In the midst of life, I easily become overwhelmed. I am sometimes too short sighted to notice what The Lord places in front of me to enjoy. Tonight, however, I had the opportunity to go over to Creekside (our wyldlife camp) and watch work crew presentation. They came out on stage, one by one, and revealed their cardboard testimony. For those of you unfamiliar with cardboard testimonies, you write life before Christ on one side and life with him on the other. For example, had I been on work crew mine might have read "bound by pride and self righteousness" (flip cardboard) "freed to give and receive grace".
While it will come as no surprise to you, I sat with silent rollers plummeting down my face. They all came out stone faced while revealing their brokenness. And in a moment of pure joy, and obviously straight up Jesus, they held before a club room of middle schoolers the truth of a new creation. How everyone doesn't weep, I'm still unsure. Half way through, with a wet neck line, I recognized what a privilege it is to sit amongst that crowd and hear about lives changed by Christ. In that moment, all I could pray was may this never grow old and may I never sit here with dry eyes.
Crying is something I do a lot of, but its a recent development. It's only been this "bad" since college. Something happened all those year ago that changed my heart. I'm sure it has something to do with The Lord shaping my heart. And while I sometimes say that jokingly to excuse my crying, I do think it is truth. My heart aches, and my eyes need diapers, when I see things that The Lord loves. I watch a work crew kid share to what depths they were pursued. I watch a summer staff dude change before my eyes over his two months in the IK. I listen to an A team wife talk about pursuing and adopting their daughter. Oh that we would celebrate alongside The Lord. How I hope his relentless pursuit of hearts never grows old to me. For I would much rather a tear stained face and a wet neckline as I join the choir of angels rejoicing salvation found.
