My mother is cinnamon-skinned, and my father is a kind of dirty French vanilla. My sister is a café espresso, while I am something called a jabao'. No, don get it wrong; for us, these aren't derogatory ways that people think we use about race—not that I would know. In fact, they are mostly terms of endearment—at least for me. I may have a light skin, but it's still slightly burned. I may speak fluent English like the next guy, but my Spanish is still peppered with that delightful mixture of Andalusian and Canarian delights people dismiss as vulgar and confusing. Nevertheless, I never admit I'm white: there's still something about the nappy hair and the big nose that throws the illusion away. People may say I'm black or that I speak like a Dominican, but I don't care: God made me like this, and to Him I am indebted.
Terrors overtake him like a flood; a tempest snatches him away in the night. –Job 27:20, NIV You drench its furrows, and level its ridges; you soften it with showers, and bless its crops. (Psalm 65:10) “In a little while you will see me no more, and then after a little while you will see me.” (John 16:16) From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I. (Psalms 61:2) “As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease.” (Genesis 8:22) I was going to write about hipocrisy, and how it’s affecting the Church, especially where I live. But it wouldn’t be fair, as I would end up doing the same, and for the wrong reasons: to call out “potential hypocrites”, and not for the glory of God. Plus, the title has something more to say: So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him. (Jeremiah 18:3-4) |
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