Grace-period

I am in a funk.  Have been for about a week.  One might presume, me being a woman, that it is merely a hormonal swing that should right itself in about a week.  Alas, if only it were that simple that I could wait this out, but this is not crazy hormones. As I was ranting to a poor pastor dude that happened to be in the line of fire today, he said something like, "Well, the emotion that has been triggered by this event comes from your thinking." Working in counseling I thought to myself, how does he know anything about cognitive behavioral therapy and why is he talking about it now?  I am obviously right, duh, no matter what the feeling. And, while I may be right, that was not the real issue of the day.  I hung up with the poor pastor dude, bickered with my husband, then settled on the deck to meditate on my bitterness. I sent a text to those closest to me about all the things that I hated at that moment and what might I be able to add next.  From that small Voice that

I really dislike fill in the blank notes in the bulletin.  Sure, the speaker has his points already decided and the flow of his communication is to take you to visit each, but sometimes, well, most of the time, I like to find my own path.  I prefer the adventure. This Sunday was no different.  Our text was Acts 4. Peter and John had been arrested for teaching about Jesus' resurrection.  After being threatened that the authorities might not be so understanding should they be caught again, they were released and told to stop preaching.  When they reunited with other believers, they prayed, including in Acts 4:29 , for their deaths. What?? I pray, a bit.  I pray for others.  I pray for God's message.  I even pray for opportunities to be a part of God's adventures.  But I have never, ever prayed for my death. I know.  They weren't praying for their deaths, not exactly anyway.  They were praying for persecution.  They were praying to earn the death penalty.  They were p