On the weekend we pour a little more cereal in your bowl. We hope you enjoy some reading from our regular contributors, some viral videos and other great finds from the internet. This is what we loved this week. Share your favorite articles and videos in the comments below.
There’s that one scene in every great movie. You know the one I’m talking about.
That scene where it looks like the hero is about to lose it all.
When George Bailey cries out to God in a drunken stupor, “I’m at the end of my rope.”
When Luke Skywalker finds out that his is the only spaceship left in the attack against the Death Star.
When Buzz Lightyear realizes that after all this time, he really is just an ordinary toy.
We can all relate to those characters, especially Buzz. We start out this life believing we’re capable of doing anything, that we’re invincible, that we can fly. Then life gives us a couple of dozen smacks across the face and we’re left struggling to believe if we ever possessed any value at all. Our disbelief opens the door wide open to Fear who invites Pain and Struggle along for the party, initiating a cycle of Pity Party Paralysis.
Last week I blogged a couple times about why I haven’t regularly gone to church. I’m hoping both blogs were good conversation starters. I’ve gotten some flack, but honestly very little. I’ve found most people were incredibly kind and gracious, even those who disagreed with me. The blogs presenting dissenting opinions are to be expected and completely understandable.
The hardest part about the ramifications of those blogs involved the relationships I have with pastors. I’ve many close friends who are pastors. I actually went to a church service Sunday night to hear a friend of a friend preach and enjoyed it very much. But even I felt that deceptive polarized pull of “Wait, are you supposed to be here? Aren’t you either in or out?” Which is something I hadn’t felt before, but how the blogs were received. I consoled myself by reminding myself I’d never left “the church” just simply didn’t attend many services. Still, I wondered whether people thought I didn’t like them, and specifically, I wondered whether pastors thought I didn’t like them.
There have been a few times in my life when God has gone completely silent. I would ask him questions, scream requests, beg and plead for him to respond—but he wouldn’t say anything. It was like He was gone.
It wasn’t until recently I had a revelation about why this might happen.
This evening I read a wonderful sermon by Martin Luther King Jr. about unfulfilled dreams. I’d not read the sermon before but was especially moved by the topic. The topic was unfulfilled dreams.
It’s a powerful idea, isn’t it. The phrase “unfulfilled dreams” has a lonely tone, as though life were supposed to be something life isn’t.
In the sermon, Dr. King spoke of Gandhi’s desire to unite India but…
Every successful creator has friends who think he or she is lucky. They met that one curator at a coffee shop, or Oprah’s housekeeper accidentally left that book behind in the kitchen. And the truth is their friends are right. They did get lucky. Everybody gets lucky.
Luck is like the weather, it comes and goes, it makes crazy things happen randomly. But unless you actually spend the hours painting those paintings, meeting the curator amounts to nothing. And unless you put in the year to write the book, it can’t get left behind on Oprah’s counter.
This week we are going to pour a little more cereal in your bowl. We hope you enjoy some reading from our regular contributors. This is what we loved on the internet this week. Share your favorite articles and videos in the comments below.
I hold onto some things very tightly. Like white-knuckles-gritted-teeth-if-I-let-go-I-die kind of tightly.
It’s actually amazing I have the energy to do anything else. Anything but hold onto these things. I don’t believe I am alone in this.
I think the majority of us are probably walking down the street, teeth gritted, knuckles white, nails digging into our palms, holding on so painfully tight to things that were never ours to begin with.
Many years ago I struggled with some pretty severe sinful patterns in my life. Some would call them addictions, and if I’m being honest, they were. These weren’t your run-of-the-mill sinful patterns. They were the kind that destroy lives and break up marriages.
Which, for me, they did both.
In the darkest hours of these struggles, I found depression and a desire to end my life. At the worst point, I truly believed there would be no way out except to die.
Over the years, I have sat with many poor mothers and fathers as they have shared their stories of surviving genocide, slavery, and abuse. The pain they describe is unfathomable—and I’m tempted to imagine that the people who endure it are somehow different from me. Maybe, somehow, they just don’t feel things like I do. Maybe they expect less, care less, hope for less, want less, or need less. But painfully, over time, I have seen that they are exactly like me. Lucila, a resident of the tiny Peruvian town of La Union, and the mom of a spunky 8-year-old little girl named Yuri, received dreadful news early one morning. “Someone on the phone said, ‘Yuri has been murdered at the party hall,’” Lucila told me, her dark eyes now beginning to swim with tears. It didn’t matter that she was poor. Like any parent, Lucila just wanted to know what happened to her daughter. The last time Yuri’s family saw her was inside a local party hall owned by a much wealthier neighbor, Pedro Ayala. One of the children had seen Yuri go upstairs to the Ayala’s residence and never come back down. Her family left that night, each [...]