I'm only posting this because I think it's interesting.

I've been trying to do some research about Davos and it's history and I've come across some interesting things.  For instance there was an allied internment camp here during WWII which happened to be across the street from the German Consul.  It was common place for the American service men to mingle in the street with the German soilders that were here for vacation.   It was a very strange mix.



here's a link for some interesting reading.

http://www.jmisys.com/WWII/Switzerland.html



Then I thought I'd look up the hospital we're living in and came across this article.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/business/2011/jan/28/george-osborne-double-dip-fondue-davos-diary



It's boring until you get to the end where it says in reference to the World Economic Forum:



"The world's broadcasters, including the BBC, have set up camp at a Davos
hotel called the Holland House, where rooms have been turned into
makeshift studios. Tight quarters make for uncomfortable bedfellows – on
the sixth floor, Rupert Murdoch's ultra-conservative Fox network has
been placed next to the Arabic network al-Jazeera – a network loathed by
US Republicans and once criticised by Fox's own Bill O'Reilly for
"giving al-Qaida the publicity it so desperately wants". Bipartisanship –
it's all in the Davos spirit of global co-operation."





Yup, 6th floor, that's our floor!  Every January it turns into mini news studios.  No kidding on the tight quarters.  I'd love to see al-Jazeera making a cup of coffee with Fox news in our kitchen! 

What can you do when your heart is broken . . .

and there isn't much you can do about it?



God catches me off guard so often with the things he breaks my heart over.  The school ended two weeks ago so we are no longer using the big classroom on the first floor.  The building manager has since rented it out to a Jewish group.  From what I hear, this happens every year.  And by Jewish group, I mean over 2,000 Jews that come to Davos every summer.



The other morning Adam was flipping though his Bible and a piece of paper fell out.  It was a prayer request that neither he nor I had seen in five years.  It was from a Jewish women who attended our home group when we lived in Florida.  It was so simple and deep.  She was asking for the strength to believe in Jesus even though she knew that to do so was breaking a commandment; to respect the wishes of ones parents.



Adam and I talked about how odd the timing was of this prayer request surfacing, what with the group using the classroom. 



Yesterday I took some laundry down stairs and noticed that they left the door open as they were gathering.  So naturally I looked in.  Who wouldn't?  It was quite a sight to see!  I'm not sure how to describe it but there were banners all around the room with Hebrew writing and lots of men with giant hats.  I got a bit excited, these are God's chosen people after all.  I had a feeling like there was something very special about them and what they were doing.



Then it hit me, we're God's chosen too.  What we're doing is equally as special.



Then it hit me again, they're God's chosen people who don't know Jesus.  They know God's word better than any other people.  They have every word memorized.  Every word!  Yet they completely miss it because they don't have the Holy Spirit to help them understand it.  These people dedicate their lives to knowing God's word and living according to the Torah but they don't know Jesus.  The sad and ironic part is that every word, every law, every feast points to Him.



It breaks my heart; this tree that I've been grafted into.  This tree that doesn't know that it has living water to drink from.  They've missed their Messiah who rode in on a colt rather than the king on a steed they were expecting.



We've been praying for them.  It's amazing how genuine your prayers become when your heart is broken over something.  These people, who have been set apart by God, who believe they are seeking Him out wholeheartedly, don't know the love and freedom from the Law that was purchased for them by their Messiah, our Messiah Jesus Christ.   



Where ever that Jewish woman from our home group is, I hope that she is walking in the freedom and love of Jesus Christ.

Trying to steady my heart in Yours.

Even Jesus Wept

This article touched my heart.  It's worth the read.



http://www.relevantmagazine.com/god/deeper-walk/features/26861-even-jesus-wept

It's happened

I've turned into my mother.  It happened this very afternoon at approximately 3 o'clock. 



There is no turning back, no redo's.



I looked at my delicious, Trader Joe's sourdough hard pretzel, and thought to myself:



"Gee, I wish this pretzel was darker and had more salt!"



I fear this is just the beginning . . .

Source: optimisticminds.tumblr.com via Jennifer on Pinterest

Clearly I've spent too much time on Pinterest

Source: picsxd.com via Ryan on Pinterest

Source: ffffound.com via David on Pinterest

Source: polyvore.com via Brandi on Pinterest

Source: None via Brigette on Pinterest

Source: nichewhite.com via Megan on Pinterest

Source: happyplace.com via Jennifer on Pinterest

Source: wordpainting.tumblr.com via Jennifer on Pinterest

Source: etsy.com via Jennifer on Pinterest

Source: colourmehappyblog.blogspot.com via Jennifer on Pinterest

My friend Amy posted this on Facebook. I just love it.

A
little boy asked his mother, "Why are you crying?" "Because I'm a
woman," she told him. "I don't understand," he said. His Mum just hugged
him and said, "And you never will." "All women cry for no reason," was
all his dad could say. The little boy grew up and became a man, still
wondering why women cry. Finally he put in a call to God. When God got
on the phone, he asked, "God, why do women cry so easily?" God said:
"When I made the woman she had to be special. I made her shoulders
strong enough to carry the weight of the world, yet gentle enough to
give comfort. I gave her an inner strength to endure childbirth and the
rejection that many times comes from her children. I gave her a hardness
that allows her to keep going when everyone else gives up, and take
care of her family through sickness and fatigue without complaining. I
gave her the sensitivity to love her children under any and all
circumstances, even when her child has hurt her very badly. I gave her
strength to carry her man through his faults and fashioned her from his
rib to protect his heart. I gave her wisdom to know that a good man
never hurts his woman, but sometimes tests her strengths and her resolve
to stand beside him unfaltering. And finally, I gave her a tear to
shed. This is hers exclusively to use whenever it is needed." "You see
my son," said God, "the beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she
wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The
beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway
to her heart - the place where love resides."

Source: ifunny.mobi via April on Pinterest

It's all about the story

 

     I generally like to read people the way I would a good book.  The idea is that our lives tell a story.  I've been interested in this idea for the past few years.  A good friend of ours, along with her best friend decided to get in her car and go.  The destination didn't matter so long as they hit each state at some point on the way.  What ensued over the next several months was a life changing pilgrimage, encountering God and living off of the kindness of strangers.  Adam and I followed her blog, I Am Free, with anticipation.  We had a wonderful time when they passed through our neck of the woods and when they left she surprised us with a gift.  A book call,  A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, by Donald Miller.  Earlier in her travels she had crossed paths with Donald Miller himself and had him sign the copy she gave us.  Nice friend, huh?  The book is about the amazing people you meet along the way.  Further more, it's about how a film company wanted to make a movie about Donald's life and when they went to write it they all realized his life was boring and no one would probably want to watch it.  This sad epiphany spurred him on to live a life worth watching.  It's an excellent read and the whole concept of, what story is your life telling, has since stuck with me.

     Fast forward to about a month ago and Adam and I were at hippie church.  I can't capitalize the name because it's not actually called hippie church but there really is no other way to describe it.  Picture hippies...having church.  There was about ten or so of us sitting on couches listening to the pastor go on passionately and in walks a homeless man.  This wasn't that unusual, as there was already another homeless man sitting in the 'Revelation Rocker.'  Like I said, hippies, gotta love 'em.  The homeless man sits down and the pastor continues on.  All of the sudden there's a break in the preaching and the homeless man yells out, "Oh yeah!  What if you HATE God?!"  I'm telling you, the air in the room got sucked out as though the giant vacuum from Space Balls did it.  Almost immediately after, the homeless man was barraged by a bunch of over zealous Christians fiercely defending their God.  As if God, the creator of the universe and all that's in it, actually needs us to defend Him.  I just picture one of those little yappy dogs trying to protect its owner as if it actually had the ability to do so.  I mean really, even I could punt one of those little guys...not that I would, I love dogs and that would be mean.  I'm just saying.  Even Jesus loves the little ankle biters.  Ok where was I, yes, homeless man - barrage - Christians.  I sat there listening to people trying to convince the man why God should be loved and honestly, I felt like he was being bullied.  I'm not trying to pick on my brethren, to use a Christian term, they really are great people.  I'm just saying their words at that particular moment weren't inspired by love; they were coming from a place of defense.  That's when my heart started to race, my bones started to burn within me and I  had to say something or I would explode.

     This is when the two halves of my brain collided.  My inner nerd joined forces with fiery Italian as my index finger rose into the air.  "Excuse me, excuse me, may I interject?"  The pastor gave the nod and what came next can only be described as this:  "This man was made in the image of the Most High God and since we understand that, WE are held accountable to treating him with respect.  You don't just wake up one day and say, 'oh, I think I'll hate God now.'  Obviously the events in his life have brought him to this conclusion.  His life and his story have value and is to be honored.  So, what's your story?"  The needle scratched off the record player, the room went silent and the man shot me a look like he just got caught in headlights.  He took a moment to compose himself.  The man proceeded to tell us that over the course of his life he watched three of his girlfriends and his mother die; he had been sober for ten years and that's how God repaid him.  He had spent several months in the hospital only for the doctors to tell him that nothing was wrong. He is still very ill.  The crowing piece of his tale however, came with uplifted hand as he held an imaginary knife and told us how he didn't kill a man, even though he had the chance and really wanted to; he claimed that God never honored him for that.  It became clear that over the years he did in fact have a relationship with the Lord but at the present time was actively choosing to blame God rather than be transformed by Him.  After all even precious metal has to go through the refiners fire to be purified.

     Once his discourse was over I quickly realized that the others in the room had not spoken to him out of defense but rather frustration.  This man had been there before.  The church had in the past reached out to him in love, going so far as to try and get him off the streets and into a rehabilitation program.  This man was only there to cause a ruckus and maybe get a meal.  After we left and I had time to reflect I began to feel a bit silly.  That's my M.O. you know, open my big mouth first, feel silly later.  I'm currently working on my Ph.D. in that field and can soon be addressed as Dr. Big Mouth.  I suppose my point in all of this is that every life tells a story.  Whether it's the homeless person who's so easy to walk by on the street or someone serving nine to five in a cubical in Corporate America, every story has value.  I'll leave you with this: What story is your life telling?  If it were written down would it be worth reading?  By the way that homeless man, he has a name, it's Greg.