Barabbas: Beautiful Exchange

Beautiful Exchange 

(YouTube Reading available at the end of post)

It is dark. The streets are deserted and market stalls are closed for the night. The air is still. My breathing—steady, shallow, paced. 

The kofir’s sandals scrape against the cobble stone in haste. I watch his shadow slither on the stone walls, his panicked dark form hurrying ahead of it. It is one of those nights bad things happen. Death is here, she is present, hard pressed along the walls of the narrow alleys. Peeking. Waiting. Thirsting. Her breath is stale. Her stench, putrid.

An early riser will discover a body at dawn. Blood. Insides on the streets, exposed. Secret, personal things now laid bare to eyes, to birds.

My face stretches into a smile, but there is no mirth. The cold hilt of the dagger cools my palm. I follow. He glances behind him, not slowing down. 

Easy now.

Was he going to the playhouse? To play their games? To frolick with the soldiers? To do things that bring the spit up a person’s throat. He smells of spices. Strange foreign spices. Of the heathen. Not ours. It is mixed with his sweat, the odor is maddening. It causes me to leap, and I grab him by the back of the neck. We land on the stone streets—him beneath. His strength is small. The blade thrusts. Deep. Into his side. His screams are familiar. They are awful. It is like a song, an awful song. My heart pounds. The blade comes out and pushes in again, breaking another layer of skin, and another. I am screaming too. We make a horrible medley. He stops first. He isn’t moving. I bring my hands to my face and they are red. The warm liquid trickles into the lines and grooves of my palm, running over the hilt to my sleeves.  A light wind carries around my feet. An unrushed breeze. It whispers, faint but sure. 

Murderer. It says.

My breathing is heavy now. I stare at my hands, already the blood was beginning to crust underneath my nails. The air I breathe tinged lightly with the metallic smell of blood and spices.

I look down at the boy. At once, his face is of the kofer—the betrayer—then again, it is of my child. My son.

Abiel?

A cry tears through the still night from a strange place. It is my voice.

Abiel.

 My eyes snap open. It is dark and my yell echoes in a small room. Slowly, the room takes shape. I am here. I never left. I sit up on the cloth which separates me from the stone floor of the dungeon. My chest heaves in pants. The breeze around my feet ceases. Mice scurry away from my toes, climbing over one another to scamper into their holes in the prison walls. The air is heavy with dung and urine and some vomit. 

The chill I escaped in my slumber returns and my teeth chatters. The shackles around my ankles are like an ice vice. The shuddering can not be tamed. The ropes around my wrists cut into my skin. 

I still remember his eyes—grey and deep, like an overcast sky over the sea. He was a boy, barely growing his first chin hair.  I still hear the cry, I see the veins about his temples as they strain in shock. The foul odor of excrement filling my nose as his body jerked in spasms. 

Excrement and foreign spices. 

Murderer.

The end of you is near.

The image of Tovi, who led the last revolt flashes through my mind. The birds pecking at his decomposing face, the wild dogs jumping to nip at his legs as he hung on the tree. 

My shoulders quake as the fear slithers down my back. The chains rattle. The quake spreads to my hands, my feet, my lips tremble.

“Surely God is my salvation”, I mutter. “I will trust and not be afraid.” 

But I am afraid.

The price for joining the revolt is crucifixion. The brothers tell you this at initiation. It is a life of sacrifices, of purity, of hunger strikes until every last one of the unfaithful—the kofers who corrupt the people of God with their detestable ways were removed. It is a life of death. It was the brotherhood who would prepare the way for the Messiah. 

My teeth chatter. I rub my hands over my arms in a hug. 

“ The LORD himself, is my strength…”

The voice snickers.  

“He is my strength, my defense….”

Murderer. You have no defense.

The boy deserved it. Him and all the others. A Jew who knew not who he was, deserved whatever came at him. A Jew who played the Roman games, and worshipped the Roman gods; who stroked Roman soldiers; who reeked of foreign spices; who knows not his God. He deserved it.

It was the fifteenth day of the fast. We would not eat until all the traitors were dead. 

When Tovi was arrested, the brothers had made an attempt to rescue him. Twelve of them had been caught. Thirteen bodies hung off the city walls. All for one. 

There was nothing as glamorous in the days after my arrest. And nothing now. I would die. Alone. One for One. 

Suddenly I look up at the ceiling. I catch my breath. There is a  low rumble. Like a thousand bees swarming. There is  Thumping. Rumbling, a quaking. An earthquake. I still myself. No, not an earthquake. It is distant and from the ground above. 

Ra-ra-ra. 

That is the sound.

The mice squeak in the walls. 

Ra-ra-ras. 

Now it sounds like the rumble of thunder.

A door above opens and lets in the sound.

BARABBAS! BARABBAS!

It's voices.

A crowd is chanting. 

BARABBAS.

Why is a crowd out there? Why do they call my name?

They are calling for your head.

My bowel comes loose. A warm dampness spreads across my undergarment. 

I sit there, like prey.

They want your head.

BARABBAS.

I hear footsteps. Unhurried, unified, precise—the march of Roman soldiers. They stop at my cell door and the door flies open. Hands throw me to my feet.

“ The Lord has become my salvation." I whisper as I step into a formation of six soldiers, two at my side, two before and two behind. They walk in perfect pace, carrying me along in rhythm.  I must be strong. The end is near. The corridor is dark, the brisk stomps of the soldiers feet strike the ground in determined unison. ***They seem only too eager to get me to my place of retribution. 

Maybe the brothers have planned an escape. My heart beats faster in hope.

BARABBAS!

The crowd yells as we approach the upper corridor.

The morning sun is blinding, and at first, all I see is a dark circle in form of the sun behind my closed eyelids. A roar of cheer erupts as I emerge. 

Men. Women.

They scream BARABBAS.

A few fights break out in the crowd and the soldiers push them apart. 

GIVE US BARABBAS.

The high priests are here—vultures. Bribe lovers. They are all we have left of our truth. They stand dressed in black close to the stairs, hurdled together, whispering. The air is cloudy with dust. More people join the crowd. Another fight to the right. The brothers? Was it a diversion? I stay ready. I search the crowd. For Yavi. For Gabvriel. 

“Should I release the king of the Jews?” The voice comes from my left. It is Pontius Pilate, the Roman. He is sitting on a stool. Soldiers flank him—three on each side.

GIVE US BARABBAS!

It is then I see him on the right hand of the Roman prefect. 

A man. His hands are bound. He stands surrounded by soldiers, like me. A soldier hurls a stick at the back of his head. Another spits at him. They cackled as he lunges forward.

He gains his balance. He is silent. 

A man speaks into the ear of the Roman and he looks at the bound man on his right. 

GIVE US BARABBAS! 

This man…Surely he isn’t of the brotherhood. Then he looks at me. 

All cease.

The cries fade into the background. I hear nothing. I see nothing. Just his eyes. His eyes…Did they glow like a flame or had I been in the dungeon too long? 

He does not smile but his face is kind. There is something else. A calm. A gentleness. A Peace. All peace. What manner of man is this? To be at peace in chaos. For a moment, I doubt if he is a man at all.  

Wait! I know him. He is the miracle man. The healer from Nazareth. What is his name? It escapes me.

The one who healed old Amar at the temple. 

“He heals anything,”Old Amar had said, “Even those who dream bad. The ones sick in the mind.” Old Amar eyed me. 

Those eyes.

 Flame.

 Fire.

 I blink. He winces. 

The soldier hits him again.  

The sound of the crowd rushes back.

“Take him away! Have him flogged.” The Roman says loudly more to the crowd than his soldiers. 

CRUCIFY HIM! They crowd yells. 

CRUCIFY HIM!

The Roman speaks in rapid Latin. He looks at the man again, his palm catches his chin in thought. But the man is looking at me.

“Take him away to be crucified. I will have no part in this.”

They push him away, tearing his gaze from mine. A soldier kneels to remove my shackles and another cuts off my ropes. 

They push me down the stairs. My hands are free. My feet are free. 

Now I see them—my brothers: Yavi, Gavriel and Simon. They are in the crowd. I am glad. I walk towards them. I stop. Yavi stands between the other two, he covers his head with his hood, the other two do the same. 

The sign is simple.

 I am no longer a brother. I had been caught. Yavi had spoken. 

They blend into the crowd, their cloaked forms soon vanish.

I stand frozen.

None for one. 

The crowd begins to follow the soldiers and the one who is like a man—what is his name? 

The Roman Prefect gazes after them. 

“Get out of here”, A soldier swears at me, “You are free.”

Free.

At the cost of a life. 

“The Lord has become my salvation.” The words escape my lips.

I begin after them, out the city gates to a place they call the Golgotha. I keep my distance, threading the crowd, watching him carry a wooden beam. The whips of the soldiers eat his flesh, breaking it open with every lash. I want to rush out and help him, to carry this beam but I can not. I am free but the soldiers could grab me again. I follow close behind and watch them nail him to the beam with other offenders. I stand afar off in the noon sun, but close to his cross where again I will smell that sweet, metallic scent of blood—raw, pure, divine—and where one has been crucified in my stead. His skin broken, his blood poured out as an offering. 

Jesus.

That is what they call him.

The Saviour. 

The Ransom. 

Me for him.

Him for me.

One for one. 

One for All.

It is good Friday. Barabbas is in prison and is waiting execution after committing several crimes within the Province of Judea. He is a member of the Sicarii...

Orange is the New Knack

Have you ever heard about prison literature? It is a literary genre characterized by literary work written while the author is confined in a location against his will, such as a prison, jail or house arrest.

I didn’t know it was a thing! I guess if you’re locked up somewhere for a while, you’d maybe be forced to pen down your thoughts.

Counting and crossing out tally does get old. You’d probably write a book too or a song, like Tupac did!

Check out a list of books written in prison at the end of this article. I was surprised by the first one.

Anyway, the only Prison Lit I’ve ever read would be the books of Paul of Tarsus. He was in prison when he wrote a good bit of the New Testament. The best thing about those books was the state of his spirit. He seemed content, hopeful and joyful, probably more so than the people he was writing to. He focused on teaching them about God, with the hopefulness of his imprisoned life.

Imagine if he had chosen to focus on his problems and magnify them. We’d have something like this:

“Well guys, hey, I’m still in these chains. I keep telling these guards that I’m a citizen of Rome. I’m a real Jew. A Jew of Jews! What else do they want from me? From the tribe of Benjamin. Did I mention I was circumcised on the eighth day?

He-llo!

The press is outside, I’d like my voice to be heard about this injustice. The food is terrible and I can’t wait to be home again eating Sister Phoebe’s lamb stew.

The prison cell has mold clusters the size of Corinth.

I don’t mind being interrogated but the breath on these guards. Help!

So I mentioned the other day that Diotrephes has been acting up. What’s his deal? I don’t have time for his pettiness.

Anyway, I’m still here.

Sigh.

It’s ok that you haven’t come to see me at all. Just continue living your best life while your friend is here rotting in prison. Please tell Carpus I need my coat, the one with the invincible stitches which I left in Troas. I hope Atrius hasn’t borrowed it and gone on his fishing expedition. That’ll be gross. It’s tailored.

There’s this particular guard who seems to be going through a lot and seems interested in Jesus, but I told him, “Hey, at least you are free and you don’t have these miserable chains around your ankles.”

Am I right?

He’s here again mumbling about believing in Jesus. I should share the gospel but I’m just not in the mood, guys.

Did I tell you about the watery soup of minestrone they serve on Mondays? Not my favorite.

Guys, I can’t even in this place. Lord, help.

Stay woke. Stay ready.

The soldiers can arrest you at any time. I can testify. ”

Well, thank God he didn’t write any of that nonsense!

I say this from experience, seeing past your chains and limitations can be hard. I caught myself complaining a few weeks ago, I probably sounded like this rant above. Till date Paul is my favorite Prison Lit author.

Instead of ranting like me, he wrote these amazing verses:

“Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually served to advance the gospel. As a result, it has become clear throughout the whole palace guard and to everyone else that I am in chains for Christ. And because of my chains, most of the brothers and sisters have become confident in the Lord and dare all the more to proclaim the gospel without fear.” Php 1:12-14

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice.”

Php 4:4

Perspective. Chains. Optimism. And some more perspective.

Other works written in prison:

Orange is the new black

Piper Kerman

A Prison diary
Jeffery Archer

Conversations with myself
Nelson Mandela

Pilgrim’s progress
John Bonyan

The Travels of Marco Polo
Rustichello da Pisa

More…

Do you have a favorite Prison Lit? Which is it?

Talking Donkeys

Balaam and his donkey are the stars of one of the most alarming stories in the bible. God is patient. Oh my! Like, he is repeat-myself-to-you-a-million-times kinda patient. The kind of God, in my experience who will repeat himself to you until you act. 5 bucks says He had spoken to Balaam in many ways and sent many other people to tell him the very same message- his mum, his mother-in-law, his granny, his neighbor’s granny, but Balaam wouldn’t listen. At wits end, his donkey speaks too! Donkey had had it. Everyone is telling you the same thing, Balaam. Get it together, bro.

Me, as Balaam

God has been talking to me about something. Two things in fact. The very same things, I’ve heard them at least from 8 people over the last 3 weeks. That’s alot. Of course, every time I hear it I break into an eerie knowing smile which creeps the person out and that pleases me somewhat. More importantly, for whatever reason, I’d hear the instruction, grunt my religious good-word-good-word Christian grunt and nod my Christian nod in agreement with the messenger and then do nothing! Lol. Not funny at all. 

This is definitely the same way Balaam started—Instruction, grunt, glory hallelujah, good word, disobey. Instruction, grunt, amen, tongues, disobey, the cycle continues.

God keeps sending messengers. That’s who he is. He really wants you to get it.

The key is to obey before animals start speaking to you. Donkeys. Dogs. Pigeons. Cats. *Shivers* Of all the animals though, a cat would be the creepiest.

I have cats in my building. Blink.

I best obey.

 Anything He has been telling you to do? 

Promises, Promises And Why God Makes Them

Imagine God promises you something, anything. Let's say... hair. He promises you hair because  you are going bald and you’ve refused to eat for two days because of this. So he says, “Behold, my balding child!” In His earth-quaking voice, “I am going to give you hair, and fill up those bald spots! In fact, I’m going to give you a full head of hair; hair that’ll make Jon Snow weep!” 

What do you think will happen?

Well, there’s a likelihood that those adorable tufts of hair may not sprout instantaneously. 

In my experience, when God gives me a promise, everything, and I mean EVERYTHING goes way south. It looks like the exact opposite of what He said, no sign of His promise. Nothing. It’s a dry, dry desert.

I believe He gives us promises because He knows we’ll need it down the line. We’ll need it to encourage ourselves, to stand firm in the capability of His power, and anticipate the splendor of His creative work.

If He tells you He’ll supply all your needs, at some point, you may not feel supplied at all. If He promises you hair, you may become Varys before you become Better-than-Jon Snow(enough with the GOT references, Ike). Bottom line, you may become completely bald before you get a chance to toss those locks in the wind.

At that point of complete baldness, you may not have what you want, but you have something pulsating with an inherent potential of God’s power— a promise! He sees the future and He knows things are going to go very South. He expects us to grab that promise, stare at it, speak it, shout it, write it, mutter it, imbibe it, own that promise until we are breathing and living in its reality.

God once gave me a promise and it did not look like it for a long time. Just like David or Abraham or Joseph, each of these guys waited at least 10 years before the promise was realized. Abraham waited until he was 99! David waited, running around in the mountains and the desert for years, trying to escape Saul, even AFTER David had been anointed king by Samuel; Joseph was sold as a slave, and he went to jail before all those stars bowed to him.

These 3 men had a promise each. There is a promise. Then there’s the wait or the trail. You must hold on. You must. Otherwise, what are you gonna do?

Why should you hold on? Because when the trial is over and you have won... there will be Isaac. There will be no Saul, and your greatness will exceed those before and after you, as was with David; never lost a battle, never lost his city, arguably the most respected king in history. When you wait out the promise, the stars will surely bow and so will the moon and the sun.  

This is what happens to those who wait for my God.

Airbnb with the Devil

As a child, my dad would tell me very matter-of-factly, that if the sun went down on my anger, I would give devil a chance to come and hang out with me. Lol! Scared me out of the planet and back. Pop was right. Recently, I let the devil Airbnb with me. I got upset with someone, and it became a deep hurt, that soon got out of control.

A few suns did set on my anger unfortunately, and then the devil stepped in; dragged his Prada luggage into my space and kicked off his shoes. He talked my ear off about how I was right to be angry and actually quite justified at such underserved insolence! Even God understood my anger, he would say. He warned me about letting people in, people were just wicked opportunists. They were all the same -all this he tut-tutted, while he's making himself a sandwich in my kitchen and sipping some tea, wearing my house robe and totally feeling at home.

In case you didn't know, Satan doesn't travel alone. Just saying. He has baggage (we all know that), he also has an entourage. Stop and think about that. Think of the scariest movie you've ever seen, the creepiest movie... The Conjuring, The Exorcist, Ouija...yup. He travels with spirits like that. Not cool. Not cool.

Kicked them out one day, the whole lot of them- I had had enough. I remembered this post and it soothed my heart. Plus I recalled the scripture that says human anger doesn't achieve God's perfect plan for our lives, that sealed it. I would give mercy and forgiveness, even when it seemed undeserved.

Be upset, be angry but don't let the sun set on your anger. Please, I beg you. You'll give that weird guy and his goons a foothold. He'll bring chaos. He'll mess with your mind. He doesn't do dishes, plus he'll use your towel and leave it on the floor.  Don't say I didn't tell you.

“And “don’t sin by letting anger control you.” Don’t let the sun go down while you are still angry, for anger gives a foothold to the devil// Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry. For the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God.”

— Scripture mash-up: Eph 4:26-27//James 1:19-20

2016 in Two Words: Plot Twist

If I could summarize 2016 in two words, it’ll be — Plot twist. I think I was done with it by May. The twists kept coming and I kept winging it like a pro. You can only wing it for so long, for ~365 days. At some point, you're bound to get a sprain (which I did). All this, clearly could have been duly avoided if I had done the most important thing at the beginning of the year:

Asked God for a personal, specific word for the year.

It would have made it much easier. Instead, I looked for words as the twists came. They worked, as always, but it was tasking.

For sure, this can't be the case in the coming year. 2017 must be renowned as the year we heard, we followed and we triumphed!

If you don't have a word yet—and I don't mean the general word announced at church on NYE, I mean your own exclusive, intimate instruction and reassurance from our heavenly Papa, please sit with Him this last few days of the year and get it.  It's important because when the plot twists come, then you can smack ‘em in the face with that irrefutable promise from your Father *smirk* Also when you have a specific word from God, you are able to mutter it beneath your breath or scream it out when things look the exact opposite of the promise; great way to look crazy, which I personally prefer.

2016 wasn't all twisty. It was full of so many blessed opportunities, travel, love, you (yes, you PGI reader), fun posts, new friends, old friends. One amazing thing I did this year though was teach my mum how to blog…on FaceTime! Lol! It was the funnest and funniest thing ever. It made me appreciate her so much. I couldn’t be impatient because I know how patient she was with me as a baby learning to walk, learning to eat, learning to pronounce! So with patience, I'd say, "No, mum. That's not your password." I guess now, we all know where I got my password-recall situation from. 

I'm grateful for the twists. The brought me to a place of serenity and clarity; so much that I don't pray to avoid the twists but I pray to be focused on Christ and to hold on to whatever he has told me about 2017. Do you have your word yet?

For more highlights, amazing plans for 2017 and more news please watch out for our freshly designed newsletters! 2017 is going to be so exciting! If you haven't subscribed, whaaaaa? Do it! Do it!

Fiction-faith in the red-haired woman

Warning: If you haven't watched any season of Game of Thrones and you hope to, note that the contents of this post may contain notable spoilers. Proceed to the last paragraph.

I'm a GOT fan. I make sure I harass my friends on social media with not-so-subtle declarations of this often enough, until their thumbs hover dangerously over the "unfriend" button but still they put up with me. Love you guys! Haha!

For anyone who is not following GOT closely and doesn’t care about spoilers. Here are some quick facts needed to understand this post:

1) Jon Snow is a brave, noble man who we all love; yes, even the male viewers love him

2) Jon Snow got stabbed in the back(metaphorically) and also in the chest (literarily) with the swords of several of his men (He was the Lord Commander of the Night's watch, a group of trained fighters who guard the realm from a mean, zombie army)

3) Jon Snow was pronounced dead last season. Very dead.

4) We love Jon Snow

5) The creators will lose all their watchers if Jon remains dead (or gets cremated)

6) I mean ALL. We forgave them for killing many, many cool characters off (Khal Drogo, Ned Stark, Daddy Lannister, the White walkers' General, Rob Stark, Mum Stark, Direwolf Grey Wind Stark) but not Jon

Now, on the show, is a red-haired sorceress called Melisandre, who led Stanis Baratheon (a prince who staged a coup) in winning many wars and kept feeding him with hope and promises based on visions she claimed to receive from some mystical being she believed in.

I have believed that this fictional character, Melisandre, was able to raise our beloved Jon Snow for over a year, since the last season. Over 365 days. The belief has sat for so long that it has coagulated into something very, very potent. In fact, whenever people came around and wailed,"Boohoo, Jon is dead." I responded rapidly and assertively,"Melisandre WILL raise him." The only reason I believed she wouldn't raise him was if she chose not to.

Here's the catch, I've never actually seen Melisandre raise a person up from the dead but I still believe she can. She has done some pretty neat tricks with her powers. You don’t even want to know. Lol. 

You see that I take my fiction a little too serious. This was why I always thought I was a member of the X-men and the 4th member of the Power puff girls.

In reality though,  I have a few Jon Snow situations in my life, maybe not so dire but still in need of a miracle. There's only one person that can help me and i know. God. Even though i've never actually seen him do these particular things, i'm certain, without an iota of doubt that he can. I've seen him do very, very neat tricks incessantly in my life and in the lives of others. Already, creating a universe so diverse and yet so wholesome is a pretty neat trick! He is a creative problem solver and let's just say we all have a few problems scattered here and there. God is eager to help us through the diciest situations, he just needs our belief in his ability to sit until it coagulates into something dangerously potent!

When people ask about our "Jon Snows", we must reply assertively, "God has some neat tricks up his gold-hemmed sleeves! I'm very confident he will do it."

How often do you remind yourself that God has your back? Are you a GOT fan? Did you watch the last episode? Who is your favorite character? 

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When your Husband tries to Escape with Penelope

Seated five shelves up, in my dark brown kitchen cabinet, is a large orange bowl. It's a pretty 6.5 litre salad bowl by the Italian brand Omada Designs, and I love it, a little bit too much.

For this post, let's call it Penelope. The day I bought Penelope, I snatched it off the shelf and wouldn't let go, it was the last piece at the store and I couldn't quite explain why I was drawn to it.

I usually reserve Penelope for days that I need to mix dough or days that I'm really in my culinary-beast Martha Stewart zone! In summary, this is my favorite kitchen bowl, so you could imagine my astonishment one day, when I saw Ed suspiciously holding my precious orange Penelope! First, he doesn't bake. Second, he was at least 10 feet out of the kitchen with my bowl in hand with a very determined look on his face! Third, he had mentioned an hour before, that he had some "home-improvement" activities he needed to get to! So like someone negotiating with a hostage-taker, i asked him carefully, 'What are you doing, babe?', I took a slow step towards him.

'I need a bowl', he responds and explains his project, which was to occur completely outdoors and involved every type of ingredient possible but kitchen ingredients. 

Only heaven could sufficiently describe my distress to you. Lol. Penelope balanced  precariously in the crook of his left arm, pleading with me to rescue it.

He had to be kidding! Anyway, we negotiated and he eventually picked out another bowl, which was previously a pedicure bowl and then we both went out to his home improvement project thing, to which i made zero contributions. Hehe.

You know, I never fully understood what happened that day until recently- whatever inherent value you develop in yourself is exactly commensurate with the situations you will find yourself in. I would never in a million years have let him take my bowl out to do anything other than kitchen-related activities. I was determined to wrestle it out of his hands, even. Lol. The inherent value i saw in Penelope made me insist that she remained indoors for "clean" use and not dirt.

Imagine we were all bowls? What type of bowl would you be? I'd like to be a gold dish.......wait, NO...... a ROSE gold dish with strong but delicate handles and intricate designs on my base, and I'd like to get polished every night!

“Now in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and silver but also of wood and clay, some for honorable use, some for dishonorable.
Therefore, if anyone cleanses himself from what is dishonorable, he will be a vessel for honorable use, set apart as holy, useful to the master of the house, ready for every good work.
”

— 2 Timothy 2:20-21 ESV

Every time I see the orange bowl, I remind myself that I have to rid myself of all those things stated in 2 Timothy, chapter 2, that are tagged as dishonorable, so I can be used by God for honorable things and so I don't end up being used for common tasks like feeding the dog or cleaning the toilet bowl or be that bathroom bucket with the white soap marks!

I'd rather be a fancy bowl that sits pretty high up the household duties but I have to constantly and consciously keep me clean; my thoughts, my heart, my motives. Clean. Always.

Might I mention that Ed has attempted to escape with Penelope twice. Lol.  

What type of vessel would you like to be? You know God fights for you all the time, like I fought for Penelope, right?  

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