why it’s time to be done being ‘safe’: when you’re ready to live Real & Dangerously

My Gran, she’s taking slow walks outside the hospital now.

Her heart’s growing stronger, beating certain.

I wash down the cupboards in the kitchen.

I pray for Gran’s heart attack recovery, for each step she keeps taking, ninety-one and frail-boned and Irish-determined.

Life’s a risk and maybe she’s stronger than I am, accepting each heart beat, each step, as ridiculously dangerous — and wanting it anyways.

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I wear gloves, carry this spray bottle with me from cupboard to cupboard.

The cleaner has this emblem on the front of a skeletal hand, the words DANGER blazoned in white. The Farmer found it in the automotive section. It’s a degreaser. It’s cathartic to scrub hard.

Like I am scrubbing things away. Like a working out of faith.

The Farmer told me today in the kitchen, me bent and relentlessly scouring with that potent cleaner, that sometimes dangerous is good — when fully understood, when rightly lived.

That our God would only be safe if He were dead.

But He is the Living Word and His Word is a flashing, double-edged sword and He doesn’t write Himself into neat five-point outlines but He is like the wind

and He speaks in parables that subvert, and poetry that ignites, and metaphors that jolt and there is nothing safe or small or stiff about Him.

Click here to continue reading how my world dangerously blew up

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