“I tell you the truth, you must be born again”
 - Jesus

I love Easter. It proves that I am not left with the life I have created, but I can have the life He creates.

Jesus promised to never leave me, but I have often tried to get away from Him. But He hunts me down, and loves me till it almost hurts.


I have often heard the words “have you been born-again?” but never “are you being born-again?”

This Easter I am thinking about being born again, and again, and again…

I have been born again a lot.

I remember when…

I first found Jesus - I was born again.

I was sad and started smoking but then I quit - I was born again.

I met my wife and fell in love - I was born again.

We got pregnant before we married and I was asked to leave school but we survived - I was born again.

My wife forgave me for being really mean to her - I was born again,

I was sick with depression, but got some medicine that helped - I was born again,

I got sober - I was born again.

I am sure it will happen again really soon.

- by Richard

Okay, Addict.

I’m sick of you. Literally.

I want you gone. You’re through.

You have had control over my life, my time, my behavior, my thoughts, my attitudes, my relationships, my body, and my mind. Because of you, I have messed up my life and I have wounded the people I love the most.

Frankly, addict: I hate you. I thought you were my friend. You promised excitement, reward, and escape from the fears and pains of life. You lied. The excitement was fleeting, the reward was phony, and the escape was momentary. You failed to deliver – thousands upon thousands of time, you failed. Every single time. Every. Single. Time.

You deceived me. Oh, you’re clever. You kept offering me this package of fake goodies – and every single time, for decades, I would take it. Your control over me was almost absolute, and because of you I did unspeakable things. I want you gone.

I am not you, Addict. And you are not me. Yes, you have been a part of me, a big part of me. I have been powerless over you, despite my resolve not to let you do these things. You have made my life completely unmanageable, despite my outward appearance of competence and confidence. But the real me is not you. I want you gone.

I’m not going to try to manage my own life. I can’t. But even so, I am going to win. Not on my own; my own power is pathetic. But make no mistake, Addict: you’re history.

I’m finding power somewhere else. With this new power I’m finding, I can do this. I’ve tried to kick you out before – perhaps thousands of times – but this time it’s different. I have a new friend. My new friend is actually an old, old friend whom I have tried to serve all my life, but never with my whole heart. This friend is known by many names, but I go with the name God. I’m going to give God the keys to my place, my life, my mind, my heart, my behavior, everything. With God’s power, you, Addict, don’t stand a chance.

Consider yourself evicted. I want you completely out of my life. I know you’re going to want to come back. When you knock on the door, with God’s power I’m not going to let you in. Oh, I may slip up sometimes and let you stand on the doorstep. I used to think that when you got to the doorstep I had no choice but to let you in to ransack the place – but now I see that letting you back in is not inevitable; in fact, it’s not going to happen, so go. Just go.

Addict, I am envisioning you walking away from my life, your bags packed, trudging away, your figure getting smaller and smaller, farther and farther away, diminishing, diminishing, until you are just a speck. Just a speck.

Good riddance. I’m a much better person without you, thank God!

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

- by Linda

This time of year draws me back to my spiritual roots. There is something about Lent that ignites a longing for quiet and reverence in me. And although while growing up Lent seemed like a lot of rules and giving things up, I also, even as a child, loved the quiet in the church and the sense of awe that was present there.

My family went to church every Sunday and there were so many of us it was usually not a quiet, peaceful hour. I was often trying to keep younger ones hushed or in their seats. But during Lent, it was different. During Lent there were all these extra services to attend and my mom would only take the older kids. It was peaceful. There weren’t as many people, there was space. There was quiet and often the lights were dimmed. And I got to just BE. And God seemed present and close and I soaked it up.

And then life happened and there was a period of time when I didn’t go to church at all and then an adventure to figure out where to go when I did return. And I ended up in churches in various denominations. And I found a different richness there. I learned and grew a lot spiritually. My faith became more real, more personal. And, being a quiet person, at times I also felt very out of place. The church seemed noisy and busy.

So, the last few years, during Lent, when I especially sensed that longing for quiet reflection with God, I allowed myself to visit the church I remembered as a child. And I loved it. I didn’t let myself get caught up in the little things I don’t agree with anymore, I expected them. I just soaked up that presence of God that comes to me in the quiet, in the tradition, in the liturgy. I don’t necessarily understand how He comes, I don’t think there is anything magical about the traditions themselves…I just know I sense Him there in a different way.

I think God calls to us in all kinds of ways. I am sure many find him in celebration and in things I might call noisy. I know He is there too.

And one of the things I love about The Refuge is that there is space for both. This lovely group, where the majority probably prefers the celebrations…still makes room for quiet reflection. It’s an unusual combination, but I do appreciate it.

So as the weeks of Lent unfold, I am looking forward to seeing God show up in the quiet times & being challenged to see Him also in the celebrations.

- by Megan

How can One
shows One's love
if One knows not what love is
For One has to learn
the art of Love
before love can be His
--MMH

* * * * *

I think Love is one of the most difficult of human emotions. It can be intertwined with so many other feelings. Want. Need. Lust. Desire. The Warmth of Kindness. The Agony of Betrayal.

But in all of it, we still need Love. We need to give it and to accept it. Offer it to another and allow it for ourselves.

So what's in your box? That place in your heart the holds all the good or all the bad, that makes it difficult to give or accept...

What do you need to hold onto or let go of so that you can show, and know, Love?

-by Jenny

Is there a cause worth fighting for? Do you have a passion for making a difference, a stirring in the heart? Do you feel called to advocate on behalf of a group that needs support?

Sometimes it's a no-brainer. We know just what to do and can keep plugging away, but at times the discouragement sets in to cloud the vision that seemed clear, seemed strong and sure. It can be difficult to find a way, or we run out of steam and get discouraged. There may be resistance and intimidation that push back. Sometimes our resistance is within.

Saturday night at our first Express evening of 2012, we spent some time identifying the causes we feel are important and and exploring the things that get in the way of our passions for advocacy, and how we can overcome those things. A story from Martin Luther King, Jr's life framed our evening.

There was no one else that he could turn to on that lonely night. The discouragement was great. He had worked so hard in Montgomery, but he was receiving harsh criticism and death threats. Martin Luther King, Jr. was sitting at his kitchen table, and over a cup of coffee, he wrestled with weakness and called out to God. Then he heard these words:

Martin Luther, Stand up for righteousness. Stand up for justice. Stand up for truth...and lo, I will be with you even to the end!

It was what he needed to revive his soul. He became reassured that he was to continue on in this important cause he had labored over.

As I think about causes that touch my own heart:

• What is pushing back at me, intimidating me and keeping me from doing what I can? Are there voices that threaten me to forget it, give it up, and believe it's all too hard or too dangerous to continue?
  
• Am I doing the right thing?
• Where will I find strength for this weakness? What will revive my soul?
• Are there ways others can be involved?
• What are things we can do as a community to help strengthen each other to overcome what keeps each of us from our passion for advocacy?

If you have thoughts about this, add them here. We can explore together.

If you would like to listen to the kitchen table story in MLK's own words:

- by Felisa

Face, meet palm. I knew better, and I did it anyway. In the immortal words of Forrest Gump, "Stupid is as stupid does, and I just did stupid."

I am one of those (supposedly) rare women who prefers to change her own oil. I can get a much higher grade of oil for the same price if I do the work myself. As a rule, I drive aging cars, and the oil used makes a difference in the longevity of the engine. In theory, it is not a difficult procedure: put the oil pan underneath, unscrew the drain plug, let the oil out, take out the old filter, put in the new one, put the plug back, pour in the new oil. I've done it several times before...just not to my current vehicle. And not by myself.

Last Saturday, after weeks of saying I needed to do it, I finally got around to changing my oil. I looked around under the car for a while, oil filter wrench in hand. Puzzled, I turned to my stepfather, who had graciously agreed to help, and I asked, "Where's the oil filter?" He pointed to a likely-looking red cylinder, half-hidden by the frame. I said, "Ah, there it is," and proceeded to remove it. It didn't look like the filter I remembered buying, and it was awfully far from the oil pan, but it was the right size and shape, so I went ahead. When I got it off, the fluid that came out was a very reddish brown. "Puce," I thought to myself, “the color of old blood. Yuck.” I said, "Wow, it must really need a change. That's not the right color at all." Then I attempted to install the new filter I had bought. It didn’t screw on easily. I bought a different brand, and the threads looked right, so I tried to install it. It still didn't quite fit. When I tightened it as far as I could with my bare hands, and saw that there was still a gap, I decided to use the wrench to force it on tighter. My stepfather helped.

This is the part of the story where I hold my face in my hands and say, "I knew better. Why did I do that?" If a part doesn't fit, it should never, EVER be forced into place. The part looked unfamiliar, the fluid was the wrong color, and the new part didn’t fit.

If your instincts are telling you "this is not right," listen.

How many times do I have to learn this lesson?

As it turns out, the red filter is for the transmission fluid. Once we realized this, we searched for and changed the real oil filter. We put the red filter back in its rightful place (with force, once again, as my previous mistake had damaged the threads, and it was difficult to screw on), and I started the car so he could check the transmission fluid level. My stepfather shouted, “Oh no! Turn it off!" as thick, puce liquid poured out and flowed over the driveway. It looked like my poor baby was bleeding to death. We think we can fix it, but it has taken us days to locate the correct tool. Apparently, metric sizes are somewhat unpopular ’round these parts.

I knew better, but I did it anyway.

Now I suffer the consequences. It is my humble opinion that this principle applies to more than cars. How often do we make that sort of mistake in our relationships, and then regret it? I know I should talk something out, but I hide it anyway and grow resentful. I know I should listen to the other perspective, but I jump to conclusions. I know the path of love, the path of peace.

All too often, I take the other path. I take the one that seems easier now, but will cause me greater problems down the road--or keep me off the road altogether.