A blog on mercy seemed such an easy task until today’s sermon. It has been a hard week. Actually, ten days. That was when I received a message that a co-worker, a brother, a friend, had been picked up and taken in for questioning. This injustice took place in a country where sharing about the hope of Jesus will get you arrested, and worse. The means used for questioning are not things I want to write.

A life free from worry. To some of us, it sounds like Shangri-La: wonderful and impossible to find. But we aren’t doomed to be worry's prisoner. Read on if you would like to know “How do I stop worrying?” I am no stranger to this topic. Over the course of my life I have chewed my nails to stubs, bitten the skin around my nails, pulled out my eyelashes, and stress-eaten cheese, chocolate, and jellybeans. I have stayed awake countless nights, playing out different horrible scenarios. I have had panic attacks and crying jags. It’s not pretty to admit, but I have let worry take over my life. If someone had said to me in a time of intense worry, “I know the secret of how to stop worrying,” I would have laughed (bitterly) in his face.

“Unless I see the SCARS?” Over the years I have wondered about Jesus’ scars. It is one way he is known, isn’t it? It’s not the only way.

From the time I was a small child, I went to church with my family each week. I participated in Sunday School, VBS, and plenty of other church activities. I learned about God the Father and Jesus His Son. I dutifully memorized scripture, knew the books of the Bible, and I watched my mother spill tears every Easter as the choir sang the stately old hymn, “He arose! He arose! Hallelujah, Christ arose…” Even with all that Christian formation, I never really “got it.”

Running out of chores, I tackled my “blessing drawer.” I’m not sure where, or from whom, I got the idea but when I got a note or a letter that was affirming I tossed it in the bottom drawer of my desk. Over the years it filled up, that’s not bragging, just saying a lot of years went by, and a week ago with the quarantine at full tilt, it was time to open it. I dumped them into an empty moving box and settled in. One by One One by one I read them, often pausing to ponder or cry like when I hit one from our deceased son, AJ.

I don’t recall the dreams, I don’t think they were “nightmares,” but when I awoke I was assaulted with, well, “Daymares.” Daymares of reality.

"What sort of follower of Jesus does God want to send into the world?" This, ever so basic, question has been a constant companion of late. So who comes to your mind? What distinguishes a follower of favor? How would you describe the perfect follower?