Of all the stories in Scripture, one that reaches into my soul and resonates deeply is the encounter between Jesus and the woman at the well. Many a time, I’ve reflected on how that day may have started. After years of being shunned, maybe she had convinced herself this was her cross to bear, and then she encountered the One who would bear it all on an actual cross.
It was a dare I couldn’t resist. I climbed the high dive one step at a time. I got to the top, walked to the edge, peeked down at my early 1990s white leather K-Swiss shoes, shrugged my shoulders, and jumped. I swam to the side, lifted my soaking wet self out of the pool, walked over to my pastor and collected on the $100 bet.
I’ve wanted to become an author since the third grade, and in recent years have gotten more serious about it. The task often feels daunting – to write something “worth reading,” since no two people define worthiness the same way. Ridiculous rules over what a Christian therapist “should” (or shouldn’t) write about rattle around my head until I throw up my hands in futility, leaving me to wonder if this writing life is worth the angst.
The gun fires and muscles explode into motion as we blast off. The racer next to me surges ahead. Desperately I will my legs to move faster and keep up. As we settle into our paces my mind wanders to the lanes on each side of me.
I live in this overcrowded, beautiful neighborhood in Chicago called West Ridge. It’s a mosaic of refugees, immigrants, and native-born Americans. Along with a small ministry team, I have the privilege of serving many refugee and immigrant families—helping to provide for felt needs, building friendships, and sharing Jesus with them.