20 Things That Matter More Than the Almighty Book Deal

When you have a voice inside your head that whispers, "You should write a book," and won't shut up until you do what it says, it's hard to believe there is anything more revered, more longed for, more dreamed of, than the Almighty Book Deal.

Almost every writer who makes it to this point is still facing years--YEARS--of waiting. The journey looks different for everyone, but the waiting is universal. In time, you grow weary of worshiping at the alter of the Almighty Book Deal, and become discouraged that the sacrifice of your time, imagination, and sanity may not be enough to appease its voracious appetite.

Take heart, Aspiring Author. Here is a list of 20 things that matter more than the Almighty Book Deal (ABD).

1. Obedience. You were called to write this book, as crazy at it sounds to your family and friends. You obeyed the call when you typed, "Chapter One," and when you followed those words with 70,000 more. Stay obedient to it now.

2. Humility. I'm going to be honest with you. If you recently typed, "The End," and have only read it a second or third time all the way through, it still sucks. Even if your mom told you it was great. The sound of crickets coming from the literary agency isn't a sign that you should give up and close the file forever. It's just a timely dose of humility. Swallow it and get busy fixing what you did wrong in the first draft.

3. Relationship with other writers. You probably started writing, in part, because you're an introvert. Worry not. You don't have to go far to leave your cocoon. For writers, email and social media can be as valuable (sometimes more so) as a cup of coffee and a conversation across a real-life table. Seek out writer friends, unpublished ones for the mutual critique and camaraderie, and published ones for the mountains of knowledge, wisdom, and experience they bring. Don't count anyone out and give back as much as you know how to give.

4. Feedback. Yes, feedback matters more than the ABD. By the time you have the book deal, it's too late to fix the problems your readers will notice. Get as much feedback as possible. Accept it with grace. Even if you don't agree. Even if it makes you angry. Fix the problems and then get some more feedback.

5. Rejection. It stings, I know. Think of it as athletic conditioning. The first workout makes your muscles scream and burn, and you would rather die than go back for more. Go back anyway. The next time it hurts a little less. And the next time you notice you're stronger. Keep going back for more. The goal is to be lean and ripped, and you won't get there until you begin to look forward to the pain, because you understand the benefit of going through it. Let the rejections pile up. Take a little pride in each one, knowing how it has served to strengthen your spine and thicken your skin.

6. Perseverance. This one is no joke. My own engine has sputtered and died on occasion, and for a variety of reasons: a rejection, an illness, a negative critique, a season of busyness that kept my mind far from my stories. It leaves me drifting and listless and disinterested. It's a dangerous place to stay because this is when it seems logical to give up. After all, who would know? It's not like you have an editor beating your door down for the next chapter. But it can also be a time of clarity. When your drive to finish has stalled, and your craving for the ABD is diminished, you can see more clearly why you've been working at this for so long, how far you've come, and how messed up it would be to quit now. Don't quit. Call a friend to give you a jump and get that engine to turn over asap.

7. Time to make it better. There's no substitute for time. Use it well. An artist's work is never really finished anyway. These aren't Bob Ross paintings, a stroke here, and a happy little tree there, and in thirty minutes, you've got a complete masterpiece. Up close those things are a hot mess. Writing is 1% creating, and 99% editing. It's cutting away large chunks, tightening up sloppy dialogue, and cleaning the mess you left in the first draft. So, let the time pass, get busy, and trust me: It. Can. Always. Be. Better.

8. Growth. As a writer, yes, but also as a human being. People who achieve success too easily are stunted. It ruins them. Embrace growth.

9. Time away from the screen. After the ABD you will be a slave to deadlines, edits, social media, marketing, book tours, and blog tours. You're not there yet. So, step away from the screen. It's ok. No one has to know. Go for a walk. Mop the kitchen floor (if that's your thing). Journal about something no one will ever see. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts.

10. Maturity. It took a stint in federal prison for Prison Fellowship founder, Chuck Colson, to realize that nothing is more important than the maturing of the soul. Not wealth, not prosperity, not pleasure. Not even the ABD.

11. Prayer. Almost nothing is better for your prayer life than waiting, wondering, and striving toward something you think God has called you to. He will not grow tired of hearing your musings to him on the subject of the ABD. Write these prayers down and watch them change over time as you grow and mature in all ways.

12. Pleading. Like the deer that pants for the stream, plead with God to take from you this dream, and set your heart on another, if he desires that you do something else with your time and talents. When you find, day after day, that your heart is still tuned to it, plead with him to go with your on your journey, wherever it takes you. Plead with him to delay the ABD, slowing you down if your pride is likely to take you farther than he wants you to go. Plead with him to open doors of his choosing and to close others, and to help you in the fight to stay humble and obedient through every small victory.

13. Small victories. Celebrate every positive critique, every tough chapter you labor through to the end, and especially those long awaited words: "The End." Take note of the little gifts of divine inspiration that serve to reveal things in your writing you didn't see before. Let it encourage you to keep going, and fill you with hope that this labor is not all for nothing.

14. Acceptance. Another rejection, another contest lost, another year passed with nothing tangible to show for it. You're no closer than you were this time last year. The answer from God is, "Not yet." Accept it. Move on. There's no point arguing with him about the timing.

15. Contentment. Make your peace with what you've been forced to accept. This is how far as he's brought you, and this is where you'll stay for a little while longer. "Godliness with contentment is great gain." 1 Timothy 6:6

16. Self-sacrifice. It's so hard to pour so much of yourself into something no one else seems to care about. So many hours lost to dreaming, typing, staring out the window, perfecting a character's expression. The creative mind is a burden, churning constantly, leaving you in a fog while you perform daily responsibilities. It isn't normal to space off at Thanksgiving dinner, creating dialogue based on the bickering of your relatives, or to fantasize about visiting historical/exotic locales all by yourself. It's a lonely and secretive life. There's a cost to it. Give of yourself for something that will be much larger than you.

17. Introspection. Sometimes it feels like a punch in the throat to have to ask yourself, "Why am I even doing this?" after years of what feels an awful lot like wasted effort. But sometimes it's good to go back to the beginning, to remember why you started, to follow the thread of this thing you've been pursuing, and to look down and see your fist still firmly clenched around that thread.

18. God's presence. It's worth more than holding your work in your hands, seeing your name on the spine, more than royalties, more than winning a contest, or landing an agent, or the ABD. It just is.

19. God's sovereignty. Despite the Disney Channel's message that "if you work hard, your dreams will come true," it may not be God's will for you, or for me, to get the ABD. That has to be ok. No amount of waiting, or editing, or pleading for it will change God's already made up mind. How can you or I do anything but fall down before this holy, majestic, omnipotent God, who is so gracious to make our little lives matter?

20. God's glory. If I am focused solely on going after my own glory (which, let's face it, is what the ABD really is), I will not have eyes to see God's handiwork. Don't misunderstand. It is possible to balance excellence and ambition with godly humility. You can stay humble without staying hidden. Your talent can be valued and even celebrated without vainglorious self-promotion. You can strive toward excellence without being proud. You can work to hone and improve your skill without being self-obssessed. You do have to step back from yourself, your creation, your desires, your effort, your fear, your insecurity. Let your journey be interrupted. Let it go on longer than you expected. Let it sanctify you and glorify him. Let him worry about the ABD.

Lament of the Christian Artist

Overwhelmed today with the question--AGAIN--of what God has promised me. I'm studying the story of Balaam and his donkey, which I did not want to study this week. I put it off again and again. I even wrinkled my nose at it when I saw it sitting by my computer, and checked facebook instead. I finished it without putting forth too much effort and went to bible study not really understanding it, not sure what God was saying to Israel, or to me, with the exception of his steadfast promise: Blessed are you, my people; I am sovereign over every single thing. There was, I admit, a bit of a *yawn* response from me. It's the same word from God week after week, chapter after chapter.

But as I listened to my friends answer the same questions with such profound insight, I sat up a little straighter and reread some of those prophecies from Numbers

"The God who can predict outcomes is the God who is the author of history," my teaching leader said.

I believe this about my God. With all my heart, I believe this. But the old, persistent question came to me, like a dilapidated neon sign that blinks and splutters but never quite goes out.

What did you promise me? Am I to understand your words in light of eternal victory? Or in light of my small life, which only has purpose because you give me a job to fulfill? Do you promise to use me as a writer of stories that are worthy to be read? Do you promise that I will become a published author? Is that your promise to me?

When I got to the car with these questions in my mind, I groaned and asked God if he was tired of hearing me ask because, frankly, I was tired of asking. "If this is not your promise to me," I prayed, tearing up as I drove down Abercorn, "take from me this dream and set my heart on another task, another mission, another way I can be used." I am willing to do that. I trust him for that.

But if it is his promise...if it is his promise, I will strive toward that for a decade more. Two decades. A lifetime. But I cannot spend a lifetime chasing a fool's errand. I must know if my prayers are the prayers of a self-aggrandizing bag of hot air, or a (semi) talented writer who really may one day achieve publication.

It struck me on the drive home: what if I'm not the faithful donkey, with his eyes to see the Lord's angel, but I am really Balaam, who is so single-minded, so determined to go his own way that he will beat the gentle faithful one into submission? How do I know I am not a diviner, trying to create the path I want, and blind to the path God has actually set me on? How do I know the set backs and discouragements aren't the voice of the donkey, who sees more clearly than I, that God himself is blocking the way?

"The story of Balaam abounds in comic irony," my commentary says, and I suppose if I were a Jew, a recipient of the promise, on the other side of victory with Moab, I would see the humor in it. Though the promised Redeemer has come, and God's completed Word sits open in my lap, I don't know who I am in this story.

Have I kicked someone under me? Neglected them? Despised them for interrupting my course, for keeping me from my writing desk, and my pursuit of my own glory?

I want to say that I am not Balaam. Balaam sold his soul for riches from Moab and died by the sword because of it. Balaam was willing to take a bribe. Balaam exacted revenge through wicked means when he didn't get his way.

God knows my heart. He knows it beats for him. He doesn't really need me to tell him how desperate I am for a word from him, a hint of a promise, a glimmer that I have heretofore missed because I blinked.

In asking God for an answer, I am taking a risk. I did my best, most prolific writing when I was not concerned with agents and contests and contracts. For so long I have successfully pushed aside the fear that it would be wasted, that no one would ever read it. I have convinced myself to write something down, anything, even if it's terrible, knowing that I can go back and fix it later. It has been enough to keep my fingers on the keyboard through 4 1/2 manuscripts. All without knowing for certain if this was even God's plan for my life. Without the assurance that this is his promise to me.

I stubbornly hope despite the odds.

I look at books from the library sitting on my bedside table. I see their paper, their ink, their cardboard spine, covered in that awful plastic film. I see the cover art and the dedication and I think, "This is impossible." I'm just a housewife. A nobody. Every author was at one time, I suppose. Every author wrote a terrible first draft and stuck with it until it got better...and then the clouds parted, and the heavenly chorus sounded from above, and God set them on their path to the promised book deal.

I realize now that I am still on the pendulum that swings wildly from total narcissism to crushing self-doubt, only now it has become unhinged and swings in a new direction that is a combination of both. Narcissism and doubt.

I'm sick of thinking about it. I'm sick of thinking about myself.

I won't quit. It's not a question of my quitting. It's a habit now, to turn my brain to story mode in the car, or the shower, or on a walk, or lying in bed. There is a drive to finish that will keep me at the computer every available minute of the day, even if the answer is no.

Until I am sure the answer is no.

The things that have gotten me to this point, the ways God has worked things out for me, kept me encouraged, spared my crooked little flash drive, protected my time and my health, put inspiring things in front of me, kept my computer from crashing, built me up, torn me town, taken my hand as I rebuilt again, shown me things that made my work better, given me a husband who allows me to indulge in what I have always tried to pass off as a glorified hobby, plucked me out of my old life and set me down in one of calm, and peace, and ease, so that I have an over-abundance of time to develop my craft, which I have grown to love so much--I have not imagined these things. They are not the outworking of my over-confidence, or my ambition, or my own feeble attempts.

Can I say that being a writer--an actual, legitimate, recognized, (dare I say it?) published author--is his promise to me? A promise that I should fight and claw and scratch and sweat to obtain?

God has brought me to this point and until he tells me, "No," I am powerless to stop trying.

Finding Grace in the Story of Joseph

If there is anyone in the Old Testament for us to root for, it's Joseph, that unlucky guy who was sold by his own brothers into slavery, and then falsely accused of attempted rape and imprisoned unjustly for it. We know that everything about this is unfair. He has gotten a punishment he doesn't deserve.

When a couple of men who personally know Pharaoh join him in prison, he thinks he's got a ticket out.

Joseph to Pharaoh's cup bearer:

Genesis 40:14 "And please remember me and do me a favor when things go well for you. Mention me to Pharaoh, so he might let me out of this place. 15 For I was kidnapped from my homeland, the land of the Hebrews, and now I’m here in prison, but I did nothing to deserve it.”

How many nights did Joseph stare at a rotting, festering ceiling and pray, with chains on his ankles, that God would free him? How many mornings did he wake to find that there was no answer? When he begs the cup bearer to plead with Pharaoh on his behalf it seems to be a move of desperation for Joseph, as if Pharaoh and not God has the power to free him. He is clinging to a spider's thread of hope that if God was willing, or perhaps if Pharaoh was willing, he might get to sink his toes into the desert sand as a free man again.

My heart breaks for him. I can't imagine the conditions of an ancient Egyptian prison where these human lives were worth less than livestock. But my heart doesn't break for the third prisoner, the baker, who is executed three days later in a disgusting and agonizing way, and I wonder why. Part of it is due to desensitization, thanks to a world history that makes impaling, beheading, drawing and quartering, gutting, and other horrific ways to die commonplace. But part of it is because I assume he was guilty of whatever he must have done to "offend his royal master" (Gen 40:1).

It is in our nature to want justice. The guilty should be punished. They get what they deserve.

But Joseph is guilty too, of his own offense. By chapter 40 we see a faithful, humble, intelligent Joseph, an endearing underdog who is no longer using dreams to tear people down, but to lift God up. But don't forget how we watched him in previous chapters goad his brothers to jealousy and hatred, (fueled also by their father) in a childish display of self-serving arrogance. Make no mistake. He is guilty too.

So, Joseph and the baker deserve the same fate, really. While we're at it, let's take this all the way to the top. Pharaoh deserves that fate too, as an unbelieving man, and I suppose his fate will ultimately be the same as the baker's, only it will likely be much less gruesome and will come much later. But what difference does it make how tidy your death is when it's what comes after that matters?

Pharaoh thinks it's his job, his prerogative, to administer this type of justice but that's just a game we humans play. God is over all. He's over life. He's over death. He's over dreams, and prisoners, and Pharaohs, and cup bearers who forget. He's over mercy and he's over judgment.

He was over Joseph at the close of this chapter, as Joseph faced another night staring up at that rotting, festering ceiling, with the chains still firmly clamped around his ankles.

When the time was right, God would act. He would not give Joseph the fate he deserved. Instead he would lavish mercy on Joseph. Before the end of the next chapter, Joseph would know freedom and luxury beyond what he imagined or dared to ask for during those late night prison prayers.

This is the kind of God we serve.

The kind who does not treat us as our sins deserve, but instead condescends to bend down to us, to hear our cries, and to deliver us from our chains, to exalt us in ways far greater than we can imagine.

How God Comforts Through Grief

The Goodness of God in the Evening Breeze

Life is so good, sometimes I forget that God is under no obligation to make it so. This is where so many people get hung up on faith, I think: How can a God who is supposed to be good allow bad things to happen?  It's the burning question, isn't it?

We wonder about big things, of course, like cancer, war, famine, natural disaster, suffering on a grand scale, and the most ugly, fearsome father of it all: death.

But seemingly little, personal things are just as troubling, aren't they?
"I didn't get that job. Now look where we are."
"My friend betrayed me."
"I can't kick this illness/pain."
"The timing of this is just...awful."
Why, why, WHY?
My divorce.  My wayward kid.  My bully.  My addiction.  My inner-demon.  My parents.  My pride.  And on and on.  Isn't God out there? Can't he hear me?  Why won't he make himself known?  He's supposed to be good and kind and loving and merciful.  His mercies are supposed to be new every day.  This feels like a dead end.  It feels like a sort of death.

I could go on for 10,000 words, describing the senseless, often preventable suffering in this world.  Despite all of our knowledge, our GPS, our technology, our information, our compassion, our money, our resources, our superior intellect, we have not figured out how to eliminate it, or even to alleviate it.  Isn't that remarkable?  All the lessons humans have learned over the ages and we still make the same mistakes.  We still suffer for the same stupid reasons.

Yet, for all that is wrong in the world, I can still sit on my patio, which isn't really even mine.  I just get to stay here for a little while.  On it I have placed a cushioned chair and a table.  A cup of coffee.  A notebook and a pen.  A pleasant breeze.  A dog at my feet.  The sun is up.  The kids are not.  Just for a moment, this is really good.  LIFE is really good. My life.  It isn't perfect.  It would be melodramatic of me to say that I suffer but have my demons, I suppose, just like everyone.  For this moment they are quiet and THIS, my life, is beautiful.

I think this is what Adam and Even felt in the garden after they ate the fruit.  They didn't die like God said would happen.  Maybe there was a shaky sigh of relief as they walked away from the serpent, who, as it turned out, wasn't totally dishonest with them after all.  But something was broken in them and they knew it because they hid in shame.  It's difficult to fathom the dread they must have felt as they tried in vain to cover themselves, attempting to bandage what they broke by sticking a band-aid made of fig leaves to a wound that gushed and disfigured their souls.

I can only imagine (because the bible doesn't say) that before their eyes, what was once paradise became pestilence.  The flies and mosquitoes probably started bothering them.  The sun burned too bright and caused them to perspire.  Maybe Adam's sinuses began to swell with an allergic reaction to the pollen in the air.

And then God did something surprising.  Genesis 3:8 describes, "cool evening breezes."  Isn't that an interesting detail to include in this spare narrative?  God knew of their transgression, right down to the second it happened.  He understood it, probably better than they understood it themselves.  Yet he sent them the small comfort and joy and sweetness of a cool evening breeze.  He did that anyway.  An undeserved gift.

The hammer came down, as they knew it would.  They took the curse and walked out of the garden, sorrowful, humiliated, and realizing, finally, that God was truthful from the beginning.  There was a death sentence.  It just wouldn't be carried out right away.  They would get to live out their lives and yes, there would be suffering before it was all over, but there would also be "cool evening breezes."  There would be knowing smiles, and inside jokes, and laughter, and joy, and beauty.  There would be family, there would be friendship, there would even be art.

They deserved none of those things and neither do I.  God gives those gifts anyway and perhaps he adds to them the greatest gift of all--the dreaded death sentence.  With death comes the release from the suffering of this life.  Death brings life eternal.  Without death, there would be a never-ending life of shame and separation, which would be far, far worse than any suffering humans have concocted for ourselves on this broken earth.

Yes.  God is still good.

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The Emmaus Road and Bible Study

Easter is behind us now and because I like to look at the crucifixion and resurrection as a historical event in addition to a spiritual experience, I've been looking at the scriptures that describe the days after in Luke 24:13-34.  They were awful days for people who put their faith in the man, Jesus.  They didn't understand, even after everything he had been telling them, that he would rise again.  Even the disciples hid in fear and confusion, disbelieving the reports that Jesus had appeared to witnesses here and there.

On Sunday Jesus made an appearance to two despondent travelers on their way out of Jerusalem after what had to have been the most bizarre and violence-filled Passover in history.  The men didn't recognize Jesus as he walked with them, and they described to him the horror that had transpired over the weekend.  They said, "We had hoped he was the Messiah who had come to rescue Israel."  They must have seemed so disappointed.

"Then Jesus said to them, 'You foolish people!  You find it so hard to believe all that the prophets wrote in the Scriptures.  Wasn't it clearly predicted that the Messiah would have to suffer all these things before entering his glory?'"

Jesus probably could have stopped there.  The men would have been familiar with Psalm 22, when David prophetically described the anguish of crucifixion hundreds of years before the Romans would invent that form of execution.  And Isaiah 53, which describes the Lord's servant--despised and rejected, pierced for us, beaten, whipped, led like a lamb to slaughter.  There are so many more.

Maybe that should have been enough for these men.

But Jesus didn't take for granted that they could connect the dots on their own because sometimes we just need things spelled out for us.  Even when we've seen events with our own eyes, they don't always add up.  We are often left confused and disappointed when things don't turn out the way we expect them to.  It can take years--sometimes a lifetime--for us to be able to look back on the events of our lives and make sense of them.  Sometimes we die bitter, still confused.

Jesus wanted these men to know that nothing that happened to him was by accident.  In the same way, nothing that happens to us is by accident.  God will make things clear and Jesus gave these men on the road to Emmaus the same tool that we have at our disposal today.

"Then Jesus took them through the writings of Moses and all the prophets, explaining from all the Scriptures the things concerning himself."

When I study this story, I see it as a teaching for me, right where I am, in my humble little life.   It is God's way of saying to me, "Is something not adding up, dear one?  Are you confused about the crooked path you've been on?  Open up your bible.  I will make all things clear to you whose eyes are open to my teaching."

After Jesus made himself known to the men, and then disappeared from them, they said to each other, "Didn't our hearts burn within us as he talked with us on the road and explained the Scriptures to us?"  Every single day I can walk that Emmaus Road with Jesus when I lay my bible open on my lap.  My heart can burn with the same exhilaration of discovery as I search the scriptures to understand where I am in redemptive history, why the world is so screwed up, how deeply the Father loves his creation, and yes, to make sense of my own crooked path.

It's all in there.  Let us not neglect it.

"Behold, It Was Leah."

Leah is such a fascinating woman. When we first meet her in Genesis 29 and 30, she is introduced as being the homely older sister of the beautiful and beloved Rachel. Jacob is a passionate guy and devotes himself totally to those he loves. He is so devoted to Rachel that working, essentially for free for 7 years, feels like a day to him. When the wedding day arrives, he has waited so long for that which he craves that he doesn't notice that his bride is not Rachel. “In the morning, behold, it was Leah,” the King James says.

This begs the question, which the bible never answers, of whether or not Leah entered into that loveless marriage bed willingly, or if she was forced into it by Laban. Frankly, it's easier for me to imagine that she didn't want to be there. But what if she did? The question haunted me for months until I finally did something with it by writing Lucy's story.

Lucy came to America as a child with her family on the Mayflower and this story takes place roughly ten years later, which would place it historically around 1632. This excerpt is from my WIP (Work In Progress), which is tentatively titled, A Place of Their Own and is the third in a series that tells the amazing, true story of the Pilgrims.

       She got down on her knees and opened her new trunk and rummaged around for the looking glass.  She sat down at the table with it, wiped it with a clean corner of her apron and, holding it up in the candle light, stared at herself in a mirror for the first time in her life.  She had seen her wobbly, distorted reflection in the water bucket on occasion and knew her dark hair began high on her forehead.  She knew her eyes were dark like her hair, and her nose small, and that there was a pesky strand of hair that stuck out above her left ear no matter how tightly she bound it.  She was forever tucking it behind her ear and seeing herself in the mirror reminded her to do so again.    

       She blinked at herself, disappointed in what she saw, for staring back at her was a dour, frowning face that looked much older than what she was, with hair drawn tight and a smudge of dirt on her cheek.  She touched her skin and pulled it tight around her eyes.  She turned her head slightly to examine her jaw line and nearly dropped the mirror at the sight of a dark hair sprouting near her chin.
     “It’s no wonder,” she muttered to herself, fingering the hair.
      The longer she looked at herself the more she began to regret what she wrote in the letter.  It was so shamelessly feminine with its whining and pathetic, “I just want you to know how it makes me feel,” and “I sincerely hope I haven’t made things worse by telling you this.”  So desperate with its, “I’ve never had anyone tell me I’m pretty.”  She cringed at the thought that she actually wrote it and handed it to him and waited so expectantly while he read it. 

      What she was really saying was “Tell me you want me too!  More than you want her!” And how could she expect him to do that with any sincerity at all now?  What could he possibly say to her?  

      As she looked at her reflection with nothing else to do, nothing to fill her thoughts with except how plain and frumpy she felt compared to her perfect sister, she saw Rosanna in her imagination, petite and lithe and with tinkling laughter and she heard Jacob’s words again: “There will never be another like you,” and the tears stung her eyes and she thought, "Who cares? Curse them all."  There was a fleeting moment of rebellious irrationality when she could actually be glad she wrote what she wrote. 

      She reached behind her head with one hand and took her hair down and watched it tumble around her shoulders. It was an improvement.  Maybe one day Jacob would see her like this and he wouldn't think of Rosanna.  She bent her head over her knees and jostled her shoulders and readjusted her dress until her breasts rested above her bodice, bound only in the light fabric of her dress, full and soft and nearly suffocating her with their proximity to her chin.  But looking in the mirror, she could see that there was something desirable in her too and though she never would have had the courage to present herself to a man this way, she held on to the knowledge that there was something desirable in her.

      She grabbed a chunk of hair in one hand and twisted it up the side of her head.  Still holding the mirror, she gazed at herself with the expression she had seen Mara and Finch exchange when they thought no one was looking.  There was the slight pout of the lips which turned up at the corners in a knowing smile.  There was the look of anticipation on their faces and the uninhibited desire for what was to come when the candles were out and the doors closed.  Sometimes there was a smile and a pressing of the lips together in feigned shock at what the other was implying with those secret provocative expressions that conveyed things known only between two lovers who knew each other to their depths.   

      Lucy had never watched them and been envious of what they shared because despite all the ways she had grown up faster than her years dictated, in matters of love, she remained like a child, having no desire for it until now. 

      Lucy looked at her reflection and pretended Jacob was there.  She saw herself looking at him this way across the table, communicating to him in the way only a wife could with her husband and it filled her with a flutter of excitement and daring and longing such as she had never felt before.

She was so entranced by the vision of herself as a wife who, with her eyes, reveals her pleasure at the loss of her innocence, she startled at the bang of the door.  There Jacob stood, inside the house with his back against the closed door, staring at her. 

      Lucy dropped her hair and slammed the mirror down and tried to swallow her embarrassment.

“Mother sent me after the bible,” he said.

      “Oh?” was the only thing she could think to say.  She slid her hands over her hair and flattened it against her head, sure that Victoria had left the bible behind on purpose, and wishing she would have anticipated it instead of being caught like an unsuspecting burglar in the house.  She heard his footsteps moving across the room but she could not bring herself to look at him. 

      There were so many things she wanted to know.  Did he even want her for a wife?  Could he really see himself married to her?  Did he have it in him to deny Rosanna in her favor?  At the same time, she thought it better not to know the answers to these questions.  Sometimes, in matters that were beyond one’s control, it was better to accept the way things were and not be so concerned with feelings and desires.  How could it be helped if he did not want her?  It would be of no benefit to her to know that.

      If she could only talk to Jacob, have a simple conversation with him that didn’t involve her neediness and insecurities and plaintive requests for him to tickle her ears with insincere compliments. They could discuss their faith or the crop or the coldness of the weather. Anything.  Conversing came easy enough with Ben, surely she could do it with Jacob too.  When she finally collected enough nerve, she called, “Jacob!” but it was too late.  He had slipped out of the house and pulled the door shut behind him.

When God's Call Requires Change

The Curse of the Comfortable Life

Melanie did not have an easy life.  Her parents were passionate and impulsive, which sometimes meant laughter and excitement, but more it often manifested itself in screaming fights, and moving, and periods of fearful uncertainty.  As a result, she grew into a woman who deliberately contradicted everything about them.  She was gentle and soft, she never raised her voice, and she agonized over the tiniest decisions to the point of making herself sick.

Only one decision came easy to her: marrying Rob.

Rob was not a man in the way that her father was.  If the toilet was clogged, Rob was useless.  It also fell to Melanie to roll up the newspaper and smash the wasps that continually found their way into the apartment through a gap near the dryer vent which, it never occurred to Rob to repair.  But that didn't matter to Melanie because he was a man in the way that it mattered to her.  He would protect her with his life, and nearly did one night when they were visiting friends downtown.  Perhaps the incident wouldn't have come to that but Rob didn't back down.  The next day he asked her to marry him and she said yes before he got the question out.

Rob didn't have much luck finding a job.  He tried working in sales and hated it.  He had moderate success in IT but was laid off.  In a complete departure, he worked in landscaping for a year and didn't mind it but couldn't see supporting a family that way.  Though Melanie had always wanted children (and still did) she asked one night how Rob felt about nursing school.  "If that's what you want to do," he had said with a shrug and she thought, perhaps, he was a little bit relieved.

She took her time, researching, deliberating, weighing each program, predicting how it would fit into her life, deciding which one would make her happiest.  When she finally selected one, she found it to be much harder than anticipated.  But the day came when she sat on a cushioned stool in front of a real live patient for clinicals, the smell of latex in the air, a throbbing purple vein before her, and she reached down and found the magic balance between cold detachment and warm compassion.  She plunged the hollow needle into the vein and watched as the tube filled with dark blood.  Her patient had said, "That wasn't so bad," and she knew she was born to do this.

It didn't freak her out when Rob came to her one day and said he wanted to enlist in the Army.  She knew that it would be a long process, if it actually happened (which she doubted), and that she would have plenty of time to accomplish her goals, so she told him to go ahead and talk to the recruiter.  It couldn't hurt to ask questions.

He burst through the door of their apartment that same afternoon, flush with excitement, a thick packet of papers in his hand, and said, "They want me on a bus to Fort Sill in three weeks."  He spoke rapidly, breathlessly, telling her the unusual circumstances of his immediate ship date but she didn't hear any of it after he said, "We'll be at our first duty station in four months."   He put his hands on her hips and did a little suggestive dance and said, "You'll be playing the little Army wife in no time."

She shoved him away and said, "You expect me to be happy about this?  What about my career?  I've worked so hard for this and I'm supposed to just throw the last eighteen months in the garbage?"

They didn't speak for two days. 

After that, Rob was angry and she was sorry because he had a right to be.  Two years ago, she was as desperate as he was for him to have a good job so that they could have a good life.  She would have followed him with no regrets.  But now she was creating her own good life and she was so close to the finish line.  There was such promise ahead if she stuck to the nursing program, and what could Rob promise?  A tiny house on post with old cabinets and an endless job search for her, an under-qualified woman who would never, ever finish anything she started because she would have to follow him wherever he went?

When so much time had passed that they began to feel that they were wasting what little time they had left, she wiped her eyes and said, "I love you, Rob, but I need to stay here and finish what I've started."

Rob shipped out and Melanie got her nursing degree.  She landed the job she'd always wanted.  She stayed faithful to Rob and he to her despite the distance.  This was not exactly the life she planned but she was making it work and that little part of her that craved stable, predictable life was happy enough.  Rob didn't hold it against her.  He understood.  He always held out hope that she would give up her version of a good life for the one he promised.

This is a story that I've seen played out many times.  Sometimes it ends badly but sometimes, like with Rob and Melanie, the end is not necessarily bad, but you get the feeling that it could have been better, don't you?

I think that's how we are so often when God has called us to something that has the promise of greatness but the risk is just too big and we're just too comfortable where we're at.  There is a story in Numbers in which the Israelites are about to go into the Promised Land.  It's been 40 years since they left Egypt and now all they have to do is muster the courage to cross the Jordan and fight to obtain it.  They've waited their whole lives for this, for the "land of milk and honey," for God to make good on what He promised their parents.  There are good things, finally, to come for them. 

But three tribes, Rueben, Gad, and the half tribe Manasseh beg Moses to let them stay where they are.  They've built up their livestock, and the land they're on now is good enough, and, well, they just don't want to cross the Jordan right now.  Things are going ok for them, so why take the risk?  Moses is initially furious with them and thinks they are being unfaithful but they assure him they are not.  They pledge their young fighting men to go when duty calls but they say, "We simply want to build pens for our livestock." 

If they are willing to accept this portion of land instead of the one that is waiting for them in the Promised Land (Numbers 32:16-19), what is left for Moses (and God) but to say, "Fine.  If this is what you want, I'm not going to drag you kicking and screaming.  The choice of whether or not to enter into God's will is ultimately up to you." 

This is the question we have to ask when we have made our choices and we are satisfied with our lives the way we have ordered them: Am I shrinking from potentially great things because of the risk that stands in the way?  Have I ever led my family to shun comforts in favor of the hard work of obtaining promises seen from a distance?

We are at such a disadvantage as Americans who "create our own destiny" and amass wealth that tricks us into thinking our lives are just fine, thank you very much.  When you're settling in at the end of a comfortable day, looking ahead at another comfortable day tomorrow, and the next day and the next, and hoping that it just goes on this way for 30 years so nothing ever gets uncomfortable, do you ever wonder what you might be missing?  I promise you, God does, for He did not call you to a life of fear and timidity.

The Big D: How We Deal

03 May
Well, it's been a weird week. I've been debating posting anything about this week because I didn't want to cause unecessary stress or fear for anyone who might come across it down the road but I decided that it's not going to help anyone to pretend that it doesn't happen.

Sooo....apparently the bad guys are still at it over there. I know, I know, the "drawdown" and "the war's over" and no one's talking about Afganistan anymore. But I'm telling ya, my husband's base has taken some mortar rounds over the last few days and once it was bad enough that he got to spend some quality time with some other guys in a bunker, waiting for it to end. There have been some other things I probably shouldn't talk about here and he's got a mission coming up that makes my heart go pitter-pat and not in a good way. Ok, it kinda scares the be-jeepers out of me.

I haven't breathed a word of this to my kids, obviously, and I'm a little divided on whether or not even I should be privy to it. That's what makes daily communication both a blessing and a curse. I don't even stop to think what stuff he keeps from me or isn't allowed to tell me (imagination is good but not in situations like this).

Scary stuff, right? I just wanted to share with you all how I'm choosing to deal with it. I could sit around the house all day, biting my fingernails and calling my mother-in-law so we can feed off of each other's fear. But I don't want to live like that. My husband wouldn't want me to. He's actually looking forward to his mission. He said it would be kind of fun and he's glad he gets to do something important. That's WHY he joined the Army in the first place. He's not some kind of thrill-seeking adrenaline junky, but he's the kind of guy who wants to be doing something with his life that matters. And in his totally irreverent way, he says he wants to come home with some good stories, lol.

So I'm just carrying on with life as usual. I took my kids to the bookfair last night and got them each a new book. We made sugar cookie fruit pizzas when we got home and watched "Ella Enchanted." Then we skyped with Daddy for a few minutes and off to bed they went. Just normal, fun, peaceful stuff.

That's the key, I guess, to have peace despite our circumstances. A lot of us make the mistake of thinking that we can only have peace if the world around us is peaceful. But I would challenge you with the thought that true peace is not found in the absence of conflict, or hardship, or trial, or unexpected challenges. True peace is not something you can have *only* when your husband is safe and sound next to you and far away from imminent danger.

My 9 year old daughter lost the first, of many I'm sure, friends who pcs'ed last weekend. She sat in her room at bedtime, crying and carrying on about how awful everything was so I opened up her bible and told her to read Philipians 4. The whole chapter (I show no mercy, lol). I want her to learn to be joyful in all circumstances, to pray instead of worry, and to be thankful for all she has, so that she will experience God's peace, which exceeds anything we can understand.

I thought that was a lesson for her but what a treasure that little passage has been to me over the last few days.          

The Big D: Our First Skype Fight

Sometimes I love FB. It's my main line of communication with my hubby. It has been a great way to get to know new people at my FDS and I've also been able to keep in touch with friends back home. I can post a pic of my 7 year old with her just-pulled tooth between her fingers instead of having to call all the grandmas individually. It's great. But sometimes I believe that FB is the freaking spawn of Satan and has no earthly business distracting us from our real lives with virtual pseudo-crap that masquerades as real life. But I digress.

 My husband and I fling arguments back and forth for a while on FB chat but he has to go to work and I have to take my daughter to art class so hours go by without responses and a conversation that should have taken 20 minutes and been done with dragged out ALL DAY LONG. That is not good for women--to stew all day on stuff like that. It makes petty little things grow and fester into malignant, all-consuming problems. Yes, it was a horrible, horrible day.

So, here's what I did and why I'm telling you guys about this. I've been around long enough to know the destruction that can be wrought during a fight in which the words you use are typed/written instead of spoken. Once you click "send" he can read your words over and over again. He can read in between the lines and infer things you didn't mean. You can never take the words back, even if you apologize and say you didn't mean it--the words are still THERE, hurting each other for internet eternity. So I thought on that and prayed before every single reply I wrote to him. There were some messages that I typed while my heart was thumping and smoke was pouring out of my ears that I deleted and started over because it was more important to me that he understand why I was ticked than to just know that I was ticked. I could have called him names (and believe me I wanted to) but I didn't. I didn't want to pretend nothing was wrong either, so I kept my words honest and focused on me instead of accusing him (he didn't hurt me intentionally and I always knew that even though it didn't diminish how hurt I was). It wasn't about venting or harping at him either. That's not communication. I tried really, really hard, as mad as I was, to keep an even temper while I was writing and tried to anticipate his reaction to what I was saying. Honestly, I didn't know for sure. He said he thought he was being funny and meant nothing by it. I could have been makings worse but hoped I wasn't.

And you know what? I woke up this morning to a lengthy, apologetic, sappy, romantic message and I wrote him one right back. Can I tell you part of what he said? It makes me smile.  "I'm waiting to come home to you because you are the most beautiful woman I know. You are the mother of my children, the love of my life, my best friend, the person I would die for." I would have rather had hot make-up sex, of course, but this wasn't a bad substitute. And now we have those loving messages full of kind words that we can look at over and over, for all internet eternity.

Love prospers when a fault is forgiven, but dweling on it separates close friends. Proverbs 17:9.          

The Big D: A Hard Week

02 August
I tried to update you all on this past week last night but it turned into a boring rant (this has kinda been the week from hell) so I deleted it. You don't need to know all the details about how much my husband and I are missing each other, or how down in the dumps he is about a few specific things that will probably be of little or no benefit for me to share so I'm just going to let you know that even though I put on a brave face and smile through my hard weeks, all is not well all the time over here in ArmyWifeLand.

I do want to share with you this image:


I believe in this with every single cell in my body so I'm going to list a handful of things I am thankful for.

-I am thankful for the Word of God, which reminds me to focus on things that are lovely, and admirable, and excellent, and worthy of praise, instead of things that irritate the living crap out of me.

 -I am thankful for the calendar, which tells me that this deployment is more than half over because in my heart the end feels about as far away as it's ever felt.

 -I am thankful for the Army and all it's given us even though it feels like it's causing a lot of heartache right now. I have only to close my eyes and remember what our lives were like the day before we got the news that our waiver was approved and he could swear in--how much we hoped that it would happen and feared that it might not! We had reasons--good reasons, and it's easy to forget them a year down the road when the struggles we faced back then are now a distant memory and are replaced by new, different struggles that we kind of knew were coming but had no way of really being able to prepare for.

 -I am thankful that this week will pass because that's the thing about time--it's always moving forward even when it feels like it's not.

You guys have a BLESSED week and feel free to list things you are thankful for too

The Big D: Convoy

I am very relieved and happy to report that my husband texted me at 7:30 this morning with the words, "Made it."


 I like to say I'm not a worrier (and usually I'm not) but I would be lying if I told you I didn't go to bed last night with images of him, sweating in the heat of the day, in full gear, rattling around in an armored vehicle, down some awful, dusty, dangerous road, and WORRYING about what could happen. I mean...HOW COULD I NOT?!?!

So I did what I do and I opened my bible. I could not have fixed dinner for my kids, or helped them with their homework, or bathed them, read to them, and tucked them into bed with a kiss goodnight, or found sleep for myself, if I did not have a source of comfort and security to turn to.

Every single person alive has to put their trust in something just to get through their day. During that difficult day, I could have put my trust in my husband's training but it can only carry him so far. I could have put my trust in the leadership of our country and of the Army but they are human and fallible. I could have put my trust in body armor and vehicle armor but that is penetrable. So I chose to put my trust in God, not only to protect my husband, but to protect my heart if the bad guys got their way.

It's the only way I know how to have peace during a time of unrest. I sincerely don't know how people who do not believe in SOMETHING can get through times like this. 


This is my favorite "worry Psalm."


I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me.
He freed me from all my fears.
Those who look to him for help will be radiant with joy;
no shadow of shame will darken their faces.
In my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened;
he saved me from all my troubles.
For the angel of the Lord is a guard;
he surrounds and defends all who fear him.
                                                Psalm 34:4-7


I read once that the word "surrounds" is translated from a Hebrew word which means, "encamped."  That's particularly helpful to one who's praying for a soldier, don't you think?

The Big D: Countdown to the end

12 September
Every day that passes gets me closer to the end of this.  Until then, I just continue to carry on and stay active, putting things on the calendar and taking care of things that need taking care of but I think this last little bit is going to feel like the longest of the whole deployment.

I have a handful of friends whose husbands just returned in the last week or so and I'm not going to lie to you. It is so hard to see them with their husbands. I had to watch a friend and her family sit in front of me at church last Sunday and their little boy (who looks SOOO much like his daddy, who I had never seen before) was crawling all over him, clinging to him and whispering in his ear, and I knew how happy they were because I watched her cry, 10 days before his return, overwhelmed by the absence they had endured and the excitement of him finally coming home. But there I was, still alone and fighting the urge to be insanely envious of her. In those moments, it feels like I still have SO LONG to wait!

There are so many of those hard moments when it feels like this separation will never end, and maybe it even feels like the cost of this life is just too great.  I've heard from several women who are struggling and I'm the kind of person who says we have to be master of our emotions and turn to something that encourages us.

I happen to be reading "Bonhoeffer," right now, a book about a German pastor who stood up to Hitler in the years leading up to WWII and was arrested and executed for his part in an assassination attempt. He spent 18 months in prison before being executed by the Nazis but during those long months he was permitted to write letters and he had a fiancé named Marie who received many of them. Something he said to her in one of his letters has encouraged me and I go to it in my mind every time I want to feel sorry for myself or I wonder if this is all worth it:

"No, you needn't have a moment's worry--I'm not worried either. You do, of course, know from the little we've said to each other that danger exists not only out there [on the battlefronts] but here at home as well, sometimes rather less so, sometimes rather more. What man of today has the right to shun it and shrink from it? And what woman of today should not share it, however gladly the man would relieve her of that burden? And how indescribably happy it makes the man if the woman he loves stands by him with courage, patience , and above all--prayer." Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I want to encourage you who are struggling. The separation will end, the hard moments will pass, and when you are reunited, the painful memories will fade. I don't say this as an expert because I am still living through it. I say it because I believe it will happen. Be courageous, have patience, and pray.  If all else fails...

    

The Woman Who Didn't Belong: A Parable

There once was a very large house on a very large hill that was lovingly maintained and owned by a man of obvious privilege.  The house was surrounded by acres of carefully manicured grass, fruit trees that produced in abundance, and a beautiful marble fountain crafted by a talented artist who loved and revered the master of the house as if he was family, and in fact, he was.

Surrounding this house and its property was an ornate fence of wrought iron.  It stood taller than a man and beheld enough beauty of its own to prompt passersby to admire it.  Between its twisting bars, one could plainly see all of the comings and goings of the fortunate souls who were permitted entry through the gate and allowed to partake of the master's generosity.


During the course of many years, hundreds of those who belonged inside entered through the gate but there were millions who could only stand outside and wonder what it was like within.  Over time, some on the outside grew jealous.  They spat in the dirt and shook their fist at the gate as if anyone inside would be moved by such a display. Most on the outside however, simply walked away and carried on with their little lives in their little houses inside their own humble little gates.

One day the master of the very large house received a very important visitor.  The visitor, a skilled physician, was long awaited and highly anticipated.  However, the good doctor was outspoken in his positions, stirring up the anger of the most prominent of the privileged guests.  They harrumphed and turn on their heels and stomped outside upon his arrival.  Unwilling to depart completely from the safety and comfort of the gate, they sat in the manicured grass outside and pouted. 

This created such a foofaraw that many on the outside returned to the gate with fascination to see what would happen next.  They wrapped their fingers around the iron work and craned their necks to see.  They were slightly disappointed to see the unflappable physician wave good-bye to the ones who didn't want his company and return quietly to the party that was being thrown in his honor.

Later, no one would recall quite how it happened: that a poor woman from the outside came to enter into the house.  It was surmised that she slunk in through a secret passageway for there she stood in the opulent foyer where she clearly did not belong.  And then, in front of an audience of shocked onlookers, she stooped down and knelt in front of the doctor.  She proceeded to lower herself until she was prostrate on the floor at his feet.  Hushed whispers made their way round the room about the condition of the floor and the condition of her soul, that she would humiliate herself so.

"Good doctor," she whispered in a trembling voice, stretching out her fingers and then curling them into her fists, as if she wanted to touch his feet but thought better of it.  "Your skill is renown throughout the land.  I am in desperate need of your services.  You see, my daughter is very ill.  In fact, she is on death's door.  Please. Can you help her?"  When no response was made, she whimpered, letting her tears fall on the expensive tiles beneath her. 

Finally, those who were closest to the doctor spoke, urging him to send her away.  Her begging and whining, they said, was bothering them and spoiling the mood of the party that was, if he needed to be reminded, in his honor.   

"I beg of you, Doctor," she said, ignoring them.  "You alone can save her."

"Woman," the doctor said.  "How can I help you when I came here to give my services to the people who belong in this house?  It is not right for you to take the food from the children's table and give it to the dogs."

Though everyone thought it, no one expected him to say it out loud.  His friends became angry that he would allow himself to be put in this uncomfortable position.  They knew him well enough to know he preferred to err on the side of compassion.  Furthermore, they did not mind doing his dirty work; keeping the riffraff who constantly flocked to him, soiling the hem of his garments in their undignified posturing, at bay.  It was nothing personal.  He wasn't here for them.

What they did not understand was that his response was as much for them as it was for her, for they would learn volumes from watching what she did next.

She did not become angry or indignant, as she surely would have been justified in doing after being compared to a dog and the act of saving her daughter as being the food fit for dogs.  Nor did she shrink away from him and retreat from the house with what modicum of dignity she might have retained after this pathetic show.  

She raised her head slightly and said, "What you say is true, Sir.  I do not deserve your kindness.  But even the dogs under the table are allowed to eat the scraps from the children's plates."

It was painful to watch.  Again, the doctor's friends urged him to send her away, reassuring him that he was not wrong to do so.  He silenced them with a mere look and bent down to the woman, took her hand in his, and helped her to her feet.  "Good answer," he said.  "I will be glad to help you."

And with that, the two departed as if they were old chums reconciled, leaving the mouths of his friends agape with incredulity.



This parable retelling of Mark 7:24-29 and Matthew 15:21-28 attempts to make sense of the one time in scripture when Jesus comes off as a bit of an insensitive jerk.  Yes, I said it.  Mark and Matthew recorded these events as they happened whether they understood them or not.  To me, this story that  describes for us the first non-Jewish convert in Jesus' ministry, is a stark reminder to every single Christian alive today that He owes us nothing.  We are not entitled to His grace, or even a split-second of His attention, and we have done nothing worthwhile to deserve it.  The woman in this story knew she was undeserving and yet she came to him because she was suffering.  How many of us today approach Jesus because we are hurting and desperate for hope?  Thank God for the blessing of affliction, which prompts us to move when we might otherwise stay at home to wallow in our sadness.  That He stoops down to us in our darkest places and invites us to His table should bring us to fall on our faces before Him.  Never doubt His goodness.

"You do not desire a sacrifice, or I would offer one.

You do not want a burnt offering.

The sacrifice you desire is a broken spirit.

You will not reject a broken and repentant heart, O God."

Psalm 51:16-17

Being Blameless

It's cold in here.  That's what I notice first.  I knew it would be.  Places like this are always cold.  It was surprisingly easy to get in this room.  I never even had to show my ID.  But it's just a small county jail.  A couple of heavy doors with a small square of bullet-proof glass at eye level (if you're a 6' tall man) to push through and here we are in the common area.

Monochromatic.  That's the second thing I notice.  The walls, doors, floor, ceiling, even the heavy iron picnic tables that are bolted to the floor are the same shade of pale gray.

Every thing is hard.  There are no soft surfaces.  I glimpse two women who are new to the facility being given their bedding before being sent to their room.  They can carry it--mattress and all--under one arm.  That's the softest thing thing I've seen and it's pretty pathetic.

I stand awkwardly just inside the door as it clangs shut behind me and meet the stares of the women who are such a stark contrast to everything else about this place.  They are soft and feminine and clothed in that obnoxious bright orange that people only wear when they want to be easily found.  Though they wear no make-up and don't have blow dryers or flat irons, there is a beauty in them and I can easily imagine what they would look like if they were dressed for company. 

There are about 17 women in this common area waiting for us; all of them inmates of the Cleburn County Correctional Facility.  We have no idea what they've done to get here but it's probably better this way.  The less we know the less we judge.  This way, all I can see are women who are already paying the price for what they've done.  I don't need to condemn; I am just here to sit with them for an hour.

They stand up and form a line that stretches to the back of the room.  One by one they embrace me, my sister, and my aunt in greeting.  They've never seen me or my sister before and have no idea if we are even worthy of their hugs but the fact that we came here with their beloved teachers, Ray and Esther Clevenger, is enough for them to know we are. 

I am not generally a hugger but I would die before I would refuse a hug from any of these women.  As I wrap my arms around them, I feel the flesh at their back, the unique form and shape and feel of each individual, and though I don't speak I hope to communicate with my touch that I am glad to be here.  No.  I am honored to be here, included in this bible study, wholly accepted by these women--no questions asked.  There are not many groups of women who would do that.  How can I help but do the same?

I find a place among them as we sit at the tables.  Uncle Ray tells them to open their bibles to where they left off last time: Proverbs 29.  Several women slide pictures of their kids out from between the pages of their bibles and lay them down carefully, touching each one tenderly.  "My kids," the woman next to me whispers as she positions the pictures around her bible.  "They're beautiful," I whisper back and I mean it.  They are adorable--all four of them, and I ache a little, wondering who is caring for them in her absense and when she will get to see them again.

I did not bring my bible.  Uncle Ray said they'd share theirs with us, so I sit and watch them find their places.  I am astonished at how much they have written in the pages of their bibles.  I love the sight of scripture that has been lovingly, painstakingly underscored, starred, highlighted, and wrinkled from use and misuse.  Those are words that have been poured over and meditated on.  Words that have convicted and comforted, wrecked and solaced.

The woman who sits across from me, a grandmother I would later discover, slides her bible across the table so that I can look from it and follow along.  Uncle Ray begins with verse 1.  He goes down the page, telling a story from his life to impart the meaning of each verse and how it applies to the lives of these women.  He makes his way to verse 10: "The bloodthirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul."  I struggle to understand the meaning of this King James text but the women nod, rapt, transfixed by his teaching.  I have been doing bible studies for a long time--I'm not sure if I've ever seen an entire group so 100% committed to every word spoken.  There are no yawns to stifle, no cell phones to check, no watches to look at, no fidgeting children to quiet, no appointments that cause them to leave early.  Every word he says and reads is soaked in by every listener.  I wonder how they have looked forward to this hour all week long.

For some of them, this might be the first time they have heard these words and I marvel at the life-transforming power of them.  There is no stumbling block of good deeds that gets in the way of their salvation.  They know their wrongs and they know what a precious gift grace is.  They are taught that they are blameless now, that they are the ones Jesus died for, and they do not take it for granted like so many of us "good Christans" who have never found ourselves in this confining world of orange and gray. 

While they listen to Uncle Ray's preaching and concentrate on the scriptures laid out in front of them, they are probably more spiritually sure of who they are as daughters of the Most High than at any other time in their lives.  This is their safe place.  They are safe from the bad friends and temptations and stupid decisions that landed them here.  They are safe from the psychological devastation of being judged--or worse--the self-loathing that probably haunts them day and night.  They probably walk back to their cells after this hour of bible study with new promises in their hearts and new confidence that they will do things right next time because they serve a God of second and third chances. 

I know how it feels to hear the powerful message of redemption and be so full of love and gratitude to God you're nearly bursting.  And I know how it feels a few days later when the memory of the message has faded, the glow has waned, and the confidence wavers. 

They leave the safety of the gray walls so abruptly.  When the court date arrives they are walked from their cell to the judge, not knowing what the outcome will be.  If they are freed, they are turned out without even enough warning to call for a ride.  They go right back to the environment that got them here.  No more Ray and Esther.  No more godly women flanking them at those cold gray tables, encouraging them, keeping them in the Word, keeping the flame lit.

It's a miracle more of them don't find their way back.

I think about these women all the time. I remember their faces and I wonder about them.  I lift them up in prayer and hope they find themselves surrounded by godly women on the outside who will continue to pour into them. 

A few days later, my mind still on the verses Uncle Ray explained to the women, I look them up in my own NLT bible.  I want to understand them better.  I zero in on Proverbs 29:10 which says, "The bloodthirsty hate blameless people; [as for the upright, they seek their life.]"  Suddenly I realize who the blameless are.  They wear orange, condemned by the county, but considered blameless by a loving God.  I get to choose who I will be.  Will I be the bloodthirsty who hate them?  Or the upright who seek the same new life they now possess?

It's an easy answer.

Lot's Lot In Life

My first college roommate was named Lindsay.  She was tiny, athletic, artistic, had a ton of friends, and was an identical twin.  She was also funny.  One day, while hanging out in our room in Phillips Hall, her sister took a wipe off marker and wrote on the full length mirror that was on the back of our door, "I like to get naked and poop."  It was just good, harmless fun all the time with them because they were, above all, Christians.  I was not at the time and they drove me crazy. 

In 1998 the internet was still relatively new.  I lost my internet virginity in that room in Phillips Hall by signing up for my first ever email account.  Lindsay was much  more worldly than me, and had been online long enough to have an assortment of AOL messenger friends.  She would chat with them at all hours.   I would be laying in bed at 2am and hear the thunder of her fingers on the keys: "dadadadadada."  Followed by the cheerful AOL, "Ding-dong!"  And then she would giggle at the screen, her face glowing white in the otherwise darkness of the room.  At 2-freaking-am!!  It was all I could do to keep myself from pressing my pillow into my face, writhing around on the bed and moaning, "For the love of God, STOP IT, PLEASE!" 


And she had 8am classes and I didn't.  Every morning she was up before me.  I didn't mind that.  But there was something inside one of her drawers that she kept in a walmart bag.  The rustling of that stinking walmart bag at 7:30 am when I didn't have to be up for another hour was enough drive me batty.

But I never said anything. I may not have been a Christian at the time but I was a nice person and I was polite.  She and her perky sister didn't have the market cornered on "nice."  Even us heathens could pull that off.

Before long Lindsay had a boyfriend from third floor Phillips.  It was common knowledge that Lindsay and Nick had never "done it."  I don't know if he was a Christian or not but he respected her enough to hold out for her.  He was incredibly smart.  One of those people that you can just tell will go on to get a masters, or maybe even a Ph.D.  (He had a fondness for Carl Sandburg.  Being an English major, I thought I should too so I bought a book of Sandburg poetry at the college bookstore.  I never even cracked it.  The following year, some of my friends who stayed in touch with his visited the house he shared with several other guys.  I went into his room and saw that he had copied lines from Sandburg's poems with a sharpie on his walls and ceilings.  Out of a book he borrowed from the library.  I had never felt like such a fraud.  Last I heard he was attending a Grad school in Wyoming and was married to a girl named Sadie.)

I had a boyfriend too.  I wish I could say that I took advantage of the wonderful, godly example that God placed in my path.  But I can't.  I threw myself at him like a love-starved teenaged girl and held nothing back.  At the end of the school year, he had already packed up his room and needed a place to sleep.  I said he could sleep in my room (which I had hardly been in since we had met--couldn't stand to be around that holier-than-thou crowd, y'know).  Lindsay put her foot down and said she wasn't comfortable with it.  My boyfriend and I had to unload his car and sleep on the floor in his room instead.  I was so mad at her, I don't think I ever spoke to her again after that.  School ended (and so did our boyfriends) and we moved on and our paths never crossed again.

It's painful for me to dredge up all those memories.  I don't really like who I was then and I can't help but think of the what-if's.  What if I would have let myself be influenced by Lindsay?  How would my college experience and consequently, my life, have changed?  How much shame and regret would I have been spared? 

The reason I am thinking about them this morning is because I have been looking back on Genesis at the completion of my monumental nine month study and the story that haunts me the most is the story of Lot.  He seems like a relatively minor character.  Though he survived the destruction of Sodom, he will forever be remembered for his wife being turned into a pillar of salt and for offering his virgin daughters to the pack of disgusting animals that waited outside his door.  Great legacy, right?

He did have a small portion of faith.  How could he not, having spent so much of his life in the shadow of his uncle, Abraham?  To Lot's credit, he believed the angels who came to warn him about the impending destruction.  Though he had become desensitized to sin after so many years in Sodom, he knew enough of Abraham's God to know that He didn't mess around.  He went to his daughters' fiances (I bet he neglected to mention what he almost did to their future wives) and told them in Genesis 19:14a, "Quick, get out of the city! The Lord is about to destroy it."  The bible doesn't describe Lot's life in sodom but one can pretty well guess how far he had strayed from Abraham's godly influence by the reaction of his future sons-in-law to his terrible news.  "But the young men thought he was only joking," Genesis 19:14b.

After dragging his butt, arguing with the angels, hesitating, and waffling, he barely makes it out.  All he has are his two daughters.  He has influenced no one in Sodom, not even his own family.  He had an opportunity, having lived in a depraved land and having witnessed God move in the life of his uncle, of saving hundreds or thousands, or maybe even hundreds of thousands.  God would have spared the city for 50 righteous people.  45 righteous people.  40, 30, 20--even 10 righteous people would have saved them all (Genesis 18:24-32).  But Lot's witness was totally wasted.

Well maybe not wasted.  Nothing is wasted, right?  Every word that finds its way into scripture is there to teach us something.  Lot's life made no impact on the world around him but his story still shows us today how a person can be saved and still be useless to God.

Do you see why that haunts me?  I was like Lot back in college and Lindsay was Abraham.  I had been baptized.  I attended church as a child.  I knew God.  He gave me Lindsay to show me and teach me but I was not interested in that.  I wanted Sodom.  That was a time in my life when I was useless to God. 

But it wasn't wasted either.  The story ends well.  I followed that worthless boyfriend around, working where he worked over the summer.  After he dumped me and fell off the face of the earth, I continued working at the same place.  Three years later, near the end of my junior year of college, I was walking back from my lunch break and crossed paths with a handsome security guard with a dark crew cut and light blue eyes.  A year later we were saying, "I do."  Eleven years and three kids later, we are still going strong.

Lot's story ends well too, eventually.  One of his surviving daughters gave birth to Moab, whose family later became the Moabites.  Though they fought with and tormented Abraham's descendants, the Hebrews, all was not lost.  Ruth, grandmother of David, ancestor of Jesus Christ, was a Moabitess.



Friends, how would the people who know you best react if you told them about God?  Would they think you were joking?  Would they laugh in your face?  If so, then something needs to change.  We don't have the same sense of urgency as Lot.  Our world isn't going to end by dawn tomorrow.  But it will end some day.  And what we do with our time here--it matters.  The people we influence for good matters.  Lindsay's influence, though it was not felt at the time, it mattered.  Don't let your witness be wasted and drag your feet when the time comes to follow God out of this world like Lot did.  Who would have followed me if God had spoken to me at that time in my life and told me to warn everyone?  We get to read his story today to learn how to leave behind a better legacy than he did.  Take advantage of it.  You never know how your life will make an impact.

This is Home

I looped the strap of my carry-on bag around the metal stem of my suitcase, then looped it again so that it was all one intertwined black mass of nylon straps and heavy duty zippers.  I let it rest on my foot, an added measure of security in case some wacko tried to pick it up and make off with it while I stood there, looking around, taking in my crazy surroundings.  I tried to be smooth and seem as if I was just taking it all in with thoughtful fascination, or even better--with a sense of longing and sadness because I was about to say good-bye.  But the truth is that I was looking around like a lost child, eyes darting here and there, skittish, watching my back.  I was in unfamiliar territory in the middle of this airport in Tegucigalpa, Honduras.

There is an added layer of craziness when the language that is spoken all around me is not my own.  It has been an exhilarating and exhausting week of work, and sickness, and friendships formed, and preconceptions shattered, and watching God move in Honduras.  I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.  Really.  And I will come back if the opportunity ever presents itself.  But after 7 long days out of "The States," I am ready to go home. 

There are 14 of us conspicuous-looking Americans (though much less conspicuous after 7 days abroad), and many of us are minors.  Most of the grown-ups are slightly worn down after this week but the adrenaline starts pumping as we stand in clusters at the airport, checking bags, double-checking the flight status, triple checking the time on our wrist watches.  So many things can go wrong when one person travels.  Throw in a handful of teenagers and a foreign country, and disaster can fall in any of a multitude of ways. 

We vaguely and half-jokingly discuss what we'll do if a flight gets cancelled or someone doesn't get through customs.  I tell someone, "I don't care WHAT happens as long as this plane get me to 'The States.'  I can take it from there no matter where I am."  I said it with a smile but I was dead serious.  I didn't care if the plane got grounded in Ft. Lauderdale or Seattle or Timbucktoo.  I didn't care if we missed our connecting flight out of Houston and had to rent a car.  I  would be home and I could make it the rest of the way. WHATEVER.  I'd be home.  Even if I was still 1,500 miles away, I'd be home.  Do you get what I'm saying here?  After being out of the country for a week I was never so glad to be born an American citizen and get to call this great place home.  And I couldn't wait to be on American soil again where the language was mine, the roads were recognizable, the bathrooms had toilet paper in them, and all that good American stuff.  Home. 

Is there a sweeter word in the English language when one has been away for a while?  It instills such a longing for that which is warm, nostalgic, and familiar.  It's a place where you know you belong.  Where you're welcome.  Where you're accepted even though you were an idiot when you were a teenager and cringe to think of the dumb things you did while you were there.  You still want to go home and feel that comfort, that loving embrace, eat that meal that only your mom makes, see that little potpourri on the back of the toilet that's been there longer than you can remember. 

The airplane in Tegucigalpa took off on time and it got us to Houston on schedule.  I rushed through the International Arrivals hallway with the rest of my group, searching desperately for a bathroom since some of us were still dropping off little burning Honduran deposits.  Who cares?! We were HOME!!!  It looked like America, it sounded like America, it felt like America.  I handed my American passport to the customs guy with pride while he flipped through it, looking a bit bored, stamped it, and handed it back to me.  I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and say, "Wake up, man, and show a little pride!  You're an American!  You're the luckiest guy on earth!"

And then my prophecy came true.  The inevitable happened and we all missed our connecting flight.  Seriously.  How the heck are 14 people supposed to claim their bags, go through customs, recheck their bags, and get themselves two terminals away in 45 minutes?  Not gonna happen.  After being shuffled around for hours, we were told we would be staying the night in Houston and would leave bright and early the next morning.  Who cares?!  We were HOME!! 

I thought about that story a lot as I came to the end of my Genesis study.  It is the story of a people who long for home.  They all had to leave for one reason or another.  Adam and Eve left Eden.  Abraham left Ur, Lot left Sodom, Jacob left his parent's home after lying to his father and royally ticking off his brother, Joseph was taken out of Canaan and lived 93 of his 110 years as a foreigner in Egypt. 

After 7 days in another country, I just cannot fathom the longing he must have had.  He had one chance in all those years to go back home.  He was allowed to return and bury his father, Jacob.  And then he had to turn around and go right back to Egypt.  That must have been a pretty excruciating promise to keep. 

He is not the only Hebrew who never got to go back home.  There were the stubborn wanderers who waited to enter the Promised Land and never made it, Daniel spent a lifetime in exile, as did the rest of his generation.  And even though the New Testament 1st Century Jews were technically "home" they lived in a Roman outpost under Roman authority, and were never more miserable.  Even today God's people continually fight for what they believe to be their home.  I am not even dipping my toes into THAT debate, except to say that I have come to understand that there is no place on this earth--not a single place--that is truly home.

As good as it felt to be in America that day, I wasn't really home.  For though I was born in this body as an American citizen, what I REALLY am, is a citizen of heaven (Philippians 3:20).  What I felt when I walked through the International Arrivals hallway in Houston is a faint glimmer of what I will feel when I get to heaven.  What I feel when I walk in the house I grew up in and smell the familiar food cooking on the stove and see the same old décor up on the walls in that place where I belong--that is NOTHING compared with heaven.

It is dangerous to get so attached to a place on this earth that you are afraid to leave.  God still had work for Joseph to do in Egypt and even though it felt to Joseph like following God meant moving backwards, he was obedient to that and his life ended well.  He finished by passing on the eternal mindset to the next generation that they weren't home.  Not yet.