By Janel Breitenstein I wish I had more. Sometimes my praise for God feels like a crayon drawing. I look back on the way I blew it with my kid that morning. The way I have morning breath and occasional body odor and bad habits in my anger. I think of how my sin’s blindspots have rammed into the people I love; how at times my closest spiritual relatives have been the Pharisees. Then, I glimpse something that’s just like God would concoct: Something lavishly kind when I’m complaining, something gratuitous when I’m disbelieving, or simply something so elaborately generous.
I Want More
I Want More
I Want More
By Janel Breitenstein I wish I had more. Sometimes my praise for God feels like a crayon drawing. I look back on the way I blew it with my kid that morning. The way I have morning breath and occasional body odor and bad habits in my anger. I think of how my sin’s blindspots have rammed into the people I love; how at times my closest spiritual relatives have been the Pharisees. Then, I glimpse something that’s just like God would concoct: Something lavishly kind when I’m complaining, something gratuitous when I’m disbelieving, or simply something so elaborately generous.