silent reverie

Some people are "morning people" and others are "night owls".  I've recently realized that I'm actually both - or maybe I'm just not that into afternoons. I like the mornings because they bring a promise of productivity. And one of the perks of working three 12-hour shifts a week at the hospital is I have a lot of free days.  And on these days off, I always wake up with the desire to really do something special, to make something of myself, and to get one step closer to becoming the person I've always dreamed I would be. And then the afternoon creeps up on me.  I've cleaned my room, listened to music, caught up on my shows, and it's probably time I figure out what I'd like to eat for lunch! Before I know it, the promise of productivity begins to feel less like a promise and more like a deadline.  My optimistic vision for today is not exactly turning out the way I planned, and the more I putter around my house the more I find myself lo...

The room is quiet again; the small tentative wave of discussion once again receding in the wake of yet another outburst, another strange question, another meaningless ramble.  I look around the room and see faces in various stages of impatience and indifference and the thought comes to me unbidden: "I wish he just didn't come anymore." The last few months, our small group of relatively like-minded believers has been surprised by the arrival of people who are by every definition of the word "different".  We've seen them as a chance for our group to exhibit true acceptance and sincere love for people who are unlike us but need Jesus as much as we do.  However, as the months past, we found ourselves more and more at a loss as to how to connect to them, how to help them change and see true growth.  If they don't change or if they begin to make our other church members feel uncomfortable, what do we do?  How much do we risk in hopes that they will somehow f...