A Ridiculously Faithful God

By Tyler Dykstra

2.9 million. That’s how many people live in Chicago, according to the 2010 census, which apparently, didn’t count me. But that’s another story. After four years among the throngs of the urban corridors, I headed west with my newish (10 months) bride in a ’97 Camry. Fifteen hours of yawn inducing flat land later, we arrived among a more hilly country. The population of our town?  2.5 thousand.

We set up camp among a Native American reservation in the Western United States, to begin our lives of ministry. I can throw a stone in every direction and not hit a neighbor, a contrast to constantly closed blinds covering windows merely 10 feet from another apartment dweller’s home.

Orphan

By Tony Robledo

Imagine.

You are a child, small and unnoticed, who wakes every morning to the bustling sounds, chuckles, and shrieks of other orphaned children. It’s the only kind of waking world you’ve ever known. Every morning, the lingering smell of ammonia from the night cleaning crew. Every morning, a nurse wiping up accidents in the hall outside your door. Every morning, alone in a room crowded with other children. You have no parents, no mist of memory, no whisper of a past, no foggy recollections. Only a small, strange mark on your chest. There was no paperwork, just a name tag tucked into a whimpering bundle on the back stoop of an orphanage waiting to be found, to be heard, to be loved. You are a child, small and unnoticed. And today is no different.

Caring for the Soul

By Kyle Tennant               

For the last week or so I’ve been thinking about transitions, about that inexorable movement from A to B, B to C, C to D… It’s been on my mind because I’ve just recently made one of the most important transitions in all of life: I graduated from college.

This transition was a little longer than the norm; though I walked the platform during Commencement exercises, it was not a moment of completion. I still had a three credit hour course hanging over my head, to be completed online. I did so within eight days. The purgatorial feeling of this transition, the never-ending-ness of it, was strange.

The Glory of Grace

By Matt Tully

A few days ago, while driving home from an ice cream date with my wife, Tenth Avenue North’s song “Oh My Dear” began to play on our car stereo.  If you have never heard to the song before, I’d encourage you to listen to it.

The songwriter recalls a difficult time when his future wife, with tear-filled eyes and a trembling voice, confessed past sins to him that had previously been kept hidden.  He sings,

The Barrel of a Gun: How Violence Kept Him from Leaving

By David T. Ulrich

Published in The Moody Standard 76:11. This story is adapted from interviews with a male Moody student. Names are changed to honor confidentiality.

“At about 1 a.m. in the living room, I finally stood up and said, ‘I’m going to break up with Haley tomorrow, and she’s gonna blow my brains out.’ My friends on the other couches chuckled when I said it. It sounded absurd—Haley, do this? But they didn’t know how much I’d been lying.

Prayer of Confession – Isaiah 53

By Matthew Tully 

Father, we come before you today in humility and with reverence.
You are a great God, but we are an unworthy people.

We have not listened to your words, words of life and peace.
We have not obeyed your instructions, instructions intended to guard us and glorify you.

Summer Rest

By Danielle Germaine

Somewhere, buried deep in the snowy winter months of huddling over textbooks and furiously producing papers, was this beacon of hope that promised sunshine and empty agendas. Here, dreams could be dreamt and sandy beaches envisioned, but only for so long before the blast of the icy wind tunnel woke fantasies wide awake. Steamy Starbucks cups would be replaced with ice-cold glasses of lemonade and that five-hundred pager on Macroeconomics be exchanged for a softback novel.

The Rising Sun

By Tony Robledo

A narrative, inspired by a prayer titled “At the dawn” written by Walter Brueggemann:

A fine thing, I am: a man of my word.

I won’t make you a promise I can’t keep–you can count on me. I’ll be there. Because I’m a man of my word.

In fact, I think the other day I told you to meet me at the Third Coast–the one on Dearborn–so I could catch up with you and the latest news and, how is home? Good? So glad to hear it. And I want you to know that I’m here for you, and I’ll listen; I’ll soothe your sobbing, heaving soul and I’ll be the one you call when it matters most. I’ll be there–I told you I would. Because I’m a man of my word.

Spare the Rod: A Physically Abused Child Learns Righteous Resistance

By David T. Ulrich

Published in The Moody Standard 76:9 This story is adapted from interviews with a female college student. All names changed to honor confidentiality:

“‘Spare the rod, spoil the child,’ my mom and dad used to say. So they couldn’t risk being light on the rod.

“One time I made a snack for myself before dinner: cottage cheese and applesauce in a bowl. But I couldn’t finish it—maybe it had gone bad, or else I just felt sick—but I couldn’t get through the whole thing. Mom said she wouldn’t feed me anything else until I finished my bowl. This was her ‘discipline.’ Doesn’t seem so extreme, right?

Letter of Lament

By Danielle Germaine

Dear Friend,

How are you? It’s been a while since we’ve talked. Just one year of college and our lives have torn us apart. I must say, the news I received today was pretty shocking. Things have changed.

I remember this time last year where we were. Small group Bible study, learning about how to live the desire-filled lives God gave us in a way that pleases Him. I remember our days of volleyball games, club meets, and crazy middle school band obsessions. I remember your purity ring that shone as radiant as you. I remember watching you, in awe, as I saw you gleam with each guy you were with. I remember our mission trip to Mexico and getting ready for the sophomore homecoming dance together.