Letters to God, Day 2

Dear Abba,

Today has started off early and the time change has only just happened. The whole concept behind the time changing is still, after all these years, very strange to me. The psychological effectiveness of this illusory event is also really odd to me.

I was just thinking to myself, “I really like fall back an hour.” The sense of getting a few moments to slow down and recalibrate and assess and reflect and just hold on a second, just one second, stirs in me every time I hear somebody say, “Remember to change your clock back an hour. Fall back.”

Spring forward. Fall back. Hold on a second, just one second.

I spent time this morning reflecting on You, reading scripture cards I had written out in past seasons and picking up The Gospel in Twenty Questions again. I had left off on the chapter that addresses communion—question #10, Who Can Take Communion?

As Paul Ellis addressed this question, and many other questions within this question, I was reminded of how much you have taught me about communion. Communion isn’t this ritual that happens when a certain number of believers gather together in a building. It is not a ritual that only an elected believer, deemed qualified by seminary school, conducts. It is slowing down and remembering Jesus, remembering all that was accomplished in Him by His crucifixion and burial and resurrection, and that I needed Him—and I do still.

I am thankful for that moment when I first came back home to You and it was suggested to me to not take communion if I felt like things were off kilter and I said, “No. I do not agree.” I was immature in my Knowledge of You then, but that assertive no rose up from deep within me. I loved taking communion precisely in those moments when I felt off kilter because You give me peace, Abba—You’ve given me Your peace in Jesus and He has made me whole. And that’s a good thing to remember when I feel off kilter.

Every day, a little while back, I was slowing down to take communion with You—and then cares, which I stopped casting on Jesus, started to bog me down. I became distracted from spending the really intimate time I enjoy spending with You.

So after reading another chapter, I made a cup of coffee and toasted a telera roll and took communion with You. How thankful I am for it too, Abba. I experienced Your peace like a scene from a movie in which an anchor is being lowered into the depths of the dense sea—it moves slowly downward, down. I remembered Jesus and that You are heavenly.

I like how brother Paul ended the chapter on communion. He said, “When we reveal the real Jesus at the table of grace, good things happen. Those outside are drawn in, the sick and poor have their needs met, and the result is praise and thanksgiving to God. What does communion look like when it is done well? It looks like heaven.

Thank You, Abba, for healing me by the stripes of Jesus. Thank You for welcoming me into a new covenant through Jesus, and for the forgiveness of my sins. Thank You for having drawn me in and for meeting my needs. Praise You, Abba, and thank You.

I walked across the street after communion. I took a mug of coffee with me, an index card full of verses from 2012, and my phone camera. I stood and watched the cattle out at pasture and watched the fog hang around the tree tops.


It’s like that for us sometimes, isn’t it, Abba? Forgetting is like a fog. O, but sweet remembrance—remembrance is like the picture You showed me while I watched the fog on those tree tops. I saw a picture from within me, a picture of the Holy Spirit blowing away the fog and reminding me that I have the mind of Christ.

Thank You, Abba, for the mind of Christ—Jesus who is the anchor for my soul and my everything. I remember Jesus, Abba. Thank You.

Your joyful daughter,



I need help remembering these days, Abba—so thank You for being faithful. I love You.


I am also thankful for the sound of wet rocks under my shoes, and the look and feel of them too, Abba.


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