The Jesus Statue

I sat to unwind as they ran in circles. How was I going to make it thru the rest of this 24 hour increment. Don't touch that please. Don't yell! I yelled. Don't eat that. Pick that up. Don't touch him. Deep breathes everybody for heavens sake. Hey come away from there we don't want to break anything I said as I rolled my eyes and hoped for another couple ounces of sanity before it was times up. What is that? There on the ground? Oh no....... I sighed. It's Jesus' hand. Wow. What am I supposed to feel here. I look over at Tanner and thought to my self, "How did that even happen? How did the focal point of my living room just get broke!" His eyes soften and he responded to my obvious mental crisis, "It's ok Emma, it was an accident". It wasn't the head of the statue or the base of the statue that broke off, it was a single hand. How many children were held by that hand, how many lepers were healed by that hand? This I will never know. But I do know that single hand wiped the blood and sweat from His brow as he saved me from my sins. Embrace this traumatized child and help love him. Please be my hands in this scenario and I will make up the difference. Please, Please, Please said the little white hand. Please.

What inspires you?

My little sister once asked me, during a low point in my life, "what inspires you Emma?". I don't recall what it is that I told her and with that said, it must not have been very inspirational. But I know now what I would have said and would have remembered. I am inspired by family. I am inspired by MY family. I am inspired by unconditional love. I'm inspired by the character of my family as a whole. For the longest time I felt we were all broken, infact sometimes I felt as though the word broken was tatooed on my forhead. But I know now that I can't believe everything that I think. Today is a good example of why I am so awe inspired by these folks. My sister and her kids were able to come down for the weekend to hangout and go watch our brother in the play "Oklahoma!" While we were at the play, little Kord smashed his fingers in the bathroom door and I couldn't help but absorb the helpless heart break that Strawberri was feeling as she held him wishing that she could take his pain away. She held him and rocked him and kissed him and whispered in his little ear how sorry she was that this happened to him. And I could see it in her eyes that if she could, she would rewind and let it happen to her instead, if it mean't that he wouldn't have to suffer. That is my sister. The level of compassion that she has for not only her own, but strangers as well, has healing properties. She is a genuine spirit that is doing what has been asked of us in this life and that is to love deeply. Then there is my brother. The yellow crayon in the all red crayon box ;) He never ceases to amaze me. Like this play for instance, this is the first he has ever been in and he was a natural. I truly mean that. When he puts his mind to something, he follows through and developes it. That is a rare quality. I respect him for daring to utilize the talents God has given him. As for Abby, she has a knack for creating beauty, meaning and the unspoken in her artwork. Abby has always had a colorful spirit. When I think of Abby growing up, I think "non-conformist". She always seems to put the possibility of judgment behind her and carries on knowing that what matters is between her and God. That is a quality that takes alot of time to form for most. Mom and dad... Mom and dad... what to say about them? In an eternal perspective, they agreed to be my lifeline while in this trial period on earth. And considering how easy it is these days to flee from that responsibility, I am truly grateful for that. I was granted a chance to learn and to grow on this earth and it was through them and The Father that it happened. In the midst of raising a family of my own, I realize the amount of blood, sweat and tears that it takes to keep everything up and running and it is exhausting! Hardwork. That is probably the first thing that comes to my mind when I think of my parents. I look at my dads dry, cracked, permanently stained hands and see dedication to life. Then I non-chalantly look at the posters of valuable information that my mom uses to exercise her brain and remember how hard it was for her to go back to school after the divorce, but she did anyway. She never backed down.