Rebecca

January 18th, 2002- after a couple of years of faithful service, the second car that I've ever owned, an '89 Buick Skyhawk, passed on to its heavenly reward. I got it home from work, parked it in the parking lot of our apartment complex, and there it sat, brokenhearted.

January 21st, 2002- I walked to work on a cold January morning to be ushered into the "offices" (read: basement) of the chocolate factory where I had been working for exactly one year. "Sean, we're letting you go," my supervisor said immediately, and what followed was a litany of lame reasons why my services were no longer required, most of which either had extenuating circumstances or were entirely untrue.

January 23rd, 2002- two pink lines.

Hey welcome to the world
Oh, your momma's been waiting for you
We did the whole nine yards
You nearly dropped in by the seat of your pants
You're my little girl and I have a name for you
A heartbeat honed in heaven
There ain't no seed that's simply thrown out to chance

The baby's first name had been decided before Laura and I had even gotten married. If it was a girl, I wanted to name her Rebecca. Not Rebekah, a name she would be forever spelling for people; not Becky, or Becca, Bekah, or Beck for that matter. Rebecca. Reminds one of Holly Hobby dolls and gingham dresses, doesn't it?

Her middle name for the longest time was going to be Rose, my wife's maiden name. Rebecca Rose. Sounds like it should be a character on a Hallmark Hall of Fame special or something. In 2001 a person close to my heart passed away. Evelyn Jean MacNair was my aunt, my advisor, one of my best friends. She died in April of 2001 at the age of 49 after two heart attacks. Things changed at that point. When we actually found out we were expecting a girl, I wanted her middle name to be Evelyn.

On the 25th of September, in the year of our Lord (and of the Anaheim Angels) 2002, at roughly 8:48AM, a little girl was born to an unemployed father and an anxiously waiting mother. Out the window instead of the door... oh wait, I've used that line before. We now had a matching set- a daughter to go with our son. Whereas my son gave out short bleats and screeches when he was born, my daughter let the world know of her arrival by proclaiming it from the housetops- loud. The nurse asked me how much I thought she weighed, and as much as I wanted to be able to brag about a ten pound baby, I guessed 9lb, 5oz. And I was right. There would be no middle ground with this child; she would make it known- I'm here, I'm dear, get used to me.

When we brought her home she was kidnapped. I'm not kidding. I had to drive to Medina to pick up my son, and while I was gone a neighbor woman stopped by. She held the baby and then decided that her roommates just had to see her, so off she went. Good thing I wasn't there :) My son's reaction upon meeting this intruder? He reached for her head and twisted it like a pop bottle top. That was the most interaction he would have with her for two years.

I bought a camera
I'd like to keep each memory intact
I've got the eagle eye, I've got it trained on you
I don't deserve you
There's so many qualities I lack
Every privilege has a price tag
I see a consequence in all that I do

For the longest time I was convinced that this little girl hated me. My son bonded with me from the beginning, but my daughter would cry when I picked her up. I could feed her occasionally, but she usually wanted to keep abreast of the situation. I changed my son quite a few times, but I gladly passed off the diaper changing duties for Rebecca; this time there were more places for the poop to hide. They should tie her naked to a plane and let her drop bombs on Iraq; we would win the war.

My daughter likes Veggie Tales and Elmo, but lately she has developed an affinity for The Wiggles. (See my last blog entry for a picture.) Have you seen these guys? I suppose if I was on acid or something they would be telling me the secrets of the universe; straight up these guys are weird. Weird... but strangely compelling. All day long I find myself singing, "Fruit salad...yummy yummy."

Rebecca has developed a unique personality. Whereas my son is an introvert, my daughter lets you know she's around. She doesn't do anything halfway. When she's mad, she screams; when she's happy, she laughs and chortles and guffaws; when she plays, she plays hard and when she sleeps, she sleeps hard. No middle ground. All the boys at preschool want to see her and all the girls at preschool want to be her.

I look for my future and I feel a peace about my past
Surprised by joy, I've seen my Father's mercy in you
You make a fine tutor and my vocation's clear at last
I can't wait to hear you call me something or see the world as you do

Having a son I can deal with; after all, I've been one, I know the path. Having a daughter is a different animal entirely. There are certain...umm... shall we say, "rites of passage" that I'm not sure I want anything to do with. I mean, she can be moody enough already, she doesn't need any extra influence from her hormones. I am not- I repeat, AM NOT going down that aisle in the grocery store :)

I am putting all males ages three to six on notice now. In ten years my daughter will be thirteen. You want to appreciate her beauty? Fine. She's a beautiful girl. You want to let your eyes stop at certain areas? You will lose those eyes. I got me a melon baller that will pop those eyes out right quick. (Insert evil "Deliverance"-type country yokel laugh here.) How do I know what behaviors teenage boys will exhibit? Don't forget, I used to be one. I'm getting a shotgun and placing it in the corner of my living room. I won't hunt with it; I won't shoot skeet with it; I will just let it sit there. The mere presence of a firearm will send a powerful message to any gentleman callers.

There are different responsibilities in raising a daughter than raising a son. Call it a double standard if you like, but it's true. There is an unspoken message being conveyed in our society that women exist for one purpose. I don't want my daughter to be looked at like that. I want her to be honored and respected by men, not leered at. I suppose that's going to happen anyway, but as long as I have an influence on her I am going to reinforce the message that she is valuable, she is to be treasured by a man, she is to be valued by a man, because she is God's grand creation.

I have 15 more years of influence on her left. I need to make it count.

Rebecca
You are the laughter in your (daddy's) eyes
The stars are bright but not like the shine I've taken to you
And tell me, who gave who the gift of life
We call it a toss-up, but these changes in me tell the real truth
I'm grateful for you

(all song lyrics from "Rebecca" by Ashley Cleveland; the change in the chorus is my own)

It's the end of the world as we know it... so why am I in the mood for fruit salad???

Oh man.... (shakes head and walks away)

Generations

Samuel MacNair was born in County Donegal, Ireland, in 1699. His father, James MacNair, was driven from Scotland into Ireland during the persecution, in the reign of Charles II of England. Samuel MacNair married Anna Murdock, and with his family and father-in-law, then 80 years of age, came to America in 1732 and landed at Bristol, Pennsylvania. They passed the first winter in an old schoolhouse around which the wolves howled at night.

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Yesterday morning I spent a good chunk of time working on a puzzle magazine, Math Puzzles and Logic Problems. Dell puzzle magazines have been a part of my consciousness as long as I've been out of the womb. My father always had one in hand. I've never been into crossword puzzles that much; that's my dad's gig. But Cross Sums and Logic Problems have been stretching my mind and teaching me to think since I was at least 9 years old. I never had any kind of math anxiety when I was in school. Story problems? I've already done them.

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One of the sons of Samuel MacNair, also named Samuel MacNair, was born September 25, 1739. He married Mary Mann. He died April 20, 1816 and was buried at Abington Cemetery, near Philadelphia. He was survived by six of eight children born to the couple.

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I'm a reader. When I sit down to the dinner table I'm reading; when I have to wait in a doctor's office I bring my own reading material; when I sit on the can... well, you get the idea. I started reading when I was four years old. By second grade I had a sixth grade reading level; by sixth grade I was reading at a college level. I amazed my family when I read Alex Haley's book Roots from front to back in fifth grade. I amazed my friends when I read The World According to Garp five times in my senior year of high school. My shelves are stacked high with books, I have boxes of books in my attic, and I like nothing more than to haunt used bookstores looking for good deals.

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The grandson of Samuel MacNair, Samuel MacNair III, was born October 10, 1772. He married Cornelia Van Artsdalen. He died March 3, 1848, and was buried near Hartsville, Pennsylvania. he and Cornelia had seven children- four boys and three girls.

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I love baseball. Man, do I love baseball. There was a time that I could name every World Series winner back to the first one in 1903. Who is the best player of all time? There's no question- Tyrus Raymond Cobb, the Georgia Peach. A team of .400 hitters will beat a team of 40 home run hitters every time. But I digress. One of the applications for my math ability has been the statistics produced by my baseball simulation leagues. I play Strat-O-Matic, Replay, APBA, and several others, producing schedules, playing games, and compiling the statistics. Back in the days before Truman promised a PC in every home and a chicken in every pot I kept the stats by hand and did the averages on paper. To this day I can add and multiply numbers in my head faster than others can do it on a calculator.

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Samuel MacNair's great-grandson John MacNair was born in 1804. He married Rachel Service. He died in 1893, and is buried at Neshamany Church, Hartsville, Pennsylvania.The couple had eight children.

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Scrabble. Just the mention of the word causes my father's eyes to light up and then dim in disappointment. He is an excellent Scrabble player; so good, in fact, that no one in the family will play a game with him. Are we afraid of losing? I'm sure that's part of it. But Scrabble was never an interest of mine.

In 1993 my father and I road a Greyhound bus from Ohio to California to visit my grandparents and aunts. One of the numerous surprises my grandmother planned was having my Aunt Helen, Grandpa Mac's sister, come up from Los Angeles for a few days. One bright morning, with the sun shining, almond trees blossoming and the birds a'chirping, 73 Preda Street was the gathering place for three generals of the Scrabble wars. My father, grandfather and Aunt Helen played Scrabble for hours. I believe my father won one game and Aunt Helen the other. My grandfather, a preacher with a doctorate and a good command of the English language, didn't win and likely didn't care. He loved his son and his sister. That he did care about.

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Howell MacNair, the great-great-grandson of Samuel MacNair, was born in 1848. At one time he was a tax collector and justice of the peace in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. He married Hannah M. Hoover, a distant relation of President Herbert Hoover. Howell and Hannah MacNair had eight children- Marie, Helen, Charles, Arthur Stanley, Adeline, Irvine, and Howell Raymond. Irvine MacNair was a justice of the peace in Bucks County as well, for 63 years. Howell MacNair died in 1912.

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"His real name was Alaistair Roderic Caraigellachie Dalhousie Gowan Donnybristle MacMac, but that took too long to say, so everybody just called him Wee Gillis." Thus began one of my childhood's most beloved experiences- the reading of Wee Gillis to me and my siblings by Dr. Arthur Stanley MacNair, otherwise known as Stan, but known to us kids as Grandpa Mac. Grandpa Mac was a great storyteller- he read slowly and clearly, he used the proper vocal inflection for different characters- but that wasn't the point. I listened attentively to stories by Grandpa Mac because he was Grandpa Mac. He had a book published, people spoke of him with respect, and he gave me dimes for playing the bongos.

Grandpa Mac was a stamp collector. He had bookshelves full of stamp albums that he had collected over the years, and if any of his children or grandchildren had picked up the hobby they would have likely inherited the whole lot. Alas, 'twas not to be. Although I collected stamps for a short time when I was young, it never captured my fancy like it did with Grandpa Mac.

There is a picture floating around the family of my brother and myself, probably five or six years old, wearing Oakland A's jerseys and helmets. The Oakland A's of the early 70's were a colorful bunch, both literally and figuratively. They won three World Series in a row with characters such as Vida Blue, Dick Green and Blue Moon Odom. One of my earliest memories, which I have talked about in past entries, is sitting in cavernous Oakland Coliseum with my brother, father and grandfather, watching the game and shelling peanuts. My grandfather was an Oakland A's fan, and he may have been a Philadelphia Athletics fan as well.

The last time I saw him alive was in the aforementioned Greyhound trip of 1993. An enduring memory of that trip involved my grandfather sitting in his chair, me sitting in a chair opposite him, everyone else in bed, and us talking. We talked theology, church history, you name it; and at no time did he speak above me, as a man of letters. Neither did he dumb it down, as if I couldn't keep pace. Rather, we just conversed. He respected my opinions, and he respected me. And I have always loved and respected him.

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Arthur Stanley MacNair was the great-great-great-grandson of Samuel MacNair, born September 28, 1881. He married Sue Green on November 3, 1911 and had two children- Arthur Stanley MacNair, Jr., and Helen Elizabeth MacNair.

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"Four generations of the MacNair family gathered in San Leandro (in September of 1971) to hold a double celebration. Honor guests were five year old Sean MacNair and his great-grandfather, Arthur S. MacNair. The A. Stanley MacNair home of Preda Street was the scene of the family party. Dr. MacNair's father, Arthur S. MacNair of Los Angeles, celebrated his 90th birthday.

"Arthur MacNair visits his son and daughter-in-law twice a year for a week's time. He is well known in the neighborhood as he whistles gaily while taking his regular 20 block walk each day. Grandfather MacNair passes out his favorite wrapped candy to any child that smiles at him."

My father became a great-grandfather last year. Not many people get to meet their great-grandparents- they are usually long since gone from the scene by the time people realize they have great-grandparents. Although my memories are dim, I did get to meet my great-grandfather. That was extremely cool to my young mind. I got plenty of his favorite wrapped candy. As he got older he suffered from senile dementia, now known as Alzheimers. I was hoping he would make it to 100, but he didn't; he died at the age of 98.

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Arthur Stanley MacNair, Jr., the great-great-great-great-grandson of Samuel MacNair, was born on August 7th, 1913. He married Marjorie Dawn Morgan on February 24, 1939. The MacNairs had three children, Richard Stanley, Barbra Eleanor and Evelyn Jean. He died on March 13, 1996.

Richard Stanley MacNair, the great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Samuel MacNair, was born on February 7, 1943. He married Mary Louise Finch on July 24, 1965 in Mancelona, Michigan. They had four children. They currently reside in Mancelona, Michigan.

Sean Lawrence MacNair is the great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Samuel MacNair. He married Laura Louise Hall Rose on August 8, 1998.

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And the ninth generation removed from Samuel MacNair, Samuel's great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson, made his appearance on February 2nd, 2000. And barring some miracle or major advances in the healing of autism, Matthew Stanley MacNair may be the end of the line.

I'm a father, just as Richard is my father and A. Stanley was his and Arthur was his and Howell was his, all the way back to the first generation to come to America, Samuel. Samuel had a father, and it goes all the way back to the beginning, to the day when God created Scrapple and shoo fly pie and saw that they were good. And regardless of popular opinion, fathers are important. I might not have an ability with math if my father hadn't encouraged his kids to do the puzzle magazines. He might not have a good grasp of words if his father hadn't have been a learned man. A. Stanley was a minister, Arthur was a salesman; Howell was a justice of the peace, Irvine was too. Things get passed on between father and son that have an effect on the next generation.

The struggle for that next generation becomes finding their place while respecting what has gone on before. Scrabble isn't my thing. My father the career military man begot a son who has no desire for the military. My grandfather the Baptist begot my father the eventual Catholic. And so on and so on.

Matthew Stanley MacNair is my son, and Rebecca Evelyn MacNair is my daughter. With both of them having autism spectrum disorder, I wonder sometimes how they will grow up. Will they get married? Will they have children of their own? Will either of them like double anchovy pizzas, or will they be a traitor to their genes and like beets and liver? Will they be baseball fans and readers and lovers of good music?

That has yet to be decided. Fatherhood is alternately a responsibility and a crapshoot. You take in all the advice, but ultimately you just roll the dice and hope they land well. I try my best, my father tried his best, and his father before him. It's not as easy as it looks. Fatherhood may be a profanity to some, but it's something I take very seriously.

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In the eight generations that Sean’s ancestors (that’s what he calls us all) have lived in this country he can lay claim to 256 grand-parents. Blood lines and genes of 250 people are a part of his makeup. His features are half MacNair, half Finch, but along what pathway came each of those attributes? Why is he interested in spelling and his brother Marc all wrapped up in dinosaurs? Rhinos I could understand, but why the allosaurus? Something of all that mob of progenitors continues in my grandchildren, and I have no way of knowing who contributed what. But I do know my grandson. He is Sean Lawrence and there is not another like him anywhere. He has, as do you and I, a sense of self as utterly differentiated from any other self.---Arthur Stanley MacNair, Jr., late 70’s

Grandma Mac

To a child, a grandparent takes on a reputation of mythic proportions. After all, how many people can tell your parents what to do- and they do it? How many people can make your parents feel guilty? Yes, when your grandparents are in town real-life stops and the fun begins, and that was certainly true with my grandparents.

For the first 30 years of my life Grandma and Grandpa Mac were inextricably connected, a couple in the best sense of the word. However, that doesn’t mean that my Grandma Mac was subordinate to anyone. My grandmother filled a lot of roles- a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother; she was a grandmother, a great-grandmother... But one thing Marjorie MacNair was not- she was not a stereotype. She was an independent woman before being an independent woman was cool.

My grandmother was a minister’s wife for over 50 years and likely had many expectations heaped upon her. From the very beginning my grandfather nurtured her independent spirit by saying, “Do what you feel comfortable doing- that is all that should be expected of you.”

One of the characteristics of the MacNair family is the family story. Hang around us long enough and you will likely hear about communion cups- pearl barley in the tapioca- turquoise pants- and pictures on the wall, among others. One of my favorite stories, especially significant because of the times in which we live, involves my grandfather registering as a conscientious objector during World War II. He took an unpopular stand, and my grandmother stood with him. I will always look to my grandparents as an example of courage whenever I feel the need to take an unpopular stand myself.

Another one of our characteristics are family traditions, especially those that revolve around Christmas. Christmas isn’t Christmas without shoo fly pie, one present on Christmas Eve, and everyone opening one present at a time. When I was younger, of course, that part of the tradition I could do without. Especially when Grandma Mac insisted that we peel the tape back carefully in order to save the paper.

Another one of the MacNair traditions that didn’t thrill me as a kid was one that took place on December 26th. It may have been Boxing Day in Canada, but for us MacNairs it meant only one thing- THANK YOU NOTES.

As I grew older I grew progressively worse at it. At times I might go months without writing anything. It became a running gag among my siblings that when the annual MacNair family newsletter came out, if you saw your name in the phrase “You know, I haven’t heard from _____ lately,” you had better write a letter pronto.

It took awhile to get it through my head that Grandma Mac did that not out of malice, but because her family was the most important thing in the world to her. The reason I insisted on having a chance to speak at her memorial service is that in a service designed to honor the life and memory of Marjorie MacNair, her family had to be represented.

She didn’t always agree with what her children or grandchildren did, or what we believed. For most of my life I’ve lived on the other side of the country from her, and often the geographic distance represented an ideological distance as well. But no matter what church we did or didn’t go to, or who we voted for, her love for us was unconditional. My grandmother not only talked about tolerance, she lived it.

Another characteristic common to us MacNairs is that we are a rebellious and stubborn people. My grandmother was tolerant, but if she wanted you to do something, or take a certain course of action, you might find yourself the recipient of a newspaper clipping or a quote from Dear Abby.

She certainly had strong feelings about the issues of the day. In her last letter to me, after I had expressed my desire to volunteer in some way in the Howard Dean campaign, she said “Three cheers for coming to the Democratic side!” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t taking anyone’s side, I was merely thinking independently, just as she taught me to do with her life.

She was generous to a fault. During times of chronic unemployment, when I might have had five dollars in my pocket and 50 dollars worth of needs, I would find a check in the mail, which would be enough to help with diapers or even enough to pay the rent for one month.

And finally, the MacNair family has a hard time saying goodbye. And this occasion is no different. My California family has always meant a lot to me. I named my son Matthew Stanley MacNair, and my daughter was named Rebecca Evelyn MacNair. And something tells me that the name Marjorie might make a reappearance somewhere down the road.

I’m a selfish person; I want my Grandma Mac here. I want her back for one last Christmas newsletter and one last cheese and sausage assortment. But I will see her again- after all, I’m sure she already has my first week’s itinerary in heaven all mapped out for me.

And is there anyone here that doesn’t think that three minutes after hitting the pearly gates my grandmother got a part time job as God’s secretary?

So thank you, Grandma Mac. Thank you for shoo-fly pie and scrapple, for persimmon cookies and pictures on the wall. Thank you for teaching me how to live and how to love.

Thank you.

(adapted from remarks I made at my Grandma Mac's memorial service)

We interrupt this broadcast....

I started 40 Days of Jesus with the intent of not writing anything original until after Easter. I had gotten fed up with the sarcasm and arrogance of (some of, perhaps most of) the Christian blogging crowd, and decided that if getting readers meant that I had to adopt these kinds of tactics, I was done. I had every intent of retiring and deleting this blog.

What I wasn't expecting was my local newspaper taking something I wrote and deciding to publish it. I submitted A Father's Story, a piece I think is one of my best, to the managing editor of The Chronicle-Telegram, and he thought that there was something there worth reproducing. And not only that, but they were going to do an article about my children with my story as the centerpiece. I was interviewed for an hour and my children were photographed endlessly. Eventually the simple story on my family turned into a large-scale piece on autism which appeared in the Sunday paper. My own daughter was on the front page next to Tony Soprano. And forgive me for sounding prideful, but I loved seeing my name in the byline.

I have received more positive comments about "A Father's Story" than anything else I've ever written; for that matter, anything else I've ever done. Women have been touched; grown men have wept. All of a sudden I'm being proclaimed a hero to fathers. I have to admit, I am not sure how to process that. I am very thankful for the praise that is accorded me and all of the positive feedback my story has engendered.

But a hero? I don't know.

I guess what I'm feeling is that if I have done anything that is considered by others "above and beyond the call of duty" in dealing with my children's disabilities, it is because they are my children. How can I do any less? I do what I do because I have to- not that I feel obligated, or a rule of law is being enforced, or a gun is being pointed at my head- but it is written in my genetic code. Matthew and Rebecca are my children. The desire to care for them, to see that their needs are met and that they receive help for their disabilities, is as much a part of my nature as breathing. How else can I explain this?

Not that this journey is easy. By no means has it been easy. And I certainly have moments where I wonder if there will ever be any improvements in my son's and daughter's development. Today I read a story to my daughter's preschool class. I used different voices for the different characters and the kids got a kick out of it. All except Rebecca; her attention was on something else, something in a world which only she can see. Then I got to sit with Rebecca and some other girls and play with Playdough. She didn't care what kinds of foolish things her father was creating; she didn't respond when it was time to clean up; she wasn't rebelling- she just doesn't understand. Her body is three, her mind is one.

My son came home from school later with a pair of pants that I know he didn't wear to school, a pair of pants that looked like they needed batteries to operate. Turns out he wet his pants today. Six years old, and he doesn't have any speech to tell his teachers when he has to go potty. Six years old, and soon we will have to get diapers from a local hospital supply company because they don't make Pampers that fit a six year old. Six year olds use the toilet. Or at least they're supposed to, anyway.

So I'm depressed today. Depressed because being a hero to a six year old and a three year old with autism spectrum disorder is rough. Depressed because quite a few people think the answer lies in the latest seminar, or an expensive training program, or a best-selling pop-therapy book, when the real answer is not that glamorous. The real answer is simple but complex at the same time. The answer is this: you wake up, love and take care of your children, go to bed, wake up, and repeat step one. Ad nauseam. Simple because loving my children is easy; complex because taking care of my children is sometimes very hard.

But my reward is very great.

Jesus - Day Twenty

And it came to pass, as Jesus sat at meat in the house, behold, many publicans and sinners came and sat down with him and his disciples. And when the Pharisees saw it, they said unto his disciples, Why eateth your Master with publicans and sinners? But when Jesus heard that, he said unto them, They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick. But go ye and learn what that meaneth, I will have mercy, and not sacrifice: for I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
Matthew 9:10-13

Jesus - Day Nineteen

And when the centurion, which stood over against him, saw that he so cried out, and gave up the ghost, he said, Truly this man was the Son of God.

Mark 15:39

Jesus - Day Eighteen

And Pilate wrote a title, and put it on the cross. And the writing was, JESUS OF NAZARETH THE KING OF THE JEWS.

John 19:19

Jesus - Day Seventeen

Jesus wept. John 11:35

Jesus - Day Sixteen

When Jesus came into the coasts of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, saying, Whom do men say that I the Son of man am? And they said, Some say that thou art John the Baptist: some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets. He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am? And Simon Peter answered and said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.
Matthew 16:13-16

Jesus - Day Fifteen

John bore witness, saying, "I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and He remained upon Him. I did not know Him, but He who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘Upon whom you see the Spirit descending, and remaining on Him, this is He who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’ And I have seen and testified that this is the Son of God." Again, the next day, John stood with two of his disciples. And looking at Jesus as He walked, he said, "Behold the Lamb of God!"

John 1:32-36

Jesus - Day Fourteen

Surely He has borne our griefs
And carried our sorrows;
Yet we esteemed Him stricken,
Smitten by God, and afflicted.
But He was wounded for our transgressions,
He was bruised for our iniquities;
The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,
And by His stripes we are healed.
All we like sheep have gone astray;
We have turned, every one, to his own way;
And the LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.

Isaiah 53:4-6

Jesus - Day Thirteen

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.
John 1:14

Jesus - Day Twelve

Giving thanks unto the Father, which hath made us meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light: Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness, and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear Son: In whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins: Who is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of every creature.

Colossians 1:12-15

Jesus - Day Eleven

Then Pilate entered into the judgment hall again, and called Jesus, and said unto him, Art thou the King of the Jews? Jesus answered him, Sayest thou this thing of thyself, or did others tell it thee of me? Pilate answered, Am I a Jew? Thine own nation and the chief priests have delivered thee unto me: what hast thou done? Jesus answered, My kingdom is not of this world: if my kingdom were of this world, then would my servants fight, that I should not be delivered to the Jews: but now is my kingdom not from hence.

John 18:33-36

Jesus - Day Ten

And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left. Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.

Luke 23:33-34

Jesus - Day Nine

And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water: and, lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him: And lo a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.

Matthew 3:16-17

Jesus - Day Eight

I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.

Galatians 2:20

Selah

Dissatisfied

I am not content to live a life that isn't in fellowship with God each and everyday. I want to encounter God when I read His word and when I pray. I don't want just a nice feeling. I want God. I want to believe for much more than just my life, my calling, my career, and my family ... I want to believe that God can change a whole nation in a day. I want to see the nations bowed low in repentance and taken high into the mercy and love of God.

I don't want any more models or strategies of doing church. I want Jesus. I don't want any more latest and greatest next big thing sermons but messages that pierce my heart and cause me to run after Jesus even more. I don't want to sing the songs for the sake of sounding good or looking Christian. I want to sing the songs that will move the heart of God. The ones that come spontaneously from the outflow of my heart.

No more prayers that sound great but have no value in heaven. The repetitive kind that I say that sounds eloquent and well-rehearsed. I want the prayers that come from my heart, the ones that cause me to weep, to cry, to shout, and to whisper. The ones that speak from heart to heart. This is the vision of our lives: Jesus. This is the vision that is to be fulfilled: Jesus. Nothing less and nothing less. And though I am so far away from these, Lord take me there. I say take me there. Because there's nothing better than to be with You where you are. A heart of surrender and a heart burning in love for You. Jesus, have Your reward in us and find a resting place in our hearts. Make us Your Bride.

(http://www.xanga.com/intothedivinenature/440118999/dissatisfied.html)

Jesus - Day Seven

And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God. And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean. And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations: and he shall rule them with a rod of iron: and he treadeth the winepress of the fierceness and wrath of Almighty God. And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS.

Revelation 19:11-16

Jesus - Day Six

Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Matthew 25:37-40