The last time I counted, I got 46,812 newsletters in my inbox in a month. You think I’m exaggerating, huh?
You’re right, of course. It’s 36,812 newsletters.
A new one flew into my inbox last week and the writer of this one was too fast with the SEND button. Because the last section looked like this:
You know about lorem ipsum, I’m sure.
The placeholder for future text.
Website and publication designers love it. So do newsletter editors.
I always assumed that it was Latin for “put your text right here when you get a chance.”
Either that, or someone tossed a Latin dictionary into a food processor.
I’d guess the author of the newsletter in question didn’t read my assumed Latin prompt (“Put your text right here…”) because they hadn’t pasted in their own text. Or maybe they pasted in Latin because their people did read Latin?
Except me.
First, I laughed at the newsletter’s scrambled Latin. Then I got curious. (This is one of my fatal flaws.)
What if I offered this lorem ipsum text to Google Translate?
I pasted in the Latin text and Google spit out….the same Latin text.
Google can’t read Latin either?
But as I scrolled through Google’s non-translation, I found that Google had made a last-gasp effort to interpret the final bit.
Here’s what Google Translate came up with:
I now have another reason to read all the way to the end of all newsletters: you never know what disease basketball is about experience.
And I have compassion for the little Google bot who might have been expressing the agony of being forced to translate Latin gibberish. It really might be in a lot of pain.
(Yes, I know lorem ipsum is one of Cicero’s works tossed in a food processor and then spit out as nonsensical dummy text. Just work with me here. Facts do not hold my imagination back.)
Today, pain and loss slammed into your heart like the wild surf. Bitterness and resentment threatened to suck you under like a foamy undercurrent.
Lean into me instead.
Don’t be afraid of powerful emotions, but let me tame them. Allow me to make them flow through you like a rippling brook.
This is part of mourning: these churning emotions that seize your mind and your heart.. Let the tears come like a river that washes the throbbing from your heart.
Grieve with tears and moans and pain, my dear, and I will hold you close.
Lean into me as I whisper words of love and strength.
But when the pain tries to steal your heart, choose me instead.
You will feel the distress, but it need not be master of your life.
Despair brings chaos and agony. I bring healing and renewal.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the cool morning air remind you I am here.
There’s no need to summon me from a far-off cloud because I am with you and in you and through you. Always.
The dark valleys don’t repel me. The highest mountains are not beyond my reach.
Your days stretch on and you have many questions. Loss weighs you down and you want to see the future, but I’m asking you to trust me. I can see what you cannot. Let me guide you.
Notice the sparrows. As they search for food or take joy in flying from bush to bush or celebrate the morning in song, they trust the future is secure in my hand.
Find this trust, my love.
Breathe in. Breathe out. I am here.
“Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7
Look for the joy in the thunderstorm and the colors in the dry desert. Look for song in barren trees and for life under a cold boulder.
I am found in the hidden places.
Tune your eyes to see my hand in places you don’t expect.
Be alert to my presence because I am always here.
I promise life and joy and freedom and a future.
Be bold. Trust that I never leave you or forsake you.
Open your eyes to the hidden places and find my life.
So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.
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