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I want to tell you a story about humility, and about purpose and prophecy, and about America.
It begins in December 2014, though truthfully it started several months earlier, in February 2014, sitting in a tiny pastor’s office in a tiny church outside Chicago.
Snow - Gaggle - People - Door - End
Snow fell furiously outside, and I turned around to watch it drift, as I watched a gaggle of people walk past my door, at the end of the twice-daily 12-step meeting hosted in my tiny little Lutheran church.
Sometimes in 2014 I felt uncertain and isolated. I had only a few months ago become a pastor; somewhere inside I was still the journalist I had been before, with the soul of a writer longing to tell the truth. My congregation could not contain the breadth of my desire to communicate, so, at my husband’s urging, I started a blog.
Advice - Intern - Writer - Journalism - School
On the advice of a former intern to a prominent Christian writer, who went to the same journalism school as me, I contacted a group called Red Letter Christians. They’d be among the first to publish my Christian writing and blogging, and they even invited me to a small gathering of activists, authors, and pastors on the east coast in 2014.
Wide-eyed and naive, I listened as these veterans of publishing and speaking circuits shared their wisdom and their woes. Introverted and missing my 18-month-old back home, having just weeks before suffered a miscarriage, I walked in to eat breakfast alone.
Anyone - Club - Head - Coffee - Cup
I didn’t really know anyone; I wasn’t in the “club,” so to speak, and I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be. So I put my head down, and stared into my coffee cup. Behind me I heard another person sidling up to the breakfast buffet. He walked slowly, haltingly, slightly bent over. I didn’t know then, but he’d dealt with bone-fusion...
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