When we parent our kids, especially for those 18 years we have them in our homes, we take them through the whole story arc of redemptive history. In the beginning, when they are young, our care for them is very one-way. They are born into our families by grace, not by any choice of their own, and we love them unconditionally, even when they can’t sleep well, or when they’re sick, or when they fuss. When they get a little older, this kind of love continues, but we also start to teach them the difference between right and wrong and that there are consequences for their disobedience and sins. You could say that in some ways we become the voice of the law to them, with various forms of discipline, teaching, and instruction becoming more prominent. We don’t make this the main mantra of our home, though. Grace always wins the day when our kids are unable to obey or listen to us. Their sins grieve us, yet we remain their parents nonetheless, on their good days and bad days in equal measure. In this, we image the New Testament to them — how even in this “Old Testament” era of their lives, mercy is greater than sacrifice (Hos 6:6) and love is greater than law (Heb 10:5-10).

As they grow into their teenage years, discipline changes. Disobedience often becomes more frequent, and they might start to look like a prodigal, wanting to forge their own path. At the same time, we realize that our lawful words have less and less effect on them, and they’re gonna do what they’re gonna do, regardless. We still give advice and warn them of the consequences of their actions, many times with tears. But, our parenting morphs into less badgering and more quiet encouragement, promising that we’ll always be there for them, come what may, even if their lives tailspin out of control.

When they turn 18 and leave our homes, that’s when things really change. No longer are we their guardian. No longer are they under any house rules. Even “obedience” language goes away. There are no “do’s and don’ts” or any law-like preclusions. No sticker charts or chore lists. Just love and freedom, like it was in the very beginning when they were infants. 

Galatians 3:23-26 says, “Before the coming of this faith, we were held in custody under the law, locked up until the faith that was to come would be revealed. So the law was our guardian until Christ came that we might be justified by faith. Now that this faith has come, we are no longer under a guardian. So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.”

Paul is saying that the law was like a guardian in the home until Christ came — like Vin Diesel in The Pacifier — but when Christ came the guardian was out of a job, similar to how adults are no longer under an in-home nanny or tutor, or under those kinds of parental roles anymore. We are children of God through faith alone, clothed with Christ, not the law.

So, as parents, our final word is the word of the father to the prodigal. In the face of his son’s waywardness, he is no longer judge or discipliner. He doesn’t hold his sin over his head like a mirror. He simply runs to him, embraces him, and says, “Let’s have a feast and celebrate!” And so the story goes, that, in Christ, God has the same kind of unconditional, new-testament posture toward us rebellious sinners. This is good news for parents and non-parents alike. To those who grew up in a loving home and those who didn’t. To moms and dads who hit home runs and those who are weighed down by their parenting failures. For God is the true Parent, and we are forever saved and defined by his matchless love, not by our works.

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I had gone into the hospital that morning with the plan to do this birth naturally. I spoke with my doctor, a wonderful woman in her fifties with calm eyes and a soft voice. She agreed it was doable, and told me she would be there for the duration. When my water broke, what had been dull contractions became sharp and more frequent. I started to have to breathe through them, and then groan the further along I went. At one point, I looked up and told my doctor that I had changed my mind. It hurt too much. I wanted an epidural. Please. She calmly spoke to me, reminding me of my own words before my body began to tear itself apart. You can do this. You want to do this. This pain will bring life. My mind vacillated from panic to calm with every contraction. Finally, the time had come. The last few inches for my son to come home meant the most pain, the most pressure, the most desperation for me. I yelled with effort – my mind and body focused on one thing entirely: do whatever was needed to bring my son into my arms. Finally, with a rush of blood and water, out he came, naked and squalling. And with one look at his tiny form, my pain was gone. If you told me I had to do that 100 more times just to hold him, I would have done so without hesitation. Then and now. I was glad for the tearing of my body, for here was my son.

All three of my children’s births were gut-wrenchingly wonderful, but this last one was special. Its value is directly tied to the pain I endured. The pain is one of the things I was thankful for, which may sound backward considering how excruciating a birth experience is, and especially considering how those pains are directly tied to the second curse uttered in the Bible. Just after Adam and Eve’s fall from grace, God looked at the woman and said, “I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain you shall bring forth children” (Gen 3:16). From that point forward, women have had to let pain be the doorway to one of the greatest loves they can know, that of their children.

Labor pains are mentioned all over the Bible, and never in a pleasant tone. Isaiah calls out:

“For this reason my loins are full of anguish; pains have seized me like the pains of a woman in labor. I am so bewildered I cannot hear, so terrified I cannot see.”

Jeremiah shares his tone of anguish by comparing Israel’s pain to that of giving birth (Jeremiah 6:24). Both of these cries are in response to one thing: the vengeance of the Lord. The holy fear and terror that accompanies the truth of God’s justice is continually compared to the pain a woman feels in labor. The pain seizes us and we are helpless in the midst of it.

How curious then that these same allegorical connections are used by God about himself. In Isaiah 42, after many chapters of learning about impending judgment on other nations and his own people, we hear:

“For a long time I have held my peace; I have kept still and restrained myself.
Now like a woman in labor I will groan, I will both gasp and pant.
I will lay waste mountains and hills, and dry up all their vegetation;
I will turn the rivers into islands, and dry up the pools.”

But then, after long diatribes of impending judgment, we see God turn his face towards his children — seemingly out of nowhere:

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you” (Isaiah 43:1-2).

From divine labor pains came the restoration of wayward children to their father. But how does that happen? How can it happen? How does a sinful nation turn the heart of the God of the universe? Isaiah is disclosing part of the mystery: through the labor pains of God, he will bring forth a nation. I don’t see the death of Jesus often compared to labor pains, but read it again — how can it not be? The hands of the law-keepers that seized Jesus and drilled him to the cross were the labor pains that seized a sinful nation who were brought up under the righteousness of God. The groans, gasps, and pants that escaped from the mouth of Jesus while he hung from the cross were akin to a woman bearing down on the cusp of the deliverance of her child. He felt every tear, every bruise, every wound, fully and without any aid or assistance to dull it. He cries out, “It is done!”, and through the gush of blood and water from his side, and the last breath that was pushed from his lungs, the church was born. His dying cry gave way to our first cries of a born-again people. He allowed his naked body to be torn to make way for a redeemed nation. 

Furthermore, He bore the curse that Eve brought upon herself, overturning God’s judgment of our sins onto himself. Through his death, Jesus turns the tables: he calls us from our labors and instead labors for us sinners. And thus we can read the beginning of Isaiah 43 anew: Fear not, for I have redeemed you through my death; I have called you by name, as a parent does his child, you are mine.

Whenever a mother willingly walks into the fire of labor, the world sees a glimpse of what Christ did for us all. Just beyond that cusp of pain is a life with their child, a child who was once in darkness, and now is in the light. A child that was mute and deaf and blind, but who can now sing and hear and see. A child who was nameless but is now called son or daughter. A child who would grow up underneath the love of a God who would not demand work from them but who would tirelessly work for their comfort, their provision, and their eternal hope. This isn’t less true for women who are barren or who have experienced miscarriages or stillbirths. Both the timelines and the forms of pain are altered, but both the imagery and the invitation remain. For the joy set before him, Jesus endured the cross despising its shame. Childbirth is a picture of the longsuffering of our God, and the joy of the new life that only he can bring. 

The post Labor Pains appeared first on Red Tree.

If I were to lose this pink notebook, I would lose a part of me – and ALL THE THINGS wouldn’t happen. A bit dramatic, but feels accurate. 

This small, worn-out, cloth-bound, collection of paper is a representation of the mental load I carry each day. When a to-do list item comes to mind, it’s a new page. As I write things down, a weight gets lifted. And as I cross things off — “ahhh” — a sigh of relief. If I don’t complete the list, however, my inner auditor files a complaint to my nervous system and my stomach tightens up or I might get a twitch in my eye under all the surface pressure. 

The concept of mental load didn’t become real until we had our first child. All of a sudden, I’m not only thinking about my needs and life’s demands but also thinking about the needs of my daughter. Enter our second daughter and those needs have now doubled. Does Addy have mittens for this winter? Eloise is getting long, I need to take out our 9-month clothing bin. Do I have time to pump before this next meeting? What is the plan for dinner this week? Has Kurt reached out to our tax advisor? I need to get a birthday gift for our nephew. Will there be time to do a quick workout before work? Do we need more bananas? What’s troubling is how disconnected all of these thoughts are, yet my brain happily jumps from one to the next as if they are all close cousins. 

I long for the day when I’ll be able to sit on my couch with my feet up and read a good book without my mind racing to the next thing. The lie that I tend to believe is that I will experience rest and satisfaction when my list is complete and when my mental load no longer feels like a burden or heavy weight I’m carrying. This is not what we’re promised though. In this life, there will always be a list.

We’re all weighed down with a burden that is too great for us to carry. The reason lists feel heavy is that we think they’re a reflection of who we are and the value we bring to the world. We carry around an unseen series of do’s and don’ts that we think grant us standing before others and ultimately God. 

This reminds me of two different stories in scripture that, relatedly, pierce the soul. One is the story of the Rich Young Ruler, who approaches Jesus and asks him, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” He then proceeds to list all the reasons why he should be permitted to enter God’s presence. 

The other story is about two sisters, Martha and Mary. Jesus was coming to stay at their place and while Martha was preparing for his stay, Mary chose to sit in the presence of Jesus and be with him. But then it says, “But Martha was distracted by her many tasks..” 

Martha and the rich young ruler were worried about completing the lists and having everything just right. The narrative they believe, just like me, is that freedom is found in completing all the things. 

Like Martha, I have turned to Jesus in moments of frustration and said, “Isn’t what I’m doing important? Don’t you care?” I’m doing all that I can do to serve and support my family, to find acceptance in my community, to make sure the needs of those I love are met. In those moments of angst, I want Jesus to tell me, “You’re right. I will stand up for you and the work you’re doing.” But instead of cheering on my list-keeping, he brings a more compassionate, better word.

In the story, he moves toward Martha, puts his hand on her shoulder, and says in a calm, gentle voice, “Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one.” 

This is the only time Jesus corrects himself in the Gospel accounts, as he narrows down a list of requirements to point out that actually only one thing is needed – himself. To sit with him. To let him do what only he can do. 

He doesn’t desire our lists, but us. How does he ultimately demonstrate this? Instead of etching a list for us to keep in tablets of stone, he invites us to place our finger into his scars. Far from keeping tabs, he wants us to be mindful of his wounds, his own box-checking, and his love. And love keeps no record of unfinished chores.

The post The Lists We Keep appeared first on Red Tree.

It recently came to mind after teaching a seminar about parent-child attachments. The seminar, entitled “Parental Attachment and Your Relationship with God,” went into detail on Attachment Theory: how we carry our attachment formed in infancy into adulthood, how that may impact our perception of God, and ultimately, how God meets us and changes us across time through his gracious, unfailing presence. 

For further context, especially for those new to this, Attachment Theory reflects a person’s internal system of emotions, behaviors, and thoughts that develop through interactions between a child and an attachment figure (parent/caregiver). Through internalizing the attachment figure as a safe haven and secure base, our attachment system shapes our memories, motivations, and expectations of self, others, and the world. It explains the instinct for proximity maintenance (or lack thereof) with those we love and the distress we experience upon separation (or, again, the lack). 

After teaching the class, the following 72 hours brought an onslaught of anxiety about my own approach to parenting my daughter. My mind camped out on a law-filled mound of guilt over the pressure to build a secure attachment with my child versus an anxious or avoidant one. I feared I am failing her, without the capacity to change. Further, I was struggling to integrate any of the gracious, gospel-centered approaches to attachment I had just taught other people. This experience brought to mind a passive-aggressive Post-it note I saw every day for 3 years at an agency I used to work at (which ironically was about washing dishes), asserting, “When we know better, we do better.” 

Well, I know better. But I don’t always do better. That’s my problem.

All the knowledge about my daughter’s attachment needs is readily available in my mind. Be available, be attuned, and be responsive. But, to my dismay, my anxiety and selfishness still get in the way of being a thoroughly secure parent, which leads me to deep distress over 1) my limitations and 2) the uncertainty of my daughter’s future and fears that she has an insecure attachment to me. 

Jesus met me in this distress through my husband sharing a word of grace and truth with me. It is in the place of incapability where Jesus meets us the most, much like Paul’s experience with his “thorn in the flesh.” He spoke to Paul about this and said, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor 12:8). How absolutely outrageous and antithetical to “When we know better, we do better.” When we set down our efforts and “strengths,” God’s grace supplants. 

When it comes to the distress over the uncertainty of my daughter’s path and fears about her attachment style, God comforted me with the notion that he is the one crafting her story, not me. And where I fail, he does not. As parents, we often have an illusion of control over them. Do we have influence? Absolutely yes. Do we control their outcome? Absolutely not.

So, while the first five years of life are the critical period where attachment (and other important developments) is first formed, it’s not where it ends. Because, when in God’s story is something broken ever permanent? When do we get marked “too wounded” or “too wrong”  with no possibility of restoration? God, in his genius, made human brains with “neuroplasticity,” which is a word to describe how the brain can change and forge new approaches to the world. Our memories, motivations, and expectations about ourselves, our relationships, and the world can be altered. 

Those initial pathways from early childhood are often the strongest, which can make change feel intimidating. While the brain is adaptable and can form new paths, it’s more like forging a new path in a thick forest and the old paths like walking down a paved road. Change, then, requires repetition over time of truth to challenge our beliefs and experience to reinforce them. Like water, we’re prone to go down the path of least resistance, the path of familiarity. But through interactions with God in word, prayer, and community, we change. That which is new becomes familiar. God makes something out of nothing.

Beautifully, the grace of Christ is simultaneously a truth and an experience we receive repeatedly over time. It’s received by no work of our own; it’s not something we can muster up. We change not by our hands but by his. 

He himself is our perfect attachment figure – he is our safe haven, secure base, and close friend. He’s a safe haven in that when we are in distress, threatened, or scared he is responsive, attuned, and available. He is our secure base, from which we can move and have freedom in the world without fear, knowing that he will be there, come what may. And he desires proximity to us in that he came and took the form of a human and endured the pain and suffering of this world in order to be united to us, tearing the veil in the temple in the process, which, in the old covenant, kept the world at bay due to its sin.

God will not fail us in the ways that we have been failed by our parents. And just as he is healing me over time and his Spirit is reminding me of his grace, so will he do this for my daughter, because he is lovingly crafting her story. And as much as it pains me, I cannot be all things to my daughter. In fact, I will never be able to love her how she needs to be loved because she needs the consistent, steady love only Christ has. So in the times when I am unavailable, unresponsive, or unattuned to her, God is present with arms open wide, knowing exactly what she needs in ways I will never be able to. 

And that’s the gospel for all of us: the good news of God’s unbreakable, un-anxious, and unavoidant attachment to us. In our incapability, he parts the clouds of our anxiety, so that those who can’t do can rest.

The post God, Our Perfect Attachment Figure appeared first on Red Tree.

Then you have The Last of Us, HBO’s latest weekly blockbuster – a television show that is in fact based on the story of a video game. Since the first episode aired, more than a million viewers continue to tag on to the multimillion-person watch party every Sunday night, tuning in to see if this fungal apocalypse can live up to all the hype. And so far it has because people like my wife and me continue to look forward to our chance to tune back into an infected world where fungal zombies aren’t the only impossible problem to overcome.  

We might think we’re driven to stories like these out of a “what would I do?” sense of interest, but it seems the show is asking bigger, more compelling questions of us. The end of the world in this show really isn’t about the end of the world. Instead, it’s a pressure cooker, revealing what really matters. And surprisingly, it’s not survival but love that takes center stage. Let me explain. 

Viewers encounter the scariest scene in the opening montage of the show. I haven’t played the game, so I don’t know what’s coming later in the season, but I know it won’t be more terrifying than the terrain we already covered. It can’t be. We watched the worst thing imaginable already take place when the main character Joel loses his daughter in his arms. Society as we know it is collapsing in front of our eyes, but the thing that viscerally devastated viewers most and brought us to tears was seeing a father lose his child. 

I had not known fear until my daughter was born in 2021. I thought I knew what it was to be afraid, but then, throughout the first 12 months of being a dad, my limbic system said “hold my beer.” Catching whatever sickness she brings into our home every other week is nothing compared to the overwhelming, unshakeable sense of vulnerability. I am of the anxious parenting type that had to roll over in the middle of the night (more than once) to hear for breathing or see signs of life. As if my being awake could stop the demon of SIDS or the unending list of threats to the life of an infant. 

This is why I find the Joel/Ellie dynamic so compelling in the show. Joel hasn’t really come back to life since his biological daughter died right in front of his eyes, there has been no resurrection – no reason for new life – his heart is hiding behind a shell of self-protection, making decisions solely on the need to keep himself from experiencing more pain. But now, a force is at work in him he has not known for decades. Love, in fact, is beginning to shake him out of his zombie-like existence, as he is called to lead, and in many ways parent, a teenage girl again – to keep Ellie safe in a world that would do her harm. 

He can’t convince himself that he doesn’t care. He tries to tell Ellie that she is nothing more than cargo in Episode 4, titled Please Hold My Hand, but viewers need not wait more than five minutes to catch him in his lie. That night they are camping in the woods and after describing his plan to sleep through the night and then drive for 24 hours straight, Ellie soon asks if they are safe where they are before they fall asleep. Joel assures her that no one is going to find them in the woods. The words bring comfort to Ellie but Joel knows the threats are out there and his plan to sleep through the night is interrupted by instinct. He stays up all night, gun in hand, protecting his new daughter.

This seconds-long scene is easily skippable, but it’s one that continues to live rent-free in my mind. A sleepless father, emptying himself to keep his child safe while the world comes to an end. In more ways than one, it resembles the Bible’s own story of the end of the world – but not in the way we might first expect. 

The book of Revelation, which has endured more fantastical misinterpretations than most any other book in the Bible, is an “apocalypse” which literally means reveal. That is, the book is interested in showing us the perspective behind the curtain of heaven. What’s behind the curtain? Turns out the end of the world, like what we see in The Last of Us, is not about survival, but about a Father who loves his kid. This love sounds like the roar of a lion but looks like a lamb who was slain (Rev 5:6). Indeed, Revelation teaches that the end of the world happened 2,000 years ago when God himself lost a child. The Son of God, slain like a lamb, was strung up on a tree to save an infected world of self-protecting Joels like me from our anxious ways.

The world has come to an end, and the new is breaking forth. Fearful fathers can take a deep breath and look at the only father who is never afraid because he suffered for us once and for all. He stayed awake at night for us, slaying that which truly threatens to do us harm. This is the love that has come near to shake us out of our zombie-like existence by way of a love that never sleeps. 

The post The Last of Us & Fearful Fathering appeared first on Red Tree.

But, at a recent media webinar, the now-38-year-old said (confessed?) that messes are now ok, due to a reshaping of priorities in her life. 

Pressed further as to the reason for the shift, she says on her website, “Just after my older daughter was born, I felt unable to forgive myself for not being able to manage my life as I had before. But, with time, I eased up on myself; then, after I gave birth to my second daughter, I let go of my need for perfection altogether.”

Wait. What? Just like that?

This is quite the left turn (maybe more, a disheveling ransack?) for the Instagram-perfect and house-tidying world. But it’s not just Kondo’s shift in values, it’s the fact that this way of living was perceived, at least for some, as a deeply spiritual way to live. The one right way, in fact. Kondo was even known for “greeting” each house she tidied up, which looked like a prayer thanking the house for the chance to address the space.

What strikes me the most about all of this is the rationale behind it. The reason for the interruption of this religious lifestyle is her kids! You can almost hear the collective sigh of parents all around the world, saying, “No surprise here.” But for Kondo, this change didn’t just occur out of necessity. It came with a heart check. She saw her kids as a new spark of joy — more than that, an enduring flame — even though it made staying ahead of cleaning more difficult. Relationship broke the back of the rules. Love overcame her need for perfection. 

The story of redemptive history, as the Bible unpacks it, is remarkably similar. In the macro sense, it moves us from the vanity of work, as Ecclesiastes puts it, and the constant call to tidy up our lives, to a new place of rest in a relationship with God. We might also call this a movement from law to grace, from hurrying to stillness. In the micro sense, we see it in stories such as the two sisters, Mary and Martha. When Jesus was coming for a visit, Martha was concerned about the preparations and the work (Luke 10:40), but Mary simply sat at Jesus’s feet. His response was telling: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

Maybe this is the type of minimalism that the Bible can actually get behind: the “one thing” of Jesus Christ and him crucified. A relationship with God through his son outpacing and rendering passé the old covenant of “Clean this up and then you will live.” And therein lies the hope, for all of us, no matter how tidy we like to keep our homes: life is better when we own our messes at the foot of the cross, when it’s by the never-ending, always-increasing grace of God that we live and find acceptance with our Creator.

The post Love Sparks Joy appeared first on Red Tree.

A year and a half ago all of that changed when our first child, Addy, was born. While my husband and I were thrilled to settle in as a family of three, bringing a child into the world dismantled any sense of routine I had previously set. That early alarm sound that used to be an invitation into a warm, slow start to the day had suddenly evolved into a siren signaling my own demise. Now, the joys of parenting are many and nearly impossible to put into words, but the inconvenience paired with the sleeplessness is not. In fact, I think most of the words on that list are four letters. 

Routine interruption brought with it a sense that I was somehow letting God down because I didn’t know what it looked like to spend time with him now that a newborn was in the picture. Due to the exhaustion that came with the transition, when Addy napped I felt like I had to spend time with the Lord when all I really wanted to do was rest or sleep. I wasn’t being gracious or kind to myself, and I felt like the pressure was on me to maintain my relationship with God, because after all, relationships require time, right? Oddly enough, this narrative (and my false understanding), appeared to come from the Bible itself.

Philippians 2:12 says, “Therefore, my dear friends, as you have always obeyed—not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence—continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling.” What does it mean to work out our salvation? What is it that I need to do in order to maintain my salvation or secure God’s love for me? It’s a daunting thought because what if I don’t “work it out” right? What if God isn’t pleased with the way I pursue and love him? 

Then add 1 Peter 1:14-16 to the mix: “As obedient children, do not conform to the evil desires you had when you lived in ignorance. But just as he who called you is holy, so be holy in all you do; for it is written: ‘Be holy, because I am holy.”’ Be holy in all we do? Oof! But, again, I have a kid now, and I’m just so…tired.

Left to my own devices, these passages can work together to shape an unhealthy narrative in my mind. They make me feel that it’s on me to please God and if I take a wrong turn, my relationship with him is on thin ice. For me to be holy I need to spend 30 minutes a day in Scripture and journal afterward. Or in order to work out my salvation, I need to serve in three areas at my church and make sure to always be there when a friend is in need, no matter the cost. 

But here’s the thing: while none of these things are bad pursuits, they put me at the center of my spirituality, and not Jesus.

Earlier portions of Philippians 2 frame the context of what it means to “work out our salvation.” It reads, “[Jesus,] who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross!”

Working out our salvation involves accepting a gift we did not earn. This is easier said than done. It comes with accepting all that Christ has done for us and trusting that the work that he completed on the cross is sufficient, since Christ is the one who has, ultimately, worked out our salvation (Phil 2:13).

A friend recently reminded me that good works aren’t even meant to be thought of. They’re something that come from a place of love, out of our belief in the gospel and our orientation toward his sacrificial work for us. Good works belong in the “left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing” category. That’s been a balm for me, now just days out from meeting our second daughter, and having renewed fear over what my relationship with God might look like during those first few months. But, his love for me will not change. Afraid or not. Anxious or not. Tired or not. Routine-centered or not. His side of the relationship does not ebb and flow based on my participation. I have no category for this! 

Even during the times it doesn’t feel like God is at work, or we don’t feel like we’re “working out our salvation”, the Lord is working in us. His grace is new in the middle of the night when I wake up to feed and care for this new baby. He’s at work when he reveals to me my lack of patience towards our daughter or my husband due to the sleepless nights. When friends and family come to help or bring a meal, he reminds us through their gracious acts that he loves and is caring for me through his people. And when fatigue gets the best of me, he’ll be the one to quiet my heart and remind me that he is for me (and for you), always. 

The post Too Tired to Work Out My Salvation appeared first on Red Tree.