Why Our Sin Makes Us Perfect for God

What qualifies any human being to become a disciple of Jesus? Likely, it's not what you're thinking! Read on as my friend, Leslie Leyland Fields, hooks us and then trails us to a powerful truth. Elisa Why Our Sin Makes Us Perfect for God By Leslie Leyland Fields I spent yesterday in a half fetal position, crabbed fingers on the keyboard, hacking out an essay due that day. I didn't even make time to read God's Word, which is Life itself to me. I fall SO short every day. What kind of follower of Christ am I, anyway? I feel more like a wanderer than a follower on so many days! How can God possibly want me? I have heard this voice long enough now to know: While this could be the voice of the ene

Just Keep Walking

He is risen! Now what? Living in the light of the resurrection, we are filled with hope and power. Except when we get stuck on the "can't possibly do's" in our lives. Suanne Camfield helps us each take the very next step. Elisa Just Keep Walking By Suanne Camfield My mom has a hard time sitting still. After any given meal, even the high and holy ones, she barely has the willpower to let the last crumb settle before she jumps to clear the table. I have to clutch my coffee, white-knuckled, the moment I finish dessert just to keep her from snatching the cup right out of my hands. I, however, like to linger. I find myself lingering now, just a few days after another Easter has come and gone. My

The Language of Lament

There's a time to weep. And yet, often I hold the tears back, rejecting their cleansing pour. In her blog this week, my new friend, Amy Peterson, wraps a comforting arm around my shoulder - and likely yours too - and nudges me toward the hope that births only through lament. Read on ... Elisa The Language of Lament By Amy Peterson On a tour at Clifton Heritage National Park on Nassau several months ago, I visited a sculpture garden memorializing women sold into slavery. I haven't stopped thinking about it. Women sculpted out of cedar trees stared off the cliff towards the sea. Their faces were black, and their bodies dry grey wood. Faded blue scarves wrapped their heads. One's hip jutted to

© Elisa Morgan 2019

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