I met my friend, Sarah, just over 15 years ago. She and her husband, Skip, were expecting their first child at the time. Sarah and I began attending a women’s group together while Chad and Skip both joined the same men’s Bible study. We took our kids to the Pizza Hut lunch buffet, swapped Aldi quarters, moved furniture, attended costume parties, celebrated various events and made so many memories together. I have many friends for sure, but Sarah is one of the very best.
Around 13 years ago, we also began building a friendship with a single man named Bob. Bob was in the same men’s group with Chad and Skip. When our son, Ben, was born, he brought over a meal for us and gradually started becoming part of our family. He attended our parties, slept on our couch, and took our kids on birthday outings. We solved most of the world’s problems during late night conversations at our kitchen table, and he introduced us to any of the women he dated. He became one of our closest friends - and Chad’s best. Five years ago, I sat with Sarah at the hospital as she processed Skip’s tragic death at age 42. While I was at a complete loss for words, she prayed . . . Thank you for 17 years with this man. Chad was out of town on a staff retreat when I called to say . . . Come home now. Three weeks later, Sarah informed our small circle of friends that she was 8 weeks pregnant with their fourth child. As I sat there in her living room, dumbfounded again, she said in a way that only she can . . . Better pick up your jaw. This couple . . . this woman . . . who had influenced my faith so deeply . . . why was this happening? None of this made sense. Fast forward again, as we stand together at a function in the church lobby, Sarah leans down to me and whispers . . . I went on a date. I am grasping for words. What? When? Who??? Bob. Bob who? Not our Bob? Yes. Once again struck with a loss of words, I turn to face her as she says . . . Better pick up your jaw. People are gonna look. A tapestry is a large piece of fabric woven with a complicated pattern that results in an intricate and beautiful picture on one side. A tapestry, however, is considered nonreversible because the backside is terribly unbecoming with an interplay of threads and colors that do not make any sense to the observer. Even after seeing the picture on the front, it can be impossible to understand the methodology of the back. Yet, the more we gaze at and appreciate the beauty on the front, the more we can respect the work on the back. I do not understand why Skip died. He was such a great man who loved his family so well. I hate that Sarah and her four children (who look just like their dad, by the way) have walked this broken road. I do not know why that ugly thread made its way onto the tapestry of my friend’s life. But. The beauty is on the other side. Not the other side of death. The other side of the tapestry. The side that proves God can do anything with anything. When you stand back for very long and gaze at the picture God created in this family, you see the beauty of redemption. And when I see redemption in their life, it is easier to have hope for it in my own. At Sarah and Bob's wedding, Chad gave the best man's speech while I wiped the tears. Tears that were sweet. And bitter. My best friend's husband died. So tragic. And then she married my husband's best friend. So ridiculous. And then together, we both celebrate and remember. So incredible. I see something beautiful, God. He has made everything beautiful in its time. Ecclesiastes 3:11
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I have learned a few things about myself over these past couple years. As I have slowed down enough to reflect, ask, ponder, read and listen, I have learned to care for myself in ways I never would have before. I am still learning so much, but may I share with you a few components of my healing? These steps have allowed me to continue moving forward despite my chronic heartache.
1. No should-ing. If the thought in my head is "I should . . ." I generally let go of that thought without action. I don't should. I do lots of things for others out of love and care, but I try very hard not to do things because of an unnecessary obligation placed on me by myself or by someone else. I am responsible for my decisions and actions, but I am not responsible for others' interpretation of them. No shoulds. 2. I give out of my capacity and not my deficit. This goes hand-in-hand with #1. I love to call, encourage, text, invite, bake, visit and whatever else, but only when I have cared for myself enough to have the capacity to care for others. When I am empty (be it physically, emotionally, mentally or spiritually), it is not wise for me to continue to give to others. Love your neighbor as you love yourself (Matthew 22:39) means I have to love and care for myself so that I can love and care for others. Good stewardship says I give what I have - not what I don't. 3. My soul craves time with God. When I started really giving my soul what it needed, it flourished. This time of quiet sitting, listening and just being with God has propelled the intimacy of our relationship in ways I never previously experienced despite years of church attending and Bible study. I have found it to be so invaluable that I will get up at whatever time it takes in order to give my soul the time with God that it craves. 4. I do it for the endorphins. That's what my favorite workout shirt says and it is TRUTH. Endorphins are powerful mood boosters and feel-better hormones that our body naturally produces through various activities. For me, those endorphins flow freely with strenuous exercise. So I run, box, jump rope, lift weights, hit things, push, pull, squat, burpee or whatever I have to do to get the endorphins I need. I know exactly how long my body can go without them before the anxious feelings and depressed mood begin to build and I begin to deteriorate. So, yep, I do it for the endorphins. 5. I can do hard things. This has become somewhat a mantra of mine. My kids hear it all the time. When we are faced with situations that are hard, our first instinct is to quit. I can't do it. I'm tired. I just can't go anymore. It's too hard. These are the things I used to say. But I have learned that I can. I can give just a little more. I can do one more push up. I can go one more mile. I can learn it. I can finish it. I can get out of bed. Whatever it is, I can do it. Because I know that I can do hard things. 6. I choose to live. All the days ordained for me were determined before one of them came to be (Psalm 139:16). I do not choose the number of my days on this earth, but I choose how to live them. Some days . . . some moments . . . life on this earth is not my favorite. Sometimes the pleasure becomes obstructed by the work . . . the sadness . . . the ugliness . . . the injustice . . . the brokenness . . . the ongoing and after-effects of grief. Yet I have a choice to make in that. I can choose to simply exist in this world for the days ordained for me. Or I can choose to live - with purpose, with love, with ambition, with excitement, with hope and with joy. And I choose to live. It has been a week full of soccer and Jesus for us. Big Kick Soccer Camp is what our church does every summer in place of a traditional Vacation Bible School, and we coached and directed and participated in various ways. The week was full of fun - yet also full of memories. Honestly, I love when that happens. Sure, I cry sometimes, but I wouldn't trade the opportunity to remember Katie for anything. Katie loved Big Kick! As a camper, she loved to hang with her friends as well as the older girls who coached her. She loved the evening they served watermelon for snack, and she loved the ice cream at the end of the week. She loved the sunshine and rolling up her sleeves to get more of it. When she was old enough to volunteer as a coach, she absolutely loved the kids she led. Big Kick was one of her favorite weeks of the year. I would love for you to read Matt's story and how he met Katie at soccer camp several years ago. My first year as a Big Kick soccer coach I was paired up with Katie. This humble, sweet, cute, little 11 year old-ish girl and me, 30 something guy out to coach 4 years old’s. Now keep in mind, I’ve played the game for 30 years, and I’ve previously coached little kids soccer, so I didn’t have any worries. Katie, on the other hand, had never really coached, however she understood the game and was eager to help. So the first day Katie and I meet, and we get our kids and off we go. Before you know it, day one was over and, in my head, a real sense of accomplishment. No kids got hurt, we had some fun and worked as hard as a 4-year-old was willing to. Day two. Just as smooth as day one. The kids are happy, no one got hurt and everyone having a good time. Off we go; another successful day at Big Kick. Then comes day three, based off the first two days everything seemed normal to me. It’s nice outside, and the kids are having fun chasing a soccer ball. Things are good and, frankly, to this point I kind of drove the practices with Katie’s help. And in my opinion she and I had this all under control. Then came snack time... Katie and I were walking back with our kids and their snacks, she looked at me and said, “you know we are supposed to be having 'God time' after snack, right?” Apparently, I didn’t read the cliff notes and she surely saw the terrified look on my face, that I had failed as a Big Kick coach. I mean for me I didn’t want to discuss God aloud, not to mention effectively to anyone including a 4-year-old. I had just barely gotten involved in church and am learning about God myself. Katie looks at me and says, "I’ll take care of God time, you just coach soccer." I immediately made a deal with an 11 year old. I love that Matt shared this story with us. It leads me to remember so much of who Katie was. Enthusiastic. Kind. Patient. Full of love. Full of life. And full of God. Chad and I both paused several times this week as we thought about our girl at soccer camp. We have learned to walk - sometimes run - toward the places and events that flood us with those memories. Is it hard? Absolutely. But it draws me close to Katie. And Katie draws me close to God. And that is totally worth the hard. I am who God says I am.
It is a phrase that I learned to recite several years ago. One that often requires multiple repetitions. One that my lips say more easily than my heart believes. One that impacts how I relate to myself and to every other person I am in contact with because I will live out of who I believe I am. Knowing this one truth . . . I am who God says I am . . . becomes so powerful as I struggle with my identity at age 10 . . . 14 . . . 17 . . . 22 . . . 35 . . . 42 . . . and on and on. In my humanness, I want to be accepted. I want to be applauded. I want people to say I am smart. Beautiful. A great athlete. A good parent. I want to hear someone say 'Atta, girl! But receiving that word of affirmation is very different than living for it. Social media makes this so hard. Or so easy. So easy to post the pictures and reach for the comments of the identity I sometimes long for: "You are so beautiful!" "Look at you!" "You're the best mom!" "Hot stuff!" So why do we post the pictures? Why do we want the comments? Maybe because we are not living as if our identity is in Christ. Maybe because we are not living as if we believe that I am who God says I am. We are living, instead, as if our identity is found in what our friends or acquaintances or strangers say about us. As if our identity is in the "love" given to us by others. We are living as if I am who everyone else says I am. When Katie began using social media at age thirteen, we had a conversation (perhaps more than one) about selfies. Selfies are not inherently wrong, but the reason for posting them can be. I told her, "Your instagram should be a lot more about you enjoying life and enjoying others than it is about your selfie and the comments that follow it." That's hard as a thirteen year old - or a thirty year old. Just the other day I read through a paper that Katie had written at the end of seventh grade. It was an application for the role of being a mentor the following school year for incoming sixth graders. Near the end, she wrote, "I live life based on what Jesus thinks of me and not others." I want to have confidence in who God created me to be. I want my kids to have confidence in who God created them to be. I want their "self-" confidence to arise out of their identity in Christ. Out of who God says they are. Not out of who others say they are. Not even out of who they think they are. Because I am who God says I am. Chosen. Redeemed. Loved. Free. Forgiven. Capable. New. Healed. Strong. Blessed. I am who God says I am. And so are you. Easter represents both sorrow and joy. For Christ followers, it is a holiday set aside to recall both the death and the resurrection. Utter despair. Complete grace. Renewed hope. Easter weekend two years ago was when Katie's cancer relapsed suddenly and fiercely. After hearing the doctors in Charleston say there was nothing else they could do, we arranged to have her flown to Cincinnati in hopes of a miracle. April 19th, 2017. I recall those days with such detail. I remember the despair . . . the grace . . . and the hope once we arrived in Cincinnati. As I reflected on this at the Good Friday service, I thought about how so many of our songs bring the death of Jesus to a personal level. The blood of Jesus shed for me. Jesus loves even me. That my king would die for me. We stress the idea that Jesus died as a sacrifice for me and my sin so that the gospel goes from being an event that happened in history to an act that directly affects me. This is what makes my relationship with God the Father and the Son a lot less churchy and a lot more personal. And it should - because this is the difference between believing in Jesus' existence and believing in him for salvation. Sometime ago, however, I was struck by a different thought as I sat during communion. Communion is a chance to slow down and reflect on the gift of Jesus on the cross. We are often encouraged to take a few minutes to think of our own lives and faults and need for rescue, and to then feel the indebtedness we have to Jesus for providing that rescue. I appreciate this opportunity to do just that, as I express my gratitude that Jesus Christ died for me. However, one particular day, as I sat holding the bread and cup of communion, I was overcome by a deep awareness that Jesus died for Katie. He died to give Katie life. I don't think I had ever appreciated the death of Christ for another person the way I did that day. As grateful as I am for Jesus' love for me, I am just as grateful for his love for my kids. My daughter dances before the throne of God the Father today because of the sacrifice of Jesus the Son. Were it not for that, my days would be housed in despair without any window for hope. One of things I have heard my mom frequently say is this: "You can't take anything to Heaven with you - except your kids." All of your accumulated stuff, the things you can't live without, the junk you work so hard to buy . . . all of it will stay in this broken world. The only thing that you can put your hand on in this life that you will possibly touch again in the next life is people. You can take your children with you to eternity. In this life, you can help them with their science fair project, cheer them on in every game, take way too many prom pictures, and pay for them to get the best college education. But it is the modeling, teaching, loving, instructing, guiding, and pointing them to the cross that enables you to hold your child's hand in this world and again in the next. Easter is painful for me. Yet I am grateful for the cross. I have some understanding of the despair. I have experienced the grace. I stand in worship only because of the hope. Only because of Jesus. God loves Katie so much that he sent his only Son and, because she believes in Him,
she will not experience eternal death; rather, she will have eternal life. John 3:16 We took a vacation last week with our kids and it was unlike anything we had ever done before. We had never taken a spring break trip, never been on a cruise, never seen the water of the Caribbean, and never sat in an airport with 4 kids for 7 1/2 hours. We planned a trip that was fun and exciting and different than any other vacation we had previously taken. We wanted it to be different. We needed it to be different.
It was our first trip as the Cobb 7 without seven. There were only six of us this time. We laughed and played and swam and ate and explored and putt putt-ed and danced and washed all that down with a little (a lot?) of ice cream by the pool. And we took pictures of all of it. Our first pictures without Katie. It had to be done. I knew it did. I had established that as one of my goals for this year: to take a family picture again. Such a simple thing ("Hey, you guys stand over there together and I'll take your picture!") yet I had avoided it entirely. But I knew that would be part of stepping forward through this convoluted journey of grief. April 10th marked 18 months without Katie. As I sat with God on this morning, we discussed one of my favorite passages in Isaiah 43. Forget the former things: do not dwell in the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland (verses 18-19). God is not telling me in this verse to forget about what happened in the past or to let go of memories. He is very clear in numerous other places that we are to remember our history, our times of joy and sadness, and his faithfulness in those. I think we can understand his intention better when we read the phrase: do not dwell in the past. Do not dwell on what used to be or what could have been. Do not live in the past in a way that hinders your ability to live in the present or to look ahead to the future. He says, I am doing a new thing . . . making a way in the desert. The beautiful part of knowing a God who loves redemption is that he can take what feels like a desert and what looks like a wasteland to me and he can create a path of hope through it. The desert does not just go away. The feeling of a parched tongue . . . a sorrowful heart . . . an empty spot in the picture . . . does not just go away. But right through the middle of it all, there is a way forward. As I read this morning, I heard God saying to me . . . Remember. Always remember. But don't dwell in the past. Look. See. I am still doing new things in your life. I know this feels like a desert. A wasteland. It may always feel like that a little bit - or a lot. But I am making a way through it for you. A path. A stream. I give hope. Hope that there is something more on the other side of the desert. So, fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. When you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned. For I am the Lord, your God. You are precious and honored in my sight. And I love you (Isaiah 43:1-4). God has taught me a lot about prayer in recent years. Some of these lessons I was eager to learn; others, not so much. Yet I know that God's ultimate purpose for me is to be more like Christ which means that everything he teaches me is leading me toward that.
First of all, what is prayer? I saw a church sign once that read: A prayer is simply a wish turned toward Heaven. I disagree. Prayer is my conversation with God. It is a specific and intentional time (whether it is 2 seconds or 20 minutes) when I share with God (the Father, Son, and Spirit), inviting him to be part of my day-to-day and allowing my day-to-day to be part of Him. It certainly includes asking, but it also includes thinking and confessing and considering and forgiving and acknowledging and listening. Our prayers often center around what we want to see happen in our lives or in another person's life. Protection while we travel. Healing of a disease. Recovery from injury. A good grade. A flawless performance. A job offer. These happenings in our lives on earth are perfectly acceptable topics of conversation with God. We are instructed to take these concerns to him -not because God doesn't know what to do about them or needs help deciding what to do; rather, because he cares about us and what is happening our lives. Several years ago, God began to teach me about praying his Word back to him. I may not know what God's will is for a situation, but I do know that what is in his Word is his desire. So when I am not sure how to pray for someone, I pray his Word back to him. I want God to give me the desires of my heart, but, ultimately, I want my heart to align with that of Christ, so I pray (converse with God) about what is happening and I ask for things that I already know he wants to give. For grace. For peace. For hope. For redemption. It may sound generic to explain it like that, but it has certainly increased the intimacy in my relationship with God. One of my prayers sounds something like this: God, I am so broken for that sweet boy. If he returns to his biological parents, his foster parents lose out on the chance to raise him in a home that honors you. But if he stays in his foster home, his biological parents lose the opportunity to love their own child. That doesn't feel right either. I don't know what is best in this situation. I don't know what to ask for. I have no idea what you are doing or why this is happening in this ugly world. What I do know is that you have a heart for redemption - for making things right. So I beg you to redeem this little guy's life. Redeem all the brokenness he has experienced and make it into something beautiful for you. Maybe that is through reconciliation with his biological parents or maybe that is through a forever home with his foster family. I don't know, but you do. Redeem him, God. A prayer for an exam tomorrow may sound like this: God, you know I have this biology test tomorrow. I spent all evening studying, but I am still a bit anxious about it. Spirit, calm my mind and my body as I go into that classroom. Help me to recall the information I studied but, mostly, remind me of who I am in Christ which is not dependent on my biology grade. So when Andy spoke on Ephesians 3 a few weeks ago, he ended with the verse that Paul prayed for his friends, the Ephesians. I love this prayer and I often use it in praying for others - especially my children. Yes, I want them to be safe. Yes, I want them to be healthy. Yes, I want to do well in school and sports and life. But I don't know what the rest of this life holds for them. Maybe none of those things. What I do know is that Christ wants to dwell in their hearts through faith (3:17), and he wants their lives to be rooted in love (3:18). So while I may pray for protection or healing, my heart aligns with God's as I pray . . . God, enable Aaron to grasp how wide and how long and how high and how deep is your love for him and help him to know this love that surpasses knowledge that he may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God (3:18-19). And I pray the same for Ben, and Annie, and Daniel. I no longer pray this prayer for Katie. She knows the depth of God's love for her better than me, and she is right now filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or even imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him to glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen. For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them. Ephesians 2:10
I remember sitting on my bed with six-year-old Katie, explaining this verse. God planned you, Katie. He has big things for you in this life - good works - that He has already prepared for you to do. You won't always live here with Daddy and me. At this, her jaw dropped, as if she thought I was kicking her out of the house, and I am not sure how much more she heard me say. I went on, And my job, as your mom, is to help you find your way. Not only do I have to teach you how to cook and do laundry and make your own decisions, but I want to help you know who you are in Jesus, because you won't always be here with me. In a few years, you will leave home, and I want you to do some really incredible things that God already has planned for you. I was reminded of this moment as I listened to Chad teach this verse today. I could hear myself saying, Katie, God created you for a purpose . . . you won't always live here with me . . . I have to get you there . . . Recently, I sat on the bed with another of my children. This child expressed the despair that often rises up each day - in such benign situations as reading the name Katie in a word problem on a math quiz. As I attempted to elucidate an answer for how to live, I looked up at the pictures of Katie . . . laughing, smiling and making silly faces with people she loved . . . and I said, I believe that God created Katie for a purpose (Ephesians 2:10) and that he planned her days out perfectly for that purpose (Psalm 139:16). Even when so many people prayed for Katie to be healed and questioned God's answer to that request, I believe God actually gave us a lot of good things (graces) because of those prayers. I believe that Katie's story was exactly what God wanted it to be. Then I looked at my child and said, So if I believe that about Katie's life, then I believe that about my life, too. I believe that God has a purpose for me . . . for my life . . . for my every day. And I believe that he knows exactly the number of days he has ordained for me in that. So I keep getting up and moving forward. Some days, some moments, I stop - just like you did when you looked at that math quiz and saw Katie's name. You stop, you think, you remember. But then you finish the test. Me, too. Sometimes I pause. Sometimes I am paralyzed by the memory. Some days I don't want to continue. I don't want to finish the test. I don't want to move forward. But I do. And you can, too. I get out of bed every day because of Ephesians 2:10. Because I am uniquely and gracefully crafted by God for something incredible which he has already planned for me. Just like Katie. I went by your grave today.
I stood there in the cold air with the wind whipping the hood on my jacket, and I let the tears and the wails roll out of me. Sometimes they stay inside for too long and it seems they eat away at my inside. I brought some roses and a pink lady apple. Your favorite kind of apple. I would like to say I brought it for you, but you're not there. I know you're not there. It's just your body. That damn cancer-ridden body. The body I wish I could touch. It's there, but you're not. Yet where else do I go to be near you? I want to feel close to you, to give you a gift, to write you a valentine note and tuck it under your pillow. I want to cook naked spaghetti noodles for you. I want to watch you lick the icing off a cupcake. I want to see you catch Daddy's pancakes on Saturday morning. I want to braid your hair. I want to share a bag of Haribo gummy bears with you. I would do anything to hear you laugh. One day, I know. Just not soon enough. Do you know how much I love you? Does God tell you? I often remind him. Every time I ask Daniel what we should pray for, he wants to pray for you. So we often ask God to tell you that we love you. Last week, he asked me, "Mom, when can we go to heaven?" I replied, "Oh, buddy. Soon, I hope. Soon. When do you want to go to heaven?" "Now," he said. "I miss Katie." Yep. Daniel and I just have a deep desire to be there. We all do. We miss you. We all feel a bit incomplete without you here. Annie wonders when she will feel normal again. What's normal? Whatever it was that we used to call normal is gone. We will never feel that again. No matter how much I am able to enjoy the moments of this life, I will always have a little bit of sadness. You were not at the cemetery today. I didn't expect you to be. In the brokenness of this world, though, some days I just don't know what else to do. But you no longer live in brokenness. And that makes me really happy for you. We are so excited to see you, Katie. One day soon. Just not today. When Katie was receiving her proton radiation therapy in Cincinnati, she and Daniel and I spent Monday through Thursday each week at a hotel suite. Chad drove out on Thursdays so Daniel and I could return home. Having just turned four years old, it was a practical decision to take Daniel with us because of childcare logistics, but I am so thankful that we made that choice. After her hour of radiation each day, the three of us would go shopping or visit the zoo or buy ice cream or swim at the pool or play Mario Kart or throw coins in the fountain. She called it, The Suite Life of Daniel and Katie. Sometimes we cooked dinner in the little hotel room kitchen while she did her school work, and sometimes we went out to a restaurant. Each night, after we watched Katie's favorite show (America's Got Talent), the three of us would snuggle into the king size bed together. As I watched him snuggle up next to her, I would pray, "God, please give him an amazing memory. I know he is so young, but somehow let him remember all of this." Nowadays, every once in a while, for no apparent reason, Daniel will say, "Remember when . . . " And God brings back the memories for him. I am so grateful for that.
Memories are incredible. I love memories of past moments and people and events. I love pictures and videos and stories told by others. I love all my memories - especially those of Katie. But I hate that Katie is only a memory now. In this world, she exists only in pictures, in videos, and in the minds of those who remember her. Sometimes, it even feels like she was never here. Like, maybe, she wasn't real. Because I cannot touch her face. Or smell her hair. Or listen to her laugh. She is only a memory. I hate that feeling. So I go up to her closet and open the chest where I have placed her things. Her glasses. Her papers from school. Her awards. Her blanket. The shirt she bought in Hawaii. The lounge pants she wore every day. The hat I placed on her head after I bathed her one last time. It is a chest of memories. And it makes her feel real again. And I want so badly for her to feel real again. Then one day I thought . . . What if . . . what if none of this is real? What if nothing in this world is what we would call "real?" What if one day we realize that this life was just one big, fat memory and that Heaven is what is real? Like really real. I am not trying to be all philosophical or existential here. I am not trying to say that this life isn't important. But, lately, I think a lot more about the next life, and I have come to believe that it will be so much different, so much better, so much like hi definition and surround sound on steroids that we will chuckle at ourselves, saying, "I can't believe I thought that life was good. I can't believe I thought that life was real. All of that is just a memory. Now this. This is real." I know Katie was real, and I love remembering that. And I know Katie is real, and I love thinking about that. I think a lot about what she is doing, how much she loves being with Jesus, and the excitement I feel about being with her. It might seem kind of weird to focus on something we can't touch or see or smell. It might be a completely different perspective. Maybe I am crazy. Or . . . maybe, just maybe, none of this is real. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (2 Corinthians 4:18) |
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