allegri

You never would expect your 11 year old to come home saying “Look what I shot”, and see a pictue of him next to 1050 lb hog that he has killed with a 50 caliber pistol.

Maybe its acid reflux, maybe its the sign of an early age oncoming stroke, maybe its indigestion lingering from the remnants of a cheap meal, but maybe, its just plain old compassion. A compassion that pains in the chest, that smacks you dead flat to the floor. The apostle Paul defined compassion as a transcending of both natural human sympathy and normal Christian concern, enabling one to sense in others a wide range of emotions and then provide a supportive ministry of caring and intercessory prayer.

I have been sitting here for come two hours now, air conditioning sends the littering of informational memos and forewarning literature fluttering like little parachutists hanging on by one last thread, leaving them now skewed against the stark white walls. The constant muttering and snoring has faded in the distance as I sit, engulfing my senses into a fore-lorn tale. 

The stench of poverty hits my nostrils again, as the nausea releases and my body begins to grow accustom to the scent. I try to drown out the boisterousness of the women attempting to convince the nurse that she has not used in the past 24 hours.

Three hours. Gods working, Gods changing my perspective, my mind, my emotions, and by all things my desires. My desire is no longer to retrieve the students with which I came, but more to graduate, to get my LSAC and to come help these men and women.  Seeing the turmoil in there eyes as they come into the clinic waiting to get care; watching a man as he sits in the corner retelling his life story to all those who come within his ten foot circle of chairs that he has cleared for his audience. I hear the tale of a man, a tale that no book could describe the turmoil and pain that sent his life into a spiral like so, listening closely I hear his stutter, I watch intently as his hands move sporadically as he attempts to prevent them from hitting himself. Meth.

Maybe I just have bleeding heart syndrom, I want so bad to just be able to go out and counsel and help these men, women, and teens who have let stimulants destroy everything that they have ever had.  Maybe even go back and get a RN or CNA, something so I can devote time to come and provide care for those who have fallen through societies cracks and been cast aside to find love and the bottom of a bottle, or the needles end.

Maybe, God holds the Ace in the finish of my royal flush, all in hearts.

Construction season has begun in Utah, although most of the time it seems as though it merely never ends. As spring progresses into summer, and the flowers bloom, and allergies increase, inevitably the number of orange cones exponentially increase for every car that is trying to past them. I came into this summer expecting to have a lax summer working, and hiking and just basking in the greatness of being 1/3 of the way done with my college career. But as each day progresses and the days get hectic, I have started to see little orange cones popping up in my path and redirecting my course.

Some days these seem less like little orange cones, redirecting me around a puddle, and more like gigantic barrels blocking my path with big blinking lights stating “don’t go there.” Some of these are tangible signs, where others are internal.

The Lord has been doing major construction on my heart the past few months as he molds some relationships back together and others he creates a barrier thick enough that my sights are lost beyond it. God has molding my passions, my desires, and my priorities. He has given me insights to see his plan for my life as I attempt to achieve it without making the mistake of speeding through a construction zone.

I have come to realize that these zones of construction in my life, though they are always productive they at many times can be very painful, but good night are they a blessing.

Take my life, and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee.
Take my moments and my days; let them flow in ceaseless praise.
Take my hands, and let them move at the impulse of Thy love.
Take my feet, and let them be swift and beautiful for Thee.

{Frances Ridley Havergal}