When my children were young, I loved to dress them in matching outfits, and yes, kiddos, I said outfits. I especially remember two sets quite well ... blue and red sailor suits, and purple shorts with purple, orange and white shirts. And no matter what my adult children may say, they were absolutely adorable in their matching clothing and I've got plenty of pictures to prove it. And I can promise my children that one day they will do the same with their own children.
As much as I enjoyed adorning my sons and daughter in matching attire, there was never any doubt that they were all very different ... in their personalities, their behavior, their physical characteristics ... very, very different little people from the moment they entered this world. And today, as adults, they remain very, very different all grown up people in every sense of the word.
Those of you who are frequent and faithful readers of this blog know that over the last nine months, I've lost a great deal of weight, over 90 pounds for those of you who are keeping score. Recently, I ran into someone I had not seen for almost two years. I didn't know it, but she had been watching me from a distance, trying to decide if it was really me or not. When she finally approached me, she said, "I've been standing over there for 15 minutes trying to decide if that was really you or not. You look like a totally different person!" While I know I look somewhat different now, I don't see such a drastic difference when I look in the mirror each morning, but to those who haven't seen me in a long time, I guess the change in me is fairly dramatic.
I've been thinking a lot recently about how I look to other people, not my outward appearance, but what my heart and soul look like. I wonder ... when people see me, do they see Jesus in me? Do I love like He loves? Do I have compassion like He has? Do I share like He shares? Do I speak the truth like He speaks it? When people see me, do they say, "She looks so different since she met the Savior of the world?"
As much as my children didn't want to look like each other when they were young, I want to be a lookalike when it comes to Jesus. I want Him to take away all of me and fill me to overflowing with Him ... His heart, His love, His selflessness.
Yep, I definitely want to be a lookalike ... a lookalike of Jesus.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Stand By Me
There are times when you watch a video that changes you, inspires you, moves you ... and today I watched one that did just that. You can find it on YouTube; it's called Everyone Needs Someone to Stand By Them, and it's by John Brooks. Go find it and watch it. Trust me, it's well worth the five minutes it will take out of your day. I've watched it a dozen times, and it inspired me every time I watched it. And tonight it made me want to dance ... and so I did ... with my dogs in my living room.
I couldn't help but think about all the people who have stood by me down through the years ... family, friends, employers ... so many faithful people who have been there no matter what. People who have stood by me through all the circumstances and situations of life. People who didn't run away when things got tough. People who loved me when I was unlovable. People who cared for me when I was sick. People who cried with me and shared my sorrow. People who laughed with me until we cried. People who danced with me. People who shopped with me. People who played with me. People who were in it for the long haul ... willing and ready to stand by me.
Even as I thought of all these people who have been or currently are so dear to me, I am so grateful for the One who is the ultimate stand by me friend. God stands by me to the very end ... when I least deserve it, He never leaves my side. He never wavers, never fails, never abandons, never betrays ... He always, always, always stands by me.
Go watch the video. Get changed, inspired, moved. Get on your knees and thank Him for standing by you. Or meet Him for the first time and find out how faithful He really is. And then ... then, dance.
I couldn't help but think about all the people who have stood by me down through the years ... family, friends, employers ... so many faithful people who have been there no matter what. People who have stood by me through all the circumstances and situations of life. People who didn't run away when things got tough. People who loved me when I was unlovable. People who cared for me when I was sick. People who cried with me and shared my sorrow. People who laughed with me until we cried. People who danced with me. People who shopped with me. People who played with me. People who were in it for the long haul ... willing and ready to stand by me.
Even as I thought of all these people who have been or currently are so dear to me, I am so grateful for the One who is the ultimate stand by me friend. God stands by me to the very end ... when I least deserve it, He never leaves my side. He never wavers, never fails, never abandons, never betrays ... He always, always, always stands by me.
Go watch the video. Get changed, inspired, moved. Get on your knees and thank Him for standing by you. Or meet Him for the first time and find out how faithful He really is. And then ... then, dance.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Write Away
Those of you who are frequent readers of this blog know how much I treasure my nightly walks on the trail ... the walks that began as necessary exercise for J.R. that became necessary exercise for me as well, and that have have now become necessary time of refreshing for my mind, heart and soul. I've had some deep and intimate times of prayer while I'm walking, some incredible and awesome times of worship while I'm walking, and some powerful lessons taught to me while I'm walking. And sometimes ... sometimes, God stops me in my tracks, quite literally, to get my attention and make me listen to His voice.
A few nights ago, I was really hoofing it to get home because it was beginning to thunder, and I didn't want to get caught outside in the storm. As I came up on a set of benches not too far from my house, I realized that I needed to stop and check my blood sugar. I looked at the sky and decided I had time to test and have some juice before racing the rest of the way home. As I sat down, the gal sitting on the other bench struck up a conversation with me. She was writing in a small notebook, and I asked if she was making notes for something she would type up later. She said no and explained that she was writing a letter to her sister. When I asked why she was writing the letter by hand, she replied that she wanted her sister to have a part of her and not just words on a page.
For the last several weeks, one of the doctors I am seeing has had me writing letters ... long letters to myself ... by hand. And quite honestly, I have complained and fussed and whined and fought against the whole process, saying that I saw no point to writing the letters in the first place, and certainly no reason to spend all the time that is required to write them out by hand when I could easily do them in a third of the time if I typed them on the computer. And then I met the gal on the bench ... writing a letter to her sister ... by hand. Because she wanted her sister to have more than just words on a page ... she wanted her to have a part of her.
All of a sudden, writing my letters made sense to me ... I am putting myself on those pages, my heart, my soul, my life. And I had a moment ... one of those God moments when I finally understood His plan. As I sit at my kitchen table and write away, it's God who is doing the "writing away" ... writing away my hurt, my pain, my anger, my fear ... and in the process, He is replacing all of those feelings with His love, His compassion, His strength, His truthfulness.
So I continue to write, grateful beyond belief that He writes away my sin when I come to Him with a repentant heart, a broken spirit, and a mind that hungers and thirsts only for Him.
A few nights ago, I was really hoofing it to get home because it was beginning to thunder, and I didn't want to get caught outside in the storm. As I came up on a set of benches not too far from my house, I realized that I needed to stop and check my blood sugar. I looked at the sky and decided I had time to test and have some juice before racing the rest of the way home. As I sat down, the gal sitting on the other bench struck up a conversation with me. She was writing in a small notebook, and I asked if she was making notes for something she would type up later. She said no and explained that she was writing a letter to her sister. When I asked why she was writing the letter by hand, she replied that she wanted her sister to have a part of her and not just words on a page.
For the last several weeks, one of the doctors I am seeing has had me writing letters ... long letters to myself ... by hand. And quite honestly, I have complained and fussed and whined and fought against the whole process, saying that I saw no point to writing the letters in the first place, and certainly no reason to spend all the time that is required to write them out by hand when I could easily do them in a third of the time if I typed them on the computer. And then I met the gal on the bench ... writing a letter to her sister ... by hand. Because she wanted her sister to have more than just words on a page ... she wanted her to have a part of her.
All of a sudden, writing my letters made sense to me ... I am putting myself on those pages, my heart, my soul, my life. And I had a moment ... one of those God moments when I finally understood His plan. As I sit at my kitchen table and write away, it's God who is doing the "writing away" ... writing away my hurt, my pain, my anger, my fear ... and in the process, He is replacing all of those feelings with His love, His compassion, His strength, His truthfulness.
So I continue to write, grateful beyond belief that He writes away my sin when I come to Him with a repentant heart, a broken spirit, and a mind that hungers and thirsts only for Him.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
I'm Home
When I was in junior high, I got home from school each day about an hour before my dad got home from work. I usually spent that hour watching television, The Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island to be specific. And I usually watched those shows while curled up in my dad's black leather recliner, eating peanut butter and jelly on toasted bread. And each day when Daddy came in the door, he would always call out, "I'm home. Thank you, Lord, I'm home." I was too young at the time to understand the significance in his words or the abundant meaning in those two small sentences. And quite honestly, it's only been in recent years that I think I've truly come to appreciate the feeling Daddy had each day when he opened the squeaky storm door, turned the handle on the basement door and entered his home, his refuge, his place that was all his own.
Each day when I come home from work, Julie, my lab, trots to meet me at the door into my kitchen, tail wagging, always happy to see me arrive. And I always say to her, "I'm home. Thank you, Lord, I'm home." Then I walk down the hall and let J.R. out of his kennel and repeat the words to him as he dances around my legs, beyond excited that I'm home. And every single day, there is a feeling that washes over me as I go through this routine ... a feeling of calmness, of peace, of safety.
This evening when I left work, the skies were black and a torrential rain was falling. By the time I got to my car, my clothes were soaked, my shoes were soaked ... even my hair was dripping from the rain. It took me twice as long as it normally does to drive home, and as I turned into my driveway, I was just finally beginning to dry out and get warm again. Watching my garage door slowly open, I thought of Daddy and his daily greeting that has become my own. As I took my hands off of the steering wheel where they had been tightly clenched as I drove through the storm, I realized how relieved I was to be home, how thankful I was to have a home to come to, how much I just wanted to get inside, greet my pups, change into dry clothes, eat dinner and settle in for the night.
As I stepped into my kitchen and gave Julie my customary greeting, I suddenly began to think of heaven ... what it will be like, whether we will recognize those from this life whom we loved, how it will feel to see Jesus face to face. My eyes filled with tears as I thought of how my earthly home will pale so greatly in comparison to my ultimate home, my heavenly home, my eternal home. John 14:2-3 says, "In My Father's house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also."
One day, whether through death or the return of Jesus Christ, I'll be going home ... and I'm thinking that when I walk through the gates of heaven, I'll look for Daddy ... and I'll call out, "I'm home. Thank you, Lord, I'm home."
Each day when I come home from work, Julie, my lab, trots to meet me at the door into my kitchen, tail wagging, always happy to see me arrive. And I always say to her, "I'm home. Thank you, Lord, I'm home." Then I walk down the hall and let J.R. out of his kennel and repeat the words to him as he dances around my legs, beyond excited that I'm home. And every single day, there is a feeling that washes over me as I go through this routine ... a feeling of calmness, of peace, of safety.
This evening when I left work, the skies were black and a torrential rain was falling. By the time I got to my car, my clothes were soaked, my shoes were soaked ... even my hair was dripping from the rain. It took me twice as long as it normally does to drive home, and as I turned into my driveway, I was just finally beginning to dry out and get warm again. Watching my garage door slowly open, I thought of Daddy and his daily greeting that has become my own. As I took my hands off of the steering wheel where they had been tightly clenched as I drove through the storm, I realized how relieved I was to be home, how thankful I was to have a home to come to, how much I just wanted to get inside, greet my pups, change into dry clothes, eat dinner and settle in for the night.
As I stepped into my kitchen and gave Julie my customary greeting, I suddenly began to think of heaven ... what it will be like, whether we will recognize those from this life whom we loved, how it will feel to see Jesus face to face. My eyes filled with tears as I thought of how my earthly home will pale so greatly in comparison to my ultimate home, my heavenly home, my eternal home. John 14:2-3 says, "In My Father's house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also."
One day, whether through death or the return of Jesus Christ, I'll be going home ... and I'm thinking that when I walk through the gates of heaven, I'll look for Daddy ... and I'll call out, "I'm home. Thank you, Lord, I'm home."
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Service With a Smile
I'm old enough to remember full-service gas stations ... there, I've said it out loud ... I'm old ... enough ... to remember full-service gas stations, when a gallon of milk cost 98 cents, when you got Green Stamps at the grocery store that you could save and cash in for really cool things at the Green Stamp store, kids playing outside way past dark without the fear of being kidnapped, one cent bubble gum, and real cherry vanilla cokes at the fountain at the drugstore (and no, not a water fountain). But ... I digress down the lane of memories of days gone by ... back to the full-service gas station.
There was a time when no one pumped their own gas, and I'm well aware that is hard for some of you to believe. But I'm completely serious ... you would drive up to the pump, sit in your car and wait for the guy (and trust me, it was always a guy) to come to your window to find out how much gas you wanted him ... yes, him ... to pump into your car. But wait ... it gets better. He would also check the oil and fluids, wash the windows and put air in the tires. And without fail, I remember that those full-service gasoline station attendants always, always, always had a smile on their faces.
I've come to realize and understand as I've grown older that some people are just made for service ... they not only enjoy serving others, they thrive on helping other people. Having a true servant heart is something that seems to be a rarity in today's me-oriented society; many people spend a great portion of their lives looking out only for number one and not even noticing those around them who are in need of love, care or simply a listening ear.
And then there are those few ... those loving, caring, self-sacrificing few ... who live to serve, who have hearts that are big enough and selfless enough to change the lives of those around them who are less fortunate, hurting, lonely or weary from life's journey. People who feed the hungry, give water to the thirsty, clothe the naked and listen to the troubled.
Even as I type these words tonight, one sweet family in particular I know is a living, breathing, walking, talking example of this kind of servant heart. A sweet family who has spent the last three days in the pediatric intensive care unit of the children's hospital here in town. A sweet family who adopted a little girl from China ... knowing that she needed major heart surgery, discovering when they went to get her that she was deaf. A sweet family who brought her home, who have made her their own, who love her beyond belief, who had hearts big enough (all six of them!) ... hearts selfless enough to give a little girl who had little to no hope for a future ... to give her that future, a future filled with abundant and amazing life.
So here's to all of those who are servants ... who give and give and give some more ... to those who love without measure ... serve without reward ... touch hearts and renew minds ... with a smile on their faces and a song in their souls.
And here's to each one of you, Brent and Allie and Tate and Cory and Wade and Mallie, you're making a difference for Quincie and all the rest of us who are watching and learning from your service ... your service with a smile that comes from your hearts of love.
There was a time when no one pumped their own gas, and I'm well aware that is hard for some of you to believe. But I'm completely serious ... you would drive up to the pump, sit in your car and wait for the guy (and trust me, it was always a guy) to come to your window to find out how much gas you wanted him ... yes, him ... to pump into your car. But wait ... it gets better. He would also check the oil and fluids, wash the windows and put air in the tires. And without fail, I remember that those full-service gasoline station attendants always, always, always had a smile on their faces.
I've come to realize and understand as I've grown older that some people are just made for service ... they not only enjoy serving others, they thrive on helping other people. Having a true servant heart is something that seems to be a rarity in today's me-oriented society; many people spend a great portion of their lives looking out only for number one and not even noticing those around them who are in need of love, care or simply a listening ear.
And then there are those few ... those loving, caring, self-sacrificing few ... who live to serve, who have hearts that are big enough and selfless enough to change the lives of those around them who are less fortunate, hurting, lonely or weary from life's journey. People who feed the hungry, give water to the thirsty, clothe the naked and listen to the troubled.
Even as I type these words tonight, one sweet family in particular I know is a living, breathing, walking, talking example of this kind of servant heart. A sweet family who has spent the last three days in the pediatric intensive care unit of the children's hospital here in town. A sweet family who adopted a little girl from China ... knowing that she needed major heart surgery, discovering when they went to get her that she was deaf. A sweet family who brought her home, who have made her their own, who love her beyond belief, who had hearts big enough (all six of them!) ... hearts selfless enough to give a little girl who had little to no hope for a future ... to give her that future, a future filled with abundant and amazing life.
So here's to all of those who are servants ... who give and give and give some more ... to those who love without measure ... serve without reward ... touch hearts and renew minds ... with a smile on their faces and a song in their souls.
And here's to each one of you, Brent and Allie and Tate and Cory and Wade and Mallie, you're making a difference for Quincie and all the rest of us who are watching and learning from your service ... your service with a smile that comes from your hearts of love.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Hide and Seek
When my children were small, they loved to play hide and seek, always searching for the perfect spot to hide ... the place where no one would ever find them. They especially loved traveling to Tennessee and playing the game at my mom and dad's house with their youngest cousins. Mom and Dad had a two-story house with a huge yard that offered them all sorts of places to squirrel themselves silently away as they listened intently to the seeker trying to find them.
One thing that always fascinated me as I watched my children playing this particular game was how they never seemed to tire of it. At least they never tired of hiding ... not one of them ever wanted to be the seeker; to a fault, each one of them always wanted to do the hiding. Hiding was easy ... finding a nook or cranny to sneak into was much simpler than searching out where the other kids were lurking.
Hiding is something I know quite well ... for many years, I hid away inside a bottle, trying to drink away my hurts. I became an expert when it came to hiding ... hiding my emotions, hiding my feelings, hiding my pain. I became so good at concealing the real me that I eventually didn't even need the booze to help me with my deception any longer ... I revealed only what I chose to reveal and only to a few certain people. I had found my "spot" ... my perfect spot to hide.
Over the last year or so, God has allowed me to be in various situations that have caused me to realize that all of us are hiders in some way at certain times in our lives; all of us have things that we keep tucked away, hidden, buried deep within ... things that we don't want others to know about, things that we think will change the way people think about us or alter our place or status in the church or the workplace or society in general.
Coming to the realization that my tendency is to most often choose to be the hider has not been an easy thing for me. It's been difficult to hand over the key to my Lord, to allow Him to unlock the vault of my soul and search deeply within my spirit. But He is ever faithful to His promises, and the more I am willing to let Him in, to let Him reveal His love for me and to me, the more He heals me, teaches me, grows me, uses me. I am eternally grateful that He is the ultimate seeker ... no matter where I try to hide, He never stops looking for me until He finds me.
"O Lord, You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; You understand my thought from afar. You scrutinize my path and my lying down, and are intimately acquainted with all my ways." Psalm 139: 1-3
One thing that always fascinated me as I watched my children playing this particular game was how they never seemed to tire of it. At least they never tired of hiding ... not one of them ever wanted to be the seeker; to a fault, each one of them always wanted to do the hiding. Hiding was easy ... finding a nook or cranny to sneak into was much simpler than searching out where the other kids were lurking.
Hiding is something I know quite well ... for many years, I hid away inside a bottle, trying to drink away my hurts. I became an expert when it came to hiding ... hiding my emotions, hiding my feelings, hiding my pain. I became so good at concealing the real me that I eventually didn't even need the booze to help me with my deception any longer ... I revealed only what I chose to reveal and only to a few certain people. I had found my "spot" ... my perfect spot to hide.
Over the last year or so, God has allowed me to be in various situations that have caused me to realize that all of us are hiders in some way at certain times in our lives; all of us have things that we keep tucked away, hidden, buried deep within ... things that we don't want others to know about, things that we think will change the way people think about us or alter our place or status in the church or the workplace or society in general.
Coming to the realization that my tendency is to most often choose to be the hider has not been an easy thing for me. It's been difficult to hand over the key to my Lord, to allow Him to unlock the vault of my soul and search deeply within my spirit. But He is ever faithful to His promises, and the more I am willing to let Him in, to let Him reveal His love for me and to me, the more He heals me, teaches me, grows me, uses me. I am eternally grateful that He is the ultimate seeker ... no matter where I try to hide, He never stops looking for me until He finds me.
"O Lord, You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; You understand my thought from afar. You scrutinize my path and my lying down, and are intimately acquainted with all my ways." Psalm 139: 1-3
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Two Are Better
Throughout my life, I've been blessed with many cherished friends ... young friends, same-age friends, older friends. Friends who thought and believed like me, and friends who marched to a different drummer. Friends of all shapes, sizes and colors. Friends who were quiet and reserved, and friends who chattered nonstop. Friends who lived next door and friends who lived across the country. Friends who were living, breathing examples of Jesus and friends who didn't believe in God or His Son.
Over the years, I've come to understand that though all of my friends hold a special place in my heart, there are some friends who become family to me. Through shared experiences and events, through good times and bad, they prove that they are loyal, trustworthy, faithful friends. Friends who stay, friends who hang in there, friends who care about me and love me deeply, friends who are there no matter what or when or where, friends who hold me accountable for my thoughts and actions, friends who challenge and encourage me in my relationship with the Lord.
Perhaps it is because, with the exception of my children, all of my extended family lives in Tennessee and Kentucky, but I have come to truly appreciate how much my friends mean to me, especially now that my children are grown and I live alone. And I've gained a whole new appreciation for some special verses from God's Word. Verses that are loaded with the concept of true and lasting friendship … working together, catching each other when falls come, keeping each other warm, standing firm against the enemy together. And most important … that God be the third strand, the interwoven thread that ties your friendships together. Real friendships, deep friendships, loyal and faithful friendships are God orchestrated and God initiated, and He is at the very center and core of them.
Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12 "Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up. Furthermore, if two lie down together they keep warm, but how can one be warm alone? And if one can overpower him who is alone, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not quickly torn apart."
Thank you, Lord, for friends who are "keepers" ... friends who work side by side with me, catch me when I fall, keep me warm, stand and fight with me. And thank you, Lord, for being our third strand ... the truest tie that binds us together.
Over the years, I've come to understand that though all of my friends hold a special place in my heart, there are some friends who become family to me. Through shared experiences and events, through good times and bad, they prove that they are loyal, trustworthy, faithful friends. Friends who stay, friends who hang in there, friends who care about me and love me deeply, friends who are there no matter what or when or where, friends who hold me accountable for my thoughts and actions, friends who challenge and encourage me in my relationship with the Lord.
Perhaps it is because, with the exception of my children, all of my extended family lives in Tennessee and Kentucky, but I have come to truly appreciate how much my friends mean to me, especially now that my children are grown and I live alone. And I've gained a whole new appreciation for some special verses from God's Word. Verses that are loaded with the concept of true and lasting friendship … working together, catching each other when falls come, keeping each other warm, standing firm against the enemy together. And most important … that God be the third strand, the interwoven thread that ties your friendships together. Real friendships, deep friendships, loyal and faithful friendships are God orchestrated and God initiated, and He is at the very center and core of them.
Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12 "Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up. Furthermore, if two lie down together they keep warm, but how can one be warm alone? And if one can overpower him who is alone, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not quickly torn apart."
Thank you, Lord, for friends who are "keepers" ... friends who work side by side with me, catch me when I fall, keep me warm, stand and fight with me. And thank you, Lord, for being our third strand ... the truest tie that binds us together.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Price Tag
Over the last eight months, I've lost a lot of weight. And I do mean a lot. Which in turn means that I've had to buy new clothes every month or so. And I do mean every month. Which means that I spend a lot of time looking at price tags. And I do mean really looking at price tags.
There are two big problems with having to replace almost all of my clothing items ... I don't have a lot of extra money, and I really do not like to shop. But, over the last months, I have had no choice in the matter ... when my pants are literally falling off and I could easily fit another person into my shirts, I have to shop. And I have to find the money each month to at least buy enough clothing so that I can go to work each day and look somewhat presentable.
I've noticed that the more weight I've lost, the more I have begun to not mind shopping for clothes quite as much. It's more fun when I can find clothes that actually fit me well. For the last four or five weeks, I've been watching one particular shirt ... black with white stripes. I really liked that shirt ... totally my style ... dressy enough for one of my speaking engagements, and at the same time not too formal for work. I say I've been watching the shirt, OK, I've actually been stalking this shirt, because the starting price on the tag was $75.00.That's right, 75 bucks for one shirt. For as much as I liked the shirt, I would never in a million years pay $75 for one shirt.
Obviously, no one else was willing to pay that much for the shirt either, because it eventually went on sale for $50. That was still way more than I was willing to pay, but my shirt stalking kicked into high gear when the price eventually fell to $25. That price, coupled with a 30 percent off coupon, made my purchase a done deal, and, I might add, made me quite pleased with both the shirt and myself.
As I drove home from the store, I remembered something my pastor had said ... that though an item may have intrinsic value that isn't measured in dollars and cents, it is still only worth what someone is willing to pay for it. Though the manufacturer and the retailer selling my new shirt thought it was worth $75, it was truly only worth what I was willing to pay. It really didn't matter to me what the original price tag was, but only how many dollars I was willing to sacrifice for what I wanted.
The truth is that God wanted me enough to sacrifice His only Son, to watch Him die on a cross, nails in His hands and feet, crown of thorns on His head. And Jesus? He loved me enough, wanted me enough, cherished me enough to pay the ultimate price to rescue me, to take me home with Him.
I've been bought and paid for, friends, with the blood of Jesus Christ. Have you?
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