Real Life Reflections

My husband and I recently took a trip. We flew to our destination. With a connecting flight each way, we attentively listened to the stewards on each leg of our journey as they gave their spiel regarding safety in case of an emergency. Per usual, they told everyone on each plane that, if they had small children with them, to take care of themselves first and then see to their child. Picture this: the plane is flying along smoothly - la dee da dee da. We hit some turbulence, a few pockets of rough air - no big deal. Then the wind picks up, lightening flashes. A little turbulence turns into a major storm. The plane begins to vibrate, to shake. Something goes terribly wrong. The cabin loses pressure. We're headed down. The oxygen masks fall. My granddaughter is with me - screaming, frightened out of her little mind. What do I do? I put her oxygen mask on her of course and then, if I haven't passed out, I take care of me. Wrong-o. If you watch certain TV shows or read almost a

Broken: Ruptured; torn; fractured; disconnected; divided; ruined; to remove a part from. We're broken people living in a broken world. Most of us think of sin as an infringement of one of the ten commandments, but it's so much more than that. Those are just general guidelines for living a whole life. They aren't the end-all of sin. Sin is that which separates us from God. Sin is the evil within us and in our world. Sin expresses itself in our words, our actions, and our attitudes. Sin is our brokenness. Sin is the brokenness of our world - the people and nature itself. Most of us don't really want to admit that we're broken. That's admitting a weakness. That's admitting that we're imperfect, that we don't have it all together, but we see it in each other every day. We see it and experience it in ourselves every day. We affect others with our brokenness and others affect us with theirs. A son's relationship with his father is strained and pain

When our children were young, every scrape, bruise, and bump were grounds for tears. The offended appendage held aloft like the rings on a ring bearer's pillow as the child ran in search of that miraculous kiss from a mother's lips that heals all boo-boos. As they grew, the causes of their tears grew too. They no longer ran to me with their every day scrapes, bruises, and bumps. An ice pack here, a band-aid there - who needs a kiss from mom to heal a paper cut? As their worlds expanded to include friends and teachers, some of those scrapes, bruises, and bumps that previously had only been lacerations of the skin now pierced their hearts. Oh how I wanted to protect them from the pain of rejection, the pain of being mocked, the pain of failure. When I couldn't prevent the pain, I wanted to heal their hurting hearts with my words, my touch. I wanted to make everything better in an instant. Of course, I couldn't do that, and they had to learn to deal with the emotional