The whole box of donuts

Narrow is the gate

2011-12-31T19:33:00.000-05:00

But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life,
and only a few find it.
~ MATTHEW 7:14 NIV

I used to think this sounded very elitist. Only the special, only the chosen, only the few get to come to God. I’ve read that what it means is that few will choose it, even though it’s open to all. But I think there’s a whole lot more to learn in this verse.
Think about it. Why don’t people want to enter the gate? It’s not dark and scary, overgrown with weeds and vines that choke out the light, like a haunted house. Then again, I don’t think the gate is wide and sparkly and light, eternally propped open, with colorful flags, a vast open space and a castle beyond it, like DisneyWorld. No, it’s sized just right. For one person. One life, one soul, one decision at a time. Sometimes people call themselves Christians because they go to church, or they own more than one Bible, or they try to do the right things, or they’re not atheists so they must be Christians by default. In some circles, it’s become the popular thing to do. Wear a t-shirt, hang an inspirational plaque on your wall, and people will identify you as “one of them.” Some feel like they must be Christians because their parents went to church, or they go to hang out with their friends. But here’s the thing: God calls us as individuals. It doesn’t matter what our families do. It doesn’t matter if we had preachers in our lineage in generations past. It doesn’t matter if we come from a line of Buddhists and Muslims and atheists. God calls us, one by one. He speaks to us, one at a time. Individually. Personally. He woos you — yes, you. He made you, just the way you are. He gave you talents and opinions and experiences that are unlike anyone else’s. And He will not call you like He called someone else. But if you listen, He will call. He waits, just on the other side of that gate. He stands, arms open wide, confident and expectant. He doesn’t want you to walk through just because your spouse or friend does. That’s why the gate is not wide. It’s wide enough, though, wide enough for you. Sized so that you can freely walk through, as soon as you are ready. It’s not scary, and there’s no fanfare. It’s private, just you and He. You and the Lord. Don’t wait. Don’t think you don’t belong or you’re not welcome. Don’t be afraid. He loves you, and He’s there on the other side, waiting for you to say Yes, Lord. I want you, too. All you have to do is walk towards Him. Enter that gate. You’ll be amazed by what waits on the other side.

God enters by a private door into every individual.
~ RALPH WALDO EMERSON

I write in my books

2011-09-28T16:39:00.000-04:00

This essay was published as a devotion through Internet Cafe Devotions. Click here to read it :-).

Lola: The Memoir

2011-09-01T15:34:00.000-04:00

Published in Sasee Magazine, Sept. 2011

Heads turn. The plate glass windows lining the buildings reflect flashes of turquoise and pink and waving flags. Teens whistle, laugh, and shout, craning their necks for a better look. I’m not the one getting the attention, though. All eyes are on Lola. Subtlety is not her style. Kids are drawn to her, but older women roll their eyes. There was a time, not long ago, when I agreed with them, but experience has deepened my wisdom and now I understand: There’s something special about Lola.

Humble beginnings
Living many hours from sandy shorelines, my friends and I longed to bring the beach to Indiana. Or maybe it was a midlife crisis. Either way, we needed a convertible. So, my husband, Tim, the fix-it man, set about making it happen. The ’89 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight was faded, worn and past her prime, but she ran, and she was cheap. Four of us each chipped in a hundred bucks, and Tim brought her home to do his magic.

Many hours, plugs, and wires later, after wrestling with a Sawz-all and a dead blow hammer, Tim unveiled our new convertible. (Maybe “convertible” is the wrong word, since it doesn’t actually convert; it’s simply a car with no top.) With the addition of a giant pink swimming noodle glued around the sharp, rough metal edge of the windshield for protection, we set to work. Using nothing but spray paint and paint tape, I turned the lower sides of the car into a grainy, sandy beach and transformed the grimy white metal with metallic blue spray paint. Against this watery, shimmery sky, I added a couple of palm trees in back and a swirly, spirally sun across the hood.

Peggy and Tammy hot-glued felt flowers around the rear-view mirror and pink fur to the dash. We strung garlands of blue silk hyacinths around the windshield and back seat, intertwining strands of plastic bananas and pineapples. Silk leis and sandal air fresheners dangled from the mirror, bath mats covered the floor, and striped beach towels became seat covers. A fake grass skirt undulated from the rear bumper and a beach umbrella stuck up proudly – if wobbly – from the center of the open car.
At heart, she was still the same, but a transformation this radical required a flashy, exotic stage name. The words of the song clinched it: Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl, with yellow feathers in her hair and her dress cut down to there….”

Where Lola’s back window had been, a rear brake light begged to be used as a stage. Using Liquid Nails, we placed a dashboard hula girl there where she danced for onlookers until the day we hit 50 on the highway and she flipped her spring, bouncing and flopping and contorting. As we envisioned her taking that inevitable final leap, in all her ceramic glory, through the windshield of some stunned onlooker unlucky enough to be following us, we sadly relegated her to the glove box. No longer our showy mascot, at least she could still be part of our adventures.

Accessories are everything
A friend asked us to enter Lola in a small car show he was having. Her beauty was less exquisite and more, well, internal. So we set to work accessorizing. Thanks to our friends, Lola had a sunny antenna ball from Hawaii, a spiral windsock, a magnetic clipboard that exclaimed “Aloha!” from the dash, and – the pièce de resistance – a 10” carved coconut monkey hood ornament. We sprayed the wheels hot pink and hot-glued hundreds of shells along the top of the back seat, filling the gap vacated by the kamikaze hula girl with a giant rubber pineapple. A silk parrot and boogie board on the trunk completed the look, and we high-fived and admired our outrageous handiwork, secretly hoping not to be asked to be seen with her in public.

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful
It was time to deliver Lola to the car show. I’d been worrying about how the serious restorers and collectors would react to Lola, because, well, she was not very serious. At the small city park, balloons bounced in the wind and our friend hunkered in the shade playing oldies on scratchy loudspeakers. Lola preened between the vintage, gleaming, radiant, airbrushed machines; a washed-up hooker among aristocratic gentlemen from old money. I was as embarrassed for her as if her dress had been tucked into the back of her pantyhose. Parked jauntily in a corner, with her colorful rear end facing the crowd, Lola was surrounded immediately by giggling kids. The owners of the “real” cars stayed in their lawn chairs shaded by sun umbrellas, mumbling to their wives, waiting before casually (and disdainfully) walking close enough to get a better look. Once we’d registered, I left.

Later that day, I heard a ruckus and ran out front. There she was, in all her kitschy glory – a beauty queen at the end of the runway blowing kisses to her fans. Lola had been named Best of Show, an award determined by the popular vote. (Men muttered that kids stuffed the ballot box, and we’d better not cross railroad tracks in “that thing,” “that car-that-isn’t-a-real-car,” because it is sure to fold in half.) Peggy was honking the horn, with her kids triumphantly hoisting the massive, garish trophy. I hopped in and we drove around town, rejoicing with the kind of exhilaration one feels for an underdog who becomes the unlikely champion.

More than meets the eye
If Lola were a woman, she’d have a great big beehive hairdo, even bigger cleavage, long nails with jewels on them, and leopard print tights. Pretty in the right light (or at closing time), she’d wear red stiletto heels and a great sense of humor. Her kindness, sprouting from first-hand knowledge of being judged by appearances, would keep people near. If she were a house, she’d be a broken-down double-wide, freshly painted pink and parked in an upscale neighborhood, with lots of symmetrically matched candleholders and fake plants hanging on the walls. And if she were a monument, she’d represent the sustaining power of friendship and community and fun. She’s just like my friends Tammy, Peggy and Glenna – a whole lot of fun, just a little bit silly, and real, solid, spirited, and true.

(And maybe just a little bit saucy.)

Don't let your but get in the way

2011-08-27T19:01:00.000-04:00

Any mother who has ever had whiny kids has learned to hate the word "but." It seems to be the instant response to any request or command I make. Me: You need to pick up your dirty socks. My kids: But I can't! I have to do my homework! Five minutes later, I'll remind them to do their homework. But I can't. I have to pick up my dirty socks!

Unfortunately, this attitude sticks with many of us, even as adults.

Try these on for size:
I know I should serve God…
…but Sunday's my only day to sleep in. I work all week long and need a break.
…but I don't have time. My to-do list is a mile long.
…but I don't feel like it. I’ve had a bad week.
…but what will everyone think of me? It’s not cool to be a Christian.
…but I don't want to read my Bible — I’m more interested in the new People magazine that came in the mail today.
…but I can't afford it — tithes are too much, and we need new tires and gas prices keep going up.
…but He doesn't need my help. He's God. What do I have to offer that he can’t do for himself? God can handle things on his own.
…but somebody else can do it. They’ll be better at it than I am.
…but I just don't feel like it. I don't feel like being social, putting on decent clothes, curling my hair and having to smile at people.

It's true; I don't always feel like it. I’m not qualified. And it’s not always easy. With all I've been through lately, I could probably get away with using that as an excuse. However, I need to stop letting my but get in the way. Our pastor first preached this to us years ago, and it was so catchy that we made t-shirts with that emblazoned on them. This morning, though, I started thinking about my but again. Yes, I've gained weight over the years and I'm not the size I want to be. That butt gets in the way of wearing a size 12. But the other but is so much more problematic. We need to remove that negative word from our vocabularies, unless we pair it with another, very powerful word: but God.

I may be tired, but God never sleeps. I may be weak, but God is strong. I may not feel like getting up and getting ready, but God was able to carry his cross and suffer, so this is nothing compared to that. I may not know the right thing to do, but God always does. I may not know what to pray, but God intercedes for us. I may not have enough energy or motivation, I may have many failings, I may simply be in a bad mood, and maybe I am going through genuine tragedies in my own life. All that may be true, but this is more true: God is still God. He is still worthy. He is still powerful. He is still mighty, and benevolent, and filled with grace and forgiveness. I may not want to do my part sometimes, but God is always, always worth the effort. Man fails, man flees, and man destroys, but God delivers, God protects, and God restores. He rewards my sacrifices. No more buts, no more flimsy excuses. From now on, I’ll continue to remember the phrase I can trust: but God.

Marking it up

2011-08-16T21:10:00.000-04:00

Important disclaimer: I am fully aware of the fact that I am, have always been, and likely will always be a geek.

I couldn’t wait for college. All the usual reasons — getting away from the small town I lived in and my parents and all the people who thought they had a right to know my business. But it wasn’t just about running away — it was about running to. To new friends, new knowledge, and new experiences. Oh, and also because I’d heard you could write in your books.

Until then, writing in books had always been forbidden, probably because the books didn’t belong to me. I rented from the school, borrowed from the library. Everything had to be taken care of. In college, though, I got to buy my own textbooks. Some of them were used, already filled with other people’s notes, and some were immaculate. I bought the pristine ones and then, somewhat giddily, filled them with my own marks. Highlights in multiple hues. Notes in the margins, stars, arrows, circles. It wasn’t just because I was an art major and liked to draw in pretty colors. It was because it was a way of interacting with the material, a way to remember it, come to understand it, to acknowledge and process what was important. A way to make it mine. I liked being able to flip through and, at a glance, see what mattered. I could remember that, even if I didn’t remember all the specific details, I put a big green asterisk right next to the paragraph, so I could skim through and — voila! — find what I needed.

I’m the same way with my Bible. Yes, of course it is a holy book, worthy of respect. But don’t be mistaken and think, just because my favorite copy is dog-eared, somewhat crumpled and covered in marks going every which way in the margins, that it shows less-than-proper respect. Au contraire! I can hardly read any book, especially the Good Book, without a pen in my hand anymore. If something touches me, I mark it. If something isn’t clear, I question it. If something reminds me of or refers me to something else, I circle it, draw arrows to connect the sections. If something I read speaks to my current situation, I date it. If someone else teaches me something about it, I put their name next to my notes. By doing all these things, I’m attempting to imprint the ideas into my soul. I’m hoping to become physically involved, not remain aloof and separate. I’m hoping to wrestle with it, as David did. I’m hoping to be consumed by it, changed by it, inspired by it, touched by it. I’m hoping to make it mine.

Life lessons learned in the candy drawer

2011-08-03T10:50:00.001-04:00

(Essay appeared in The Paper of Montgomery County's Montgomery Memories, July 2011)

I would only risk the adventure when no one else was around. "Mah" (my grandmother) would be getting her hair set, and “Dot” (so dubbed by my toddler self) would be napping. The lessons start before I even get into the drawer. Take time to take care of yourself. Get plenty of rest. Work hard, and then let your body recover.

The drawer was on the end, next to the fridge. The kitchen was always spotless, with its stainless steel appliances, way-cool wall oven I coveted even before I cooked, and percolating coffee pot, disassembled to dry before being put back into service gurgling up the next pot. The windows butting up to the yellow Formica countertops opened to birdfeeders, which were kept stocked year-round. Appreciate nature, and take care of it. On the plaque in the corner, a folk art man labored with an axe and then propped his feet up by the fire between the words “He who cuts his own wood is twice warmed.” Never shy away from hard work.

No one was around; it was time. I’d ease open the drawer, wide and shallow, on its well-oiled track. Still, it made a soft clicking noise as the wheels turned. Rarely was there any chocolate or “good” stuff. Instead, there were packets of Chiclets, smooth and shiny pieces of gum that slid out of their envelopes to click lightly and coolly against my teeth. There might be a lemon drop, or a butterscotch drop, or a Starburst. Or, on a really lucky day, maybe even a chocolate after-dinner mint brought home from a restaurant. (Waste not, want not.) All the candies were small — not my favorites, but serviceable in a pinch — individual, portion-controlled items with a rather limited selection. This says to me that it’s OK to indulge once in a while, but in a controlled way. Set limits. All things in moderation. It was much easier to find bowls of grapefruit and orange slices, or cut-glass trays of celery and carrot sticks, than it was to find sweets. These foods are the things our bodies need. No fast food sacks balled up in the trash, just home-cooked meats and veggies and big glasses of milk. Even the desserts tended to be fruit pies and lemon bars. Forget processed foods. Eat right, and when you need a little bit of something sweet, have just that: a little bit.

Next, I’d shuffle through the coupons. My grandparents worked hard, invested wisely, and lived frugally. They had money, so I could never understand why on earth they kept coupons for 10 cents off a roll of paper towels. She didn’t need 10 cents. Why bother? But my questions tell you as much about me as about my grandparents. I don’t have an inherent understanding of saving, living responsibly, and not taking anything for granted. Frugality is something I have to work at, but — after living through the Depression and starting their lives together with nothing — they understood the value of money. They worked hard for it and did not waste it. If they spent money on something, it either had educational value, philanthropic value, or practical value. They knew at their cores the importance of being a good steward of all that the Lord had given, and they lived that way daily.

Next, matches. They had a little trash burner, walls of concrete block with chicken wire on front. Every day Mah would go through the house and empty the decorative trash containers. One bin in the kitchen was reserved for cans and bottles, and everything that could be reused, was. Another container was for biodegradable trash (whatever couldn’t be fed to the dogs), which was put out in a compost pile near the garden to enrich the soil in which they grew vegetables. Paper grocery bags were stacked neatly behind the refuse containers, ready to be used to transport dried flowers (also from the garden) or protect the driveway from the fresh paint being applied to a table (take care of what you have). And plastic bags — bread bags that had been washed and dried — hung from the door to the trash closet.

But all the other trash was taken out of the house and burned. Daily. They inherently understood that everything has a use. When it can be reused, it should be. Some things need to be kept separate from others. And we need to regularly purge what we don’t need or what isn’t good for us — get it out of the house, out of our lives, and eliminate it once and for all.

In the left-hand corner of the drawer was a mess of twist ties. Every loaf of bread my grandma bought contributed another spindly piece of paper-covered wire to the tangled pile in the drawer. When something needed to remain closed, she made sure it did, and she tied it tightly. (The same held true for gossip, and secrets.) She remained prepared for any eventuality, making use of anything at her disposal. And she knew to be responsible with even the smallest of details.

And, last, its festive silvery wrapper spiraling out of control, was the always-present partial roll of Wint-o-Green Lifesavers. In other words, when you find something that works, you should stick with it. Don’t change for the sake of change. You may think Lifesavers would fall into the candy category, but I hold them separate for one reason. These mints were not there to satisfy a sweet tooth. They’re functional, and tried and true, and they’re there because you can never, ever go wrong with fresh breath. So with fresh breath and a lot of love, I send mental kisses to my grandparents, who are alive no longer, the wonderful couple who managed to enrich my life immeasurably simply by leaving the candy drawer unguarded.

A parent's legacy

2011-07-08T22:16:00.001-04:00

In honor of my mom, who passed from this life to the next on Tuesday, July 5th, I'm reprinting an essay I wrote for her in October of 2008. Family photo from Christmas 2009. On couch, L to R: Bobby, me, Tim, Mom, Dad. On floor: Katie, Anna, Reilly, Kerry, Doug, and Luke (in front).

Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel
Will I dance for you Jesus or in awe of you be still
Will I stand in your presence or to my knees will I fall
Will I sing hallelujah, will I be able to speak at all
I can only imagine…
(from Mercy Me’s “I Can Only Imagine”)

In my mind, envisioning heaven is not the hard part. The hardest part, I suspect, when thinking about dying, is leaving behind those you love. Feeling like you might be missing out on their lives. And thinking maybe you didn’t make enough of a difference, that maybe you won’t be missed after all. Maybe you aren’t necessary.

Since Mom was diagnosed with cancer, I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of her legacy. What will remain when she’s not physically here. I can’t ease her fears, erase her sadness, or give a good reason why this had to happen to her. But I can promise her this: no matter what happens, her presence in my life will never be diminished. Do I want her here forever? Absolutely. But even when she is not, I will know what she thinks about things and what she would tell me to do. I will continue to want to buy her quirky gifts that are just perfect, that no one else would appreciate the way she does. And I will continue to enjoy the houseful of peculiar objects she’s given me over the years, knowing better than anyone else what I would love and what pleasure I get from things others would think are strange. I will cook from the recipes she wrote down for me when I went to college – and when I don’t, I’ll remember all the times I tried to avoid letting her know we were going out to eat yet again when we really should have been saving our money and watching our waistlines. I will see her reactions in my own reactions to situations. I will laugh, knowing what she would find funny, wishing I could call and tell her. I will notice the things in this world that are unjust, the people she would want to take under her wing and help in her own unique, thoughtful ways, and I will want to pick up where she left off. My kids will talk about her, just as they talk about my grandfather, who died before they were born. He’s not here, but he left a legacy of love and education and they admire him tremendously. They know him, even though they didn’t get to meet him.

A couple years ago, when my friend Nancy lost her dad, I wrote this to her: “You will always be your father’s daughter, and you can still give thanks for that every day of your life. He helped make you who you are, and because of that, he will never be gone. I’m glad to know you and to know a little of your dad through you.” Until the moment I wrote that, I hadn’t known that to be true. But it is. As long as I live, people will see my mother. Most women vehemently deny that they are anything like their mothers, but we know every one of the ways in which we are (even if we won’t admit it to our husbands). I never thought I'd say this, but I’m one of the lucky ones who can be proud of those things.

When Jesus was preparing to leave this earth, He didn’t want to suffer, but He knew there would be comfort for those He left behind. He knew He would always live inside the hearts of those who remained, both in those who walked beside Him on those dusty roads and those who would not be born for 2,000 years. He’s not gone, nor is He forgotten. We don’t see His physical body, but He remains visible (or should) through all of His children, all those who allow His wonderful traits to show in their lives. As long as we are present, all those around us will see and remember our Lord — seeing a little bit of Him in the way we talk, the things that make us smile, our mannerisms, our expressions, the way we love each other. They can know Him, because they know us.

I know that nothing will be the same without my mom here, and I’m hoping and praying for many, many more months with her. My heart is already broken — but our several-times-daily phone calls and spontaneous lunches and shopping trips are currently holding it together. But when that day comes, when my mom is face to face with the One who will remove all her sorrow and pain and sadness, when she is basking in the light, overcome with joy, not remembering that she had doubts about what it would be like, no longer caring about the questions she always thought she’d ask, experiencing an intensity of sweetness exponentially greater than the most amazing moments we’ve had with God here on this earth… on that day I will stand proud, holding onto the things she has made me, holding on to the parts of her that I want the world to continue to see… praying that God will shine through me, but knowing that when He does, He will also let those parts that are her remain. With Him, in Him, and in me. A part of me, forevermore.

Friend

2011-06-17T18:14:00.000-04:00

Friends — what would we do without them? Thank God for those people who love us, take care of us, have fun with us, laugh with us (and cry with us). But we all have some “friends” who have proven not to be true. Some are people who simply aren’t as close as they once were, maybe put in our lives out of convenience or proximity or common circumstances for a time. Some have betrayed and wounded us. There are many good friends out there, yet as much as the good ones enrich our lives, other friends have also brought drama and frustration and pain. Friends come and friends go, and if we’re very lucky, we have a handful of people who stay in our lives for a long, long time.

But listen to this. A single word leapt off the page at me as I read Matthew 26: 49-51. Going at once to Jesus, Judas said, “Greetings, Rabbi!” and kissed him. Jesus replied, “Do what you came for, friend.”

How amazing is this? How did I miss this oh-so-important word every other time I read this? As Judas was in the process of actively betraying Jesus in the Garden, as he was offering him to the guards for money, Jesus referred to Judas as friend. He didn’t call him by name. He didn’t call him traitor or betrayor, although He would have been justified to do so. In spite of what Judas did, Jesus called him friend. It doesn’t matter that we are not perfect. We don’t have to have done all the right things. All that matters is that He is Who He is and that His heart is full of love. He is a Friend like no other, a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother. Our relationship with Jesus little to do with the state of our hearts, and everything to do with the state of His heart. This friendship is not dependent on our actions or motives, nor is it destroyed by betrayal; it’s all about His love for us.

Next time you feel alone, next time you want someone to talk to, remember this amazing truth: You are a friend of God.

A sticky mess

2011-05-21T15:39:00.001-04:00

One morning, Bobby wanted waffles. I didn’t. It was early, and I was tired, and I hadn’t had my coffee yet. I didn’t feel like hauling out the waffle maker and snapping in the plates for it and then having to clean up afterwards. But I also didn’t feel like trying to fight it, either, so I plugged in the waffle maker and mixed up the batter.

While my coffee brewed and the waffle slowly cooked, I let myself imagine the end result. Golden brown, steaming, beautiful squares of perfectly-cooked batter. Real butter, glistening, sticky-sweet syrup. Mmm. This sounded pretty good after all.

Until we opened the waffle maker. Oh. Not at all what we’d hoped for. Instead of a nice, neat square with a pretty little pattern, it was a mess. Parts of it stuck. Parts of it didn’t. It peeled in half, some clinging to the top, some stretching between the two plates. Ragged fragments, mutilated pieces of something that was supposed to be so good and simple and yummy. I grabbed a narrow rubber spatula and started the painstaking task of peeling the waffle off the Teflon surface. Little strips, long peely pieces, kind of like when you peel dried Elmer’s glue off an old messy bottle or when your shoulders peel after a sunburn. I finally finished and looked at the pile of scraps in disgust, prepared to throw them out.

Before I could, Bobby poured syrup over the whole heaping mess and carried the plate into the other room to eat. He didn’t care how it looked. It still tasted good to him.

You know, sometimes it gets discouraging serving God. We have this idea of what we should be and what He has in store for us, and we visualize ourselves fulfilling all those dreams and presenting ourselves and our accomplishments to Him, complete, with beauty and glory and righteousness. But in reality, we fail. We forget to pray, we neglect to study, we lower our standards. We mess up, and sometimes we don’t know why. We’re left, then, with something broken, ugly and so much less than it ought to be. In our disgust, we pull away and hide, thinking the effort was wasted, assuming God won’t be interested in us like this. What we have to realize is that, compared with the holy perfection that is our God, nothing we have to offer will ever measure up. All we have is a pile of debris. We need to try again, learn from others, improve through practice — but we don’t have to wait for perfection before we bring it before Him. Offer your efforts to God now, anyhow, no matter how messy or substandard or flawed. He will accept whatever you will give Him if you offer it out of love. He might even pour syrup all over it, and declare that it is good. What is certain is that He will redeem, and with His touch, the end result will be so much better. Delicious and delectable, all you’d imagined right from the start.

A Godly buffet

2011-05-14T15:53:00.001-04:00

Preach the Word; be prepared in season and out of season; correct, rebuke
and encourage — with great patience and careful instruction. ~ 2 Timothy 4:2 (NIV)

When my husband and I were in New Orleans, we went to a famous diner for breakfast. Long, low marble counters wrapped around a center area where the waiter took orders, poured coffee and washed dishes. A bunch of people sat down at about the same time as we did. The waiter went from person to person, taking orders, and then stood in the middle, hands behind his back, nothing in front of him, and called out the orders to the chef from memory. He had the lingo down (things like high and dry, drag it through the garden, two dots and a dash). As he shouted out the orders, the chef went to work without hesitation, filling his giant stainless steel grill with handfuls of bacon, sausage, ham and veggies. Then, over the entire surface, he poured egg mixture until the entire grill was one solid mass of steaming food. With his spatula, he cut the eggs into rectangles, folded them up, and flipped them onto plates. He filled plate after plate with a perfectly cooked, exactly right, hot, fresh, custom omelet. The server dealt them out to the customers like a card dealer at a poker table, quick and efficient. And then we ate. Oh, how we ate. Delicious food, and all the better because of how it was prepared.

As I ate, I watched the chef. He was surrounded with stainless steel containers of ingredients, perfectly prepped and waiting to be used. Crispy bacon strips piled high; golden stacks of toast towering, ready for a single swipe of melted butter to be quickly applied with a wide brush; tubs of onions and peppers and mushrooms, clean and chopped. It was all there, ready to go. When the chef knew what was needed, he was able to deliver almost immediately because of the work that had been done before.

Although the food was good and the experience interesting, what I learned that morning was more about Christianity. We need to be prepared. You never know when someone is going to need prayer; when a friend will collapse in front of you, desperate for encouragement or advice; when you’ll be faced with a health diagnosis or a lawsuit or unexpected bills or a broken relationship. This is why we need to be in the Word regularly, to write God’s wisdom on our hearts. This is why we need to pray, so we are already in His presence and don’t have to waste time returning to Him. This is why we should study and prepare and practice, so that all the tools we need, for anything we face, are all right within our reach. Ready to go.

Fragments...

2011-04-01T20:53:00.000-04:00

I glance up and see Jesus. Standing there, unaware of anyone else, my friend Peg has her head bowed and hands extended, showing me what I’ve never seen before: Jesus as a reachable, touchable God. He leans towards her, his forehead gently resting against hers, tenderly holding her hands. Quiet, private, personal. The intimacy makes me gasp. I might hold out my hands, too, if I thought he would hold me back.

She had never looked more beautiful. Glenna stood at the altar, eyes closed, oblivious to those around her, swaying gently to the soft worship music being played. She slowly raised her hand as a single tear meandered down her smooth, soft cheek. I was mesmerized. I couldn’t look away, even after she finished praying, so she answered the question I wasn’t sure how to form. Jesus was right there, she said, so she lifted her hand and laid it on his face, a gentle, gentle caress.

The intensity around the table eases with our laughter. A group of women, gathered for a Bible study, are telling their stories. Joanie, a quiet woman whose countenance reflects His light, puts into words what I’ve never been able to. I’ve struggled with Christian-ese — talking about my walk, being saved, all the phrases that seem trite and off-putting. She looks up, smiling, and says it pure and simple. “That’s when I fell in love with Jesus.”

Maybe he just doesn’t love me that much, I think. Sandee, a woman from my church, testified about feeling, for just that moment, like she was God’s favorite. Part of me was shocked by her arrogance and confidence; the rest of me was devastated by my lack of understanding.

I go home, thinking. I want that. But how do I finally commit, once and for all? How do I find more? No more doubts. Will he let me get closer? Will he reveal himself? I am yours, Lord, in every thought, every deed. I only want to know the truth. I only want what’s real. Show me firsthand. The atmosphere is charged, electric, the weight of it on my chest forcing shallow breaths. Show me, Lord. Show me how to yield my will. Show me how to take that next step closer to you. You’ll have to do it because I feel ridiculous and incompetent. My faith is so weak. But you are strong, God. You are righteous, and holy, and kind. You are a healer, full of mercy and grace. You are my light, and my strength, and my salvation. Thank you, Lord, for the amazing things you’ve done. For your gifts. For showing me how real you are. If you never did a single other thing, I still couldn’t thank you enough. I can’t believe you love me this much. I can’t believe I’m your favorite, even if it’s just for this moment.

Fragments merge, parts and angles and colors and details becoming an artful mosaic, individual lives combining to show a God greater than all the pieces. Up close, I see lives of authenticity, moments of faith, women who teach and lead and encourage. But when I pull back, just slightly, to get a better view, to blur my eyes and see what I can see, I see so much more. I see power and holiness. Patterns and combinations come together, connected and inspired, in ways beyond my imagining. So far beyond. And connecting it all, my God. This God connects lives, connects hearts, draws them together, perfectly placing those who are needed, cementing them together with his unbreakable, unbendable love.

Is it time, Lord, I whisper, only a little afraid. I want to be ready, ready for this next step, ready to be part of the new montage only he can fully imagine. Am I? I don’t know. I falter, realizing again what I already know: his mosaic is not one made of square, smooth tiles. No, this is jagged, broken pottery. Pieces that don’t match. Hearts that hurt. Dreams that must be abandoned. Sharp, splintered edges. Failings, doubts, flaws of character and pride and perseverance. But it’s all his. A L L H I S . And he reminds me that, in his creation, even the most damaged piece of mosaic tile is lovingly placed by a gentle hand and a creative eye.

I submit this post as an entry for a scholarship for She Speaks, a conference for women who long to tell his stories. Because here’s the thing: the complete masterpiece can be overwhelming, flooding our senses and emotions, almost too much to grasp. But the pieces? That’s something we can understand. One at a time. And as I witness these lives, as I struggle to capture their essence through my words, I’m offering a part of myself in each of their pieces, too, not just my own. The Spirit of the Lord rises up, recognizing itself in another, forming a permanent bond. These moments of connection, these glimpses into the artist, are shining fragments of glory and radiance. Oh, how his glory shines, even in the tiniest piece, the smallest life, the barest glimmer of hope. I close my eyes, daring to imagine.

This conference, She Speaks, is about women connecting the hearts of women to the heart of our Father God. The scholarship is offered by Ann Voskamp, a woman whose words have soothed and delighted my soul, strengthening my own connection with the heart of God.

She Speaks

2011-03-09T20:11:00.005-05:00

She speaks, because he gave her a voice.

She writes, because he has equipped her and empowered her.

She struggles, because he has made her human.

She endures, because he is beside her.

I watch. I experience. I immerse myself in the depths. And then, only when the silt has settled to the bottom, and light shines through the clear water, I write. I write so that others can experience. So others can see what I see, what I was so privileged to glimpse. It is in the telling that I finally understand. Writing becomes knowing for me. Writing is how I connect to the God who loves me, who saved me, who has been so kind and gracious to me.

And today, when a friend sent me a link to a scholarship announcement for She Speaks, that same Spirit rose up inside of me. Tears brimmed, words of praise bubbled forth. You know how sometimes you just know? You know that you know that you know? I belong there. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I may not make it this year, and that's OK. As I read through the blogs of those who are applying, I’m humbled by the stories, the faith, the devotion. I can’t predict what will happen, but I just know that it matters. It’s important. It is time to take what I know, what I have done, what I have written, and move forward. For him, with him. Oh, always with him. Because then, and only then, will my words matter. Then, and only then, will I have experienced something worthy of the telling.

So, Lord, I write this to you, though I link to the contest. Have your way. If not me, then touch someone else with this miraculous opportunity. And rise up in every one of these women, rise up and SHINE FORTH in their words. Written, spoken, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the words are yours, not ours. And that when you show us what to do with them, we listen.

Though I hadn’t heard of the She Speaks conference before today, I’m so excited about it I can hardly speak. (Typing, however, is another story.) I’m familiar with Proverbs 31 Ministries and Lysa TerKeurst, though, and I’m confident that the conference will live up to the words of praise and enthusiasm I’ve been reading all day today. The conference offers three tracks — for speakers, for writers, and for women’s ministry leaders. There are numerous sessions, opportunities to meet with editors and publishers — and many other women placed on a path similar to mine, also seeking fulfillment of the dreams God has placed within them. I’ve attended several writing conferences, but never one focused on faith and how to communicate that. I don't presume to think I am worthy of this scholarship, but I have felt overwhelmed by the presence of God and the joy that bubbles up in me as I have learned and written about this, so I humbly throw in my hat... and prepare to cast my crown to the Lord in praise and adoration. Because he is worthy of all that, and more... no matter what.

Shaped by the world

2011-03-05T18:59:00.000-05:00

Sometimes winter in Indiana can be surprisingly pretty, and sometimes it’s drab and dreary. The other day it was a little of both. The ground was muddy brown and rutted and trampled from a winter of snow, but the trees were still outlined majestically against a bright blue sky, their charcoal branches tracing patterns that moved gently in the breeze. Even without the leaves, it was easy to see which trees would have been beautiful. So I was driving along, marveling at the delicate and complex shapes, when I noticed a row of three large trees beside the road. It looked like a T-Rex had taken a giant bite out of the top of each one. Maybe a quarter of the tree remained, just the bottom and the outer branches, barely enough to indicate the circular shape the tree would be if it had been whole. In an effort to keep the branches from interfering with the telephone wires that passed through the trees, someone had cut a giant chunk right out of the middle, forever changing the shape the tree was intended to be.

Made me think about our spiritual lives. Even if our intentions are good, our actions can have a lasting effect — a defining effect. We’re told to be in this world but not of it, but that’s not an easy line to walk. So once in a while, you might get a little close to the other side of the line. What’s the harm? You can go someplace you shouldn’t be — just for a little bit. Or, although you usually tell the truth, this time it’s easier to tell a lie and avoid the consequences. Or maybe you flirt with a coworker, just enough to counteract the hurt feelings from something your spouse said to you that morning. Or you say you’ll pray for someone, and then you forget. You know you should read the Bible, but your favorite show comes on in ten minutes so you’ll do it tomorrow. You hate gossip, but if what you heard is true, so-and-so really ought to know. You try to walk that line, giving the world just a little chunk of your spirit, trying to remain true to who you are and who you are called to be — but fully aware that you’re not perfect. You slip up. It’s no big deal. We all do.

Most of the time, it works out OK. But every once in a while, the world takes more than you expected, a little more than you were willing to give in the first place. And then, because of the scars left from cutting out that hole, the new growth that you hoped would hide the mistake actually forms around it, and it grows larger and more noticeable. Before you know it, you are defined by something you didn’t really want in the first place. You are shaped by something that God didn’t put there. Next time a situation threatens to take a chunk out of you, don’t hold your breath and hope for the best; call out for the Master Gardener to bend you and shape you just the way you were supposed to be. You’ll be amazed at the way he’ll help you grow.

True worship

2011-02-20T09:38:00.001-05:00

Hands dripping, I reached for a paper towel, then stopped, surprised. How refreshing! This wasn’t one of those blowers that practically lifts the building off the ground, the ones that sound like a jet plane accelerating down a runway, scaring kids and adults alike. And it wasn’t one of those with the big silver button that weakly emits lukewarm air in which you rub and turn your hands for a minute before you give up and wipe them dry on your jeans. Nor was it the big plastic box with a sensor that only works about half the time, eliciting contortions and frantic waving and requiring you to team up with strangers to try to outsmart it, only to finally be presented with a paper towel about half the size of what you needed in the first place. (The good news is it takes so long to get that kind to work that, by the time you give up, your hands have very nearly dried on their own.) Nor was it a catawampus, skewed, rusted, broken, or hanging-from-one-screw paper towel dispenser. No, I was looking at the most humble, pure, old-fashioned thing: a shiny white metal box with a nondescript crank handle on the side. With minimal effort, the towel rolled out, smoothly, as long or as short as I wanted. The roll was even full. I smiled fondly at the neat, immaculate form dutifully hanging on the wall, doing its simple job very well. Exactly what was needed, at exactly the right time, with just the right amount of effort and result.

I attended a meeting recently at which a man opened with prayer and then asked us to join him in singing a worship song. There were eight of us in the room, and the others were all people whose faith guides their lives. The song was beautiful; it brought goosebumps to my arms and tears to my eyes. The harmony was inspired, the song anointed, the emotions genuine, the mood intimate and lovely. The scene was more intensely spiritual than anything else I’ve experienced in a long time, including church services with hundreds of people. Don’t get me wrong; there’s absolutely nothing wrong with those services. I love them. They’ve been very good, and the speakers have been anointed, and I’ve felt God there, too. But there was just something special about this moment. It was pared down to the basics. It was real, genuine, true. No complicated music, no special clothes required, no distractions or interruptions or schedules or plans. Nothing but us and our God. Nothing else was needed.

The very fact that it caught me off guard tells me I’ve put my relationship with God on the back burner. These moments are available to us all the time. No iPod required with just the right music downloaded; no best-selling self-help books needed; no choir or worship leader necessary. Just you. And Him. Pure and simple and so, so good. Maybe, at least for me, it’s time to remember what it’s all about. To go back to the basics, to return to what is simple — and what, without fail, always works.

Two articles posted on Yahoo Contributor Network

2011-02-15T16:17:00.000-05:00

They appeared on here first, or possibly earlier drafts of them, but you can read about wading boots and Christian-ese here, too:

Wading in Sin
Speaking a New Language

Finding Him

2011-01-26T08:43:00.001-05:00

A 6-word memoir written by a member of my writing group last night really touched me.
Found his voice in others' lives.

He's a writer and editor, and I think he meant that he expresses himself, his 'voice,' in the way he writes about others. It's a beautiful way to put that. I loved it, though, because how I interpret the same line is that I've found His (with a capital H) voice in other people's lives, in the way they live, in the things they say, in what they do. He reveals Himself in so many ways.

Since I've been writing so little, I'm going to open this up to any readers I might still have. Your turn! How have you found God in other people? How has He spoken to you through others? What experiences that you've witnessed have shown Him to you most clearly? Where/when/how do you see Him? Or anything else you want to tell me. Please, please, leave a comment. I'm serious about wanting to know.

What if Jesus Meant All That Stuff?

2011-01-19T13:34:00.000-05:00

I just saw this article posted on Facebook and wish I'd written it so I'm posting it here. It's by a man named Shane Claiborne and I have no idea where it was published originally so I beg forgiveness if I'm reproducing without permission...

To all my nonbelieving, sort-of-believing, and used-to-be-believing friends: I feel like I should begin with a confession. I am sorry that so often the biggest obstacle to God has been Christians. Christians who have had so much to say with our mouths and so little to show with our lives. I am sorry that so often we have forgotten the Christ of our Christianity.

Forgive us. Forgive us for the embarrassing things we have done in the name of God.

The other night I headed into downtown Philly for a stroll with some friends from out of town. We walked down to Penn's Landing along the river, where there are street performers, artists, musicians. We passed a great magician who did some pretty sweet tricks like pour change out of his iPhone, and then there was a preacher. He wasn't quite as captivating as the magician. He stood on a box, yelling into a microphone, and beside him was a coffin with a fake dead body inside. He talked about how we are all going to die and go to hell if we don't know Jesus.

Some folks snickered. Some told him to shut the hell up. A couple of teenagers tried to steal the dead body in the coffin. All I could do was think to myself, I want to jump up on a box beside him and yell at the top of my lungs, "God is not a monster." Maybe next time I will.

The more I have read the Bible and studied the life of Jesus, the more I have become convinced that Christianity spreads best not through force but through fascination. But over the past few decades our Christianity, at least here in the United States, has become less and less fascinating. We have given the atheists less and less to disbelieve. And the sort of Christianity many of us have seen on TV and heard on the radio looks less and less like Jesus.

At one point Gandhi was asked if he was a Christian, and he said, essentially, "I sure love Jesus, but the Christians seem so unlike their Christ." A recent study showed that the top three perceptions of Christians in the U. S. among young non-Christians are that Christians are 1) antigay, 2) judgmental, and 3) hypocritical. So what we have here is a bit of an image crisis, and much of that reputation is well deserved. That's the ugly stuff. And that's why I begin by saying that I'm sorry.

Now for the good news.

I want to invite you to consider that maybe the televangelists and street preachers are wrong — and that God really is love. Maybe the fruits of the Spirit really are beautiful things like peace, patience, kindness, joy, love, goodness, and not the ugly things that have come to characterize religion, or politics, for that matter. (If there is anything I have learned from liberals and conservatives, it's that you can have great answers and still be mean... and that just as important as being right is being nice.)

The Bible that I read says that God did not send Jesus to condemn the world but to save it... it was because "God so loved the world." That is the God I know, and I long for others to know. I did not choose to devote my life to Jesus because I was scared to death of hell or because I wanted crowns in heaven... but because he is good. For those of you who are on a sincere spiritual journey, I hope that you do not reject Christ because of Christians. We have always been a messed-up bunch, and somehow God has survived the embarrassing things we do in His name. At the core of our "Gospel" is the message that Jesus came "not [for] the healthy... but the sick." And if you choose Jesus, may it not be simply because of a fear of hell or hope for mansions in heaven.

Don't get me wrong, I still believe in the afterlife, but too often all the church has done is promise the world that there is life after death and use it as a ticket to ignore the hells around us. I am convinced that the Christian Gospel has as much to do with this life as the next, and that the message of that Gospel is not just about going up when we die but about bringing God's Kingdom down. It was Jesus who taught us to pray that God's will be done "on earth as it is in heaven." On earth.

One of Jesus' most scandalous stories is the story of the Good Samaritan. As sentimental as we may have made it, the original story was about a man who gets beat up and left on the side of the road. A priest passes by. A Levite, the quintessential religious guy, also passes by on the other side (perhaps late for a meeting at church). And then comes the Samaritan... you can almost imagine a snicker in the Jewish crowd. Jews did not talk to Samaritans, or even walk through Samaria. But the Samaritan stops and takes care of the guy in the ditch and is lifted up as the hero of the story. I'm sure some of the listeners were ticked. According to the religious elite, Samaritans did not keep the right rules, and they did not have sound doctrine... but Jesus shows that true faith has to work itself out in a way that is Good News to the most bruised and broken person lying in the ditch.

It is so simple, but the pious forget this lesson constantly. God may indeed be evident in a priest, but God is just as likely to be at work through a Samaritan or a prostitute. In fact the Scripture is brimful of God using folks like a lying prostitute named Rahab, an adulterous king named David... at one point God even speaks to a guy named Balaam through his donkey. Some say God spoke to Balaam through his ass and has been speaking through asses ever since. So if God should choose to use us, then we should be grateful but not think too highly of ourselves. And if upon meeting someone we think God could never use, we should think again.

After all, Jesus says to the religious elite who looked down on everybody else: "The tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the Kingdom ahead of you." And we wonder what got him killed?

I have a friend in the UK who talks about "dirty theology" — that we have a God who is always using dirt to bring life and healing and redemption, a God who shows up in the most unlikely and scandalous ways. After all, the whole story begins with God reaching down from heaven, picking up some dirt, and breathing life into it. At one point, Jesus takes some mud, spits in it, and wipes it on a blind man's eyes to heal him. (The priests and producers of anointing oil were not happy that day.)

In fact, the entire story of Jesus is about a God who did not just want to stay "out there" but who moves into the neighborhood, a neighborhood where folks said, "Nothing good could come." It is this Jesus who was accused of being a glutton and drunkard and rabble-rouser for hanging out with all of society's rejects, and who died on the imperial cross of Rome reserved for bandits and failed messiahs. This is why the triumph over the cross was a triumph over everything ugly we do to ourselves and to others. It is the final promise that love wins.

It is this Jesus who was born in a stank manger in the middle of a genocide. That is the God that we are just as likely to find in the streets as in the sanctuary, who can redeem revolutionaries and tax collectors, the oppressed and the oppressors... a God who is saving some of us from the ghettos of poverty, and some of us from the ghettos of wealth.

In closing, to those who have closed the door on religion — I was recently asked by a non-Christian friend if I thought he was going to hell. I said, "I hope not. It will be hard to enjoy heaven without you." If those of us who believe in God do not believe God's grace is big enough to save the whole world... well, we should at least pray that it is.

Your brother,

Shane

Wading boots

2010-12-10T13:21:00.001-05:00

Pastor Nathan told us a story about how he loved to fish when he was a little boy, about ten or eleven. He loved it so much, and he thought, “If I could just get out farther, then I could really catch something.” So his mama bought him some wading boots. With the waders on, he could get a whole foot or two deeper in the water, but he still had to be careful because of the way the sides drooped down and would let water in. He was so excited, and he fearlessly waded out into the water… then he felt himself sinking into the mud at the bottom. He tried to move, but the boots were held in place by the mud that was sucking them down. He couldn’t get them to budge. He quickly realized that the only way to get loose was to leave the boots behind. He had to come up out of them in order to be free.

It’s a lot like sin, don’t you think? We convince ourselves we can get a little bit closer, get in just a little bit deeper, mistakenly thinking we have the power to pull ourselves out when things start to get a little dangerous. We think it’s OK to get in up to our ankles, then we’ll go to our knees, then maybe even our waists. But we won’t get in all the way, and we won’t do it without a little bit of protection. We put on the illusion of safety. We tell a friend to hold us accountable, or we ask someone at church to pray for us. But we don’t stay out of the water. Oftentimes, we find ourselves going in just a little bit further. One more inch… one more… there! We’re still OK. We can still see the shore. Forget all the dangers that might lurk in the waters, we’re focused on the surface, on ourselves, on how far we can push it. We urge a friend to tell us all the details of a situation, feigning concern, then we gossip to another friend under the guise of a prayer request. We might start with a simple conversation, then become friends with someone we see at work or around town, then think, well, it wouldn’t hurt to text them. And before you know it, the harmless flirtation has serious repercussions on a marriage, and on the kids, and on everyone involved. We think, I’ve had a hard day, so we pour ourselves a drink to help us sleep. Then maybe two, and maybe three the next night. Before we know it, moderation is a thing of the past. The thing we thought we could control is controlling us.

I’m strong, I’m a Christian, I’m walking right with God, we say. We think that God winks at our mishaps, fondly shaking His head at all the times we mess up. We pray, genuinely repentant, on Sunday mornings, and then go home and make excuses for ourselves all week long. But our God, while forgiving and gracious and merciful, is first and foremost holy. All the un-holy things we do put a wedge between us and Him. Instead of inching closer to sin, we should be inching closer to God, before the current gets too strong, and the mud too deep, and we find that we’re stuck. We need to come up out of the sin that entangles us and let it go. It’s OK to leave it behind. When we are truly walking with God, that’s where sin belongs. Behind us.

My offering

2010-12-02T08:42:00.000-05:00

"Your stories, they are a gift. They were given only to you. You are the only one who could have experienced them the way that you did. You are the only one who can tell them the way you do. They were a gift, and it is your obligation to offer that back, to do what you can do with it and offer it back to the Lord." These aren't the exact words of a friend of mine, but this is how I remember a conversation with a fellow writer several weeks ago.

These words have rolled around in the gapingly open, empty void inside my head ever since.

These are my stories. I don't just have the option of telling them. I have an obligation. I do believe that to be true. That's how it feels to me, anyway. It also helps explain the power I feel when I do just that, when I record my experiences in writing, when I step back, out of the way, and let God take over.

Tonight I learned at Bible study something I already knew, but I connected to it in a whole new way. Christians often quote the part of the Scripture that says, "Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice." OK, I know that and try to do it. And I find myself getting all puffed up when I do it, feeling proud, feeling blessed and holy. But I think the most important part is next: "For this is your reasonable act of service." Oh. It's not going above and beyond. When I operate under the power of the gifts He has given me, when I am simply doing what I am good at, when I am using my abilities, both the ones that come naturally and the ones that I've worked hard to develop - I'm only doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm not making God proud of me. I'm not earn brownie points. No, I'm just doing my duty. It's no more impressive than a child not throwing their juice boxes on the floor. (Although in my household, that is something that would be impressive.)

So I'm putting these two ideas together, and this year for Christmas, Lord, I am giving you an offering. I am going to use what you have given me, the stories of my life, of my faith, and write them to give back to you. I don't care if anything comes from them. I don't care if there seems to be no purpose. I am simply going to move forward into the bare minimum category. By writing for you every day, maybe, hopefully, I will advance out of the bare minimum category into something more. But right now, I'm not even doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm not cleaning my room, doing the dishes, or making my bed, so to speak. Bare minimums. And if I want to find more, I have to first step into that. So here I go, stepping forward in faith, using what you've given me, asking you to accept this humble offering.

Why you haven't seen much of me lately (part 2)

2010-11-18T16:28:00.001-05:00

I've been in such a crazy phase of my life lately. I have been involved in an ongoing project since June, and it has consumed my little corner of the world. I'm friends with a wonderful couple in Virginia who own an advertising agency. They are talented and vivacious and have the most amazing connections. Anyway, they were hired to do a re-branding campaign for a Fortune 500 company, and they asked me to come aboard and help. I was not one of the lead creative people, but it was an experience I couldn't pass up. It's had its ups and downs, and now the project is almost finished and I can breathe again!

So maybe sometime soon I will write again.

In the meantime, I spent what little free time I could find recycling some things I'd already written... and ta da! My devotional was born. I designed a book containing 48 pages of my essays, paired with relevant scriptures, thoughts for the day and prayers. I'm giving them as Christmas gifts but since the minimum order was many more than the number of people on my list, I have them for sale as well. Cost is $7 and I can take checks or credit cards. Anyway, I'm a lousy salesman, so I won't tell you how great and inspiring these are... but if anyone is interested, call or email me and I'll get one to you.

Thanks, and hopefully I'll be getting back into a more regular posting schedule now.

Kelly
765.366.6709 or kelly@kosdesign.com

Why you haven't seen much of me lately (part 1)

2010-11-18T16:24:00.001-05:00

Getting ready for these upcoming jewelry shows. I usually only make things once or twice a year, but I was inspired by some amazing jewelry at an art fair this fall and have been consumed with going insanely overboard. If you're in the area, I'd love to see you at one of these events...

Staying on the right road

2010-10-16T18:39:00.000-04:00

The shock of it all nearly caused me to skid off the road. Luckily, no one was behind me when I slammed on my brakes. It couldn’t be the same place, could it? But it was.

This past winter, in a foolish attempt to take photos one cold, foggy morning, I took a detour down a treacherous, muddy road. My car wallowed in the thick soggy earth, I barely made it through, and the friends I saw right after the experience still laugh about the look on my face when I told them the story. How scared I was, how my car kept getting bogged down by the thick, viscous mud, how I was sliding from side to side and couldn’t slow down or pull over or stop and I was bouncing through pot holes and holding on to the steering wheel for dear life and praying out loud the whole time — nothing any more coherent than “Lord Jesus, please, Lord Jesus, please” over and over again. But today? Today it looked lovely. Clear, golden sunshine filtering down onto the weeds and flowers, which were overgrown at the end of summer, the feathery grasses rippling in the warm breeze. Bountiful fields of crops, looking ripe and hearty under a brilliant blue sky. Hard-packed dusty ground traced a benign path between the fields. It appeared to be the perfect, peaceful, idyllic country scene.

My journey last winter struck terror in my heart — and today? Nothing. Sometimes it’s all about timing. It’s about seasons, and using wisdom, and knowing when to put yourself into situations and when to take yourself out. The same goes for the spiritual world, too. My faith is strong today, but what about last month? Or two weeks from now? We can’t stop watching where we are going. The very same place that is dangerous today might not be in six months. And what was perfectly fine last year could be very, very dangerous and traumatic this year. There are innumerable variables that change daily — our situations, our circumstances, our finances, insecurities, emotions, hormones, relationships, self-esteem. Maybe running into your ex-boyfriend this week wouldn’t phase you, but had you seen him two months ago when you were tired and exhausted and mad at your husband, it could have led to lots of bad complications. Maybe this month your bills are paid, but next month you will be tempted by money someone left sitting out or lie about your situation to get your creditors off your back.

I guess that is why we’re told to rely on our faith. Faith comes from God, not from us, so it’s not dependent on our judgment or abilities or circumstances. We can’t know what dangers lurk around the next bend. How bumpy the road will be. How slippery the path. Without faith, the thought of navigating down that road is really scary. But with faith – with Him – we can take a deep breath and relax our grip on the wheel. Because we know He’ll help us stay on the right road.

Where in the world have I been?

2010-10-15T11:10:00.001-04:00

Nowhere. Stuck right here in my office, working frantically for a client who thinks the world revolves around their needs. I agreed to it, and that's OK, but it's taken over my life and I'm trying to regain some control :-). The project should end around December 1st, and then maybe I'll be back to normal (whatever "normal" is for me!). Sorry I haven't posted for so long. I actually wrote a couple essays this week and should be posting more soon. But in the meantime, just wanted to say hello, in case anyone out there is still checking in, and to post a link to a surprise I found this morning. I went online to read the latest issue of Kyria magazine, and discovered that another of my devotions is in this issue. They bought it months and months ago but just hadn't told me when it would be running. Pretty exciting to happen upon something like that.

Hope you enjoy... (go here and turn to page 5)
Plugged in to the Source

Creating order from chaos

2010-09-01T08:35:00.000-04:00

As I sat last night, beads in little plastic drawers and piles all around me, feeling my soul soothed by the sorting and ordering and grouping of colors and shapes and styles, rearranging drawers by color families in a smooth progression, I had to wonder. How big a dork am I? With each drawer that was properly placed, each bag or string of beads that was cut loose and tumbled, clickety-clack, into drawers, my troubles seemed to ease. My stress lightened, my mood brightened. Maybe it's as simple as the fact that I love shiny things. But maybe it's more.

This morning, as I thanked God that I felt better, I asked Him why sorting helped me so much. And immediately my spirit answered: because that's what He does. He creates order from chaos. He takes despair and confusion and replaces it with hope and wisdom. He reorders, restructures, regroups, taking the raw materials that were there and making something entirely new from them. Something better. He created form from the void, light from darkness. So, perhaps, when we impose order on the jumbled mess all around us, we connect with Him on some level. No, I don't mean that we are playing God. It's not about having the same kind of power. It's about eliminating confusion, erasing doubt, creating sense from disorder — finding peace in the storm.

Thank You, dear Lord, for peace in the midst of the storm. If it can be found in the small storms, it's also there in the monsoons, because You do not change. So as I organize, categorize and alphabetize, help me remember to give You thanks for the way You do all those things within me, in the chaotic, ransacked mess that is my soul.

Remodeling - new article at Kyria.com

2010-08-11T21:15:00.000-04:00

Last week, Kyria published another article, this one about remodeling my house alongside my dad. Check it out!

Speaking a new language

2010-07-24T17:10:00.000-04:00

A couple months ago, my third-grade son went through a phase in which he incorporated his “Caesar’s English” words into his conversations. Even though the words were correct, it was strange to hear such big words come out of his mouth. During the high school honors night, which was three hours long, he leaned over, sighed, and repeated over and over, “This is tedious.” And in spite of the fact that the kids being honored were amazing and impressive, I had to agree. A few days later, he talked about what would happen “if the anger pervaded his body” and about how languor creeps over him at night. As a word person myself, I love the way he plays with language, tries out the words, sees how they sound and how they work together. The “new” words sound funny to us — very conspicuous and out of place because we don’t hear them very often. But they’re right, accurate, and appropriate. If we know what they mean.

However, sometimes people use words we don’t know. Have you ever suffered through a conversation in which someone uses the same word, over and over, and you have no idea what they’re talking about? But you feel too stupid to ask? When a whole lesson or conversation hinges on a concept that you don’t understand, it leaves you feeling angry and frustrated and embarrassed — and convinced you’re in the wrong place.

Many of us try out a new language when we get into church. We talk about our Christian walks, say we’re children of the King, that we’re born again and saved and were lost in sin before we found Jesus. There’s nothing wrong with that. And if you know what those things mean, the expressions are entirely accurate. But if you’re not immersed in the culture of the Christian church, the words and phrases jump out at you, awkward and obvious. In our effort to show that we belong, I think sometimes we unintentionally push away those who don’t go to church. They don’t have a clue what those words actually mean (covered by blood? — yuck!), and at face value they sound downright weird (if you found Jesus, was he lost?). Because of the confusion the words create, they become more and more convinced they don’t belong. So they decide to stay far away.

It’s good and right to talk about the ways our lives have changed since God became a part of them. And it’s wonderful to tell people how real He is and who He is. But just remember that not everyone knows the language. Don’t talk down to people, just think about what you’re saying. A good friend talks about, not when she was saved or born again, but when she started to fall in love with Jesus. Instead of pushing me away, that makes me want to know more. I want to hear the rest of her story. And I hope I can phrase things in ways that make people want to hear mine. Because each one of our stories is also His story, and those are the words people long to hear.

Writers group

2010-07-15T15:06:00.000-04:00

I've put this on Facebook and emailed a few people, but I thought I should mention it here, too. For information about a writers group starting in August in Crawfordsville, please go here:
http://oksowrite.wordpress.com/

No more false advertising

2010-07-09T23:04:00.000-04:00

Many years ago, I worked in an advertising agency in Indianapolis. One day, my fellow art directors and I were eating at Wendy’s. I distinctly remember the moment one of the guys unwrapped his sandwich, a look of disbelief and disappointment on his face.

“Does this look like that?” he asked, pointing to the large color poster covering the window next to us. No, not even marginally. The chicken patty was smooshed flat, the bun crushed on one side and wrinkled where it had been too tightly wrapped; the lettuce was a tiny piece of off-white, limp iceberg lettuce; and the tomato was the palest of pinks, drooping halfway off the bun. The photo on the poster showed fresh, plump, thick, mouthwatering chicken with a glorious red tomato and deep green, ruffly-edged lettuce. There are rules in advertising about showing the actual product you’re selling, but there are also people called food stylists who know how to make ice look like it’s exceptionally cold and the produce look like it’s glistening with moisture, freshly picked from the garden out back. The bedraggled sandwich sitting in front of my friend was a pale, poor substitute for what he thought he was getting.

Sometimes I think I do a similar thing when it comes to God. Oh, I mean well. I want to present Him with the best I have to offer — worship that is sincere and authentic and passionate, writing that is for His glory, prayer that never ceases and always seeks His will. But instead, I find myself throwing up a quick prayer before being distracted by the busy-ness of life. Or I come into church to worship, freely and gladly, but because I haven’t sought Him in prayer yet that day, it takes me a while to focus. Or, worst of all, I write an essay or prepare a lesson and when I get praise, I chalk it up to my own abilities. I know He inspired it all, but sometimes I want part of the credit. So what I end up giving Him is like that sandwich at Wendy’s, a second-rate, disappointing substitute. Yes, I’m still offering Him something, and in His goodness and mercy He always accepts it, but deep down I think He must be sad not to get what I’d promised.

We are called to offer ourselves as a living sacrifice — and that means our whole selves. If we take credit for some of our abilities, or if we offer not our first fruits but our second (or third or last) fruits, we’re trying to pass off a mealy slice of tomato for the lush, juicy, nourishing one we promised. Our sacrifice is no longer complete, but something less. What we bring to Him doesn’t have to be perfect. It can be sloppy or small or faulty, as long as it’s the best we have. If it is, He will turn it into something beautiful. No more shoddy replacements for the real thing. I want to see His eyes light up at what I present to Him, knowing I’ve truly offered it all.

Inner tubes

2010-07-03T14:18:00.000-04:00

Swimming pools and me... two things that don’t go together. As I lie in the sun, I’m conscious of the sun sizzling my pale, unnaturally white skin. I feel the freckles forming on my face, popping out in the heat like popcorn on a stove. My body just wasn’t made to comfortably withstand heat, so I inevitably end up in the water — even though I’ll have to put on more sunscreen later. Unfortunately, I’m not much of a swimmer, either, so I prefer to lie on top of a raft or inner tube, dangling my feet and hands into the refreshing water but staying safely, for the most part, above it. (The splashing sounds in the pool help drown out the sounds of my skin turning crispy.)

My husband has always been a strong swimmer, and he doesn’t see much of a need for a floatation device. He will hop out of boats in the middle of the ocean to snorkel, diving down to look at the bright colors, coming up occasionally to check on me as I hesitantly float on the surface, life jacket and goggles and all. He dives into pools, swims along the bottom, and feels no fear. Not me.

I’ve been reading a lot lately in Christian publications about how churches fall short, about how “church” and “religion” have gotten in the way of so many people’s relationships with the Lord. Some people are turning away from church and trying to find God on their own. And if that works for them, that’s great. But I think the church is a lot like that inner tube I hold onto for dear life in the pool. Sure, if you’re a great swimmer, maybe you can navigate through life’s stresses on your own and still stay afloat. And for short distances, you might be more efficient and agile on your own. But sometimes, life is not full of sunlight and happiness. Sometimes there are storms. Bitterly cold rains. Churning, turbulent waters. And sometimes you’re not in a friend’s small pool, but in bigger waters — ponds, rivers, oceans. The distance might overwhelm you. You might be in over your head or choke on water or be knocked down by the waves or even find scary predators hiding below the surface. And when those waters get rough, or when your arms get tired, that’s when you need the security of the church. That the point at which an inner tube just might save your life.

Not every church can be everything to every person, and it shouldn’t be. The church cannot create or maintain an intimacy with God for us. But until we get there on our own, or when we can’t do it on our own, we can depend on the church to help hold our heads above water until we find firm footing again. And when we find ourselves lucky enough to be in a sunny swimming pool, we can focus on improving our abilities so that we’re strong, ready to help the next person who feels like he’s going under.

The force behind the words

2010-06-17T09:28:00.001-04:00

The jam session ended with Brad singing a quiet, acoustic version of "Daggers," one of his best songs. When it was over, he said, "That's the first song I didn't write." It came to him... in a burst of divine inspiration. "It belongs to God," Brad said. "But I get to carry it around for a lifetime."
~from O Me of Little Faith, by Jason Boyett

Readers, I'd love to hear your stories of when this has happened to you (if it has), whether it was in your writing or speaking or music or art or...

And since I've been asking for input but not offering much myself lately, I'll just tell you about one small instance. I've kept a journal for years, starting seriously and regularly shortly after I "discovered" God. Without fail, writing to God and for God brings my life back into order. I remember sitting on the front porch, back when we had a lovely front porch with a purple porch swing (which my friend Rosanne enjoys now). I was writing in my journal, and I decided to flip back a few pages and read what I'd written. I remember getting chills all over as I read the words, in my own handwriting, in my own journal, from two weeks earlier... and not having ANY recollection whatsoever of writing them. It didn't sound like me. It didn't feel like me. My only conclusion was that it wasn't me. I was awed and humbled and amazed. From that point on I knew, without the slightest hesitation or question, that I could never stop writing, always hoping and praying that He will take over. It sounds rather presumptuous to say they're His words, to claim that the holy, divine God would deign to speak to me or through me, and I promise I don't mean this to elevate myself at all. Not at all. I know much of what I write is mine. But I long for the moments when the words that come are no longer mine. When I feel Him take over, when the words tumble out, complete, correct. When certain words are the only ones that will do. When I try to change them only to know that the original word must remain, only to know that the rhythm, the meaning, the thoughts, everything is already done for me. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does I don't want to move or lose the moment. And when it does I thank my God, in tears, for being so real, so personal, so present, so so amazing.

It doesn't matter

2010-06-17T09:01:00.000-04:00

My lack of does not diminish His greatness. None of my failings can change His essential character.

It doesn’t matter what I do, Lord. You’re still able to work in spite of me.

It doesn’t matter how I fail. You still succeed.

It doesn’t matter how incapable I am. You’re still able.

It doesn’t matter if I have nothing. You’re still everything.

It doesn’t matter if I’m broke. You still provide.

It doesn’t matter how alone I feel. You’re still there beside me.

It doesn’t matter what the news says, or doctors, or anyone else. You’ve already proved victorious over the world.

It doesn’t matter who I am. You’re still who You are. You’re still all in all. More than enough. Effortlessly, elegantly enough.

And the winner is...

2010-06-09T08:12:00.000-04:00

Joyce — which seems right she was the first one to clue me in to this holiday. (And no, the drawing was not rigged, and I would have been just as happy had any of the others of you won instead.) And since you're local, Joyce, I'll get them from Pastries Plus. I'll email you to work out the details. Thanks, everyone, for participating. Now I have some writing to do.

National Donut Day Giveaway

2010-06-05T09:58:00.000-04:00

I didn't know until the day after, but yesterday was National Donut Day. Seems like a date that should be commemorated on this blog. How did I not know?

According to Wikipedia, National Donut Day is on the first Friday of June each year, succeeding the Donut Day event created by the Salvation Army in 1938 to honor the women who served donuts to soldiers during World War I.

So how does this holiday affect you? Leave a comment with a suggestion for some topic you might like to see discussed, or some aspect of Christianity that seems confusing or gets in the way, or just say hello. I'll send a gift certificate for a box of Dunkin' Donuts (or buy and deliver a box from Pastries Plus if you're local, and maybe even a cup of coffee) to one winner chosen at random (names in a hat). Your odds are good — I think I only have about 10 readers :-). I'll post the winner next week. Thanks!

Putting the action behind the verb

2010-06-04T21:42:00.003-04:00

There used to be a clear distinction between nouns and verbs. Nouns are people, places, and things. Verbs are words that show an action. Simple, right? But in the past few years, our society has switched things around. Developments in computer technology have given us new abilities, and instead of creating words to mean what we want to say, we’ve simply “verbed” the nouns. It used to be that I would send [a verb] an e-mail [a noun]. Now we’ve changed it to a verb — I’ll e-mail you. When I highlight something and color it pink, I say, “I’ll pink that.” When I want to send you a message, I message you, and of course we text each other. We’re all familiar with Facebook — a website [noun] — but now, it’s also a verb. He facebooked me. Or he friended me.

Ironically, when it comes to many things in the Bible, we’ve done just the opposite — we’ve taken words meant to be active and converted them into static, dry, abstract concepts. When the Bible tells us to love one another, it doesn’t mean to write romantic letters or daydream or evaluate the nuances of that love to determine how it makes us feel. It means to show love. Feed the hungry, clothe the poor. When it tells us to have faith, it doesn’t mean to spend months hypothesizing about the relative truths of Jesus’ claims and trying to figure out if or how they apply. It means to walk in faith. Act as though we believe it. Proceed as though it’s all been proven, even if it hasn’t. Even if we have doubts. Even if we aren’t 100% sure. The actions transform the motions into beliefs. The gestures evoke the feelings. And then the words mean what they are supposed to mean.

I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve been missing the point. Have I been so concerned with my own abstract “spirituality,” so focused on how I feel about God and so intent on discovering what purpose He has for me, that I’ve neglected to do what God wants me to do? Do my prayers focus on my own needs and neglect those of the community of believers? Have I changed faith from a tangible, concrete belief that makes a difference into a vague concept that means virtually nothing? Go. Do. Preach. Teach. Clothe. Feed. Help. Follow. In the Bible, Jesus’ disciples didn’t sit around waiting, unless Jesus specifically told them to. They didn’t have to earn a degree to be qualified to talk about God, or talk about whether they’ve been suitably empowered by the Spirit to be able to serve, or wonder which song would inspire people to kneel at the altar, or look at their watches when “worship” lasted too long. Their lives changed. They watched others’ lives change. So they went. Baptized. Preached. Made disciples. Shared their experiences. Obeyed. Prayed. Worshipped. Believed. Inspired. And loved. In the most active sense of the word and in the simplest of languages, they had faith. And so will I.

On writing

2010-05-18T10:39:00.001-04:00

Found this today on Max Lucado's website and just had to share. So beautiful and inspiring to a writer who wants to be all he says we need to be. Some of my favorite excerpts:

They also wrote with their lives first. They lived the message before they scribed it. ... He [Paul] responded to a real world with real words. Let’s do the same.

Let your life be your first draft. Shouldn’t Christian writers be Christian writers? Love grumpy neighbors. Feed hungry people. Help a struggling church. Pay your bills, your dues, and attention to your spouse. You’ll never write better than you live.

And:

And isn’t that our aim? The best book possible? We need good books. We need your best book. Don’t give up. Be stubborn with your standard. Stay faithful in prayer. Don’t begrudge the hard work. Peter De Vries said, “I write well when I’m inspired and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.”

A framed quote greets me each time I sit at my desk. “You wanna write? Put your butt in that chair and sit there a long, long time.” Writing is not glamorous work.
But it is a noble work.

There is a single mother who, tonight, is utterly exhausted. Three kids and long hours have taken their toll. She keeps a book on her bedside. She has only a few moments to read. She just needs a word, a phrase, a refined sentence to lift her heart. Would you write it?

Tomorrow a businessman will follow his daily routine. He will turn from the numbers on his screen to the words on a blog. He doesn’t need much, just an anchor-point, a reminder. Would you write it?

A teenager is looking for a book. Her friends fill their minds with stories of vampires, magicians, and goblins, but she wants more. She wants truth, creative truth. She wants hope. Hope on a page. Will you give it to her?

We need you to do this. We need your best work and it is work. But it is a valued work. A worthwhile work. A holy work. May you do such a work.

May you, like John, depict the heavens. May you, like Paul, love the churches. May you, like John, connect with a Theophilus in your world. May you pick up their pens and write for the soul.

Internet Cafe Devotions

2010-05-17T08:36:00.001-04:00

I'm thrilled to announce that I'm being featured as Guest Barista today with my essay "Just Keep Drivin'". Check it out (if you haven't already read it here before).

Skip the small talk

2010-04-27T20:45:00.015-04:00

I have breakfast most mornings in a local coffee shop. A long, narrow historic building on the corner of Main Street, the café has a long counter, several tables lined up on a scuffed wooden floor, painted two-story-high tin ceiling, big glass jars full of glossy coffee beans, and the best bagels in town (cooked on a grill, smothered in real butter). Anna has my Americano ready in my regular mug by the time I get to the counter. I usually sit near the back, wedged in a corner at a small table with my laptop (or Bible study book, or journal, or a friend). I’ve been doing this long enough and routinely enough that people know where to find me any given weekday between 8:15 and 9:30. At least a couple days a week, one of my girlfriends will show up and plop down across from me, coffee (or mocha or iced chai) in hand. But whether or not someone shares my table, I’ve noticed that nearly every day three or four different people stop to ask what I’m writing, comment on my Facebook status from that morning, show me pictures of a daughter at prom or discuss their latest run or vent or ask advice or laugh and tell stories or even hold hands and pray. I know them by name, or at least by sight. I have some idea where they work or what they do or if (and where) they attend church or if this is their normal day to come in (and where they normally sit). I know who’s working on a sermon, and who’s doing schoolwork, and who hangs out together on weekends. I’m comfortable there, in “my” coffee shop. It feels like home. I know these people.

But do I really? Settling in to pray the other morning, I found myself feeling uncomfortable. The words were stilted, the conversation seemed awkward, and I was self-conscious. I pray, and I study, but my life has been out of control for several weeks and I haven’t given God the time He deserves. I felt like I’d been away for so long that I didn’t remember how to be with Him. At that moment, God brought to my mind these relationships. They seem real, and they are in fact genuine friendships with really great people. But do we know how to go deep? Small talk is fine, and easy, in a large room full of people. But what would be it be like if there were just two of us, sitting alone in a room, trying to express our most private thoughts? It hit me that I’ve become guilty of letting my relationship with the Lord become superficial. I’ve been doing the social thing, talking about Him, saying hi when I happen to bump into Him — but claiming He’s my dearest friend. He has been that before, and He is willing to be that again — when I’m ready to sit down with Him and close out everyone else. When I’m willing to go deep, expose my emotions, and confess my secrets. When I want to spend time getting to know Him again, not in a public way, not in the way everyone else knows Him, but in my own way. When I want to be a true friend, and not just an acquaintance. When I’m ready to drop the small talk and meet God Almighty face to face. He’s already waiting at my favorite table. All I have to do is sit down.

Writer, writer and writer

2010-04-25T16:06:00.002-04:00

On Friday night, my friend Lisa and I had the chance to hear Elizabeth Berg speak, read from her latest, The Last Time I Saw You, and sign our books. She was as delightful in person as her writing, characters and observations are in her books. Of course. Someday maybe someone will show up to hear me do a reading from my latest book. It could happen.

It was also the night I found what may very well be the perfect journal. A new kind. The brand name is ecosystem, and it's approx. 7.5 x 10", about 1/2" thick, in an obnoxious watermelon pink color with a matching elastic strap, quirky patterns printed in the same color on the inside front and back covers, wonderfully smooth paper with narrow, delicate lines, and it even has a pocket in the back. The cover is flexible and satiny-feeling. Oh, and the pages are even (very subtly) perforated. It just feels good to hold. Even though it's not green (either it doesn't come in that size or they were just out at the moment), I think they've achieved journalistic perfection with this one. Trust me, this is a spiritual thing for me.

So now... well, I guess I need to get busy writing.

Something to think about

2010-04-24T22:05:00.000-04:00

I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ. ~Gandhi

Shoes

2010-04-17T15:12:00.000-04:00

I, like many women, love shoes. Unfortunately, I’ve reached a point in my life where comfort matters. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still find cute shoes. My husband doesn’t understand why I have so many, or why I need more. To him, black shoes are black shoes, end of story. (He has one pair.) But to me? The black high-heeled mules go with many of my suits. The Land’s End black sandals have a wonderfully comfy sole and are great to wear with jean shorts in the summer. The black flats with the pewter trim are good for dressing up jeans but still staying comfy, although if I’m going to do a lot of walking I switch to the worn-out black Skechers with Velcro straps. The black and gray slip-ons are kind of quirky; the black sandals with the ankle strap are professional-looking but cool and I can walk miles on the flat 2” heel; and the black sandals with woven straps and wedge heels are great with summer dresses but kill the balls of my feet if I wear them too long. The black Clark’s Mary Janes with the colorful stitching and leather flowers are my most fun (but almost too small) pair. And I haven’t even mentioned the four pairs of black boots — knee-high with spike heels for wearing with certain dresses; ankle-high with pointy toes for certain slacks; casual, cowboy-boot-style for jeans; and warm, soft cable-knit winter boots. My house slippers are even black.

In the natural world, I can justify the “need” for a bunch of different pairs — as long as buying them doesn’t take the place of food or paying bills or providing the needs of my family. But in the spiritual realm, I’ve noticed many of us put on shoes that were never meant for our feet. We put on shoes of unbelief; strap on division and strife and disloyalty; walk around with unforgiveness or resentment or untruth or deception or hate. We put on all these shoes, but we really only need one, for the Lord says we must shod our feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace (Ephesians 6:15). We need to let peace carry us through our days — without pain, without blisters, without vanity. The footprints we leave behind should be gentle and unobtrusive, yet distinct and memorable. The shoe may not be what we’re used to wearing, and it may take some time to break it in. But when we put these shoes on, we discover something surprising — there is no longer a need for any other pair. No matter how much we try to justify it. Not even if they’re on sale.

A tribute to Mah

2010-04-15T20:29:00.001-04:00

I wanted to write something about her — not filled with platitudes, and not pretending she is suddenly a saint because she is no longer with us — but simply with a whole lot of love and sadness for what we’ve lost. People use many words to describe her — feisty, spunky, witty, independent, stubborn, strong-willed, interesting, forthright, bright. All those things are true, but she was so much more than the woman we saw these past few years.

She loved to play games. When I was younger, we would sit at her dining room table, kitchen lights off, dishes washed, with Jeopardy or the news on TV. We’d probably had catfish and macaroni and cheese, or cheese soufflé and chipped beef gravy (Kerry’s and my favorite) for dinner. Dutch apple pie for dessert. And after bowls of grapefruit and orange sections, meticulously peeled the night before, we would have homemade mush and bacon for breakfast, or maybe cowboy coffee cake, baked in metal ice cube trays. Lunch might be hunky noodle soup, or maybe grilled Havarti sandwiches on thinly-sliced Pepperidge Farms bread. With cut-glass trays of celery and carrot sticks, and big glasses of milk. The chairs we sat on had flowered needlepoint cushions she’d made herself. Moose and Jet, two sweet-tempered, loving black labs who slept under the dining room table, occasionally woke and snuffled our bare ankles. She played Solitaire after she’d worn us out playing Kings in the Corners or Yahtzee. Always frugal, she hated to roll a Yahtzee with sixes. She thought it was much better to get the 50 points from 5 ones, or to roll a large straight in a single roll, but if we happened to get lucky and roll one she wouldn’t hesitate to call us, emphatically, a fink!

The whole time I was growing up, when she lived in her house in Decatur, she was always hot, probably because she worked so hard. All the time. She wore lightweight cotton sleeveless dresses in colorful patterns – flowers and vegetables – that she made herself. She wore many of the same dresses my whole life — they still held together, they still fit, and they still suited her. Mah hated my long hair being in my face – the very sight of it made her too hot. She fanned herself and pulled her dress away from her body to cool off, but she rarely slowed down. Mom says she used to dread her mother’s visits because she knew how much work they would do — cleaning windows with ammonia, conditioning her antiques with linseed oil, scrubbing and planting and cooking.

Unlike my mother growing up, we didn’t have to wear homemade clothes, but instead got to shop for school clothes with her every summer. We would have to squat, showing the corduroy pants weren’t too tight to sit in, and button the scratchy wool coats, stretching out our arms to show we wouldn’t outgrow the sleeves anytime soon. Dot would sit in his wheelchair outside the entrance to the dressing room and give us a thumbs up or thumbs down, and when we got back to their house we’d put on a fashion show for him.

Mah had pantyhose that were older than I was. She had a penchant for costume jewelry that featured fruit and vegetables (when she wasn’t wearing beautiful “real” jewelry, custom-designed as a gift from her husband or bought in some far-off, exotic locale), and she gravitated towards sky blues and colorful patterns to fill her home. She loved to garden and hated the animals that nibbled on her plants and burrowed under her grass, and went to great lengths to try to foil them. In spite of the animals, the plants would survive, and she would slice bowls full of thin cucumber slivers fresh from the garden, soaked in vinegar with onions, and fill antique pitchers with red, orange, pink and yellow zinnias.

She taught me the difference between the words lay and lie and didn’t hesitate to correct my grammar. (The writer in me thanks her today.) She taught me the Lord’s Prayer one summer when I stayed with her and told me to pray it every night before I went to sleep. I still do, because she’s a force to be reckoned with. She made sure I washed my hands before dinner. She sent me care packages at college, boxes packed tightly with homemade lemon bars and lace cookies and wonderful peanut butter buckeyes. She wrote me long letters on legal pads and encouraged me to do my best (and in Dot’s later years, he signed them after her with a big, scribbled, laborious, emphatic “dot” in place of his name). There were no limits to what I could do, as far as she and Dot were concerned. They managed to make me believe that. And they were so proud of their grandkids and great-grandchildren.

They served as a real-life example of living the American Dream. They grew up in the Depression and had to borrow $50 to start my grandfather’s medical practice. But they were smart, and frugal, and they worked hard to save and invest. She did her nurses’ training at IU, and she defined herself by that, in spite of working very little in that role professionally. But she showed her abilities when she nursed her son Mike throughout his long battle with brain cancer, and again during the 13 years her husband suffered from ALS. Her determination could be seen in the way she got him in and out of bed several times a day, sat him at the table to read the paper (and turned pages for him), cooked for him, fed him, took him places, turned him, bathed him, deciphered his words, and showed her love for him in a selfless, committed way. And she did it all on her own, by choice, because nobody else could do it like she did. Her force of will probably added years to his life. He was strong and loving and wonderful, but she contributed a fierce determination that very few could top.

Which brings me to her marriage. As a granddaughter, I confess to being oblivious to the state of their marriage. As an adult looking back, though, I’m awed by the depths of love that were there. All I truly know, though, is that the force of their relationship was so strong, that to this day, whenever I talk about “her,” I find myself instead talking about “them.” I’ve been doing that here. My grandfather has been gone for 21 years, yet – partly because of her – he still remains somehow present. Just as she will remain present in our thoughts, opinions, and actions.

She taught me a lot about family, about the importance of building a life for them – about loving them, yes, but even more so about giving them the tools they need to succeed. She valued hard work above all else. She was content only when she knew that her family was all safely where they were supposed to be. She could relax when she knew what we were fixing them for dinner. She was one of the most patriotic people I’ve ever known, always mentioning at the top of the list of things for which she is thankful that we get to live in this country. Her husband served as a surgeon in WWII and her son served in Vietnam. She was fascinated by American Indians and I think felt a personal responsibility for the injustices they received. She fretted about politics because she wants there to be something left for her great-grandkids, a country to be proud of, a country that is not in debt, a place to live safely and with the freedom to be educated and to work hard to achieve success. She knew education made a difference in the quality of their lives, so she and Dot helped send people to school (we got a letter last week from another doctor we didn’t know they’d helped), sponsor students overseas, and donate generously to educational institutions. They established college funds for their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and she set up a scholarship at Southmont High School to benefit students entering a medical field.

She lived through many hard times, but also good times. I’ve heard stories of tent parties in their yard, scrapple breakfasts, good friends, dancing, dining, entertaining, organizing the medical auxiliary, visiting the nuns at St. Mary’s, and going to the country club. They traveled extensively themselves — to Ireland, England, Scotland, Italy, Hong Kong and the Far East, among others — and she traveled to the Holy Land. Her life had been lived, and she was ready to go. I can’t tell you how many times I heard people try to inspire her with stories of Aunt So-and-So or a father-in-law who lived to be 96 or 103 — and I watched her shudder and say how sorry she was. So even though we’re sad today, we rejoice that she finally got her wish. She’s with One who adores her, One who will keep her free from pain, and she is probably dancing with her beloved Willie right now. And I’m so glad for her.

Her daughter and other granddaughter became nurses, I’m sure in part because of the example she showed them. I didn’t get the nursing gene, but I’m realizing I did get something – a dubious honor, maybe, but one I won’t deny. When my friends are frustrated by my independence, my stubbornness, my strong opinions, or my political leanings, well, maybe, just maybe at that point Mah is living on in me. Because she taught me to use my mind. I do have opinions, and they are usually strong ones, and I reserve the right to tell you what I think. On the other hand, I also want to be informed. I may not be the cook she was, and I’m not a gardener or a canner, but I can appreciate a good meal as much as she did. She helped plant in me a love of giving and a desire to help people change their lives. I have a good education and want that opportunity for others. I understand the value of family, and I’ve seen how a strong, determined woman can make a huge difference in many people’s lives. So, although she may not have been perfect, she was an amazing woman, and I’m proud to say I’m her granddaughter.

Louise Walsh Smullen

2010-04-09T17:13:00.000-04:00

July 11, 1915 - April 4, 2010

As much as I rejoice that she is no longer suffering, I'm sad that I lost my feisty, strong-willed, interesting, bright, witty, opinionated (but loving to her family) 94-year-old grandmother.

It's been a strange, sad week, just knowing she's not there — here — any more. My sister says she pictures her dancing with our grandfather, because they always loved to dance. (That reminds me of another photo I found yesterday, which I'll also attach.) I think she's busy looking around up there, thrilled to be able to walk again, full of life, healthy and strong, being led around by Willie, her husband who died in 1989, laughing all the way. At least that's what I believe.

**

Life is a wacky combination of sadness and joy, all mixed up together. And God is good, no matter which phase you happen to be going through at the moment. But I'm thrilled to also be able to report the wonderful news I got today — Mom's latest scans are clean! She's been in remission for about 4 months this time. I'm so thankful that even though I've lost my grandma, my mom is still in good health. God has already taught me that I can't believe numbers and statistics, so I say with much faith that I believe she'll be around for a long time. And that makes me really glad.

(P.S. The little one in the sunflower hat is my daughter Katie, who is now 16.)

Drink deeply

2010-04-03T16:21:00.000-04:00

And he went a little farther, and fell on his face,
and prayed, saying, O my Father,
if it be possible, let this cup pass from me:
nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.
~ Matthew 26:39

In the Garden, Jesus prayed, “Let this cup pass from me.” Much has been written about the cup, and what it entails — the suffering involved with taking on all of mankind’s sins. But one day, as I was listening to one of my favorite worship songs, God showed me something new. In Kari Jobe’s song “The More I Seek You,” she says, “I want to sit at your feet, drink from the cup in your hand, lay back against you and breathe, feel your heart beat…”

Drink from the cup in your hand. It could mean many things — spiritual nourishment, for example. But the “cup” Jesus refers to is about suffering and temporary separation from the Father — in other words, the critical purpose of Jesus’ life. In order for us to come to a place so intimate that we can rest at the Lord’s feet, we need to be willing to drink from the cup He has for each of us. That doesn’t mean that we will necessarily have to suffer — some of us might, many of us won’t. But it does mean accepting what the Lord has for us.

He made each of us for a specific purpose. No one else could have fulfilled Jesus’ purpose. I can’t fulfill yours, and you can’t fulfill mine. But if we draw close enough to the Lord — if we offer ourselves to do God’s will, as Jesus did — then we will be drinking from the cup He has for us. We’ll be using our talents. Raising our kids with gentleness and kindness. Singing if we can sing, writing if we can write, loving, nurturing, praying, worshipping, hoping, helping, showing, shining. We’ll be drawing closer and closer to God, feeling more and more thankful that He drank from that cup 2000 years ago, understanding more and more clearly just what that meant. When He drank, He knew all that you would do, but He also knew what you are capable of overcoming. And who you are capable of becoming. He thought of you that day, overflowing with an unbelievable love for you. Yes, you. Honor Him today by accepting. Say, “Yes, Lord, I want what You have for me,” then drink. Deeply and fully and thirstily. Every last drop. You'll be glad you did.

I'm published... finally!

2010-03-30T07:29:00.000-04:00

A couple months ago, a dear friend said to me, "Do you think God gave you your talent? Do you think He made you to write?" Then she said the most profound thing ever: "What other justification do you need? WRITE!"

So I am. So I have been. And today my first article appears at Inside Indiana Business. The first of many, I hope... I have three faith essays that have been purchased by Kyria Digizine (one for the magazine and two for the website portion), the first of which will appear in May. And I've had an article accepted by the Upper Room devotional, and one by Internet Cafe Devotions.

Thanks to all of you who have encouraged me. It's happening :-).

Eraser

2010-03-28T13:16:00.006-04:00

Pastor Nathan mentioned something last week that has really stuck with me. He said to look at the end of a pencil. Someone had the foresight to know we were going to make mistakes, so they put an eraser right there on the end of the pencil, nice and handy, ready to use when we mess up. God gave us an eraser, too — it's called repentance. Repent, and our sins are gone. Blotted out, erased, as if they were never there in the first place.

Leave it to God to use office supplies to speak to me.

Color-coded Christians

2010-03-26T09:14:00.000-04:00

When I was in high school, I hated P.E. in any and all of its variations. Running? No thanks. Archery. Not my thing. Square dancing? Don’t even ask. But the worst segment of all? Swimming. What evil tyrant decided it was a good idea to put developing teens of both sexes in the same room, half-naked and dripping wet? It wasn’t an attraction issue – I don’t remember thinking anyone looked particularly good. All I remember is fretting that I looked really bad. And I’m sure I did. Insecurities run high, especially in women, and particularly in young, hormonal girls — and in any female in a swimsuit. To add insult to injury, my school provided the swimsuits. Color. Coded. By. Size. As if I didn’t feel self-conscious enough, I had to request a red suit – which meant extra large. (To be fair, one of the small sizes was also red, but there was a substantial enough difference that no one would confuse the two.) And to add insult to injury, most of the suits were outrageously stretched out from the other extra large parts most of the bigger girls had. Unfortunately, I did not, so I had to tie the straps together in back with my shoelace to keep the suit from falling off.

Some people dread coming to church as much as I dreaded swimming class, certain that everyone can spot their sins, convinced that the “churchy folk” are pointing at them saying, “She had an affair,” or “He was arrested,” or [fill in the blank]. We have trouble believing that our sins wouldn’t matter. We have trouble seeing ourselves for who we really are because we have accepted the enemy’s lies about us. We say we have faith but perhaps we don’t really believe God forgave us as He said He would. When we allow our self-identities to be defined by what we’ve done wrong, we’re essentially walking into church in color-coded suits. Adulterer? Scarlet. Addict? Green. But that’s not what church is about. As a member of God’s church, we must be careful not to “color code” those who walk in the door. It’s not our place to assign someone a category, to assume we know who they are because we know what they’ve done.

And, more important, it’s not how God functions. He says though our sins are as scarlet they will be white as snow. When we repent, when we truly understand that our behavior is preventing us from being as close to God as we could be, when we are willing to turn away from what is hindering us, then we can be confident when we approach the Lord. We can come together with God’s people, free of judgment, free of condemnation. Knowing we’re clothed in garments of righteousness, assured of our identities as children of the King, and able to stand tall and confident and without shame before Him.

Soaking in the sunlight

2010-03-20T12:57:00.000-04:00

It seems like winter has lasted forever. I’m tired of scraping the windshield of my car every morning. I’m tired of taking off my wet shoes and then stepping, sock-footed, in a puddle of melting snow tracked in by someone else. I’m tired of not being able to tell what time of day it is because the view outside my window, all day long, is dreary and gray. And when the weather is like this, not only am I tired of it, I’m just tired.

But this week the sun has been shining, bicycles and running shoes have been dusted off, and people have gone outside. Neighbors walking past smile and wave; convertible tops and car windows are rolled down, music blaring — just because they can be. It’s still cold in the mornings, almost freezing, but by afternoon we’re stripped down to t-shirts, if not shorts and flip-flops. It’s probably really not warm enough for that, but it feels so good because we’ve suffered through months of cold and darkness. I normally don’t mind winter, but even I took advantage of the sunshine this week.

One morning as I prayed with the other women at ladies prayer group, I felt the Lord shining down upon us. I raised my face up, towards the warmth and light. And He showed me something. In the sun, we soak up vitamins and feel our health being restored. But, by basking in His light, our spiritual selves are restored. Our bodies get the nourishment they need. Our hopes are renewed, our attitudes are rejuvenated, our anger and sadness disappear. It’s even better than the way the sun feels falling on your bare, pale skin. It’s even better than getting off an airplane and heading to the beach to have the sun warm you all over. Because we don’t have to wait for the weather conditions to be just right, and we don’t have to travel to a specific tropical location. We can find this wherever we are, whenever we need it. Whether it’s sunny or gray, warm or cold, whenever you’re lonely or sad or tired or hurting, just turn your face to the Light. And let Him shine.

What a friend we have in Jesus

2010-03-15T17:10:00.000-04:00

Good friends are hard to come by, but I’ve been blessed. I’ve had many friends, but they’ve not all been constant. Each phase of my life has brought me into contact with new people. The girls I ate lunch with and passed notes to in high school knew every detail of my life — who I liked, what I wore, who hurt my feelings. But we lived in different places after high school, and as they got married and had kids and I didn’t, we grew apart. In college, it was a new set of friends, people who had similar goals and dreams, people who also wanted to break free of the rules and constraints of the places where they’d grown up. My friends and I stayed up all night talking and studying, amazed by the things we had in common, helping each other map out our futures. When the “future” arrived, we all went our own directions and got busy. The phone calls and visits became farther and farther apart. The early years of my career were also the early years of my marriage, so I didn’t do much with anyone but my husband (and most of my friends were busy doing the same thing). After my children were born, I found myself moving in different circles, resuming contact with friends who also had kids, meeting people at preschool open houses and school music programs, bonding with women who, like me, jumped at activities that offered child care. Along the way I’ve found women who will share rides and pick up my children, women who like to read like I do (or shop or eat at the same Italian restaurant), people who attend the same church, people whose kids are involved in the same sport or band or play as mine.

In each stage I’ve met some amazing, bright, witty, vivacious, fun, caring, good people. But I’ve learned that even though the friendships were real, many times they were based on a shared experience — and once that experience ended, so did the relationship. Most of the time, good memories and feelings remained; we just didn’t have a whole lot in common anymore. We’d run out of things to say.

But there’s always something to say to the Lord. He doesn’t get bored hearing the same old things. Even if we run out of words regarding our own lives, there are never enough words to describe Him. To thank Him. To remember what He’s done. As long as we’re wanting to be friends with Him, we will have plenty of common ground. He doesn’t outgrow us or move into another phase; He walks right next to us wherever we are. He holds stubbornly onto us, no matter how much we do change. Because He never does. And if we’re walking with Him, trying to be more like Him, any changes we make will actually bring us into closer communion with Him. He is unlike any other friend we’ll ever have, and no matter what, the friendship will endure forever. He puts no limits on it, no length, no breadth, no height, no end. He offers it all.

Just keep drivin'

2010-03-06T15:49:00.000-05:00

A couple weeks ago, it was one of those breathtakingly beautiful mornings with fog everywhere — white snow, white sky, crisp frost on the branches. I was heading to Indianapolis so I grabbed my camera to try to capture some of this beauty. Unfortunately, as I drove along 32, I could never find a good place to pull over to take pictures. Frustrated, I vowed to take the next side road I came to. It snuck up on me in the fog, and I swung onto it... and, moments too late, noticed it was a rutted, muddy dirt road. Not even gravel, just dirt. Great. My clean white car...

I hadn’t gone far before I regretted my decision, but there was no place to stop and nowhere to turn around. There was not a single house or lane to be found. At first it was just messy and bumpy, but before long, I started composing in my head the words to explain to Tim how I got stuck in the middle of nowhere and needed to be rescued. The muck was deep and sucked at my tires. My car was sliding from side to side when it wasn’t bogged down by the deep wet earth, and the tires were spinning and spewing mud up to the top of the side windows. I didn’t care how clean my car was; all I could do was pray out loud and focus on not stopping. I knew if I so much as slowed down I’d never get moving again. The sludge in the road pulled the car from side to side; my shoulders were tense from gripping the wheel, and I repeated over and over, out loud,“Lord Jesus, please. Lord Jesus, please. Lord Jesus, please!” After two miles, I came to a crossroads (thank you, Jesus!) and the road was paved (thank you, Jesus!). With a deep breath of relief, I turned onto it, feeling stupid and annoyed with myself. I headed right back to the main road, making sure at each turn that the road was solid asphalt before me, and went directly to Indy and the nearest car wash.

Sometimes we’re faced with situations we don’t want to be in — usually because of choices (or stupid decisions) we’ve made. Those are the times we need to look for a side road and turn around, or look for the earliest opportunity to get off that path.

But once in a while, we’re in circumstances that are out of our control. A relative is very sick; we lose jobs or friends or money; we’re misunderstood or unappreciated or wrongly treated. Some of these predicaments are small, but some are all-consuming and life-altering. We may think we can’t bear it. We don’t have the strength or energy or desire to patience to get through, and our hearts are broken. But more than that, we don’t know how to keep going. We’re being pulled down into a quagmire, under the sludge and muck, trapped and unable to find a way off that path. Those are the times we need to keep the pedal to the floor and just keep going, praying all the way. It may be ugly, and it may be messy, and it may even be a little bit scary. But if we can just keep moving forward, and ask God to help, we will get past the place we’re in.

Feeling especially thankful

2010-03-01T22:30:00.000-05:00

What I sent to my clients today... but I have all of you to thank as well for the friendship and encouragement you give me. Thank you.

Transformed

2010-02-13T22:54:00.001-05:00

This time of year in Indiana isn’t always beautiful. When the snow drifts just right, and the winter sunlight glints off the snow-covered branches, and when you take time to notice that the shadows from the corn stubble left in the field are a lovely bluish-purple, then yes, it can be called pretty. But much of the time, our winter landscape consists of drab browns — grass and weeds and plants that are dead and dry and crumbly, washed-out gray skies, and the stark pointy shapes of tree branches, bare of leaves, silhouetted against the sky. But the other morning, the scenery was breathtaking.

A dense white fog had settled onto the ground in the night, and though it had cleared in most areas, it left behind a beautiful white frost. Everything was covered. The crystals outlined each and every blade of grass, the fence posts and wires, the individual pine needles, the bushes and the plants and every single delicate branch of the trees. It was breathtaking. Suddenly, the blah landscape was transformed into a thing of remarkable beauty. Everything was a shade of white, with the lightest, purest white coming from the sun, trying to burn through the fog. Bluish-whites and grayish-whites and dull whites and sparkly whites; it was like looking at a magical, make-believe world. It was the same view that had been there the night before, the same as it had been all winter — except for one thing. The frost. That one little touch — that specific combination of temperatures and humidity and cloud cover and air pressure — made all the difference in the world. Suddenly, we were able to see everything in a new way.

We’re all products of our environment, if we let ourselves be. How quickly we pick up the prevailing mood or spirit — when good things happen, our outlook is positive and hopeful; when we’re confronted with trouble or anger or hatred, we respond in kind. In other words, we are changed, just as the landscape was — but are we changed in a good way? If we soak ourselves in the glory of God, if we let Him saturate our days, our minds, and our spirits, then His beauty will cling to us. His magnificence will outline our very beings, and we’ll walk around transformed, and people will see our individual attributes and formerly hidden beauty. But if we don’t surround ourselves with His presence, if we don’t immerse our lives in His grace and mercy and love, nothing will change. We’ll still remain drab, dull, and (frankly) not all that interesting. When Moses went up on the mountain to receive the Commandments, the glory of God settled like a cloud. When he came back, he wasn’t the same because the Spirit of God changed him. Next time you draw close to God, you have a choice to make: will you stay the same, or will you be transformed by His touch?

Snow, snow, snow

2010-02-06T12:13:00.001-05:00

Turbulence

2010-01-30T18:47:00.001-05:00

I like to fly, but nearly every flight has those moments, those heart-stopping moments of fear. I hate those moments. Cruising along, finally able to turn on portable electronic devices (and listen to music on my iPod, tuning out the conversations all around), I get comfortable and open my book and, all of a sudden, the airplane bumps and bucks. We all look around, trying to gauge by the flight attendants’ expressions whether we should be worried. The plane hits more turbulence and we look out the windows, having trouble believing that we’re not actually hitting something. It feels just like a car running over something. As hard and violent as the bumps seem, it’s hard to believe there’s not something physically in the way. But to the naked eye, the air looks clear.

Air turbulence is caused by air masses traveling at different speeds. The “bumps” occur when an airplane crosses over the point where two different speeds of air meet each other. We can’t see these spots. Much of the time the pilots can’t predict or avoid them. But visible or not, they’re there. They cause the plane to suddenly accelerate or shake or dip or bounce. If you’ve never had that experience, if you’ve not been jolted around by those bumps, if you’ve not grabbed your armrest and wondered if you’ll make it home, you may not really understand. But once you’ve experienced that kind of turbulence, you know it’s real.

So many people have never had an experience with God. They may know of Him, and they may even believe in Him, but they haven’t felt him. Without personal experiences, it can be difficult to believe, and I understand that. But once you have experienced Him? You’ll feel a jolt more powerful than the air turbulence. You’ll marvel at how real He is, even if others can’t see Him. You’ll understand that experience triumphs sight — if you’ve felt Him, you don’t have to see Him. If you’ve had a run-in with the Almighty, you will know. You will feel the effects of it. You might even be a little scared. You will definitely be changed. You might even change directions. You might accelerate down the same path you were already on. You might fall down. But no matter what your personal experience is, you won’t want it to stop, because going on a journey with our Heavenly Father is like nothing else. You’ll reach new heights, and you’ll probably end up going places you never imagined. So when you feel that bump, whether it’s big or small? Don’t fight it. Don’t try to get away from it. Just close your eyes and hang on, because you’re in for the ride of your life.

A new kind of currency

2010-01-22T21:21:00.000-05:00

As I was trying to “justify” taking time out of my busy schedule to have quiet time with God, He revealed a remarkable concept to me: I need to start dealing in other currencies. Money is not the only resource of value that He has given us, and it’s not the only currency that matters to the Lord.

The Bible is clear about the importance of tithing, or giving back to God a portion of what He has given us. I remember going through different stages before I fully accepted the need to tithe, from thinking a few dollars a week was good enough, to wanting to give more, to wanting to show how much He meant to me, to trying it to see if I could afford it, and finally, to willingly and gladly giving, without question, knowing I can’t afford not to tithe. I no longer feel like I’m giving away my money to the church. I believe I am simply returning to God what was always His as a way to show my faithfulness.

Now that the commitment of tithing is deeply ingrained in my soul, God has thrown a new twist at me. It’s time to tithe on all my resources. All of them. My health. My family. My talents. My time. Especially my time. No, I don’t think God is up there with a stopwatch checking whether I give him 2.4 hours of each day. No, I don’t have to sacrifice my first-born son (although there are times I’d consider giving him away to the first taker). But I do have to remember this: It all belongs to Him. Every bit of it. Every thing of value I have came from Him. Every ounce of ability, every loving relationship, every moment of every day. So when God wants me to spend time with Him, I need to understand that I shouldn't be looking at my schedule and deciding when I can pencil Him in. I’m not picking how much time I can spare, or which part of my day I want to donate to Him. Instead, just as I do with money, I’m simply handing back to Him the part that was always His.

Same goes for every other aspect of my life. It’s not about determining exactly how much of any given thing is 10%, but it is about setting aside a portion for God. If I’m not using my talents for Him, they’re being wasted. If I’m not taking care of my body, I’m squandering the health He gave me. If I’m not using my money to further God’s kingdom, it has no lasting value. And if I’m not honoring or recognizing the Lord during my day/week/life, then it’s really not worth anything. Only when it is by Him and for Him and filled with Him does it — does anything — have value. I don’t get to decide what belongs to God. I only get to choose the attitude of my heart when I return it to Him.

Gotta love this

2010-01-21T18:47:00.000-05:00

I checked in on Dina, my favorite blogger (maybe because she seems fond of me in return) and found that she was awarded a Kreativ Blogger award. After listing five things about herself, she was to nominate a few more blogs. I'm touched that I was on that list.

So here goes... five random facts.

1) I would leave my husband for one and only man... Colin Firth... but ONLY IF he's appropriately dressed, dripping wet, and speaks as though he really is Mr. Darcy.
2) I didn't like coffee until a client of mine, who owned a gourmet coffee company, personally fixed me mochas at every meeting to try to get me hooked. Eventually the coffee taste wasn't strong enough and I graduated to coffee. Now I drink a Cafe Americano every morning (two shots of espresso and hot water).
3) When I sit down to design a new logo, I start with -- not a drawing -- but a list of words I want to describe it. (And my friend Lisa, a writer, starts with sketches instead of words.)
4) I have never watched most classic movies (shame on me) and I could never bring myself to actually read Shakespeare. Or J.R.R. Tolkien.
5) As a child, I always wished I could bring Laura Ingalls into the future and show her all the way cool things we had nowadays, like cars and TVs and refrigerators.

And now some of my favorite creative blogs (I'm only sorry I couldn't re-nominate Dina)...

the mcg family - inspiring words and the best eye. I know they're mostly of her kids, but she knows how to take an amazing photo and they're beautiful enough that I, too, love them (although I've never met any of them!). I love the way she sees the world.

Where am I wearing? - He's a published author and way beyond this, but I still love reading his perspective. Kelsey Timmerman wrote a book about going on a "global tour to the countries, factories, and people that make our clothes." What an idea!

Scott Flood Writing - I worked with Scott years ago and have always loved his sense of humor -- and his matter-of-fact approach to solving creative problems. Don't get me wrong -- he's still very creative -- but unlike so many people in the advertising community, he believes the approach should always make sense. Gotta like that.

And lastly, my friend Corinne is perhaps the best storyteller I've ever known. Sadly, she puts most of her posts, comments and observations on Facebook and has sorely neglected her blog (hint, hint)! But you'll enjoy the few posts that are out there.

Thanks again, Dina.

Questions

2010-01-06T14:06:00.001-05:00

In response to some thought-provoking discussion going on at one of my favorite blogs, Causerie, I posted some questions and responses of my own. I love these kind of discussions, so I'm putting my reply here, too... so, if I have any readers out there, I'd love it if you'd throw in your own two cents' worth in the Comments below this blog post. Respond to any of my comments or any of the ones found at Causerie. I'd love to know: What do you think about it all??

OK, I’m not sure if this is exactly where you were going, but this discussion brings to mind a question I’ve pondered for some time now. If I am a Christian, and if I believe the Bible to be true, then I am told that it is my responsibility to share God’s love and preach the “good news”. If I love my neighbor, and if I have found something that has transformed my life, and if I believe with all my heart that God is real and living and true, then I am supposed to tell people about it. But the difficult part is that many who do not consider themselves Christians are REALLY turned off by Christians talking about “their” God. Or they’re offended by the implication that if I believe this to be true and if I believe they need to know about it, I’m conceited and assuming that I am correct (which implies I think they are “wrong” or I am trying to change them because they’re not “good” enough). But I’m just trying to do what I’m told to do by the God that has transformed my life, and I don’t mean any judgment by it.

I’ve met many people who are not Christians (and those whose beliefs are Christian but who don’t associate with a formal group or church) who truly seem to “know” God. They are spiritual, they have faith, but they have unconventional “religious” views. But the Bible I believe says Jesus is THE way, the only way to God. Yet in spite of my belief in the Bible — because I do believe it is truth — I can’t bring myself to believe these other people don’t know the same God I know.

Sometimes I think having faith means choosing to recognize that sometimes we just don’t know. Sometimes the questions are too big for us to get our heads around. In spite of any apparent contradictions, I believe that God is real, He is alive, and He is bigger than all of my questions. He has the answers, and if I don’t know what those answers are, it’s because I don’t need to know. My questions and doubts don’t keep me from believing. I may not get it all, and I may not have all the answers, but I know that I know that I know that God is real and that He loves me. There are many areas we can debate -- most of which have to do with “religion” or “church” and very little to do with the relationships I believe God wants to have with each of us – but to me it comes down to this: what can I do to best represent the God I want people to know? How do I let Him shine through me? How do I communicate that He is all about love and not about division and estrangement? How do I show people the way He can change lives without offending them? Again, I don’t have these answers, and every time I seek answers I discover more questions. But I find it all fascinating and wonderful anyway.

Resolutions

2010-01-05T09:58:00.000-05:00

I don’t know about you, but I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions. They’re almost a joke. Nearly everyone makes them, but very few follow through. Maybe they should be called New Year’s Intentions. We intend to make changes, but we rarely have the fortitude to stick with it. But we try, because a new year seems like a great time for a fresh start. We are filled with hope. We are inspired by the thoughts of renewal. Christmas isn’t the only religious holiday. God is in all things, especially the business of renewal. And God is the author of hope.

On New Year’s Eve, I got a mailer from Weight Watchers because they know that this time of year everyone vows to lose weight. It’s a universal thing. People decide to start exercising, to drop 20 (or 30 or 40) pounds, to drink more water. There are other resolutions – to stop smoking, to stop spending money, to stop drinking. But mostly, we focus on earthly things, battles of the flesh that we need to overcome. We always start with hope that we can finally conquer these issues. This will be the year! But the problem is we’re focusing on the flesh, not on the spirit. Each of these items has a spiritual parallel, so maybe that’s where we should begin.

Are we carrying around too much weight? It’s not just an extra 20 pounds that makes us unhealthy. It’s the excess baggage. The resentment that festers and damages our hearts. The hatred. The judgment. The fear. All the ugliness that holds us hostage, keeps us in bondage, and breeds even more fear. Maybe the most important weight to lose is that. And maybe, once our spirits are right, our bodies will follow suit. After all, we will no longer eat out of desperation or loneliness or depression, because we will have allowed God to fill those holes. We need to take control of what we feed ourselves. Does it nurture us or simply temporarily fill an emptiness?

Going along with weight loss is exercise. It’s not enough to control what goes in; we also have to strengthen our hearts, lungs, muscles. In order to function in the way God designed them, our bodies need regular workouts. So do our spirits. Just like physical exercise, sometimes it is hard to get started. It hurts, because we’re not used to doing these things. We need to pray until it becomes natural. We need to expose ourselves to the Word until it becomes familiar. We need to make a concerted effort to work at it, and when it becomes easy, we need to step it up a notch and push ourselves even more.

Years ago, at a New Year’s Eve party, several of us declared our resolutions. Every one of us vowed to drink more water — it finally became a joke. But isn’t that what we all need? Not just any water, but living water. The water of eternal life. The water that finally quenches our thirsts, that finally satisfies. The water promised by Jesus. So this year, go ahead and make resolutions if you must. But maybe the best way to start is by drinking deeply in the Spirit. Then the rest will come.

Putting away Christmas

2009-12-26T18:48:00.000-05:00

Every year it’s the same. After a big day of too much food and lots of presents, we wade through the torn wrapping paper and mutilated bows, gathering up our loot and putting it away. We examine the gifts again, trying things on, looking for the right spots to display them. Sometimes the presents are much-loved and will be used daily; other times, small stocking stuffers (or well-meaning gifts that simply missed the mark) may be shoved into drawers and baskets, not to be unearthed until months later, if and when you decide to deep clean your room. That’s one way to know you have more than you need: you can put away the gifts and completely forget about them.

As I was gathering up the debris left over from the big day, I realized that I don’t want to put away Christmas this year. Don’t get me wrong. I’m already tired of the tree and the garland and the wreaths. I’ll be happy to see those go, whenever I muster up the energy to pack them away. But all through December, as I put up the decorations and made lists and ran into yet another store, I tried so hard to keep the focus on the reason for the season. I enjoyed talking about Him, wishing people a Merry Christmas, sending cards mentioning the birth of our Saviour. We all do things out of the ordinary — we attend candlelight services, do nice things for people, and actually succeed in remembering what it’s all about. But what happens when Christmas is over? Do we take all that we discovered and thought and said and shove it into a closet? Or do we keep it out? Do we keep talking about Jesus, about the miracle of His birth? Do we continue to do charitable acts, reaching out to feed and clothe and help those in need? We celebrate Christmas as a season, but it’s a celebration that should last all year long. The gifts He has given are meant to be used daily, to be kept out for easy access. They’re meant to be celebrated and shared.

So I challenge you this year, as we pack up the ornaments and gift wrap and trees: let’s take stock of all He has given us, and let’s remember to use it. Enjoy it. Love it. Let’s greet people with smiles and laughter. Let’s find reasons to get together with friends and family. Let’s think about what it means that a baby, an amazing and one-of-a-kind child, came to live among us. Let’s think about what it means that He still lives, and that He loves, and that He calls us His own. Let’s think about Jesus — all 365 days of the year.

O come let us adore Him

2009-12-12T14:38:00.000-05:00

It’s that time of year when Christmas carols are blaring over speakers everywhere you go. One line that sticks in my head every time is “O come let us adore Him.” It sounds so easy. It is so easy. So why don’t we do it? We don’t have to travel as the wise men did, with caravans of people and supplies for hundreds of miles, for months of our lives, to deliver a costly gift to the Messiah. We don’t have to beg to be allowed into His throne room, and we don’t have to follow a star to find His lowly manger. We don’t even have to move. Not a single inch. He — the Christ child, the sacrificial Lamb of God, the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace — He deigns to come to us. But He wants to be adored. He wants us to show Him how much it means to us that He dwells among us. So this year at Christmas, especially, let’s show Him. Let’s reach out in love to every person we encounter. Let’s offer gifts of ourselves, our time, our sacrifice, our thoughtfulness — to help others, not burden ourselves with more debt to buy people things they don’t really need. Let’s remember the One for whom the holiday is named, and let’s use His name — kindly and gently, not belligerently — wherever we go. Let’s make sure that, with every action, every conversation, every thought, and every gesture, we adore Him. Let’s make sure He sees how much we love Him. And let’s make sure others who are around us remember — because of us — that the holiday we celebrate is Christmas, and the One we adore is Jesus.

Finding our way there

2009-11-27T23:04:00.000-05:00

I remember, shortly after turning 16, driving to Indianapolis for the first time on my own. I’d been there a thousand times with my mom — granted, I’d always trusted my parents to navigate while I sat in the passenger seat with my nose buried in a book — but how hard could it be? You get in the car, head in that general direction, and in about 45 minutes, voilá! We’d be there. Easy.

Well, on my first solo trip, I managed to find my favorite mall easily enough, but getting back home was another story. It didn’t make sense to me that I’d have to take a road marked “Peoria, IL” to get to Ladoga, IN. I drove for a while, and I knew I was in the wrong place, but I didn’t know where the right place was. This was before cell phones and GPS. We couldn’t count on someone else to guide us. We had to find the way on our own. (Or, like I did, stop at a pay phone and call for help.)

Sometimes I find myself along for the ride at church. Yeah, of course I can find that sweet spot in worship when I’m in a roomful of people who are all headed to the same place. I can do my own thing, look up every once in a while and notice the landmarks, and coast along until we arrive at the throne. But what happens when I’m on my own? Can I get there myself? Do I know how to find God when I’m the one doing the driving? Can I find Him using my own directions, or do I prefer to ride in the passenger seat, trusting that our pastors or worship leaders will get us to our destination? It’s easy to believe that we can do it ourselves…until we try it. And then we discover that it’s harder than it looks. So worth it, so worth the effort and time and focus and concentration it takes — absolutely. But harder than we thought. The good news? Once we’ve been there once, the next time is easier, and before long, getting there is second nature.

Ready to play

2009-11-20T10:15:00.000-05:00

There is a boy on my son’s basketball team who, you can tell, has played for years, even though he’s just nine. He’s tall and fast and has great control. His dad coaches the team, and what struck me the most during the last game was the way Cameron listened to his dad as he played. The coach would say slow down, and Cameron instantly, with absolute control, slowed down. His dad would tell him to pass and he would look for the open guy. When his father told him to take the ball to the basket, Cam looked for his opportunity and wove through the opponents to make a perfect lay-up. His dad wasn’t screaming or criticizing. He was calmly, encouragingly helping his son see what was happening — pointing out opportunities and teaching him the thought process so that later, when his dad isn’t there, he’ll know what to do on his own.

I’m sure, like all of us, Cameron has his times of not wanting to listen. But you wouldn’t know it to watch him play. Here’s the thing: in order for Cameron to be so good, he had to practice. A lot. He may have been given certain inherent abilities, but he hasn’t neglected them. He works at it. You can see it in the control he shows. He can dribble right-handed or left-handed. He can run with the ball or pass or shoot. But, when he’s on the court, at least, he trusts his dad. He knows he’ll lead him in the right direction, so he uses his abilities as he is told. He has an obedient spirit.

I thought, oh, if we could listen to our Heavenly Father like that. To trust that He can see the big picture. To remember that He wrote the playbook and He knows all about our opponents. He gave us talents, and we need to spend time honing our skills, but then, when it’s time, we have to be ready to go. We have to tune in to His voice and block out all the others who are screaming suggestions or criticism or simply trying to distract us. We need to walk proudly onto the court and say, OK, Daddy, I’m ready to play.

Glorious, glorious fall

2009-11-07T17:36:00.000-05:00

I’ve always loved fall. Maybe it’s because, as a redhead, those rich ambers and rusts and oranges and browns and greens are the colors I like to wear (and the accompanying cool air means it’s time to break out my jean jacket). Maybe it’s the way the light changes color this time of year, washing the world in its golden glow, shining through the patterns of colorful leaves, breathtaking in its beauty. Or maybe it’s because the colors are so vivid that they make my very soul ache.

My soul rejoices in the overwhelming coloration and the subtle variations of hue all around me. Do you realize that our Creator made this just for us? The endless splashes of color cloaking the trees, the grains, the ground as far as the eye can see. The almost unbearable richness of the saturation of color. The way the color seems almost alive as it shimmies in the wind and the landscape transforms almost before our eyes. The exuberance and extravagance of it leaves me breathless.

The leaves outside show what happens on the inside when God finds us. What once seemed pretty to us — the lush, uniform greenery of summer, the whiteness of the light — pales next to this transformation. When we are in the process of dying out to our old selves, of dying out to what the world would offer, we’ve never before been so beautiful to the Lord. The exquisite radiance of the leaves isn’t seen until they start to die. Do you know why it’s so beautiful? Because, instead of the end, it signals a renewal. This death must take place to allow for hope and expectancy and the ripeness of a new life — a life full of potential and joy. The leaves remind us that He is faithful in His promises. That He will change us, that we will be transformed into the beautiful things he meant us to be. That even in death we are not forsaken. That we are on this earth to bring beauty into the lives of others. That we can only be at our richest, most vivid, most joyful selves when we stop clinging to what used to sustain us. When we embrace the changes that are happening. When we let go of the security to which we cling and float on the very breath of God.

Pure worship

2009-11-05T13:10:00.000-05:00

No words to describe how deeply this song moves me, just lots and lots of tears.
Watch video - Kari Jobe, The More I Seek You

Membership in that exclusive club

2009-11-02T09:23:00.000-05:00

Wanted: someone to join this exclusive club I’m in. You don’t have to be perfect; you just have to pretend you are. You must attend at least one weekly meeting, usually on Sunday morning, and buy a new wardrobe so you look the part. You don’t have to change your life, just be good during the meetings. You can talk about other people (use the code phrase “I think we should pray for so-and-so because she’s ____”). You can be closed-minded and judgmental, because of course you must be better than they are because you’re in the club and they’re not. It’s a great club because it comes with its own music and terminology and guidebook, which you don’t have to follow but you do have to tell others to follow. And we can divert attention from our own failings by quoting “well-meaning” pieces of wisdom from this really great book we have to help “others”. Warning, though: if you mess up, we’ll throw you out on your hiney.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want any part of a club like this, a club in which people are insincere, in which they are hypocritical, in which they exclude others not just like them.

So how do I say this without coming across like a member of the aforementioned club: Many Christians are like this. They’d be horrified to hear you suggest such a thing, and the ones who need to hear it will deny that they’re part of that group, but their lives tell a different story. I’ve run into so many people who have told me stories of appalling, stupid, and hurtful things people have done to them and then said, “If that’s Christianity, I don’t want any part of it.” That’s the thing, though: it’s NOT Christianity, or at least not what it’s supposed to be. How many people are turned off by what they think are “club” rules and requirements? How many people won’t show up at events because we’ve said to them, directly or indirectly, that they don’t belong? And how many don’t want to learn more because they’ve seen the way we live and treat people and they don’t want to be like us? Ouch.

Have I done every one of these things at some point during my “membership”? I’m sure of it. But when I do, nobody wants to come with me to the meetings and nobody is inspired to change. Help me, Lord. I want to live authentically. I want to follow the rules, not just tell others what to do. I want to belong, yes, but I also want to be the one who brought in the most new members. I don’t want to just carry a membership card. I want to be transformed. I don’t want to cause anyone to stumble, or turn anyone away. I want to be on the inside what I am on the surface. I want people to look at me and see not just a follower, but through me, see the One who started it all. I want to help and pray and take care of people, not condemn them for their actions or values or the situations that brought them to my attention. I want to accept them, even if they have different beliefs and morals. I want to love them. I want to be everything Christians are called to be. Authentically, sincerely, eternally.

NOTE TO MY READERS (all three of you): This is an issue that has been troubling me for some time. I would love your responses to these questions. Not that this is an easy task, but is living authentically enough? Without being judgmental ourselves, what can we as Christians do to change the perceptions non-Christians have about our religion? How do we show people what Christianity is supposed to be about? How do we convince them that many of those who shout the loudest that they are Christians really do not live by the true principles of their faith (especially since we all mess up and none of us are perfect)?

miracle

2009-10-22T21:25:00.000-04:00

mir-uh-kuhl

-n o u n

1 . an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause.
2. such an effect or event manifesting or considered as a work of God.
3. a wonder; marvel.
4. a wonderful or surpassing example of some quality.
5. my mother’s test results*

*Against all odds, there is no sign of cancer anywhere in her body and she’s only halfway through the prescribed chemo regimen, the one that wasn’t supposed to be as effective this time. I don’t know why God answers some prayers for healing and not others, and I know it’s not a matter of how many people pray or how heartfelt their prayers are or how righteous are those who are praying. But I do know that I am grateful, overwhelmed, and excited to see what can only be a miracle. God is so good. Again. Still. Always.

Sifted

2009-10-22T21:05:00.000-04:00

I may not choose to spend a lot of time in the kitchen, but much of that time is spent baking. I love sweets, especially homemade oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. I know how to read a recipe, and I know the basics of baking, but I tend to be impatient, wanting to cut corners whenever possible. For instance, I know you’re supposed to sift the flour, letting it fall in little puffs of white softness that pile up in the center and slope down on the sides, then level it with the back of a butter knife for a perfect cup of flour. I know that it’s supposed to make the finished product lighter, fluffier – and it’s the only way to guarantee perfect proportions. But years ago I finally threw away my sifter, tired of it getting in the way when I tried to close my over-cluttered kitchen drawer. Why? Because I never used it. I discovered that if I scoop the flour into a measuring cup and run a knife through it to kind of loosen it up — fluff it up a little — it will still work. I may not win baking contests, and occasionally things don’t turn out as well as I hoped, but it works OK. In my harried mind, sifting seems like an extra, unnecessary step. If I skip it, I can finish faster and make less of a mess.

God, the master chef and Creator of all, never skips the important steps. He sifts our hearts. He filters out the lumps and impurities. He understands the difference between pretty good and perfect. He doesn’t want to take a chance that we’ll fall flat, that something will end up in the finished product that doesn’t belong there. And the mess? We may worry that something important will get thrown out or that the mess will be too big to clean up. But He knows that what is lost along the way is never as good as what remains, so He doesn’t let that get in the way. It’s just part of the process. And because of it, after God sifts our hearts and our lives, we end up with a certain lightness of spirit, a delicate but consistent texture, and maybe even a little taste of heaven.

Cleaning out my Inbox

2009-10-10T16:50:00.000-04:00

I spent some time this weekend emptying out my e-mail Inbox. It contained 63 messages. That may not sound bad — I know some of you have thousands of messages in your Inboxes — but yesterday alone I received 92, so if I don’t deal with them regularly, they quickly get out of hand.

My rule is this: when I have more than 20 messages sitting in my Inbox, it’s time to file. Otherwise, it’s just too overwhelming. I use my Inbox like a to-do list (if it’s in there, I still need to do it.) When I’ve dealt with an e-mail (either responded to it, handled the request, or added the item to my written to-do list), then I file it. I have about 100 folders in my e-mail program — covering my kids and their activities, each of my clients, Bible study and prayer requests, bills, personal items, jewelry, writing, and my blog. But inside all those folders I’ve saved over 35,000 individual messages. I don’t need them all anymore, but I it takes too long to sort through them, so I let them remain. They’re like electronic clutter, but at least they’re out of sight and out of mind.

Our lives are so busy, and many of us are inundated with hundreds of items on our to-do lists every week. We have work to do, household chores piling up, dirty laundry, bills to pay, prescriptions to refill, birthday cards to send, gifts to buy, errands to run, phone calls to make. Sometimes it’s too much.

God knows how easily overwhelmed we are. And I think that’s why He chose to simplify the Ten Commandments. Our brains are too full at times to hold onto even ten things. He made it simple by breaking it down to just two. Jesus tells us Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind, and Love your neighbor as yourself (Matthew 22:37-39). It’s not always easy to do those things, but it’s simple enough to remember them. I think there might even be enough room in my poor overloaded brain for these two important rules. And if I can manage to follow them, I know that everything else in my life will fall right into place.

Through the sunroof

2009-10-03T11:57:00.000-04:00

The gigantic tree by my back door looks like it will uproot my back porch if the wind ever blows too strongly. The trunk butts right up to the house, but the huge old tree grew up and out at an angle, its branches extending to form a leafy canopy over my driveway. Never one to be practical, I have a white car that is beautiful when it happens to be clean but otherwise serves as a large, blank, inviting canvas for the birds and squirrels that cavort above it.

As I walked to my car the other day, I was grumbling to myself about the nasty trail of multicolored droppings all over my car. I was also annoyed because my allergies were bothering me. Feeling sorry for myself, I sat in the driver’s seat, grabbed the bottle of eye drops I’d left in the center console, and tilted my head back to administer the drops. Even though I have a sunroof, I don’t use it much. The wind messes up my long hair, which gets pulled up and out of the opening, and the sun shines through and glints in my eyes, so I usually keep the roof closed tight. But on this particular day, the sliding panel was open, leaving only the clear glass above me, which had somehow not been hit by the little birdy bombs that splattered the rest of my car. The view was gorgeous. The patterns of the lush green leafy covering shimmied in the wind against the clear, cloudless, bright blue sky. The beautiful fall day took my breath away, and I stopped, momentarily overtaken with awe by the sight above me.

I had to laugh at the irony. I tend to be so busy looking at the excrement in my life that I forget to notice the beauty. I have to remember to keep looking up. At the beauty of this earth. At the blessings in this life. And at the One who gave all this to me to enjoy.

Shine on

2009-09-12T14:35:00.000-04:00

You’ve seen this scene a thousand times, at least if you watch science fiction movies. Someone, usually the hero, opens a door (or walks out of the space ship or away from the fire...) and walks towards you, into the dark and out of the light, unscathed. Our hearts cheer with gladness that the hero has survived. The light behind him is bright — extraordinarily bright beams and rays of light, radiating outward, silhouetting him in the foreground. He is dark, with light glinting and shining around him. The shadow he casts is huge, a long, extended shadow in front of him, further accentuating him as he walks forward.

Here’s my question: What if I am that figure, standing in the doorway between God and the nonbeliever? In this case, the hero is the One who lights the way, not the one walking in that brightness. Does His light shine through me into the darkness? Or do I stop some of it? How do I become so transparent that I do not block any of God’s light? What does that look like, that I might decrease and allow Him to increase in such a way that I don’t get in the way? I know we’ll never be able to become completely invisible, and we’ll always leave some sort of shadow. God allows us to be the vessels that transmit His light, and I think He wants us to use our own talents and personalities to shape the message we are sharing. We will — and should — make an imprint on it. But I want the shadow people see when they look into my life to be God-shaped. I don’t want to let my own failings and inadequacies block His light. I want to transmit it. I want to let God shine, as He should. As He does. Shine brightly through me. Because that’s what people want to see — the true hero, not me.

There’s only one way I know to do this. Romans 13:12 tells us, “So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light.” If we clothe ourselves in His word and wrap ourselves in His actions, the world will see Him in spite of ourselves.

Am I who I think I am?

2009-09-05T11:47:00.000-04:00

“What kind of writing do you do?” she asks. She looks like a writer, with her hand-crafted glass necklace and her funky glasses. Quirky but interesting. Yeah, she’s legit. I’m at a writing workshop, fascinated by the guessing game I’ve played all morning. Who’s real? Who truly belongs here? Are there any other imposters?

I stammer, eventually deciding on, “I do copywriting, but primarily write non-fiction.” She nods acceptance.

Is it really that easy? And is it true? Am I a writer? Woven through every conversation at this workshop are polite questions designed to suss out how serious each person is about their craft. Can they sell it? Are they any good? But more importantly, will they see through me? Can I legitimately call myself a “writer”? Saying I’m a designer is easy. I have a framed diploma announcing my BFA in Graphic Design. But can I be a writer simply on my own say-so, simply because I know in my heart that I am?

The same could be asked about Christianity. It’s easy enough to profess one’s allegiance to Christ in a small circle of women gathered for Bible study. But what conclusion will someone draw from watching me, hearing me talk about my work, my family, and my life? And much more importantly, what conclusion does God draw from my life, from my private thoughts and behaviors? Am I truly who I profess to be? If I am, I won’t need to announce it in order for it to be true.

Bringing the fish

2009-08-29T19:21:00.000-04:00

God does bizarre things. He solves problems in ways that sometimes seem convoluted, confusing, and down-to-the-last-second crazy. The answer rarely comes in the straightforward way we’d imagined, yet it comes. Stories of these miraculous solutions abound — the check (or tax refund or bonus or raise) arrives the day the bill you thought you couldn’t pay is due. Doctors mention scary words like aneurysm and cancer and inoperable — so we do the tests and pray and suddenly, although the doctors can’t explain it, the condition is gone or the symptoms weren’t what they seemed. We lose a job and panic, worried about how to provide for our families, but then another, better opportunity presents itself and we wonder why we didn’t leave the old job sooner. He always delivers — somehow, some way.

For years I have read the Bible stories about the fishes and the loaves. Jesus fed 4,000 people with seven loaves and a few fishes, and then fed 5,000 from five loaves and two fishes. He’s not limited in His ability to provide, nor is the percentage of increase the same each time. But whatever it is, whatever He does, it’s always enough — and usually it comes with leftovers, too. Because we’ve read these stories in the Bible, and witnessed the way God has provided in our lives, no one has to convince us it’s possible. We know.

Sometimes, though, we overlook one fact. Someone had to provide the fish.

Sure, He can create something from nothing, and there are plenty of times that He does. But, more often, I think, God works with what we bring to Him. We must stretch our hands forth with our offering, literally or symbolically. We must plant a seed of giving with our tithe and offering money. We must put our own egos and desires aside in order to make room for His presence. We must offer Him our whole selves — bodies, heart, mind and soul — and mean it when we ask Him to use us. God will multiply. He will create. He will increase — when you give him what you have to start with. Don’t ever fall into the enemy’s trap of believing what you have is not enough, that God won’t come through because of your failings and weaknesses. Stand tall, and speak out loud: “Lord, I may not have much, but I come to you with the fish. Multiply it. Do your thing. I believe.”

Laying ourselves at the altar

2009-08-22T14:19:00.000-04:00

When my daughter Anna was a toddler, if she hurt herself, she would lay the damaged appendage on a pillow. It didn’t matter if it was a bruised shin, a rash on her arm, or a stubbed toe. Propping whatever was sore on a soft, fluffy pillow — sometimes with a fuzzy, warm blanket over the pillow for extra emphasis — immediately made it feel better. Whatever hurt would get better, as long as it was lovingly cushioned and gently propped on something soft.

One day, Anna was running a fever. I left her in the living room watching TV, and when I went in to check on her, I wanted to laugh and cry all at once. She had taken all the pillows from the couch and laid them, end to end, on the floor. Then she stretched her little feverish body out on top of them, her entire body cushioned by the pillows. Every part of her hurt, therefore her whole body needed to be cradled. Because of the relief she found there, she was now sound asleep.

Sometimes we need the same thing. We come to the altar and kneel, offering ourselves for His service, for His use — well, at least we offer parts of ourselves. As adults, with our own hurts and bruises, we hold things back. I want to be used by You, God, we might say, but secretly we’re hoping not to be asked to step outside our comfort zones. We want to help – until we feel the nudge to help someone we don’t know and we feel awkward walking up to them. Or we want to give, but only give our money, holding selfishly onto our time. But maybe it’s time we let God get hold of all our parts. It’s time to lay them all on His merciful altar, cushioned by His grace. So that He can get hold of all of us, and use us as He sees fit.

Writing Prompt

2009-08-14T11:06:00.000-04:00

In response to the following "Drops of Inspiration" writing prompt posted on Internet Cafe (http://www.internetcafedevotions.com/2009/08/august-drops-of-inspiration-writing.html):

Sometimes your medicine bottle has on it, “shake well before using.” That is what God has to do with some of His people. He has to shake them well before they are ever usable.
-Vance Havner

I think anyone who has come to the Lord as an adult, letting Him into her life, understands the idea of being shaken up. In a sense, we expect that. We are so different on the inside – in our thoughts, feelings, outlook – that once we have “found” God we assume it will have to shake up our lives. If things stayed the same, what would be the point?

But sometimes God shakes up an entire church. That’s when it can become especially painful. We don’t always know the reason, and we can’t always know if He’s the one doing the shaking. But we do know that all things work together for the glory of God. So that’s when we need to remember something that is true of medicine. Medicine is good — if it’s the right medicine, prescribed correctly, and taken in the right amounts. When things happen that threaten the temporary peace, when people’s feelings are hurt and we don’t understand why things are happening, all we can do is trust the Great Physician. And pray that our doctors are properly connected to the source, that they know the right medicine for the specific ailments, and that those who need it take the correct amounts (properly shaken, of course). Sometimes, the medicine tastes bitter. Sometimes it has yucky side effects. But if we continue on the course prescribed for us, in no time at all things start to look better. And soon, we’re back to normal, not really remembering how miserable it was to be sick.

Writing for Him

2009-08-11T09:22:00.000-04:00

As much as I’ve talked about writing, I haven’t written much this summer. I’ve been busy, as most of you are, too. I am the queen of organizing and multitasking, but my natural abilities seem to be impaired. Is it the three kids needing to be in different places several different times every day? Is it “working mom” guilt — if I were a good mom, I’d go to the pool with them/make signs for the lemonade stand/stop resenting the interruptions? Is it the stress of trying to be available and proactive to my clients when I’m really planning activities, running to the store, packing for short weekend trips, or breaking up sibling disagreements? Those factors certainly contribute to the situation, but I think my lack of writing is directly linked to the lack of solitude. When others are around all the time, I don’t stop and relax. I don’t pray like I should. I don’t focus on the quiet but extremely important pursuits.

Someone asked me once why I didn’t study writing in college. It’s because I didn’t have anything to say. I had opinions, but I didn’t have confidence that anyone would be interested in my thoughts. It wasn’t until I opened my heart to the Lord that I thought my words could matter to anyone else. It wasn’t until He inspired me that I wanted to share my soul with the world. When I’m walking with God, I find myself with much to say. He continually reveals things to me. It’s as though my eyes are wide open, the veil has been lifted, and I can see more clearly. Colors are more vivid. Sounds are more vibrant. Every activity, every observation, every experience imparts a spiritual lesson. I don’t have to search for them. They’re right there, practically written for me.

So I guess this lack of inspiration is proof of a painful reality. My relationship with God right now isn’t what it should be. I’m recycling my writing, foraging through old notes and files for something I can use again. When no words are coming out, there must be no words going in. When words aren’t going in, it’s because I’m not listening. When I’m not listening, it’s because I’m too busy. I’ve chosen to live in the secular world and not dwell in the secret place of the most High. I’m doing it on my own and without Him.

For me, writing is an act of faith. A hope and a belief that God will step in. If I offer myself as a vessel, He will speak, He will encourage, and He will inspire. He will have something to say, and I get to be a part of it. So I sit down to write tonight, knowing it’s the first step towards rebuilding the relationship I know I can have with Him. Knowing that even if I have nothing to say when I start, He will find the good and show it to me. Even in my weakness — especially in my weakness — He will shine. To God be the glory. Forever.

Queen Anne's Lace

2009-08-05T14:55:00.000-04:00

I remember summer days in the country as a child. Long, sticky, hot, boring days. Time crawled by so slowly. Sometimes, when I was out of books to read, I would wander around outside and pick Queen Anne’s Lace from the edges of the fields around our house. Frilly, delicate, lacy blossoms, too pretty for me to believe it’s really a weed. Occasionally, I would take some inside, cut the long stems short, and place them in a little green ceramic pitcher of my mom’s. After adding drops of food coloring to the water, I would wait.

The hungry plant would soak up that water, slowly climbing up the tall stalks and seeping into the tiny white flowers, spreading across the face of the blooms, eventually changing them to a pretty pink or blue or green.

God works on us that way. We might look OK on the outside to start with, but we’re so thirsty on the inside. When we immerse ourselves in God – His presence, His church, His Word, His people – we start to be changed. From the inside out. Most people don’t see it at first and may think nothing is happening. But if they wait long enough, they will see the glorious burst of color spreading throughout our lives, changing us forever, coloring our world.

A miracle-working God

2009-07-07T09:17:00.000-04:00

Flipping through my journal, found this entry from July 20, '08. Mom was in chemo and had been diagnosed with small-cell lung cancer the month before. We didn't really know what would happen, and, frankly, the prognosis didn't look good. This is what I wrote:

Today, up in the choir loft while we were singing, I had my eyes closed, praying. Sandee was standing beside me. Suddenly I felt her hand pressing into my back and I heard her praying. I had to focus on blocking out what was going on around us, had to not worry how I looked and if anybody noticed and wondered what we were praying about. The truth is, I didn't know. Then she placed her other hand on my stomach and kept praying, crying...

Sandee told me later that God told her to touch my back — right there — and pray. She argued with Him but it was clear — DO IT. She thinks maybe it had to do with my mom. Mom goes in Tuesday for new scans and gets the results Thursday. Maybe God healed her — erased new growth, or progressed the amount of healing from the chemo, or something. Maybe He healed her; maybe He took care of some immediate pain or problem. I don't know. But how sweet of Him to use Sandee — and allow me to be a part of it — since I seem to be having such a hard time really praying right now.

I write this down tonight in the hope that I will someday look back at this and know this was a time of healing. Maybe complete, maybe partial. I don't care. I just want to see evidence of God in here, in this. I want to find hope and moments of rejoicing. I want to glory in the gracious, merciful healing powers of our Lord. I want my mommy to be OK.

A year later, I rejoice in Mom's continued health. God is so good. I'm so thankful that He urges me to write things down so I can look back later and know without a doubt what I was thining, what I prayed, and see the many miracles He brings into my life. They're there; we just don't always notice them.

Don't give up on the brink of a miracle

2009-07-04T19:36:00.000-04:00

It never fails. I always pick the wrong line. I get behind the person whose item is missing a price sticker, or their debit card is declined, or the cashier needs a manager to ring in a coupon, or one of the eggs is broken and we have to wait for a stock boy to answer the page and get another carton. Or maybe it’s lunchtime and my cashier needs to count the drawer and cash out. The reasons are different every time, but the end result is the same: I wait there, fuming, as long as I can stand it, watching others fly by me out of the store, and finally I hop over to the other lane. Without fail, the moment after I do so, the problems are resolved. From that point on, the first line moves quickly and everyone sails smoothly through, while I stand at the back of the other line, which now has problems of its own. Then I kick myself for my lack of patience.

Sometimes I find myself giving up to soon in my spiritual life, too. A few months ago, we thought our house was going to sell. It had been on the market for almost two years, and we had an offer. I was sure God had answered my prayers. But then we went to our lowest number, and the buyer was at her highest number, and there was still a big gap in the middle. I was crushed. I couldn’t believe God hadn’t come through for me. I’d been faithful and patient. I’d trusted Him, and believed in His timing. I was devastated when I found out it wasn’t going to happen. I had believed so strongly that He had answered, that there was an end in sight, and then — nada. I was crushed, angry, and depressed.

Turns out, several days later, through a bunch of crazy circumstances, the house deal went through after all. I looked at circumstances and thought God had said no. He didn’t. It just didn’t happen the way I pictured it—in effect, I switched lines too soon. My impatience caused me to lose faith. I failed to remember that God’s ways are above our ways. He sees things we can’t even begin to imagine and achieves results we can’t fathom. So next time I’m about to cut my losses and jump on over to the next thing, I need to remember. No matter how impossible a situation seems, until God clearly tells us no, we need to keep the faith. We need to wait with expectation for the craziest, most innovative, unusual answers. Because if we can stay in the right place, the most amazing things will be waiting when we get to the front of the line.

Ever feel like an imposter?

2009-06-27T22:03:00.000-04:00

(You don’t have to admit it out loud, but...) Have you ever been inside a bar when you were underage? Did you feel like everyone was looking at you, convinced they all knew you had no business being in there? Or you’ve taken a friend’s child to an activity and signed the parent permission slip, knowing your friend would approve, but afraid someone in charge is going to know you’re not who you say you are? Or sat in on a group meeting or some kind of class with a friend, because you were there, even though you weren’t registered?

We all have times – even fairly legitimate times – in which we pretend to be someone or something we’re not. But is it possible that sometimes we’re the ones who are deceived? If we’re not careful, Christianity can become more about membership in “the club” than it is a way of life. We know the language – we mastered the secret handshake, talk like insiders, know how to look the part, carry our Bibles and tell people about our Bible studies and prayer groups. We go to church and know when to raise our hands, when to bow our knees. But is it all a sham? Is it just surface Christianity? Are we in a really great fraternity – belonging to a group of people we like, surviving initiation, attending the meetings – or are we in it because of God? Have we been changed on the inside, or are we just wearing a uniform? Can people tell we’re followers of Christ, shining our light, directing others to the One we are here to serve? Or do we have to talk about our pious acts to convince people we are Christians? We shouldn’t need external accessories like cross pendants and tote bags covered with Scriptures to declare to others who we are. Those things aren’t bad – not at all. What’s bad is when nobody would know we were Christians if we didn’t have those things. Our faith isn’t about being in the “in crowd.” Instead, it should define who we are and how we live. Our identities should radiate from within, from a quiet assurance that we are who HE says we are. It doesn’t matter who the rest of the world thinks we are. It matters what He thinks. We have to remember that we are King’s kids. Heirs, sons of God, the Beloved. We are His. No questions asked. Simply because He said so.

Celebrating!

2009-06-26T10:40:00.000-04:00

Mom had scans done this week... still cancer-free! So very thankful, so thrilled. Worst part? This means my dad and husband were right. They were convinced everything was fine!

I'm his favorite

2009-06-19T23:22:00.000-04:00

I have one younger sister. Our dad, who loves us completely and totally and with an unconditional love, has a standing joke when we call: “Is this the pretty one or the smart one?” After all these years, it still makes us laugh, and depending on how we feel that day, we give him a different answer every time. We know he thinks we’re both. My dad has found a way to always let each of us know we’re special to him. If you would ask my sister, she’d claim she’s his favorite. So would I.

One night at church, someone testified and said, “Don’t you ever, sometimes, just for that moment, know that you are God’s favorite?” At the time, I was stumped, because I couldn’t imagine feeling that way, feeling as though I was that special to Him. I wasn’t important enough. I didn’t know Him well enough. But the thing is, we are that special to Him. He would do anything for us. When He prayed that this cup would pass from Him, when He suffered the agony of the beatings, when He carried His cross, and when He hung on it, dying, He was saying, “I love you the best. I would do this just for you, even if you were the only one on earth. You, my child, are my favorite.”

Watching the show

2009-05-30T20:30:00.000-04:00

Have you ever noticed, when you’re buying a new car, how many of those exact models you see everywhere you go? You wonder when that car got to be so popular. It must be a new thing, we reason, or else we would have noticed them before. When you are picking out names for your soon-to-arrive baby, all of a sudden you will hear numerous mothers calling out to their toddlers, who all seem to have been given the exact “unique” name you wanted for your child. We are constantly surrounded by things that we don’t notice, but once we start paying attention, we’re amazed by what we find.

I’ve noticed the same thing in everyday life. When I’m mad at my husband, or frustrated with a client, or late paying my bills, it’s easy to let those events color everything else that happens all day. When this happens, my thoughts are on the injustice of what someone said, or the blatant way someone is spending money I don’t have to spend, or the fact that my husband still hasn’t responded to a question I posed him two hours earlier. I will not allow myself to enjoy anything else because I’m consumed by my anger, and the day is ruined (for me and for everyone nearby).

Or I can let go and look for the good. I can remind myself to notice how much I’ve been blessed by the other projects a client has sent, or be thankful that my friend’s finances are in good shape right now, or realize how lucky I am to have a husband who will pick up the kids from all their activities and not complain. Both sides are always there; it all depends on what I’m looking for.

A friend once told me that Satan continually shoots arrows at us, flaming arrows of greed and hatred and hypocrisy and sinful thoughts. She found that for a while, she was reaching up and grabbing hold of those arrows, gnawing on them, letting those thoughts fester and torment her mind. She wasn’t able to forget the trial she was in; it was always right there. But one day she realized she didn’t have to reach up and grab hold of those darts. The enemy could shoot all the darts at her that he wanted, because she was going to let them go on past. She wouldn’t catch them, she wouldn’t gnaw on them, she wouldn’t listen. She wasn’t going to take his bait any longer. I’m with her. I’m going to choose what thoughts I hold onto. And, rather than hold on to the darts, I’ll enjoy the show as I let the fireworks go right on by.

Quiet observations from MoonDance Cafe

2009-05-08T14:32:00.000-04:00

I sit here, quietly typing on this soft keyboard. These two women, women who meet here faithfully every Tuesday, are laughing. I love sitting near them, feeling like a voyeur, trying not to eavesdrop but catching fragments of their conversations. They pray, then they take turns reciting from memory all the carefully-copied scriptures they’re learning. Page after page of neatly-handwritten verses fill binders. One closes her eyes and starts speaking, while the other follows along, word for word, mouthing the verses alongside her friend. Their conversation rarely strays. I know. I sit by them most weeks, half listening, half writing or reading or talking to friends. But always aware. I feel the Word of God washing over me. We are cleansed by the hearing of the word, and as they recite God’s promises, I feel a peace settle around me. I thank God for their faithfulness, for their discipline, for their devotion, for their diligence. They work hard at this, and they take it seriously. It’s not like if I met with my friends to do it. We would talk. Catch up on all kinds of things, get distracted, make fun of each other’s mistakes. I’d probably not get around to memorizing my verses, and I’d be cramming at the last minute. But I pray that God will bless these women, even more, because surely they are already blessed for all this. The words hover in the atmosphere, weighty, present. The Spirit lingers in the trail of the words, rejoicing in their faith, staying near to see what they’ll quote next. They love their God, and they love His word, and I love hearing bits and pieces of the Word floating all around me. This wholesome gladness makes my spirit sing.

My dad's hands

2009-05-01T09:12:00.000-04:00

My dad is an artist, and I’ve always loved his hands. Large, strong, capable – but so gentle. Soft but not frail. So very able. Talent hidden in those hands, the ability to make something surprisingly beautiful. My dad worked with his dad as a cabinetmaker, and he is skilled at carpentry, at making things solid and beautiful at the same time. But when he sits down with a brush, he is amazing. He’s got such a delicate touch – he can effortlessly, in a couple strokes, invoke the sagging roofline of a barn in the snow, bring out depth and color in the shadows of a hollyhock, or carve ruts in a dirt lane. With years of experience and loads of innate talent, my dad makes it look so easy. When people ask how long it took to paint a panting, he’ll reply, “3 hours and 30 years.” He worked hard and spent years developing his skills, and now it comes easily to him. It’s not that easy for most of the rest of us.

I’ve always thought my dad’s hands must be a lot like God’s. Big enough to hold my hand and make me feel protected, and at the same time capable of such gentleness. But when God works, it doesn’t just look effortless on his part, it really is. It’s more than a well-honed skill. He creates with just a touch, just a word, just a thought. And then He tries to involve us. It’s like when we teach our kids that success doesn’t come without effort and monetary gain doesn’t come without work. We want them to understand the value of what they have. So even though it’s not hard for God to grant our desires, He may ask us to do some work to get what we need. Not in exchange for His blessing, and not as a form of payment, but simply so we understand the worth of what He’s given us.

I’ll take what’s behind door #3!

2009-04-17T09:06:00.000-04:00

Do you remember all those old game shows? A contestant would finally make it to the last round of the show and would stand there, a nervous wreck, jumping up and down, trying to decide whether to choose door #1, door #2, or door #3. Which one has the car? Which is the European vacation? Which is a new living room complete with a pool table? The thing is, no matter what the curtain or door revealed, it was good. The prize was fun, extravagant, and nearly always something the contestant wanted. And it was usually something they could not have afforded on their own.

Yesterday I was talking with a friend about baptism. Her son is hesitant, not sure how much of Christianity he believes. I asked, does he believe in Jesus? If the answer is yes, it should be simple. Baptism isn’t like a final exam, something you do to prove your knowledge. You don’t need to have experience, you don’t need to study, you don’t need to prove you’ve reached a certain level or that you’re worthy. You just have to get to the point where you’re standing in front of the doors wanting to know what He has in store for you. You have no idea what’s behind the doors, but you trust that He wouldn’t offer you something bad. You may be a little scared. It might not be exactly the same as what your friend found. It might be safe, or it might be a little risky. But you understand that until the door is opened, you won’t know for sure what it is, how it makes you feel, or how it will change your life. You just know that it will be good. So take a deep breath and pick one. Because opening that door is the only way to know what is waiting for you. Your very own, personal, made-just-for-you grand prize.

Wearing a wig

2009-04-04T11:22:00.000-04:00

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, one of the things that was difficult for her was going out in public knowing people were looking at her. She was afraid people would be watching her to see if she had lost her hair, if she had on a wig, if she was losing weight, if she looked sick yet... And people may have been watching, but the good news is she looked great through it all. It’s been several months, and my mom is healthy (thank you, Lord!). People are curious, though. Today I saw an acquaintance of hers, and she said she’d seen my mom the other day, “But how is she?”

“Great,” I replied, and started thinking.

Typically, when we look at people on the outside, ourselves included, and we see nothing unusual, we decide everything must be fine. And that’s how we want it. We don’t want people watching us, looking for signs that our health is failing. We don’t want the stigma of being labeled with a disease. If no one knows it’s there, we don’t have to talk about it. But at the same time, no one can help us treat it.

With my mom, since people know something is (or might be) “wrong,” they wonder. They can’t tell by appearances, so they ask. But how many of us have something painful on the inside that no one ever sees, that no one knows to ask about? We might be eaten up by guilt, or fear, or regret, or sorrow. Most of what hurts us can’t be seen on the outside. Thank God He knows our hearts, that He can see what the world misses. That He knows to talk to us, and soothe, and touch, and heal, even when others don’t know we need help. We’re good at covering; we hide our “illnesses” better than a great wig with perfect highlights and a cute cut hides a bald head. So maybe it’s time to bare all before the Lord, and let Him do His thing.

Looking for more

2009-03-30T10:44:00.000-04:00

I was working on some ad concepts the other day, and, not satisfied with the ideas I had, I ran them by a friend, sort of talking them through to figure out what I was doing. She looked at me and said, “I tried on hundreds of wedding dresses but ended up buying the second one I tried. You’re a lot like that, too, aren’t you? I think these are already finished; you just don’t know it yet.”

I laughed, but the comment has been on my mind ever since. Why do we do that? We find what we want and don’t want to settle, or don’t want to commit, or think it was too easy, and so we waste countless hours re-examining things, looking for something marginally better. I think sometimes we do this with God, too. When we first discover Him, we have something good, but we think it’s supposed to be better — we’re supposed to be more disciplined, or pray more, or read the Bible more, or hear from Him more — so instead of reveling in what we have, we keep looking for more. We are afraid of the ways in which our relationship with Him is lacking, so we explore and examine it and criticize it. But finally, if we’re lucky, we recognize what an amazing thing we had. And when we go back to Him, we find He’s been there waiting for us all along.

Baking up delight

2009-03-21T14:55:00.000-04:00

I don’t know what it is that makes it so fun to them, but kids seem to love to bake. For years, my children have come wandering in to my office holding boxes of cake mix or brownies, wanting to make something. I don’t think it’s just that they’re hungry for sweets; it’s the process they enjoy. Working alongside me, cracking eggs, pouring oil, the powdery cloud of flour that rises when you pour the mix into the bowl and start stirring, the delight when you turn on the oven light and see what’s happening. And the absolute joy when you pull the pan out of the oven and find it’s no longer a gloppy, runny mixture of messy ingredients, but a firm, golden, spongy cake.

The other night when I was praying, I realized that’s what God does: He lets us help Him cook. He asks for our prayers even though He doesn’t need our opinions about how things should be done and He doesn’t require our assistance. He is perfectly capable of making decisions on His own, measuring out justice and mercy and grace, and doing it all without making a mess. But when we come to Him in prayer, He’s allowing us to be a part of the process. It’s easier for Him when we’re not there to get in the way. It’s faster when we’re not bumbling around in the middle. And it’s much neater when we’re not there to drop things or grab the wrong ingredients. But the delight on our faces when we see what comes out of the oven—when we see prayers answered and hearts healed and lives changed and love prevailing, when we know that we were privileged to be allowed to be a part of it, and that even though we weren’t necessary to the process, He loves us enough to want us working alongside Him—well, I think that’s why He does it.

Almost here

2009-03-13T14:16:00.001-04:00

According to my mom, when I was little and anxiously awaiting someone’s arrival, I would stand at the window and say “I almost see them coming!” I wanted to see them so badly that I just knew they had to be coming — almost. They must be right on the other side of the hill. Almost there, and all I had to do was wait. And if I hoped hard enough, and stared at the horizon long enough, it would happen. Sooner rather than later.

As adults, we can lose that sense of expectation. We become jaded, less willing to believe that what we’re waiting for is just around the corner. We think there must have been an accident, that someone got hurt, that the car ran out of gas, that the person got lost, that we could never rely on them to leave on time so they’re not really just over the crest of the hill, but they’re probably still miles and miles away.

At the women’s conference I just attended, someone taught that God has already said the Amen to our miracles. “Amen” means “so be it,” and the Lord has declared the answer, has provided the end to that time of need or suffering or pain. The reason time periods are mentioned over and over in the Bible is to remind us that everything has a time. There is a finite season for each trial, so of course there is always an end.

What that tells me is this: my miracle is not lost. It is not derailed by any kind of trouble, and it is not late in coming. It is right where it is supposed to be, and it is on its way. My job right now is to watch for it. To sit at the window, looking ahead, expecting, knowing that my miracle is just past the crest of the hill, and if I wait right there, it WILL arrive. Right on time.

Celebrating!

2009-03-12T13:47:00.000-04:00

Mom called a little while ago. She got a call with the results of her latest scans -- NO CHANGES. The cancer has not started growing. She is still in remission. Cancer-free! Thank you, Lord!!!

I'm not a sports fan

2009-02-27T08:56:00.000-05:00

I’m not a huge sports fan, so when I go watch one of the kids’ teams play, I spend much of the time watching the spectators – the moms and dads, grandparents, aunts and uncles. There are no casual bystanders. No, they’re active observers. Focused entirely on the game. It’s not enough to scream at the top of their lungs and to clap and whistle. Oh, no. They sit on the edges of their seats, or jump up, and when the soccer ball approaches their child, the parent kicks. Hard. Falling out of the chair. When a tackle is imminent, the parents twist and contort to help keep their child out of reach. Watching them, you can see how badly they want to help. To see them succeed. To be the best and the fastest and the smartest.

I think our Heavenly Father does the same thing. God isn’t sitting up on His throne, quietly, calmly watching. No, He’s on the edge of His seat, jumping to His feet, eager and excited and encouraging. He wants us to do well so badly He can’t hold still. When we need to jump, He jumps. When we need to duck, He ducks. And when it’s apparent that we’re out of our league, that our opponents are stronger and faster and more skilled – then He does for us what we can’t do for our kids. He comes off the bench and rises up inside us. Then He runs, sprints, kicks, dodges – and scores. Within us. For us and through us. And then I realize I've been an avid spectator all along, one of His biggest fans, unbelievably proud to be on His team.

Think spring

2009-02-21T12:39:00.000-05:00

My friend (and pastor) Peggy loves being outdoors, but only when it’s warm. I watch her all winter long, wrapped in warm coats and hats and gloves, frozen, longing for the temperature to rise and for things to bud and turn green. When it finally happens, when spring arrives, Peggy will spend hours outside, digging, pruning, planting, watering, nurturing. Making her yard beautiful even as she finds renewal in her soul.

And even though I’m not a much of an outdoor person, and even though I don’t like to work in my yard, I do understand. It’s discouraging when we look out the window, day after day, at gray, dripping, soggy skies, sodden ground, dirty snow. Sometimes during the winter we lose our sense of joy, letting outward circumstances cloud our perceptions. Our bodies and our minds respond to the drabness of the weather, and we close in on ourselves, shutting out the world.

But at some point during the winter, things start to change. They’re subtle clues we may not be consciously aware of — but suddenly it feels like spring is on its way. Out of nowhere, even if it’s still cold and gray, spring is on our minds. Our emotions become buoyant.

I think that the hope God promises feels a lot like spring. Something rises up inside and makes us feel as though life is full of possibilities. Our souls leap for joy when we see a flower bud appear seemingly out of nowhere. The very air feels different, refreshing instead of stale. Having been shut in for so long, wrapped in layers of warmth, our bodies pull us outside, into the air, exulting in the warmth and the potential and the promise of spring. The earth seems to be shouting that there are great things to come. We begin waiting with expectation, no longer dragging our feet or feeling like it will be months before there is any relief. We have hope. Promise. Possibility. Expectation. And with our renewed hope comes renewed faith, because faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. We don’t have to see it to know it’s on its way.

Unlimited potential

2009-02-14T23:17:00.000-05:00

My son Bobby loves to play the piano. He picks out melodies of songs we sing at church, he embellishes with chords, he plays the same songs over and over and over. For Christmas, he got a keyboard. Whoa. Have you ever seen the look in a child’s eyes when he is suddenly handed a tool with practically unlimited potential? A kind of awe descends on him. All the power, all the possibilities, all the potential.... Wow. There are rhythms and different instruments and speeds and styles and volumes and melodies and background tracks. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating and it’s hard to know where to begin. So much to explore. Within moments of seeing his new keyboard, the excitement and anticipation took over, and now Bobby spends hours and hours experimenting every single day. What happens if he pushes this button? What if he plays this song with a jazzy drum beat in the background? Maybe a little faster? Louder? How many combinations are possible?

There was a time when I felt the same sense of awe about being a Christian. I was aware of the potential power of our prayers. I was expecting the interesting, amazing, and unbelievable. We have been given gifts of unlimited potential. We don’t really have any idea how much we could accomplish if only we focused, practiced, experimented, and opened our minds to the outrageous possibilities. Jesus told us we could lay hands on the sick to heal them. We can cast out spirits. We can do all things through Christ. And when we’re new to the faith, it seems easier to believe that. We try Him and see. But after we’ve been around the body of Christ for a while, it seems that many of us cease to be impressed by the power that is before us. Like a child on a piano, we’ve already played the songs we know – and with practice, we’ve gotten pretty good, so why try something new?

This is why. Because the Master can orchestrate things we can’t imagine on our own. He writes the brilliant compositions, and He’s given us all the instruments we need to perform them. We just need to allow Him to take the lead, and prepare to be amazed by the music.

Limited resources

2009-02-05T09:37:00.000-05:00

I’m at a time in my life in which my finances are tight. My main client is having difficulties, and it’s been three months since I got my monthly retainer. I find myself going over my bills, prioritizing. If I only have so much money, I can only cover certain things. I have to look at the big picture, and try different combinations, and figure out which bills to pay from each check that comes in. I know, it’s simply basic budgeting. It’s what everyone has to do at some point in their lives. We make informed decisions, and then we do the best we can. Sometimes we’re fortunate and it’s not a challenge – there’s enough there to pay whatever comes in. And sometimes it’s like a gigantic, precariously balanced puzzle. Since I’m not independently wealthy, even when things are good, I’ll always be dealing with limited resources. There is never going to be enough for everything.

Besides money, I have plenty of other prayer concerns. My unsold house, which is contributing to our tight finances. My mom’s health, which is currently very good. My sister’s friend Teresa, who is being faced with a sudden, scary, serious diagnosis. My cousin, who was just diagnosed with breast cancer. Situations affecting my friends — conflict, hurt feelings, marriages that are strained, jobs that are iffy. There’s always something. Many somethings. Some more important than others, but they all weigh on us. It seems hopeless and overwhelming sometimes. Too much. Too, too much.

But here’s the thing. Our God is a big God. “Is there anything too hard for me?” he asks. No. But it gets even better. He didn’t tell us we had to pick just one thing to pray about. We don’t have to evaluate the situations, decide which is the most important, and give up on all the rest. We are not dealing with the finite, but with the infinite. He is the omniscient, omnipresent, all-powerful Creator. He can make something from nothing. He can form, design, mold, and invent. Even if our answer doesn’t exist yet, even if there doesn’t seem to be enough to go around. Our God is a big God. And His resources are unlimited.

You just never know

2009-01-23T19:47:00.000-05:00

As a graphic designer, it is my job to develop marketing solutions that will meet a client’s needs. It’s more than simply communicating a message; it’s doing so in an innovative, unique, creative way. This week I got to be on the receiving end of the ultimate in creative thinking: one of God’s brainstorms. His ways are always above our ways.

Almost a year ago, I wrote a letter of complaint to a contractor that had worked on our house. We’d had problems with one of the employees, and our bill was much higher than the estimate. I wanted him to know the problems so he could correct them for future customers. I didn’t hear back from him, and except for feeling awkward when I’d seen him, I hadn’t thought much about it.

Earlier this week my main client filed bankruptcy, and I found out that the already-overdue checks for two months’ work were not on their way as I’d been told. Naturally I prayed. The next day, we had our ladies’ prayer group. And we also prayed, of course. For many things, but in particular, for my finances. The very next day, my mailman delivered an envelope from the contractor. Included with a letter explaining and apologizing for the situation was a check. A nice check. He had felt “the conviction of the Holy Spirit many times regarding this,” he wrote, and he wanted to make things right. He apologized repeatedly for taking so long to address the situation.

But here’s what that man did not know. He didn’t know that the money wasn’t important to us last year. We wouldn’t still have it. But now, today – THAT was the moment it was needed. The week in which I’d wondered where in the world I could find some extra money. The week in which I’d gone over and over my books, looking for any possibility of more income. The week in which I needed God to show me a solution that could only be from Him. The week in which I needed to be reminded that I can trust Him to provide.

This money – I didn’t make it happen. I didn’t find it. I didn’t expect it nor did I even know it was a possibility. But He already had an answer on its way to me before I asked. I had to laugh at our Lord’s ingenuity. And give thanks for the man who, by listening to the Holy Spirit, was part of this wonderful, unexpected solution. The kind of brilliant answer you wish you could claim as your own. Creativity at its best.

Snowbound

2009-01-17T21:22:00.001-05:00

I look out my window at the snow softly piling up… overwhelmed with gratitude for my God, who created such gentle beauty. The snow keeps coming. The wind picks up, the visibility is diminished, the snow drifts into long glistening scallops, forming an unfamiliar landscape. People are in line at Wal-mart frantically buying milk and bread and eggs, certain that they’ll be snowed in by morning. I’m home, smiling every time I look out. Not because I love cold, and not because I want to be stuck at home, but because the weather is a tangible reminder to me of who is really in control.

Have you ever noticed that mankind has discovered amazing cures through medicine, that we have developed technology that will allow man to fly, that we are able to instantly transmit information across the world and explore the ocean depths and far reaches of space – yet we can’t control something as basic as the weather? We can’t even accurately predict it. Hurricanes, tornadoes, ice and sleet, hail – we are at their mercy. 12 hours of falling snow can trap us in our homes for days, stop transport of food and other supplies, close down businesses, bring our daily lives to a standstill. Every time I see another example of extreme weather, I give thanks. I humbly tell my God how much I love Him and how thankful I am that He is in control. The Mighty One who can command storms and move unseen winds is the same One who gently cradles me in His arms when I need comfort. He is the One who bottles up my tears, who woos me with His love. And He is the same One who has power and ability beyond anything I can fathom.

I think the weather serves to remind us that there are things mankind simply cannot do. We must rely on our Creator and trust in His power. So when you hear snow plows passing in the night, or get phone calls about school being canceled, relax in the knowledge that our God, our Creator, our King choreographed each flake of snow and directed the gusts of wind that sculpted them into impassable hills. He knows every detail of the weather, just as He cares about every detail of our lives. So wrap up in something warm, sit back, and watch God’s work with wonder and gratitude. (written Feb. '07)

All clear!

2009-01-15T22:36:00.000-05:00

Mom had scans done this week to check and see if the cancer had returned, and the doctor said NO, IT HAS NOT! Her scan is clear and absolutely unchanged from the last scan she had on Oct. 29th. He even used the word miraculous, apparently, saying that her type of cancer rarely stays away this long. I think she's still in shock, but I'm busy praising God for this wonderful gift of health and time! Temporarily or permanently clear, it remains to be seen, but I know if my God can keep her healthy for these past two months, He can do it for the next two months. And the two, four, sixteen or even eighty months after that. Nothing is too big for Him, and nothing is too hard for Him. Even when we don't get the answers we think we want, it's certain that He still heard and answered. And as long as we allow Him to walk beside us, we can get through. But tonight I will sleep peacefully in His arms, thankful that my will aligned with His for this one very special request.

A clear view

2009-01-02T19:03:00.000-05:00

I don’t know why I keep buying sunglasses, because I just can’t stand to wear them. I usually get a new pair when we go on vacation, but within seconds of putting them on I have to take them off. It drives me crazy not being able to see the true colors, not knowing how vivid the water is, or the skies, or the trees. Sometimes the colors are prettier through the glasses, but still, I don’t like feeling like my view has been distorted or altered in any way. It seems fake, false and, well, just not right.

Our pastor Nathan taught last week on how he doesn’t like substitutes — give him sugar instead of Sweet ‘n’ Low, Coke instead of Pepsi, cream instead of skim milk – he wants the real thing. It’s a different application, but I think this is similar to my sunglasses issues. He doesn’t want anything to come between him and the real thing. I think that’s why I don’t like to see anything but the true colors. Whether it is good or bad, I want to experience the reality of it. I want to see the nuances of shading, the gradations of tone and the play of light and shadow. I want to know what it really looks like. Every single detail.

And I want the same thing with my God. I want to see Him for who He is, know Him as the perfect, holy, never-changing God. And learn each and every one of the countless other aspects of Him, too. I want to see Him clearly, and see Him for myself. “For there is...one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.*” I don’t want to look through rose-colored glasses and then have a skewed perception, and I don’t want to look through someone else’s glasses and see what they see. I want to see Him myself. And I think He honors that. When we look for Him, look really hard, He lets us find Him. And, while He’s in the process of revealing those beautiful facets, those incredible details, those amazing sights, I think maybe He even turns up the intensity of the colors to become more beautiful than ever. Just for us.

*1 Timothy 2:5

setting them up for success

2008-12-22T16:35:00.000-05:00

I went to the bank to cash Christmas checks my kids got from their grandfather. The teller looked at me like I was crazy when I asked for each check to be broken down into certain, specific increments. Why complicate it that way? Because I wanted each child to have, readily available, the exact bills needed in order to tithe. They would do so anyway, but it would be much more complicated. Tim and I would be frantically trying to make change and come up with the necessary amounts ten minutes before church started. It would be chaos, so I decided to take things into my own hands and simplify the process.

Driving home, I was thinking about the ways in which we, as parents, try to equip our children for success. If we want our children to carry down their dirty laundry, we have to give them laundry baskets and a deadline. If we want our family to eat healthy, we have to have appropriate foods available, easy to get to, and already prepared. Sometimes I have to do similar things for myself. In order to make sure I will read and study the Bible, I have to put it in front of me. I moved a big soft chair into my office and spread out my lovely, shiny new concordance and my study Bibles. When they’re sitting on my shelf, I don’t remember to use them. But now, every time I walk into my office, I see before me a cozy, comfy spot that already has everything I need. All I have to do is sit down. I don’t do it often enough, but it’s all there for me when I am ready.

Just as we take care of our kids, God wants to take care of us, to give us every opportunity to succeed. He has already given us every single thing we need, as He’s done throughout time – He provided manna in the wilderness; He put a lamb in the bushes for Abraham to sacrifice; and He prepared a manger to receive a very special baby. And He instituted the dispensation of grace, knowing that we would never be able to meet all the requirements of the old laws – and declaring that we didn’t have to. Showing His wisdom, knowing our weaknesses, He took matters into His own hands. He stepped off His heavenly throne and came to us in the form of a tiny infant, then allowed those very same hands to be nailed to the cross. He rose again to show us nothing more is required. There is nothing else for us to do. It’s not about our ability to do the job. We can’t. But we don’t have to. He took the burden off of our shoulders and set everything
in place. Our part of the job is simple. All we have to do is say. “Thanks for your help, Daddy. I couldn’t do it without you.”

Not now

2008-12-10T16:17:00.000-05:00

Not now, honey. Not yet. I know you want to drive, but you’re not old enough. I know you want to sit in the front seat, but if the airbag went off, it would crush you. I know you don’t want to buckle up and stay in your car seat, but I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. I know you want to go to that party, but there aren’t going to be any adults and I don’t trust teenage boys alone with you. I know that cupcake looks good, Bobby, but it might have milk in it and would make you really, really sick.

Sometimes we ask God for things, and we feel sad because he won’t give us what we believe to be our heart’s desire. But maybe, just maybe, we aren’t ready. It’s not that He doesn’t know we want it. He’s doing it for our own good. The Lord takes care of us just as we’ve taken care of our children, guarding them from unnecessary danger, avoiding risk, doing whatever we can to protect them. Sometimes the thing your child wants is not inherently bad; it’s just wrong for that moment. Babies might put quarters into their mouths and choke; a six-year-old would buy a gumball and have fun playing with the machine; an older child would put it with several other quarters to buy a Coke.

How we handle things depends partly on our stage of development. How often are we simply not ready for what we ask for? Maybe instead of recklessly giving us what we want, God is waiting, possibly even leading us through a process to show us how to be ready. Helping us grow up. Teaching us how to use the gift we’re about to receive. I don’t know, and often we aren’t granted the explanation behind God’s answers. But one thing is for sure. He will answer us, but we’ll only get gifts that are age-appropriate.

Starving

2008-12-06T10:43:00.000-05:00

My son forgets to eat. He does what most of us do not, and only eats when his body tells him he’s hungry. This is great, except for one thing: sometimes he can’t rely on his body. He can skip lunch, no matter what I pack him to eat, and when he comes home from school he still insists he isn’t hungry. The thing is, his behavior indicates otherwise. He’s grumpy, irritable, emotionally volatile. When I notice this behavior, I’ve learned that he needs to eat. Sometimes I have to practically force feed him, but inevitably he calms down, stabilizes, and soon is back to normal.

I have a friend who knows she’s hungry, but who doesn’t eat. She’s not anorexic, and it’s not about a diet. She hungers spiritually to belong to a church, to be fed on a regular basis. The only problem is, she doesn’t go to church. She knows why it’s important to be there; she understands the value of fellowship and corporate praise, but she’s had some bad experiences and doesn’t want to go. The thing is, she’s starving. It’s kind of like a person who got food poisoning, and no matter what, even though there’s nothing else to eat and it’s obvious to everyone else that the food in front of her is safe and edible, she won’t let herself try it. Maybe it’s the fear of going through that again. Maybe it’s simply a case of her body not telling her she’s hungry. Maybe it’s telling her and she won’t listen. But maybe, just maybe, she could realize that what made her sick was a piece of bad chicken and this other church is offering prime rib. It doesn’t have to be the same. It’s possible for the food in front of her to nourish her rather than make her sick. Maybe it will even do more than simply provide her with the nutrients necessary to survive. Perhaps it could renew her energy. Perhaps it could drastically improve her outlook on life.

Just like with my son, sometimes I have to be pushy. So that’s what I’m doing. Reminding her, because I love her and want to see her thrive. Because her spiritual health is suffering. Because maybe she doesn’t see what is obvious to outsiders. She is craving something, and she doesn’t have to deprive herself. Even if her family doesn’t want to eat with her. Whether she feasts or nibbles a tiny bit at a time. Either way, it’s good for her. I have heard that when someone is physically starving, if they go long enough without what they need, their body turns against them. It will reject the very thing necessary for it to survive. I pray that my friend will sit down at the table. At least open the menu. See what’s on it.