my friend Marsha Marks

In September of 2003 I meet Marsha Marks, who is signing copies of her new book at Lifeway in Savannah, Georgia. 

In we walk and there she sits, behind a table stacked with copies of her latest book, 101 Simple Lessons for Life. With impeccable posture, smiling from ear to ear, Marsha is a gorgeous blond. She sells books like a well-bred carnival barker. That’s an odd analogy, but it's the best I can do. Bear with me. Take a female carny, dress her in something modest-yet-stylish (lipstick and pearls a must), send her to charm school, put the love of Christ in her heart and a paperback in her hand, and you’ve got Marsha Marks at a book signing. 

She engages us in conversation the moment we enter the store; my defenses drop immediately. She is disarming. Normally I would flee. Sales tactics/people make me nervous. I am shy. Please don’t talk to me, Aggressive Stranger. I'm also embarrassed for the poor salesperson, on whom I project the discomfort I would feel, were I her. But Marsha makes me laugh. I quietly confide that I have a book out recently as well, news she doesn't seem interested in hearing. You’re not trying to steal my spotlight, are you, Timid-Yet-Easily-Amused Stranger? I leave carrying a signed copy of her book and a scrap of paper inscribed with her e-mail address and two invitations: one to lunch, and another, to attend a Bible Study Fellowship introduction class. Perhaps she shows special interest, since my husband and I are fairly new believers.

I can’t offer enough thanks to God for directing me to Lifeway that day. Meeting Marsha proves to be one of the most profitable and momentous human encounters of my life. Although my new friend drops out of BSF almost immediately after getting me situated in the class (typical), God keeps me there and uses that ministry to provide an excellent biblical education. I serve as a leader for seven years, receiving countless hours of training. I lead group discussions, seminars, and even teach God’s word to our class of 150 women from time to time. 

Over the years via countless e-mail messages, phone calls, artistic collaborations and coffee shop “business meetings,” God also uses Marsha in his refinement of me. For one thing, she teaches me to write. Sure, she gives me writing assignments so she won't have to listen to my various sagas as they unfold (smile, M); but in the end, I am taught how to write. Marsha's friendship is, on occasion, the only effective salve for my bleeding artists’ heart. We understand one another. We are prayer partners; we are friends. As an added benefit, we also happen to crack each other up.

It is my privilege to help my friend and mentor Marsha Marks celebrate and promote the release of her new e-book, 101 Amazing Things About God. And yes, I designed the cover.

As iron sharpens iron, so a (wo)man sharpens the countenance of (her) friend. ~ Proverbs 27:17


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teamwork

Two years ago my friend Marsha and I team up to make a Picasa slide show, a picture testimony, the story of how I became a Christian. Sitting across from one another in our favorite coffee shop, she asks repeatedly, "Okay, what happened next?" I talk for five minutes, she thinks for five seconds, and summarizes what I've told her in five words. Following this procedure we make our way from one end of the story to another. A brilliant author with a poetic heart fueled by Jesus, Marsha Marks is nothing short of amazing. In no time she's written the entire script.

Not that I'm any less brilliant at my particular craft, but it takes me a solid week to create the imagery for the slide show. Our initial effort to load everything into Picasa doesn't go well. Both inundated with other projects, neither of us can take the time to sit down and make it work. One busy year later, I transfer the un-used jpegs off my laptop onto a CD and stuff the thing into a box, out of sight. Taunt me no more, unattended project.

Then recently my heart is stirred by a friend's first attempt at video blogging. I am impressed by his use of technology to share his faith. My unfinished picture testimony calls out, "Hey, over here!" Pipe down, Project. You're nothing but trouble.


The dratted thing is persistent; it's voice, increasingly loud. Eventually I give in. Two days and several failed attempts later, the resulting file has the nerve to disappear. All that remains is an almost-finished silent slideshow posted on youtube. I am three seconds away from chucking my laptop out the window when my Twitter friend Vikki de los Reyes intervenes. Vikki is a doctor, an epidemiologist from the Philippines, and an aspiring author. She also happens to be a tech head. Somehow she gets hold of the youtube video and, God bless her, completes the editing. She searches for the perfect score; trying several, she drags in other Tweeps, asking for opinions and advice. Meanwhile, half way around the world, once again, I watch in amazement. Unlike Marsha who was able to whip out her contribution in a few minutes, Vikki spends hours on this project. This is agape love, the real deal. Vikki de los Reyes loves me like Jesus. Marsha does too, but she and I have been friends for years, and her name is on the project. Vikki and I haven't met yet, outside of Twitter, facebook and e-mail, and in all of her editing, she failed to credit herself as the editor. So, allow me. Vikki, thank you. And thank you as well Brett Wilkes and Rachel May Wibberly, the above-mentioned Tweeps who also lent a hand.

I call it "our" slide show, mine and Marsha's, but it took a much bigger team to make it happen. Hopefully the resulting bit of digital storytelling will help someone; it's supposed to offer hope. If nothing else, I'm finally able to check this project off my list. For a results-oriented type-A gal like me, there is no greater joy.

Thank you, friends.

Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms. ~ 1 Peter 4:10


To watch the show, click here.


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my dear husband

I am in my studio rushing against a deadline when my husband, who is working at home today, calls from the other end of the house: "Honey, can you print something for me?" I groan. Fred is organizing a rather large and impressive event, a bi-ennial golf tournament. The All-America Match pits his current team against an elite group of alumni players—those who, as students, earned the esteemed status of All-America. This is no small achievement. Strident academic and athletic criteria must be met. My husband the coach challenges his players to achieve excellence in the classroom as well as on the golf course. Any who earn the national ranking of All-America are put, by him, on a pedestal. Inclusion in this tournament is part of the brouhaha he makes over them. The All-Americas look forward to it for twenty-four months; the date is sacrosanct on their calendars. They fly in from all over the world for the weekend tourney, some with families in tow. This year, Seth, newly married, will wear his Canadian Mounty uniform during the opening ceremony—a first. They will all toast their former teammate Colin, who can't make it to Savannah this time. An award-winning furniture designer from Edinborough, he recently lost the tip of his finger in a table saw.

My husband, now a PGA teaching pro, is a product of this school. He was the college's very first All-America player, in any sport. Normally he competes with the other "old guys" in this event, against the decidedly slimmer, younger fellas who comprise the team he currently coaches. Both sides adore this; they love having Coach in the mix. It's fraternal, a big competitive brotherhood, and it means a lot to my man. He looks forward to this weekend more, even, than do any of the others. They are all friends, but he is their Coach. Unfortunately Fred had knee surgery recently, and somehow or other is suffering pain in his shoulders as a result. Go figure. His knee is fine but he can barely move his arms. Sleep is difficult, as is swinging a golf club. He's still not sure whether or not he'll be able to play. All of this makes him, lately, crabby. Oh, wait, maybe it's me who's crabby. It's hard to tell anymore. Let's just say, we're both suppressing crabbiness.

This afternoon he's working on the score board for the event. Fred is a graphic designer by trade. He unexpectedly became a college golf coach eighteen years ago, but you can't take the design out of the designer. Everything has to be perfect. He spends all day fine-tuning the graphics for the board, which brings us back to the moment when he barks out his request.

It takes a long time to transfer the over-sized files and get them ready to print. The design is comprised of white type on a black background, so of course it eats up all of my ink. That stuff's not cheap, ya know. There is also, of course, a paper jam. I grumble an unholy appellation, irritation building as my own work sits unattended. Meanwhile, the clock ticks away. When I finally have the prints I stack them into an untidy pile and march down the hall to let my husband know what a gigantic inconvenience this process has been, and how annoyed I am. But before I make it to the den I remember reading about Sarah in my bible this morning. Apparently she addressed Abraham as my dear husband. Apparently, I'm supposed to follow her example.

And so, I do.

Cultivate inner beauty, the gentle, gracious kind that God delights in. The holy women of old were beautiful before God that way, and were good, loyal wives to their husbands. Sarah, for instance, taking care of Abraham, would address him as "my dear husband." You'll be true daughters of Sarah if you do the same, unanxious and unintimidated. ~ 1 Peter 3:4 The Message

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church

Sunday I am scrunched down in my plush aisle seat, stage left, a bit closer to the front of the theater than usual. My placement is strategic. The first several rows of the Lucas tend to be sparsely populated; this morning is no exception. My husband is on the road. After an already action packed morning, Gray is situated in the balcony for children's church, and in the middle of this crowd, I am looking for some time alone with God.

We stand as the band begins to play. Being this close to the speakers helps me get lost in the music. Certain lyrics hit so close to home, I cannot give them voice. I pray silently while others sing, Oh You fill those who are empty and rescue those in the valley... My life's story proves the truth of these words. I have friends who are in that awful empty place right now, others in the valley. Far from Savannah, they are with me in the music. We are united. Church is not bound by walls.

The format at latechurch varies from week to week. This morning, while I'm still lost in the glow of worship, volunteers come forward to pass the silver trays of bread and juice: the Lord's Supper. Being so close to the front, on the aisle, and the only citizen of my particular row, it makes sense that the server assigned to my section—my friend Bruce—gives me special attention. Still though I am surprised when he bows a bit, offering the tray. He smiles. "Now this is my pleasure: serving you!"

In a blink he is gone. Every ounce of me, inside and out, is moved by his words. This is the gospel in action. Bruce, a former crack head (self-proclaimed), Jewish, is a fairly new believer. We are pals. I pray for him, and he knows it. In fact, he notices when I'm having a down week, and returns the favor. Bruce looks out for me, as a big brother should. And now, on top of that, he is serving me. I feel regal—and yet, simultaneously, humbled. God rewards my search for time alone with him, with the gift of interaction. Through a simple act of service, two seeking souls are united to God, and to one another.

This is what church should be.

If we have been united with him like this in his death, we will certainly also be united with him in his resurrection. ~ Romans 6:5

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