How I became a Christian

Hi y'all in blogland!

It's come to my attention that I've not given my "testimony", that is to say, the reason why I gave my life over to the One who could save me. I'm talking about Jesus Christ and His sacrificial life, death and resurrection.
This is NOT for the faint of heart!


I was born into a Christian household. My mom and dad are both Christian's, as well as my maternal grandmother and grandfather. Some of my earliest memories involve going to church, listening to Christian radio, etc. In spite of my upbringing, I had a relatively difficult childhood. I didn't feel I like I fit into the social mode at school (learning disability in math and social interaction problems separated me from my peers) or at home (fighting and abuse from extended family members). To compound measures, there was intense spiritual activity in my house (more on that later on). In general, according to some people, I "had it bad". Looking back on my formative years, I realize that it could have been worse. Much worse! But being young means being ignorant of things that are bigger than oneself. Being young also means you are the center of your own little universe. I had a lot of ego, but a low opinion of myself, if that makes any sense. All of this accumulated into a moderate to severe depression.

Most in the general populace, and that includes Christians, have no idea of the spiritual war that looms around us. I have first hand knowledge of what the powers of darkness are capable of. Earlier in this post, I stated one of my earliest memories involves going to church. That's all well and good, but I also have a memory of something I will never, ever forget. It's forever etched into my memory, and it's not a good memory. I was around 5 years old and was sitting on the edge my single bed in my small bedroom, no bigger than a walk in closet really, which was located on the second level of my family's 150 year old homestead. I had just placed my favorite toy, a stuffed white toy dog that had a turbine and shorts made out of red parsley clothe, at the head of my bed where my pillow should have been. I remember looking at my wall, facing away from beloved Genie, as I called him, thinking about what I was going to do next. Suddenly, I had this strange sensation at the back of my head and neck. It seemed as if my neck hairs stood up and a strange tingling sensation, similar to the ones you get when you sense someone is intently watching you. I turned around, knowing that no one could have been there, but needing to see all the same. I looked, and to my horror, I saw a puppet arm (similar to Bert and Ernie on Seasame Street, neither of which I owned I might add)grab Genie and quickly snatch him under the bed, or so I thought. I really wanted to know what happened to my Genie, so got on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. There was absolute NOTHING there! No toys of any sort to be seen! Puzzled, I went downstairs, but said nothing to my mom and dad. Even back then I knew that they might think me rather odd. I mean let's face it, the common misconception is that something like that doesn't happen everyday. At least not to sane people!

I remember quite vividly that my bedroom terrified me. Every night I would dread walking up the stairs, (which frightened me because there seemed to be an oppressive air around it) and laying down on my own bed. More often than not, I would ask my big sister (who is 8 years older than me) if I could sleep in her bed. She'd take pity on her scared sister and reluctantly (well, maybe not as reluctant as I had thought)move over. She'd ask me why I didn't like sleeping alone in my own bed and I told her I was afraid of the "monsters". There is something I have to admit though. Her bedroom was just as scary as my own. I remember feeling and seeing things that were not part of the natural world. I'll comment on those later on. It's just that it seemed safer to have someone with me, sort as a safety in numbers thing.

As I aged, I would see more and experience even stranger events. There was one hallway/storage room that I would under no circumstances cross by myself at night. I would, for lack of a better term, "see" a pair of gigantic red eyes staring at me. It wasn't like I was imagining them, because, for some reason I knew that they weren't physically there at all. I guess one might say I saw them with my spiritual "eyes" instead. And they always seemed to communicate with me that they wanted to harm me and my family. I never said a word why I had to ask some family member to escort me across the hall. They just chalked it up to one of my idiosyncrasies.

The next events that cross my mind happened in the living room. There was a space in the living room that I would in no way cross. I remember it clearly. It measured approximately 6 feet long by 3 feet wide and was almost in middle of room. I would walk around that area but never through it. My mother would later place a coffee table there, but I still hated that space and would avoid it like the plague. I would also hear strange knocking noises from one of the end tables. Other family members would hear it, but dismiss it thinking that it was mice in the wall. One day, while I was by myself, I heard the knocking sound again. This time, I investigated it. The noise was definitely not coming from the wall, but from the INSIDE of end table. I opened up the door, looked in past the piles of old magazines, placed my hand on the top of the table and felt the vibrations and steady knocks. I closed the door and again said nothing to my parents. On a somewhat funnier note, we could not, for the life of us, keep a Christmas tree vertical in that room unless we tied it to the windowsill. It was a standing joke that somehow, someway that tree was going to fall over. Perhaps there was something more to it than we thought...

Another time, my sister was babysitting me and I must have really agitated her, because she told me to go upstairs and take a nap. Reluctantly, I complied, and laid down on her bed. I wasn't sleepy at all, and I remember looking at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the plaster. Suddenly, I heard three voices, a woman's, a man's and a child's. The woman said "isn't she beautiful," to which the man replied, "yes, she is," and to that the child said something I couldn't make out. Terrified, I couldn't move. My sister came running up the stairs a minute or two later and said "are you okay?" All I did was run out of the bedroom. Some people might say that the voices weren't bad ones, but let me tell you, there is nothing good about hearing disembodied voices over your head (except for one time, more on that later).

There were a few places in the house that I did feel safe. They were the TV room, located next to my parents room. My parents room was not safe because it share a door that lead to the frightening hallway/storage room. The kitchen was the only other place in the house where I felt at ease. Guess where I spent most of my time in my early childhood. That's right! One time however, being in the kitchen alone frightened me. I was older now, probably 8 or 9 years old. My parents were out doing farm stuff and my siblings were no where around. My brother, who's 10 years my senior was at college and my sister was with friends. The kitchen leads to a hallway, which in turn, leads to a flight of stairs going to the basement. The kitchen has an octagonal window in which one can see the hallway. On the night in question, I was taking the pet Labrador into the dining room and was preparing to enter the TV room. I always felt safer with the dog around, so when I was alone, I had her come with me and of course, I left nearly every light on. My parents didn't like the electrical bill, but they tolerated it. Well, anyway, we were walking away from the kitchen when she suddenly and violent turned around, facing the window. I glanced at her for a second, noticing her fur standing on edge and bearing her teeth, ready to attack. I looked at the window to see a huge black column that stretched the entire length of the window walk (or maybe glide) from one part of the window to the next. Frightened, but still curious, I walked with the dog into the kitchen. The dog, still agitated, went as far as the middle of the kitchen, but went no further. I thought it could possibly be a black garbage bag, but saw nothing that would remotely act like that. Needless to say, the dog and I hightailed it to the TV room and stayed there until my parents returned.

The next scary memory takes us to a few years into the future around 10 or 11. I was upstairs in my brothers old bedroom. I had claimed it for myself thinking it was much safer than my sisters room and my old bedroom. Boy, was I wrong. I would see this "man" who looked more like a shadow than a human being, walk across the room sideways, between the foot of my bed and vanity mirror. I would sit up and watch "him" silently move back and forth in front of me, visible in the mirror, than mysteriously disappear out my door. I never saw him walk down the stairs, but just vanish. I say "man" because he wore what looked a Fedora hat. "He" never touched the floor, "he" had no legs! Just a head, torso and sometimes arms! "He" never said a word, but I new in my spirit that if "he" could, "he'd" kill me! It was also around this time, that I saw what I thought was the tail end of a black dog cross in front of me. I was leaving my brothers old room, now my room, to watch TV in the kitchen. In a flash, I saw a tail end of a big black dog run in front of me, coming from my right side, past a chest of draws, and run right into a closet. Curious, I came downstairs and asked if our black lab had gone upstairs. My mom said no, she had stayed in the kitchen the entire time I was upstairs. Besides, she said, Maggie was too old (and too frightened) to climb upstairs! We had no other pet that was that large.

Another incident in my brother's old bedroom caused me to question its safety. I was laying down on my bed. The head of my bed rests sitting up against a wall. On the other side of the wall is a closet that mom used to store old blanks. I was around 13 to 14 years old when one night I had finished reading a book in my bed and was about go back downstairs to go to the bathroom when my hand accidentally knocked against the wall. A few seconds passed, and then I heard "shave and a hair cut" knocked, coming from the closet. I quickly grabbed a flashlight that I kept by my bed for emergencies and ran to the closet door, flung it open, hoping to catch the trickster in the act. THERE WAS NOBODY IN THE CLOSET OR HALLWAY! I remember then my mother was downstairs, dad was sawing wood, my brother and sister were both at college and there was nobody else in the house. I said nothing to my parents or siblings about this.

I also remember several incidents where I was upstairs, just about to walk downstairs when I was violently pushed. A couple of the times I had to grab the banister to keep myself from falling. There was NOBODY up there with me on any of the occasions. SomeTHING wanted me dead!

There was an incident that happened in my sister's room that I will never forget. I was about 16 or so and mom had asked me to go and get some supplies from my sister's room. I complied, walked upstairs and went over to a chest of drawers located near the sloping ceiling that shared a huge attic. My sister's room and the attic shared a door no bigger than 3 feet high. I felt that familiar tingling sensation on the back of my head, turned and saw a small beam of light glide from one side of the door to the other, coming from the attic. Then the doorknob and door, which was very, very difficult to open because of the carpeting and slope of the house, pop open by itself. The doorknob itself was difficult to turn because it was only and small knob, hard to grasp. I must also tell you that my mom and asked dad, a licensed electrician to wire a light so she could see to get the Christmas decorations out safely (none of us kids wanted to go into that attic). He never got around to it and to this day, there is no light in there.

I had mention earlier in my post that I was moderately to severely depressed during my teen years. I had basically given up at school and home life was difficult. I had started diving into the occult, reading Dungeons & Dragons books, wearing amulets, reading about ghosts and stories about witchcraft. Something had stopped me from going all out into to occult though. It wasn't my parents and grandparents beliefs that stopped me, because, even though I didn't admit it to them, I thought the God of the Bible was dead, or at the very least didn't care about me. What I didn't know at the time was that they, especially my grandparents, were praying fervently for my soul and for me to be healed/delivered from depression. My parents ended up taking me to a psychologist because I wouldn't tell them about what was going on at school and with an extended family member (molestation, but not rape). Sometimes, my grandparents would take me to my appointments, and all the while, they would tell me that while it was okay to see a psychologist, the only One who could really heal me was Jesus and that I needed Him to save me from sin. I heard it all before. I blew them off, thinking that they were fanatics and that He didn't exist or if He did, He didn't care. My psychologist had told me to keep a journal and to set goals on making friends at school. I wrote I was talking to kids and being friendly with them. Basically, I lied!. I was shutting the world out and signing my own death warrant.

The depression did nothing but worsen, until I wasn't even talking to my parents much. I spent most of my time in my room not even caring about the things I saw up there. The enemy of my soul had desensitized me so much that the "monsters" were now almost like friends. That's how bad it got, folks. Demons became almost everyday occurrences, almost welcomed by me. The enemy wants to isolate and destroy the very thing God Himself holds dear, our souls. I had even gone so far as to plan my own suicide. But, how did I get from a depressed teen to typing to you here and now? I'll tell you, dear reader.

I was in my room (formerly belonging to my brothers) laying on my bed. It had been a long day, tiring day. I was sick of being in pain, not belonging anywhere. I had had enough. I had made up my mind. I was going to end it right then and there. I was going to take a bottle of aspirin, eat food so I wouldn't throw it up, crawl in the shower and slit my wrists. I got up from bed, wiped the tears from my eyes and proceeded to the stairs. I was halfway to the banister, when I felt something in front of me, stopping me from going any further. I looked, and I couldn't see anything all the while trying to get to the stairs. I heard a masculine voice in front of me, above my head (I was at that time around 6' 1" tall and the voice was over higher) and slightly to the left say, "Stop! What do you think you're doing?" I said, "Well... Voice... I'm going to go and kill myself." I pressed one putting my weight against the unseen force stopping me from reaching the stairs. I actually remember leaning into the force, trying to push it out of the way. I was that desperate to kill myself. The voice replied even more forcefully, "STOP! WHAT do you THINK your DOING?!" And with that, I stopped, turned around sat down on the edge of my bed and thought about what had just happened. I sat and thought for about 4 hours. I went downstairs, my parents must have noticed a difference in my appearance, because they asked what happened. I didn't tell them, because I wasn't even sure.

Two weeks went by, and everyday I thought about what had happened. It was 10:30 pm and I was in my bed having a terrible fight with myself. Why was I at war with myself? I'll tell you. Part of me wanted to turn on my radio and listen to WRVM 102.7 (Wisconsin's Radio Voice of the Master), a local Christian station. The other part of me wanted nothing to do with listening to anything with a Christian message, especially to the program I knew would be on. You see, reader, my mom left 102.7 on in the kitchen from the time she got up to the time she went to bed. I knew that John MacArthur would be on with his Grace to You program. Part of me wanted desperately to listen to what he had to say, but the other part of me desperately resisted. That side of me eventually got ignored, and with some effort, I turned the radio on. As a little aside, the only two rooms that regularly received 102.7 with any certainty were the kitchen and my then current bedroom. All others, you'd most likely get static.

I listened intently as Pastor MacArthur talked about....Drum roll please.... Spiritual oppression! Of all the topics in the world, he would be talking about demons and the oppression they can cause! The voice inside me that resisted listening to Pastor MacArthur was now screaming for me to turn it off, but the other voice said, no and demanded that I listen. These voices sounded like me... The closest thing I can compare it to is the old cartoon where the devil appears on the left shoulder and the angel appears on the right and the angel comes over and beats the devil with his harp. Basically, that's what happened. If memory serves, at the end of the broadcast he told listeners that Jesus could set the captive free of both sin and demons. All the person had to do is believe in their hearts that Jesus died to redeem them from sins and confess with their mouth that Jesus is risen Lord. I listen intently to the entire broadcast and had to admit, that much of what had happened to me could only be explained as demonic. There was no physical explanation for what happened and I'm as sane as the next person (other people have experienced things in that house, and I may tell about it later on). I said "this has to be true". Pastor MacArthur said I must admit that I am a sinner, in need of redemption. What's more, I remembered, the Bible said I needed Jesus as Savior... I shouted out loud, "Jesus, please save me! Your the only One who can save me!" and "Jesus is Lord!"

I felt a weighed that had pressed me down had immediately been lifted off my body. I felt so light, almost as if my soul had been lifted up. For the first time in my LIFE, I felt peace wash over me! I shouted over and over again "I'm FREE, I'm FREE!" Immediately, I felt energized. I literally ran down the stairs, into the kitchen, picked up a Bible that grandma had recently given me and read almost the ENTIRE New Testament (I got to Jude)that night. What's so amazing is that before I accepted Jesus as my Redeemer and Savior, I would pick up the Bible, read it, and not comprehend what I was reading. I understood the words, but without the Holy Spirit, they were absolutely meaningless. I now read the Scripture and understood, for the first time when Jesus said, "I am the Way the Truth and the Life. No one comes to the Father but through Me." (John 14:6)

My mom was in the habit of getting up at 5 o'clock in the morning. She found me, sitting at the kitchen table, in my nightgown. She asked me "what are you doing up?" All I could say to her was, "I'm FREE! I'm FREE!" She stumbled back a little, then walked forward the bewildered look on her face. She asked me with a slight hint of anticipation, "what are you reading?" I nearly shouted "THE BIBLE!" Mom was beaming, a smile reaching from ear to ear! She asked me if I understood what I was reading. "Yes, I have Jesus as my Savior now!" I think I saw tears in her eyes. I told her she didn't need to worry about me anymore and she told me she was my mother and she'd always worry about me. We laughed! She asked me why I accepted Jesus, and not sure exactly how to tell her about what had happened, I just told her that I'd tell them both what had happened (which I did).

Now, my life since then has not been perfect. I still stuggled socially in school and my grades weren't always the best. I've had my ups and downs and sins since that time of amazing grace. But there is one thing that made all the difference in this world and the next. I know now beyond a shadow of a doubt Jesus is merciful, compassionate, forgiving, the only Way to a kind and beautiful Father who loved us so much that even while we sinned He sent His Son to die on the cross to forgive our sins (Romans 5:8). No matter what we've done in the past, His Son's precious blood can cover any iniquity, any sin, past, present and future, if we only admit that we need a Lord and Savior. What will you do now? Accept Him, or reject Him? The choice is yours!

Hallelujah!

Here it is!

My new almost flash-fiction-but true short story. I hope you like it. Please tell me if it needs improvement, I'm open to constructive criticism. I don't know why, but it won't allow me to indent. Could someone tell me how to indent. I copy and pasted from a Word document. Thanks!



Yours in Christ!



The Garden
I see a garden, stretching for miles to infinity. Every vegetable plausible, rows of tomatoes, beans and a few unknown to me grace the earth. Peas, pumpkins reach with viny expectation across the expanse, skipping intertwining with each other. I reach out while walking, caressing leaves of corn, listening as they rub against their neighbors. Wind lifts my hair throwing it dancing, twirling just as it does the corn silk. Lifting my face to the sun, feeling love and warmth caress my face, sudden rain falls from a source unseen and the earth responds with this blessing with joy. A sense of peace plows deep within me and I know the God who cares for each plant cares for me as well.

Looking down at the ground again, I marvel at the at the frond-like carrot stems. Stooping closer, their softness caresses my hand; I’m remembering a happier time of innocence and trust long forgotten because of hurt and dreams lost. Something catches my eye as I examine wondrous creations God has made. Expecting to once again to feel the Lord’s incredible gift of joy of lovely times, I experience an unexpected pain. I’m compelled to pull out the unwanted plant, knowing this weed with spread its vileness throughout the garden. I cannot, will not let this happen. Grabbing the plant at its base with both hands I wrench as hard as possible, and yet it doesn’t move. My hand is now covered with penetrating cuts, blood and spasms of pain.

Tears of frustration stream from reddened eyes splash and water the ground. I try again and fail again, and the weeds multiply as if to mock my efforts. God’s graceful creation is tarnished by my inability to fulfill a simple task. Darkness begins to enclose the garden and my mind.

But through it all, a Voice slices through that darkness. I do not know how I know this, but with certainty I recognize this is the Voice of my Creator.

In a whisper, the Voice asks “What are you doing?”

I answer, “I’m trying to remove these weeds.”

A rumble of thunder peels across the garden, “Where did this weed come from?”

I reply ashamed, “You know, Lord.”

Silence, all encompassing silence follows as I run up the rows of vegetables, hoping to sprint out of the once beautiful garden. Fear and disgrace flood my heart as I reflect upon the answer to the question I know will be asked of me.

The wind stirs and blows, violently throws those precious leaves. “Where do these weeds come from?” the Voice demands again.

I must answer. It is time. “They come from me, Lord,” I weep “they come from me!”

The Voice, now very loud, ripping through my being, shouts, “What will you do about it?!”

Without hesitation, I grab the weed, determined to get rid of the ugliness. I pull and feel the pain in my hands, but also in my heart. I continue to pull, only glancing and the hole that appears in my chest. I pull until the only thing I feel is numbness. No more joy, just emptiness. I look at the garden around me and see the desolation caused by the evermore multiplying weeds. Tired of trying to do the impossible, I sink to the earth, hoping it would consume me. I feel abandoned and want to be left alone to die.

The Voice, now a whisper again, gently asks “Where do these weeds come from?”

Mustering up what little strength left, I reply “They… Are... My… Sins.”
Time passes. Perhaps, He really has given up on me, and left me to face my fate. I am now consumed by loneliness and lowliness of my state. But, in my despair, I hear the Voice again.

“You are not strong enough. I will do it for you.”

My strength completely ebbs, as my thoughts wander to the past. The hole in my chest, once deaden feels aflame. It is worse than the pain faced when pulling the weeds, so in desperation, I grab hold of the closest weed, hoping it will block the pain of my emptiness. It does for awhile, but the hole grows deeper and wider, more painful than before, but still I cling to the weed. Faces of people I have purposely hurt, lusts and greed I’ve felt, lies I have told long enough that I believe them flood to the deepest part of me, surrounding and crushing my soul. My sin has robbed me of my strength. Shame overtakes me and I hardly notice that the Voice, now made Man, walking toward me.

He kneels down, and I can feel His intense eyes on me. He reaches, and touches my shoulder. I cringe, not even daring to look at Him, for He is whole, and I am not.

“I must do it for you,” He says.

“I know,” and weep.

“Look at me,” He commands.

“I cannot.” I think to myself, You are whole, and I am… Not.

“You cannot look at Me because you are not whole. Look at My hands, child.”
I glance at His hands, then the ground, and then back to His hands again. They have scars deeper than the ones I bear. How can this be, since He is complete and has no holes? I look at my own hands, still bleeding and deep, but not as deep as His had been. I marvel at the mystery.

“My child, these scars you see now were there before the dawn of creation. I bear them now because I love you.”

What?! I think.

“I love you. I always have and always will.”

Speechless, I say to myself; but my sin... I clutch the weed harder and cringe at the pain.

“Your sin is nothing compared to Me. You must let go and never hold onto it again.”
Staring at my hand, slowly, I will my fingers to uncurl and they respond, save the last one. This finger will not comply.

“Help,” I whisper, “I cannot do this alone.”

He mercifully but firmly pulls my finger. I do not know why, but I resist.

“You must let go or you will die,” He says.

Yielding, sobbing, I let go and give the weed up to Him because I know it to be true.

“Watch,” He commands.

Trembling, I gaze as His strong hands seize the weed and rip it out from the ground. I feel a tough of pain from the hole in my chest and am about the cry to Him when He stops me.

“Wait,” He commands.

Pain is slowly replaced with a sensation never truly felt before. Peace! Enveloping, comforting peace, all because that weed is gone. The hole is filled with peace. But then, I stare at all the weeds to come, and a fear tries to steal it away.

The Lord, knowing his creature says, “Child, why do you fear?”

“Lord, I see all of these weeds. There are a lot of them and it scares me. What if You grow tired and leave me.”

“Whatever I start, I always complete,” He says, “I will not leave you to do something you will never be able to do if left by yourself. You are still incomplete, but not for long.”

How long will this take, I wonder? I ask myself.

“A lifetime,” He replies. “Look at My hands, and then look at your own.”

His hands are covered with cuts work confidently on the next weed. This one is stubborn, but soon gives way to His strength. Pain, than peace flood me again, but this time instead of looking at the rows of vegetables and weeds, I gaze at my hands. One by one, the once gapping cuts begin to heal.

Amazed, I look at Him, the Voice who became Man. He smiles broadly at me and touches my hand. I no longer feel my incompleteness, but His wholeness. I cry, not because of fear, but gratitude.

“It is because I took your wounds and made them my own that you can be healed.”

Unable, and not wanting to control myself, I reach over the row and hug Him, whispering “thank You.”

I can feel Him smile as He says “you are my child and you are certainly welcome!”

Letting go, I glimpse back what is left behind. “Never look back,” He says, “but keep your eyes on Me. Before you know, it the work will be done. You will be finished, completed work of beauty and art.”

Emboldened, I ask, “What will happen to the vegetables in my garden?”

“Others will come along and marvel at it. Some may even eat. They will know that it was tended by Me.”

“But, what will I eat, if not my vegetables?” I ask.

“Child, you will enjoy my Garden. It has always been complete and never needed weeding.”

Before long, I notice we have come to the very last weed, and my garden has come to an end. His scared hand lovingly grabs my healed hand and we walk into the Garden, my new home.

Mercy 2 Me

Hi all,

Sorry it's been so long since my last post. I hope this post finds you well. Been kind of busy the last few days, and this post, regrettably, is going to be short.

The company that I work for is increasing production time. It means more money of course, and that's all ways a plus, especially since I've had cause to use a few sick days. Nothing too serious, just my celiac's acting up again. My bosses have been very understanding and have done a remarkable job reassigning me due to certain health limitations. I especially thank my co-workers who have helped me by taking on extra duties. I guess, in this way, they've shown a special type of mercy towards me; they've reserved judgment. It sort of reminds me of James 2:13, "For judgment is without mercy to him that hath showed no mercy: mercy glories against judgment." What does this verse have to do with my co-workers being kind? Well, they could justifiably say that they have too much to do at work to be bothered, and that I should do my work, even if it could hurt my health. Instead, they try to emphathize with my condition and try to keep me safe. Thanks guys, I hope to some day do the same for you.

God Bless you all, and have a safe and happy weekend. Happy 4th of July!

My introduction; Why Mercy?

Hello and good evening and God's blessings to you all,

My name is E.A. (I'm currently using initials for security purposes), and must confess that I'm a little excited. This is my very first blog! It probably isn't a big thing for most, but it's rather soul affirming in a way, to be able to share my ideas with you. Personally, being able to communicate the way one thinks and feels about something important to them is a sort of affirmation of existence.

Let me introduce myself even further. I live in Wisconsin, U.S.A., in a very picturesque part of the state. I cannot walk ten feet without seeing a tree and that's my idea of beauty. Some of you who have been raised in the Plains states, for example, might disagree. For you, the sight of rolling grain might stir your heart. I guess it's all in how you look at it, some people like trees while others grain. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder" as the saying goes.

You might be asking yourself, why is this lady writing a blog at all, especially about mercy. One of the reasons I'm writing about it is because I believe it to be sorely lacking in this world. It seems mankind is too enthralled with itself to care about the hardship of others, even when that hardship is brought on by their own actions. I found myself guilty of this past week. One of my co-workers made a mistake that set us back a few hours. This person has made a similar mistake earlier and cost the company quite a bit of money and forced us into overtime. Our schedule was already full, and more overtime meant time away from friends and family. I found myself comparing my actions to my co-workers, and of course in my fallen nature, I came out ahead. Not only that, but I started to criticize this person openly to my other co-workers. I lost sight of the fact that I make mistake too, and in my imperfect nature, I elevated myself over another human being. In short, I was unmerciful.

Mercy is one of the key tenants of Christianity. God, who is not only the Judge, but the lover of our souls, didn't spare His Son, but instead, sent Him on the ultimate mission of mercy. He chose to die in our place. We wouldn't feel desolation after death. How merciful He is, that he should be thinking of us, who have done everything in our power to separate ourselves from His holiness. We, (myself definitely included) deserve to feel His judgement, but because of the sin we (I) have committed. But thank the Lord, I have accepted His mercy through Jesus Christ. I am free! I no longer am bound by my sins, even though I am quite capable of falling into old ways. Mercy is abounding in me because I'm no longer under the judgment of God! I can be at peace with myself and I'm free!

1 Peter 1:3

I'll try to post more about mercy tomorrow. God bless.