A couple of weeks ago, our pastor challenged us to write our Jesus story and send it to someone. I’m a little late because reasons, but here we go.
To the best of my recollection, I started going to church when I was five. As I got older, attendance became more frequent; it was Sunday morning/Sunday night/Wednesday night through most of my growing up years.
We lead a small group (“Lifegroup” in our church body’s vernacular) that consists of young married couples, where by young I mean “kids,” as in late twenties to early thirties. They’re a lot of fun, and we have a lot of fun with them. As well as doing completely serious Bible study, of course…
One of the newest couples to the group has, in the last couple of weeks, been called away to a far-away mission field filled with people of dubious reputation and an environment of open hostility to human beings. This place is known in English as “Lubbock.”
This past Wednesday was the husband’s last day with the group (the wife is staying until the end of the month to wrap up things at their apartment).
… in terms of mass, anyway.
Have you seen one of those pretty color-coded BMI charts lately? As of today, I’ve moved into one of those green squares. Now, it’s an edge green square, with a yellow square next to it, looking ominous and whispering “Danger, Will Robinson, danger!” But, still, it’s green.
A year ago, I was in one of those orange Whataburger-colored squares, of which a contributing cause may or may not have been Whataburgers. I was a semi-permanent resident; I had been in that square for ten years or so—there were pictures on the wall, a well-lived in couch, and stacks of chocolate in the closet.