The Ordinary and the Sacred

01

You Were There in the Ordinary

I have come to believe that we sometimes lose the message of Jesus while defending the religion built around Him. We can become so concerned with who is righteous, who is worthy, and who belongs that we forget whom Christ chose to sit beside. He ate with sinners, welcomed the rejected, touched those others avoided, and challenged religious leaders who confused outward displays of holiness with genuine compassion. I have watched religion become a weapon in the hands of people who seem more interested in judging others than understanding them. Yet I do not believe Christ came into the world carrying a sword of condemnation against the broken. I believe He came as a shield for the wounded, the downtrodden, the forgotten, and the ordinary human being trying to find a way through life. His message was not that our failures do not matter, but that our failures need not be the end of our story.

I wrote You Were There in the Ordinary because I have increasingly come to recognize God's presence outside the places where we are traditionally taught to look for Him. I have encountered remarkable kindness among people who have struggled with addiction, made serious mistakes, lost their way, or been judged unworthy by others. I have also encountered cruelty disguised as religious conviction. Those experiences have taught me that professing faith and practicing it are not necessarily the same thing. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus asks us to consider the birds of the air, how they neither sow nor reap, yet God provides for them (Matthew 6:26). I have read those words many times, but I wonder whether I have really listened. Perhaps Jesus was asking us to pay attention to a world we have become too busy to notice. Perhaps we have been so occupied searching for God in grand revelations, religious institutions, and declarations of certainty that we have overlooked Him in a hand reaching across the darkness, a stranger offering kindness, or someone leaving the porch light on because they care whether we make it home. I don't pretend to have all the answers about God or how He makes Himself known. I am still learning to recognize what matters, still learning to listen, and still learning how to love. But I increasingly believe that the sacred is not separate from ordinary life. It is often found precisely where compassion makes itself known.

02

When I Ran Out of Words

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There are moments in life when all our education, experience, and carefully constructed beliefs become remarkably inadequate. We can spend years studying Scripture, discussing theology, and believing we understand the nature of God, only to find ourselves sitting beside a hospital bed at three in the morning, unable to form a single meaningful prayer. I have come to believe that these moments reveal something important about faith. We sometimes treat prayer as though it were a performance, believing that the right words, sufficient conviction, or unwavering belief might persuade God to intervene. And when suffering continues, people are sometimes made to feel that their faith was somehow insufficient. I find that understanding of Christianity deeply troubling. The Jesus who wept at the death of Lazarus and struggled in Gethsemane did not teach us that sorrow was evidence of spiritual failure. He showed us that suffering is part of being human, and that vulnerability does not place us beyond the reach of God.

I wrote When I Ran Out of Words for the person who has exhausted every explanation, every hopeful reassurance, and every prayer they thought they knew. I have witnessed suffering that no religious platitude could adequately explain, and I have come to distrust those who offer easy answers to another person's pain. Paul writes in Romans 8:26 that we do not always know what we should pray for, and that the Spirit intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. I find comfort in that passage, perhaps because I have known what it means to have nothing left to say. I have wanted answers that never came, and I have wondered whether silence meant that God was not listening. I don't pretend to understand why some prayers seem to be answered and others do not, why good people suffer, or why love sometimes leaves us helpless beside someone we cannot save. I have more questions than answers, and perhaps I always will. But I am beginning to believe that faith does not require me to explain another person's suffering or pretend that I understand God's intentions. Sometimes the most compassionate thing I can do is sit quietly beside someone, hold a hand, listen, and stay. Sometimes I stumble in my own faith and return to God with the same unanswered questions. I hope He understands what I cannot say. And I hope that, as I continue learning to follow Him, I will become a little better at loving the people He has placed in my life.

The hallway smelled of coffee The clock said half past three A nurse walked softly past the doorway And left the room to me I pulled a chair up to your bedside And watched you breathe beneath the light I'd spent my whole life finding answers But I couldn't find one that night I folded both my hands together Like my mother taught me years ago I tried to say the words I knew But the words just wouldn't come When I ran out of words You heard the rest of me Every tear I couldn't explain Every fear I couldn't speak I had no beautiful confession No promise I could make Just a heart too tired for talking And a faith that chose to stay When I ran out of words You heard the rest of me I remembered Sunday mornings And the hymns we used to sing How easy it had been to praise You When I wasn't losing anything But there beneath those faded blankets With tomorrow so unclear I wondered if You heard the silence Or if silence meant You weren't there I wanted You to give me answers I wanted You to make things right But all I had to offer Was the brokenness that night When I ran out of words You heard the rest of me Every tear I couldn't explain Every fear I couldn't speak I had no beautiful confession No promise I could make Just a heart too tired for talking And a faith that chose to stay When I ran out of words You heard the rest of me And somewhere in that long December As the darkness filled the room I remembered how Christ had suffered In a garden filled with gloom How He asked to have the cup removed How He faced what lay ahead How He knew the weight of sorrow And the things that can't be said So I stopped asking for a reason Stopped pretending I was strong And I sat beside the person I loved And let the night go on You never said that faith was easy You never promised I'd be spared You only taught me I could find You Even when life seemed unfair When I ran out of words You heard the rest of me Not because I prayed so perfectly Or knew what I should believe But because Your love was greater Than the fear I couldn't hide And the silence wasn't empty When I asked You to abide When I ran out of words You heard the rest of me The morning found us waiting As the sunlight crossed the floor I couldn't tell what lay before us Or what suffering held in store But I reached across the blanket And held the hand I'd held all night And whispered, "Lord, please help me" As the room filled up with light It wasn't much of a prayer But it was everything in me And when I ran out of words You heard the rest of me ---

03

Worth Saving

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I have spent countless hours in rooms with people whose lives have been damaged by addiction, poor decisions, broken promises, and sometimes terrible harm to others. I have listened to people who have lost their families, their freedom, their dignity, and nearly every reason they once had to believe in themselves. Some have done things that cannot be undone. Some have hurt people who may never forgive them. I do not believe we honor Christ by pretending that these things do not matter. But neither do I believe we honor Him by deciding that another human being is beyond redemption. In Luke 15, Jesus tells the story of the prodigal son, a young man who squanders what he has been given and returns home expecting rejection. Instead, his father runs to meet him. I have always found that image extraordinary, particularly because the father does not wait for his son to become respectable before embracing him. And I sometimes wonder whether we have become more like the older brother in that parable, so convinced of our own righteousness that we resent the mercy extended to someone else. I have met people who can recite Scripture while withholding compassion from those who need it most. I have also watched people with deeply troubled histories quietly help another person survive one more day. I am still learning which of those actions brings us closer to the message of Jesus.

I wrote Worth Saving because I have witnessed what can happen when someone who has nearly given up discovers that another human being has not given up on them. I have seen people enter recovery meetings with their eyes lowered, ashamed even to speak their names, only to find a chair, a welcome, and someone willing to say, “I have been where you are.” I have also learned that recovery is not accomplished through comforting words alone. It requires honesty, accountability, difficult choices, and the willingness to face the damage we have caused without demanding that others forgive us. God's mercy does not erase yesterday, and it does not excuse what we do tomorrow. But I believe it offers us the possibility of becoming someone different. I cannot explain why some people find their way toward recovery while others continue to struggle, and I would never presume to know the full story of another person's life. I have seen too much suffering to offer easy answers. What I do know is that shame seldom teaches a person how to live differently, while compassion sometimes gives them the courage to begin. Perhaps that is what Jesus was trying to teach us when He welcomed those whom respectable society had already condemned. Not that our actions are without consequences, but that no one should be denied the opportunity to change. I wrote this song for the people who are still struggling, for those who have found their way, and for those who are beginning to wonder whether their lives might still be worth saving. I believe they are. And I am still learning how to offer that same grace to others.

There was a time I knew the morning By the light beneath the door Another night of broken promises Another bottle on the floor I had a thousand explanations For the man I'd come to be And every one of them was easier Than facing what was wrong with me I had worn out every welcome I had traded trust for shame And the people who once loved me Barely recognized my name I thought I'd gone too far for mercy Thought my story had been told But You were standing in the wreckage Saying I was worth more than gold You still call me worth saving When I can't forgive myself When the world sees only damage And the things I couldn't help You don't call my wrongs forgiveness You don't say the past is gone But You offer me redemption And the strength to carry on When I've forgotten who I could be When my faith is barely breathing Jesus, You still call me worth saving I walked into a meeting With my eyes upon the floor Found a chair beside a stranger Near the back against the door Someone said, Just keep on coming Someone said, One day at a time And a man with years of sober mornings Said he'd once been lost like mine No one promised it was easy No one said the hurt would end But I heard the truth in voices Of those learning how to live again And somewhere in that simple room Without a sermon or a sign I began to see Your mercy In the lives of people changing theirs You still call me worth saving When I can't forgive myself When the world sees only damage And the things I couldn't help You don't call my wrongs forgiveness You don't say the past is gone But You offer me redemption And the strength to carry on When I've forgotten who I could be When my faith is barely breathing Jesus, You still call me worth saving Hope is more than wishing Redemption's more than tears Reclamation means returning To the truths I buried years Reinvention isn't pretending That the damage wasn't real It's becoming someone different Through the choices that reveal That I can tell the truth tomorrow I can make amends today I can love without demanding That the hurt just go away And when the craving comes like thunder And I barely find my feet I can call another brother I can fall upon my knees You never said that I was blameless You never asked me to pretend You showed me grace could be a beginning Not an excuse to hurt again You still call me worth saving Though the road is long and steep Though some bridges can't be mended Though some promises I couldn't keep There's a life beyond the bottle There's a man I have yet to be And the hands that bore the nails, Lord Are still reaching out for me Not because I've earned Your mercy Not because my past is clean Jesus, You still call me worth saving Now I wake to ordinary mornings With a little more to give Not a perfect man or holy Just a man who's learned to live And if somebody asks what saved me I won't say I did it on my own There was grace, and there were people Who wouldn't let me walk alone And every day I choose recovery Every honest step I take Is another chance to honor The life I almost threw away I'm still here I'm still changing I'm still learning to believe And Jesus, You still call me worth saving Even when it's hard for me ---

04

Still Learning to Follow

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I once believed that growing older would bring a certain wisdom, that the mistakes of youth would eventually give way to patience, understanding, and perhaps even some measure of certainty. I know better now. I have spent a lifetime learning, teaching, questioning, and trying to understand both human nature and my own. Yet I still lose my patience. I still say things I wish I hadn't. I sometimes confuse being right with doing what is right, and there have been moments when my pride has spoken more loudly than my compassion. I have encountered people who seem absolutely certain about what God expects of everyone else, and I wonder how they came to possess answers that have continued to elude me. I find something comforting in Paul's admission in Philippians 3:12 that he has not already attained perfection but continues to press forward. If Paul could acknowledge that his spiritual journey was unfinished, perhaps the rest of us can stop pretending that ours is complete. I do not believe Christianity was intended to be a declaration that we have arrived. I believe it is an invitation to keep walking, even when we stumble, even when we doubt, and especially when we discover how much we still have to learn.

I wrote Still Learning to Follow because I am increasingly aware of the distance between the person I have been, the person I am, and the person I still hope to become. I have learned that knowing the teachings of Jesus is not the same as living them. It is easy to speak about forgiveness until someone has genuinely hurt us, to praise humility until our pride is challenged, or to profess love until loving another person requires something of us. I have failed those tests more than once, and I expect I will struggle with them again. But I no longer believe that stumbling means the journey has ended. What matters is whether I am willing to recognize my failures, listen when someone tells me I have caused harm, and choose a different way forward. I think about the fishermen who followed Jesus without knowing where the road would lead. They misunderstood Him, questioned Him, and sometimes failed Him, yet He continued to call them forward. I find hope in that. I do not know that I will ever become the man I once imagined I should be. Perhaps that is no longer the point. I hope instead to become a little more patient, a little less judgmental, a little more willing to listen, and a little better at loving the people who share this life with me. I am still learning to follow. And I am still learning how to love.

I thought by now I'd have the answers That the years would make me wise That I'd never lose my patience Or let anger cloud my eyes I thought faith would come much easier When I'd traveled down the road But sometimes I still stumble Under things I should have known I've said words I wish I'd swallowed I've let pride get in the way I've asked You for forgiveness Then made the same mistakes And every time I fall behind And wonder where to go I hear You in the quiet Saying, child, you're not alone I'm still learning to follow Still learning to believe Still learning how to trust You When I cannot clearly see I haven't reached the mountain I'm still climbing from below But every step I take toward You Is another way to grow I'm not the man I hoped I'd be But I'm not the man I was I'm still learning to follow Still learning how to love I've watched the years move faster Than I ever thought they would I've done some things I'm proud of And some I wish I could undo I've held on to resentment When I should have let it go And I've mistaken being right For being good to those I know But You never asked for perfect You asked for open hands For the courage to be honest And the strength to take a stand Not against the ones who hurt me Not to prove that I am strong But to choose a better answer When the old one comes along I'm still learning to follow Still learning to believe Still learning how to trust You When I cannot clearly see I haven't reached the mountain I'm still climbing from below But every step I take toward You Is another way to grow I'm not the man I hoped I'd be But I'm not the man I was I'm still learning to follow Still learning how to love Some days faith is like a sunrise Breaking through a winter sky Some days it's a whispered prayer When I don't know how or why Some days it's forgiving someone Who will never say they're wrong Some days it's holding on to hope When the night is far too long And I think about the fishermen Who left their boats behind How they followed without knowing What tomorrow they would find They were frightened, they were human They misunderstood Your ways Yet You called them to keep walking Through their doubts and through their days So I don't need to be an angel I don't need to know it all I just need to keep on listening When I hear Your gentle call I'm still learning to follow Still learning to believe Still learning how to trust You When I cannot clearly see I haven't reached the mountain I'm still climbing from below But every step I take toward You Is another way to grow I'm not the man I hoped I'd be But I'm not the man I was I'm still learning to follow Still learning how to love And when my journey's over When the evening settles in I hope You'll see a man who tried To rise above his sin Not a man who never stumbled Not a life without a scar Just a heart that kept returning To the place where You are I'm still learning to follow Every morning, every day And if I have one prayer remaining Lord, don't let me turn away I'm still learning to follow Still learning how to love ---

05

Saved a Place for Me

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I have often wondered whether Jesus would recognize the Christianity we sometimes practice in His name. We build magnificent churches, speak confidently about righteousness, and draw boundaries around who belongs and who does not. Yet the Jesus I encounter in the Gospels seems far more interested in the people standing outside those boundaries. He ate with sinners, welcomed strangers, touched those considered unclean, and offered dignity to people whose lives had been reduced to their mistakes. In Matthew 25:35–40, Jesus identifies Himself with the hungry, the stranger, the sick, and the imprisoned. I find those words both beautiful and unsettling. He does not ask whether the hungry person deserves a meal or whether the prisoner has lived a blameless life. He asks what we did when someone needed us. I have known people who speak endlessly about Christian values yet seem remarkably unwilling to extend compassion to someone they consider beneath them. And I have met people who seldom speak of religion at all but quietly feed the hungry, welcome the lonely, and sit beside those everyone else has abandoned. I cannot help wondering which of them has come closer to understanding what Jesus was trying to teach.

I wrote Saved a Place for Me because I know what it means to encounter people who believe their mistakes have made them unworthy of love, forgiveness, or even a place among others. I have met them in recovery rooms, in intervention groups, and in the ordinary circumstances of life. Some have caused genuine harm. Some have been harmed themselves. Many have experienced both. I do not believe compassion requires us to deny responsibility, nor do I believe forgiveness can be demanded from someone who has been wounded. But I struggle with a Christianity that seems more comfortable identifying sinners than welcoming human beings. The image of Christ pulling out another chair moves me because it asks so little of us and yet challenges so much of what we practice. It reminds me that grace is not a reward reserved for those who have already become worthy. It is an invitation to begin again. I am still learning how to extend that invitation without judgment, without pretending that I know another person's entire story, and without confusing my own beliefs with God's final judgment. Perhaps when my life is over, I will discover that the most important question was never whether I had earned a place at Christ's table, but whether I made room for someone else at mine.

I stood outside the doorway With my history in my hands All the things I wished were different All the things I couldn't mend I could hear the voices laughing See the warmth beyond the glass But I thought a man like me Should be ashamed to even ask I had practiced my excuses I had memorized my shame Thought that if You knew my story You would turn me away But before I found the courage To explain what brought me there You opened up the doorway And You pulled another chair There was a seat at Your table There was room enough for me Not because I had been faithful Not because my hands were clean You didn't ask where I had been Or demand that I explain You just called me by my name And welcomed me again At Your table There was room enough for me I saw people sitting near You Who had carried heavy years Some had known the taste of failure Some had come through grief and tears There were those who'd lost their fortunes Those who'd lost their way back home And I realized in that moment I was not the only one You broke the bread before us And You passed the cup around There was nothing I could purchase Nothing there I had to prove And the kindness in Your welcome Was a truth I couldn't hide That mercy wasn't something Only better men could find There was a seat at Your table There was room enough for me Not because I had been faithful Not because my hands were clean You didn't ask where I had been Or demand that I explain You just called me by my name And welcomed me again At Your table There was room enough for me And grace was not permission To keep living as before It was love that made me willing To become something more I could not undo the damage I could not erase the years But I could learn to walk in mercy And stop being ruled by fear Now I see the lonely stranger Standing where I used to stand With a lifetime of rejection And a trembling in his hands And I hear the words You taught me In the kindness You once showed There's a chair beside the others There's a place to call your own There's a seat at Your table There's a place for everyone For the weary and the wounded For the daughter and the son For the heart that's barely hoping For the soul that's lost its way There's a Savior who remembers Every name we thought He'd forgotten And His mercy calls us home Hallelujah for the welcome Hallelujah for the grace Hallelujah for the Savior Who looked upon my face And didn't see a stranger Didn't turn and walk away He just opened up His arms And called me by my name There's a seat at Your table There is room enough for me Not because I am deserving But because Your love is free And when my days are over When this journey reaches home I won't stand outside the doorway Wondering if I belong I'll hear You call me closer I'll see that empty chair And know that all along, Lord You had saved a place for me At Your table You had saved a place for me ---

06

Faith Doesn't Mean I Never Cry

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I have never understood why some people believe that strong faith requires us to hide our suffering. We are told to trust God, to remain positive, to accept His will, and sometimes even to be grateful for experiences that have nearly broken us. I have heard people offer these reassurances with the best of intentions, but I have also watched them become another burden placed upon someone who is already struggling to survive. I have known illness, loss, fear, and those long nights when the future seemed terribly uncertain. There have been moments when I prayed with conviction and others when I could barely find the strength to pray at all. I do not believe those moments made me less faithful. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells us in Matthew 5:4, “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.” I find it remarkable that He does not tell those who mourn to stop crying, explain away their sorrow, or demonstrate greater religious confidence. He begins by recognizing their suffering. And when Jesus stood before the tomb of Lazarus, He wept. I cannot reconcile that image of Christ with a religion that asks people to pretend they are not hurting. If the man we call our Savior could grieve, why should any of us be ashamed of our tears?

I wrote Faith Doesn't Mean I Never Cry because I have come to believe that one of the greatest kindnesses we can offer another human being is permission to be honest about their pain. I have sat with people who were frightened, grieving, ashamed, or overwhelmed, and I have learned that they seldom need another explanation of why God allows suffering. They need someone willing to listen without judgment, someone who will not measure their faith by how well they conceal their despair. I have also learned how difficult it can be to offer myself that same compassion. There are days when I feel grateful simply to be alive and others when I am frightened by how fragile life has become. I do not know why some people recover while others do not, why prayers that seem equally sincere lead to different outcomes, or why those we love sometimes leave us long before we are ready. I have no satisfying answers to those questions, and I am increasingly unwilling to pretend that I do. But I am still willing to believe, still willing to ask, and still willing to return to God when my understanding fails me. Perhaps faith is not the ability to face suffering without tears. Perhaps it is the courage to bring those tears with us, to remain compassionate toward others who are suffering, and to keep learning how to love even when our own hearts are breaking.

I used to think that trusting Jesus Meant I'd never be afraid That if I prayed with enough conviction Every storm would fade away I thought the strongest hearts were silent That the faithful never broke So I learned to hide my sorrow Behind the words of hope I spoke But then I stood beside a graveside With a question in my chest Why does loving You so deeply Never promise us a rest? I watched the rain fall on the flowers And the people saying prayers And for the first time in forever I let You see me standing scared Faith doesn't mean I never cry It doesn't mean I understand It doesn't mean the road is easy Or that I won't need Your hand It means when everything is shaking When the answers pass me by I can trust You in the darkness Without pretending I'm all right Faith doesn't mean I never cry It means I know You're by my side I read about You standing weeping Where Your friend had been laid down How the One who spoke creation Let His tears fall to the ground And if the Savior knew such sorrow If He felt what loss could do Then maybe all these tears I've hidden Are not keeping me from You There are mornings I feel grateful There are nights I barely pray There are days when I feel certain There are days I lose my way But You don't measure my devotion By the smile upon my face And I don't have to earn Your presence By pretending I'm okay Faith doesn't mean I never cry It doesn't mean I understand It doesn't mean the road is easy Or that I won't need Your hand It means when everything is shaking When the answers pass me by I can trust You in the darkness Without pretending I'm all right Faith doesn't mean I never cry It means I know You're by my side I don't need another person Telling me to just be strong I don't need an explanation For why everything went wrong I need room to ask my questions I need courage to be still I need grace to face tomorrow Even when tomorrow hurts And maybe faith is not an answer Written clearly in the sky Maybe sometimes it's the courage To ask You one more time Faith doesn't mean I never cry It doesn't mean I'm never weak Sometimes all the faith I have Is just enough to let me speak And when my heart is nearly broken When I cannot see the light I remember You were weeping And You understand the night So let the tears fall when they need to Let the questions have their place I can grieve and still believe You I can hurt and still know grace I don't have to hide my sadness I don't have to ask You why Before I come into Your presence With the tears I cannot hide Faith doesn't mean I never cry It means I bring my tears to You And even when the morning finds me With no answers coming through I will rise and face another day With whatever strength I find Not because I know tomorrow But because You're by my side And if tonight I cannot sing I'll whisper what I know is true My tears have never frightened You And I can bring them all to You ---

07

The Hands That Bore the Nails

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I have always been fascinated by the humanity of Jesus. Before the sermons, before the miracles, before the cross, there was a carpenter who worked with His hands. I imagine Him learning to shape wood, building tables where families would gather, making doors that would open into ordinary homes. Those same hands would eventually touch lepers, welcome children, wash the feet of His disciples, and reach toward people whom others considered unworthy. I sometimes wonder how Christianity came to be associated so often with power, condemnation, and the authority to judge when the Jesus described in the Gospels so frequently chose humility, service, and compassion. We have sometimes turned the cross into a symbol used to divide people, forgetting that the hands stretched upon it belonged to someone who had spent His life reaching toward them. I do not pretend to understand all the theological mysteries of the Crucifixion. I have studied them, questioned them, and struggled with what they mean. But I keep returning to the extraordinary image of a man who could have sought power and instead washed feet, who could have condemned those who rejected Him and instead prayed for their forgiveness. Perhaps the greatest lesson of those hands is not simply what they suffered, but how they were used before the suffering began.

I wrote The Hands That Bore the Nails because I wanted to bring together the ordinary humanity of Jesus and the extraordinary meaning Christians have found in His life, death, and resurrection. In John 20:24–29, Thomas struggles to believe that Christ has risen. He wants to see the wounds for himself. I have always felt a certain affection for Thomas. I understand his questions, his reluctance to accept what he cannot comprehend, and his need for something more than another person's assurance. What moves me is that Jesus does not turn Thomas away for doubting. He invites him closer and shows him the scars. I find something deeply reassuring in that encounter. Perhaps faith is not the absence of questions, and perhaps our wounds are not things we must conceal before we can be loved. I have met people whose lives bear the scars of terrible experiences, some inflicted upon them and others resulting from their own choices. I have seen those scars become sources of bitterness, but I have also seen them become the beginning of compassion for someone else who is suffering. I am still learning what it means to follow Christ, but I believe those hands offer a lesson I can spend the rest of my life trying to understand. They were not used to push the broken away. They were extended toward them. And if I am going to call myself a Christian, perhaps I should spend less time defending what I believe about those hands and more time learning to use my own in the same way.

Before the crowds and the miracles Before the road to Calvary There was a boy beside His father Learning how to shape a beam The smell of cedar in the morning The sound of iron against the grain Two young hands upon the timber That would one day bear the pain He built the tables for the families He made the doors that opened wide He knew the weight of wood upon Him Long before the day He died And somewhere in those quiet mornings With the hammer and the stone The hands that formed the world around us Were learning what it means to be alone The hands that built the tables Were the hands that bore the nails The hands that touched the broken Were the hands that would be pierced And the love that healed the leper Was the love that chose the cross The hands that held creation Opened wide for all of us Oh, the hands that bore the nails Were reaching out for us Those hands once touched the blinded eyes And brought the daylight pouring in They lifted children to His shoulders And welcomed those condemned for sin They broke the bread beside the water They washed the feet of frightened men And when a woman faced her accusers They offered mercy once again He never used those hands for power To force a heart or claim a throne He reached for those the world abandoned And called the lost His very own And every hand He held in kindness Every wound He chose to heal Was another way of showing us What the love of God could feel The hands that built the tables Were the hands that bore the nails The hands that touched the broken Were the hands that would be pierced And the love that healed the leper Was the love that chose the cross The hands that held creation Opened wide for all of us Oh, the hands that bore the nails Were reaching out for us Then came the night in Gethsemane When He prayed beneath the trees The hands that once had calmed the water Now were trembling on His knees He asked His Father for another way If another way could be But He rose to meet the darkness And surrendered willingly They bound the hands that healed the wounded They struck the face that showed them grace They placed a cross upon His shoulders And led Him to that lonely place The hammer fell against the iron The morning sky began to fade And the hands that once shaped timber Were held against the wood He'd made Could He have called the hosts of heaven? Could He have turned and walked away? Yet He prayed for those who hurt Him As His blood ran down the grain And what looked like the end of mercy Was the greatest love the world had known For the One who made the heavens Had come to bring His children home The hands that built the tables Were the hands that bore the nails The hands that touched the broken Were the hands that would be pierced And the love that healed the leper Was the love that chose the cross The hands that held creation Opened wide for all of us Oh, the hands that bore the nails Were reaching out for us But the story didn't end there With the stone against the grave For the hands that death had wounded Rose with power on the third day And when Thomas stood before Him With his questions and his fear Jesus showed the marks of suffering And drew the doubting closer still Now when I feel unworthy When I stumble and I fall I remember those scarred hands And the mercy in His call Not a distant God in heaven Not a stranger to our pain But a Savior who was wounded And whose love will still remain The hands that built the tables Are the hands that conquered death The hands that bore the nails Are the hands that give us breath And the scars that tell His story Are the signs of love that stayed Through the darkness of the cross To the glory of the grave Oh, the hands that bore the nails Are reaching out today And when I finally stand before Him When my journey here is done I will see the hands that saved me And the scars of God's own Son The hands that built the tables The hands that bore the nails The hands that held creation Are the hands that hold me still ---

08

Let Them See You in Me

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I have come to believe that one of the greatest dangers in Christianity is confusing the profession of faith with the practice of it. I have known people who attend church faithfully, speak confidently about Jesus, and consider themselves deeply religious, yet seem unable to extend kindness, forgiveness, or even basic dignity to someone whose life they disapprove of. I have experienced that contradiction within my own family. There is a particular kind of hurt that comes when sisters who profess their love of Christ nevertheless find reasons to exclude their own brother, when there is no chair offered, no place made at the table, and judgment seems easier than compassion. I find myself wondering how we can celebrate a Savior who ate with sinners while refusing to sit beside someone we have decided is unworthy. In Matthew 7:21, near the conclusion of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus warns that not everyone who calls Him “Lord, Lord” will enter the kingdom of heaven, but those who do the will of His Father. Those words trouble me because they challenge the difference between what we say we believe and how we actually live. Religion can become a weapon when we use it to justify exclusion, and the wounds it leaves can be particularly deep when they come from people who claim to love us. But I must also ask whether my own anger at being judged sometimes makes me judgmental in return. I cannot condemn another person's failure to love while refusing to examine my own.

I wrote Let Them See You in Me because I believe the truest measure of our faith may be found in how we treat the people closest to us, especially when loving them is difficult. A child who watches a parent dismiss another person's feelings learns something about love that no Sunday sermon can easily undo. The little wooden airplane in this song represents one of those ordinary moments when we discover that our behavior has contradicted everything we claim to believe. The father cannot recover the moment he missed, but he can acknowledge it, apologize, and choose to behave differently. I have spent years encouraging people to recognize the difference between explaining their behavior and accepting responsibility for it, and I continue to confront that same distinction in myself. I have been hurt by people who believe they are acting righteously, and I have undoubtedly hurt others while believing I was right. I do not have an easy answer for how to love someone who has rejected me, or how to forgive without pretending that the hurt did not happen. I am still struggling with those questions. But I cannot escape the conviction that Christ did not teach us to reserve compassion for people who agree with us, resemble us, or meet our standards of worthiness. I hope that when people remember me, they will remember less about what I professed and more about whether I made room for them in my life. I am still learning to follow Jesus, still learning to listen when I would rather defend myself, and still learning how to love, particularly when loving someone does not come easily.

I taught my children how to pray Before they closed their eyes at night I told them Jesus walked beside us And would always be their light I took them to the church on Sunday Told them what a good man does But I wonder what they learned from me When Sunday morning wasn't enough Did they hear me speak with kindness When the day had gone all wrong? Did they see me ask forgiveness When my pride had held on too long? Did the words I spoke about You Find their way into my life? Or was I just another voice Who knew the truth but couldn't get it right? Lord, let them see You in me Before they hear me speak Your name Let them know You by the kindness That I offer every day When I'm tired, when I'm angry When the world won't let me be Let my patience tell Your story Let my actions show Your peace And when they wonder what love looks like Lord, let them see You in me I remember one December Coming home from work too late There were dishes in the kitchen And a child who'd stayed awake He had something he was building And he wanted me to see But I told him I was busy And he quietly walked away from me I found his little wooden airplane On the table by the door And I thought about the moments I had hurried through before So I climbed the stairs that evening And I sat beside his bed Said, I'm sorry I wasn't listening Would you show me what you made? Lord, let them see You in me Before they hear me speak Your name Let them know You by the kindness That I offer every day When I'm tired, when I'm angry When the world won't let me be Let my patience tell Your story Let my actions show Your peace And when they wonder what love looks like Lord, let them see You in me I don't need to win each argument I don't need the final word I can listen to another Even when I think they're wrong I can choose a softer answer I can put my anger down I can leave a little more of heaven In the places I am found For the hungry need a supper More than sermons from my lips And the lonely need a welcome Not a lesson in forgiveness And the people I have wounded Need to see that I have changed Not another declaration That tomorrow won't be the same Lord, let them see You in me Not a man who never falls But a man who owns his failures And keeps answering Your call Let me honor those who trust me Let me give without a claim Let me love without conditions Or expecting love the same When the world is watching closely Lord, let them see You in me One day I'll be just a photograph In a frame upon the wall And the stories they remember Won't be about my words at all They'll remember how I treated Those who had no place to go Whether home was filled with laughter Whether love was something shown And if my children tell their children What it meant to know my name I hope they speak of second chances And a man who learned to change Not because he always got it right Not because he never strayed But because he kept returning To the promises he made Lord, let them see You in me In the smallest things I do In the patience of a moment In the courage to be true When my voice is only memory When my earthly days are through Let the love I leave behind me Be a little glimpse of You I don't need a grand cathedral Or a thousand people listening Just an ordinary life, Lord Where Your love can still be seen Before they hear me speak Your name Before I tell them what I believe Let them see the love of Jesus In the way they live with me Lord, let them see You in me --- ---

09

Not Beyond Your Mercy

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I have spent many years sitting across from people who have caused genuine harm, listening to explanations that sometimes sound more like excuses, and watching the difficult moment when someone begins to recognize the difference. I have also come to understand how easily we divide the world into good people and bad people, as though any of us could be reduced to the worst thing we have ever done. I have met people whose actions have devastated families, destroyed trust, and left wounds that may never completely heal. Their responsibility is real, and the suffering of those they harmed must never be minimized. But I have also witnessed the extraordinary courage it takes for someone to stop defending himself and begin telling the truth. In Luke 23:39–43, Jesus is dying between two condemned men. One of them acknowledges his wrongdoing and asks simply to be remembered. Jesus responds with mercy. I have returned to that encounter many times because it challenges the comfortable boundaries we place around forgiveness. Here is a man who cannot undo his past, cannot make restitution, and cannot demonstrate years of changed behavior. Yet Christ does not tell him that he is beyond hope. I sometimes wonder how many people we have condemned as irredeemable while professing to follow a Savior who extended compassion even from the cross. And I wonder whether our certainty about another person's unworthiness sometimes reveals more about our own hearts than about theirs.

I wrote Not Beyond Your Mercy because I believe there is an important difference between asking to be forgiven and accepting responsibility for what we have done. I have watched people apologize repeatedly while continuing the very behavior for which they sought forgiveness. I have also seen people make quiet, sustained changes without expecting applause, reconciliation, or even acknowledgment. Those are not the same things. Mercy does not erase consequences, and repentance does not entitle anyone to another person's trust, affection, or presence in their life. Someone who has been harmed has every right to establish boundaries, to refuse contact, and to decide that forgiveness, if it comes at all, will not include reconciliation. I believe Christ's message of mercy calls us to become different, not simply to feel better about what we have done. But I also know how difficult it can be to look honestly at ourselves. I have made mistakes, defended positions I should have reconsidered, and sometimes allowed pride to stand between me and the person I wanted to be. I am still learning how to recognize those moments without hiding behind explanations. Perhaps that is why this song matters so much to me. It is not a declaration that I have become righteous, nor a promise that every broken relationship can be restored. It is a prayer that none of us will mistake our failures for our entire identity, and that we will have the courage to let mercy change what we do next. I cannot change yesterday. I can only take responsibility for today, listen more carefully, and try again tomorrow. I am still learning to follow, still learning to forgive, and still learning how to love.

There's a man I see in photographs Who looks a lot like me He's smiling with his arm around The people he should never leave But a photograph can't tell you What was happening behind the door Or how a heart can break another And pretend it doesn't anymore I spent years defending choices That I knew were mine to make Calling anger disappointment Calling selfishness a mistake I said things I couldn't take back I walked away when I should have stayed And I blamed the world around me For the hurt my hands had made But I am not beyond Your mercy I am not too far from grace Even with the truth before me And the things I cannot change I won't ask You to excuse me I won't hide behind my pain Lord, I cannot change my yesterday But I can change the man I am today I am not beyond Your mercy Let Your mercy lead the way There were people who believed me When I promised I would change But apologies came easy While my actions stayed the same I thought that saying I was sorry Meant the damage should be healed But forgiveness isn't something That another person owes to me So I stopped rehearsing reasons Why I did the things I did Stopped pretending good intentions Could undo the harm I'd given And I looked into the mirror With no stories left to tell Just a man who needed saving From the lies he'd told himself I am not beyond Your mercy I am not too far from grace Even with the truth before me And the things I cannot change I won't ask You to excuse me I won't hide behind my pain Lord, I cannot change my yesterday But I can change the man I am today I am not beyond Your mercy Let Your mercy lead the way I used to think redemption Meant the past would disappear That if I prayed with enough sorrow I'd be free of all those years But You never called me blameless You never told me wrong was right You asked me what I'd do tomorrow When the old ways came to mind Would I listen without shouting? Would I walk away from pride? Would I let another person Have a life beyond my side? Would I speak the truth when silence Would be easier to choose? Would I practice what I promised When there was nothing left to prove? And I thought about the thief beside You On that hill outside the town How he knew that he was guilty When he finally laid his defenses down He had nothing he could offer No good deeds to make it right Only truth and one last prayer As he turned toward Your light And You met him there with mercy In the shadow of the cross Not because his life was perfect Not because there'd been no cost But because Your grace is greater Than the darkest things we've done And the door to true repentance Is not closed to anyone I am not beyond Your mercy But Your mercy calls for change Not another empty promise Not a different kind of blame Give me courage to be honest Give me patience to begin Give me strength to face the damage And refuse to cause it again I cannot make them trust me I cannot ask them to forget I can honor every boundary Even when I'm filled with regret I can stop demanding answers I can learn to let things be And if love is ever spoken Let it first be seen in me I am not beyond Your mercy I am not too far from grace I will carry what I've learned Into every coming day Not a man without a history Not a soul without a scar But a man who knows the difference Between who he was and who he is And when I stand before You, Jesus With the truth of all I've been I won't bring a list of reasons Or pretend I never sinned I'll bring the life I've tried to change The wrongs I've faced along the way And thank You for the mercy That gave me one more day I am not beyond Your mercy I am not beyond Your love Not because I have deserved it But because of what You've done And tomorrow when I wake, Lord Let my choices testify That the grace You freely gave me Wasn't wasted on my life I cannot change my yesterday But I can choose who I become today I am not beyond Your mercy And I'll spend my life learning how to change

10

When I Finally See Your Face

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As I grow older, I find myself thinking about death differently than I once did. There was a time when I imagined that if I ever stood before God, I would arrive with a lifetime of questions. Why do good people suffer? Why are some lives cut terribly short while others are given so many years? Why do prayers sometimes seem to go unanswered? I have spent much of my life studying, questioning, and searching for explanations, and I suspect there are mysteries I will never resolve. I have stood beside people I loved as their lives approached an end, and I have become increasingly conscious of how quickly my own years have passed. Yet something has changed in the questions I ask. I find myself less concerned with proving what I believe and more concerned with appreciating what I have been given. In 1 Corinthians 13:12, Paul writes that now we see through a glass, darkly, but one day face to face. I have always been drawn to that image because it acknowledges the limits of our understanding. We do not see everything clearly, and perhaps we were never meant to. I do not know what heaven looks like, what eternity will feel like, or whether the questions that have occupied my mind will even matter when this life is over. But I wonder whether, if I finally stand before Christ, the first words I speak will not be questions at all. Perhaps they will simply be words of gratitude.

I wrote When I Finally See Your Face because I have begun to recognize how much of a life is made up of moments we scarcely notice while they are happening. The laughter around a kitchen table, the friends who stayed, the people who forgave us, the dogs who greeted us as though our return were the greatest event of their day, and the ordinary Tuesdays we once wished would hurry along. I have known love, disappointment, illness, sorrow, and the painful recognition that time does not wait for any of us. I would not pretend that every hardship was a blessing or that suffering was somehow necessary to teach me gratitude. Some things are simply painful, and I have no explanation for them. But I am grateful that I was given a life in which I could love and be loved, make mistakes and sometimes repair them, learn from people whose experiences were different from mine, and discover that I did not need to possess all the answers to find meaning. I still struggle with patience. I still have moments of pride, anger, and regret. I am still learning to listen when I would rather speak, to forgive when I would rather hold on to hurt, and to recognize God's presence while I am still here to experience it. Perhaps that is what growing older has taught me most clearly: I do not want to spend whatever time remains preparing arguments for God. I want to spend it becoming a little better at loving the people He has placed in my life. And if the day comes when I finally see His face, I hope I will remember to say thank You, not only for the extraordinary moments, but for the simple, imperfect, beautiful privilege of having lived.

I've spent a lifetime asking questions Of a God I couldn't see Wondering what waits beyond the morning When this world is done with me I've stood beside the ones I've buried I've watched the seasons come and go And learned that faith is sometimes trusting What our hearts cannot yet know I used to think I'd come with questions A thousand things I'd want to say Why the good were taken early Why some prayers seemed far away But the older I have grown, Lord The less I need to understand And the more I find I'm grateful For the life held in Your hands When I finally see Your face When the years have fallen away I don't think I'll ask You questions About the roads I had to take I'll just thank You for the mornings For the people, for the grace For a lifetime I was given When I finally see Your face I'll thank You for the kitchen laughter For the friends who stayed awhile For the arms that held me close And for a stranger's unexpected smile For the dogs that came to greet me Like I'd never been away For the ordinary Tuesdays I once wished would hurry by For the nights that taught me courage For the tears that taught me prayer For the people who forgave me When I failed to show I cared I won't say that every sorrow Was a blessing in disguise But I'll thank You that Your mercy Never left me in those nights When I finally see Your face When the years have fallen away I don't think I'll ask You questions About the roads I had to take I'll just thank You for the mornings For the people, for the grace For a lifetime I was given When I finally see Your face And I wonder if I'll recognize The voices I have missed If the ones who went before me Will be waiting where You live If the hands I longed to hold again Will reach across that shore And the distance that divided us Will divide us nevermore But more than streets of gold, Lord More than wonders I might see I want to know the love that found me When I barely could believe The love that walked beside me Through the failures and the fears The love that never counted All the times I disappeared And if I find the words to speak When I stand before Your throne I'll say, I wasn't always faithful But You never let me go You gave me time to change direction You gave me chances to begin And when I stumbled toward the darkness You kept calling me again When I finally see Your face When the shadows fall away I will bring no grand achievements No excuses for my days Only gratitude and wonder For a love I can't explain For the gift of having lived, Lord When I finally see Your face And if heaven has a morning And a place where I can stand I will watch the light come slowly Over some eternal land And remember all those mornings When I thought I had more time How the world was filled with beauty I was sometimes too busy to find So while I still have breath within me While there's sunlight on the floor Let me love a little better Than I managed to before Let me say the things that matter Let me leave behind my pride Let me recognize Your presence While I'm standing here alive For I don't have to wait for heaven To begin to live in grace Every day can be an offering Till I finally see Your face And when that final morning comes And this earthly journey ends I will place my life before You Like a child coming home again No more searching through the silence No more wondering where You are Only love beyond imagining And the healing of each scar When I finally see Your face When the years have fallen away All the love I knew on earth Will seem a glimpse of that great day And I'll thank You for the ordinary For each moment, for each place For a lifetime You were with me Till I finally see Your face And perhaps the only words I'll find When I stand before Your throne Will be the ones I've waited years to say Thank You, Jesus For bringing me home

11

Take Me Down to Cancún

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I have come to believe that one of the greatest failures of organized religion is its willingness to place conditions upon love that I cannot imagine God Himself imposing. We are told that God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving, that He created each of us, and that His creation is good. Yet some who profess these beliefs seem remarkably comfortable declaring that certain people, simply because of whom they love, are somehow mistakes in that creation. I cannot reconcile those positions. I do not believe God makes mistakes when He creates human beings. We are different from one another, sometimes in ways that challenge traditions, expectations, and interpretations of Scripture handed down for generations. But difference is not a defect, and love is not made less sacred because it does not resemble someone else's understanding of marriage. In the First Letter of John, we are told that love comes from God and that everyone who loves is born of God and knows God (1 John 4:7–8). Later, the writer asks how someone can claim to love God, whom they have not seen, while failing to love another person standing before them (1 John 4:20). I find that question impossible to escape. I have experienced the pain of exclusion within my own family, including sisters who profess their devotion to Christ yet have been unwilling to extend the acceptance and compassion I believe His teachings demand. That hurt is real, but the question reaches far beyond my family. How many people have been turned away from a family table, a congregation, or an ordinary expression of belonging by someone convinced that exclusion is an act of religious faithfulness? How often have we used the Bible to defend a judgment while overlooking the human being wounded by it? I wonder whether, in our determination to defend God, we sometimes forget the very people He created. I cannot claim to know everything about God's intentions. I have spent too many years questioning and learning to pretend otherwise. But I struggle to understand how a God whose very nature is love could be honored by cruelty, rejection, or the withholding of compassion.

I wrote Take Me Down to Cancún as a love letter to the person with whom I have shared my life, my ordinary mornings, my fears, my laughter, and the years that have passed far more quickly than I ever imagined they would. It is about a marriage, not an argument about marriage. It is about two people who found one another, built a life together, faced difficulties, and discovered that the greatest gift they could offer was their continuing love. I know that one day one of us will have to say goodbye, and I wanted to leave behind something that would make that goodbye a little less frightening. But I also wanted this final song to speak to everyone whose love has been questioned, diminished, or rejected because it did not conform to someone else's expectations. I do not believe anyone should have to apologize for being the person God created, or that a loving relationship becomes less worthy of dignity because others refuse to recognize it. We are all imperfect in our conduct, and I am certainly no exception, but I do not believe our differences are mistakes God needs us to correct. I am still learning to follow Christ, still learning to forgive, and still learning how to love. I do not always succeed, particularly when I have been hurt by people who seem unable to recognize the hurt they have caused. But perhaps that is why I needed to write these songs. I wanted to ask what God's love really means, not simply repeat what others have told me it means. Does loving God give us permission to reject another human being? Does defending Scripture excuse us from practicing compassion? Can we claim to follow Jesus while denying someone else a place at the table? And if we believe God created every one of us, who are we to declare that some of His children are less deserving of love? I do not know what heaven looks like or what eternity holds. I do not know whether I will ever fully understand the mysteries of faith. But I hope that when my life is over, I will have spent more time learning to love than learning to judge. And I hope those who hear this final song will ask themselves the same question I continue to ask: if God loves the people we have chosen to exclude, shouldn't we be willing to love them too?

When the morning comes and you wake alone, And the coffee's made for one, You don't have to put my cup away Till you're ready, love. Take your time. I was never good at saying goodbye. You know I'd take too long. But there's a peace beyond this leaving, And a love that carries on. I have placed my life in Jesus' hands, As I placed my heart in yours. And I trust the One who brought us here Will lead us safely home. Take me down to Cancún, Where the water turns to light. Let me go into the blue. Stay until the stars come out. When the tide comes in, remember That God's love has no last shore. And the hands that held us through this life Will hold us evermore. You were the steady ground beneath me When I couldn't find my own. You held my hand through things we feared And brought me safely home. And every prayer we whispered When the nights were long and cold Was heard by One who promised us We'd never walk alone. When the house feels far too quiet, You can talk to me out loud. You never had to find the perfect words. You don't have to find them now. And when you kneel beside the bed Where we once prayed side by side, Remember heaven hears you too, And love is still alive. Take me down to Cancún, Where the water turns to light. Let me go into the blue. Stay until the stars come out. When the tide comes in, remember That God's love has no last shore. And the hands that held us through this life Will hold us evermore. We came here newly married, With our lives still stretching wide. We watched the light upon the water, The pelicans skim the tide. There's a big red heart beside the sea. I leaned on it and smiled at you. If you go back, stand there a moment. Remember how I looked at you. Don't keep me in a box upon a shelf Because it hurts to let me go. Give me to that warm salt water, The place we both have known. Then stay a little longer, love. Let the water touch your skin. The God who gave us all those years Is the God who'll help you live again. And I don't know what heaven looks like, Or how eternity will feel. But I believe the love God gave us Was something everlasting, something real. And when your journey reaches morning, Beyond the sorrow and the years, I believe that Christ will welcome you Where there is no death or tears. Take me down to Cancún, Where the water turns to light. Let me go into the blue. Stay until the stars come out. When the tide comes in, remember That this love was heaven's gift. And the God who brought our lives together Has not forgotten us. And when you're ready, leave the shore. There's no hurry, love. No need. We had a life beyond that water. Take that part of us with you. Go and laugh and see the morning. Let the sunlight find your face. And live the years that God still gives you With the courage of His grace. And if one day we meet in heaven, Beyond the reach of time and pain, There won't be any need for goodbyes. I'll take your hand again. I still love you. And God will see us home.

Why I wrote these songs

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