knee-jerk, annoyed reaction was to simply leave. But I heard a voice within me say, <i>There's something here worth witnessing,</i> and I was reminded of a dream I had (<a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/b/post-preview?token=_308N0MBAAA.RKvZahDmxe8xaxkh9WglyQ.ICKujHBCCEjMIOCrV-8dFw&postId=4475556295022096893&type=POST" target="_blank">Part 2</a>). Reluctantly, I paid the boy and let him stamp me.<br />
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I went back to the show, where A Friend was warming up. As soon as they started playing, the injustice of a cover charge for a show at Le Voyeur was forgotten. The band's short but sweet set reminded me of Listener and Me Without You, with a splash of The Chariot for good measure. Delicious.<br />
<br />
Behind me, a small crowd was gathered. More people than I've ever seen at one of my husband's shows. And they were thoroughly engaged in the performance. A beautiful sight.<br />
<br />
For a moment, I started thinking about earthquakes again. But by now, I'd become practiced at releasing such thoughts like balloons.<br />
<br />
The third song in the set, though, filled all my released balloons with water and dropped them on my head. "This one's called 'Earthquakes and Doorways,'" Jared Bugg said.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
During The Chariot's encore, Jeremiah noticed the sound guy recording video of the crowd on his phone. When the <i>sound guy</i> is taking video, you know the show is off the wall.<br />
<br />
After the set, Jeremiah struck up a conversation with Sound Guy. Studio Seven has a strict "No Stage Dives" rule, Sound Guy explained. But they make an exception during The Chariot shows. "The Chariot's pit moves as a unit," he said. "They look out for each other. I've never seen another crowd like it." </div>
<div>
<br />
---<br />
<br />
As Jared spoke "Earthquakes and Doorways" over the rhythmic noises of a guitarist and drummer who are madly in love, I was reminded of a post a friend wrote on his blog, <i><a href="http://www.pilgrimgram.com/" target="_blank">The Pilgrimgram</a>. </i>In the post, <a href="http://www.pilgrimgram.com/2013/11/whole-lotta-shaking-going-on.html" target="_blank">"Whole Lotta Shaking Going On,"</a> my friend wrote "...If you're following God, you're either being shaken or about to be shaken. It's for your good, it's to make you more like Him. Don't freak out when it happens...."<br />
<br />
As the song progressed, I heard Jared not only describing the visions I'd been having, but interpreting them as well. In that moment, I knew the imaginative images of earthquakes I'd thought needed suppressed, were indeed visions from Dad that needed interpreted.<br />
<br />
Several folks have messaged me to help me interpret the dreams I shared in <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/b/post-preview?token=_308N0MBAAA.RKvZahDmxe8xaxkh9WglyQ.ICKujHBCCEjMIOCrV-8dFw&postId=4475556295022096893&type=POST" target="_blank">Part 2</a> (thank you!). Every interpretation has resonated with truth, and I've experienced that truth in my day-to-day. In this story, I'm brought back to a message from a woman I know only through Facebook. She interpreted both dreams beautifully for me:<br />
<br />
In response to the first dream, she wrote, "Rhinos are usually a symbol for God. Your perception is that He may be there to do damage when all He wants is to clean up (purify) what's old and stale...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The second dream, your father is God. The Coach is Holy Spirit. You are on a team with other believers. You are not alone. It is true we have the choice to choose or not to choose Holy Spirit's leading. There's no gray area. We do or we don't. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
You huff off but realize that maybe that's not the best choice and come back. Nobody else is interpreting the coach's speech like you are. So, you decide to listen. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I think Papa has some areas in which he wants to change your perception. And that is between you and Him."</blockquote>
---<br />
<br />
<i>We've reached the capacity of what I'm willing to cram into one blog post. If you're being shaken, you're not alone. We're shaking and growing together. It's for your good, don't freak out. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Stay tuned, it's all coming together I just know it. </i><br />
<br />
<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-1.html" target="_blank">Part 1</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-2.html" target="_blank">Part 2</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hits-of-failure-part-3.html" target="_blank">Part 3</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-35.html" target="_blank">Part 3.5</a></b><br />
<i><br /></i>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-79058481113136278852013-12-09T11:40:00.000-08:002013-12-09T11:45:36.500-08:00Hints of Failure Part 3.5If you haven't read them yet, catch on up with<i> <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-1.html" target="_blank">Part 1,</a> <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-2.html" target="_blank">Part 2</a>, </i>and <i><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hits-of-failure-part-3.html" target="_blank">Part 3</a>.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<h3>
Part 3.5: The Knees <i>Continued</i></h3>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">On the second day of the tournament, </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">I watched my sister's team win another game. While them play, stepping periodically into the spirit to make the blanket of clouds recede, I noticed five or six girls with knee braces either playing, warming up, or watching. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I reflected on my own knee injuries. I thought about the first time my friends and I laid hands and witnessed healing - an ACL.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>I want to heal every knee I touch</i>, I thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>Then you’d better start touching knees, </i>Dad replied. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">Just then, as if cued by a script I wasn't given, a girl entered the gym on crutches witha familiar looking brace on her knee. She wore the colors of Blue Mountain Community College - a team well favored to win the tournament (and did, in fact, go on to do so).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">Blue Mountain was cheering for Spokane from the sidelines, shouting in support of Eastern WA. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The girl on crutches sat down several rows in front of me, surrounded by a boy and friends and parents.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>You'd better start touching knees...</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.mashedpotatoesandcrafts.com/2012/08/reparing-broken-fruit-tree-or-peach.html" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWL3eA524CXdokr-iUBQblKYWi4A9MmukqVHvd9ohUmpCLO7gipM0LoESxScFtd7orPREtQwYQzss9KW55qloecUus-Cdi60R-lzA0EWJHHWv1Z4tFSZfv4x2dF4ozxjHXW9obFx0NGrQh/s1600/peachbranch_dec9.JPG" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">After Brittany’s team won, and before I said my goodbyes, I pulled Brittany aside. “Let’s go lay hands on that girl with the crutches,” I said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“That is the coach of Blue Mountain’s daughter,” she said. Apparently this was reason to shy away from appearing crazy in front of her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“Do you know if she tore he ACL?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“Yeah, she did. A week ago. And she’s still on crutches. Isn’t that weird?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“Did your doctor give you crutches?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“No, he told me not to baby it.” We laughed, and I made my way to the girl on crutches. By now, Blue Mountain was on their own court warming up. The girl was standing near the bleachers, bearing no weight on her left, braced leg, still surrounded by a gaggle of people. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">I put my hand on her should to get her attention and said hello, trying to look friendly. “What happened to your knee?” I asked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">She smiled, trying to act like she knew me, because I was acting like I knew her. “Tore more ACL right in half,” she said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“So do you play for Blue Mountain?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">She didn’t, she explained, but helps her dad. She tore her ACL hitting with the team during practice. While we talked, none of the surrounding gaggle paid us any attention. They turned to each other and let the girl on crutches talk with this other girl no one knew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“We don’t know each other,” I said brightly. For a moment, relief replaced the girl’s well-masked confusion. The confusion returned quickly, though, when she realized that didn’t explain why we were talking. “I’m Kaylani, I played for your assistant coach in high school. My sister plays for Spokane. I actually need practice healing knees, oddly enough. My sister tore her ACL too, and I’ve done damage to my own. Do you want some healing?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">Her smile never flickered, but the idea that I was crazy was clearly settling in. “I can’t walk or do anything until next week when I go back to the doctor,” she hastily explained, turning back toward her gaggle of followers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“I’m not asking you to do anything with your knee. You don’t have to move at all. I’m just going to heal you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">She turned back to me, still smiling. “I’ve got to go sit with the team soon, maybe I'll hit you up after the game.” Again, she turned away toward the people ignoring us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://eatdrinkbetter.com/2009/04/15/planting-peach-trees-for-consecutive-harvests/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipu3v93WYw0BAej2jK2tbmjwdAd4fkg7esr_9TtM-HWbdtmz4vstt-_7sUJFR9DzSrKAkxJ8Vuk8TXlWqHxzsrCmQzItKz3vP7PVgns2u6vhe8X6w6369VGmN7B82u_JGALpBZ00-ajjZh/s320/peach-tree_dec9.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">For a split second, images from a dream about a rhino and a peach tree streamed through my mind (readable in <i><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-2.html" target="_blank">Part 2</a></i>). I saw myself bowing to the stubborn, immovable rhino who threatened to keep me from my fruit. I responded to the rhino with the opposite spirit - a spirit of gracious welcome - and subsequently we ate the fruit together. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>Jesus, I want to respond in the opposite spirit,</i> I thought. When I spoke, redrawing her attention, she seemed honestly surprised I was still talking. “Sorry what?” she said, half way through my statement. </span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“It’s healing, not surgery. We don’t need more than thirty seconds. Is your healing worth your thirty seconds of your time?”</span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">She sighed. “Well, what does that mean?”</span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“What? Healing?”</span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“Yeah, healing. That’s pretty vague.”</span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">At this point, I understood I wasn’t in Olympia any more. In Olympia, the word “healing” doesn’t confuse people. Everyone is familiar with the concept to some extent, be it Reiki, crystals, magic stones, kombucha, hydrogen peroxide, what have you. <i>You’re a healer, I need healed. You’re going to do something that makes me feel better.</i> It’s not talk of healing that causes people to shy away from me, but talk of Jesus. Not the case in Eastern Washington, I was now recalling. The difference between Eastern and Western WA are as drastic as the difference between a rainforest and a desert (literally). </span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I paused, looked her in the eye, and took a deep breath before continuing. Usually, I’d have given up by now and walked away before things got any more awkward. But I was feeling more bold than usual, and less willing to be taken lightly be someone who didn’t seem willing to engage in anything more than a surface level conversation with me. If I could talk a </span>rhinoceros<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> into sharing peaches with me, I could talk this girl into sharing the fruit of Jesus with me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“Jesus of the Bible,” I began, “Healed every person he came upon. Sick, injured, demon possessed - it didn’t matter. He healed them. Even in his own home town, where disbelief was so heavy he couldn’t work any </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;">other</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> miracles, he healed. </span></span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“He then told his disciples and followers, all the authority and power I have is yours. And he commanded them to go out and heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the leper, and cast out demons. Once he was raised from the dead, he reiterated - go do the things I’ve commanded.</span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“So, I, being a follower of Jesus, heal people. Because that’s what he demonstrated, and commanded we do.” </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(See </span><a href="http://www.blueletterbible.org/Bible.cfm?b=Mat&c=10&t=KJV" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Matthew 10</a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, and</span><a href="http://www.blueletterbible.org/Bible.cfm?b=Mat&c=28&t=KJV" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank"> 28:17-20</a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">)</span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">She nodded and smiled, and to her credit, didn’t roll her eyes. “So you’re going to bless me,” she explained to me. </span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://brightnessofyourdawn.blogspot.com/2011_06_01_archive.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXLokN6wm5MqXHkcnkn1IqWvlSB4B2n7Pox1VwqyOpOqu5R608l6ENt7Qe-Ip7tOy7Jeu4sa60_bFcjblCmWJwpUoP0XsDaooA0OXFBCjJqfUXu50jVrGFQKbWroXJo1UxP4UwVNKQu8Z/s320/PeachTree_Dec+9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">And whatever I'd learned from the rhino dream escaped me. My mind was fried, and I was wondering how to get out of the situation. “Girl, I’m going to bless the shit out of you and you’re going to be healed.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">Blunt, but not ineffective. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">“Ok let’s do it. Go ahead,” the girl said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">Rather than press the issue further and ask to place my hand on her knee, I simply put a hand on her shoulder. She bowed her head respectfully. While I waited to hear what words God would have me speak, she grew restless. My thirty seconds were dwindling. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">Before I heard a whisper from Dad, I decided to make some frantic declarations of my own about Jesus’s authority, release some peace and confidence, say ‘In Jesus Name’ for good measure, and hope that despite my hollow words, Holy Spirit would flow through my hand anyway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">I paused once more, hoping to actually hear God speak, but the girl on crutches took that for the end. She looked up, smiled, thanked me. Without asking if she felt better, I simply thanked her in return and left. </span></div>
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">After hugging Brittany and my parents, assuring them we weren’t done with Brittany’s healing, I left for home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Whatever confidence I </span>possessed<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">, was mine no longer. Where was that random stranger to gasp, "Wow! You are so sexy!" when I needed it? </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-67830097823237852802013-12-08T12:11:00.002-08:002017-10-30T15:50:12.930-07:00Hints of Failure Part 3<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Two posts by Praying Medic convinced me to write <i>Hints of Failure</i>: <i><a href="http://prayingmedic.com/2013/11/29/bell-rock-revisited/" target="_blank">Bell Rock - Revisited </a> </i> and <i><a href="http://prayingmedic.com/2013/12/02/bell-rock-healing-at-the-circle-k/" target="_blank">Bell Rock - Healing at the Circle K</a>. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I read these posts while sitting at <i>Barnes & Noble</i> trying to write something for <i>The Daily Heretic </i>that didn't have anything to do with the stories in this series. In <i>Revisited, </i>Praying Medic wrote: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"As soon as I began speaking, I sensed a strong presence of God's glory being released. I saw a think cover of dark clouds in the spirit that were pierced by a shaft of light. An opening appeared in the clouds that gave way to a small hole of blue sky overhead..." </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This was the first parallel with my own story that caught my attention. In </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Healing at Circle K, </i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">he wrote: ..."I explained all this to the lady behind the counter and we started talking about chronic pain. Like the pain she has in her knee. (Cue spooky music)."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I read this, I said "Woah! Oh my God!" rather louder than people sitting alone with headphones should speak in public. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Before I had a chance to glance around embarrassedly to see if anyone noticed, Dad took me back to a dream. I was walking out on my coach and team. Flipping the lights off behind me. But my Dad wasn't following like I'd expected. <i>You will experience the urge to abandon something I'm not ready to move on from. There's something of value here...</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The <i>Hints of Failure</i> series is being written because I read Praying Medic's stories; they broke down walls that were preventing me from listening to God.<i> </i>I'm not sure where the stories are going - I've not seen their ends yet. But maybe they'll break down some more walls, and we'll walk away more intimate with our Father. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My sister, Brittany, is a sophomore at Spokane Falls Community College (SFCC) and plays libero for their volleyball team. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">She’s really freakin’ good. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">Named regional defensive player of the week three times this season, and voted first team all conference libero and, she helped lead her team to the <a href="http://nwaacc.org/volleyball/index.php" target="_blank">North West Athletic Association of Community Colleges</a> (NWAACCs) tournament. (*<i>This just in: She was voted MVP and broke her school's record for digs in a season. Bad ass!)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">The top four teams from each region met in Gresham, OR, November 21 to 24, to vie for the coveted NWAACC championship title. On the last day of the tournament, players from across the region named 1st or 2nd team all conference joined to play the “All Star” exhibition game. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brittany and our Dad at NWAACCs</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Brittany’s team played their last game of the season about a week before NWAACCs in Walla Walla on November 13. I stayed near my phone, expecting text updates on how the team was doing. Her team handily beat Walla Walla the first game of the match, and Brittany was playing great. <br />
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The second update read simply “Brittany hurt her knee.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Immediately, I remembered her senior year of high school, when she tore her left ACL and meniscus mid-way through the season. “Was it her ACL? Which knee? Is she OK?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Not sure,” the text replied. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As with my friend Kendal in <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-1.html" target="_blank">Part 1</a>, I was stuck. I had no way of reaching Brittany and laying hands. So, with one successful spirit travel under my belt, I sat on my bed cross legged once again and asked Dad to take me to her. Again, the craving hit and I knew to put my hands on my right knee. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A few days later, an MRI confirmed Brittany’s ACL (her right one) was torn.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For those new to <i>The Daily Heretic, </i>let me catch you up on some knee stats: I've torn my own ACL twice playing volleyball. First, my freshman year of college. Again, five years later last Spring.<a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/06/new-roads-part-2.html" target="_blank"> (Here's a blog post about it.)</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Many friends have suggested, <i>perhaps you guys should stop playing volleyball. </i>I must say, this is a rational thought. But when you're really good at something you love, something you've dedicated years to practicing, the thought of quitting is gut wrenching to say the least. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Until recently, when people asked me about myself, I'd say "I'm a volleyball player." That stopped when it occurred to me, I'm only a volleyball player as long as I'm playing volleyball. This forced me to ask myself, when I can't play volleyball, who am I? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The shift from temporary identity to eternal identity is earth shaking. The shift from <i>volleyball player </i>to healer, apostle, giver, lover, bride... it hasn't been easy for me. Even though these eternal, Christ decreed identities are indescribably <i>better</i>, I couldn't have been convinced until I experienced them myself. In fact, there comes a point in every day I need to be re-convinced.</span><br />
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Just before Thanksgiving, my parents and I drove to Gresham, OR, where we met with Brittany and her team to watch NWAACCs. Several parents shook hands with mine and shared dismay at Brittany’s injury. I listened while they reminisced about the work and dedication she committed to her team and sport. I watched Brittany take stats on the bench while a younger girl played her position. <br />
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Her team lost their first match, but rallied to win their second and play another day. I wrote about the last tournament I went to in <i><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/10/living-dream-part-1.html" target="_blank">Living The Dream Part 1</a></i>. I didn’t really enjoy the experience, I must say. The spiritual climate of the gym was thick with judgement, condemnation, oppression, and I didn’t know how to respond. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">During SFCC’s second game, I began to notice the same oppressive spirits in the air. This time, however, I noticed I was affecting the climate, opposed to the climate affecting me. I watched the girls from each team being attacked with fear and doubt as they went back to serve. Mistake after mistake I saw caused not by lack of skill, but by spirit attacks on identity and worth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I closed my eyes and quietly began to hum. God showed me a blanket of dark, thick clouds over the volleyball court. I opened my eyes to watch the game, still humming. My physical eyes saw no clouds, but they remained in the space at the front of my mind where images in my imagination are played. <br />
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While humming, watching the girls play beneath the inky clouds, I asked God to cleanse me of bias. This was likely made easier with Brittany not playing. I wanted the teams to play and win based on their own skill and effort, with no impact from the spirit realm. That included me uplifting one team while down-casting the other.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I began to speak in tongues. Usually, I’m hesitant and embarrassed doing this in public, but it was a crowded, rowdy, echoing gym. No one noticed. As I spoke, words and declarations streamed through my mind. I think - this has only recently begun happening and I haven’t explored it or talked to anyone with experience yet - God was interpreting the language I was uttering. <br />
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I released life and joy, casted out fear and condemnation, commanded angels to show demons the exit. While this was happening, I closed my eyes once again. I watched as a tear ripped through the cloud blanket and a beam of light streamed through. The rip grew into a large hole, bursting with light. The blanket lifted and thinned. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As I continued to watch the game, both teams seemed to shed a weight they didn’t realize they carried. Brittany’s team won, but it was no easy task. Each point </span>was a<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> battle, and each team experienced joys and successes that gave them hope to win. Throughout the game, I’d stop praying and simply watched. Periodically, the image of clouds returned. The clouds would sink back down, thickening and contracting the light. I simply remembered the burst of light and the angels I’d set to work, and immediately the clouds shrank back and the light increased. </span></span></div>
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Between games and whenever we had a spare moment, I laid hands on Brittany’s knee. We talked about who Jesus is and what that means about who we are. About all the healing he demonstrated, and the authority and power he released over us to do the same and more. We talked about the Holy Spirt. “You know, you are mighty. The same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you,” I told her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“He does?” She asked wonderingly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now, my sisters (Brittany’s a twin!), went to Young Life for years, and several youth groups to boot. “No one’s told you that?” I asked, incredulous. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">She smiled and laughed, shaking her head. “No one told me!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Though we were persistent, Brittany felt nothing happen in her knee. Unlike Kendal, she felt no tingling or warmth or swimming blood. Swelling didn’t decrease, range of motion didn’t improve, and her pain level remained the same. <br />
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“I’m going to keep hoping,” I told her. “I want you to do the same. Hope to be healed by the end of the tournament. Hope to play in the all star game. Hope that you will get a new ACL without having surgery. There’s no such thing as getting your hopes up. We can’t out-hope God.”</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-44755562950220968932013-12-07T14:13:00.001-08:002013-12-27T11:25:38.081-08:00Hints of Failure Part 2<br />
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Part 2: The Dreams </h3>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Halloween was a day of breakthrough. November has been a month riding that breakthrough's wave. These dreams have been teaching and influencing me throughout the ride; I've been reminded and re-taught about them daily.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Dream 1</b></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was part of a group of ragged looking friends, walking through an abandoned city not unlike Olympia. We walked to the edge of the city and beyond, to an empty field surrounded by a sagging, dilapidated fence. We climbed the fence, and I noticed a single wire strung across the top. I explained to the others in my group that in days past, a painful force called electricity flowed through this wire, preventing animals from climbing over by shocking them.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When we crossed over the fence, the world changed. From outside the fence, an empty field. From inside, the same field. Empty, but for a single gnarled peach tree overladen with ripe fruit. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We walked cautiously across the field toward the tree. The weight of the peaches bowed the tree’s branches toward the earth. The fruit was beautiful; oranges and pinks intensified against the stark, drab landscape and dull sky. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I want to eat one of those peaches. </i>The thought struck me before I had a chance to question it. Suddenly, I knew only one thing about myself and the world around me. I knew I was going to eat a peach. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My group stopped to stare at the tree with me. As though we shared the same sudden onslaught of knowledge, we lurched toward the tree together. While the others made for the tree itself and climbed into its branches in pursuit of their treasure, I found a branch so heavy with fruit it had cracked and looked close to breaking. I gave it a tug, and it came crashing down. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The peaches, which had looked so perfect from just a short distance away, were mostly all over-ripe and decaying. A sharp smell hung heavy in the air - fermenting fruit piled at the base of the tree. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was alone now. Just me and my peaches. I scanned my peach cornucopia for an unblemished fruit. There were dozens and dozens more to choose from; I felt sure the odds were in my favor. The moment my eyes locked onto a pristine peach larger than my two fists combined, I heard footsteps behind me. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I turned around disappointed, expecting to see one of the friends I’d come with. I wanted this peach to myself. Desperately, I didn’t want to share it. </span><br />
<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="http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/extinction-countdown/2009/07/13/rhino-poaching-approaches-15-year-high/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBVTj-UNqwvBx31l8wfsTAvXd2w4P3VX654vWa1sF_5ksxc-6Rk7KEmHWf6pmbgWuRfE8ZLRYSf13M-N_uXvX8OBEnxv4jspfIa38cvzFSLNRfjpzV3mcXwcMgturb-r2QzSVvyYiLc2n/s320/white_rhino.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from <i>Scientific American</i></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Instead of my friend, I found myself face to face with a rhinoceros. “Give me your lunch money, kid” he seemed to say, large black eyes and menacing horn only inches from my face. I could feel the rhino’s breath mussing up my hair, stinging my eyes. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Frozen, I knew I had only one chance to respond without getting trampled. The rhino stamped his foot, losing patience. Before I decided what to do, I found myself bowing slightly and opening my arms toward the fallen branch. Where I’d felt only selfish desire to consume peaches moments before, I now felt the warmth of gracious welcoming. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Please, eat all you like. There is plenty,” I told the rhino. He exhaled, nodded his head, and stepped forward. I remained still until he rifled through the leaves and took his first bite. Unbiased, the rhino ate the peaches whether rotting or damaged. I plucked up the prized, perfect peach I found before and bit in. Juice sloshed down my chin and arms; relief and calm washed over me. Not only was the rhino not going to kill me, something told me he’d protect me from here on out.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>**</b><i><b>edit: </b>It was brought to my attention I had this dream Oct 29, and shared it the 30th, on a Facebook page called </i>Dream & Vision Interpretation. <i>I had totally forgotten. If you can, check the page out. It's great. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/297933646988911/" target="_blank">Here's what I shared there </a>(I'd also forgotten about the first part of the dream!):</i></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">I had a dream... long story short, two images stuck I'd like to throw at you for some feedback:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">1) A weather map on TV of the Pacific North West, being described by the weather lady. The map was covered in white swirling storm systems. Solid white, unmoving portions of the map indicated avalanche warnings. Areas with high likelihood of the most severe avalanche were shaded deep blue. Those areas included Olympia, up through Tacoma, and over to Leavenworth. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">2) In a group of four or five people my age, exploring an abandoned city. We hopped a fence and found a peach tree. Large, very ripe peaches, though many were bruised and we couldn't eat them. Just as I though, what could go wrong, a huge rhinoceros walks up to me. I felt like he was threatening to steal my lunch money or beat me up. So I said, have all the peaches you want, and that seemed to please him. We all ate together. </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">
---</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Dream 2</b></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I found myself a member of my sister Brittany’s volleyball team. We sat gathered on couches in the team room, facing my sister’s coach. In a corner behind Coach, my dad stood watching silently. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“This is not a democracy,” I heard Coach saying. “My decision aren’t up for debate. If you have a problem with that, there’s the door.”</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I had a problem with that. For a few seconds I hesitated, hoping I wasn’t alone. But no one else moved or spoke. I stood and looked my coach in the eye, hoping she’d try and stop me. When she didn’t I walked out, turning the lights off behind me. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A few paces out the door, I paused. I’d expected my dad to follow me. I turned around, waited. When it was clear he wasn’t coming, I knew I had to go back. I returned and noticed the lights were on. My dad was still in the corner, arms crossed, silent. <i>There is something here worth witnessing</i>, I heard.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Before sitting, I apologized to my team and coach, trying to explain why I felt strongly enough to leave. “I can’t be part of this. It’s not right...” They listened politely, nodded with understanding, and said nothing to refute or encourage me. Deflated, I sat down, resolved to remain with my team despite the irrefutable objections that compelled me to leave. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As Coach resumed her speech, I looked up to my dad in the corner behind her. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Simultaneously, my alarm went off and woke me up. When I woke, two statements rang in my mind: 1) You’re a light in dark places; retracting light isn’t your assignment. 2) You will experience the urge to abandon something I’m not ready to move on from.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">---</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I'll be interpreting the dreams as the series continues. Until then, feel free to use them for your own dream interpretation practice if you like! As always, thoughts, comments, and dream interpretations are welcome.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-48454716920832198932013-12-06T14:03:00.003-08:002013-12-09T10:24:47.902-08:00Hints of Failure Part 1<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’ve been holding back a series of stories from this blog. The response to my last post, </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/11/divine-dice.html" target="_blank">Divine Dice</a></i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">, has influenced this reluctance. I’m not proud of this, but it’s true. If you’re reading this post, you are one of not very many. The majority of my posts acquire about 60 views. Two of my most read posts maxed out around 400 views. </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Divine Dice</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> is at 1020 and counting. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">In part, the conversations surrounding </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Divine Dice</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> directly questioned my salvation. "She's deceived and deceiving," many cried. At first, the series of failures I've yet to share left me feeling particularly vulnerable - not a feeling I'm familiar with. Part of me didn't want to share anything to validate those who sought to undermine the validity of my life. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">In response to the religious minded who wanted to correct me, people I know and look up to spoke solidarity and life over me. My fear of vulnerability was a flimsy one, and soon I found it couldn't hold up to the sheer force of identity confirming love Dad made sure was heaped upon me from every angle of my life. From friends to teachers to strangers, the encouragement was almost overwhelming. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">One day, after visiting my friend at our mall's M.A.C. counter and walking away sporting new red lipstick, a passing stranger stared until I'd nearly walked past. "Wow! You are so sexy!" She gasped. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I'm telling you, there was no area of my life and identity flaming arrows of encouragement didn't pierce. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I write when God speaks. That isn’t to say you should believe everything I write. Or that every word I write was spoken by God. But I’ve found that writing of my own accord is tedious and draining. When I simply write in response to what Dad and I are talking about, the experience is life-giving and invigorating. I’ve started several posts only to find my mind immediately drained of thought and the act of typing like shoving bamboo shoots up my nails. Thus, I’ve only typed a few paragraphs before stopping. </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The stories I’ve been evading pick up right where<i> Divine Dice</i> left off: Halloween. After each experience, I thought to myself<i> - definitely won't be writing </i>that <i>one up on the blog. </i>I've had some time to reflect and distance myself from the stings of failure (at least, what felt like failure). </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Dad made sure my fear of vulnerability was taken care of, and gave me a desire to write. </span>He isn't done talking about these failures of mine. <span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So, if I want to write, I'll have to write about them.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I needed the failures in order to recognize and receive the successes and revelations I'm seeing today. Likewise, anyone reading</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The Daily Heretic</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> is going to need the same full picture.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">This is no quick bandaid removal. Once I started writing, it was immediately clear this is going to take too many words for one post. Stick with me, and by the end of this series, we'll be... </span><br />
<br />
Somewhere.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<h3>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Part 1: The Leg</span></h3>
<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/AVvXsEg3zbSHEkMl4ARljhbkeurlqh7AEgrOwsWuFg_RxXvdftFcOA5UEfiMfOgb3uAeCmFb4aQgS2cmEFEPniNxZVV-hp12bzxxgjLrh67cVwfN5YjrJJshX2kGfGzuIOmGs7Rh0lNPJ3WiJg6Y/s1600/theleg2_dec6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3zbSHEkMl4ARljhbkeurlqh7AEgrOwsWuFg_RxXvdftFcOA5UEfiMfOgb3uAeCmFb4aQgS2cmEFEPniNxZVV-hp12bzxxgjLrh67cVwfN5YjrJJshX2kGfGzuIOmGs7Rh0lNPJ3WiJg6Y/s320/theleg2_dec6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post surgery x-ray. November 27. <i>Photo by: Jen</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After work on Halloween, I joined my husband Jeremiah and friend Claire to visit our friends Kendal and Jen. About two weeks before Halloween, Kendal broke his leg. Having a broken leg can be terribly boring and depressing; we hoped the company of friends in costume might help alleviate the monotony. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Jen’s small living room had one couch, taken over by Kendal and his casted leg. The rest of us gathered around on chairs and the floor, chatting and laughing into the late evening. We enjoyed beer carried in from our favorite pub, and several varieties of chocolate and things covered in chocolate. It was in the midst of this merry, jovial room that I laid hands on Kendal for the third time since the break. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The first time, I laid hands in the Spirit. Kendal texted me from the hospital, and I was stuck home without a car. I was frantic and frustrated, itching to lay hands but stuck twiddling my thumbs. I began to pray, and Dad reminded me of a<a href="http://prayingmedic.com/2013/10/27/3977/" target="_blank"> post Praying Medic shared on Facebook</a>, along with all the podcasts I’ve listened to <a href="http://www.sonofthunder.org/" target="_blank">Ian Clayton</a> talk about spirit travel. Suddenly, I realized this was an opportunity for experience, and my frustration shifted into determination. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I sat on my bed cross legged, closed my eyes, and asked Dad to take me to Kendal. It didn’t seem like anything happened, but I decided to lay hands on my own leg and believe it was Kendal’s. I checked the text again. “Hey sis, I broke my leg. At the hospital. Thought you’d want to know.” Surely enough, the text gave me no information about where the leg was broken or where to put my hands. So I closed my eyes again, asked Dad to take me to Kendal and show me where to lay my hands. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Still, I seemed to be sitting on my bed nowhere near Kendal. But I felt a deep, intensifying longing lay my hands on my right leg. I put one hand just below my knee, the other a few inches above my ankle. After a few minutes of praying in tongues, I paused. “Is this right, Dad?” I tried moving my hands to my left leg, but swiftly felt as though I’d eaten over cooked spinach. I spit it out and moved back to my right leg with visceral relief. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After a few moments, I wanted to touch my ankle, too. Perhaps <i>craved</i> would be more accurate than <i>wanted. </i>The craving started in my diaphragm and filled me until my fingers were twitchy and I couldn’t ignore it. Much the way I imagine an addict feels when craving cigarettes or coffee. I moved a hand to my ankle, and the craving was again relieved. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">About a week later, I saw Kendal for the first time since the break. He was rather drugged up and couldn’t drink alcohol, but desperately needed out of his house. He shot Jeremiah a text, and we met him at our favorite pub. He showed up wheelchair bound, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and boredom (and oxycotin). Jen relayed the details of the freak accident, while Kendal tried to focus and chimed in here and there. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As Jen explained, it was early and dark in the morning when Kendal was dropping her off at her apartment. He stepped out of his car and down from the curb, onto a tiny skateboard hidden in the curb’s shadow. He twisted and fell, spiral fracturing his lower right leg in two places and chipping off a piece of his ankle. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcovIh7Qq_ImngiuQoDo22lee3GOhWCIbNyzrH_dqIeN-AZtbelAf_rVcCbk23Y0JfMYB_EM-qD__FYCqJaDzsZGzAMgKzxHRbxlv6bBdYd2ZvJF2hm0WIol9G-BX27XxsHHdkxz8fuLAo/s1600/theleg_dec6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcovIh7Qq_ImngiuQoDo22lee3GOhWCIbNyzrH_dqIeN-AZtbelAf_rVcCbk23Y0JfMYB_EM-qD__FYCqJaDzsZGzAMgKzxHRbxlv6bBdYd2ZvJF2hm0WIol9G-BX27XxsHHdkxz8fuLAo/s320/theleg_dec6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kendal's cast. November 2. <i>Photo by: Jen</i></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">While we talked, I pulled up a chair next to Kendal’s leg. Though dismayed at the extent of damage my friend experienced, I was encouraged to hear my attempted spirit travel confirmed. I laid hands a second time there in the pub, feeling confident that Jesus was working through me. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At the pub, Kendal hugged me and thanked me for the healing, though he didn’t mention feeling anything, let alone feeling better. I informed him I’d be laying hands every time I saw him. On Halloween, dressed as Professor Trelawney, I took action out of commitment rather than confidence. Kendal and I were surrounded by friends, and by friends’ friends. Unwilling to skip the healing session, but not wanting to impose upon the festive atmosphere, I simply sat next to Kendal again and rested my hand on his cast. The beer I’d been drinking made my head swim, so I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind and focus on Jesus. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Before I’d had a chance to be good and ready to delve into a prayer, Kendal piped up. “Woah,” he said. “I can feel your hand.”</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Horrified, my head snapped up and eyes opened wide. “Does it hurt? Should I stop? I’m sorry!”</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“No, it doesn’t hurt. I can just, feel it. It’s warm and tingly where your hand is.”</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Relieved, I left my hand where it was and closed my eyes again. I waited for words to speak or truths to declare, but none came to mind. Instead, I began humming. Softly at first, then louder. No one seemed to notice; the conversation carried on.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">
“I can feel my blood, its like swimming around in my leg,” Kendal described. I smiled, and continued. Sometimes, I joined the conversation, laughing along with the others. Sometimes, I hummed, or prayed in tongues.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Exclusion and embarrassment are fears that have caused me enough anxiety in the past to avoid offering healing even when I’ve received specific words from Dad to do so. Had I not been a little buzzed, I might have sought a more private space. My friends knew what I was doing, though; I’ve healed alongside each of them in the past. The others may have noticed, but didn’t seem to mind or even think twice about what I was up to. It was such a relaxed, enjoyable environment that exclusion or embarrassment simply weren’t factors.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On impulse, I moved my spare hand to the bottom of Kendal’s heel. “I can feel your hand there too,” Kendal said. “I haven’t had feeling there since the accident.”</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As the gathering dispersed to their Halloween festivities for the night, Kendal and I chatted about healing and Jesus and hope - a typical conversation for us. I left with restored confidence. Surely, God was up to something. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">---</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>To be continued...</i></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<i><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hints-of-failure-part-2.html" target="_blank">Part 2</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/12/hits-of-failure-part-3.html" target="_blank">Part 3</a></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-89183708635256094002013-11-18T10:43:00.002-08:002013-11-18T10:43:23.486-08:00Divine Dice <br />
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
It's <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/"><span style="color: #1d37ef;">NaNoWriMo!</span></a> That means significantly fewer blog posts this month for me. And slightly out of date posts as well. This one's about Halloween. I know, been there done that. But the story has little to do with the holiday, and is only getting more relevant as I ruminate on it. </div>
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As a rule (I use the term loosely), I like to take anything people in my realm of influence have deemed secular, demonic, anti-christian, or any other label that's supposed to suggest I steer clear, and advance the Kingdom with it. </div>
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Recently, my husband and I started playing a game called <a href="https://www.wizards.com/magic/tcg/newtomagic.aspx?x=mtg/tcg/newtomagic/whatismagic"><span style="color: #1d37ef;">Magic: The Gathering</span></a>. We particularly like to play at our favorite pub because inevitably, other Magic players light up at the sight of their favorite game being played in public. This a game for nerds and dweebs. People have been scorned and ridiculed throughout child and adulthood for playing this game. And it has a particularly unsavory reputation in the Christian clubs. Most players don't like to broadcast themselves outside their safe zones. We love drawing people out of hiding, engaging with them and watching their eyes light up because we are as weird as they are. And we're not afraid to show it. </div>
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<i>Harry Potter</i> taught me about being a friend and the gift of service. <i>Game of Thrones </i>is teaching me about ruling (or about how not to rule) as a Queen in Heaven. I do Yoga, because I hear Dad speak more clearly when my body, mind, and breath are synchronized. Any time, any where, give me something the Church clubs have rebuked and I will find Jesus all over it. Because I can. Because He's all the time everywhere. Because I take joy in people and the things people find joy in. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharnjSVABO1WFIuICvSbcP9rMS3pJJcWvXNg2yV-eVrA3gnH28T8QUCJh_c9IH4qndfRcq7P_mKbdRmwe4H_7bCmedD7-Nowmr5Hiu943qGZ9Vfn4FUVVZGidcxOK0qgVVzrEK_PBWimj5/s1600/DivineDice_Oct31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharnjSVABO1WFIuICvSbcP9rMS3pJJcWvXNg2yV-eVrA3gnH28T8QUCJh_c9IH4qndfRcq7P_mKbdRmwe4H_7bCmedD7-Nowmr5Hiu943qGZ9Vfn4FUVVZGidcxOK0qgVVzrEK_PBWimj5/s320/DivineDice_Oct31.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"...Dad told me I'd be drawing people into their identities.<br />Specifically, I'd be naming people "Healer..."'</td></tr>
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<div style="font-size: 16px;">
OK so, Halloween. Obviously, I had to find Jesus in Halloween. So I dressed up as Professor Trelawney from <i>Harry Potter </i>to work my shift at the coffee bungalow. Once I got there, I set up two dice and a little sign offering "prophecies." Then, I let Dad speak. </div>
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<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br /></div>
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This is the second year I've dressed as a fortune teller for Halloween and given prophetic words. Dad seems to love speaking to people this way. Last year, we threw a party at our house. Some friends tended bar, and twenty or so other friends dressed fancy and enjoyed themselves. I set up a hookah and a tea pot in the lounge, and offered tea leaf readings. Then I got to prophecy identity over people.</div>
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I have never prophesied so much, so accurately, and been so eagerly received at any given time. Last year, there seemed to be a theme. Whether people saw ducks or unicorns, when I Googled the symbol meanings, Dad was talking about leadership, decision making, and transition.</div>
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This year, there was a theme as well. I asked anyone interested to roll the dice. I wrote down a list of numbers, 1 to 12, and meanings associated with them (see bottom of post for list). I told them the meanings of each dice individually, then combined the dice for a third number and meaning. Then, I let Dad weave the three numbers together for a prophetic word. </div>
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Before we started, Dad told me I'd be drawing people into their identities. Specifically, I'd be naming people "Healer." Right off the bat, my first two customers rolled the dice. A couple, they both rolled a 1 and 6.</div>
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"One means unity and beginnings," I explained, not so slyly reading my number list. "Six is the number for weakness. Together, they're seven, which means resurrection and spiritual completeness." </div>
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"Ok, that's kind of neat," the woman replied. Clearly, none of us saw much significance in the dice so far. </div>
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"Let me focus on your drinks for a moment, and I'll have your prophecy ready." While making her mocha and his Americano, taking the next customer's order, preparing milks and cups as more people walked in, I asked Dad what he wanted this woman to hear. </div>
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By the time I had their drinks ready and brought them to the register, I was feeling a bit frazzled. We still had money to exchange, which involved counting change, which further distracted me while I tried and tried to hear what Dad was saying. With more customers waiting, I felt I had to move and speak quickly. "Ok, ready for your prophecies?"</div>
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The couple nodded enthusiastically. I looked back at the dice again, and suddenly the puzzle fell into place. Speaking to the woman first, I began."You see the weaknesses in people around you, but you don't identify them by it. You are able to see past the weakness, to what makes a person powerful. You identify people by what makes them strong, and draw that strength out of them." Without a doubt, I knew the 1 and 6 were the dice Dad told me about before we started. "You are a Healer. You resurrect people out of weakness into a new, strong and whole beginning." </div>
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This sounded much more interesting than the original dice meanings I'd read, as was made clear by the looks on the couple's faces. "Since we rolled the same thing, does that mean we have the same destiny or something," the woman asked. </div>
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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/AVvXsEhgpMpJG_atHb9GZWo3uJNf89ymjrtNHLHkXowaMwbUN8rNGyIEey4oclmnbDhLW0a0iYYq4sokKSXGX66EeCGmqYg0kusTyQqnjBCYgx1rkHj2X2lM5flNoS_7woN1lKrKLKzBRvKwrB23/s1600/DivineDice2_Oct31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgpMpJG_atHb9GZWo3uJNf89ymjrtNHLHkXowaMwbUN8rNGyIEey4oclmnbDhLW0a0iYYq4sokKSXGX66EeCGmqYg0kusTyQqnjBCYgx1rkHj2X2lM5flNoS_7woN1lKrKLKzBRvKwrB23/s320/DivineDice2_Oct31.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Very few times did a customer roll the dice<br />that I didn't feel totally frazzled trying to<br />do my job and prophecy at the same time..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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"Not quite. One and six are the Healer's dice. So you're both healers. Remember, one means unity. I think your strengths and weaknesses will compliment each other, and you will work together in unity toward your individual callings." </div>
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We couldn’t linger much after that, my line of customers and drinks was growing. So I left them pondering their identities with smiles and eager eyes. From then on, I knew just what 1 and 6 meant whenever they were rolled. “You are a Healer,” I’d begin. And Dad provided slightly different explanations about what that meant for each person standing before me. </div>
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Very few times did a customer roll the dice that I didn’t feel totally frazzled trying to do my job and prophecy at the same time. But the disorder came from striving. Eventually I had to settle down and just let myself speak. Every time this happened, the chaos in my head calmed and my heart felt light. I must say, this was incredible practice listening for Dad, quieting myself in the midst of disquiet, purposefully prophesying and expecting Dad to move. </div>
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Sometimes I was able to calm down very quickly, prophesying while making drinks and taking orders. Other times it wasn’t until I’d already made the dice roller’s drink and counted their change that I remembered to take a breath and be still. Once focused, Dad never made me wait long. </div>
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— I’ll take a few sentences here to clarify what I mean by “prophesy.” In this context, and pretty much every other time I use the word, I am speaking of edifying and encouraging The Body of Christ. To be very honest, I didn’t use Jesus’s name once throughout the day. I was worried about this, but after speaking with Dad I have concluded that my purpose was to encourage and edify The Body, not make converts or evangelize or build the church or even “save souls.” I didn’t speak Christ’s name, but every person heard what their identity in Christ looks like. I know this screws with my theology. It's messy. Yes. —</div>
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Besides the Healer’s dice, I saw another trend. Whether 2 and 6 were rolled, and I got to say “Two is a balanced number, meaning both union and division. Divided, we are weak. You birth community, balancing and unifying those around you…” or a 4 and 1 and I got to say “You’re a creator. Grace is vital to the creative process. Through it, our mistakes cease to be errors and instead become new beginnings…” New birth, new beginnings, and creativity were part of every person’s prophecy. </div>
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Even when the numbers 1 and 8 weren’t rolled - which was rare - the prophecy seemed to uphold the trend. When someone rolled 2 and 3, I explained “Balance can serve to divide us or unify us. Balance alone isn’t necessarily good. But you tend to focus on grace, which means the balance you carry releases divine completeness over yourself and those around you. With grace and balance, you create completeness.” Inevitable, Dad spoke creativity and new beginning. Or, more accurately, the creation process transitioning into or birthing a new beginning. </div>
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I’ve written about creativity <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/09/from-corpse-to-bride.html" target="_blank">(for example)</a>, it’s been on my heart and at the forefront of my thoughts recently, so this trend was particularly interesting to me. I’ve also written about transition. It’s been a major topic, and not just for myself. I’ve read word after word about transition, and Dad confirmed each word at least three times so I'm convinced they were accurate. The other trend, or anti-trend I saw: 11, the number for transition, wasn’t rolled once. We as a body, individual parts and collective whole, <i>are in a period of transition</i>. Yet no one rolled 11. </div>
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This observation makes me think that Dad has something to day to The Body as a whole. I don’t think he’s saying the time of transition is over. Rather, he’s giving us insight about what we can do while we’re transitioning. </div>
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What do we do while we’re transitioning? Do we stare at our end goal and twiddle our thumbs until we get there? Or thrash about, shouting the name Jesus until our desires are at hand? </div>
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My Halloween gave me a few ideas, and having tried both options above, I like these ideas better. They’re new for me, in this context. First, while in transition, we <i>create. </i>Whether a painting, a house, a new bone in a broken leg, a new outfit, or a meal for the homeless, create something. Anything. Why? If for no other reason than because we are made in God’s image. When we create, we move into our Christly identities. We engage the process of listening to Dad and releasing his voice upon the earth. When others experience what we create, they are drawn into their Christly identities as well. Can you see the ripple effect?</div>
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The first step in any creative endeavor is to engage our imagination. So, second, we imagine as a community what we’re transitioning toward. We do not, then, force our vision to happen. We unite, and we we focus on our King, and we learn about what it means to rule at His side. We are part of creating the new beginning we are transitioning toward. In fact, I’ll declare that unless we create alongside him, our new beginning will never be. Our God isn’t a dictator or taskmaster and values our free will above our comfort and happiness. Though he has a vision for us, he won’t impose it upon us against our will. We will always be in transition until we learn to create with Dad and with each other; until we create something to transition into.</div>
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Finally, notice these ideas involve engaging with other people. We are strong when we are united. It is as a community we should enter into our new beginning. A new beginning <i>we </i>create. Our alone time with Dad can and often will be creative. However, to create a beginning alone means I’ll enter into it alone. Let’s build each other up and enter together into the new beginning we create, lest we must begin again at square one. </div>
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Here’s an experiment I want to try. If you read or hear any prophetic words related to anything in this post, would you link it in the comments below? Or let us know where we can look, in the crazy event your source isn’t accessible online. As always, questions, thoughts, and comments are welcome and encouraged. </div>
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The numbers I used were:</div>
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1 - Unity; New Beginnings </div>
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2 - Union and Division (Which came to mean balance, when people rolled and I started talking.)</div>
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3 - Divine completeness</div>
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4 - Creativity </div>
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5 - Grace</div>
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6 - Weakness</div>
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7 - Resurrection; Spiritual completeness </div>
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8 - New Birth</div>
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9 - Fruit of the Spirit </div>
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10 - Testimony</div>
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11 - Disorder; Transition </div>
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12 - Government; Protection </div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">
(<a href="http://asis.com/users/stag/godcount.html"><span style="color: #1d37ef;"><i>click here</i></span></a><i> for the source of these number meanings). </i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-5448935871911175772013-10-25T14:21:00.000-07:002013-10-25T14:41:19.507-07:00Living The Dream Part 2<a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/10/living-dream-part-1.html" target="_blank">Click here for Part 1</a><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">When I woke up from the school bus dream it was early and dark out, still a few hours before I needed to be awake. I fell asleep again and had a few sporadic dreams until I re-awoke to my alarm. The school bus and children running along telephone wires were as fresh in my mind as if I’d lived the experience rather than dreamed it. </span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsK20mVrwtJXCszgO-aVopGxGywoCCLUrSEZxZY52TdsnKVOHlodJr60YfMY68XjfalxHdY0B3CkyrX_hyphenhyphenIoFGjj8k0QHkZEeuQwz7QVhNsiW5s1J4TU0ttNItY0KQmrApJku8RmF-F6P/s1600/10-25_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsK20mVrwtJXCszgO-aVopGxGywoCCLUrSEZxZY52TdsnKVOHlodJr60YfMY68XjfalxHdY0B3CkyrX_hyphenhyphenIoFGjj8k0QHkZEeuQwz7QVhNsiW5s1J4TU0ttNItY0KQmrApJku8RmF-F6P/s320/10-25_2.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It is madness to wear ladies' straw' hats<br />
and velvet hats to church..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As I pulled my clothes on for the day and tidied my dreads, I asked Dad to interpret the dream for me. As quiet as I could commit my mind to be, I waited for a response. I waited and waited as I drifted through the menial tasks of the morning, until my mind wandered and I forgot I was listening. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Instead, I started thinking about a conversation I had with my sister, Brittany. One of her teammates was sick with tonsillitis. “Go out and heal the sick,” Jesus says. And I wanted to heal this teammate. But she’d been left at the hotel the day before, in too much pain to watch her team play. I’d yet to see her. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As I walked downstairs to meet my family, I was determined to find this girl and lay hands. With plenty of time to kill before the day’s games started, we ate slowly and played a story game until Brittany had to join her team for study hall. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It wasn’t until my parents and I were about to leave the hotel that I recalled my determination to heal Brittany’s teammate. I marched quickly back to the lobby where Brittany was knee deep in Facebook while her gathered teammates worked on homework. “Hey!” I said, loudly enough to prompt Brittany to take off her headphones. “Where’s that girl with tonsillitis? Carmen, right?” I’d go to the room she’d been quarantined in, if I had to. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“She’s right there,” Brittany replied with a gesture over her shoulder. Carmen sat on a giant beanbag with a blanket and a text book. Though she looked miserable, both she and my sister seemed amused by the interruption of their study session. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Do you want healed?” I asked Carmen as I walked toward her. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Yes!” She said, completely sick of being sick. Several girls glanced up, curious. But if they continued to watch, I didn’t notice.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Great.” I sat down next to her, double checked that her throat was the location of her pain, then placed my hand on the right side of her neck. On a scale of 1-10, she said the pain was a 6. After a few minutes of prayer I asked if she felt any change in her pain level, but it remained a stubborn 6. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I prayed again. “What do you feel?” I asked this time. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I feel really calm.”</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> <i>Calm. </i>That could only be the Holy Spirit at work, so I prayed one more time. Once again, I asked what she felt and if the pain had changed. “Still a 6,” she said. “But I feel super calm.”</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Are you coming to the gym today?” She was. Certain that she was experiencing the peace of Dad’s presence, I decided to let Dad continue to love on her and leave more prayer for later in the day. Dad is a far better minister than I am. “Let yourself soak in that calm as long as possible,” I suggested. “I’ll check in with you and see how you’re feeling.”</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our team’s first game of the day was at noon. Again, I found myself in the bleachers surrounded by parents. Just as frustrated as yesterday by attitudes and conduct, I wanted to rant. <i>I used to play volleyball</i> <i>until I hurt my knee,</i> I imagined my rant beginning. <i>They do not need your negative energy. </i>The moment this thought crossed my mind, Dad took my back to my dream. </span><br />
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>I used to do this until I hurt my knee,</i> my dream self had claimed. Instantly, Dad interpreted the dream for my spirit. I couldn’t rationally understand all I suddenly knew, but two solid details were sure. First, the school bus dream was portraying this moment. <i>I’m in my dream</i>, I kept thinking. Second, I couldn’t rant at anyone. I’d already seen the results, and they were no good. </span><br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As I mulled over the dream, my spirit slowly explained the details to my flustered mind. I recalled the bus ride, and the school we pulled up to. Full of screaming, happy children, each physically twisted, stunted, and otherwise deformed. The next solid understanding I came to was that the children in my dream depicted the spiritual state of the people in the gym. The bus driver and duty from my dream perhaps demonstrated that I had some help, but I suddenly felt overwhelmed. I can’t rant or rationalize at spiritually broken children. I can't possibly heal them all. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Not wanting to cry there in the bleachers, I walked away and found a spot on the wall to lean against and watch the game. Our team, whose record was 22-5 for the season, was losing to a team whose record was 4-23. No one was very happy. But there seemed to be nothing I could do. Unlike in my little coffee shop, I couldn’t control the atmosphere in this gym full of people. </span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHin1OhBOoWvfL8rDsyhURFALc2Ep_t6_uhOkeuVu4JRYTdGZTAogS6hSb4cPUVrdmKTWn1KRDx5rppHFU5fTu9qVJwZSLE_nLQkCQs-5MEPWoDiObgTpwx9Q6TMkWJDyu7TctalfR0m0/s1600/10-25_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHin1OhBOoWvfL8rDsyhURFALc2Ep_t6_uhOkeuVu4JRYTdGZTAogS6hSb4cPUVrdmKTWn1KRDx5rppHFU5fTu9qVJwZSLE_nLQkCQs-5MEPWoDiObgTpwx9Q6TMkWJDyu7TctalfR0m0/s400/10-25_1.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"...We should all be wearing crash helmets."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Take it one person at a time,</i> Dad said. But I looked over to my sister’s team, where Carmen sat on the bench. She was wrapped in a blanket, pain and exhaustion painted plain on her face, with an ice pack against her neck. The right side of her neck, I noticed. The same side I’d instinctually laid a hand on. “WTF Dad?” I asked, though I wasn’t listening for a response.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">By the time the match ended, I’d talked the dream over with Jeremiah (that’s the husband, for any new readers) and was feeling more calm. Our team won in four games, and I no longer felt on the verge of tears. I’d had an opportunity to do what I love, heal the sick. Between games, I’d go find Carmen and lay hands one more time to get her good and healed. Dad’s been teaching about persistence. Fine. Dandy. I can be persistent. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But when I found Carmen, she was sleeping in the unused gym where teams were keeping their gear. Jeremiah and I had to leave before the next game, and I hadn’t found a chance to lay hands on her again. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“What a bunch of crap,” I told Dad. “You can’t tell me to heal the sick, and not back me up when I try.” I said a few more things, but they’re not nearly as polite so I’ll let your imagination fill in the blanks. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">That evening, Brittany’s team took second place in the tournament. They lost the championship match in five games. A well fought loss, my dad described. I sent Britt a congratulations text. She’s always been a gifted encourager, and this was no exception. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I’m so glad I got to see you and Jeremiah!” she wrote. “Thanks for coming this weekend (: And Carmen thinks your really cool. And right when you left this morning she was like, that was awesome. I feel so relaxed now...”</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Instantly, a weight lifted from my shoulders and the fog surrounding me dissolved. “Go out and heal the sick, raise the dead, and cast out demons,” Jesus told us. With a simple text, Britt healed my heart and cast aside the demons I’d let ride home with me from the gym. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">"Lol that's awesome!" I texted back. "Glad I didn't creep her out :p"</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">"Haha not at all. She loved you!"</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">With newfound clarity, I could see Dad <i>had</i> backed me up. Of course he had. Of course he wouldn’t give me a command without also giving me the authority and power necessary to carry the command out. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve had little glimpses of revelation from the school bus dream and the volleyball gym experience all week. Just yesterday, I realized the root of my turmoil at the gym. The dream showed me the current spiritual state of the people surrounding me. What I failed to see was that it also showed me the state Dad is calling them into. They’re called to be whole, complete, fearless; joyfully running up and down telephone wires with their friends, demonstrating the Kingdom to inspire and empower those watching to join them. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m called to see people as Dad sees them. Not just who they are now, but who they were created to be. To see broken children is not a bad thing, unless I don’t take the next step and see whole children. It’s from a vision of a person’s wholeness that I want to approach healing, not a vision of brokenness. </span><br />
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If you've read through both parts of this post, I congratulate and thank you. It was no breezy read, I know. I hope you feel inspired to step out of your comfort zone, knowing that regardless of what you're eyes tell you, Dad's got your back. Every single time we make an effort to walk out <a href="http://www.blueletterbible.org/Bible.cfm?b=Mat&c=10&t=NLT" target="_blank">Matthew 10:8</a>, something happens. Don't doubt yourself. Don't doubt your Dad. You are mightier than you can know. The creator of the universe dwells in you; the power to change the world is yours. </div>
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<i>"One the whole, I do not find Christians, outside the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of the conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playin on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a sunday morning. I</i><i>t is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preserves and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake some day and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return." - </i>Annie Dillard, T<i>eaching a stone to Talk</i></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-76381762126978308902013-10-21T16:41:00.001-07:002013-10-21T16:41:33.579-07:00Living The Dream Part 1<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">One of my younger sisters, Brittany, played in a volleyball tournament over the weekend. She plays for Spokane Falls Community College. By the community college level, skills are honed and the game is fast paced. Though not necessarily more competitive than high school matches, certainly less painful to watch. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"...The moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten. <br />It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small; text-align: -webkit-auto;">."</span></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Less painful, but not entirely painless. I’m a volleyball player as well. After playing through three years of college, two knee injuries, a few ankle injuries, and all the drama that comes along with a group of 12 women in close confines for any length of time, I still love the game. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Watching others play is like a cat scratch on a sunburn for me. As a player, watching from the bench can be excruciating. However, watching from the bleachers surrounded by parents is a new torture I’m hoping I don’t have to experience enough to get used to. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On the bench, I’d watch my teammates successes and feel they were mine. I’d watch their failures, and take personal responsibility to resolve them. If my outside hitter is getting blocked, I’d look at what the other team was doing and how my teammate (or myself, should I get subbed in) could hit around them. If the other team’s middle has three kills in a row, I’d look at my defense and plot ways for them to work in unity with my blockers to shut her down. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As a player, the moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten. It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance. When a mistake latches on to a player’s memory, it will begin chipping away at their confidence until they’re too crippled to play. Regardless of physical skill, volleyball is a mental game. The most successful players are those capable remaining focused and present; of forgiving their teammates and themselves instantly, and changing their mind’s desire to dwell on past and future mistakes. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In the bleachers, parents also experience their child’s success and failure. While success is joyous, mistakes feel like embarrassment, shame, and anger. At least, that’s what the shouts and scoffs and growls sound like. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After games, these are some of the most loving, supportive parents on the planet. In the heat of a volley, though, it’s like there are moments where the beautiful women they love cease to be human and become objects to watch and judge. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This might sound over the top, I know. Like I said, I’m not used to sitting in the parents section. In nine years of organized school sports, I had no idea there was such vehemence spewing from the mouths of the people who love and support us. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">To be honest, the parent section this weekend was mellow compared to others I’ve sat in. In the past months though, I’ve been learning to discern the spirits people are carrying with them, the spiritual climate of a room, and how to respond. This learning has mostly taken place in my coffee shop. A tiny space, where five customers or so is a crowd. This was a gym with two matches happening at once, bleachers lined with parents. I didn’t realize I had a spiritual comfort zone until I was in this gym. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"'It's a tough route... But I really love it.'" </td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The tournament lasted two days. The night in-between, I had a dream. I was riding a school bus. Every seat on the bus was occupied, it was noisy and slightly chaotic. I looked around and realized the kids on this bus were physically disabled and deformed. “It’s a tough route,” the bus driver said, eyes watching me from the massive rear-view mirror. “But I really love it.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A boy across from me was in pain. His arm was curled up at awkward angles, his shoulder and collar bone overlarge and misshapen. I pressed my hand to his forearm and prayed. The pain stopped. The boy was ecstatic. We chatted happily at the back of the bus with the other kids around us for a few minutes. I laid hands on him again, and the boy’s arm began to uncurl. His shoulder began to shrink, and his collarbone to reform. He hugged and kissed me he was so overjoyed. “I’m a married woman!” I laughed, showing him my wedding ring. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Soon thereafter, we arrived at a school filled to bursting with children. All physically deformed, all running and screaming and smiling and waving as the bus pulled up and we got off. I didn’t go into the school, but many kids were outside. I wandered around playing and chatting with them.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One group of kids stood around a tree on the outer fringes of the playground. I walked up and joined their conversation, then asked if anyone wanted healed. A small boy who’d been crouched into a ball nearest the tree responded without hesitation. “I do,” he said. With my hands on his back, I commanded pain to leave. Without further prayer, I asked what he felt. “It’s gone,” he said. Rather surprised he was healed so quickly - he hadn’t even told me the problem - I prodded for a more detailed answer. He remained certain and concise, however. “The pain is gone,” he repeated then stood and the group of friends resumed their storytelling. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For some time, I explored the playground, until I reached an open field. Dozens and dozens of kids huddled in groups dappling the lawn, playing whatever games their physical limitations allowed. The area was loud and bustling, and everyone was smiling. One woman with a whistle around her neck wandered pleasantly, watching for safety concerns or rule-breaking. Her demeanor suggested she didn’t expect either. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Overhead, children were running and screaming with joy. The sight was a pleasure to behold, until I realized they were running along the telephone lines. Suddenly, my pleasure turned to astonishment and then anger. Why was the woman with the whistle not doing anything to stop this? I marched up to her and demanded she look at what was happening above her head. She looked up and smiled pleasantly at me.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Aghast, I watched for some time, searching for any sign that I was seeing a completely safe and school-sanctioned activity taking place. But no, I was truly seeing children running and playing chicken along telephone wires. When I realized that none of these kids were deformed or disabled, that they must all have been healed, my anger and fear diminished for a moment. Until I glanced around the yard and noticed all the kids on the ground watching the telephone wires with glee in their eyes and on their lips. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I began ranting at the woman with the whistle. “Those kids could fall! Or get electrocuted!” I was shouting, now. “Don’t you see? This is <i>dangerous. </i>What if the other kids want to try?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>That’s</i> what’s bothering me, I understood. Not that these healed kids might be in danger, but that these unhealed kids might want to run along phone lines too. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The volume of my rant increased, and I began to address the gawking children on the ground. I explained that no one should be on the phone lines because they didn’t know how to fall. To demonstrate, I thought I’d show them a cartwheel. My first attempt was faltering, “Sorry, I used to do this but really shouldn’t anymore because my knee is injured,” I said. Then I took a running start and went for the cartwheel, to end crashing and sliding and rolling back to my feet. “See? You have to know how to fall.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was smiling, thinking I’d surely made a valid and unarguable point. But when I looked around, every person had stopped what they were doing and stared at me with confused disgust. I’d ruined everything, apparently. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">During the second day of the tournament, Dad suddenly interpreted the dream for me. It was a little overwhelming, and I had to leave the parent section. I’ve been trying to put into words what I suddenly understood, but it was a revelation in my spirit and sometimes those are hard to translate. In the next post, I’ll do my best. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Until then, please feel free and encouraged to respond with questions, observations, dream interpretations, prophetic words, etc. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-29361970643001911282013-10-07T18:54:00.001-07:002013-10-07T20:06:17.561-07:00From Corpse to Bride Part 2<b>The Rise </b><br />
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I don't want to encourage a bunch of daydreamers to avoid living and hide in fantasy worlds. That's not the point of this pair of posts.<br />
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I want to release new identity over you. If you are reading this, it is because you are a prophet, a healer, an artist, and, if you'll receive the Kingdom that is your inheritance, a king/queen.<br />
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I want to see our imaginations restored and healed. I want to stop seeing our imaginations brushed aside as fanciful merriment by our teachers and leaders, and start seeing it taught as a vital skill.<br />
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I want to tell you a story. It's a fun story about a dear friend. It's packed full of prophetic imagery. I tried to interpret it for those reading and for myself, but I'm not satisfied with my attempt (although I pretty much left it down there if you want to read it). So, I'm hoping if there's imagery to interpret, we can do it together. Otherwise, we can simply experience the power of testimony that demonstrates the force of imagination made reality.<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Kendal is one of my dearest friends. He is an Olympian, through and through. Raised in the wild and beautiful Capitol Forest, he relishes our drab, ever-rainy environment. When the rainy season begins and the heat of summer fades, his burden lightens and a smile is never far from his face. Grey skies and the heady smell of damp earth have much the same affect on him that sun and pina coladas on a Hawaiian beach would have on most. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Few can match Kendal’s meticulous, diligent approach to his work and his art. It’s not perfection he seeks with his methods. And though rarely disappointed with the outcome of his efforts, be they cocktails or knit caps, the finished products are not his greatest joy. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">His grandmother passed on great wisdom to him early in life when, as the oldest child of nine, he was tasked with maintaining the dinner dishes every day. “You can worship God anywhere, doing anything,” she told him. “Even while doing dishes.” Taking the wisdom to the depths of his heart, he learned to savor labor with the passion of King David stripped to skivvies and dancing in the streets before God. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He’s quite weird. When we first began working together, I found my patience tested. I hadn’t heard his grandmother’s wisdom yet, and wouldn’t likely have brought it anywhere near my heart if I had. It’s a finished product I like: a mopped floor, opposed to mopping. A cooked meal, opposed to cooking. Nearly four years in Kendal’s presence has rubbed off on me though. While his patience is that of a giant redwood, mine has at least increased from squirrel to some sort of large bird. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Kendal’s green Volkswagen is a testament to his redwood nature. He’s had the little beast since he was sixteen, and after five years of loving labor he finally took it to a mechanic. Even at the mechanic’s experienced hand, it took several months to get the car running reliably. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Kendal has driven joyfully and mischievously ever since. He’s learned the car inside and out - how to smoothly shift into first, which parallel spaces he can crank into, and exactly how far off asphalt he can venture. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It was dark, in the earliest part of a late August morning. His vision was limited just enough that he didn't see the little yearling dear heaped pitifully in the middle of the road until it was suddenly directly in front of him. Knowing his car, though, he didn't flinch.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After driving directly over the deer, well clear of causing further harm, he eased to a stop and turned around. D</span>ying or dead he couldn’t tell. <span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Concerned and curious, he walked up to the dear and checked for vitals. It was breathing still, but the breaths were shallow and labored. Carefully, he eased the creature to the side of the road and sat next to it. Cradling its head in his lap, he stoked its neck until it was calm. Together, they waited. </span><br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The dear was peaceful and quiet when, across the street, another deer emerged from the woods. A yearling as well, Kendal knew the two must be brothers. The second deer paused and examined the scene, then clopped onto the asphalt to get a closer look. At the sound of his hooves, the deer in Kendal’s lap startled. His legs locked straight out and his eyes went wide, until the force of his efforts killed him suddenly. The brother ran back into the woods. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A child of the forest, Kendal made plans for the deer’s body. Nothing would be wasted. At home, he skinned it, ate some of the meat, and gave some meat to a friend. The pelt would be saved and traded. He was saddened by the deer’s fate, but appreciative for the encounter nonetheless. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A week later, He and a friend were driving along the same road. In nearly the exact same spot, another deer had been hit. The driver who'd hit it, along with a few others passing by, had pulled over. When Kendal and his pal pulled up, the group seemed distraught. The deer was still awake and breathing. They’d moved him to the side of the road, but from there were frantically uncertain what to do. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Kendal arrived, explained he lived nearby and would handle the situation from there. Relieved, they got in their cars and drove away. Kendal recognized this deer; his brother had died in his lap in this very place. When Kendal sat beside him, his panicked breathing slowed. Again, Kendal rested the yearling’s head in his lap. This time, his friend sat with him. Together, they waited. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A police car pulled up next to the Volkswagen after several minutes. Someone who’d pulled over to help had phoned them for lack of anything better to do. A man and woman officer stepped from the car, gazing curious yet friendly at the trio. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The officers explained that the dear was, clearly as all could see, dying. They’d take over from here, they assured the friends. They’d have to euthanize the animal, as was humane. “If you have nothing better to do with the body,” Kendal offered, “I know plenty of people who could make use of it.” </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The officers declined. “We’ll call the game warden out,” the man assured them.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Kendal couldn’t argue. Though his heart was with the little guy, a painful and slow death was of no benefit to anyone. Before he rose to leave, he felt goodbye was necessary. The deer was still resting in his lap. Gently, he raised the deer’s forehead to his own. For a moment, the deer’s fate - a quick, painless bullet to the brain - passed through his mind. Though an easy death, it wasn’t life in the forest Kendal would rather the dear experience. <i>I'm sorry, </i>he thought to the deer. <i>I wish this didn't have to be.</i> </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Kendal released his forehead from the deer’s and slowly stood to his feet. His friend watched along with the officers as, in unison, the deer rose to its feet too. They all stood in stunned silence and watched the deer calmly return to the woods. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At a loss, the officers returned to their car. “You have some healing powers,” the man told Kendal, while the woman made every effort to never look at him again. </span><br />
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We imagine. We have visions of heaven.<br />
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So that we can create what we see.<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">To be created in His image is to be a creator. Creativity is vital to the human experience. To exalt our artists, our inventors, our pastors, our teachers, our prophets, our musicians - those among us who’ve tapped into their inherent creativity - to a level separate from “us,” is dangerous and destructive. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It supports: Poverty mindsets that prevent us from giving to and serving our neighbors. Victim mentalities that convince us we are sick and injured instead of convicting us of the completion of Christ’s work on the cross. Political and educational systems that manipulate and control. Economic systems that idolize power and greed.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Worse yet, every one of these atrocities can be witnessed inside of the buildings commonly accepted as churches. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkEjmm1vI7e0zMySeAy2MBBeSwPw_GJdyci8MNeqRunYQrCbv66hXDGSxXXu-sWQ-awDSz0N3oYR-oJCveZI1SJsiXUFAOEixDVJRNpRkpY7Y1nNLQLtLBNIKb7owXZoz5hSaGlU1T5jA6/s1600/CorpseToBride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkEjmm1vI7e0zMySeAy2MBBeSwPw_GJdyci8MNeqRunYQrCbv66hXDGSxXXu-sWQ-awDSz0N3oYR-oJCveZI1SJsiXUFAOEixDVJRNpRkpY7Y1nNLQLtLBNIKb7owXZoz5hSaGlU1T5jA6/s320/CorpseToBride.jpg" width="191" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We <i>all</i> hear God’s voice. We <i>all </i>have untapped stores of imagination waiting to be created. We are all artists, prophets, teachers, pastors, students. To engage in a system that separates us from our creativity, worth, and communion with the God who created us, is to dehumanize us. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">To dehumanize our existence, when God came to earth and made such a point of living profoundly human, is to directly contradict the message Christ lived and demonstrated. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">There's a a system laying in the Bride's lap that is dying. It's a system ruled and regulated by man, encouraged by principalities and rulers of darkness. Fear and panic will kill it. Religious works and actions without questions will kill it. Lack of imagination will kill it. Destroyed by that dehumanizing nature that has perpetuated its existence.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Call that system government, mass media, Christianity, or public schools, it doesn't make much difference. Not to be wasted, its carcass will be fully utilized. But its time on this earth is coming to a swift end. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">In its place, an alternative will rise. Is rising. Has risen. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Imagination is necessary to creativity. Creativity is necessary if we are to rise into our callings. In order to live as Christ demonstrated, and do as he commissioned, we <i>must</i> be able to hear and see what God is doing. If we are to pray <i>on earth as it is in heaven, </i>or proclaim <i>I do only what I see the Father doing, </i>it’s absolutely necessary we get familiar with our imaginations, that mind space where God shows us heaven.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Not only will we rise into our callings, we will bring others up into their callings as well. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Let me clarify. We <i>need</i> imagination. So much, that there is nothing - not one thing - worth hindering our imaginations in any way. Especially not our fear of the enemy. There is no art, literature, or created thing not worth our attention if it spurs imagination. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As people who identify as “little Christs,” His hands and feet, His bride - we accept <i>not</i> heaven after death, but authority and responsibility in the present. His bride<i> </i>brings heaven to earth. Actively seeks God in His throne room. Not only hears Him but responds to what He’s saying, translating our visions received in Spirit language, to language our neighbors can receive. From vision to poem or narrative, painting or song, healing or prophecy, pipe or blog post. His Bride heals the sick, raises the dead, casts out demons. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Christ’s Bride is human and engages the humanity in <i>everyone; </i>in all creation. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Christ's bride is not a system, or a set of chess pieces, to use and be used.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">From the corpse of man’s laws and systems, the Bride is rising. We’re going to walk in both the heavenly and earthly realms, oozing Kingdom. We’re going to live ascended lifestyles, traveling back and forth between the King’s throne to our living rooms, our work places, our malls; Open visions, prophetic dreams, translocation, healing, raising the dead, financial miracles, weather miracles. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We can do this now, this very moment. Not tomorrow, or later next month. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>Let's get out there.<br />
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<i>Stumbled upon this gem from Company of Burning Hearts in Wales, UK. If your imagination needs encouragement, give it a listen. </i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="85" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://companyofburninghearts.podomatic.com/embed/frame/posting/2013-06-18T03_39_43-07_00?json_url=http%3A%2F%2Fcompanyofburninghearts.podomatic.com%2Fentry%2Fembed_params%2F2013-06-18T03_39_43-07_00%3Fcolor%3D43bee7%26autoPlay%3Dfalse%26width%3D440%26height%3D85%26objembed%3D0" width="440"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-2437324464308553042013-09-27T18:30:00.001-07:002013-10-07T18:54:38.008-07:00From Corpse to Bride<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/AVvXsEii2MQuPWafXtP2GPdtPMl7i7qY2tT6_AdbIO69zd8jfZBe77K4CjZFt2Udks96cYDXJ04mlQE6LZkdpslIX1sx_JPefqMQ3AUxjtWHa5wTY4cECAAyBZ6g60UmZ6gASmO3ZtfBZTHkonnE/s1600/TDHSept27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2MQuPWafXtP2GPdtPMl7i7qY2tT6_AdbIO69zd8jfZBe77K4CjZFt2Udks96cYDXJ04mlQE6LZkdpslIX1sx_JPefqMQ3AUxjtWHa5wTY4cECAAyBZ6g60UmZ6gASmO3ZtfBZTHkonnE/s320/TDHSept27.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spirits of my good friend's imagination.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Part 1: Imagine </b><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was finishing a Yoga session, listening to a podcast from Bethel church in Redding. The podcast, which I can no longer </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">recall specifically, mentioned prophetic visions and dreams. At that point, I quit listening so I can’t relay the teaching to you. It had something to do with Kris Vallaton having a vision, and what I took from it (without listening to a word of it) was that Kris gets visions, I don’t. Frankly, I thought that an unfair load of rotten apples. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Have you ever been through Wenatchee, WA (the self-proclaimed apple capital of the world) after the apple harvests have finished and the leftover fruit is left to fall to the ground and decompose? I have. Kids who grow up there call the town The Snatch, in response to the vulgar aroma. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yes, other people receiving visions who aren’t me: the essence of vulgarity. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I lay there in corpse pose, letting my blood settle back into its routine, and started a conversation with Dad. “I want to have visions,” I told him. Then, boldly indignant, I explained that it wasn’t very fair to give some people visions while skipping me. “That’s like saying, <i>some </i>of my sheep hear my voice. Some do not. Random luck of the draw. Better luck next time, kiddo.” </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The moment I paused to draw breath, Dad responded firm and clear, though not unkind. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I didn’t clear my mind, close my eyes, or <i>try</i> to listen in any way. I wasn’t done speaking, actually, and wasn’t expecting to be interrupted. Nevertheless, He spoke. The words I heard were so counter to my present train of thought, two things I couldn’t do occurred simultaneously.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">First, I couldn’t help but hear Him. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Second, I couldn’t give myself any credit for coming up with the idea. Thus suggesting, for me at least, that what I’d heard was Dad. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“You do have visions,” he said. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“What? Visions my booty,” I would have replied had I any time. But Dad doesn’t need words to speak, and doesn’t have to inhale to give you a moment to interrupt. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Immediately, several stories I’ve written came to mind. Then one in particular settled into the forefront of my imagination. Dad returned me to my seat in front of my computer screen in my dining room, where I wrote the story. I sat there typing as my imagination played the story like a film behind my eyes. I paused occasionally, allowing my imagination to play, then writing what I saw as quickly and accurately as I could. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The process felt like I was translating a story from one language to another. From spirit language, which uses no words, to English. At once a limiting and liberating exercise. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What Dad was showing me is that the thing, the head space, I’ve been told is my imagination, is also the space Dad uses to give me visions. It’s the same space engaged when I read a book, play a board game, listen to music, study a painting, watch a ballet. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Though these things are rooted in the physical world, they transport me to non-physical realms. That’s why I read, or play games, or any of these activities. On their own, they’re neat but essentially boring. Alongside my imagination, I can engaged with them for hours and not disengage until forcibly separated.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We exercise our imagination by experiencing the creative results of another’s imagination. From there, depending on our life experiences and skills, we can begin to exercise our imaginations apart from any other’s, and <i>create. </i></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i></i></span><br /></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Being a writer, this creative process of receiving visions and translating them occurs most naturally as I write stories. However, I believe this experience can be had in many ways. When my friend Dave carves a pipe, for example, he first imagines it what it will look like. When my husband writes a song on the guitar, he first imagines what it will sound like. When my friend Claire knits a garment, she first imagines wearing it. When my friend Josiah creates a cocktail, he first imagines drinking it. When I heal, I first imagine wholeness. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVJqG0hHteYbENr6OL2-Hh9wh72mXoP_d3aspKiVEiTz1Hvwcsca3Zw38fuEfV68uX2krgdv6ID-ShNfOhcU4ng1eHklamRP6gkN-eVY_dq2161b4TAg3Jylvf1TUijy8eo7LNNJhisvh/s1600/TDHSept27_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVJqG0hHteYbENr6OL2-Hh9wh72mXoP_d3aspKiVEiTz1Hvwcsca3Zw38fuEfV68uX2krgdv6ID-ShNfOhcU4ng1eHklamRP6gkN-eVY_dq2161b4TAg3Jylvf1TUijy8eo7LNNJhisvh/s320/TDHSept27_2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Midnight release of, as you may have<br />
guessed, the final Harry Potter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What I’m saying is when we tap into our <i>creative imagination</i>, we are receiving visions from God. When I read a book, I’m engaging the same imagination as when I write a book. The difference is that one experience <i>creates,</i> the other is <i>created. </i>In one experience, an author provides narrative that shapes my imagination’s path. In the other experience, my imagination provides images that shape the path of my narrative. That ten people can read the same book, and if asked to make a film of that book, would produce ten radically different results, suggests to me that imagination is highly personal, subjective, and vital whether its being used in author or reader capacity. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve noticed a fear in adults throughout my life, particularly adults who attend churches, that particular stories or games are influenced by evil. I believe this to an extent: when I translate an author’s narrative into my imagination, perhaps there’s some wiggle room for demonic influence. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Harry Potter</i> was a huge deal for the church attending people in my life as a child. Its a book about witchcraft, clearly anti-Christ, clearly an abomination and should be kept from the hands of our impressionable, vulnerable children. Luckily, none of them were my parents, and I was encouraged to read them. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Before we can create in meaningful ways, we must learn to imagine. One thing I noticed as a kid reading <i>Harry Potter,</i> was that at first, the story was simply words on a page. I’d read a page, get bored, walk away. Read two pages, get bored, walk away. Eventually, I pushed through a few more pages, and my imagination kicked in. Suddenly, I was enraptured by a world completely unlike any I’d experienced. I couldn’t stop reading. I can tell you from watching the movies, my imagination was completely different and vastly more satisfying than the filmmakers’.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Every time I picked up the book, it took less and less time for my imagination to engage, and I was able to read for ever extending periods. I’m not suggesting that <i>Harry Potter</i> was a vital read, and that I owe my capacity to receive visions from God to reading that series. However, as we practice engaging our imaginations, we gain stamina. We can engage more quickly and for longer periods of time.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Imagination is <i>so </i>vital, I’ll argue that it should be nurtured and encouraged <i>without fail. </i>Whether its books like <i>Harry Potter</i>, or games like <i>Magic the Gathering,</i> no fear of demonic influence should prevent the use of a person’s imagination.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In my own creative work, I’ve found that the more I read and allow other’s to shape an imagination experience, the more stamina I have when it comes to having imagination experiences completely free of influence except from God. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m not sure if you caught what I just insinuated, so let me clarify: every act of creativity starts with an imagination experience influenced directly from God. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Whether a proclaimed “Christian” or not, God gives people visions. Whether there’s wiggle room for demonic influence is besides the point. If it was created, it was inspired by God. Yes, we are capable of imagining terrible things. Even those begin inspired from God. I’ve never heard it argued that C.S. Lewis wasn’t Christian, yet he had to imagine some gruesome and disturbing war images for <i>The Chronicles of Narnia. </i>He actually imagined being a demon for <i>The Screw tape Letters. </i></span><br />
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In the song below, "Clint Eastwood" by The Gorillaz featuring Del Tha Funkee Homosapien (knowing before you do that there are a couple F*bombs ahead), you can hear a splendid example of prophecy spoken outside of a church-approved prophet. Mostly, it's a good song. I think it also compliments the concept I'm trying to explain in this post. Until Part 2, enjoy and be blessed. </div>
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(Oh, yeah. The point of this post, as ever, is to stir conversation and stoke questions. Have at it!)<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>“Allow me to make this childlike in nature: Rhythm, you have it or you don’t, that’s a fallacy. I’m in them - every sproutin’ tree, every child of peace, every cloud and sea.” </i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-56080892802020696652013-09-04T12:24:00.001-07:002013-09-04T14:25:44.278-07:00Through the Open Window<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A Dream and a Healing</span></h3>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Recently, I’ve been imagining owning my own coffee shop. I’ve imagined this for years, but lately its been more matter of fact, not if but when. One of the ideas I’ve been getting really excited about is using the shop’s space after hours for creative, community centered events.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>"<span style="font-size: 12px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The dream’s images came to mind again. <br />This time, I couldn’t ignore them..." </span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For example, I’d love to shove the tables aside and teach yoga classes. They’d be a perfect environment to get people healed, and I’d call them “Yoga with Jesus.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">While imagining this, Dad reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend, Hannah. “I feel like I’m getting a word from God about yoga instructor certification, but I don’t think it’s for me. Maybe it’s for you,” she said. I smiled at the memory, brushing it aside as unlikely and implausible for a wide array of reasons. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In the dark hours of Tuesday morning, I had a dream. I remember a few specific images from the dream, nothing more. First, a pair of hands resting on someone’s back. The person wore a heather grey shirt, the dream’s perspective gave me no further detail. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A moment later, I was given a broader view. I saw a wooden table that looked carved straight from a tree, from which an umbrella loomed. I was also engaged in a heated conversation with my employers that had me feeling heavy and oppressed. (I’ve never had such an interaction, I don’t expect to. I’ll interpret this part in a moment.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I woke up, the weight of that conversation stuck around. I felt flustered, unheard. For the most part the dream slipped my mind - had I not been wrestling with this negativity I’d have forgotten it entirely. “What the heck was that about?” I asked Dad. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He reminded me, “You asked for adventure, correct?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">That was true, I agreed. I smiled, and the negativity I’d carried in from the dream realm dissolved. Eyes still bleary, I rolled over and pulled my computer onto the bed. There was a blog post I’d been putting off for a couple days <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/09/between-coaster-and-open-window.html" target="_blank">("Between the Coaster...")</a> and I was feeling oddly eager to write it. Whenever that happens, I like to take advantage right away. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I opened my computer, clicked the internet icon, and waited for Blogger to load. An error page popped up, informing me I didn’t have an internet connection. Being that I connect via the router in my apartment complex’s office, which is across the parking lot, this happens frequently. Sometimes closing and opening my computer gives me a fresh connection. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I closed my computer and opened it back up. Multiple times. At the top of my screen, an exclamation mark blinked over my connection strength indicator. Since I’d never seen an exclamation used in such a way, I took it to indicate I wasn’t going to have any luck connecting to internet from home today. I packed up my things, jammed my helmet over my hair, and rode my moped through the rain to the coffee bungalow I work at. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Though seating is outdoor, there’s a hefty table that looks as though it was carved from a tree with a wide umbrella that keeps at least a small portion of the table dry. A woman, one of my regulars, was already sitting in one of the dry seats, apparently waiting for a friend. I sat kitty-corner from her, pulled out my computer, and opened up Blogger with ease. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Unfortunately, I recalled that much of my material for said post was derived from Facebook. I logged in, and was thoroughly distracted from the task at hand. On top of that, my table partner’s friend had arrived and they were chatting up a storm. Huddled around the driest parts of the table as we were, I couldn’t help but overhear most of their conversation. It’s incredibly hard to write anything when you’re listening to other people’s conversations, let me tell you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I overheard some important details, though. Mainly, that my regular’s name was Alice (I’m terrible about exchanging names), and she’d recently injured her back. Though she didn’t have the means to got to a doctor or chiropractor, she has several friends who are healers and massage therapists she could visit. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The images from my dream flashed through my mind, but I was busy and mostly ignored them. Except to note that Alice wore a heather gray shirt, just like the one the dream had shown me. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Mildly frustrated that I’d yet to write more than a few words, and to take a break from the exuberant girly chatter, I went inside to order an espresso. By the time I came back out, the sun had broken through the clouds with force. I sat down at my computer to find the sun’s glare practically blinding me from Facebook. Grudgingly, I rotated to the other side of the table where there was more shade. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I now sat next to Alice, who was describing (as best I could figure while eavesdropping the middle of a story) a trip she took to Greece. While there, she met a woman who utilizes dreams and visions for healing purposes. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My dream’s images came to mind again. This time, I couldn’t ignore them. The table, the umbrella, the grey shirt, the back injury. All while Alice is telling tales of a woman who heals through dreams. Too much, too obvious. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">With as much patience as I could muster, I waited for Alice to finish describing conversations she’d had with the mystic woman from Greece via email. They involved Alice dreaming, opening her email to write the woman about the dream, and finding she’d already received email from the woman describing the dream at hand. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The moment the story paused, I put my hand on Alice’s shoulder. “Hey,” I said. “Tell me your name again?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Alice,” she said. “And I’ve totally forgotten yours?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">That was a relief, I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t remember the name of the person they’d seen three or four times a week for six months. “Kaylani.” I took a deep breath and continued before I had time to think. “Sorry to interrupt but, I’m a healer. And last night I had a dream that I was here, and I healed someone’s back. Can I lay hands on your back?”</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClITHlFsQdnpN8z-frsqQHgVxHFwyEURkdo0LQ5jSSSJGDsUysVTyGGwe3d34GkCc4xQIPnvq-xUoaB4WZ3UgfWVvPBTiLZkkDb3o67hlhwulM5TSJVGCTS1x1ujSatjFMwCUU2QLpVkv/s1600/1445buddha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClITHlFsQdnpN8z-frsqQHgVxHFwyEURkdo0LQ5jSSSJGDsUysVTyGGwe3d34GkCc4xQIPnvq-xUoaB4WZ3UgfWVvPBTiLZkkDb3o67hlhwulM5TSJVGCTS1x1ujSatjFMwCUU2QLpVkv/s320/1445buddha.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>"[We discussed]... Who jesus and Buddha<br />were compared to the religions that now<br />represent them..."</b></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Alice smiled and agreed. “Awesome,” I said. “What I need you to do is focus on hope. Hope for anything, whether its your back being healed or whatever. I’m going to speak, and I’m going to use some hot-button words that can be offensive. That’s when it would be really cool for you to maintain your focus on your hope.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Alice agreed without hesitation. I placed my hands on her back; they were shaking uncontrollably. I rested there for a moment, waiting for them to calm down. “Holy crap my hands are shaky,” I said. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I can totally feel them,” Alice said. But she was patient, and dedicated to her hope focus. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I pressed in with a bit more pressure to steady my hands. The image of my employers in my dream came to mind. I recognized the sense of oppression I felt in the dream, and allowed myself to carry it into Dad’s presence. I’m not positive what specific spirits were affecting the climate, but they needed dealt with. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After several deep breaths, a thought occurred to me - though the dream conversation with my employers indicated a spiritual attack, it's also further proof that I'm in exactly the right place. My mind cleared and I felt the energy in my hands transition from out of control shaking to steady and focused. Then I began to speak. Specifically, I felt urgency to speak three details: 1) I needed to invite Holy Spirit 2) I needed to speak Jesus’s name and declare him King. 3) I described the knots in her back as ice cubes, melting down and out her leg. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After a minute or two of speaking, I paused and asked Alice what she was feeling. It took her a moment to disengage from her focus. “I feel warm,” she said. “Except where your hands are, there’s a line of cold running all the way down my right side.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I looked down and noticed she’d removed her right boot and sock. Beyond excited, I said, “That’s the Holy Spirit, that means your being healed.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“How did you come to identify yourself as a healer?” Alice asked. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Here’s the thing, I think everyone is a healer. It’s just a matter of what parts of our identity we choose to embrace. I find my identity in Jesus. At least in America, I feel like <i>everyone</i> has heard a lot of shit about Jesus. I heard he was a healer. <i>Is</i> a healer, rather. And through a very personal journey, I began discovering I have the same access to healing he demonstrated.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We chatted a bit about this. Alice grew up Catholic, her friend Buddhist in Vietnam. We shared distaste for the corruption and greed in religion, and a hunger for spirituality; disbelief in the systems of man, and who Jesus and Buddha were compared to the religions that now represent them. Wonderful, life giving conversation. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Both women are studying to enter the medical field. We returned to the topic of healing, with Yoga our focus. We discussed classes we’d taken; they shared their favorite classes in Olympia, I shared a vague inkling I’ve had to become a Yoga instructor. “Oh my gosh, you know what,” Alice said suddenly. “I met a Buddhist Monk a while ago. He gave me a book called <i>Yoga With Jesus.” </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My mouth dropped. “You’re kidding me,” I said. “I want to incorporate healing into a class I would call ‘Yoga With Jesus.’”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We freaked out together about how crazy our encounter was for another few minutes, then all realized the time and our growling stomachs. Alice is bringing me <i>Yoga With Jesus </i>whenever she comes in for coffee next. I’ve been gushing about the experience ever since. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As soon as my husband got home, I told him all about it. Having been part of my coffee shop yoga imaginings, he was excited too. “You each had gifts for each other,” he observed. And I freaked out some more about how cool Dad is. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>*Note: Names changed for privacy.</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-25048112578099628012013-09-03T16:56:00.001-07:002013-09-07T10:03:36.995-07:00Between the Coaster and the Open Window<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In the same vein as <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/08/my-dog-my-bills-and-my.html" target="_blank">“Hearing Business,”</a> theres a steady stream of topics Dad has impressed upon me this week. After hearing them all hit on in a podcast I listened to from Bethel, I felt an urgency to share. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">To be real, I don't feel like writing this. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I also had an exiting experience today that I’m eager to share. This stream of prophetic words, however, needs to come first. </span>It's a little tough to write, because I'm receiving from so many sources. And because I'm writing out of obedience, not zest and zeal (lol). </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8uPcNxLubY2bjHvSoBH7ODpeH45g-T_V9FsgYxPEo2RWSWp0uCwLHE2B-hTzF5Diz4mW0tPzSH7pF_daVYOu2RME0pXYAQZHAqk5rUTXlS5SGtyLGPkgnEMQgkrsiI922rnWAAm71tkC4/s1600/sept7_tdh.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/AVvXsEi8uPcNxLubY2bjHvSoBH7ODpeH45g-T_V9FsgYxPEo2RWSWp0uCwLHE2B-hTzF5Diz4mW0tPzSH7pF_daVYOu2RME0pXYAQZHAqk5rUTXlS5SGtyLGPkgnEMQgkrsiI922rnWAAm71tkC4/s1600/sept7_tdh.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">To simplify the variety of words and sources of confirmation, it seems like a good idea to first send you to <a href="http://podcasts.ibethel.org/en/podcasts/today-is-the-day" target="_blank">"Today is the Day."</a> This is a message given by Eric Johnson of Bethel. Below, I'll list off topics and various links to go to if you feel led, related to prophetic words Eric is speaking. To expedite the process, I'll also give you specific times to skip to in the podcast, or to listen for if you want to hear the whole thing. </span></div>
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<b>"New Roller Coaster Ride" </b>(28:05 in podcast)</div>
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<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">On August 20th, I wrote <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/08/roller-coaster-dream.html" target="_blank">"Roller Coaster Dream"</a> about a dream God gave me. This post, along with the next, I am considering the "Part 2" I suggested would be upcoming. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">A friend who goes by Lutherleser commented on the post that he'd also had a roller coaster dream. We talked about it more in depth over Facebook. The term "Storm the Gates" stuck out to me. </span></span></li>
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<b style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">"Stepping into greater revelation of Jesus." (12:15) </b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">and </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><b>"Into the Unknown" (22:00) </b></span></span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">A friend many of you probably know, Praying Medic, is writing a series of stories, <i>Borgen - A Demon's Tale,</i> to help equip and teach on the spirit realm. In <a href="https://www.facebook.com/praying.medic/posts/593311810710127" target="_blank">Part 6, "The Blue Eyed Man,"</a> the main character meets Jesus. In the comments below, Praying Medic says "By the way, I have absolutely NO idea where the blue eyed man is going or what will happen next in the story."</span></span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> I thought that was pretty excellent. "Headed into the unknown. Whoop! I must say, I have never been so captivated </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> by another person's illustration of Jesus. I feel so refreshingly drawn to him, like I woke up excited as Christmas to </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> be closer to him today. Thanks, I haven't been so excited about anything in a while."</span></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">
<i>(</i>Borgen - A Demon's Tale<i> parts 1 through 7 can be found <a href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/praying-medic/bogren-a-demons-tale-chapters-1-7/589693867735772" target="_blank">here.)</a></i></span></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><a href="http://companyofburninghearts.podomatic.com/" target="_blank">"Engaging Mount Zion," </a> a message from The Company of Burning Hearts given July 15th, is relevant here. I won't pinpoint specific times to jump to, but if you have time give it a listen. It's compliments "Today is the Day" nicely. </span></span></li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><b>"Find out where the wind is blowing..." (19:20 through 21:45)</b></span></span></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Beneath the link to "Hearing Business" I shared on Facebook, I had a brief conversation: </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><b>Praying Medic: </b></span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">"So Kaylani - I'm definitely hearing a lot more about finances that I ever have before and it's coming form a lot of different places, just as you found to be true. As offensive as it is to a lot of people in the IC, I think Dad wants to establish an alternative way of funding the stuff we do. Breaking away from the traditional models and creating a kingdom method this is radically different than what's been done in the past.</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> <b>Kaylani Lee Steele: </b>"Uh yeeeaahhh! In conjuntion I'm hearing "storm the gates" and "end of the age" from lots of</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> direction, along with Amos 3:7. I think you're right, and we are going ot have a lot of say in what the new methods</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> look like. </span></span><br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> <b>Luther Leser: </b>"Storm the gates with weapons of joy or like I suggested? I've heard that yours and mine needn't be </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> opposed..."</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> <b>Kaylani Lee Steele: </b>"Have you watched the movie Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind?... I think Nausicaa's tactics</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"> are an amazing illustration of our ideas working in harmony."</span></span></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Praying Medic wrote a blog post called <a href="http://prayingmedic.com/2013/08/27/raising-the-dead/" target="_blank">"Raising The Dead,"</a> to which I refer in my comment to him.</span></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Luther Leser watched <i>Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, </i>and shared the following notes with me:</span></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">It goes this way: when confronted with (X) --> she reacts with (z)</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">outrage --> light and whistling</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">fear --> endurance and love</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">killing --> saving and leading back</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">too much power/enemies --> being quiet/withdrawal</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">being shot at --> no fear of dying</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">imminent death --> threatening it with a weapon</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">And it's said about her that she can read the wind (insert Holy Spirit) like a book. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">------------------------------------</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">The main reason I shared the above list was an effort to further demonstrate my listening process. I tend to pin point a few key phrase or words, and Dad elaborates on them through other people. </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">I'm going to make an effort to sum all this up, because it was vital in preparing me for the day I've had and am so excited to share. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">I receive my identity from Jesus. The more intimately I know him, the more intimately I know myself. The more intimately I know Jesus and myself, the more trust I have to step into the unknown; to step up, belt in, and let the ride role.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">As the Church, we are beginning to recognize that the hunger we've carried for so long isn't a hunger for healing, revolution, miracles, or glory. It's a hunger for Jesus. The healing, revolution, miracles, glory, and more are by-products of our relationship with our King. They're awesome, but they can't satiate our hunger like he can. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">We're headed into the unknown. If you're feeling bored or stagnant, know that there's a wild ride ahead. You were created for adventure - it's coming. Take this time to allow yourself to find the Wind and hear her whispers. The weapons we wielded in line won't do us any good once we step onto the ride. We are a generation of prophets, hearing Holy Spirit and speaking her words into action. We are a generation of healers, releasing new identity and new destiny with each gust of new wind. We are a generation of adventurers, engaging alternate realities and unafraid of the unknown. We are a generation walking in the fulness of our identities, in intimate relationship with Jesus, unlike any before us.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">(*<i>Note: sorry about the formatting issues. They're driving me nuts.)</i></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-16727058042301036202013-08-26T23:08:00.001-07:002013-08-27T08:39:46.703-07:00Hearing BusinessI was walking Somewhere last Tuesday morning, headed to my coffee bungalow for something warm. While I walked, I started thinking about having a conversation with Jesus about finances..<br />
<br />
This is a tendency I'm recently becoming aware of: I imagine what I'd say if I were praying into something, rather than just saying it.<br />
<br />
<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/AVvXsEi4CnygmAK0tKBoOyi36miAG2McEtQhV3R4RdJJDyF4o7yOorHGd6rSjI39ANsmwZh55zrZ86Is_bJBtUzgIxKl36CmswiUItqnlarO35njVxa0Cx3Mbemn3j7Qj_SSX2xsMLwsYc-8_r0r/s1600/Aug26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4CnygmAK0tKBoOyi36miAG2McEtQhV3R4RdJJDyF4o7yOorHGd6rSjI39ANsmwZh55zrZ86Is_bJBtUzgIxKl36CmswiUItqnlarO35njVxa0Cx3Mbemn3j7Qj_SSX2xsMLwsYc-8_r0r/s320/Aug26.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dog, Somewhere, chilling at my coffee bungalow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I used to do the same thing as a kid. My cousins and I would be playing "Dogs," a game in which we'd romp around on all fours and, well, pretend we were dogs. We'd bark, lick water out of bowls, the whole nine yards. But I couldn't just pretend. I had to narrate what I was pretending, so we were all on the same page. "Let's pretend I'm burying a bone here under the couch, and you have to try and steal it..." or "Pretend I'm barking to tell you there's someone sneaking into our hideout." Things like that.<br />
<br />
Finally, my older cousin became exasperated. "You don't have to say 'pretend that...' before you pretend something. Just freakin' do it. That's how you pretend."<br />
<br />
I thought I'd figured the concept out by now. But I keep catching myself essentially saying "pretend that you're praying about finances (or healing, or people, or nations)" instead of just freakin' doing it.<br />
<br />
I caught myself in pretend prayer mode on this walk. I rolled my eyes and, in an effort to drive home the "just do it" lesson, I began speaking to Jesus out loud. I said things like "Jesus, my throne is yours. You are my king," trying to make sure I was fully transitioned out of pretend prayer.<br />
<br />
As though I was with a coach watching game footage to prepare a strategy, Jesus and I reflected on my pretend prayer from a moment ago. I was stressing about money, but didn't want to be. A strategy drifted into my heart: <i>Stop asking, start declaring. </i><br />
<br />
Still aloud, I began making declarations. Precise words, I don't recall. But things along the lines of: I worship Jesus, my King, and he alone. I do not worship money. Money is not my debtor.<br />
<br />
One statement I do specifically remember: "Jeremiah and I will not be prevented from pursuing our purpose by money. Funds will not hinder us, will not close any doors."<br />
<br />
I don't think I've made myself clear yet, but this post is an effort to address two topics: 1) How do I hear God's voice? 2) What is God saying about finances?<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Too often, I hear believers say: "I don't hear God. He doesn't speak to me."<br />
<br />
God is always speaking. His voice is the life in the rain, my dog, my husband, my friends, and even the crazy people cutting me off on the freeway. I need to choose a frequency and tune it. One way I do this is by speaking.<br />
<br />
The more I speak to God, the more I hear Him speak.<br />
<br />
Yes, I have to quiet myself. To stop talking and listen. But I also have to dial in to Dad's station. Doesn't do any good to listen to a radio tuned to static, or in a language I don't speak.<br />
<br />
I made declarations about finances. Dad hasn't stopped talking about them since. He's even started in on my husband, Jeremiah. I stumblingly explained the walk, declarations, and subsequent conversations Dad and I are having about money to Jeremiah two days ago. He came home from work yesterday and said, "Yeah, so, everyone is talking about finances today."<br />
<br />
Rather than write more of my own thoughts, I'm going to share a sampling of the thoughts others have written that caught my radar this week (follow the green links). Dad is talking about finances (and probably some other stuff.). He's not just talking to me. I'd really like to hone in on some specifics, perhaps we can do that together in the comments below.<br />
<br />
1)<a href="http://prayingmedic.com/2013/05/05/rethinking-missions-part-1-funding/" target="_blank"> "Rethinking Missions Part 1 - Funding"</a> was written by <a href="http://prayingmedic.com/" target="_blank">Praying Medic </a> back in May, but I just discovered it. It addresses many thoughts I've had when imagining going to YWAM, Bethel School of Super Natural Ministry, or Iris Ministries' Harvest School of Missions.<br />
<br />
2) <a href="http://rayedwards.com/075/" target="_blank">"You Have Permission to Prosper"</a> is a blog post that a pal from Germany shared. The blog is written by Ray Edwards. I know nothing about him, except that he lives in Spokane, where I've recently discussed moving to open a coffee shop. You can totally just read the post and avoid the gimmicky pod cast.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
3) <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151818922719936&set=a.178800949935.118837.106916074935&type=1&theater" target="_blank">"Your Monday Prophetic Word"</a> was written by Lance Wallnau and shared by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/northwestprophetic?fref=ts" target="_blank">Nor'west Prophetic</a> on Facebook today. I started reading because Nor'west asked, "Is he talking to you? Are you going to sit down and wait for this to be fulfilled in your life, or are you going to go after it..." I kept reading because of Lance's statement, "If you judge yourself accurately, God will judge your enemy swiftly."</div>
<br />
4) <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2013/08/accidental-activist.html" target="_blank">"Accidental Activist"</a> was posted by <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/p/about.html" target="_blank">Jamie the Very Worst Missionary </a> last Wednesday.<br />
<br />
5) <a href="http://podcasts.ibethel.org/en/podcasts/when-nobody-s-looking" target="_blank">"When Nobody's Looking" </a>is a message given by Eric Johnson at Bethel on August 11. I listened to it a few days ago and it struck me as relevant to my financial conversation with Dad, though not directly about cash money.<br />
<br />
*<i><b>Author's note:</b> this is not intended to be a lesson, but an effort to share my learning path. Please be sure to judge these prophetic words for yourself. Eat the meat and spit out the bones, so to speak. </i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-26360721177923213912013-08-20T09:46:00.001-07:002013-08-20T09:48:29.148-07:00Roller Coaster Dream <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2G7XKXCwwWlWtVbanve_VcKy4t8wkdirCz5Yd4b76BM4QGPyoM2yKXDcbGrmwopAooo3Y9TqN6IyUXpZAhuMtFcSzm20fClfDbgruTWnUrUQt6nhokgPHGDEejpL1SqSjBRnWLfIeSsO/s1600/ImageMirror_Aug20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2G7XKXCwwWlWtVbanve_VcKy4t8wkdirCz5Yd4b76BM4QGPyoM2yKXDcbGrmwopAooo3Y9TqN6IyUXpZAhuMtFcSzm20fClfDbgruTWnUrUQt6nhokgPHGDEejpL1SqSjBRnWLfIeSsO/s400/ImageMirror_Aug20.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"'I'm afriad the ride will break,' I replied. The moment I<br />
said it, I knew it was a fear as flimsy as injury or death..."<br />
Photo by Kaylin Roback</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I had a dream at end of July, just before I went to Southern California to visit a friend. We were planning on visiting Six Flags when we got there, so I'm sure that had something to do with the dream's content. I'm terrified of getting on roller coasters. The process of waiting in line is agonizing; I spend the entire time trying to calm myself down from an anxiety attack without drawing other ride goers' attention to myself. I freaking love riding them, though. Once I'm on and that first hill is behind me, I'm happy as a clam.<br />
<br />
The dream opened with me in line behind a sea of blurry strangers, waiting to get on a roller coaster. I consciously noted the intensity of the dream's physical effects - the same gut flipping, lung collapsing anxiety I experience in the natural coursed through my body. I've felt such effects momentarily while dreaming, usually just before a fall wakes me up. This was different, though. I wasn't waking up, the dream had just started.<br />
<br />
I took deep slow breaths. Tried to think about Jesus. Contemplated abandoning the line and skipping the ride. I couldn't move my legs for the fear that gripped me. Memory of roller coasters I've ridden in the past came streaming to me, as though a friend were showing home videos. I could almost feel the exhilarated joy as I stepped off each coaster. Every time, I wanted to go again. I was never disappointed I'd stuck it out and given the ride a go.<br />
<br />
Physical anxiety brought me back into the present state of the dream, where I waited to board the coaster at hand. I'd been just as afraid and tempted to bail before every coaster before. Determined to experience the relief and thrill of the ride's end, I said aloud "I will get on the ride."<br />
<br />
My mind was unwaveringly set. The thought of turning around no longer had any power. My veins pumped adrenaline throughout my body, I still <i>felt </i>terrified. Something, however, had changed. Something at the same time tangible and completely abstract.<br />
<br />
A voice from somewhere outside myself, outside the ride's line, asked "What are you afraid of?"<br />
<br />
I racked my mind. The immediate, and only fears I could think of were being hurt or killed. I brushed them aside like flys. I'll be healed or raised. And as long as the ride functions properly, neither were very possible. "I'm afraid the ride will break," I replied. The moment I said it, I knew it was a fear as flimsy as injury or death.<br />
<br />
I began to discuss with myself and the voice whether my statement was true. Was I was actually afraid of the ride breaking? "I am a child of God," I concluded. "The ride will not break."<br />
<br />
During the dream, this seemed a logical conclusion to a logical thought process. I think what essentially took me there was the realization that, if I trust my Dad, no fear except the fear of God himself was logical. And he wasn't causing my current terror. This wasn't "fear of God." This was an attack, rooted in a tiny chink in my armor created not by my mistrust of God, but by my<i> unrealized </i>and undeclared<i> </i>trust in Him. Once I realized I in fact trust my Dad, I also realized that my fear was lie.<br />
<br />
Just as Jesus quieted the storm, my turning stomach immediately quieted. Calm washed over me. My body was relieved - every tensed muscle relaxed, the breath I held was released. The only thing left to do was get on the ride.<br />
<br />
I am thoroughly sick of writing, thinking, and dreaming about my knee (See <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/05/new-roads-part-1.html" target="_blank">New Roads Part 1</a>, and <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/06/new-roads-part-2.html" target="_blank">New Roads Part 2</a> if you don't know what I'm talking about). One of the reasons I haven't written in a while is every idea I've had seems to revolve around its damage. And I've determined that "No. No I will not write any more about my knee. Until its whole and I can write about the wonderful tingleys that occurred when it was healed."<br />
<br />
Seems that Dad isn't done with the conversation, though. And I'm aching to write something that stirs up my spirit. I didn't realize the dream had anything to do with my stubborn, deaf knee, until just as I was stepping up to my seat, I woke myself up saying "This is how you need to approach healing your knee!"<br />
<br />
When I woke up, saying that aloud, it made perfect sense. I fell back asleep certain I'd had quite the epiphany.<br />
<br />
This was a month ago. My knee is still damaged. Even in my dreams, I'm hindered by it (talk about distorted self image). I've been meditating and Dad's been speaking on the subject ever since, though. Stay tuned for Part 2, where I'll explore what the frack "This is how you need to approach healing your knee!" means, anyway.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-26168806213887656422013-06-13T18:59:00.000-07:002013-06-14T20:31:01.274-07:00New Roads Part 2<b><span style="font-size: large;">Familiar Spirits</span></b><br />
<h2>
<i>[For an audio version of this post, play the video at the bottom of the page.]</i></h2>
When I wrote <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/05/new-roads-part-1.html#more" target="_blank">Part 1</a>, Dad had been speaking to me about "familiar spirits." I didn't realize that's what we'd been conversing about until recently. The term "familiar spirits" isn't mine, it's one I've heard used by folks who've spoken words about the concept that resonated with me. Whenever I use the term though, it feels a little foreign and religious. I don't like it, but I don't have anything better just yet.<br />
<br />
I'm going to discuss a little of my experiences over the past couple weeks recognizing and addressing familiar spirits related to my knee. I'm not going to go into real extensive detail over the theology behind the concept because I think its been covered very well by others.<br />
<br />
One great source for theology on the concept is <a href="http://companyofburninghearts.wordpress.com/about/" target="_blank">The Company of Burning Hearts</a>, a team in Wales, UK founded by Justin and Rachel Abraham. They've got a<a href="http://companyofburninghearts.wordpress.com/new-podcasts/" target="_blank"> free podcast</a>; if you haven't downloaded it I recommend it. Not because I agree with everything their speakers say, but because every time I listen, they're speaking about something ridiculously relevant in my current conversations with Dad.<br />
<br />
The Podcast below, "Episode 30 - Familiar Spirits," is <a href="http://www.sonofthunder.org/" target="_blank">Ian Clayton</a> speaking on June 25th 2011. I found it last week, after asking Dad for something to listen to while trying to get my knee healed. The title didn't catch my eye, because I wasn't looking to learn about familiar spirits. Something about the description engaged me, though, so I hit play.<br />
<br />
A reference to the Lone Ranger and Tonto early in the podcast confirmed I was on the right track; it was the third unsolicited such reference I'd encountered in a day or two. If you're giving it a go, Ian gets good and poignant at about 5:50. I read <i>American Gods</i> by Neil Gaiman recently, and Ian hits on exactly the message I received from that book.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="85" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://companyofburninghearts.podomatic.com/embed/frame/posting/2011-06-25T06_42_58-07_00?json_url=http%3A%2F%2Fcompanyofburninghearts.podomatic.com%2Fentry%2Fembed_params%2F2011-06-25T06_42_58-07_00%3Fcolor%3Df8ae06%26autoPlay%3Dfalse%26width%3D440%26height%3D85%26objembed%3D0" width="440"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
As I listened, I began to recognize the moods I've been experiencing since injuring my knee were very much what Ian was describing. A literal dialogue in my mind speaking lies directly aimed at my identity and relationship with Dad. Beyond that, I began to recognize that I hadn't heard that dialogue in a very long time, but I had heard it before - word for word - when I last tore my ACL. Deja vu.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigm3S7UoRpNiFpze4CCv5q3JtPwzPvqFv-FD0EkNbQAfufbxs3H-7kHZ7Xl7psnTeAzNlz8N1NjEJoxfT4tD6hrwn_Vzyqbgmdve9xRJuTBdPHbqI0R4hEzfpz0iBE27j7oM-L3g1DdWHG/s1600/June6_ShutDoor.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigm3S7UoRpNiFpze4CCv5q3JtPwzPvqFv-FD0EkNbQAfufbxs3H-7kHZ7Xl7psnTeAzNlz8N1NjEJoxfT4tD6hrwn_Vzyqbgmdve9xRJuTBdPHbqI0R4hEzfpz0iBE27j7oM-L3g1DdWHG/s400/June6_ShutDoor.png" width="400" /></a>While I laid hands on my knee, the image of a heavy wooden door came to mind and I spoke the words "I close the door this injury opened." I then invited Holy Spirit into my knee via a door I built just for Her. I'm still weeding out familiar spirits, but they're getting less and less frequent (at least in regards to my knee).<br />
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Seems like in the moment I first injured my knee years ago, a door was created by a brushfire of fear, fueled by Fword-inducing pain. That door has been open until now. When it was open, I'd take authority and clean house of familiar spirits, only to have more walk right in. Now, they leave and have no entrance through which to return with friends.<br />
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That's my best effort at describing this thing that's happening, at least.<br />
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This time, when I injured my knee, I was quite calm in comparison. I knew exactly what had been done. I didn't cry or curse. Immediately, my mind went to Jesus and I began releasing healing. The moment I hit the ground, I rebuked the pain. My friend Meghan sat by me and laid hands, too. What an awesome place to get healed and demonstrate Dad's presence, I thought.<br />
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I don't want to say I wasn't healed, or I'm not healed. I firmly believe, in fact, that I am healed.<br />
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The evidence remains, though, that my knee is quite swollen, often painful, and limited to a restricted range of motion.<br />
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How to respond then, when folks lay hands and my knee seems the same once they're done. When my co-workers and customers ask how I'm doing, what do I say?<br />
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I've noticed these questions are triggers for familiar spirits. Immediately they begin to commiserate with me and a wave of negative emotions drops on my shoulders. They agree that It's all so unfair, I will indeed never play volleyball again, I'll obviously be in pain the rest of my life I can't even drop to my knees in worship it's all awful. <br />
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None of which is true, nor are they responses that I'm willing to give.<br />
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Do I lie, then, and say it's much better?<i> Oh yes! I'm healed, praise God! </i>While limping and wincing.<br />
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Not necessarily a lie, because I <i>am</i> healed. But it's not exactly true, either.<br />
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A little further into the podcast, at 12:20, Ian says something that really impacted my healing journey: "We go into Heaven to get clean. We don't get clean to go into Heaven... All you've got to do is just practice.<br />
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Like I said in<a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/05/new-roads-part-1.html" target="_blank"> Part 1</a>, I'm done with evidence. I'm seeking the unseen. I need practice, because so far I'm not even very acute at recognizing the unseen when it smacks me in the face. In order to practice, I decided to get back to work. Couldn't tell you why except that, as I noted, I've never worked with a broken knee before.<br />
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It's been a few weeks, and I've got a hunch there's more to it.<br />
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Let me tell you, if you hate your job, getting a new one won't fix things. My theory is that, if we're living out of our throne in Heaven, regardless of what we're doing here on earth it should be pretty fricken awesome. Familiar spirits are really fricken good at ruining your awesome.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXm5-zKAyBFuB6_r5IBGsKb38Orj3pbDtgEDZ7UjIh1VxKWA51e5oEpuuU78G-1InSFD_rcupDbgWQHuUwZxRHoQ9gx1LWoHcC4vdcISSS-mCZo6uwoyw1DufOpW74_uL-iqSx5HR5DZIT/s1600/June13_latteart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXm5-zKAyBFuB6_r5IBGsKb38Orj3pbDtgEDZ7UjIh1VxKWA51e5oEpuuU78G-1InSFD_rcupDbgWQHuUwZxRHoQ9gx1LWoHcC4vdcISSS-mCZo6uwoyw1DufOpW74_uL-iqSx5HR5DZIT/s320/June13_latteart.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pouring love is good practice.</td></tr>
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I returned to work and promptly experienced more deja vu. Familiar spirits I'd heard before were back. These weren't as interested in my knee, though they worked together nicely. Had I not been ushering some spirits out of my knee door, I wouldn't have recognized these ones. I hadn't heard them since leaving my last job a few months ago. Even in such a short time, I'd forgotten them enough to provide some camouflage before I recognized them. <br />
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I'm practicing. If I want experience dealing with familiar spirits, I need to get knee deep in their territory. That's where I've been.<br />
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My mission isn't to seek and destroy spirits, however. Let me clarify. I'm practicing entering into the Heavenly realm and resting in Dad's presence. It's one thing to practice in the comfort of my living room or at a worship service (which I've done, and its good!); it's another to practice in the thick of enemy territory. Not better or worse, but other.<br />
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What has practice been looking like so far? Nothing flashy or newsworthy. I started by paying attention to my internal dialogue and consciously discerning whether I was speaking, Dad was speaking, or a familiar spirit was speaking. This took a while at first, but I'm getting pretty quick.<br />
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Discernment alone, no matter how fast my draw, didn't exactly help. I had to also experiment with ways to pick my mood back up, to continue engaging with and releasing Kingdom in every interaction.<br />
I'm still experimenting to be honest. Sometimes, I run through a list of key aspects of my Christly identity. Sometimes, I sing or hum in tongues. Sometimes I just start telling Dad what I'm feeling, giving him the crap and receiving gold in return.<br />
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Receiving can be hard. I'm sure Dad is constantly showering me in gold and most often, I've got my umbrella up trying to avoid it. It occurred to me, while heaping piles of apathy and complaints on Dad, that he should probably be getting some Glory too. That's when those questions, the ones that used to trigger familiar spirits, became opportunities.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZkZhUfyd6i7JN5n0OsKkd7v2iA9f13iRI6E3CpncUndHmgAPA9_bFZGLz4m4vJEQ7aVk1D-nhF7PdYs4ravNFb0Q7Z_NM0wSpfAwoMifdN9KfF_zl1Gg0s1aQS-KmhxMcqiXbXJ9dUW6/s1600/June13_Gold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZkZhUfyd6i7JN5n0OsKkd7v2iA9f13iRI6E3CpncUndHmgAPA9_bFZGLz4m4vJEQ7aVk1D-nhF7PdYs4ravNFb0Q7Z_NM0wSpfAwoMifdN9KfF_zl1Gg0s1aQS-KmhxMcqiXbXJ9dUW6/s320/June13_Gold.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Golden opportunities from Heaven.</td></tr>
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As people continued asking "How's your knee doing?" I began experimenting with responses that glorified Jesus. I'm a tad ashamed of how difficult its been, though in retrospect unsurprised. So far, I've landed on "It's healing." I think I can do better.<br />
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While closing the cafe, I like to turn the music up as loud as possible and sing in tongues or gibberish. Sometimes, I sink quickly into the Holy Spirit zone and my mind shuts its yappy mouth. Other times, I have to constantly quiet myself. Or, I let my mind do whatever and just try not to question whether I'm speaking in tongues or gibberish. While counting the till one afternoon, after being particularly put off by my mind's interference, I got the idea to try speaking in tongues while counting money. I couldn't do it! Since accuracy was highly important, I gave up for the time being, but I intend to practice at home with my own money.<br />
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Like I said, I'm not practicing to win battles with familiar spirits. The battle is already won. I'm practicing stepping into the Unseen. I will, for example, practice discerning spirits. Not for the sake of acknowledging or battling, but so that eventually I don't have to pay them any attention at all.<br />
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Throughout the past couple weeks, my friends have said some very encouraging and loving things. For me, though, I was bolstered most when they expressed their trials with familiar spirits; not commiserating, but sharing experience. Knowing that I'm not alone on my path has been vital. Have you been dealing with similar ideas, concepts, or issues? What's Dad saying to you? What have you been practicing?<br />
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<b><i>Read <a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/05/new-roads-part-1.html" target="_blank">Part 1</a> and<a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/06/new-roads-175-re-release.html" target="_blank"> Part 1.75</a> by clicking :)</i></b><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-51781692898500486072013-06-03T21:00:00.001-07:002013-06-03T21:21:58.558-07:00New Roads 1.75 (Re-Release)<br />
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Blackberries </h4>
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<i>I'm re-releasing this post with a reading by yours truly. I'm hoping to engage with anyone who hates reading, which up till now hasn't been the case. I don't know why the finalized version of the video decided to chop off my forehead, I'll have to work on that for future releases. Featured music is </i>"<i>All Men" by<b> Simon The Leper </b>from the </i>You Are OK E.P. Find it at http://simontheleper.bandcamp.com.</div>
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I'm writing this dystopic fiction story novel thing. It's called <i>Extinguishment</i>. Or <i>Fire Starter</i>. Or neither of those. I started writing it last November for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and have been fiddling with it ever since. </div>
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A detail I've been really trying to grasp is one of the main settings: Olympia, after being deserted and completely unoccupied for at least 200 years. My characters have moved in, they're setting up camp, they're galavanting through the ruins and finding all kinds of cool crap. </div>
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So what do they see? Smell? Stub their toes on? </div>
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I've imagined they'd find an ample supply of coffee, a printing press, some houses still standing, old cars, heaps and heaps of plastic water bottles. Tumwater Falls is the only source of potable water left in North America; communities have been established at The Falls, and in the train tunnel downtown. </div>
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Plant life has been a major factor in how I picture this new Olympia. Since November, I figured the whole place has been completely overtaken by blackberries. With no natural predator and no people to tame the bushes, it seemed logical. </div>
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The ground, except where roads were paved, is completely overgrown with the thorny bushes, greatly restricting already restricted travel. Not to mention the spattering of hybrid blackberry bushes whose genetic makeup fused with nano-bots and evolved highly lethal, shooting thorns. So basically, you travel the paved roads, or don't travel. </div>
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As I mentioned in<a href="http://thedailyhereticblog.blogspot.com/2013/06/new-roads-part-175.html" target="_blank"> Part 1</a>, I had a vision about blackberries. These are those blackberries. </div>
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I sat in the living room in our new apartment with my knee elevated, trying to ignore the boxes and piles of random crap that needed unpacked. With no internet or television to distract me, I opened my notebook and started writing. Almost immediately, I hit a wall in the story that required a more firm understanding of the setting. Something told me the current blackberry situation wasn't going to cut it. </div>
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With a sigh, I said "Dad, what <i>does</i> this Olympia look like?" I started to imagine a tropical climate (I've been learning about climate change). Not only have the pines been replaced with palms, a natural enemy to blackberries has been introduced. The tropical plants, both natural and hybrid nano-bot beasts, grow in such abundance the blackberries are almost completely choked out. </div>
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<i>Almost. </i>They did find a means of survival. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAev4rWp3YZ7-lUpbNx4fzyLqrMIvslL9qDZGtJ3Id79VSbph4uCuHarWwdHWokLiNf7O0ftINYVG2-VUWG9BrVn7BvlAtrsow-EqR5LNInjMWAOiGzsx2nI-qg_2pe_9HRDgDAP8mYKuP/s1600/blackberries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAev4rWp3YZ7-lUpbNx4fzyLqrMIvslL9qDZGtJ3Id79VSbph4uCuHarWwdHWokLiNf7O0ftINYVG2-VUWG9BrVn7BvlAtrsow-EqR5LNInjMWAOiGzsx2nI-qg_2pe_9HRDgDAP8mYKuP/s400/blackberries.jpg" width="238" /></a>The asphalt used to pave our roads has rendered the soil beneath toxic. None of the new tropical plants can grow where asphalt was laid. So, where we now have roads, there are rivers of painful and lethal blackberries. </div>
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Suddenly I realized there are no roads in my story. Likely, no one in my story even knows what roads are. They're creating new roads out of necessity, and don't even realize it. </div>
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I started writing again with vigor. It wasn't until a few days later, when I wrote Part 1, that I realized God had given me this vision. Here I was, thinking I tapped into my own vast imagination. If you'll remember with me, though, I asked Dad a question. He's faithful about answering questions. </div>
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Cool. SO. Not only did this imagery give me context for my story, it also gave me context for the shift me and my fellows are experiencing. </div>
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We're stepping into a new climate, and engaging relationally with Dad in ways that we haven't been taught. The roads that got us here won't get us much further. We're going to need to not only take new roads, but take paths that won't exist until we travel them. </div>
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There's a story in acts 10. A friend I call Wee Todd brought this story to my attention while praying with a group of awesome folks at an explosive Memorial Day BBQ (which I'll need to tell you about in the next post.) I'd never heard this story, but Dad flipped my Bible open to it a few days ago (another story I'll need to tell you about). </div>
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The story begins with a guy named Cornelius. He's a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion" target="_blank">centurion</a>, described as "a devout man who feared God with all his house, which gave much alms to the people, and prayed to God always (2)." God sends an angel to this guy, and tells him to take some troops to Joppa and find Peter. </div>
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Peter is hanging out, minding his own business, praying on a rooftop in his prayer closet, when God gives him a vision. Had he taken the vision literally, he'd have immediately gone and found some bugs to smash and eat (12-13). Instead, he argued with God a bit and came to understand the vision wasn't about eating bugs and animals, but about trusting and accepting friendship with Cornelius. Peter and his pals were Jews, you see; the mighty chosen people of God. Cornelius, and all the friends and family he gathered to hear Peter, were unclean, uncircumcised (gasp!) Gentiles. The two groups didn't mix well, until this story. </div>
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Peter starts telling the gathered Gentiles about his time with Jesus. "God annointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Ghost and with power: who went about doing good and healing all that were oppressed of the devil; for God was with with him (38)," Peter explained. "... He commanded us to preach to people and testify that Jesus was ordained of God to be the judge of quick and dead (42)... </div>
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As Peter spoke, the Holy Spirit dropped on everyone listening. Peter's friends tripped out because uncircumcised outcasts were speaking in tongues and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost (46). Not only that, but now Peter wants to baptize them all (48). </div>
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Back in Judea, the apostles heard that Peter was off baptizing hooligans (11:1-3). They weren't happy. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlWAheiqzy50mrYctZ_aky-dJSQxHo_-qhYdVYZiaE5tdYNqdi5hJio7V7Giqii8z3S-yqLyxcXZVQRQhKcWds5eFaHkiVaqqzCENphuc5msq3oS2icgxhyphenhyphencPtUOR2DTaYCTZ7fnrswfJ/s1600/cobbler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlWAheiqzy50mrYctZ_aky-dJSQxHo_-qhYdVYZiaE5tdYNqdi5hJio7V7Giqii8z3S-yqLyxcXZVQRQhKcWds5eFaHkiVaqqzCENphuc5msq3oS2icgxhyphenhyphencPtUOR2DTaYCTZ7fnrswfJ/s320/cobbler.jpg" width="191" /></a>Woah, Peter. Slow down. We've paved some religious roads and, as far as we know, people have got to travel them before they can be baptized. You can't just bypass the roads we've established and start doing your own thing. </div>
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Peter, calmly I'm sure, recounted both his story and Cornelius's: Listen, guys. I didn't plan this. I know we've never done this before, but God just went ahead and gave these guys the Holy Spirit. I didn't tell them anything about speaking in tongues, and all of a sudden there they are, speaking in tongues, glorifying God. How could I not baptize them? (4-15)</div>
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Remember, Peter continued, when Jesus said "John indeed baptized with water; but you shall be baptized with the Holy Ghost (16)." Just as we believed on Jesus Christ and received the gifts of the Holy Ghost, so did these gentiles. </div>
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After listening to Peter, the apostles got it. Gentiles can repent and have relationship with God too. Sweet deal. Let's start a revolution. </div>
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That's where we're at. We're Peter and Cornelius, seeking God, abandoning the pre-paved roads we've been told will take us to Him. Maybe not of our own accord; perhaps we've been abandoned or wounded by our churches/families/friends and feel forced away from the thorns on these pre-paved paths.</div>
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Maybe we're just sensitive to thorns and prefer the sweat it takes to forge our own path in unknown territory. </div>
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Maybe we don't yet want to be like Cornelius and Peter. We'd rather take the easy, paved roads as long as possible. </div>
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I don't think its going to be possible much longer. But that's my interpretation of my vision. Do these images have any meaning for you? Do blackberries or roads hold symbolic significance in your life? If you have any alternative, contradictory, or even complimentary interpretations, feel free to share. Seriously, you're free! Share freely! </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-1704191554294519382013-06-02T20:15:00.003-07:002013-06-02T20:15:37.804-07:00Celebration! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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3,000 Pageviews</span></h3>
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<span style="color: orange;">Woo! Yeah!</span></div>
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I wanted to snag a screen shot right at 3000 but I was too late. 3005 it is.</div>
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Dad told me to celebrate this milestone. In response, I expressed some apprehension. <i>Come on</i> Dad, 3000 is a big number for me but what does is really mean? And anyway, there are blogs that probably get 3000 views on a single post. It's taken my all time history to rack up those digits!</div>
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Anyway, I'm not writing for views. I'm writing for the sake of my health. So, there, Dad. Why must I celebrate? </div>
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He kept at me, prompting me with the idea for a screen shot and a blog post. </div>
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As if to reiterate my own misgivings, a couple bloggers I follow happened to post Facebook statuses mentioning things like "This post got 60,000 views so here's a collection of my most popular..." </div>
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Rather than celebrate for my fellow bloggers, I immediately began comparing myself. Almost as immediately, I thought: C<i>rap. I'm missing the point. </i></div>
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So here it is. A celebration of those who've clicked on my blog, those who've stuck around to read, and particularly those who comment and/or share. I even used colorful font up at the top, there. </div>
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I need to write because it is my art. I enjoy writing about my relationship with Dad because it helps me digest. That a single person feels compelled to read blows my mind. Thanks friends! You're awesome!</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-91776449536589547502013-06-02T12:40:00.003-07:002013-06-03T20:59:08.232-07:00New Roads Part 1.75 <h4>
Blackberries </h4>
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I'm writing this dystopic fiction story novel thing. It's called <i>Extinguishment</i>. Or <i>Fire Starter</i>. Or neither of those. I started writing it last November for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and have been fiddling with it ever since. </div>
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A detail I've been really trying to grasp is one of the main settings: Olympia, after being deserted and completely unoccupied for at least 200 years. My characters have moved in, they're setting up camp, they're galavanting through the ruins and finding all kinds of cool crap. </div>
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So what do they see? Smell? Stub their toes on? </div>
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I've imagined they'd find an ample supply of coffee, a printing press, some houses still standing, old cars, heaps and heaps of plastic water bottles. Tumwater Falls is the only source of potable water left in North America; communities have been established at The Falls, and in the train tunnel downtown. </div>
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Plant life has been a major factor in how I picture this new Olympia. Since November, I figured the whole place has been completely overtaken by blackberries. With no natural predator and no people to tame the bushes, it seemed logical. </div>
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The ground, except where roads were paved, is completely overgrown with the thorny bushes, greatly restricting already restricted travel. Not to mention the spattering of hybrid blackberry bushes whose genetic makeup fused with nano-bots and evolved highly lethal, shooting thorns. So basically, you travel the paved roads, or don't travel. </div>
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As I mentioned in Part 1, I had a vision about blackberries. These are those blackberries. </div>
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I sat in the living room in our new apartment with my knee elevated, trying to ignore the boxes and piles of random crap that needed unpacked. With no internet or television to distract me, I opened my notebook and started writing. Almost immediately, I hit a wall in the story that required a more firm understanding of the setting. Something told me the current blackberry situation wasn't going to cut it. </div>
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With a sigh, I said "Dad, what <i>does</i> this Olympia look like?" I started to imagine a tropical climate (I've been learning about climate change). Not only have the pines been replaced with palms, a natural enemy to blackberries has been introduced. The tropical plants, both natural and hybrid nano-bot beasts, grow in such abundance the blackberries are almost completely choked out. </div>
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<i>Almost. </i>They did find a means of survival. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAev4rWp3YZ7-lUpbNx4fzyLqrMIvslL9qDZGtJ3Id79VSbph4uCuHarWwdHWokLiNf7O0ftINYVG2-VUWG9BrVn7BvlAtrsow-EqR5LNInjMWAOiGzsx2nI-qg_2pe_9HRDgDAP8mYKuP/s1600/blackberries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAev4rWp3YZ7-lUpbNx4fzyLqrMIvslL9qDZGtJ3Id79VSbph4uCuHarWwdHWokLiNf7O0ftINYVG2-VUWG9BrVn7BvlAtrsow-EqR5LNInjMWAOiGzsx2nI-qg_2pe_9HRDgDAP8mYKuP/s400/blackberries.jpg" width="238" /></a>The asphalt used to pave our roads has rendered the soil beneath toxic. None of the new tropical plants can grow where asphalt was laid. So, where we now have roads, there are rivers of painful and lethal blackberries. </div>
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Suddenly I realized there are no roads in my story. Likely, no one in my story even knows what roads are. They're creating new roads out of necessity, and don't even realize it. </div>
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I started writing again with vigor. It wasn't until a few days later, when I wrote Part 1, that I realized God had given me this vision. Here I was, thinking I tapped into my own vast imagination. If you'll remember with me, though, I asked Dad a question. He's faithful about answering questions. </div>
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Cool. SO. Not only did this imagery give me context for my story, it also gave me context for the shift me and my fellows are experiencing. </div>
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We're stepping into a new climate, and engaging relationally with Dad in ways that we haven't been taught. The roads that got us here won't get us much further. We're going to need to not only take new roads, but take paths that won't exist until we travel them. </div>
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There's a story in acts 10. A friend I call Wee Todd brought this story to my attention while praying with a group of awesome folks at an explosive Memorial Day BBQ (which I'll need to tell you about in the next post.) I'd never heard this story, but Dad flipped my Bible open to it a few days ago (another story I'll need to tell you about). </div>
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The story begins with a guy named Cornelius. He's a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion" target="_blank">centurion</a>, described as "a devout man who feared God with all his house, which gave much alms to the people, and prayed to God always (2)." God sends an angel to this guy, and tells him to take some troops to Joppa and find Peter. </div>
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Peter is hanging out, minding his own business, praying on a rooftop in his prayer closet, when God gives him a vision. Had he taken the vision literally, he'd have immediately gone and found some bugs to smash and eat (12-13). Instead, he argued with God a bit and came to understand the vision wasn't about eating bugs and animals, but about trusting and accepting friendship with Cornelius. Peter and his pals were Jews, you see; the mighty chosen people of God. Cornelius, and all the friends and family he gathered to hear Peter, were unclean, uncircumcised (gasp!) Gentiles. The two groups didn't mix well, until this story. </div>
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Peter starts telling the gathered Gentiles about his time with Jesus. "God annointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Ghost and with power: who went about doing good and healing all that were oppressed of the devil; for God was with with him (38)," Peter explained. "... He commanded us to preach to people and testify that Jesus was ordained of God to be the judge of quick and dead (42)... </div>
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As Peter spoke, the Holy Spirit dropped on everyone listening. Peter's friends tripped out because uncircumcised outcasts were speaking in tongues and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost (46). Not only that, but now Peter wants to baptize them all (48). </div>
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Back in Judea, the apostles heard that Peter was off baptizing hooligans (11:1-3). They weren't happy. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlWAheiqzy50mrYctZ_aky-dJSQxHo_-qhYdVYZiaE5tdYNqdi5hJio7V7Giqii8z3S-yqLyxcXZVQRQhKcWds5eFaHkiVaqqzCENphuc5msq3oS2icgxhyphenhyphencPtUOR2DTaYCTZ7fnrswfJ/s1600/cobbler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlWAheiqzy50mrYctZ_aky-dJSQxHo_-qhYdVYZiaE5tdYNqdi5hJio7V7Giqii8z3S-yqLyxcXZVQRQhKcWds5eFaHkiVaqqzCENphuc5msq3oS2icgxhyphenhyphencPtUOR2DTaYCTZ7fnrswfJ/s320/cobbler.jpg" width="191" /></a>Woah, Peter. Slow down. We've paved some religious roads and, as far as we know, people have got to travel them before they can be baptized. You can't just bypass the roads we've established and start doing your own thing. </div>
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Peter, calmly I'm sure, recounted both his story and Cornelius's: Listen, guys. I didn't plan this. I know we've never done this before, but God just went ahead and gave these guys the Holy Spirit. I didn't tell them anything about speaking in tongues, and all of a sudden there they are, speaking in tongues, glorifying God. How could I not baptize them? (4-15)</div>
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Remember, Peter continued, when Jesus said "John indeed baptized with water; but you shall be baptized with the Holy Ghost (16)." Just as we believed on Jesus Christ and received the gifts of the Holy Ghost, so did these gentiles. </div>
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After listening to Peter, the apostles got it. Gentiles can repent and have relationship with God too. Sweet deal. Let's start a revolution. </div>
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That's where we're at. We're Peter and Cornelius, seeking God, abandoning the pre-paved roads we've been told will take us to Him. Maybe not of our own accord; perhaps we've been abandoned or wounded by our churches/families/friends and feel forced away from the thorns on these pre-paved paths.</div>
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Maybe we're just sensitive to thorns and prefer the sweat it takes to forge our own path in unknown territory. </div>
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Maybe we don't yet want to be like Cornelius and Peter. We'd rather take the easy, paved roads as long as possible. </div>
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I don't think its going to be possible much longer. But that's my interpretation of my vision. Do these images have any meaning for you? Do blackberries or roads hold symbolic significance in your life? If you have any alternative, contradictory, or even complimentary interpretations, feel free to share. Seriously, you're free! Share freely! </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-64917190087159694842013-05-26T12:37:00.002-07:002013-06-02T08:56:45.160-07:00New Roads Part 1<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There was a period of time in my life, just a few years ago, when I didn’t have a relationship with Jesus but I knew deep down I believed everything I’d heard about him. Dad brought me into community with my peers, people I worked with and lived life with, who were in a similar place relationally in their walk with Dad. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Together, we grew. We delved into our Bibles, ate together, we drank and smoked hookah and prayed. As our relationships with each other were knit closer and tighter, so were our relationships with Dad. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">None of us called God “Dad” when we first started. Now, I don’t think any of us uses the title “God.” We’ve gotten to a point in our relationships that “God” is too unfamiliar, too cold. Dad, Daddy, Papa, Father - are better words to describe our creator, our lover, our best friend. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One of the big topics for me on my journey into relationship with Dad was healing. Any conversation, and chapter or verse, could lead to a conversation about Dad’s will to heal people. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I think at the start, my friends and I wanted to believe God heals, but we all shared doubts and misgivings and painful past experiences. Slowly and methodically, though, Dad revealed his heart to us. By now, three years from the start of our Bible studies, I can’t think of a one of us who hasn’t been healed miraculously. Not one of us hasn’t been part of laying hands and getting someone healed. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My friend Josiah had a headache one morning while we opened our coffee shop. I started praying for his healing while doing dishes (I was too nervous to offer to lay hands). Suddenly, he turned to me and asked “Have you been praying for my head? Because it doesn’t ache anymore.” </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our friend Esa had a torn ACL when we met him. As a group, we all laid hands and prayed. He was too stunned to make a big deal about it, and we were too nervous to poignantly ask. Eventually, after months of him not using a cane or feeling pain, we all accepted that he was completely healed and we’d been part of it. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>My husband Jeremiah and I laid hands on our pastor's back on our way to the "alter," and he got better.<br />
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Two co-workers had kidney infections healed.<br />
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Our chihuahua survived getting hit by a mini van.<br />
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My mom's migraines don't stand a chance against these hands.<br />
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The first stranger I laid hands on, an elderly homeless woman with crippling back pain, said "Lot's of people have prayed for me. <i>That's</i> never happened."<br />
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She got up abruptly to leave, and as she made her way to the door I asked "Do you feel better?"<br />
Without turning or pausing she shouted, "I'm walking aren't I?"<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">*One of my favorite stories happened a few months ago. Claire’s mom had to have surgery on her right shoulder. A calcium deposit was slicing through the muscles and tendons around the joint, causing overwhelming pain. Surgery took months to recover from, on top of the months of pain that led up to it.<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/AVvXsEiCPPzRSGTuGkGVYGcoaS-BJ2Xu2BA2IVPqW-GNe1BSIbEUlO4qJbezDkkh-pGl4BGj-56S3hh4-qRxEIeAAx5eP3EvaHh6ZDJRYmPr8gkqlVBilc0PGG5jDYjHzBxGi40nnvlNyYY8_754/s1600/IMAG0949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPPzRSGTuGkGVYGcoaS-BJ2Xu2BA2IVPqW-GNe1BSIbEUlO4qJbezDkkh-pGl4BGj-56S3hh4-qRxEIeAAx5eP3EvaHh6ZDJRYmPr8gkqlVBilc0PGG5jDYjHzBxGi40nnvlNyYY8_754/s320/IMAG0949.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Claire's sign: "Joy is a weapon."<br />
Winter's sign: "Smile, the sun's out" </td></tr>
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Eventually, she did fully recover, but peace was short-lived. Inability to use her right shoulder caused her to overuse her left shoulder, generating new, painful issues.<br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Claire was sick of seeing her mom hurting, and wanted her healed. When Claire got to this part of the story, I almost danced for joy: “I really wanted to wait until you could lay hands with me,” she said. “But then I decided, ‘I don’t need Kaylani here, dammit, I can do this.’” So she laid hands, prayed, and her mom’s shoulder is doing just fine thank you.* </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We required extensive preparation, first of our minds and then, after some persuasion, our hearts, for Dad to convince us his will was that all are healed. We got involved laying hands sheepishly at first, and only on those we trusted. Every time we stepped out, Dad turned our faith into substance, into the evidence of things unseen. So often, that I began to offer healing to customers, and to coworkers who weren’t part of our Bible study, as did my friends. I can’t think of any who didn't experience God and get healed.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Until now, that is. </span><br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I tore my ACL and meniscus about four years ago while playing volleyball. After receiving a cadaver tendon and six months of physical therapy, I played volleyball for two more years in highly competitive college environments. No further damage was sustained to my knee, but my spirit was pretty busted up. I got entirely too interested in vicodin and rum, resentment, anger, and self-pity coursed through my veins. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmx770tBbEqZXbXCwUUEwJlk_TpxsDxUxCEq2FzH04csLivTFIkZ4szmFnJkr87-cC0MHJfcz6BD-RT3moxaFVGlPaV1zVDqoXzQn6bPdcZ8x3oIrxuO57o8bKhSGMCdlq45ipajwP66F/s1600/zombies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmx770tBbEqZXbXCwUUEwJlk_TpxsDxUxCEq2FzH04csLivTFIkZ4szmFnJkr87-cC0MHJfcz6BD-RT3moxaFVGlPaV1zVDqoXzQn6bPdcZ8x3oIrxuO57o8bKhSGMCdlq45ipajwP66F/s320/zombies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just the family, being knit together via zombie makeup.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One of the reasons Dad had to prepare my mind before my heart was I couldn’t allow him into my heart. It was too filled with the familiar self-pitty and resentment. But Dad knows what he’s doing, and he infiltrated my heart with resounding success. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Last Monday, playing in an extremely non-competitive game at Capitol Lake Park, I severely re-damaged my knee. I haven’t gone to the doctor because I haven’t worked all week and can’t afford a copay. That’s the logical brain reason at least. The heart reason is that I’m convinced of Dad’s will to heal and I’m pretty convinced I’m no exception. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yet, despite my friends’ and husband’s eager efforts at laying hands, along with my own, my knee is resolutely swollen and painful. I’ve been nearly immobile all week. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At the same time, my husband has been dealing with chronic sinus congestion that, despite our most faith-filled prayers, hasn’t gone away. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We’re on the verge of a major freak out, folks. (Lol)</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">God has been talking to me about two topics, which I’m going to explore in the next post. The first is familiar spirits, how to recognize and deal with them, and why they're relevant in this context. The second is a vision Dad gave me, which was interpreted alongside some dreams. For now, I’ll say the vision has me convinced that the roads that brought me here aren’t available any more, I’ve got to try new ones.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So, today I’m headed to work. Because I’ve never worked on a broken knee. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Here’s what I’m going to do my best to focus on while I’m serving coffee and janitor-ing after close: Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen. Dad has provided ample substance healing me and those in my life. He’s given me evidence of the unseen. Now I’m going into the unseen. By golly I’m done with evidence, I’m seeking the unseen the evidence is proving. </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ll let ya know how it goes. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>*Portion edited for accuracy after consulting with Claire. </i></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11000356615663835404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166824581617874110.post-23407940348134834792013-05-08T12:02:00.001-07:002013-05-08T12:08:06.689-07:00The Sky Is Falling<table align="center" 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/AVvXsEj51twg0lYKrWn1GCGVNRPlG2sJuJgmCnliMinDCN-qdN2OLbi8wv7h7VPwcagza1qECO8uzJLC-86xL0zoCSE4QDyCrwonFfo7_qdIr7NPyHOlaLhbe1DXP5o_Hb8lWcnVLpoLs7s0kEPD/s1600/May8_Firework.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51twg0lYKrWn1GCGVNRPlG2sJuJgmCnliMinDCN-qdN2OLbi8wv7h7VPwcagza1qECO8uzJLC-86xL0zoCSE4QDyCrwonFfo7_qdIr7NPyHOlaLhbe1DXP5o_Hb8lWcnVLpoLs7s0kEPD/s400/May8_Firework.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fireworks similar to those in my dream.<br />
Photo from Josiah McLain, 7/4/11</td></tr>
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This morning I dreamed I was walking downtown with a friend. We were having a long needed chat, and I was a little nervous.<br />
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"So, you're really excited about being kidnapped huh?" I asked her. While she explained all the signs and omens that pointed to the impending kidnapping she was so eager about, I saw a shooting star. I tapped her shoulder eagerly, apologized for interrupting, and pointed out where I saw the star.<br />
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Another one shot through the sky almost immediately. We both got excited and forgot about the conversation at hand while we stared at the sky, hoping to see more stars fall.<br />
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More did fall. Two, three, four more glittered through the sky. We watched happily until, before we knew it, huge patches of stars began falling.<br />
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Soon, it appeared as though entire galaxies were descending down upon us. Our delight became a wave of fear. "It's like the sky is falling," my friend said. "We need to sit down and pray right now."<br />
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We sat on the sidewalk and prayed while we continued to watch the sky. I began to form a picture of Jesus in my mind, saying his name aloud while focusing every ounce of my will to determine the sky wouldn't fall and end us.<br />
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The streets grew more and more crowded as people came out to watch. Panic make the crowd restless, but fear immobilized them. I continued praying, my voice shaky but growing stronger until I was speaking in tongues.<br />
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Suddenly, fireworks were launched. A few scattered sparkly ones at first - they looked much like the shooting stars. As people's attention was attracted to the fireworks, they began to question whether they'd ever seen galaxies falling or if they'd been watching fireworks all along.<br />
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Soon, they sky was so filled with pyrotechnic color, the stars were no longer visible and everyone had forgotten what drew them outside in the first place.<br />
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"It's a coverup," either my friend or I said. And I woke.<br />
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God and I talked about the dream while I got ready for my day. He reminded me of a few verses from <a href="http://www.blueletterbible.org/Bible.cfm?b=Mat&c=16&t=NLT#3" target="_blank">Matthew 16</a>. The pharisees and sadducees were demanding that Jesus show them a sign from Heaven. Jesus responds with something my dad has always said: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning." Jesus's point was that the pharisees could interpret the weather signs, yet couldn't interpret the signs that pointed to Jesus being the son of God. <a href="http://www.blueletterbible.org/Bible.cfm?b=Mat&c=16&t=NLT#3" target="_blank">(1-3)</a><br />
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More often than not, I've found it easy to pay attention to the crap Satan is up to and to react to it. If you've ever watched the news, you've seen that Satan is the focus. Satan makes stories exciting and newsworthy.<br />
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Right now, I think Dad is pleading for us to abandon our focus on Satan and redirect our attention to Him. Dad's work is just as exciting, just as worthy of story. Dad won't trick us into looking at him, though. Satan, will.<br />
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Satan has two weaknesses I'd like to point out here. One: he isn't omnipresent. Though we attribute much of the bad stuff in the news and our lives to him, he can't have done it all. Satan can only be in one place at a time.<br />
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Two: he isn't in on God's plans. He can only react to what God and God's people are doing. His planning is limited and reactionary.<br />
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One of our greatest strengths as heirs to Dad's Kingdom, is that we are in on Dad's plans. We don't need to pay attention to Satan's plans in order to be victorious over them. If I focus on Dad, intently listening and watching Dad alone, I'll walk around crushing Satan and his pals without giving any power to them.<br />
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For example, I love healing illness. I thrive on it, live for it. One thing that kept me from starting was a deep distaste for labeling another person sick or disabled. I'm beginning to understand the root of that repulsion. By looking at someone and seeing brokenness that I want fixed, I'm seeing the work of Satan and reacting to it. Instead, I'd prefer to look at someone, see their identity in Christ (which is whole, complete, healed), and release them into it. I don't think any recognition of Satan's work is needed for healing to take place.<br />
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Sometimes we get so focused on the brokenness in the world, so excited about what Satan is doing, we forget to look at what Jesus is doing. He's calling out to us, pleading for us to gaze upon Him.<br />
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Intentionality is vital, without it Satan's firework show will steal your attention back. Both Satan and Dad are capable of "signs and wonders." A good way to determine whose signs we're paying heed is to remember, <a href="http://bible.cc/1_john/4-18.htm" target="_blank">there is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear.</a> Stop what you're doing, stop reacting, sit down and focus on Jesus.<br />
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If any thoughts, ideas, or interpretations occur to you about my dream, you should totally share! I'll conclude my interpretation with <a href="http://www.blueletterbible.org/Bible.cfm?b=Jhn&c=5&t=NLT#19" target="_blank">John 5:19-20</a>:<br />
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... The Jewish leaders began harassing Jesus for breaking the Sabbath rules. But Jesus replied, "My Father is always working, and so am I." So the Jewish leaders tried all the harder to find a way to kill him. For he not only broke the Sabbath, he called God his Father, t<span style="background-color: #ffe599;">hereby making himself equal with God</span>. So Jesus explained, "I tell you the truth, the Son can do nothing by himself. <span style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">He does only what he sees the Father doing</span>. Whatever the Father does, the Son also does. <span style="background-color: #93c47d;">For the Father loves the Son and shows him everything he is doing.</span> In fact, the father will show him how to do even greater works than healing this man. Then you will truly be astonished.</blockquote>
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