resisting gravity

e-mail, transformed

2012-03-03T12:52:00.030-05:00

Until recently, I had an overwhelming fear of e-mail. My terror stemmed from actual experience with the dreaded stuff, so I wouldn't call it a phobia per se, although it rivaled my irrational fear of spiders. Spiders have never hurt me; E-mail ruined my day routinely and often, for years. Over time checking my inbox made me a little jumpy, like a postal inspector in a hazmat suit because of all the anthrax. Who could blame me?

E-mail was an annoying boss who must have been absent the day they studied "The Basics of Managing People" in business school. She brought me work, for which I was grateful, but her terse manner chipped away at my self-esteem. E-mail, why are you so uptight? And why all the last minute demands? E-mail was always ready to deliver directives, but was shy about coming around when I submitted commendable work. Sometimes I wasn't sure my clients received the art I completed for them at all; unless they were unhappy, E-mail hid behind a tree.

My relationship with E-mail changed seven or eight months ago when I launched a blog for Christian writers. For practical reasons, I use e-mail to manage the content of blog. Apparently, for writers, e-mail's "compose" window is just another blank canvas. Some of the e-mail messages I get from my authors are every bit as powerful as the essays they send as attachments, over which they have labored for weeks. Why? Because their e-mail messages are more personal, and less carefully edited. They are acoustic, unplugged. My inbox is stuffed with these gems. Let me just tell you, sweet people: I wish I could publish each and every one. For obvious reasons, I can't.

Sometimes, I see a germ of an idea in an e-mail from a writer friend that needs to be developed for the world to see. My friend Vikki wrote one such sentence about her childhood, almost as a throw-away comment in our back-and-forth e-mail messages. When she was a little girl, in the early morning hours, she would hear her parents typing down the hall. They wrote scripts for plays that aired on a local radio station. I begged her to expand this brilliant little seed into an entire post for the blog. She and our mutual friend Brett got to chatting about her assignment (via e-mail!); Brett surprised us by sharing a couple of amazing stories from his childhood.

All of this developed into a short series called Childhood Joys and Wonder: Vikki's essay (Part I) posted Wednesday; Brett's (Part II) goes live today. Both of their stories are wonderful, I hope you'll take the time to read them. It would be tragic, however, if no one outside our small circle was privy to the original e-mail from which the series sprang. Therefore, I attained permission to post this paragraph, written by my friend Brett Wilkes.

I was thinking about what stories I can tell from being seven years old...

For some reason, the first one that came to mind was playing piano at church. I may have been nine or ten when this happened; it occurred a couple of times. I learned a long, involved song on the piano from my lessons and practice, and I would get to play it in church during the offering collection. Most weeks, it was my mom who played, as she was our organist. But a couple of times, I played a piece on the piano, and did well. I was proud of myself/relieved at not messing up/happy at having done a good job on a great-sounding song... and yet I felt this strange anger? bitterness? that not many people applauded when I stepped down from the piano and into the pew. Actually, they couldn't see who was playing because of the way things were set up, and people told me after church they were so surprised when this short boy walked out from behind the piano rather than my mom or the other lady who played piano for church every Sunday; but they hadn't done a lot of clapping or whatever kind of recognizing. I brought this up to my mom—I was only nine, remember—and she had to tell me that playing a song in church wasn't for the purpose of being liked by the people who heard it. It was just to play for God as a gift/offering/worship. That message made sense to me, but for whatever reason—age? being human?—I didn't like that. I wanted that recognition. Years down the road now, I try to live with a healty balance of enjoying affirmation from others while not being dependent on recognition. I don't think the enjoyment of recognition is bad in itself. But I'm still learning where the differences are and how recognition and satisfaction work and interact. I'm also still learning what actually makes God enjoy something.

Brett voluntarily helps me edit every single post that we publish at baaaaa.com. He seems to think he's more of an editor than a writer, but I beg to differ. Thanks for everything, Brett.... and thank you writer friends, all of you, for taking the edge off that old biddy, E-mail.

My heart is stirred by a noble theme as I recite my verses for the king; my tongue is the pen of a skillful writer. ~ Psalm 45:1

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BFF

2012-02-24T11:12:00.001-05:00

Several years ago at a church conference, I saw a documentary that I'll never forget. The film-maker set up a camera on an Indian street corner, and trained it on a little girl as she made her bed for the night. She wore a bright yellow pinafore, the kind in which I would dress my daughter, if I had a daughter, for a birthday party. This little four or five year old girl arranged sheets of cardboard and pieces of tattered cloth on the city sidewalk, and then laid herself down to sleep. Moments before the screen went dark, a woman walked by. Her upper body was cropped out of the shot, but we could see that she was stylishly dressed, wearing trendy designer jeans and high heels. She zipped right past that sweet little yellow angel without missing a beat.

I prayed, God, please, use my life to help that little girl.

Ever since, I've been on alert, waiting. I was asked to go to India to speak at a women's conference, but the invitation (and the event) fell through. I've been called by God to foreign missions before, and when he calls, I go. This opportunity wasn't God's call. The timing wasn't right.

And then I met Navjot.

Navjot Bajwa caught my eye on Twitter as he was lamenting the content of his timeline (solely business advice + self-affirming quotations). His tweet was a farewell message. In response I smiled, waved, and wrote back, "Hey, what about me?"

I use Twitter to share verses from my daily bible study, and to promote authors who write for Jesus. I introduced Nav to some of my wonderful tweeps, hoping to get him to stay (which he did), and we all got to be friends. The two of us—Nav and I—are BFFs. We write back and forth via e-mail, sharing stories of our lives. He asks questions about Jesus, and I do my best to answer them.

On the surface we couldn't be more different, but we actually have a lot in common. Navjot is a 27 year old Sikh living in Mumbai, and I am a 45 year old Savannah suburbanite. Our vantage points are different, but we are both interested in Jesus. (In my case, this is a massive understatement. In his case, since Christians are persecuted in India, it's a dangerous one!) We also both like to write. I administer a blog for Christian writers. So, I enlist him to write essays for the blog.

Nav is seeking, spiritually. He looks at life, doesn't like what he sees, and hopes for something better. He wants to go farther in his faith. I keep inviting him to write because, as a professor, I can't help myself. The assignments are good for him, for our friendship, and for the blog's readership. In the editing process, as we go back and forth, we get to know one another better. I love editing N's essays.

Navjot has shown me how we (the church) are perceived by people in his culture. He challenges my thinking, and gives me plenty of opportunities to share the gospel, which is --> We are all imperfect sinners deserving of death, and God, our creator, is holy. He cannot tolerate sin, so he sent his Son, Jesus, to fix everything. Jesus, who never sinned, suffered and died for all of us, rising three days later, conquering sin and death. His substitutionary death paid the price for sin, once and for all. None of us can earn God's grace, but it is free for anyone who will accept Jesus' sacrifice. Jesus reunites believers to God, eternally.

I've told Navjot many times, if there is anything good in me, it comes from Jesus Christ.

Navjot has taught me a lot about Sikhism, the plight of his people, and, in his current post, about forgiveness. I am humbled when I read his writing, no matter the topic. Navjot has a brilliant mind, an interesting perspective on life, and a generous, compassionate, courageous heart. His friendship is a treasure. Perhaps meeting him is a partial answer to my prayer that God will somehow use my life to help the girl in the yellow dress, who represents forgotten and neglected children everywhere. Maybe Navjot is the answer. I suspect God has huge plans for his life. My BFF certainly has a desire to affect positive social change. Perhaps my prayers for Navjot and others in India, along with financial giving to missions through our church, will be the extent of my personal involvement with the Indian people. Or perhaps this budding friendship is only the first piece in a larger puzzle. Either way, I couldn't be happier.

A sweet friendship refreshes the soul. ~ Proverbs 27:9b, The Message

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Kruger Industrial Smoothing (thoughts on criticism)

2012-02-18T08:52:00.008-05:00

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Words kill, words give life; they're either poison or fruit—you choose. ~ Proverbs 18:21

As a college art professor, I am basically a paid critic. I teach seniors at a prestigious institution of higher learning. It is my job to analyze their work, just as they're about to graduate. I have been a professional illustrator for well over a decade; my list of credits is half a mile long. Using the foundational elements of 2-D design and color theory in tandem with my "industry savvy" (ha!), I do my best to help my students figure out what's working in their compositions, and what isn't. Because I want them to succeed in life, I am honest when I assess their work. Artists are sensitive by nature, so the best teachers deliver Helpful Suggestions with kid gloves. I have learned to cushion my comments, padding each one with marshmallows to soften the blow. Explaining the need for sandpaper to slough off their rough edges, I reference "Kruger Industrial Smoothing," hoping for a laugh. Instead, tumbleweeds blow through the classroom. I hear a cricket chirping in the distance. Tough crowd. And, young! How can Seinfeld already be outdated?

My husband, also an artist, is a golf coach and a PGA teaching pro. His job is very similar to mine, in that it requires a critical eye. As a coach, he has a harder row to hoe because golf is a singular game. Trying to get a group of ten individual guys to play as a team is a lot like herding squirrels: frustrating. My students know it's in their best interest to listen to me, even if they disagree, because in the end I'm the one who grades their stuff. Fred has a more difficult time. He faces a lot of resistance, which can be draining and even hurtful. Maybe that's why he doesn't appreciate my resistance to the multitude of Helpful Suggestions he offers around the house. And maybe, just maybe, his seeming inability to ever gain his parents' approval when he was a child has something to do with the way he deflects the Helpful Suggestions I sling back at him, in self defense. My mantra: "You're not perfect either, ya know."

Criticism. What a topic. Books have been written on the importance giving and receiving it well. Criticism is, er, critical to any creative process, in every line of work. This connection is especially easy to see in the arts. Art is self-expression, but if it resonates only within the confines of the artist's mind, the result won't pay many bills. You have to like the work you're creating, but if no one else does, you'll end up bitter, and under-funded. On the other hand, too much criticism results in blandness. Try to please everyone, and the results will be underwhelming, take it or leave it, unmemorable. That is not cool and, in the end, probably won't be profitable either. Where is the balance?

The bible recommends seeking wise counsel. Seeing the best path is easy when all of your wise counselors steer you in the same direction, but sometimes they give conflicting advice. This generally means there is more than one good way to go, in which case the choice is (prayerfully) yours. If you're a believer, it's between you and God. Prayer is a huge part of my life and my decision-making, and I advise prayer to my students, hoping that someone will hear me. They all pretend deafness at this point, doodling on their desks so as not to appear un-hip. But they perk up when I insist that my opinion is not the only one that matters. I don't think they hear that very often, from their other professors, or from anyone. I advise, "Ask for insight from a handful of trusted, objective observers, people with a good eye, who don't know you well enough to be swayed by relationship. In other words, don't include your mother in this group; she loves everything you do."

Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe you paint a portrait that rivals the Mona Lisa, and your mom shrugs and says, "Too much vermillion—I'm so bored with your palette. And you should have turned her head. A three-quarter view would be more interesting."

Most books handling the topic of criticism are written to help people recover from over-doses of it. Living with an overly critical person can be a nightmare. Adults read the aforementioned books and seek help from therapists and pastors and kindhearted, patient friends. Grown-ups can get away, or work to make changes. (If you are married to someone with a critical spirit, read Boundaries, and/or join a local Celebrate Recovery group. And, of course, pray, pray, pray.) But what about children? They are stuck, defenseless, and suffer life long scars as a result.

Because of the nature of Fred's job and mine, and the way we both forget to leave our critical hats at the office, I've had to give this topic much thought over many years. It seems to me that each of us, as fellow citizens of planet earth, has a responsibility to measure our words with great care. Jesus is all about relationship. We live and work with others, in community. People have opinions, and they matter, but what matters more is how they are offered, and when. Unsolicited advice, while sometimes necessary, is rarely (okay, never) welcome; learning restraint of tongue is a step toward Christian maturity. When we are asked to give advice, we should think and pray before answering. Requests for counsel or advice should be taken very seriously, and handled with care.

We all know, the truth can hurt—but hearing the truth is essential. Providing honest feedback requires courage and tact, and toughness from the one on the receiving end. This fact of life should guide each of us, whether we're prayerfully giving criticism, or receiving it. I think that overreacting to a well-intended helpful comment is as unfair as issuing criticism harshly.

Having just written the above conclusion, I must now follow up with an apology to my long-suffering husband, whom I adore. Fred, you are right. The meatloaf is better with onions, I'm terrible at arranging the cupboards, and if I want Gray to be healthy I have to stop buying him sprinkle donuts from the bakery at Publix.

(God, please, help me to be less defensive. Amen.)

What you say to one another is eternal. I mean this. ~ Matthew 18:18b The Message

gray

2012-02-11T13:35:00.004-05:00

When they've finished reading, Olivia's mother gives her a kiss and says, "You know, you really wear me out. But I love you anyway." And Olivia gives her a kiss back and says, "I love you anyway, too." ~ From Olivia, by Ian Falconer

I know every word of Olivia by heart, from years of bed-time reading when Gray was small. This particular conversation between Olivia and her mother comes to mind every so often as I spend time with my son, who is now ten years old. I can't get away with girly books at bedtime anymore. We've moved on to Captain Underpants, Big Nate, and The Mysterious Benedict Society. On his own or with his dad, Gray reads adventures and mysteries rather than picture books, everything from Treasure Island to The Call of the Wild. But I will always love Olivia.

In our case, the "wearing out" described above by Olivia's weary mother is not to be helped. Gray is, after all, a boy, and I am absolutely, one hundred percent not. We are both artists who like to read, but there are thirty-five years and a gender gap between us. When we are alone, one of us inevitably has to step up, be a Good Sport, and oblige the other's entertainment preferences. Usually, that somebody is me. I am the mature adult, after all, and I want Gray to love his mother and look fondly back on all the fun times we had together. Surprise: he doesn't enjoy folding laundry, or watching me grade papers. He doesn't even like Scrabble. (Can you imagine...?) So I acquiesce to his boyish taste, which is sometimes amusing, sometimes an exercise in patience, and always wears me out.

I have no complaints though. God knew what he was doing, entrusting this particular male child to my care. Compared to other boys his age, Gray is fairly calm. He's a golfer, not a linebacker. No question there. He loves being outdoors but is equally happy hanging out inside, where he can be found reading, or designing yet another of his fictional cities. Yes, that's right. Since the age of six, Gray has designed civilizations. For each, he draws a color-coded map (to scale), and elevations of some of the city's more attractive architectural sights. He designs currency, front and back, to be printed at the mint, which is located on quadrant four on the map, with a little neighborhood nearby to house all of the mint's employees. He plants trees for them, because engravers are visual people. Sometimes he writes a story or two about the citizens of his townships and burgs. Currently he's half-way through the fourth chapter of his illustrated novel, a project he revisits between designing cities and bridges and skyscrapers and currency and etc. The whole thing is very Orwellian.

Despite these strange talents and tendencies, Gray is still every bit a little boy. He is silly. Always. Even when the situation calls for dire seriousness—like every other morning, when we just barely make it to the bus stop. "You're gonna be late!" I prompt, grabbing his book bag and running toward the door. Meanwhile he comes round the corner with his shirt purposefully on backward, a calculated effort to make me laugh. Like his father, Gray is a comedian. And he needs to run around every so often to blow off some of that youthful steam that little kids—boys, in particular—seem to bottle up.

Recently on a Saturday we can't find any playmates, and Fred is away. I have work to do at home, and I'm tired, but promised earlier in the week to take Gray and the dog for a walk at Fort Pulaski. He gets in my face, all big blue eyes and freckles, reminding me, "You promised." So, we go. As I trudge along behind, watching boy and dog bound ahead with gusto and joy, I thank God with every step. The fresh air is good for all of us.

We make our way past the fort, across a hilly expanse of grass to the mile long palm-lined path which leads to a tiny lighthouse. The Cockspur Light is just off shore, surrounded by brackish water. Brave adventurers swim over, at risk of shredding their feet on the oyster beds below. Fred has led expeditions for Gray and the dog to the lighthouse several times. No chance of that today. (As if.)

In its final quarter mile, the path emerges from the palm forest onto the open marsh, a breezy mix of tall grass, hermit crabs, and scrub brush. Footing can be unsure, depending on the tide. Walking farther is possible today, but the way through the grass is extremely muddy. I crinkle my nose. "I don't think so, Gray; not today. It's too messy." He groans as if I have just cancelled Christmas. "But mom, we came all this way!" More big blue eyes, more freckles—this time annunciated by a bouncing rat terrier. "Okay, okay. You go, and take the dog, but I'm not dressed for the mud. I'll stay here and watch you." I sing out to the back of his glistening red head, "Be careful!" He and Chip are already zipping off toward the water, making their way through the mud and grass without hesitation.

While they are away, as I watch them, I pray for Gray: I thank God for this joyful person and his boundless energy, and for all that his future holds. Whenever I pray for my son I ask that, no matter what he faces in life, he will always move closer and closer to God... that he will never drift away.

As I pray I come upon some beautiful wildflowers mixed in with the muddy marsh grass—a tiny bit of femininity in this very boyish place. I take it as a hug from above, and think what a lovely end this discovery will make, for the essay I will one day write about this afternoon's walk.

Twenty minutes later Gray and Chip return, covered in mud and muck. I take the dog's leash intending to lead him tidily through the palm-lined walk back to the parking lot, not noticing the clay on the leash until it has marked me up and down with a hundred wet, muddy lashes. I look as if I've been sitting at a potter's wheel all afternoon. After all of the trouble I took to remain pristine, suddenly I'm as much a mess as the dog, and my sweet little mud-covered red-headed son. I laugh at myself, knowing I should have gone the whole way with them. And I'm worn out, but I love him anyway.

Sons are a heritage from the LORD, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. ~ Psalm 127:3-5 NIV 1984

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coach

2012-02-04T10:13:00.000-05:00

My husband is a both a sports enthusiast and a channel flipper. As a result, the focal point of our den is a La-Z-Boy recliner. Its position in the room—the angle of the chair and its distance from the plasma screen TV—was calculated with the precision of a Swiss clockmaker. Fred will watch any game played by opposing humans, from pro wrestling to poker, but he is passionate about three sports in particular: American football (professional), basketball (collegiate), and the second great love of his life (after me), golf.

I, myself, am not athletic. I was "encouraged" to play softball, volleyball, and basketball as a child, but stunk it up in all areas. As an adult I have picked up the habit of running, but Lord knows, that, for me, is anything but a competitive activity. I am simply not wired for sports. Fred is constantly frustrated with me because I can't even sit and watch games with him. My eyeballs repel the information. It doesn't sink in. I look as if I'm watching, but my brain is far away. This saddens him.

After sixteen years of marriage to a college golf coach, however, I've come to appreciate the beauty and purpose of sports. It's heartwarming to observe comradery on a team, inspiring to hear stories of individual athletes who overcome obstacles on their way to greatness, and thrilling to watch them perform well, even under pressure. It's all about people, isn't it? People and their stories. Finally, I get it.

As a coach, my husband forms close bonds with a handful of young guys from all over the world, who spend an average of four years each on his team. Unlike their professors, from whose classes they come and go, my husband the coach spends time with his players several days a week for four solid years. They often travel together as well.

Let me tell you, Fred invests himself in these young men. He loves them with a big-burly-guy kind of love, as if the lot of them are his brood of younger brothers. He prays for them, agonizes over them, cheers for them, butts heads with them, jokes around with them, and above all, hopes the best for them. He is an excellent coach. That's what they call him, by the way. "Coach." The moniker is music to his ears.

Last fall, Coach hosts a tournament which begins with an international flag-raising ceremony. Along with the few parents and girlfriends who come out for the event, I sit and watch, shivering as each player in turn carries his home flag across an expanse of grass to the tune of his national anthem. One by one they situate their flags in a row, hoisting each up a pole until all eight flutter high above. In a moment of particular beauty, the breeze loosely wraps one young freshman's billowing flag completely around him as he is en route. Lit from behind by the sun as he walks, the form of his body shows through the silk—he doesn't look much older than my ten-year-old son, Gray. He must be eighteen, but he's still just a boy. Knowing his story and envisioning his future, I am overwhelmed. At a young age, this one was abused, neglected, and eventually abandoned by his single mother. You'd never suspect any of this by looking at him. His sunny disposition covers the damage. We have seen glimpses, though, of the wounds underneath. Here he is, because of golf, far from home—separated from his adoring grandparents by oceans and time-zones. He is now under the care of a solid Christian man, an excellent Coach, who will invest in him. He will be loved and nurtured and prayerfully coached for four years, and then, all grown up, he'll fly away, in a much better state than when he arrived. If this is not a good use of sports, I don't know what is.

The victim's faint pulse picks up; the hearts of the hopeless pump red blood as you put your ear to their lips. Orphans get parents, the homeless get homes. ~ Psalm 10:17, The Message

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you, and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." ~ Jeremiah 29:11, NIV

I am pleased to help my husband introduce his new website, coachofgolf.com. Love you, Fred.

the jacket

2012-01-28T15:00:00.086-05:00

Sunday morning I am buzzing around helping set everything up before church. We meet in Savannah's gorgeous, historic Lucas Theater, a rented space to which we have access only on Sundays. Setting up and tearing down are a part of our usual schtick. Storage is limited as well. I find myself trying to explain this to a visitor in the lobby, who grabs my attention as I am briskly jetting from point A to point B. As a church, we are used to this. The doors are open. People wander in, and of course they are more than welcome—that's why we're here in the first place! So we all do our best to greet new people, amid the joyful chaos.

This gentleman is a drifter; probably homeless. It takes about one and a half seconds for me to realize that my new friend, who has very kind eyes, is playing me. We're used to this as well. I say "we," meaning our church collectively—especially those on staff, and volunteer team leaders, including me. Our church meets in a lovely urban area surrounded by city squares—parks—so a small part of our congregation is made up of people who are homeless, or are on the edge of homelessness: alcoholics, recovering alcoholics, drug addicts, parolees, the mentally ill, you name it. Having them in church is a beautiful thing, and presents special challenges, for which we receive special training. On top of the training, I've learned the hard way, in this very theater lobby, how not to handle Players—a lengthy discussion for another day.

I get him a cup of coffee, knowing he will request loads of sugar, which he does. Free calories. Then he delivers his line. He just got off the bus from Atlanta, and while he was distracted in the station, someone stole his coat. Can we help him?

After sheepishly explaining our lack of physical resources (the space is rented, we have no storage, etc.), I grab every available friend of the male persuasion within a ten foot radius and try to get them involved. My hope, I guess, is that one of them will take the bull by the horns and handle this gracefully, with wisdom, kindness and authority. In other words, I am eyeing their coats. I step away to call home, to grab a pastor, to think for a minute, all to no avail. When I return, my drifter is alone again in the middle of the fray, looking chilly. That's when it occurs to me: we're about the same size, this man and I. He is petite, not much taller than me. And my super-chic black trench coat, which I bought at a discount department store for fourteen measly dollars, is a few sizes too big for me, so it might just fit him. AND, my husband has always hated this jacket. "Really," I tell him, unpinning the broach Gray gave me for Christmas from the lapel and fishing my car keys out of the pocket, "you're doing me a favor by taking this thing off my hands."

I suddenly realize, everyone can see us. At this point, three awful thoughts make me ill. First, I am sure that my friends on staff at the church are shaking their heads, tisk-tisking me. (They would never tisk-tisk me, not in a million years.) All of the training they've provided flashes through my brain: Do show love and concern. Don't give rides. Don't give money. Don't enable bad choices. But he didn't ask for money. He is cold, that's all. I hate being cold. If I had no coat, I'd be miserable. Second, I am hyper-aware of Jesus' words, "Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them," (Matthew 6:1a). Here we are in the middle of an increasingly crowded theater lobby, where all eyes can see this drifter, who is having trouble squeezing into my very feminine, highly fashionable coat. What a sight: Tom Joad meets Ava Gabor. (The jacket is my only glamor item, by the way; I'm in a T-shirt and jeans underneath.) It's a tight fit, so donning the jacket is not a subtle procedure. Should I have ushered him outside first? Or into some dark corner? Am I describing a drug deal? The need for discretion doesn't occur to me until he is waving my satiny black trench coat aloft, struggling to get his second arm into its dangling sleeve.

My third thought is the worst: what if anyone thinks I am being especially kind? Yes, this is an act of kindness, but my gift is not sacrificial. I have other coats at home, and the means to replace this one. My sole motive is problem-solving. See a need, fill a need. And, let's face it, this man's need only begins with the coat.

Pride instantly kicks in. I don't want my friends to think I'm "performing," or to think that I don't know my Scripture. My brain is spinning. Adding to the cerebral hurricane, I'm a little peeved that, as a church, we aren't able to have resources at the ready for this kind of thing. A stack of blankets would do. I trust the wisdom of our leadership implicitly—countless approaches to solve this and similar problems have been tried out over many years—but still, I just wish things could be different. And yes, maybe I'm also slightly irked that none of the guys I snagged to help out, stepped up to the plate. Why did they abandon him? WE are the church. WE should fill in the gaps, right?

At this point I feel something like actual shame. I'm all but tapping my foot, willing the coat to fit. We both hear the distinct sound of fabric straining and ripping as he lowers his arms. Once he's finally settled, looking like Charlie Chaplin in drag, I flee to the balcony, which is my usual habit, to pray. I do pray for him—my new friend, Richard the Drifter—but I am so flustered that mostly, I pray that no one will see me when I finally emerge for the service, and that someone will collect my leather-bound New Testament, which I left at his feet, and put it somewhere safe. Or, that he took it. I wish I had slipped it into the pocket of the jacket, or that I had offered it to him. Finally, I pray that God will deliver my poor tired brain from all of these ridiculous thoughts, so I can worship and learn and serve as I should.

For the most part, God answers every one of these prayers. As usual, I'm one of the last out of the theater. I see Richard. He is asleep, wearing my coat, nestled in a seat in the last row, his head resting against the back wall, cozy as a house cat. My bible is waiting for me in the volunteer area off to the side of the lobby. I make it onto the sidewalk without having to interact with anyone. Thank you, Jesus.

The next day I crack open my binders of notes from Bible Study Fellowship, looking for something specific for a friend. Flipping though hundreds of pages, my eye is drawn to this question which follows the first loaves and fishes story in Matthew: "When you are confronted with a need, do you say, 'Oh, send them home, we can't do anything about it?'... Or do you come to Him with what you have and obey His command, 'You give them something to eat?' " Immediately my mind is eased.

How great is our God, to provide this little bit of reassurance for me?

If someone takes your cloak, do not stop him from taking your tunic. Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Do to others as you would have them to you. ~ Luke 6:29b-31

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only Jesus

2012-01-21T08:26:00.003-05:00

I wrote this and the two preceding posts for a friend who loves the moon, who is seeking enlightenment:

I believe in Jesus because when I was broken hearted, completely out of hope, he showed up. He: Jesus. In a big way. I know it was Jesus—not the Virgin, or my dead relatives, or Yu-huang (the Zeus of Taoist deities)—because although I would have preferred any of them, when I called for help, Jesus was the only one who picked up the phone.

Wanting nothing to do with Jesus, I avoided him for years. I'm not sure why. I didn't know much about him, actually. He simply bothered me, and he was highly unpopular among my peers. That certainly didn't help his case. Meanwhile, as I ignored him, a pit was forming in my heart. This annoying pit developed, over time, into a gaping hole. My many and varied attempts to patch it up or fill it all ended in failure. I was crying all of the time, for no reason. It was nutty, but I knew it was a God thing.

Always an excellent student, I did my research. My quest for God and inner peace took me to the spirituality and self-help aisles at Barnes and Noble. I read up on various Eastern and New Age philosophies, where I stumbled upon the attractive idea of concocting a personalized god-soup. I threw in a little of my parents' Catholicism, a splash or two from the East, and, as mentioned above, several dead relatives, to whom I prayed quite regularly. All the while, I felt his gentle pursuit. Him: Jesus. He was always nearby, offering peace, smiling and waiting. I responded by throwing rocks. But in my moment of extreme desperation, also mentioned above, there he was, all alone: only Jesus.

We exchanged no words. I did not pray a special prayer; in fact, I didn't say anything at all. I stood still, tears streaming, and let him in. That's it. That's what happened. Meanwhile, inside the seeming quiet minimalism of this event, a bomb went off. In the most glorious moment of my life, darkness turned to light. I saw light. In fact, if you happened to be nearby at that moment, you probably rubbed your eyes, thinking, Good golly, that teary-eyed girl over there seems to be glowing. You'd have thought that, because I was! Radiant me, all aglow. (Everyone's experience is different, by the way. On the other end of this vast spectrum, initial belief in God and Jesus is a slow process: a heart opening to her Creator like a flower, petal by petal. But not for me. Apparently I required a more abrupt approach.)

I had never given much thought to eternity and didn't understand until later that, at that glorious moment, I had found it. All that mattered to me initially was that Jesus gave me my life back. I did not understand that he had forgiven my sins—although, trust me, I was more than penitent—nor was I aware that he had died for them. Died and risen. Nope. All I knew was that I walked into a church as good as dead, and left, alive again. More alive than I had ever been.

I have learned tons about our living triune God (Father, Spirit, Son), having studied the Bible like a maniac ever since my conversion nine years ago, and I believe what I read. I have shelves full of all the proper supplemental books—commentaries, classics, references galore—and, I have read them. (Well, as much as a girl sits down to read her Vines Complete Expository Dictionary... but, you get my point.) I was a member of the Savannah Women's Day class of Bible Study Fellowship for seven and a half years, mostly in positions of leadership. I can define propitiation. Concerning eschatology, I take a pre-millenial stance, although I am convinced that, more than likely, none of us has got it right. (I threw that in, Dear Moon-Lover, not for you, but for another friend who has me pegged, theologically, as a hack.) I can't say I remember everything I have learned, but I'm a good note-taker and can probably find what I'm looking for, as soon as I'm able to pin together five consecutive minutes, between grading projects, writing my novel, and packing Gray's lunch for school.

Despite countless hours of diligent study, it's the application that matters. Belief without behavioral support is meaningless, and even harmful to the cause of Christ. What could be worse for one's Christian witness than hypocrisy? I am laughably far from perfect, but I do try to live by the words of this book that I've come to love. Here's the kicker: When I alter my behavior according to what's written in my bible—even though it often gives advice that can only be described as couner-intuitive—I am blessed. Loving my enemies results in me getting blessed. Responding to harshness gently, blesses me, too. It's all so upside-down. Jesus is upside-down. I love that about him.

I'm a very emotional girl, dear friend; my world-view is guided not by logic, but by how I feel. I feel Jesus through his Spirit alive in my heart as I read and study and apply his Word. I feel him when I hear stories of how he works in people's lives. I feel him calling me to repent when I make wrong choices (daily; hourly). I feel his peace descend like a blanket as I pray. And, when I open my eyes, I see him working all around me.

This is why I believe.

Amen.

Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved. ~ Acts 4:12 KJV

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serendipity

2012-01-14T13:48:00.001-05:00

(Written two days after Christmas.)

This week has been, for a variety of reasons, discouraging. Not exclusively, mind you. Over all, I am happy; life is good! But, every day this week, I have faced discouragement.

For one thing, attempts to cheer a loved one—an atheist who suffers from perpetual self-imposed misery—fail, utterly. I do not attempt to convert him, by the way. Oh, no. Not that. Conversion is up to God. But I do my part, prayerfully extending love and concern, and sharing the true story of how Jesus saved my sorry self when I was as miserable as he. My favorite atheist rejects my efforts which, although not particularly surprising, hurts.

On top of this, every day, little well meaning comments and criticisms about my writing endeavors leave me feeling misunderstood. I am cut off from my usual sources of encouragement, due to holiday travels; as a result, I am flustered. Sad. I entertain thoughts of quitting. Maybe it's time to pull the plug. All of this writing nonsense and tweeting bible verses is causing nothing but trouble, and it takes an awful lot of time. If I had time, I could pursue a hobby. I could dust off my guitar.

Meanwhile, my devotional reading plan takes me to Scriptures that address each of my sources of discouragement, quite specifically. The timing is uncanny. Concerning my favorite atheist, I feel better when I am reminded that rejection is to be expected. If you reason with an arrogant cynic, you'll get slapped in the face (Proverbs 9:7). I’m even given hope by the depths of his misery. You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God & his rule (Matthew 5:3). So what if I ruined our visit by sharing the fact that I pray for him every day. Perhaps God is at work in my atheist-friend's heart. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and he is uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though he doesn't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds (Matthew 5:11).

God even addresses the recent "helpful suggestions" that have been making me blue, reminding me to hear criticism with an open mind: The road to life is a disciplined life; ignore correction & you're lost for good! (Proverbs 10:17) I am comforted as I pray with David, Bring me back from gray exile, God; put fresh wind in my sails! (Psalm 51:12)

On the little matter of my being tempted to give up not only my Twitter ministry, but also my dream of writing for God, He uses other means. Reunited with dear friends after the holidays, they rally to my aid, sending heartfelt notes and an amazingly on-target quote about perseverance in light of criticism, by none other than Theodore Roosavelt. Finishing up the final few words of Teddy's snippet, I hear a pointed lyric playing on Pandora: When I tried to give up, Lord, You never gave up on me. The support from my wonderful friends is not unusual, but how about the timing of that lyric, and the fact that I noticed it at all? Amazing.

God is always at work refining and comforting, using all things together for the good of those who love him and have been called according to his purpose. The more involved I am with him, the more I see evidence of his love all around me, even when I am not specifically looking for it. God is serendipity.

You're blessed when you get your inside world—your mind & heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world. ~ Matthew 5:8, The Message

stillness

2012-01-07T14:29:00.006-05:00

When I was a brand new Christian, my friends Sarah and Georgia taught me how to pray; I've been a pray-er ever since. I guess you could call me an intercessor, which is a fancy way of saying that I pray for others, because I certainly pray a lot for my friends and family. This is not as selfless as it sounds, though—it's more a description of the way God directs my prayers, once I get settled in. As a prayer counselor at my church, I pray with and for countless folks, people I don't even know. I have prayed discreetly with strangers in grocery stores, and with friends on street corners. I can't say I respond immediately every time I get nudged from Above to pray, but I wish I did. Missed opportunities like these, for me, always end in regret.

I have studied the prayers of the bible (a highly worthwhile use of time), and have read many books about prayer. As I read Psalms every day, I am taken with David's unabashed honesty in praying. Based on these studies and my own experience, I am convinced that prayer is more about spending time with God than anything else. There is not one perfect way to do it, although humility and honesty certainly increase depth of fellowship. As closeness to God has become my goal in prayer—as opposed to getting things—I find have less to say. Prayer is a conversation, not a monologue... and, as Jesus reminds us, God knows everything, anyway. Sometimes there is no need for words at all. Deep calls to deep.

We don't have to explain anything to God, but I don't think he minds much when we do. I like hearing my ten-year-old tell me about his day, even if I already know the basics of what went on, and I'm sure God is no different. He probably laughs when we suggest solutions to our problems, but again, I doubt there is a demerit system in place up there. Sin separates us from him, so prideful prayers won't be effective—pride is the root of all sin, sin separates us from God, and separation is the opposite of closeness. Still though, I think God is pleased with our sincere attempts to spend time with him, no matter where we are in our understanding of the process.

Sometimes I feel God calling me to prayer in the strangest places. Usually this is brought on by an abrupt silence. Take Dollywood, for example. Did you know there is a tiny country church smack in the middle of that boisterous, joyful Tennessee amusement park? I stumbled upon it a few summers ago. It was still and tranquil inside, a slice of heaven surrounded by tons of whirling rides and shouting children. Walking through the doors into that oasis of peace was awe-inspiring. I prayed in that church. Oh, how I prayed.

The same thing happens in smaller ways all of the time. For example, often I find myself alone in our tiny neighborhood gym. It's basically a cellar full of old Nautilus equipment. In the silence of that room, I am called to pray. So far no one has walked in on me, but when it happens, I'm hoping my gym-mate will think she's stumbled onto a session of yoga practice. (Oh look, she's doing child's pose!)

The day after Christmas, most of my family, gathered in Savannah for the holiday, goes for a hike at Fort Pulaski National Monument. A brisk wind is rushing over the marsh—chilly, but refreshing. While on the palm-lined path to Cockspur Lighthouse, I summon the courage to confess to my atheist brother that I pray for him every day. I have been dreading this chat. Traditionally he bristles at any mention of Things Divine. Not this time, though. I am heady with relief, flushed and breathless. We catch up with the rest of the group and make our way into the fort. I notice an entrance off to the side of the main passageway, a room cut into a huge mound of earth. Alone for a moment, I decide to enter. It is a magazine, full of (empty) power kegs. The noise of the windy day is hushed the moment I step inside. The stillness is surprising and hugely, wonderfully welcome. In the sudden silence, I hear a heavenly invitation. In response, I pray. "God, please help my brother. He is so unhappy. He needs you. And help me to love him as much as you do." Hearing the voices of meandering tourists approaching on the path outside, I know my moment has ended. I leave the room, satisfied.

A great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave. Then a voice said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” ~ 1 Kings 19:11-13

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the sixth language of love

2011-12-31T12:16:00.009-05:00

My appreciation for personality quizzes began fifteen years ago when a counselor friend had me take the Myers-Brigg test. She told me it was all in good fun, but, as a pal and co-worker of my husband, I'm sure she was concerned. We were in a bad way at the time, you see.

I stopped by her office to pick up the results which, to my surprise, she had sealed up in a very official manner. While sliding the manila envelope across her desk, she announced, "Well! Turns out, you're an INFP." She seemed terrified and quite pleased all at the same time, like a scientist who has discovered a deadly new germ. "INFP," she continued. "That's a very rare combo." I think she actually recoiled at this point. She definitely rolled her chair back an inch or two. I could have sworn she was simultaneously issuing a silent "code red" signal, pressing the hidden button under her desk.

Returning home I read the results, announcing to my empty studio, "Yup, that's me!" The assessment was right on target, which was comforting. I remember thinking, Well, I may be odd, but at least I can be qualified; ergo, I do fit into the human race, after all! Rare for sure, but not alone.

Lots has happened since then. Jesus saved my sorry self, for one thing, replacing fear and misery with joy and hope. Now my life has purpose. As a result, I receive tons of training for various ministries, all geared toward understanding people—communication skills, the basic tenets of counseling, etc. Between the training and new friends with similar interests, I am exposed to several other cool tests, including Dr. John Geier's DiSC (based on the work of psychologist William Moulton Marston), Laurie Beth Jones' excellent Path Elements Profile, and Dr. Gary Chapman's Five Love Languages. According to DiSC, at a glance, I am high 'I'. (When I take the test though, I'm all over the place, a perfect blend of all 4 qualifiers.) The lovely Laurie Beth Jones' PEP assessment classifies me as fire—surprising, but I'll gladly take it. Words of Affirmation is my love language. That makes sense, for a word-lover like me.

The various explanations of all my test results seem accurate. This is slightly mystifying, as I find many of the questions difficult to answer. I'm always thinking, Well, instinctively I'd do this, but over time I've learned to do that. If the question asks how I behave in a group, I want to know, Who is in the group? Because, depending on the answer to that crucial question, I'm either gonna be totally stressed out sitting on that couch wishing invisibility, or buzzing around happily chatting up a storm. I also need to know, Am I an invited guest, or the hostess? Is this a morning or evening affair? What is on the menu? Is there a dress code? And, by the way, where are we? If this is a beach barbecue, I'm gonna be the odd (wo)man out. People universally seem to adore beach barbecues, but not me. I hate them. If this is a beach barbecue situation, I'm definitely gonna be checking my watch.

Apparently the creators of the tests gear them to soar high above our various quirks and neuroses.

I recently retake the Myers-Brigg and Love Languages tests, just to see if I've changed at all in the years since I originally took them. I'm still an INFP, which is fine. Words of Affirmation wins out as my Love Language again, but only by a single point, with three others bunched up immediately behind. My husband Fred agrees to have his Love Language tested as well. His results are similar, with four of the five languages vying for the top spot. Physical Touch leads by a hair, though, a fact I tuck away in my mental Note-To-Self file. I'm telling you, this stuff is good to know! Very helpful.

If Dr. Chapman ever introduces a sixth Love Language—humor—we'll both claim it by a long shot. My husband is a self-proclaimed Funny Guy, you see, and as for me, my best friends have always been hilarious. I gravitate toward funny people, and Fred is no exception. I was immediately smitten not only by his big ol' handsome physical self, but by his wit, which ranges from "rapier" to "utterly sophomoric." I'm sort of the straight (wo)man in our house, as I have been in most of my friendships. I'm not particularly funny, but I really, really love to laugh. It's as if God designed me to bring out the funny in other people, for my own entertainment. What can I say. It's a gift. In all seriousness, though, humor is extremely important in our relationship. It takes the edge off. Attempts to make one another laugh are, most definitely, gestures of love.

After a long period of darkness, in recent years, laughter has returned to our marriage. Fred was the first to mention it, although I had already noticed. He makes me laugh so hard, sometimes, I can't stop. It's the classic snowball rolling down a hill, getting bigger as it rolls. And I thank God for it, every time.

He will yet fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy. ~ Job 8:21

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the headshot

2011-12-24T14:27:00.000-05:00

A few days ago I get a note from an editor at Minnesota Monthly, a recent client. Apparently they are featuring me on their contributors' page and need a headshot. Until recently, as a rule, I always submit something hand-drawn for this kind of thing, a quick piece of art befitting my illustrative personae. Anything other than a photo. I hate photographs of myself; in my opinion, photos are really, really mean. Either they lie, or they lack tack. They are not friendly. Mirrors, on the other hand, are infinitely more gentle. When I face the glass I usually shrug and think, "Okay, not bad." But photos... oh, the agony. Not only do they point out any and all imperfections, I am convinced they go out of their way to magnify them. In my opinion, that's downright rude. Nobody likes a critic.

In recent years, especially since I started writing, my husband Fred gives me a hard time about my illustrated self portraits. "You're such a beauty, Catherine. You should let people see your real face. Let them get to know you." In submission, I cautiously begin using photos as avatars and gravatars on twitter, facebook, and blogs. In keeping with our usual relational shtick as artists with opposite taste, my husband despises each and every one of my carefully crafted photos—which I happen to think are as adorable as they can possibly be, considering the subject matter. If I didn't rate them as such, I would never use them in the first place.

On a recent trip to a local museum, Fred is inspired to fix the problem. He has me stand against a wall that's papered with a very hip print—way more hip than I'll ever be—and proceeds to capture image after image on his i-phone. Immediately after snapping them, as we sit at a table eating donuts in a cool coffee shop across the street, my sweet husband raves over his work, completely gaga. Meanwhile, I am genuinely disturbed. Several of the photos reveal to me for the first time that my left eye is a good bit higher than my right. While I'm wondering if I have always been so hideous (I am the elephant woman) and how I'll be able to continue walking around like this (perhaps a paper bag is the answer), he is thanking God, out loud, for blessing him with such a beautiful wife. Are we even looking at the same photos? The disconnect is remarkable. Either the Enemy is distorting my vision, or has God has provided love goggles for my adoring husband. I'll never know which is true, and it doesn't matter anyway, so I let it go and make a joke about something, trying to change the subject.

When the request from Minnesota Monthly comes in, I know I have to use one of Fred's photos. There's no way around it. I sneak into my studio and open up the least offensive shot. As I am busily clicking away in Photoshop wishing for a "moisturize" filter, or perhaps a "youthening wand," Fred sneaks up behind me, catching me red-handed. "Ah, retouching!" I blush and start to stammer. "I didn't know you were gonna take my picture that day, Honey. My hair was flat, and I wasn't wearing any makeup. I can't fix the hair, but look, see? I added eyeliner and lipstick." I show him my handiwork to distract him from the fact that, when he walked in, I was about to erase the crow's feet on my cheek. Yeah, you heard me. On my cheek, well below the spot where people usually have crow's feet. I mean, yes, I have those too, in their proper place, next to my eyes; those, I ignore. But who can blame a girl for wanting to erase crow's feet from her cheek? What a joke.

"Babe, you don't need makeup. You are beautiful. Look at you!" He is not just trying to be nice, nor is he blowing smoke to get something from me. He really means it.

I immediately thank God for wiring my handsome husband to be attracted to me, even after seventeen years together. It's true, I suppose, that love is blind.

Merry Christmas, Freddy dear. I love you more with every passing day. Thank you for loving me, and for going out of your way to build me up. What a godly man you are, to love your wife this way.

Bless your fresh-flowing fountain! Enjoy the wife you married as a young man! Lovely as an angel, beautiful as a rose—don't ever quit taking delight in her body. Never take her love for granted! ~ Proverbs 5:18-19 The Message

(Fred is miles out of my league, by the way. Va-va-voom. I never get tired of studying his handsome face. Despite his dreamy green eyes, classically chiseled brow and cheekbones, and amazingly perfect nose, he hates any and all photos of himself as well. Go figure.)

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on coveting, open doors, and rose-colored glasses

2011-12-17T11:29:00.000-05:00

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You shall not covet your neighbor's house. You shall not covet your neighbor's wife, or his manservant or maidservant, his ox or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor. ~ Exodus 20:17

Coveting.

The last of the Ten Commandments, it's apparently the one with which Paul personally struggled the most. At least, it's the one he felt the need to write about:

For I would not have known what coveting really was if the law had not said, "Do not covet." But sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, produced in me every kind of covetous desire." ~ Romans 7:7-8

Coveting is tricky, because it's unseen, and easy to justify. We call it a righteous desire for better days when things don't go our way, or entitlement when they do. We even drag God into our unholy discontent, disguising covetous desires as the pursuit of God-given dreams, or fulfillment of God-ordained blessing. God does put dreams in our hearts and obviously he wants to bless his children, but when we start comparing the rate at which he fulfills our dreams with those folks over there, or the various levels at which he seems to be blessing us, we get into murky water.

We believers can even get to the point of wanting certain things so badly that we confuse our desires with God's leading. We can mis-label temptations that fall into our laps as "open doors."

The term "open door" is attributed to Paul, who wrote three times that God opened doors for his ministry. Of course, God's methods of leading his disciples have not changed; however, I have personally proved that it is entirely possible to misinterpret events in my life as signposts from God. Catherine's Dictionary of Christian-ese defines a misread "open door" as an event confirming one's plan; a signal of approval, taken to mean that one is headed in the right direction. Ex: Praying for a way to fund their latest desire, the financially-strapped couple interpret their junk mail—two credit card applications and a Title-Pawn ad—as an open door from God to go ahead and buy it.

False "open doors" are dangerous to walk through, because they pit the object of our covetous desire directly against God's desire for each of us—which, incidentally, is holilness. The couple in the above scenario are looking for an easy way to fulfill their desire, but acquiring more debt will only make their problem worse. God's desire is for them to cut up their existing credit cards, not apply for new ones. He is looking for lasting behavioral change. His route looks a whole lot less glamorous, but the destination is heavenly.

Covetous desires hinge our level of personal fulfillment on temporal, material elements, rather than on the Divine. If only I had a job/spouse/house like hers, then I would be happy. Alas: the grass looks greener over there, but it isn't.

Lately I've been trying hard to recognize coveting when I see it, and call it what it is: sin. Repentance is the next step. Turning away from the sin of coveting results in a shift in focus. It's like trading my green-tinted specs for a pair with rosie lenses. My situation is the same, but I see it differently. Choosing to focus on the good aspects of everything in my life, rather than wishing my circumstances were different, has initiated two changes. First, as I am more thankful for everything God has given me, I feel closer to Him. That's certainly a welcome result. Second, the people in my life seem different. As I go out of my way to appreciate the finer facets of their personalities rather than being annoyed by (what I perceive to be) their flaws, hard edges soften. Better qualities seem to blossom, diminishing the ones I find less than ideal.

Wednesday, my husband is bothered by the way I restocked the cupboard after unloading the dishwasher. Normally at this point I wish I had married a more appreciative fellow, someone so thankful for my effort that he doesn't mind getting bonked on the head by falling tupperware. Criticism about the inner workings of the kitchen is unwelcome. It makes me defensive. Not this time. Wearing my rose-colored glasses, I respond with a warm smile. "I love you, Fred." He laughs. "Yeah, well, you love me, but...?" With all sincerity I continue to grin at him, inching closer. "No buts. I love you, period. I'm so glad I married you. Thank you for taking such good care of us, and for caring about our family." The evening goes pretty well, after that.

I am beginning to understand, I think, what Paul meant when he wrote in 1 Timothy 1:6, Godliness with contentment is great gain.

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fantasy christmas

2011-12-09T23:55:00.000-05:00

If I could, I would change a few thing that happen in my life every year near the end of December.

In my Christmas fantasy, there are no expectations. Gifts are optional. I don't have to spend money I don't have on junk that no one needs. Each guest in my home is happy to receive a cup of instant cocoa, the fancy kind, and a warm Christmas chat at the kitchen table. I shamelessly offer store-bought gingerbread men as I light a gingerbread-sented candle, to the delight of everyone in attendance. Children applaud, even though they prefer chocolate chip.

There is lovely music playing in the background and joyful lights on the tree, which is topped by a star, not a sparkly snowflake or non-representational sculpture or plaid-clad Victorian angel. (Since when do angels wear green and red plaid?) In my opinion, this is plenty of heavenly ambiance, and everyone agrees. No one is disappointed by the lack of bling. Our crèche, nestled under the tree, is not overpowered by towers of wrapped boxes. Gifts, when given, are from the heart. They are understated and, as previously mentioned, entirely optional. No gift is considered inadequate. No one is allowed to ask, "Did you save the receipt?" And no one feels slighted if he or she is overlooked by someone in the group. This applies to everyone from rarely seen members of my extended family to my closest friends and relatives.

Attendance at this well mannered love fest is also optional. My Dad does not coerce my angry atheist brother to attend. My brother, should he opt to ride across the country with my parents to join us, would never dream of insisting that my financially-strapped father foot the bill for a hotel room for him, and subsequently chauffeur him fifteen miles back and forth across town every day, so that he doesn't have to sleep on our couch or rent a car. The hotel is welcome in my fantasy; after all, my folks are in the guest room, and the house is crowded. But at forty-three years of age, my gainfully employed brother's unwillingness to pay his own way, is not.

Pressure from out-of-town in-laws to drive six hours each way on jam packed, dangerous roads for a holiday visit is forbidden as well. In my Christmas fantasy, former victims of childhood abuse like my husband are not required to cross state lines to make polite conversation and pretend that everything is okay, while inwardly having to clobber demons they've been dodging for decades. Christmas should be a break from that mess, not a doorway into it.

On the surface, my fantasy looks pretty good. I can justify every bit of it, all the way 'round. There's one big problem though: it is selfish. The truth is, once a girl enlists in God's army, her focus at Christmas (just like every other day of the year) must turn outward. December is a spiritually charged month. Churches fill up as the year draws to a close, and calendars are crowded with social engagements. Many of us will spend time with rarely-seen family members who have little to no idea of the true meaning of Christmas. Opportunites to serve and shine for Christ abound. My prayer this year is that I'll do a better job than I have in the past. God, help me love these people—even the one who spilled the home-brewed beer he brought as a "gift"on the rug, and hid the spot with my favorite velvet pillow.

If, like me, you are a closeted holiday-hater, take heart: you are not alone. Despite what you may think, dysfunction is normal. Every family is weird, each in its own way. Take it from a prayer counselor who has been on the receiving end of multitudes of surprising stories from people who look as if everything in their lives is pulled together. It's not. Life rarely looks like a Hallmark made-for-TV-movie. For many of us, having to face our families is not easy. Set proper boundaries, get prayed up, and rely on God to protect you and to work through you in your situation. He won't let you down.

And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work. ~ 2 Corinthians 9:8

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street smart

2011-12-03T09:09:00.000-05:00

I lived the first thirty-five years of my life apart from Jesus. In other words, once upon a time, I was a heathen. Oh yes. This puts me in a unique category. Statistically, only a blessed few come to Christ as adults; you can almost smell sulfurous vapors rising off the lot of us. Having dodged the Bullet of Bullets, wow, do we understand grace. We also understand people, sinners,"the lost and unsaved." We don’t judge. How can we? Look at us. We were a mess, too.

My status as a former heathen often has me feeling like a goat among churchier sheep. My “street” wisdom tends to raise a few eyebrows. For example, in a ladies bible study carpool, my fellow leaders get on the topic of sharing rides. I pipe in, “Years ago my friend Traci told me, ‘Never let another woman ride in the front seat next to your husband.’” They are all so sweet and kind and lovely and respectful and innocent, they have absolutely no idea what to do with my comment. The car is uncomfortably quiet until Mrs. Rosemary, a true Southern Lady and a proper Presbyterian, artfully changes the subject.

I try out Traci’s advice several times over the years on a variety of fellow carpoolers. It is never well received. My own husband laughs at me. Ladies are universally mystified. I watch them struggle against the implication that none of us can be trusted. What is she thinking? We’re on our way to church, for Pete’s sake. We’re all brothers and sisters; I completely get that. On the other hand, teachers of the law are supposed to live above suspicion, and Satan is on the prowl.

I have no idea where Traci was at spiritually. I was lost when we were friends, and she has since passed away. I do know that she shared her wisdom out of sisterly love, from experience. She was street smart. It’s a dark world out there; she knew this first-hand. Saved or unsaved, the world remains dark. Recent events in the lives of beloved Christian friends have proved, whether or not she was aware of biblical truth, Traci's words aligned with Scripture. Take the car as a metaphor for married life: a husband behind the wheel, his wife at his side. She should not forfeit her seat to another woman out of friendliness or to be polite, nor should she ride beside any husband other than her own. The car metaphor applies to every area of life. Adapt it for your circumstances at work, PTA meetings, worship band rehearsal, whatever. Take it from a former heathen who has seen the wisdom of these words proved both inside and outside the body of Christ. So what if it’s awkward. Better safe than sorry. Your marriage requires protection, and no one is in a better position to protect it than you. And as they say, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Marriage should be honored by all and the marriage bed kept pure, for God will judge the adulterer and the sexually immoral. ~ Hebrews 13:4

my friend Marsha Marks

2011-11-26T13:39:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-19T09:48:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-12T09:34:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-05T18:58:00.000-04:00

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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etiquette

2011-10-29T15:31:00.000-04:00

On a short-term mission in 2004, I experience several fairly rough weeks. The trip culminates in a big community outreach event: a rock concert, performed by a band of young guys from our team. The playlist includes songs with an evangelical message, wrapping up with twenty minutes or so of pure worship, and a gospel presentation. The event is successful for the usual reasons—people hear about Jesus, and believe what they hear, thank God! It is also precisely what I need at this moment. The music is balm. It changes me, much for the better.

I have work to do after the show but in the middle of the commotion I scramble to find the guys to thank them. I want to assure them that, on top of everything else, God used them to patch me up. My motive is the Golden Rule. I'm not seeing a whole lot of fruit from my particular role in this mission; hearing a kind word from anyone would mean the world to me, so I assume the same would be true for them. My new mission in this moment is to encourage the band. When I finally find them and get their attention, I give them my words of love and appreciation. And they brush me off. Totally.

Change the location, people and situation, repeat a thousand times, and here we are today, seven years later. My mission to encourage fellow believers who have blessed me has been poo-pooed so often, I've lost count. Having been on the receiving end of many accolades and pats-on-the-back myself, I understand the dilemma. God said, "I will not give my glory to another." I know that it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose. We're all worthless sinners; even our best works are no better than filthy rags. On the other hand, consider this: rather than having devoted the last two months of your life to organizing the event for which I am commending you, you could have chosen to ignore God's call. You could have spent that time sitting on the couch in your den eating pretzels, watching CSI. So you see, you did have a part to play! Good job, friend!

"Words of Affirmation" are a Love Language; some of us really need those words. Obviously God knows this, which is why encouragement is a gift of the Holy Spirit. We all have a God-given need to give and receive encouragement: for some of us, giving encouragement is our strongest gift. If Mama raised you right (which of course she did), you know it's rude to refuse a gift. If we don't learn to receive, others are denied the opportunity to give.

On behalf of my fellow Exhorters, I would like to extend an invitation to believers everywhere: As a Church, let's reconsider basic etiquette. Embrace a simple "Thank you." If you really must add your standard, "It was all God, I had nothing to do with it," by all means, go for it. Meanwhile, I've got my carefully-thought-out reply ready to go: "You're welcome!"

Therefore encourage one another and build each other up. ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:11

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wedding rings

2011-10-22T21:58:00.000-04:00

My wedding ring is missing. Again. Not to worry—it's in the house somewhere. God knows where it is and he will lead me straight to it, eventually. He always does.

As a life-long fidgeter, no accessory entrusted to my care stands a chance. Knowing this, I don't go in much for jewelry, except for a few standard items which I wear daily, including my wedding ring. The problem with rings is, it's easy to take them off, making them a prime target for fidgeting. We once had to disassemble an upholstered armchair because I lost my grip on this symbol of marital love as I was twisting it around my finger. It slipped between the cushions, into the dark recesses of architecture hidden beneath fabric and stuffing. The chair wasn't cheap, but we had no choice: this ring is an heirloom. It belonged to my husband's maternal great-grandmother, who received and wore it proudly in Peebles, Scotland until the day she died. When Fred's mom inherited the ring, it became a family treasure; she entrusted it to him, and he, in turn, gave it to me. We went to Peebles on our honeymoon, traced the ring's history, etc. Very romantic. As newlyweds, we had it appraised. Financially it isn't worth much; however, it remains annoyingly irreplaceable. Despite having to shoulder the responsibility of keeping track of this prize, I do love it. The design is perfect for me. It's unusual: white gold (nothing flashy), a modest diamond rendered imperfect (and therefore blessedly inexpensive) by a tiny black flick, surrounded by delicate (but not too dainty) Victorian scroll-work. There is the obvious sentimentality attached to what The Ring represents, but it is, after all, only a symbol. Fred and I love one another just as much, with or without his great-grandmother's diamond on my finger.

Here's the thing though: the symbolism of wedding rings matters to God. It matters to him, a lot. I know this because when I rush out the door ring-less, he brings this neglect to my attention before I make it to the end of our street. The empty spot on the third finger of my left hand burns. No matter how far behind schedule I may be, at God's signal, I turn the car around to set things right. Luckily, I have my late Great-Aunt Dede's inexpensive setting of ruby chips and diamond dust to wear as a backup, until God reveals the location of my wedding ring which, as I write this post, remains M.I.A.

Marriage should be honored by all. ~ Hebrews 13:4

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saying so

2011-10-15T08:28:00.000-04:00

Almost from the moment of my salvation on December 15, 2002, I knew I'd write about the experience. God saved me and my marriage in one fell swoop. Things were awful, and then pow, in came Jesus. Here we are nine years later, happier than we were as newlyweds! Don't mistake me for a head-in-the-clouds Pollyanna though. The truth is, we still have bad moments. But. The dark times that used to define us as a couple have grown increasingly rare and short-lived. Now they serve as measuring sticks. Our bad days bring to light how far we've come, how many prayers God has answered. It's a good story, full of romance, drama, heartache and God. It's funny. Most importantly, it shows what Jesus Christ can do. No mess is beyond his redeeming power. My purpose in writing is to offer hope to people (especially women) in troubled marriages.

Outside of one playwriting class in college, I've never studied writing. God has filled in the gaps, miraculously at times, providing tons of help for me along the way. I don't mean to suggest that these helps (mostly people: wonderful, long-suffering, talented friends) were provided as proof of a divine calling. I used to think so. Now, the very thought seems silly, even presumptuous. Rather, I think this endeavor, like so many others, is one God supports as a method of drawing me closer to himself. It's about traveling the road together, no matter the destination. For almost a decade this book has been my project with Jesus, but if I let it go and move on to something else, that would be okay. The experience has taught me a lot about writing, and life. It has been a worthwhile use of time. And, it's been fun.

Wait. Back up. Did I say fun? After several false starts, now that the book is actually being written, edited, passed around and read by professionals—people who don't know me or my husband—some new descriptives have entered the mix. Oh sure it's still fun, but also nauseating, humiliating, and terrifically tough. Writing the good stuff about people is easy, but this is a true story, about real, imperfect humans whose lives are marred by bad parenting and a host of psychological issues. The challenge has become, how much to tell. My goal is to glorify God, and yes, the shadows prove the sunshine. Telling the truth doesn't make any of us look very good though, especially several in the story who don't happen to be me. People I love and respect. People who are are still very much alive. What's a girl to do? Fictionalize? Use yet another pen name? Write anonymously? None of these answers seems as good as simply telling the truth.

The God who fixed my marriage can solve this problem as well, so I will leave it to him. Just another bump in the road. Meanwhile, I've got to get back to work. One thing's for sure: this story isn't going to tell itself.

Let the redeemed of the LORD say so, whom he has redeemed from the hand of the enemy. ~ Psalm 107:2 NKJV

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stuck

2011-10-08T12:04:00.000-04:00

This week's absent-minded-professor-moment hits me Wednesday night as I'm in the throes of cooking: Crikey! I forgot to buy paper towels, even though they were on the grocery list. I am reminded of this oversight as I finsh setting the table for dinner. In our house, no paper towels means no napkins. A lack of napkins at the dinner table has, in the past, caused a stir. This is not something I want to recreate. The soup is hot, I've already beckoned husband and son to eat it, and the table is absolutely, one hundred percent napkin-less. The empty space where the roll of paper towels should be taunts me: evil prongs installed beneath the cupboard, parentheses made of brushed steel, courtesy of Target. I'm about to be in trouble.

A vague memory of cloth napkins pops into my head. We haven't used them in a long time, a decade or more, but they must still be around. Rushing into the dining room I struggle to open a rarely-used drawer in a rarely-used cabinet, into which we shove all of our earthly treasures: silver candlesticks (now covered in wax) given at our wedding by friends we don't know anymore, hundreds of old photos, and—somewhere—a few tablecloths and napkins. The first drawer I try is stuck, but a mighty heave pulls it ajar. At a glance, seeing only boxes of clippings and mementos of Gray's babyhood, I try to close it and move on to the next. No luck. Now it's stuck open. This will cause more trouble. Drat you, drawer! I hear the boys taking their places at the table. Toning down my struggle with the furniture so as not to advertise, I reposition myself to get a better grip and more traction. Silently I try one final shove, employing every ounce strength my 110 pound frame can muster, but it won't budge. And then it occurs to me: Look under the boxes, Girl. Maybe God is the one keeping the drawer open.

There they are: three white cotton napkins, all that remain of the original four. Their condition is not exactly pristine, but they will do perfectly for this humble meal, for our family trio. Pulling them out, the drawer closes without any further trouble. Dinner is saved, and so am I.

Sometimes obstacles are given as gifts. Best to slow down and take a good long look at each one. As my friend Marsha likes to say, "It's not rejection, it's redirection."

When they came to the border of Mysia, they tried to enter Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus would not allow them to. ~ Acts 16:7

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sharp edges

2011-10-01T11:36:00.000-04:00

A hostile world! I call to God, I cry to God to help me. ~ Psalm 18:6, The Message ♥
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Not every child is shown proper love; the ripple-effects of mistreatment in childhood are far-reaching and stubborn. Abuse is cyclical. Jesus Christ glues broken people back together, but while we remain stuck on earth, sharp edges poke through. No one behaves perfectly all of the time, not even believers who have followed Christ for decades; for some, though, the battle is up a steeper hill. If you have close associations with a person from this group—your boss, your best friend, your husband—you live out biblical principles that others only ponder theoretically. You can't gloss over Peter's instruction for wives to submit to husbands even as slaves to masters, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh, (1 Peter 2:18). As a concept, turning the other cheek has special meaning to you. While your office mate complains about the dip in her 401K and a recent trip to the dentist, you hold back tears because someone you love is blind to his own "anger management issues."
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The topic of abuse and how to handle it is bigger than any blog post. If you need help, see a Christian counselor, and read Boundaries. Yes, Jesus tells us not to resist an evil person (Matthew 5:39), but he did not put you on this earth to be anyone's verbal punching bag. True biblical love does not enable abuse or any other sin. God is your protector, and part of his protection includes wise counsel. Get help. Sharp edges really can be softened, over time.
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If you have no idea what this post is about, thank God! And then, show an extra measure of grace to the people you encounter today. Heaven only knows what went on before they walked out the door.

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tweet, tweet!

2011-09-24T12:19:00.000-04:00

Don't work your way into the spotlight; don't push your way into the place of prominence. ~ Proverbs 25:6a, The Message

Hearing of Twitter for the first time, I roll my eyes with the drama of a silent-movie starlet. Egad, as if facebook isn't enough. Along with the rest of the self-employed, artists use facebook to promote themselves, an activity for which I have very little stomach. The noisiest ones post a seemingly endless stream of links to their latest gallery events and jobs done for Big Shot Clients. I try to be happy for them but let's face it: in the end, checking my fb feed leaves me exhausted and underwhelmed. Thankfully, my beloved, long-suffering agent—a tough cookie, for whom I daily pray—thrives on the game, is fed by it; therefore, I largely leave the promotion of my career to her. God's behind it all, but Anna is the front (wo)man. As for me, I love Jesus, who preaches the opposite of self-promo: "If anyone wants to be first, he must be the very last, and the servant of all," (Mark 9:35).

Imagine my surprise and the smirk on my face when I get asked to teach Self-Promotion at the esteemed and much ballyhooed Savannah College of Art and Design. Ignoring my protests they assign me Self-Promo again and again. My teaching plan includes as many guest speakers as I can wrangle into the classroom, either live or via Skype. They all say the same thing: You have to be on Twitter. It's a virtual cocktail party; any art director who is Anybody is on the guest list. Ick. Resisting the urge to fake-vomit, I finally set up accounts on Twitter and Hootsuite for my illustration business. Gotta learn it, to teach it. Meanwhile I prayerfully lament, Jesus, I wish there was a way for me to use all of this technology and the education you've given me, to promote YOU!

I sit down with my bible—or rather, my husband's pristine copy of Eugene Peterson's modern-day interpretation of it: The Message. Fred loans it to me for a year-long reading plan. Reaching for my trusty highlighter and magic multi-color ballpoint pen to mark it up, my usual habit, I think, hmmmm, better not... not my book. Maybe I'll tweet this verse instead. I create new accounts for this purpose, using my real name, and have been tweeting verses from The Message ever since. Another prayer, answered. If a Scripture interests me or touches my heart, or if I know it can help someone in need, I tweet it.

At first this is an outlet, but it becomes an actual ministry. How efficient of Him. I mean, I'm sitting here anyway... may as well be sharing. True to form, as I show up each day to do the work Jesus assigns, He blesses me in unexpected ways. Things get interesting almost immediately. In response to a series of tweets taken from Matthew 11, a young woman in India inquires: Mum, is this true? Jesus is not a fan of religion? I reply, Yes dear, Jesus wants RELATIONSHIP, not RELIGION. God is always ahead of me, providing what I need before it's needed. I follow a link tweeted by @StickyJesus that preps me to prayerfully handle the irritated atheists who eventually pop up in my mentions. Most importantly, God leads me to some who seem lost and lonely. I share the gospel, pray, #engage. Certain friendships, thusly formed, move beyond Twitter. #Jesus won't be confined to that little box, or any other.

Due to the content of my timeline I get dumped by any new *friends* who are offended by the bible. My Tweeps are largely Jesus-lovers, a global tech-savvy church who provide a steady stream of encouragement. #GoTeamJesus! To the World, these are VIRTUAL friends; to me, this comradery is very real and greatly appreciated. My job requires large amounts of time spent alone with my laptop; my Twitter Buds have become my office mates. We spend the day alternately checking up on one another, cracking wise, and discussing great theological truths. This is good fruit. Thank God, in heaven we won't be separated by oceans or constrained to 140 characters at a time. I for one look forward to that day.

Meanwhile, follow me @catherinefru, and I will gladly follow you!

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learning the art of war

2011-09-17T14:25:00.000-04:00

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Believers have only one Enemy, The Devil. He and I have never met per se, although I'm well acquainted with several of his henchmen. They invade my dreams now and then (an experience I wouldn't wish on anyone), but more regularly they perch on my wide-awake shoulders: Heckle and Jeckle. "Caw, caw!" They chirp away reminding me of every mistake I've ever made. God convicts so that we will repent; once forgiven, he forgets. Not The Enemy though. Oh, no. Demons needle. They even try to berate the good stuff. The on-going battle of my life is a fight against these voices.

A year or so after my conversion the war was at a fevered pitch. I couldn't go anywhere without my petal-pink NIV, the one Fred gave me for Christmas, balancing it on the handle of the grocery cart, sleeping with it under my pillow. For weeks I stabbed back at my unseen foe with every verse that came to mind, but the voices only got louder. In desperation I dumped self and bible to the ground, opened to my favorite chapter—John 15—and started reading. When my eyes hit verse four, things got interesting. The familiar words Remain in me, and I will remain in you, blazed on the page. Inside, a bomb went off: KAPOW! Imagine a farmer firing a single shot to rid his cornfield of crows. Same thing. Every single ugly bird flew far, far away. The result: peace. No more mental bile.

John 15:4 has been my life verse ever since. At the time I didn't understand why God used those particular words to fight for me, but I do, now. Jesus defeated Satan. That work is done. As long as I am tight with my Savior, he will protect me. Time spent with him in bible study, prayer, and life in general is spiritual coaching. He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze (Psalm 18:34).

As it turns out, the crows weren't gone for good. They circle over head, sometimes getting too close for comfort, tempting me to fall into the old habit of self-hatred. Every day I shoo them off. Temptation itself is not a sin—Jesus was tempted, after all—it's the way we respond that matters. Birds may land on my shoulders, but I've learned not to let them nest in my mess of a hair-do. Resist the Devil, and he will FLEE, as will every member of his evil army. All it takes is a little resistance. They're only crows, after all.

God left certain enemy tribes in the Promised Land, using them to test the Israelites who had no experience in the Canaanite wars. He did it to train the descendants of Israel, the ones who had no battle experience, in the art of war. ~ Judges 3:1-2, The Message

bumpy terrain

2011-09-10T17:09:00.000-04:00

Life is a road over bumpy terrain, sometimes high, sometimes low. No one on the mountaintop doubts God's love, even though at that same moment countless others are down in the valley. It's when the beaming mountaineer tumbles down that her perception changes. Her faith is tested. She asks, Why me, God? Or, if not that, at least, How long?

Valleys are all too real. Some are ridiculously deep and wide—Grand Canyon-ish—and the only way out is to trudge across. Take grief, for example. Valley of valleys. Grieving is unpleasant, but compulsory. Circumventing this necessary human process only causes other problems.

Dealing with loss is the biggie but there are countless other pitfalls into which, at one time or another, we all shall fall: unemployment, relationship woes, annoying illnesses, what have you. Stuck in the mire, we pray. Sometimes God miraculously delivers, but more often he settles into the murk with us, providing companionship, navigational aids, and morale boosters. Imagine a Park Ranger equipped with a map and compass, carrying a huge pack full of snacks, a solar-powered radio and a box of Bandaids. He may even have a tent, and a couple of those really comfy down-filled sleeping bags. He's not afraid of spiders. Or snakes. A good Scout, he will protect you as he leads the way.

It's while we're in the valleys of life, I believe, that we can shine most brightly for the Lord. People are watching: either they're down in there with us, or are observing with curiosity from perches higher up. If I pout and wither and moan, they see this and wonder, Why does she bother with God? Look at her, she's no better off than the rest of us. On the other hand, if I believe what I read in my bible every day—that God uses all things together for my good, that he gives me more than enough grace for every good work, and that he uses hardship to hone me into the image of Jesus—then I can smile, even in the midst of the pit. Rather than pathetically dragging myself across the sun-scorched earth, I can happily jaunt along on a rented donkey, chatting away with my Guide, enjoying the spectacular view.

We received the same promises as those people in the wilderness, but the promises didn't do them a bit of good because they didn't receive the promises with faith. If we believe, we'll experience that state of resting. But not if we don't have faith. ~ Heb 4:2, The Message

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names

2011-09-04T17:19:00.000-04:00

We have more names in my family than should be allowed. My husband Frederick likes to keep the world guessing, switching every ten years or so back and forth from Rick to Fred. Our son Graham, named for his paternal great-grandfather, goes by the nickname Gray. I was named for my cousin Suzy, so obviously my name is Catherine. (Somehow this makes sense to my Dad; talk to him for the full story, not me!)

I grew up as Cathy. Nicknames included Cathy Baby, Catalina, Cate—and the curveball—Bingo. My husband put an end to most of that on our first date. He decided I would henceforth be known as Catherine, insisting the beauty of name in it's entirety should not be wasted, and that beautiful me should have an equally beautiful name. Insert romantic sigh here. Everyone I've met since that day knows me as Catherine, except most of my Twitter chums. Along with my family of origin, they insist on calling me Cathy. Which is fine.

People endure nicknames and name changes as part of the natural course of life. An interesting twist for me, something not everyone knows, is that I have a completely separate alter-ego. In an effort to market a new style at the beginning of my career I adopted the pseudonym Violet Lemay for my illustration work. It's not unusual for illustrators to make this move. I'm not a maverick, was not trying to re-invent myself or live a double life; rather, I was simply following a proven, time-worn trail, a trick of the trade. Violet Lemay's work took off like crazy, leaving Catherine Fruisen (the real me) in the dust. Therefore, professionally, I am Violet; Vee to those I work with often; Ms. Lemay to those who enjoy standing on formality.

Lemay is the name of the St. Louis suburb in which I grew up. It's French, which could be cool. We pronounce it LEE-may in the 'hood (ha! not cool!), a linguistic tic which somehow or other didn't follow me into my new career. In fact, most of my clients insist on spelling my fake last name as incorrectly as they pronounce it: "Le May" (le-MAY). As if.

Violet defines both a color and a flower. This appeals to my artistic heart as well as the tyrannical efficiency expert who resides in my brain. Violet—name, flower, color—is velvety. It smolders. I like that. A big fan of nostalgic entertainment, I know the name Violet from It's a Wonderful Life and Leave it to Beaver. In both cases, the Violet character is rarely seen, making only occasional cameo appearances—the bad girl of Bedford Falls, and Lumpy Rutherford's bratty, braided little sister, respectively. Not role models per se, but hey, we're all fallen. Anyway, I was lost as the day is long when I devised all of this. If I had it to do all over again, I'd go for Hope, or maybe something really clever like Talitha. Alas, there's no going back.

It wasn't until years after I registered the name Violet Lemay Illustration as a small business in Savannah that I realized the amazing similarities between me, Catherine, and the flower. You know, the whole "shrinking violet" thing. Yes, that's me. To a tee. I mean, maybe not so much any more—Jesus gives me his boldness and courage—but I am definitely most comfortable in the shade, nestled away from life's busy path behind the trunk of an enormous tree. Like the flower, everything about me is sensitive. I don't travel well. I thrive on routine. I need my privacy, or I wilt.

As I've grown in Christ, Catherine has blossomed. For a long while I was ready to be done with Violet, the alter-ego created by heathen me all those years ago. I fantasized about ways to kill her off. I've come to realize, though, that she is a rather large part of me—and not just because I've been given a thriving career through her name. This is bigger than business. I am Violet, and she is me. Violet and Catherine are one and the same. So, despite the confusion and weirdness of it all, I'm afraid Violet Lemay is here to stay. Call a rose Daisy—or even Violet—and she'll smell just as sweet.

Thankfully, the God of Heaven knows my real name. I can't wait to find out what it is.

He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. ~ John 10:3
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spaghetti

2011-08-28T14:05:00.000-04:00

Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God. ~ Matthew 4:4

Visiting for a long weekend, my dad sits on the built-in bench behind our kitchen table watching me cook. “How long do you boil your spaghetti?” he asks. “Nine minutes.” Knowing he’s grasping at conversational straws, I can’t help but goad him. “Why do you ask?” He answers with grave solemnity, lowering his voice as he scrunches his face, staring off into a void. “Your mother always cooks it for thirteen. It gets… mushy.” We exchange a significant glance. Poor guy. “Well, right here on the box it says, 'cook 9 to 11 minutes.’ We like it al dente so I always follow the nine-minute rule.”

As I set the timer and stir the sauce I can’t help but chuckle. This is so like them: enduring fifty-two years of bad spaghetti without so much as a glance at the instructions printed on every box.

Humankind is no better. We assume we know how to live, without reading God’s instructions for living. What a recipe for disaster. The bible is God’s written revelation of himself to and for us, "useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness," (2 Timothy 3:16). The wise few embrace this gift; as a result, they feast on excellent spaghetti, and are satisfied. Life is a tasty meal when prepared according to the instructions.

I know people who discard the Bible entirely as untrue, never having read a word of it. What pride! Is it any better to pick and choose which parts to believe, or to read it through once and assume you know it all? I’m sure my mom (the sweetest woman on earth, whom I adore) read the instructions on the spaghetti box at some point, early in her married life. She must have set the timer properly for a while. But, over time, her imperfect human brain muddled the information. By never reading the instructions again she operated for years under a false assumption, and we all—one guy in particular—suffered as a result.

Reading the bible daily is a spiritual discipline. In her book A Woman’s Guide to Fasting, Lisa Nelson writes that spiritual disciplines (prayer, bible study, meditation, fasting, etc.) "are your way of cooperating with God while He transforms your eternal soul." Who wouldn’t want that? Cooperating with God is a whole lot easier than the alternative.

Every believer needs to eat God’s word daily, or her spirit will starve. That’s not good for her, or the people for whom she's responsible. Why should any of us muddle through on our own? God’s Word is alive, active, and available on a massive scale. Interacting with God through Scripture is the tastiest of delicacies. Join the feast today, tomorrow, and every day. Until you give it a try, you won’t know what you’re missing. Just because you’ve gotten used to overcooked pasta doesn’t mean it’s any good.

Through the Word we are put together and shaped up for the tasks God has for us. ~ 2 Timothy 3:17, The Message

battleaxe: Thanks

2011-08-21T19:07:00.000-04:00

My thoughts are out to get me. They attack at all hours: "You are such an idiot, Catherine. What were you thinking? How could you have said / written / done that?" I run from these guerilla warriors daily. The chase is exhausting and frankly, it's annoying.

Jesus gives us plenty of armor; apparently, though, these wicked unseen snipers have found my chinks. Mind control is the answer. I wield the Sword of Truth, meditating on and reciting Scripture: "For God so loved me, he sent his only Son," (John 3:16). "There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus," (Romans 8:1). "Nothing can separate me from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord," (Romans 8:38-39).

Another weapon: giving thanks.

As I park my car, today's mental attack is so severe I can't even remember why I've come to the market. Heaving a sigh, I climb out and look up. "Thank you, God, for the blue sky. Thank you for these beautiful clouds." I feel better. Oh yeah, Fred is grilling tonight. We need chicken. "Thank you for this concrete walkway, God. Thanks that this building is sturdy. Thank you for automatic doors, conveniently placed recycling bins, and air conditioning." That's right, we need cereal, too. And dog food. "Thank you that my legs work, that my lungs are healthy, that my heart beats just fine." As I push the cart through the aisles thanking God for everything from florescent lighting to muzak, I chop those evil distracting thoughts out of my head. By the time I make it home (with almost everything I was supposed to retrieve), I am on the other side of the attack—in the presence of God, ready to enjoy the rest of the day with my family.

Enter God's presence with the password: "Thank you!" ~ Psalm 100:4 (The Message)

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In his presence is fullness of joy. ~ Psalm 16:11

dawn

2011-08-14T19:09:00.000-04:00

During Gray's summer break my office doubles as a rumpus room. As I click away in Photoshop he hovers at my elbow hoping I'll take a break so he can check his Farmville plantation. He is bored. I wish we could ride our bikes up to the neighborhood pool, but I am rushing against a deadline; in fact, I have been, all summer. For two and a half months I do my best to squeeze full work days into a few measley hours. When that inevitably fails, sleep is the first thing to go. I count down the weeks before his various day camps with the expectancy and anticipation of a heart patient awaiting a transplant, simultaneously hating myself for harboring such longings. I adore my son. He is God's gift to me; we get on like peas and carrots. This will be the only summer of his life that he is nine. I don't want it to go by in a big blur of boring. And so, I pray. "God, please help Gray have fun today. Please send friends to play with him. Please occupy his mind, inspire his artistry, give him ideas to pursue. Thank you for this work—help me do it well—and please, Jesus, help me to be a great mom, too."
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Every day in a varitey of ways, God answers my prayers. Lego buddies for Gray routinely appear on our door step. As for me, I am the recipient of supernatural rest—rest that I should not have, considering how little I have slept. And, September is only a few weeks away: dawn is breaking.
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"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." ~ Matthew 11:28

bo peep

2011-08-07T17:03:00.000-04:00

If it doesn't break your heart, it isn't love.
~ Jon Foreman (Switchfoot)
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Shepherds smell like sheep*. I laughed when I first saw this little saying on a home-made placard in my friend Nathan's office; then, it made me think. Christian leaders are shepherds. If we don't smell like sheep, we're not mixing it up enough with the flock. Admittedly, at the time I was probably smelling a bit too fresh—unacceptable for a shepherdess with over seven years of intense Christian leadership training under her belt. I had led countless groups with a fair amount of success—however you gauge that—but, I knew I was standing, crook in hand, behind a wall of glass: a ceramic Bo Peep figurine, who'd be more effective as an action figure. "God, help. I have a deep, deep fear of sheep. Please fix me. Make me a better shepherd."
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This prayer required no small amount of courage. I am a raging introvert, you see; socially inept to a diagnosable degree. Or rather, I was. Life has completely opened up for me since praying that prayer. God has sent some real stinkers (she wrote, affectionately) into my life, and I love them, every one—even the few who don't love me back. My little flock has been through so much in such a short span of time, it boggles the mind: addiction, divorce, suicidal thoughts, co-dependancy, irrational fears, intense poverty, you name it. Very adult problems. Although exilarating, trying to shepherd hurting sheep through their individual valleys has been a roller-coaster with extreme highs and murky lows... including an occasional helping of heartbreak and humiliation for Yours Truly. In the thick of one particularly tough shepherd/sheep moment, Nathan unwittingly helped me out again. "If your heart isn't broken yet, you're doing something wrong," he announced, during a routine latechurch leadership meeting. Precisely what I needed to hear.
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Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. ~ John 15:13

*From the book, They Smell Like Sheep: Spiritual Leadership for the 21st Century, by Lynn Anderson

peace

2011-07-31T20:49:00.000-04:00

What do you get when you add nervous excitement to the mounting pressure of looming deadlines? Nearly, a panic attack. I know this first hand, with evidence gleaned as recently as Friday.
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Thankfully, relief is always only a prayer away. When I get myself worked into a snit, I have learned to hit the deck. Knees, meet kitchen rug. The resulting peace is nothing short of a miracle. Jesus said, "Peace I leave with you. My peace I give you," (John 14:27). He wasn't kidding. Having lived the first 35 years of my life without this kind of peace, I look back in awe of my survival. Thank you, God, for giving us Jesus; and through him, your gift of peace.
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Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thansgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. ~ Philippians 4:6-7
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rest

2011-07-25T09:28:00.000-04:00

Sunday mornings are busy for our family. Wait, that's not entirely true. For me, yes, Sundays begin with a fair amount of action, which is fine. I'm not talking about a big hectic circus. There is work to be done, that's all—the kind of work on which I thrive. Currently, I serve as a ministry team leader, a position which necessitates early arrival at the theater where our church meets. Fred and I take separate cars, so the boys can sleep in a bit and enjoy a lazy morning. Often I pick up my friend Dawn en route; sometimes I leave extra early, so the two of us can enjoy a quick coffee before we park on Broughton Street and make our way to the Lucas Theater. Dawn has other plans today, though. I'm going solo.
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Upon arrival, I help set up, lead the pre-service prayer, and check on my ministry team in the lobby, while the band warms up and does their sound check on stage. People start showing up at around 10:45am. We mingle, doing our best to make them feel welcome. The music starts at eleven. Happily, I take a seat. (Some volunteers have to stay back in the lobby until later.) I try to focus on the lyrics, to be present in the worship, to really and truly mean what I'm singing. If someone on my team has not shown up yet, or some other concern hovers over my head, I'll be honest: this can be difficult.

At the end of the service, near the close of the final song, I shimmy past Fred to take my place in front of the stage where I am joined by the rest of my team. We're called Decision Counselors, but mostly what we do is pray with people. Today, I pray separately with two young women; both, mighty big prayers. Serious concerns. Especially Lady #2. She and I walk out together. I check in with a few people, then drive home... or, rather, to the golf course where Fred has invited me to join him and our son for lunch. Having anticipated a quiet, indoor, air-conditioned experience, I groan when I arrive. A gigantic amateur tournament is finishing up. The place is packed. In fact, I've never seen so many people at this course. There are photographers everywhere. The smell of grilling burgers permeates the hot, stagnant air. People are standing around eating off paper plates—an experience I would appreciate most times. Not today, though. As soon as I park, I call Fred on his cell. He's busy interviewing a prospective student, asks if I can hurry in to the clubhouse to look after Gray. "Honey," I plead, "I called to tell you, this doesn't look like what I need right now, at all. I am not feeling well. I am tired. It's so hot here. I think I'm just going to go home, if that's okay with you." Fred laughs (I must sound desperate) and sends me on my way with his blessing.
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Having already spent quite a while in prayer and bible study, I try to write a little, unsuccessfully. The house is a mess; I do a little tidying. Of course I refrain from actual WORK—thank God, that stuff is off limits, one day a week. But, I am restless. Bored. I hate sitting still. I try unsuccessfully to nap. Eventually, the boys come home. I run to the store, make some dinner, check e-mail. Still restless.
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We all head back up to the same golf course so Gray can practice on the range for his Monday morning tournament. The place is deserted now. Amazing, the difference. My heart soars as I observe father and son "hitting eggs" on the range. From behind, Gray's silhouette is a carbon copy of his dad's. Thank you, God, for my family. Thank you for saving my marriage. Thank you for your protection over us, for your goodness to us. Thank you for this place.
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I sit in the shade and take in the artistry of the now-quiet scene: Dripping with Spanish moss, massive live oaks sway in the breeze, towering over the pink crepe-myrtles which dance beneath in the long shadows of dusk. I feel connected to them, to their rhythm. At my left, a turtle peeks his head out of the rippling pond to say hello. Nearby, a blue heron perches majestically in the fronds of a lofty palm tree. Egrets pace slowly in the creek across the way. The place is spectacular; it's even cooling off. The Golden Hour. I snap a mental photo, knowing the camera on my phone can't come close to capturing the beauty of this holy moment. This is peace. This is rest. I am refreshed.
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Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. ~ Exodus 20:8

je t'aime

2011-07-19T15:02:00.000-04:00

In her book Jesus CEO, Laurie Beth Jones describes Jesus’ practice of sending ladybugs as symbols of his love for her. My family adopted this tradition years ago, substituting a variety of devices in place of Laurie’s ladybugs. We call each of them a “Jesus-is-Thinking-About-Me.” For my husband, it’s helicopters. Our son Gray, now nine, has been collecting JiTAMs since he could talk—taxi cabs, certain types of clouds, etc. Yesterday he tells me with great delight of two unusual orange moths, which land for a moment on the toe of his sneaker. He adopts the occurrence as a new JiTAM. Charmed by his sweet faith, I decide not to point the improbability of such an event ever occurring again.

I have two JiTAMs, only one of which I will disclose today: repetitive numbers. My heart swoons when I notice 22:22 minutes on the treadmill's counter, or at the sight of any clock displaying 3:33. The kicker: it has to be unexpected. There is no sitting in front of the digital alarm, waiting for 4:43 to flip to 4:44. Nope. The mark of a true JiTAM is the surprise factor. Once you and Jesus have established your symbol, you’ll see what I mean. And, like me, you’ll experience the depths of your Savior’s love. JiTAMs come when they are most needed: during times of sadness, exhaustion, self-doubt. They also come, I have found, when I have misbehaved: either as a precursor to, or as a reward for repentance.

Yesterday I rush to the post office to send a package to some new friends, Christian artists I met via Twitter. They are scheduled to visit in November. The mail clerk hands me my receipt: $2.22. Rushing from the post to the grocery store and back home again to make dinner, I glance at the clock. 5:55! Two assurances from above, in less than half an hour—for me, a new record! I smile, anticipating the wonderful benefits that are sure to flow from this new friendship. Je T'aime, dear Jesus. Je T'aime.

Give me a sign of your goodness ~ Psalm 86:17, NIV

praying jabez

2011-07-10T11:55:00.000-04:00

His mercy flows in wave after wave, on those who are in awe before him. ~ Luke 1:49, The Message

Open my eyes so I can see what you show me of your miracle-wonders. ~ Psalm 119:18, The Message
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Like Jabez, I pray that God will bless me indeed. I pray that Jesus will expand the horizons before me, that His hand will always be upon me through his Spirit, and that He will keep me far from evil. Good prayers, every one. As I daily pray like Jabez, life gets increasingly interesting. The more I expect to see God working in my life, the closer I feel to him, and the more miracles I see.
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Keep your eyes open for God, watch for his works; be alert for signs of his presence. ~ Psalm 105:5, The Message

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sanctification: killing mini-me

2011-07-04T13:08:00.000-04:00

We have met the enemy, and he is us.
~ Walt Kelly, Pogo

Christians are expected (by God, by the World) to live differently. The Holy Spirit enables this by making us aware of our sinful habits, giving us the desire to replace them with Something Better, and the ability to do so. That last bit is where it gets interesting.

Each propensity toward sin is an evil Mini-Me, encamped inside. There are tons of them; they form a vicious, insidious army. Mini-Me soldiers don't fight fair. They show no mercy. In short, they are most unpleasant. Daily, I am forced to ward off their attacks. Protected by God's armor, like the rest of you, I've been given one weapon: the Sword of the Spirit; the Word of God. (Yes, it's a sword, but I like to imagine a bayonette.)

Die, Pride! Take that, Coveting! Sorry, Judgmental, but you have to go. Make way for God's army: Humility, Contentment, Grace. (Ammo: Proverbs 18:12, 1 Tim 6:6, Romans 14:4, respectively.)

If I fail to put up a fight, I make myself and everyone around me miserable; therefore, passivity is not an option. Keep your guard up, Girl, and wield your sword. Or, your bayonette.

For we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body ruled by sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin. ~ Romans 6:6

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electric blue

2011-06-27T18:07:00.000-04:00

When we re-stocked my son's aquarium in February, the sales girl was so excited about one particular breed of ciclid—the "electric blue"—I couldn't say no without hurting her feelings. Neither blue, nor electric, he was a disappointing non-color, sort of a cross between ochre and grey. Recently, we added a flat piece of slate to the tank, forming an aquatic lean-to, into which this fish immediately retreated. Since then, day by day, his color has become quite blue. Electric, in fact. Turns out, he just needed some room to breathe, away from the other fish. E.B. is an introvert.

Widely misunderstood by our louder extroverted comrades, we introverts gain strength and refreshment from time alone. All Christians, intro- and extro-verts alike, need daily time away from friends and family to be with God. But, introverts need to pull away from the masses even more, in order to refuel. Allow us some solitude, and watch us glow.

You've always given me breathing room, a place to get away from it all. ~ Psalm 61:3, The Message

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trust

2011-06-21T16:29:00.000-04:00

While serving as the Substitute Teaching Leader of the Savannah, GA Day Women's Bible Study Fellowship class, I got to try out about ten different bible study methods, in order to teach them. What a gigantic blessing! Homiletics is by far my favorite; however, WORD STUDIES (infinitely easier) are a close second. The idea is self-explanatory: trace every use of a word through Scripture, from beginning to end. A concordance or bible dictionary can be quite helpful in the hunt; my favorite tool when applying this method, however, is biblegateway.com's keyword search.

This study method gets nice and toothy when you put some thought into the word you decide to study. Example: identify a personal struggle—a character trait or fruit of the Spirit which you feel is lacking—and choose a word of the opposite meaning. Then meditate on the better quality expressed in those Scriptures as you try to replace the bad with the good. A legendary coward, I did a study of the word BOLD last summer. I still pray Psalm 138:3 quite regularly: "When I called, you answered. You made me bold and stouthearted." Getting bolder day by day!

TRUST—the first word I sleuthed—holds the penultimate spot in my heart. Having filled a spiral-bound index card notebook with the 80-odd verses in the NKJV that include the word TRUST, each on it's own page, I subsequently wore it out! My TRUST book has been soaked by rain and ocean mist, has spent the night under my pillow, has run with me for miles and miles... many of it's dog-eared corners have broken off with wear. I have given it away three times now, to souls whose distresses dwarfed my own. Whenever I hand the collection of verses off, I re-do the study, making a replacement book. I'll be penning a new one this summer, and I can't recommend it enough. If you're looking for a study method, give it a try!

Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land, and feed on his faithfulness. ~ Psalm 37:3, NKJV

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the umbrella

2011-06-19T14:08:00.000-04:00

A few days ago I barely miss slamming into a van on a busy Savannah thoroughfare. As it crosses nonchalantly inches from the hood of our car, I double check: yes, the light is green. He ran the red. I glance at Gray, my nine-year-old son, peacefully riding shotgun. We exchange a wide-eyed glance. "It was green, right?" He nods. We pray: Thank you, Jesus! The episode is over before it began. As we continue safely on our way we realize, this is our second near miss in traffic, in a span of about ten months.

This morning I wake in darkness. A storm has knocked out the power. As the sun rises, we see the extent of the debris: downed trees block roads; a neighbor's new Beemer is crushed by an ancient live oak. (Bad luck, that.) I slept peacefully through the whole thing, blissfully unaware.

The umbrella of God's protection is like a solid house: it keeps us so safe that, at times, we're not even aware of the storm raging all around. At other times, it's like an invisible force-field through which we can see the battle unfolding. Of course, for his own good reasons, God lifts the shield now and then. Bad things do happen to good people. Today, however, I am overwhelmed, wondering how often God prevents that stuff from happening. Thank you, God, for protecting us... from the dangers we see, and those we don't.

You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance. ~ Psalm 32:7

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pray big

2011-06-11T07:56:00.000-04:00

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Years ago I was asked to speak to a ladies' church group—my testimony was sort of the opening act for our excellent keynote speaker, the founder of a popular local bible study. She and I chatted, after. I had just published a book for children; she was intrigued, confiding that she had a story idea as well. "I prayed that a publisher would at least read the manuscript, and, what do you know, that's exactly what happened! It ended there, but still, it was exciting." A new believer at the time, I stood before this lovely, mature Christian saint and thought, "You should have prayed for a best-seller!"

Why pray timidly, apologetically? If the prayers of the righteous are powerful and effective—which they are, according to the Bible—we may as well pray big! After all, it's God who puts dreams in our hearts.

Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart. ~ Psalm 37:4

Zipporah the Bird

2011-06-07T11:15:00.000-04:00

Hello, my name is Catherine, and I am a recovering self-abaser. I've only been able to accept and/or love myself for about a year now; it's been a gradual trudge over bumpy terrain. Over time I allowed Satan to drag me down—he pounded my Achille's heel until I was barely able to function. God used his Word and his people to resurrect my battered psyche. He taught me how to employ his armor. Recently, he sealed the deal, using a most unexpected tactic: birds.

Although I am mostly healed from my former self-destructive thought life, a few crumbs remain to be swept up by God's broom. In my NIV, I read Jesus' words, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father... So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows," (Matt 10:29-31).

My brain, still addled by old habits, interprets this negatively. So, what then, I'm worth fifty or sixty cents? A couple of bucks, at the most? Great. A few days later my daily reading plan leads me to the same chapter, in The Message. Eugene Peterson's interpretation leaps off the page: "You're worth more than a million canaries." I laugh. Well played, Jesus. I get it.

The next day as I'm leaving the gym, approaching my car, I am greeted by a rather bold little bird. He meets my gaze from his perch atop our old white Volvo, allowing me to get close enough for a good look. What an exquisite creation—delicate, precise, absolutely lovely. As he flutters away, my eyes well up. Astounding, how much Jesus loves me.

This morning I read in Exodus, the name Zipporah translates as "bird" — a new sign to me of God's immeasurable love.

The Ten Club

2011-06-05T08:08:00.000-04:00

Years ago I stumbled on a bible reading plan called The Ten Club. Joel Osteen's late father John outlined the method in his book, Rivers of Living Water: Every day, read ten chapters—two in the Old Testament, five Psalms, one Proverbs chapter, and two chapters in the New Testament. Employing this method for a year, you will read through the OT once, the NT twice, Psalms and Proverbs several times over.

After a few years as a member of The Ten Club, I laid it aside for other studies, picking it up again recently. This time, I'm using The Message, by Eugene Peterson. I am thoroughly engaged, loving every minute. It's a cool method because the OT is fresh on your mind as you read the NT; and, let's face it, Psalms and Proverbs apply, daily! Once I've made it through The Message, I plan to apply the same method to the New Living Translation; thanks to Kimberly for the suggestion! ☺

You're my place of quiet retreat; I wait for your word to renew me. ~ Psalm 119:114, The Message

~ c

gifts

2011-05-27T11:56:00.000-04:00

We have different gifts... ~ Romans 12:6

I love music, and musicians. Their habits are endearing: in every free moment, strumming, humming, spontaneously breaking into harmony. Beautiful. What a gift! I confess, I envy them.

How lovely, discovering that writing has become music, to me. I steal away with my laptop and thesaurus every chance I get. Thoughts of my various projects keep me awake at night, and I don't mind; can't wait to get up, get back to work. Not that it's always easy. The darker moments are interesting challenges, though—never drudgery. What a gift, indeed. Thank you, God, for making life interesting.

My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer. ~ Psalm 45:1, NKJV

heaven on earth

2011-05-20T08:11:00.000-04:00

...set your hearts on things above... ~ Colossians 3:1

Jesus rose, conquering sin and death. And yet, we remain mortal. This infernal gravity weighs us down. Why did he leave us here? What's the purpose of this span of time, between Jesus' first coming, and his second? Shepherding: We are to proclaim the message of salvation, gathering as many stray sheep as possible. Each of our lives should be an invitation, an enticement. We are to offer comfort and practical help, share in the sufferings of Christ, exhibit love, mercy, grace. Engage. Forgive as we've been forgiven. Encourage and pray for our church families. Listen well. Appreciate each other's differences. Read, study, worship. Enjoy God's goodness. And, work! Individually and as a team, God has specific work for each of us to do, with Him; work that pertains to our character, as well as to the world in which we live. It's all prep for the next life: Eternity 101. Believing Heaven, we overcome the world.

freedom from anxiety

2011-05-11T09:37:00.000-04:00

After a period of relative calm, pressure is beginning to build.We are more than fine; everybody's healthy, happy, well-adjusted. And yet, last night, as three metaphorical eighteen-wheelers—purveyors of Life Stuff—converged in our living room to dump their loads, I felt anxiety's noose begin to tighten. Narrowly escaping a panic attack through prayer, I was able to cast it off. How amazing that Jesus Christ frees us from worry; IF, of course, we want that kind of freedom. God, help me to resolutely choose the peace that comes from trusting you, as all of this new stuff unfolds.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." ~ Philippians 4:6-7

four-oh

2011-05-07T20:05:00.000-04:00

Biblically, the number forty is meaningful, signifying a time of trial followed by blessing. Forty also happens to be the half-way milestone in in the average human lifespan. Surprisingly, forty is refreshing. At forty-four, I notice my life coming into focus. I have a better understanding of what matters more than anything else: the people God has placed in my life—some permanently; others, like passing ships. I am more forgetful, but thankfully, less judgmental. Although driven by an urgency to make the most of the time I have left, peace guards my heart. God will do with me, as he will do. Meanwhile, I am bent on enjoying the ride.

"I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full." ~ John 10:10

failure, redefined

2011-04-29T10:17:00.000-04:00

Technical failure stole several hours of work from me this morning. How annoying. I had been writing—quite well, I might add—about spiritual warfare, so, the loss should not have come by surprise. Chuckling at the (inane) thought of googling How to Recover Lost Data, I decided instead to choose joy, and pray for help. Thank God, I haven't lost anything that Jesus can't replace.

I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten. ~ Joel 2:25

puppy love

2011-04-25T08:54:00.000-04:00

Because of his propensity to hog the bed, our dog is comfortably situated elsewhere in the house every night, securely separated from humankind. Last night, however, we dropped the ball. I woke this morning overheated, the length of my side cuddled by a blissful rat terrier. Giving his belly a scratch I couldn't help but think, this is the closeness God wants from me: the kind that radiates heat.

My dog longs to be near me. (How Jesus-esque.) He seizes every opportunity to get my attention, invite me to play, snuggle close. His favorite days are mutual adventures: long walks through rugged terrain. I love him and am grateful to have Chip in my life; and yet, often—usually—other matters are more pressing. After a quick pat on his head, I'm on to the next. (How like me, in relation to Jesus.)

Please, God, help me do a better job recognizing opportunities to love and be loved. I want a closer walk with you.

"Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." ~ John 15:4-5

batter up!

2011-04-18T13:24:00.000-04:00

Watching little league has given me a new appreciation for baseball. There is beauty in the way the game is played. All members have their strengths, which vary. The star third-baseman struggles at bat; big hitters shine a little less in the outfield.

My son, a golfer, is new to this team sport. Fred and I live and die with him from the bleachers as his skills slowly improve. We are encouraged to notice that even the best players on the team strike out, drop the ball, over-throw. Everyone makes mistakes. And yet, despite the errors, when everyone does his part, win or lose, the game is fun. Goal, accomplished.

Gray's coach, a joyful Christian, reminds the boys often, "We get to play baseball today! Isn't that great? And guess what: baseball is more fun, when you play hard."

What an awesome analogy for the Church, and the Christian life. The more I give you, Jesus, the more I get. The more we work together as a team, despite our failures, the more you accomplish through us.

"I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one: I in them and you in me. May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me." ~ John 17:22-23

s l o w

2011-04-15T15:44:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I purposefully cut through our local hospital's parking lot on my way across town, despite the fact that the speed limit is 15mph, and the way is peppered with crosswalks. I like the reminder to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n. The sight is always spiritually rich: today, an adorable elderly man minces across the street accompanied by a waddling, hugely pregnant woman, while a wheel-chair-bound patient is pushed through the doors of the oncology center. As this drama unfolds, we commuters inch along, taking extra care.

Don't you wish there was a slow zone like this in life, for those of us who are feeling spiritually weak, and emotionally spent? Another reason to long for heaven.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. ~ Matthew 5:3

the lion

2011-04-13T07:25:00.000-04:00

"But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous." ~ Matthew 5:44-45

This morning, I pray for my enemy.

Funny, until I found his note on the windshield of my car, I was unaware that I was opposed at all, among humans. Ten little words changed that—a vulgar invitation, scribbled on a scrap; prosaic profanity, accompanied by an unlisted phone number. Classy. Amazing how a tiny piece of paper can change a girl's life. Suddenly, I am hunted. Secretly targeted. I can no longer go freely about my day. "Lock the doors, Dear, you have to be careful." Echoing Peter's familiar warning, the police instructed me to be on the lookout for you, Enemy; to be aware of anyone watching, following, driving by to spy out the house.

...Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. ~ 1 Peter 5:8

You're mistaken, Enemy, if you think I don't know who you are. Your name remains a mystery, but I have no doubt concerning your heart. I know full well by whom you are inhabited. Meanwhile, as I trust God to protect me from you, Enemy Mine, I will daily pray for you. After all, Jesus died for the both of us; he loves you as much as he loves me.

"I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." ~ Luke 5:32

star shine

2011-04-09T20:55:00.000-04:00

I wanna be a star
But is that all I'm really here for?
And if I'm not a star, will that be okay?
Would I still be someone? ~ Barlow Girl, Superstar

Everyone has dreams; sometimes I fear mine may be too big. Is this possible? After all, the Psalmist wrote the following lovely, encouraging, well-known promise:

Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart. ~ Psalm 37:4

As I increasingly delight in Jesus, he has systematically set about reorganizing and even replacing the desires of my heart, inserting his dreams for me at the top of the list. Apparently Jesus is more interested in a person's spiritual growth and the refinement of her character, than any earthly goals she could possibly hope to achieve.

Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life. ~ Philippians 2:14-16a

If you and I work hard—happily—and boldly speak the truth in love, we can't help but shine in God's eyes, no matter what else He equips us to accomplish in life. Anyone can be Someone, even without achieving star status down here.

...the man who loves God is known by God. ~ 1 Corinthians 8:3

self-loathing, meet self-love

2011-04-08T07:15:00.000-04:00

Concerning me, Catherine, I've never been a fan. Shy, skittish, awkward... what's to like? Lately, however, something new has been bubbling up in my heart: joyful affirmation. My pride is soothed—I detest being wrong, and what do you know, I've been right all along! There is nothing good about me.

...there is no one who does good, not even one. ~ Romans 3:12

Jesus + Me, however, is a rare and wonderful combination.

Sometimes lately I feel separated from myself, standing off to the side watching this woman who looks a lot like me mingling with people. Fearlessly meeting their eyes, strategically, purposefully, she engages them. Aghast at this slow but steady transformation, I am consumed with love for my Savior.

Jesus makes all things new.

... if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! ~ 2 Corinthians 5:17

bread of life

2011-01-27T10:06:00.000-05:00

The temptation to worry about work is a big one, isn't it? Maybe for men more than for women, because of the way we're wired, but still, to some extent, I think we all fret about finances. No matter what stage you and I find ourselves in professionally—whether looking for a job, earnestly trying to be a good employee in an enjoyable position, searching for a way into a new career, or moving into retirement—Jesus has the answer:

"Do not work for food that spoils, but for food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you... The work of God is this: to believe the one he has sent." ~ John 6:27, 29

God promises to provide everything we need, so, why worry?

Reading these verses today made me realize that as I apply biblical principles of stewardship regarding money (be generous, live simply, etc.), I can relax and trust God with my career.

Worry, as usual, is a gigantic waste of time. Think I'll try believing Jesus instead.

contrition

2010-12-28T06:55:00.000-05:00

We all do it, I guess—behave like despicable monsters, and subsequently hate ourselves. Crazy, how the ones we love the most have to see us at our worst.

For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do. ~ Romans 7:15

Jesus likes to remind me how much He loves me when I'm feeling awful about something I've done, or some horrid thing I've said.

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. ~ Psalm 51:17

How wonderful is God, to love unloveable me! His grace is multi-purposeful, at the same time flooding my heart with reassurance of his love, and teaching me to extend the same undeserved forgiveness to those in my life who, like me, are occasionally overcome by their inner monsters.

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. ~ Romans 5:8

bottled joy

2010-12-15T16:40:00.000-05:00

Giorgio Armani has a new fragrance for women, out just in time for Christmas: Acqua di Gioia, "The Essence of Joy."

If only joy could be bought in a bottle! The only way I know to get it, is through Jesus Christ.

Jesus said, "As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you keep my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete." ~ John 15:9-11

Obedience = Blessing = Joy

finding strength

2010-12-08T21:52:00.000-05:00

I just heard the strangest tag-line ever in a commercial for Dove Clinical-Strength Deodorant: "Where Beautiful Girls Find Strength."

To me, the ad seems to suggest that beauty has something to do with a girl's need for deodorant, which will provide the strength she is looking for. This can't be true because, come on, we all know that beautiful girls don't sweat. Right? (Kidding, of course.)

Recently it's been brought to my attention (through bible study, by God) that strength is something I happen to be lacking. Turns out, I am a bit of a coward. Thin-skinned, and a little skittish. Avoidance is my preferred tactic when life's inevitable difficulties come rolling along.

My hope is that, by making me aware of my need for strength (and/or courage, fortitude, spiritual toughness) God is beginning his process of developing those traits in my character.

For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline. ~ 2 Timothy 1:7

rejecting stress

2010-11-17T16:20:00.000-05:00

...do not fret—it leads only to evil. ~ Psalm 37:8

I was quite peaceful until checking my faculty e-mail an hour or so ago. Finals week is apparently causing stress, and it is catching. Thankfully, the still, small voice of God reminds me, "the mind controlled by the Spirit is life and peace," (Romans 8:6).

Reflecting on Romans 8:6, it stands to reason: if my mind is in a state qualified by any descriptives other than life and peace, it must not be controlled by God's Spirit.

I am rejecting this stress today, choosing instead to trust God. Please Jesus, forgive my fretting. Fill me with your Spirit, and take control of my mind. I choose peace, today.

You will keep him in perfect peace, Whose mind is stayed on You, Because he trusts in You. ~ Isaiah 26:3, NKJV

comfort in failure

2010-11-16T09:48:00.000-05:00

God's purpose for every believer is that each of us would daily become more like Jesus.

...Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. ~ Ephesians 5:25-27

...he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. ~ Philippians 1:6

That certainly is good news; but wait, there's more!

The LORD Almighty has sworn, "Surely as I have planned, so it will be, and as I have purposed, so it will stand." ~ Isaiah 14:24

No matter how many times you and I fail, God's plan for each of us cannot be thwarted. My inadequacies are pathetically weak in comparison to his sovereign plan for me, which is glorious (see above)... and the same is true for every follower of Jesus Christ.

Now that's something to shout about!

crazy days

2010-11-11T19:52:00.000-05:00

There used to be a laundromat in downtown Savannah in an old brick building, across the side of which was painted, in big blue letters, "Crazy things happen here!"

Now, that's an odd choice, don't you think? I have enough problems with my laundry as it is. Why add to them by patronizing a place that promotes extra craziness?

Lately, crazy things have been happening here, in my home, in my life, in my heart. Nothing serious, really, just... odd. Circumstances I never imagined I would face. And yet, I am comforted to remember that God is in control. I may be surprised by this stuff, but he most certainly is not.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you, and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." ~ Jeremiah 29:11

remaining

2010-11-09T20:41:00.000-05:00

Jesus said, "Remain in me, and I will remain in you." (John 15:4)

Isn't it awesome that God is always right there, waiting?

Anyone can be as close to God as he or she desires. No appointment necessary. God is available to all, through Jesus Christ... and the more you and I pursue him, the closer to him we will be. He leaves the ball in our court.

What a gentleman.

help for insomniacs

2010-11-08T11:40:00.000-05:00

When I have trouble sleeping, I reach for the spiral-bound index card notebook I keep on the table next to my pillow, the cover of which I have inscribed with gigantic letters, "S.O.S." It's a collection of Scripture I've found in my daily bible study time... any verse that reminds me: God is in control, he is my defender, and despite my inadequacies, he happens to love me.

Sometimes when Fred's thoughts prevent him from sleeping, he'll ask me to read them out loud. I find them even more effective that way. Better than Xanax — no prescription necessary!

Here's a good one to get you started:

He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me. ~ Psalm 18:19