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Deeper Walk Blog

1, 2, 3 drinks. It’s all gone blurry and I can’t find my way to the bathroom. The lights flash, the music screams, my head spins. Each step is a process, a decision, an effort to stay off the ground.

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I worked in customer service for years; first at restaurants and then in finance and insurance. Customer service is an interesting industry because regardless of what you’re selling, the service you provide is a product in itself. Even more, it is the most important product. That’s why I’ll never eat at Popeye’s again … I went there once and got horrific service. If your service is terrible, nobody wants your product. It’s not worth it. Everyone knows that.

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We all have stories about our friends; crazy things they have done and things they've said that no one will let them forget. These stories get told again and again until they become a kind of shorthand, a collection of inside jokes that pull us together, that differentiate friends from acquaintances. Through this we build up living foundations for our friendships and feed them stories to keep them alive. But when it comes to my relationship with God I seem to rely on a fossilized collection of stories that happened to people centuries and half a world away.

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My friend Aaron and I were enjoying some steak quesadillas at our favorite taco spot when a very dirty man walked in. I immediately decided he was homeless and was hoping to get some food. Both of us kept our eyes fixed down as he walked by our table, which was laden with enough authentic Mexican food to celebrate a modest quinceanera.

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The car was packed. Slammed. The back had suitcases stacked and baby gear carefully stowed away. Josie sat behind us high in her car seat. As we backed out of our short driveway Kristy asked me if we could pray for our drive, a seven-hour journey from Atlanta to Orlando. She asked if we could pray for safe travels.

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He approaches me at the bus stop when all I want to do is go home and be left in peace. He offers me a furtive smile, and sits down a little too close.

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Maybe it’s the neighborhood atheist who just loves to bait you. It could be the great-uncle with values from 1910, or that guy at church who disagrees with you on abortion. Whatever the details, their opinions make your blood boil.  

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That night, at our house, over the course of seven sleepless hours my wife, Kristy, passed our miscarried baby. Braver than I, she held on to the words of the disappointed Old Testament saint, Job, “The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised" (Job 1:21b).

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A tear trailed its way down her cheek as she stared into the fire that held the last six years of her life. For three hours, she had stood watching her blood, sweat and tears being reduced to nothing but a pile of ash. At this point she could only comprehend what was going on around her as a ballet of firefighters and police, dancing to a song of sirens and shouting.
They had moved into the house together, the new beginning of a partnership of love. Pouring her heart and soul into every section of living space, she created a home from what was once only wood and brick. It seemed that everything she knew, everything that defined who she was, resided within those walls.

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I’ve been called a perfectionist since about third grade. That’s back when I was ferociously memorizing multiplication tables faster than anyone else and acing spelling tests every Friday. Though everyone seemed to say the word with a certain nasally whine, I always responded with a genuine “thank you.”

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