The servant gets lost in the service.

Losing oneself, that’s what we’re afraid of. Losing our identity, not being known for who we really are. But what if there were a better way? A way of losing that squelches any fear of not being known rightly?

Exchanging our mediocre lives for supernatural living so that the ordinary becomes extraordinary. Letting go of who we think we are, to embrace who God has made us to be. Choosing to be lost in Jesus Christ.

There are a few people that come to mind when I think of “lost” servants. Ones who are so fully given over to who God has called them to be that they care little about their earthly identity and focus wholeheartedly on Christ, no matter the call or cost. And in that willingness to be lost of self, Christ elevates them. Put’s their ordinary lives on public display - and they reflect Jesus! My Aunt Dott is one of these. She seeks neither fame nor fortune, she simply loves Jesus wholeheartedly and is faithful to follow the inspiration of Holy Spirit. And this sweet gentle servant, lost in the service, loves. She is faithful with her love and service, and God has brought her front and center – reflecting the love of Father, Son and Holy Spirit in a tangible way.

Oh, oh see, how beautiful it is to be lost…

The Trinity Medallion was inspired and entrusted to Aunt Dott

because she chooses to be lost in His service...

"Do you see the heart?

God is LOVE.

Do you see the Cross?

Jesus died for you.

Do you see the Dove?

Symbol of the Holy Spirit.

The circle is the symbol of

ONE INFINITE GOD."

Comments

It matters not

It matters little who I am. Each one of us has a story to tell, a life filled with love, loss, heartache, joy & laughter. I am just a busted up pitcher. Yes, the image that came to your mind - whether one you pour iced tea from, the one with the chip on the lip so it spills as much down the outside of your glass as gets in. Or the little creamer pitcher your gramma had in her hutch, the one with the broken handle that has glue globbed on it's listing side. Or the one that you pour oil with, the one with the faint crack you overlook because you never think to replace it while you are shopping. Oh, or maybe it's the purple plastic juice jug that hit the heating coil in the dishwasher... melted a hole an inch from the top but you never fill it that full anyway. No matter what image came to your mind, that's me. The true value of a pitcher is not it's appearance or even its purpose but it's what the pitcher holds that is precious. The sole purpose...

When the pain get too big

There are times when the heartbreaks of this life collide with our weakness and the pain gets so big that even breathing is hard. It’s like being dragged under by the surf and tumbled over and over until up is down and you’re dragged along the bottom and raw wounds meet with salted surf and the searing pain of it is only a faint echo of the pain within your soul and you gasp for breath and flail helplessly, like a rag doll, until you’re eventually released upon the shore coughing up the brine of your own tears… This is where I have been. Literally on the verge of tears at every moment. Memories, regrets, sorrow, missing, aching, loss - churning, growing to tsunami intensity threatening to overwhelm. Today I received a devotional from a Jewish Messianic site challenging us regarding the Sabbath. Oh, how my soul yearned for it. A Sabbath, a rest. But the to-do list haunted and I headed to the shower to start the day. All the while rest...

Un-becoming

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The Cost of Freedom

Memorial Day I once thought I understood the cost of freedom. I’d heard the family stories, my momma named for her uncle shot down over France, I’d been to the parades and ceremonies, could repeat great quotes, I’d seen the movies… But then a few years ago I walked among the names – name after name after name, reaching far, even unto the horizon; and the faces of sons and daughters and mothers and fathers – determination in their countenance, fear in their eyes, aged beyond their years. One caught me as I walked by, gripped my heart and dragged me up close. He stared at me, wanting me to see, wanting to be known. Though his lips unable to speak it, his lifeless eyes told of the horrors he’d seen, the death he’d lived, the life he’d taken. He was just a boy, once full of life, now, full of death. He begged “Remember me.” And through tears I vowed I would never forget him. Him without a name, an ordinary face – just one among many… And then ...

Broken Pitcher

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