The Inner Chapel: Embracing the Promises of God

The Inner Chapel: Embracing the Promises of God

by Becky Eldredge

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Overview

What is the “inner chapel”? The place within where God meets us.

We can trust God—and we can trust in God’s promises to us, including:
  • We are never alone.
  • We are loved--unconditionally.
  • We have a companion in our suffering.
  • Each of us has a unique call.

But how do we experience all that God has given us? By going to the inner chapel, that sacred place within each person where God waits to love us unconditionally. There, God gives us all we need to find our way to a life of hope instead of despair, peace instead of continued restlessness, and joy instead of anxiety.

Becky Eldredge offers readers down-to-earth stories, prayer experiences to try, and enthusiastic encouragement for spiritual growth and a deeper friendship with God. The Inner Chapel will inspire individuals but also provide excellent material for small groups and people going on retreat.​

Editorial Reviews

Early Morning Coffee with Jesus - Jennifer Scheuermann

The Inner Chapel is filled with personal stories from Becky Eldredge's own life, puts into words so much of what I've experienced the past couple years as I've been pulled into this amazing relationship with Jesus. But also, each chapter ends with prayerful reflection questions and scripture verses with which you can pray - so you too can discover that God resides within you and is longing to be in relationship with you. THIS BOOK IS A RETREAT you can do at your own pace, on your own time in your own space.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780829449341
Publisher: Loyola Press
Publication date: 04/07/2020
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 212
Sales rank: 391,044
File size: 2 MB
Age Range: 3 Months to 18 Years

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1: “Promise Me You’ll Tell People That They Are Not Alone”

I knew something had changed when I realized I was the one holding the spoon. My grandmother lay flat on her back in the hospital bed, with only her head tilted. She was approaching the end of hour two of six following strict instructions to lie on her back as still as she could because of the excessive bleeding in the recovery room after her aortic-aneurysm surgery. I paused midscoop with the spoon that held her favorite treat, Blue Bell light vanilla ice cream, to peer into my grandmother’s crystal-blue eyes. She and I held each other’s gazes without speaking a word. During this long pause, we exchanged our love in silence. Love welled within me to the point of bursting as my blue eyes held the loving gaze of her blue eyes. How many times—from the days of my early childhood when she had spoonfed me treats—had my eyes stared into hers and a deep understanding come over me that I was loved, deeply loved. Today, the same exchange was made, except I was the one holding the spoon. As I finished scooping the bite of ice cream, I glanced at her hands that told a thousand stories of gentle acts of kindness and love. Those hands had scooped bites of baby food into my mouth, stirred the large spoon in the cast-iron pot as she stood at her stove making a roux or crawfish étouffée, and joyfully fed her great-grandchildren the very treat I was feeding her today. She sheepishly accepted my offer of the  bite of ice cream, the role reversal apparent to her as much as to me. She smiled and joked about this being her job when I was little.

I had no idea that holding the spoon in my hand that day marked the beginning of a life-changing journey. Three weeks later, my grandfather learned that he had a brain tumor. Two days before his surgery to remove this tumor, I submitted the manuscript for my first book. A week after his surgery, my hometown, Baton Rouge, experienced a flood that local news reporters called the thousand-year flood. The waters rose so quickly and suddenly that no one was prepared for the impact. My husband, brother, and uncle rescued my parents out of their home by boat. It was only a day later that we maneuvered our way through the wet, devastated streets of Baton Rouge to meet with my grandfather’s neurosurgeon in New Orleans, to receive the news that the tumor they removed was indeed cancer: glioblastoma. After I’d spent hours on the Internet prior to this appointment, researching the possibilities, that word—glioblastoma—hit me in the stomach and literally took my breath away. Aggressive, terminal brain cancer.

We drove back through the water-soaked streets of Baton Rouge to my home. I could not process all that we were holding in this moment. The uncertainty of whether my parents’ home was destroyed. The devastation of thousands of homes flooded around us, including those of neighbors, family, and friends. The people immediately in front of me needing help. The continued recovery of my grandmother from a life-threatening aortic aneurysm. The news of my grandfather’s terminal cancer. I tried to wrap my head around the enormity of all that had happened in just a month’s time while my mind raced through the various roles and responsibilities related to the calls of my life. Marriage. Motherhood. Ministry.

If I’m honest, I don’t even know if I prayed that day in the car. I was overwhelmed to the point of feeling numb. The prayers came, though, in the days, weeks, and months after that car journey through my town. I cried out to God like never before as Baton Rouge fought its way through recovery again, as my grandmother healed, and as I accompanied my grandfather to his final breath.

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