“Of the Father’s Love Begotten” ends with a shout and a whisper and a promise. First the undeniable joy of hymns and chants and high thanksgiving, a fellowship of worship that invites us all into this moment—no, this eternity—of jubilee. It’s a no holds barred, throw the doors wide, raucous celebration of the Father’s love perfected in the sacrifice of his son and fulfilled in the sanctification of his bride.
Marriage is not easy, and that might be the understatement of the century. It is hard work and heartache, late nights and crippling doubts.
This is exactly what hurts so much right now, the willful ignorance of everything that is happening around us. The quiet, arrogant assurance that racism doesn’t really exist anymore and that none of this would be happening if “they” could just “get over it.”
I am a white mother of a beautifully multiracial family, with four kids from four different countries and a fifth on the way. And though I have spent the last decade of my life believing that my sweet children (black and white) were equal and beloved in the eyes of my community, my country, and beyond, the past few years have eroded that belief—and broken my heart.
I’ve come to the conclusion that if we’re following the model of our Father God, or at least trying to, we’re moving in the right direction. Parenting is less about a list of how-to’s and more about a posture of grace.
I love my busy. I want meaning and passion, a life filled with purpose and intent. Abundance.
