A large group gathered together in a dark upper room. The door locked out of fear. No one had bothered to light the lamp. No one wanted to speak. Complete darkness. It was not only a physical surrounding but also an emotional feeling.
Their best friend, their leader... was dead. Three years earlier they'd given up everything to follow Him. This is not what they had expected.
Not even a week earlier He'd been celebrated. He was welcomed as a king. Not forty-eight hours previous they'd enjoyed a meal together. Now He was gone. Everything happened so quickly.
The room was filled with a myriad of emotions: hurt, regret, failure, longing, desperation, depression, darkness, confusion, loneliness, loss... the list goes on. Yet the most prevalent had to be hopelessness.
"How could this have happened?"
"I really didn't see this coming. Did He?"
"Now what?"
"Where do we go from here?"
The incessant number of unanswerable questions plagued them as they sat, paced, and cried.
Silence in a crowd. Darkness in the middle of the day. Loneliness among great friends.
"Peace be with you." A voice rudely interrupts their pensiveness. Who would offer peace on such a dreary day?
Only the One who can bring light into their darkness. Only the One who brings hope to the hopeless. Only the One who was dead but lives again!
Can you imagine the relief of the disciples? Can you imagine the pure joy?
Place yourself in the upper room with the disciples. Kneel before Jesus.
Notice the holes in his feet. Touch the wound in His side. When His nail-scarred hand slides under your chin and lifts gently, don't be ashamed. When your teary eyes meet His compassionate ones, don't look away. Think about all of the power those eyes hold, but now their focus is on you.
"I love you."
Accept the warm embrace from the living Savior and never, ever let go.
Showing posts with label scar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scar. Show all posts
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Campfire
Earlier this semester I read a blog about a little boy with burns that reminded me of my own burn story. The resonance hit me hard and after two days of dwelling finally I decided to take my own classic advice and "write about it." I've written about it a million times before, but it was time to do it again and a little differently.
On the first day of my Human Biology class the professor said, "This is the non-science majors class. I realize all of you are only here because you have to be. You're not science people and that's ok, but for me to remember that I'm going to think of you all as my father. My father was a poet. In my brain, you are all poets."
I remember thinking to myself, I'm not a poet, but I am closer to a poet than a scientist.
I'm still not a poet, but I wrote a poem explaining why I once told Andy I'm allergic to fire.
<>< Katie
"Campfire"On the first day of my Human Biology class the professor said, "This is the non-science majors class. I realize all of you are only here because you have to be. You're not science people and that's ok, but for me to remember that I'm going to think of you all as my father. My father was a poet. In my brain, you are all poets."
I remember thinking to myself, I'm not a poet, but I am closer to a poet than a scientist.
I'm still not a poet, but I wrote a poem explaining why I once told Andy I'm allergic to fire.
<>< Katie
She ran her fingers over
discolored imperfections on her forearms
before pulling down her sleeves to hide
the scars of a clumsy childhood.
She didn’t remember
tripping over the pesky shoelace,
the metal safety rim bruising her leg.
But all too well she remembered
failing to choke back the tears
as smoldering coals gripped her forearms,
the firm grasp on the back of her shirt,
her rescuer, her mother,
dragging her to the a perfectly-placed water pump,
as if it had been awaiting her misfortune.
She remembered the
pain as her skin burned,
embarrassment of her own misstep,
fear and unknown in the Emergency Room
the doctor poking incessantly asking if she felt it.
Yes. It hurt.
She remembered the rules
no pool, no sun.
A bird was told not to fly.
She tried to argue but
her voice had vanished,
the verdict not negotiable.
She remembered
devastation,
summer lasting an eternity
bandages over both arms,
trying in vain to dry one hand,
always refusing to explain why.
Years later the bandages are gone,
but the scars remain like
she tanned while wearing fishnets,
even if only for her to see
and still she avoids explaining.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Holy Saturday
Holy Saturday.
Quite possibly the darkest day of the year. Jesus is dead. Imagine the hopelessness the disciples felt today. Can we relate?
For the disciples, today was even more depressing than a Lutheran being stuck in Baptist Country over Easter. It was even more desperate than being rejected after seeking a job for two years. Darker than abandoning high school graduation party preparations to plan the funeral of a five year old. Can imagine what the disciples felt today?
A large group gathered together in a dark upper room. The door locked out of fear. No one had bothered to light the lamp. No one wanted to speak. Complete darkness. It was not only a physical surrounding but also an emotional feeling. Their best friend, their leader... was dead. Not even a week earlier He'd been celebrated. He was welcomed as a king. Not even forty-eight hours previous they'd enjoyed a meal together. Now He was gone. Everything happened so quickly.
The room was filled with a myriad of emotions: hurt, regret, failure, longing, desperation, depression, darkness, confusion, loneliness, loss... the list goes on. Yet the most prevalent had to be hopelessness.
"Where do we go from here?" They must have asked. If not aloud, then in their minds and in their hearts.
"How could this have happened?"
"I really didn't see this coming. Did He?"
"Now what?"
The incessant number of unanswerable questions plagued them as they sat, paced, and cried.
Silence in a crowd. Darkness in the middle of the day. Loneliness among great friends.
Maybe we've been there. Unlike the disciples, we know the rest of the story. Unlike the disciples, we have hope.
"Peace be with you." A voice rudely interrupts their ponderings. Who would offer peace on such a dreary day?
Every head lifted. Every eye turned. They saw Jesus. Their sins collided with their Savior and their Savior won. Think about the first time you ever saw Him. Think about your first encounter with the Christ. Rope yourself in that moment. Resurrect the relief. Recall the purity. Summon forth the passion. Can you remember? Do yourself a favor and place yourself in the upper room with the disciples. Kneel before Jesus.
Run your fingers over His feet. Place your hand in His pierced side. When His nail-scarred hand slides under your chin and lifts gently, don't flee. When your teary eyes meet His compassionate ones, don't look away. Look in to those eyes, those same eyes that melted the gates of hell, sent the demons scurrying, and Satan running. Look at them as they look at you. Accept the warm embrace from the living Savior and never, ever let go.
Note: the final to paragraphs are modified from Max Lucado's Six Hours On Friday.
Quite possibly the darkest day of the year. Jesus is dead. Imagine the hopelessness the disciples felt today. Can we relate?
For the disciples, today was even more depressing than a Lutheran being stuck in Baptist Country over Easter. It was even more desperate than being rejected after seeking a job for two years. Darker than abandoning high school graduation party preparations to plan the funeral of a five year old. Can imagine what the disciples felt today?
A large group gathered together in a dark upper room. The door locked out of fear. No one had bothered to light the lamp. No one wanted to speak. Complete darkness. It was not only a physical surrounding but also an emotional feeling. Their best friend, their leader... was dead. Not even a week earlier He'd been celebrated. He was welcomed as a king. Not even forty-eight hours previous they'd enjoyed a meal together. Now He was gone. Everything happened so quickly.
The room was filled with a myriad of emotions: hurt, regret, failure, longing, desperation, depression, darkness, confusion, loneliness, loss... the list goes on. Yet the most prevalent had to be hopelessness.
"Where do we go from here?" They must have asked. If not aloud, then in their minds and in their hearts.
"How could this have happened?"
"I really didn't see this coming. Did He?"
"Now what?"
The incessant number of unanswerable questions plagued them as they sat, paced, and cried.
Silence in a crowd. Darkness in the middle of the day. Loneliness among great friends.
Maybe we've been there. Unlike the disciples, we know the rest of the story. Unlike the disciples, we have hope.
"Peace be with you." A voice rudely interrupts their ponderings. Who would offer peace on such a dreary day?
Every head lifted. Every eye turned. They saw Jesus. Their sins collided with their Savior and their Savior won. Think about the first time you ever saw Him. Think about your first encounter with the Christ. Rope yourself in that moment. Resurrect the relief. Recall the purity. Summon forth the passion. Can you remember? Do yourself a favor and place yourself in the upper room with the disciples. Kneel before Jesus.
Run your fingers over His feet. Place your hand in His pierced side. When His nail-scarred hand slides under your chin and lifts gently, don't flee. When your teary eyes meet His compassionate ones, don't look away. Look in to those eyes, those same eyes that melted the gates of hell, sent the demons scurrying, and Satan running. Look at them as they look at you. Accept the warm embrace from the living Savior and never, ever let go.
Note: the final to paragraphs are modified from Max Lucado's Six Hours On Friday.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Broken Glass
"You cannot say you've never had the urge to throw a glass against a fireplace," my family said, almost in unison, as all eyes fell on my aunt.
I thought for a second about the question.
Honestly, no. I haven't ever had the urge to throw a glass against a fireplace much less the lack of self control to act on such an impulse. Sure, I've wanted to throw people against walls and sometimes I've thrown other things but never a glass. It'll break.
"You're never so frustrated you just need to break something?" The family continued.
Sure but not glass. Perhaps it's because my mother spent most of my childhood walking behind me, "Don't touch broken glass. Don't walk in the street barefoot just in case there's broken glass. Leave the broken glass alone. You don't want to cut yourself." Grandma has the scar to prove broken glass isn't something I want to be playing with.
"Yes," my aunt confessed. She once threw a glass against the wall out of frustration, "But then I was even more mad because I had a big mess to clean up!" Broken glass is pretty common at her house. When she and my uncle buy wine glasses they always buy two and without fail one is broken on the first use. We tease at her house no one needs individual charms to identify wine glasses everyone just gets an unique glass because no two glasses are the same.
Everyone else concluded the mess isn't a problem for them. Cleaning it up helps relieve the frustration (until they cut themselves and then they're re-living the frustration, I'm sure).
"Dad throws glasses against the fireplace all of the time," Grandma said.
"Once... MAYBE twice," Grandpa defended himself. This made everyone laugh remembering a similar conversation a few years ago. When my mom and her siblings were growing up my grandpa sneezed egg all over the wall. According to my aunt, this was a weekly occurrence. My mom realizes not quite weekly but quite often. Grandpa, on the other hand, swears it only happened once. Just like he only threw the glass against the wall once.
<>< Katie
I thought for a second about the question.
Honestly, no. I haven't ever had the urge to throw a glass against a fireplace much less the lack of self control to act on such an impulse. Sure, I've wanted to throw people against walls and sometimes I've thrown other things but never a glass. It'll break.
"You're never so frustrated you just need to break something?" The family continued.
Sure but not glass. Perhaps it's because my mother spent most of my childhood walking behind me, "Don't touch broken glass. Don't walk in the street barefoot just in case there's broken glass. Leave the broken glass alone. You don't want to cut yourself." Grandma has the scar to prove broken glass isn't something I want to be playing with.
"Yes," my aunt confessed. She once threw a glass against the wall out of frustration, "But then I was even more mad because I had a big mess to clean up!" Broken glass is pretty common at her house. When she and my uncle buy wine glasses they always buy two and without fail one is broken on the first use. We tease at her house no one needs individual charms to identify wine glasses everyone just gets an unique glass because no two glasses are the same.
Everyone else concluded the mess isn't a problem for them. Cleaning it up helps relieve the frustration (until they cut themselves and then they're re-living the frustration, I'm sure).
"Dad throws glasses against the fireplace all of the time," Grandma said.
"Once... MAYBE twice," Grandpa defended himself. This made everyone laugh remembering a similar conversation a few years ago. When my mom and her siblings were growing up my grandpa sneezed egg all over the wall. According to my aunt, this was a weekly occurrence. My mom realizes not quite weekly but quite often. Grandpa, on the other hand, swears it only happened once. Just like he only threw the glass against the wall once.
<>< Katie
Monday, December 21, 2009
False yet true?
Two blogs in two days? Wow! It must be Christmas break. :-) This one doesn't make much sense, but I've been mulling over it all day, so I have to post it.
Whenever I finish a blog and don't close the tab on my internet, the name of the blog appears followed by that post title. Since my blog is boring and just my name, it's my name followed by the title of my newest blog. Last night, it read:
Katie: Perfect.
That caught my eye. Katie: Perfect. No, no, no. Not in the slightest. No perfection here... remember the Rudolph nose and chapped hands I mentioned yesterday? Have you heard about how I learned campfires make bad sit-upons but leave great imperfections? Perfectly-shaped bodies fit perfectly into clothes, right? Then clearly I don't cut it. And there I go complaining again. Complaining, point out others' faults, and not giving the benefit of the doubt are things I do well. Plus, even though I'm an editor, I know it's only a matter of time before someone points out my own grammar mistakes.
Katie: Perfect
Definitely not.
Yet through Christ, I am made perfect. So are you.
Jesus the sinless positions Himself between you and the Father, so that God can look through Jesus-colored glasses and see us as sinless.
(Maybe that was confusing, but it makes a really pretty picture in my head.)
I hope you all have a perfect Christmas!
<>< Katie
PS: In case you are wondering, our self-decorating living room tree now has two red ornaments, a red and gold bow, and a silver tree-topper. Do you think it will be done in time for Christmas?
Whenever I finish a blog and don't close the tab on my internet, the name of the blog appears followed by that post title. Since my blog is boring and just my name, it's my name followed by the title of my newest blog. Last night, it read:
Katie: Perfect.
That caught my eye. Katie: Perfect. No, no, no. Not in the slightest. No perfection here... remember the Rudolph nose and chapped hands I mentioned yesterday? Have you heard about how I learned campfires make bad sit-upons but leave great imperfections? Perfectly-shaped bodies fit perfectly into clothes, right? Then clearly I don't cut it. And there I go complaining again. Complaining, point out others' faults, and not giving the benefit of the doubt are things I do well. Plus, even though I'm an editor, I know it's only a matter of time before someone points out my own grammar mistakes.
Katie: Perfect
Definitely not.
Yet through Christ, I am made perfect. So are you.
Jesus the sinless positions Himself between you and the Father, so that God can look through Jesus-colored glasses and see us as sinless.
(Maybe that was confusing, but it makes a really pretty picture in my head.)
I hope you all have a perfect Christmas!
<>< Katie
PS: In case you are wondering, our self-decorating living room tree now has two red ornaments, a red and gold bow, and a silver tree-topper. Do you think it will be done in time for Christmas?
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Beautiful Scars
I feel like I've blogged about this before, but God put it on my heart again today, so I figured I'd write about it again. A reminder can't hurt, right?
There are two kinds of people in this world: people who hate their scars and people who love them. I'm one of the hate kind. I'm among the ones who try and hide their physical scars with make-up, clothing, and jewelry. They try and do anything to not have their scars be seen.
Jesus is part of the other kind. He loves to sit in the middle of a crowd and tell the story about why His hands having gaping holes. Explain why He's got a gash in His side. He'll tell anyone who will listen about the dents in His head. He'll tell them about His tragic death.
But was it tragic? What He loves to tell is how those gaping holes saved us from sin. That gash fulfilled prophesies helping to prove He is the Messiah. Those dents are of shame and ridicule. Shame, ridicule, and death that we deserved.
Sure, you've heard it a million times. You've read the book and seen the movie. But sit down and let Him tell you the story one-on-one. Listen to Him tell you what He did for you. It's an amazing story of love that needs to be told over, and over, and over again.
Don't forget about Jesus' beautiful scars. How and why they got there.
<>< Katie
There are two kinds of people in this world: people who hate their scars and people who love them. I'm one of the hate kind. I'm among the ones who try and hide their physical scars with make-up, clothing, and jewelry. They try and do anything to not have their scars be seen.
Jesus is part of the other kind. He loves to sit in the middle of a crowd and tell the story about why His hands having gaping holes. Explain why He's got a gash in His side. He'll tell anyone who will listen about the dents in His head. He'll tell them about His tragic death.
But was it tragic? What He loves to tell is how those gaping holes saved us from sin. That gash fulfilled prophesies helping to prove He is the Messiah. Those dents are of shame and ridicule. Shame, ridicule, and death that we deserved.
Sure, you've heard it a million times. You've read the book and seen the movie. But sit down and let Him tell you the story one-on-one. Listen to Him tell you what He did for you. It's an amazing story of love that needs to be told over, and over, and over again.
Don't forget about Jesus' beautiful scars. How and why they got there.
<>< Katie
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Beautiful Scars
I just started playing with the color feature, can you tell? Every thing's purple and I don't know how to change it back... haha
I love summer. It's warm, wonderful, and without school! There are also days when I'm not a fan of summer. You see, having a tan makes my scars visible. Maybe only to me, but they make me self conscious, and I hate looking in the mirror in the summer.
Some people have fun scars. My friend Brianne takes pride in telling me how she got every scar, bruise, and scratch up and down her legs. My scars aren't so fun. When I was little (like six) somehow I took a nose dive on pavement. I don't remember the incident, but I remember the nice scab is left between my two eyebrows. Eventually it went away, but it left this brown mark there for years afterwards. I used to tell everyone it was a birthmark. Sometimes my mom'd correct me and tell me it was a scar from the scratch I had for months. Sometimes she'd just let me think it was a birthmark. Well, eventually the "birthmark" went away, so I guess she must have been right.
The scars I'm more self-conscious about line my underarms as souvenirs from a Girl Scouts camping trip. I was trying to put the fire out, leaned over too far, and fell into smoldering coals. This resulted in the only ER trip of my life (besides when I was born... another story for another time... that one's actually funny) and second and third degree burns up and down both of my arms. (Oh, and a nice bruise on my leg). I had a miserable summer that year because I couldn't go swimming, I had to go to the doctor every few weeks, and it was almost impossible to wash my hands (Have you ever tried to wash and dry one hand?). Now, everyday when I put my hair up in a ponytail, I see the scars where my skin is messed up. Apparently, burning your arms kills the cells that tell your skin to stop growing (or something like that... My parents told me that recently when we were talking about it...). It also leaves fun designs on tanned skin... It's anything but beautiful.
You know Whose scars are beautiful? Jesus'. Physically the scars in His hands, feet, and side aren't necessarily beautiful but what they symbolize definitely is! Thanks to Jesus' scars, we're forgiven. Jesus' scars are the perfect example of God's mercy and grace. Mercy--God not giving us something we deserve--saved us from having those scars ourselves. Grace--God giving us something we don't deserve--sent Jesus to the cross so we didn't have to paid the price for our sin. The Sinless died for the sinful. You can't tell me that's not beautiful.
Lately, most blogs have included the lyrics to a song. Here's today's:
"Beautiful Scars" by Steven Curtis Chapman
Sit here with me
And tell me your story
Even if it breaks my heart
Let me see Your scars
Shame will whisper
Oh but we can't listen
'Cause these are the stories that make us who we are
And I love who You are,
and Your Beautiful scars,
Your beautiful scars
Reminders of the wounded love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
For us, bruised and broken
For us, He was forsaken
Our wounded Healer suffered to set us free
We see in His hands and His feet
Beautiful scars, beautiful scars
Reminders of the wounded love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
See in His hands and His feet
Beautiful scars, beautiful scars
Reminders of the Savior's love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
Oh how I love Your beautiful scars
So beautiful, so beautiful
Beautiful scars
In Christ,
<>< Katie
I love summer. It's warm, wonderful, and without school! There are also days when I'm not a fan of summer. You see, having a tan makes my scars visible. Maybe only to me, but they make me self conscious, and I hate looking in the mirror in the summer.
Some people have fun scars. My friend Brianne takes pride in telling me how she got every scar, bruise, and scratch up and down her legs. My scars aren't so fun. When I was little (like six) somehow I took a nose dive on pavement. I don't remember the incident, but I remember the nice scab is left between my two eyebrows. Eventually it went away, but it left this brown mark there for years afterwards. I used to tell everyone it was a birthmark. Sometimes my mom'd correct me and tell me it was a scar from the scratch I had for months. Sometimes she'd just let me think it was a birthmark. Well, eventually the "birthmark" went away, so I guess she must have been right.
The scars I'm more self-conscious about line my underarms as souvenirs from a Girl Scouts camping trip. I was trying to put the fire out, leaned over too far, and fell into smoldering coals. This resulted in the only ER trip of my life (besides when I was born... another story for another time... that one's actually funny) and second and third degree burns up and down both of my arms. (Oh, and a nice bruise on my leg). I had a miserable summer that year because I couldn't go swimming, I had to go to the doctor every few weeks, and it was almost impossible to wash my hands (Have you ever tried to wash and dry one hand?). Now, everyday when I put my hair up in a ponytail, I see the scars where my skin is messed up. Apparently, burning your arms kills the cells that tell your skin to stop growing (or something like that... My parents told me that recently when we were talking about it...). It also leaves fun designs on tanned skin... It's anything but beautiful.
You know Whose scars are beautiful? Jesus'. Physically the scars in His hands, feet, and side aren't necessarily beautiful but what they symbolize definitely is! Thanks to Jesus' scars, we're forgiven. Jesus' scars are the perfect example of God's mercy and grace. Mercy--God not giving us something we deserve--saved us from having those scars ourselves. Grace--God giving us something we don't deserve--sent Jesus to the cross so we didn't have to paid the price for our sin. The Sinless died for the sinful. You can't tell me that's not beautiful.
Lately, most blogs have included the lyrics to a song. Here's today's:
"Beautiful Scars" by Steven Curtis Chapman
Sit here with me
And tell me your story
Even if it breaks my heart
Let me see Your scars
Shame will whisper
Oh but we can't listen
'Cause these are the stories that make us who we are
And I love who You are,
and Your Beautiful scars,
Your beautiful scars
Reminders of the wounded love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
For us, bruised and broken
For us, He was forsaken
Our wounded Healer suffered to set us free
We see in His hands and His feet
Beautiful scars, beautiful scars
Reminders of the wounded love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
See in His hands and His feet
Beautiful scars, beautiful scars
Reminders of the Savior's love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
Oh how I love Your beautiful scars
So beautiful, so beautiful
Beautiful scars
In Christ,
<>< Katie
Thursday, July 3, 2008
War Wounds
Today was more of a winter day than a construction day... The banging has stopped temporarily, but I am wearing long pants and a long sleeve shirt. What the crap?
I cut the grass today for the third time since Saturday. I've come to a conclusion: cutting the grass shouldn't be this painful. It is literally painful for all aspects of personal health. Ok, maybe not relational, but then again, I've never tried to have a deep conversation on the tractor. Emotionally it's hard especially when the neighbors are those kinds of people who measure their grass with a rule and use a scissors to cut the grass (just kidding, but only a little). Spiritually it's a challenge because I listen to sermons on my iPod. Mentally it's a strategic battle because I have to make sure I'm going the right direction at the right time in order to avoid grass shavings in the trees... (Whatever you say, Dad.)
Cutting the grass causes physical pain. Our trees, bushes, etc. are taking over and desperately need trimming! Cutting the grass next to them involves scratching, pricking, and (since it just rained) wetness. It's not pleasant. Especially compiled with the fact that my "Lay on the steering wheel, close your eyes, hit the gas, and pray for the best" no longer saves me from scars.
Cutting the grass leaves me with war wounds in the same way being a witness for Christ leaves me with war wounds. Wounds from the trees are a lot more visible on the outside, but wounds for Christ hurt just as much on the inside. God's changing out lives and sometimes we have to get a little dirty in order for Him to do it. To quote Audio Adrenaline, 'Let's get dirty, let's get used..."
<>< Katie
I cut the grass today for the third time since Saturday. I've come to a conclusion: cutting the grass shouldn't be this painful. It is literally painful for all aspects of personal health. Ok, maybe not relational, but then again, I've never tried to have a deep conversation on the tractor. Emotionally it's hard especially when the neighbors are those kinds of people who measure their grass with a rule and use a scissors to cut the grass (just kidding, but only a little). Spiritually it's a challenge because I listen to sermons on my iPod. Mentally it's a strategic battle because I have to make sure I'm going the right direction at the right time in order to avoid grass shavings in the trees... (Whatever you say, Dad.)
Cutting the grass causes physical pain. Our trees, bushes, etc. are taking over and desperately need trimming! Cutting the grass next to them involves scratching, pricking, and (since it just rained) wetness. It's not pleasant. Especially compiled with the fact that my "Lay on the steering wheel, close your eyes, hit the gas, and pray for the best" no longer saves me from scars.
Cutting the grass leaves me with war wounds in the same way being a witness for Christ leaves me with war wounds. Wounds from the trees are a lot more visible on the outside, but wounds for Christ hurt just as much on the inside. God's changing out lives and sometimes we have to get a little dirty in order for Him to do it. To quote Audio Adrenaline, 'Let's get dirty, let's get used..."
<>< Katie
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