By Janel Breitenstein I admit: I forget. It’s all too easy for me—in this life walking with God that’s admittedly so much more than my best daydreams—to forget I was called to a cross. In fact, my hide’s frequently chapped when I run into what feels like unnecessary pain. I have heard the cross compared to the electric chair in its shame. It’s not really the kind of thing you’d sculpt into a charm and wear around your neck, really. Imagine if I did! Imagine what it would say.
Old Rugged Cross
Old Rugged Cross
Old Rugged Cross
By Janel Breitenstein I admit: I forget. It’s all too easy for me—in this life walking with God that’s admittedly so much more than my best daydreams—to forget I was called to a cross. In fact, my hide’s frequently chapped when I run into what feels like unnecessary pain. I have heard the cross compared to the electric chair in its shame. It’s not really the kind of thing you’d sculpt into a charm and wear around your neck, really. Imagine if I did! Imagine what it would say.