For both health and spiritual reasons, I’ve decided to abstain from certain foods for the next few weeks.  Mainly, those foods are everything I love and the denial of them is proving very difficult.  While I am eating things that are much better for me, the whole grain pasta I had last night simply doesn’t satisfy.  Neither does the salad with oil and vinegar dressing nor the wheat tortilla PBJ with natural peanut butter.  I eat three meals a day, but I am not satisfied.  And it got me thinking how many things we pursue in life that simply do not satisfy us.  We chase an astonishing array of pleasures, from food to alcohol to spending, and none of it leaves us full.  Quite honestly, it’s why we have addictions and debt.  It’s why so many of us are heartbroken and hungry for more.  What we spend so much time pursuing just doesn’t deliver.  And the truth is, it was never meant to.  I believe that we were created with a need, a hunger, for far more than this world can provide.  There is something within the deepest part of our hearts that knows the trappings of this earthly realm will never be enough.

Psalm 145:16 says, “You open your hand; you satisfy the desire of every living thing.”  As usual, I was curious what promises might lie hidden behind that verse, so I got to work.  And while the verse is fairly straight forward, there was one small word that turned out to be more significant than I initially thought.  The word “open” is the Hebrew word pathach and the literal translation is “open wide.”  Open wide.  I don’t know about you, but that feels a little different than just “open.”  When I think of opening something wide, I think of my front door and I think of the fact that I don’t open it wide very often.  Most of the time, I am reserved regarding just how far I’ll open it and for whom.  I may not want to let everything or everyone in.  I may want to hold some things back.  But when God extends His hand to us, it is open wide.  He holds nothing back.  He does not wait for us to have our house in order or our ducks in a row.  He bestows all of His blessing and grace without condition or reservation.  All He has to offer is ours for the taking.

But we must take it.  God will certainly not force it upon us.  It is our choice, every day, to reject the shiny, glimmering enticements of this world and choose what will truly satisfy.  I admit, the choice is often extremely difficult.  You see, generally God’s offerings don’t shimmer and shine the way the enticements of the world do.  But truth be told, when is the last time this world’s charms and temptations provided lasting satisfaction?  When is the last time a purchase or indulgence satisfied you for any real length of time?  I can say, with all honesty, that any pleasure, sustenance or fulfillment I have derived from the allures of this earthly domain are fleeting and temporary.  Furthermore, I am all too quickly hungry for more.

Thankfully, this is not the case with God.  As David so pointedly writes, God “satisfies the desire of every living thing.”  He meets our needs completely.  He offers peace, joy, grace and mercy that extend far beyond immediate gratification.  If we approach God’s wide open hand with wide open hearts, the blessings will come fast and furious and, most importantly, they will remain.  And they will satisfy.

I’ve had an awful day.  I woke up with a horrible pain in my arm that nagged me all day.  And then our best friends’ daughter decided to use a drawer in our home as a trampoline and broke it.  But the worst of it was when my husband and I discovered that we had lost a $1500 money order.  We spent 2 hours searching with no luck.  And finally, during a break from our hunt, our pizza caught fire in our oven.  It’s not been a good day.  And the whole time I was searching for that darn money order, I just kept praying that God would lead me to it.  That He who knows all would point me in the direction.  That He who does miracles and wonders would make it appear in the drawer I had checked six times already.  But He didn’t.  And it made me sad.  I couldn’t see God’s hand in my day and it grieved my spirit a bit.

And then my husband turned on a live feed from the middle school retreat my oldest son is attending this weekend.  And I watched over 2500 middle schoolers, including my 12-year-old son, raising their hands in worship.  Singing with abandon and passion.  Eyes closed and hearts wide open.  And God was moving.   Powerfully, profoundly, clearly.   Although God didn’t seem to be moving in my day, I didn’t have to look very far to see Him moving in ways mighty and undeniable.  I imagine a similar phenomenon took place in the apostle Paul’s life.  Paul spent roughly 5 to 6 years in prison during the course of his ministry and I imagine that those were grueling years.  But I wonder if the worst part of his stay was the feeling of abandonment he must’ve felt at times.  He was imprisoned for his faith in a God who did miracles.  A God who fed thousands and healed hundreds.  A God who raised the dead and saved souls.  A God who could, if He so chose, shatter chains, disarm guards and throw open prison doors.  And yet, for Paul, He didn’t.  He remained silent and unmoving in Paul’s cell.  But thank goodness for the mail!  Letters that Paul received in jail assured him that God was moving outside those prison walls.  That He was moving faster and farther than Paul ever could’ve dreamt possible.

Sometimes, when we don’t see God moving in our small worlds, the very best thing to do is take a step outside.  God is moving. God is working.  His hand is sweeping magnificently and beautifully across canvases all around us.  And when we witness such glorious progress, such exceptional activity, there is no response but to fall on our knees, lift our hands in the air and thank the God of wonders that stagnation and silence is not in His repertoire.  That although He may appear silent and unmoving in our world, He is more than likely speaking clearly and moving dramatically right next door.  And while that is often frustrating and sometimes even discouraging, I find that it is also comforting.  It gives me great joy and solace just knowing that God does move.  That He acts in the midst of brokenness.  That He speaks into pain and loss even when it’s not my own.  That He prompts hearts and bends spirits beyond what I can see.  That His hand creates brush strokes that are far broader and deeper than my own small world.  And I am left confident that this is enough for today.  Outside these immediate walls, my son is growing, his heart is softening and his spirit is deepening.  And that is more than enough.

There has been an idea, or rather a dilemma, swirling around in my head for quite some time, but today it finally surfaced and demanded to be heard.  Something happened today that hurt a little.  It wasn’t a tremendous wound but a small sting that caused me to go down a fruitless path of question and self-doubt.  I found myself singing the same old songs of inadequacy and inferiority that I know all too well.  And it got me thinking how easily I took those steps, how readily I gave in to the whispers and subtleties that made me question who my God says I am.  And as this reality sunk in deeper, I realized that this is the burden and the curse that all of humanity seems to share.  We are so quick to carry the lies and belittlements and yet so slow and apprehensive to embrace all the truths scripture declares over us.

We all do it.  We proceed through our day and when we encounter something someone says or does or even something we perceive, we pick up a piece of self-doubt, or self-judgment or even self-loathing.  And the pieces are so heavy aren’t they?  And what’s more shocking is that we don’t just pick them up.  We actually pick up these virtual cinder blocks and then sling them over our backs and carry them for days, months, even years.  It is staggering to me.  And it is heart wrenching.  Christ spread his arms wide on a cross to tell us that we are loved, that we are forgiven, that we are holy and blameless, that we are chosen, that we have an inheritance, that we have purpose and hope.  Just read Ephesians 1.  It’s all there plain as day.  But it’s not enough is it?  Instead of choosing the wings that these truths can provide, we elect to shoulder murderous weights day after day after day; weights that convince us we are insignificant and small and unworthy.  I have done this more times than I can count.  I have embraced lies about who I am and who I am not.  I have bought into fables telling falsehoods about what I’ve done or what I haven’t done.  I have believed that I am not good enough and that the very sum of all I am falls terribly short.   And then, after a while, the weights transform.  Though they may have initially been an incident or a word, they quickly and powerfully morph into much larger contenders.  Fear, worry, guilt, anger.  And as I walk through life with these massive burdens, I am exhausted.  I am sore and tired and sick of my willingness to aid and abet the enemy.

In Matthew 11:29-30, Jesus invites us to take his yoke and, in doing so, find rest for our souls.  He utters the glorious words we have heard throughout Sunday school and Sunday sermons.  “For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  And while my heart leaps at the truth of this, my head is a slow follower.  My memory, my humanness, my sin wants me to carry on with this agonizing yoke I’ve chosen.  But His yoke is so easy, so light, so inviting.

I find it is a struggle every day for me to choose what is easy.  It’s so ironic.  There is such painful irony in our reluctance to throw off what is damaging and wounding and grasp, with open arms, that which is freeing and redeeming.  But I also find the struggle is worth it.  Every moment that I am victorious, every moment I allow myself to swim in the truth of my identity in Christ brings me that much closer to my Father.  Every step I take away from condemnation is a step I take towards love and forgiveness.  Every word of judgment I reject is a promise of holiness and worthiness I accept and cling to.  So I will move forward.  Towards truth.  Towards the cross.  Towards the voice who speaks my identity and longs for me to believe it.

Tonight is the last night in our house.  We have lived here for 7 years and tomorrow we will close this chapter and begin another.  As can be expected, I am full of grief.  While this move was our choice and we believe we are following a clear path God laid out, the pain of this change is very real and very sharp.  As I tucked my children into bed in their rooms for the last time in this house, the memories and emotion washed over me without mercy or regard.  I am so sad.  Sad to leave the home we created.  Sad to close the door on this journey.  Sad to admit that the things we did here cannot be redone.  I will not again see my sons step off the bus together and run to this home.  I will not again see my daughter slide down our stairs or peek over the banister.  This season is over and it will not return.

I am anxious to see God work in this.  I am waiting with baited breath to see the end that justifies these means.  I know that it’s there.  He often reminds that His timing and ways are rarely in line with my own.  Just the other night I had one of those moments and I am clinging to it like a lifeline in this sadness.  Not too long ago, I purchased an album of songs based on “The Story”, a chronological novel of the Bible.  Suffice it to say, it is one of the best albums I have heard in a very long time.  Every song is thoughtful and intentional, moving and quieting.  We played the album constantly for several days and all my children became equally enamored with the music.  My middle son became particularly immersed in a song about David called “Your Heart.”  The song beautifully articulates David’s wish to personify the very heart of God.

Fast-forward a few weeks to a couple nights ago.  That same son had had a particularly hard day.  Things had gone wrong at school, things had gone wrong at home, things had gone wrong with family and friends and part of what had gone wrong was an interaction with his younger sister in which he had been unkind and impatient.  As I tucked him in that night, I addressed his behavior and my disapproval.  His eyes filled with tears and with defeat and hopelessness he declared, “I’m just a bad kid.”  My heart broke instantly and I spent the next 15 minutes consoling and reassuring.  And as I searched for words that might comfort, the David song came to mind and I gently encouraged my son and softly pointed out that that song made me think of him.  His heart looks like God’s heart.  It is big and soft and, by extension, easily broken.  A few minutes later, my son fell asleep to that song playing over and over and over on his iPod.  And in that instant, the pieces came together and I realized that I did not purchase that album for myself.  I had unknowingly purchased it for him.  I purchased it for this moment.  I purchased it so that God might speak directly to his heart and whisper comfort and identity.

And it is this kind of moment that I am seeking in the months to come.  I am looking forward to the day or night when I see the timeline exposed and the reasons revealed.  I am waiting confidently for the time when I will look back and see God’s hand working long before I recognized it.  And in all the sadness and grief and loss I feel tonight, I am hopeful that the other side of the door I am closing will hold new promise and discoveries.

Last week, I injured my back during a particularly difficult workout.  The injury wasn’t significant and, truthfully, other than a quick visit to a chiropractor, didn’t even require any medical attention.  And yet, it lingered and bothered and impeded.  Small movements were just painful enough to remind me that I wasn’t quite operating at one hundred percent.  I knew eventually it would resolve so I prepared myself for a few irritating days of discomfort.

But lying in bed a couple days later, I was having a difficult time getting comfortable and falling asleep.  So I prayed.  Simple, straightforward, direct.  “Dear God, please heal my back.”  I didn’t offer admirable reasons or arguments.  I just asked for what I needed.  The funny thing is that, as I prayed, I had absolutely no inclination to believe that God would answer my prayer.  It’s not that I didn’t believe He could.  I had no doubt that He could speak the word and I would wake up new.  But, admittedly, there was no part of me that actually believed He would.  I guess, looking back, I figured that my request was insignificant and therefore unworthy.  Furthermore, there were so many requests I had offered up in the past, so many needs much greater than this that had resulted in God’s silence.  There were far worthier supplications and petitions that had gone unanswered.  So I figured that a mildly sore back certainly wouldn’t make God’s agenda.

And then something strange happened.  I woke up the next morning and my back was completely better.  Not less sore, not reduced to a dull ache, but completely better.  And it threw me for a loop.  Suddenly, I had to answer for my disbelief, for my doubt.  But there were no answers that seemed acceptable.  The bottom line is that I had put God in a box of my own assumptions and, like He always seems to do, He shattered it.  Just when I thought I had an aspect of Him figured out, He broke through my arrogance and presumption and revealed Himself to be nothing like I thought.  God has a way of doing that and every time He does, I find myself a bit more enamored, a bit more intrigued, a bit more in love with Him.  I love that I have a God who doesn’t operate by my standards or expectations.  I love that I have a God whose ways are so far out of my realm of reason and understanding.  I love that I have a God who surprises me over and over.

But there was another lesson to be had through my experience.  Something about prayer just wouldn’t leave me alone.  I think that for most of my life, I have viewed prayer as a means to communicate with the heavenly Father.  I have seen it as a vehicle to carry my requests, my concerns, my needs.  And, without a doubt, it is that.  But I think it is also so much more.  It occurred to me that as I was laying in bed praying for healing, my prayer was an admission of my position.  Beyond an entreaty, it was a recognition that there was something I needed that I had no way of attaining.  What I needed, what I wanted, was out of my reach.  I did not possess the capacity to help myself.  But there was, there is, someone who does have the ability to give me what I need.  And so I discovered that perhaps my prayer had little to do with expressing my needs but everything to do with expressing my inability and frailty.  When we pray, we are acknowledging that we are incapable, that we are finite and limited.  When we pray, we are accepting that there are changes we long for that are beyond our reach, beyond our human achievement.  And when we pray, with head bowed, our hearts are looking up to the one who is more than capable.  By recognizing our own position, we also recognize God’s position.  In admitting what we cannot provide, we humbly accept what God can provide.

Prayer can transform, prayer can heal, prayer can alter circumstances and mold hearts.  Prayer is so much more powerful than verbalizing what we need.  Prayer has the power, with every word, to remind us of who we are and, more importantly, who God is. Prayer has the amazing ability to put us in our place.  And when we are in our place, I believe our vision is so much clearer.  When we are aware of our own inadequacies, we are free to throw off our pride, our presumptions and our misbeliefs.  And when that happens, we begin to see with clearer vision that, just as Paul says in Ephesians 3:20, the God of the universe “is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think…”

A few weeks ago, on an early fall day, my kids and I took a walk through our neighborhood.  During our stroll, we came across a flowering tree that was just beginning to lose its blooms.  We stood beneath the tree and watched hundreds of bright pink blossoms surrender their hold and fall to the ground.  As if standing in a pink blizzard, we witnessed the flowers come floating and dancing to the ground covering it in a soft, pastel blanket.

Lately, I have felt much like those blooms.  I have felt that I am falling, or more accurately, that I am falling apart.  There are days, when despite my best efforts, my failing strength gives way and I simply cannot hold on.  Frustration, grief, anger, disillusionment, hopelessness, and fear all get the best of me and I am suddenly spinning out of control towards the ground.  And like all of us do, I fight so hard to maintain control.  Fingers clenched, knuckles white, muscles tensed, I grip the branches of this world with desperation and misplaced resolve.  I struggle to remain self-sufficient and capable.  But eventually, the struggle ends, my grip fails me and I find myself falling.  And in those moments, in those failures, I berate myself for not holding on tighter, for not having enough strength, for losing control.  And I imagine how utterly weak I must appear and wonder if God sees me as I see myself.  Thankfully, I am certain that He doesn’t.  As I thought about the floating blooms, I recalled that the sight of countless flowers dancing to the ground was absolutely beautiful.  And I was struck with the idea that perhaps when we fall, just like the blossoms on that tree floating to earth, God sees us as beautiful.  Is it possible that at the very moment we finally let go of whatever branch we are clinging to, it is in that instant that God finds us truly stunning and breathtaking?  Here we are falling hopelessly apart and God calls us beautiful.

It brought to mind the first of the beatitudes.  In Matthew 5: 3, Jesus declares, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God.”  When I did some digging, as usual, the insights were profound. First of all, let’s be clear that “spirit” is referring, not to the Holy Spirit, but to our human spirit, our rational soul, or our disposition.  And when I dug deeper into the Greek word for poor, it was nothing short of enlightening.  The word, ptochos, is actually derived from the word ptosso, meaning “to crouch.”  So put together, “poor in spirit” seems to imply a condition in which our disposition causes us to crouch.  Now let me tell you that, with little exception, in my darkest and hardest moments I have found myself curled up in my bed, or huddled on the floor, or tucked up in the fetal position trying to comfort myself.  I have crouched.  My disparity, my mood, my disposition has brought about a physical posture.  For me, that changes the impact of the verse.  I have, more times than I can count, been crouched in sadness or despair.  I have been poor in spirit.  It strikes me that, rather than a pervasive existence, being poor in spirit is a pointed, specific condition.

And now, for the glorious promise that Jesus bestows to those who are poor in spirit.  Most translations state the second part of verse 3 as saying, “for theirs is the kingdom of God.”  However, in the Greek, the verse actually reads, “because of them is the kingdom of the heavens.”  It’s magnificent, isn’t it?  That the kingdom of heaven exists because of the poor in spirit.  To think that God, in His grace, foresaw the human condition with all its heartache and decided that He must create a place where such heartache would have no quarter.  And in promising such an existence, He granted such powerful hope to those of us who find ourselves, at one time or another, poor in spirit.  For it is more often than not, the very guarantee of heaven’s existence that pulls us along and lifts us from our despair.  As we are falling apart, the assurance that God has indeed seen our condition and limited its power is both thrilling and humbling.  He will only allow so much.  Our earthly anguish is just that, earthly.  It is bound to this world and is allowed no passage to the heavenly kingdom.  And suddenly, the realization that my spirit’s condition has produced such beauty, such grace, such richness is astonishing.

We are all falling apart at times.  We are falling apart and God sees.  We are falling apart and God moves.  He moves so majestically that a kingdom is created.  And until that kingdom comes, we will continue to fall apart periodically.  And as we fall, God will call us beautiful.

Dear 40,

For some time now, you’ve been threatening your arrival and it looks like the day is finally here.  In recognition of the event, I’ve decided that you and I should establish some ground rules, some parameters, some expectations and limitations.  While I realize that you define my age from this point forward, I refuse to let you define who I am.

First off, let me say that I am not afraid of you.  I am not afraid of the aching body that is sure to come in the next decade, for I am aware that every ache, every pain, every ailment holds a memory or experience that I will not trade.  Sore knees remind me that I have hiked difficult terrain, from the plains of Africa to the treacherous landscape of the human heart, and have found God’s beauty displayed in more magnificence than words could express.  Each kink in my back reminds me that I have shouldered immensely heavy loads, both physical and emotional, and come out better for it.  Every bladder leak is a glorious reminder that I have brought breathtaking, captivating life into this world in the form of three extraordinary children.  And deteriorating eyesight reassures me that while my outward vision is failing, my inward vision is growing sharper and clearer with every day.  These badges of honor, as annoying and inconvenient as they may be, have been earned and I will display them with humility and gratitude.

Let me also tell you what you can expect from me for the next 10 years.  You can expect change.  I have no intention of staying the same.  At every turn, I will strive to grow and stretch.  I will become stronger, wiser and smarter with every day and every experience.  But let me warn you that during this endeavor you will see me in pain.  You will see me driven to tears.  You will see me resist the transitions.  You will see me fight and fail.  Because even though you can indeed teach an old dog new tricks, the learning often comes with great work and difficulty.  Don’t get me wrong, however.  I will learn the tricks and perform them with unequaled abandon.

You can expect resistance.  While my body ages and is slowly forced to accept your inevitable toll, my spirit will revel in youth and resilience.  Instead of accepting my limitations, I will climb higher, laugh louder and run faster.  I refuse to let you dictate what I can and cannot do.  I will be the one to determine my limits and then I will be the one to surpass those limits.

You will also see me succeed.  You will see me excel in ways you or I never thought possible.  You will witness abilities and passions surface in me with unexpected force and grace.  Certainly there will be setbacks and obstacles, but I will surprise you with untapped potential and perseverance.  You see, your predecessor, 30, has taught me that I am stronger and more persistent than I may appear.  I will embrace this strength and show you exactly what I am made of.

All that said, I am ready for you.  Ready for your challenges and your obstacles.  Ready for your thrilling victories and your new adventures.  Ready to let go of who I’ve been and learn who I am becoming.  Ready to move ahead.  Ready to experience life with confidence, exhilaration, and passion.  I am ready.  I hope you are too.

In my last blog, I was initially struck by 2 Corinthians 7:10, which articulates an invaluable and critical difference between godly and worldly grief.  This week, it’s verse 11 that has my attention. “For see what earnestness this godly grief has produced in you, but also what eagerness to clear yourselves, what indignation, what fear, what longing, what zeal, what punishment!  At every point you have proved yourselves innocent in the matter.”

The words in the second half of the verse are ultimately what laid on me the heaviest:  earnestness, eagerness, indignation, fear, longing, zeal, punishment.  I have gone after a variety of things in my life with this kind of passion.  I have pursued human love with earnestness.  I have pursued motherhood with eagerness.  I have pursued success with zeal.  I have pursued perfection with longing.  But God wants me to apply this same kind of passion to spiritual pursuits.  In order to prove myself innocent, as Scripture suggests I do, I need to also display an eagerness to change, a conviction to alter the very course of my path, an unrelenting pursuit for truth displayed in my life.  But have I done that?  Have I pursued transformation and spiritual restoration with the same indignation and zealousness that I have chased human pursuits?  To be truthful, most of the time I haven’t.  But what if I did?  What if we all did?  What if we took all the energy and lust with which we seek worldly results and redirected it towards spiritual ends?  Can you imagine?

A perfect example of the possibilities is found in 2 Samuel 12, when the prophet Nathan confronts King David about his infidelity with Bathsheba.  In that moment, as David begins to realize all that he has done and the impending consequences that are sure to come, I imagine that both worldly and godly grief were abundant in his spirit.  I suspect that, as his world came crashing down, his heart heaved with sorrow and guilt.  And in that moment, he had a choice.  One option was simply to lay down and die emotionally.  To surrender to his human sorrow and throw in the towel, so to speak.  Thankfully, he chose another response.  That response is found in Psalm 51, which he wrote after his conversation with Nathan.  The entire psalm is a call for repentance, forgiveness, and ultimately change.  In verse 3, David writes, “For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.”   Verse 9 cries out for God’s forgiveness:  “Hide your face from my sins, and blot out all my iniquities.”  And in verse 17, David recognizes the changes that must take place in his very spirit as he declares, “ The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

There is no doubt that David took the better path.  When faced with both kinds of grief, he succumbed willingly and humbly to godly grief and let it take its course.  He followed it through to completion with earnestness, eagerness and indignation.  It is an extremely difficult undertaking.  It is so much easier to remain and wallow in worldly grief.  But as 2 Corinthians 7:11 promises, the indignation, earnestness and zeal that godly grief produces is well worth its cost.

I want to be like David.  I want to pursue repentance and transformation with all those wonderful nouns in 2 Corinthians.  I want to strive for heavenly results the way I strive for earthly results.  I want to be the picture of earnestness and eagerness.  I want to prove myself innocent before my God.

“For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death.”  2 Corinthians 7:10

I set out to read the beatitudes this morning, but as a result of some cross-referencing, I bumped into this passage and couldn’t get past it.  I have been spilling over with grief lately.  Grief over what could’ve been, grief over what should be , grief over what I am and what I am not.  Grief over loss, grief over confusion and misdirection.  Grief in every shape and form.  And while I have repeatedly cried out to God, He has remained distant and, it would seem, uncaring.  And so the grief has deteriorated into some sort of emotional death that needs to be dealt with and fought each day, often to no avail.

But this verse seems to clear up this mess with little hesitancy or mistake.  I believe that my grief over these past months has been worldly grief.  As I thought about the difference between godly grief and worldly grief, it occurred to me that perhaps godly grief is about our actions, our attitudes and our hearts, while worldly grief is a reflection and result of our circumstances.  Simply put, godly grief is a mourning or sadness provoked by the presence, or lack of, God in our lives and worldly grief comes about through our world and our conditions.

Admittedly, my world is hard right now.  There are situations and circumstances in my life that are producing a great deal of stress and strain.  And I have succumbed, over and over, to worldly grief.  And yet, in the midst of it all, I have failed to succumb to the only grief that is actually productive.  I have grieved my circumstances, but not my part in them or my response to them.  I have repeatedly come before the throne of God bemoaning my lot in life while my judgmental attitude and selfish heart rest squarely on my shoulders.  While there may be legitimate reasons for worldly grief, there is also ample cause for godly grief, which I have decidedly neglected.  It is time to change my pattern of grief.  It is time to stop examining and lamenting the ways I am a victim and start repenting of the ways I have contributed to my own hardened heart.  It is time to allow God to reveal to me the actual things that should be grieving my heart, which are, not coincidentally, the very same things that grieve His.