I’ve spent the last three days with over a hundred bereaved parents.
And they are all beautiful.
Beautiful in their bravery and their brokenness.
It was probably the most diverse and HONEST “church service” I’ve ever been to-and it had nothing to do with the facility. It had everything to do with hearts.
These are hearts desperately longing to beat to the rhythm of the heart of God. Hearts that are too shattered to pretend when there is an altar call. Hearts that don’t care if sobs escape or tears stream down.
And hearts that receive other hearts with open arms no matter if the body that carries them looks familiar or proper or fashionable or is the same color as their own.
It was hard to be surrounded by so many hearts carrying so much pain.
But it was also beautiful.
I wrote this last year and was reminded of it yesterday:
We spend so much time, money and effort trying to make our decaying frame look less like the temporary shelter it’s intended to be and more like an eternal monument to beauty.
But try as we might, we are impotent against the forces that will eventually drag us to the grave.
What if, instead, I worked as diligently to exercise my inner woman as I do my too-generous bottom?
Read the rest here: Beauty That Lasts
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