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Living And Active

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Flopping onto the couch in the dark, I come hungry to the Word. Every morning, starving. It’s an insatiable ache that only God can fill, and though He does repeatedly, I find myself still asking for more. I used to think it was my ingratitude that caused the longing to linger, but the more I read, the more I believe that the hunger is God-given, and intended to linger, even after I have been fed. It’s not that God is insufficient for the filling, rather it’s that the tasting of His goodness awakens an indwelling soul-hunger that begs always for more.

Swiping through my bible app, I find my next scheduled reading. Casting the hand-held device aside, I opt to consume the Word by way of the printed page, fine tip marker uncapped, at the ready. Line by line, I comb through the text, marking words that stand out, words that cause a reaction in me. I scribble questions in the margins, and sometimes, I am forced to simply stop. I hold the pen still while the words breathe new life into ideas already held. Sometimes the text hits hard, challenging my preconceived understanding, or previously held beliefs. Wait a minute, I sometimes whisper to no one.

Some mornings the words seem to peel up from the page, begging me to notice them anew. And of course in response to such an invitation, I do. I notice them like never before. I might suddenly understand what moments ago eluded me. Living and active–that’s what Paul says in the book of Hebrews, that’s how he describes God’s inspired word. I feel it breathing new life into my own faith with each line I ingest. God gives new revelation of Himself, through Himself, for He IS the Word, just as John said.

In The beginning was the Word and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. (John 1:1)

When I settle on the corner of my couch with the gnawing of a holy hunger chewing away at me, I find God fully present beside me, in front of me, in my lap in between the lines printed and bound, yet unbound by my limited understanding. Sharper than any two edged sword, He cuts to the quick of my interpretations of His truths, and the reality of what He means. They are not always the same. My presumptions and mistaken perceptions unravel as His blade of truth pierces the holes of my faulty theology. Just because I don’t like it, doesn’t make it untrue. Just because I can’t understand it, doesn’t make it incorrect.

Whatever baggage I bring to the table, God carefully, tenderly parses. My thoughts and intentions surgically dissected there on the table, my sometimes-gaping wounds bound and sutured by the very Word that splits me open.

God’s Word lives and breathes because He lives and breathes. He is the very Word. His word is active and piercing because His truth cuts to the quick of us. He splits us soul and spirit, joints and marrow, bringing light to the dim dark hunger that keeps us coming back. More of you God, that is what we pray.

More and more and more.

You’ve Got To Have Friends

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We are going to be asked to do hard,

When I was 16 a friend pushed me to the top of a mountain. Within mere seconds of setting my feet at the top, I fell all the way down–literally from the top, to the bottom.

Let me explain.

The morning we gathered our belongings and suited up for a ski trip in the hills of Pennsylvania started off like any other cold Virginia morning. The church parking lot hummed with the chattering of anxious kids, spouting off about what amazing skiers they were and which mountains they planned to attack first. I felt like a coral fox, sporting my Mom’s melon colored snow suit from the late 80’s and her “Wookie” boots she’d picked up while we had lived overseas. (These boots were so rad. They were covered in long, white goat fur) I’d even matched my nail polish to my snow suit. Obviously, I had my priorities in order.

When we arrived at the ski lodge after pairing off with some friends, one of the guys I was with asked me to ski with him. As we made our way to the lift we needed to catch to the top, I watched as we passed all of the signs for the green (beginner) and blue-level courses (intermediate, for you non-skiers).  At this point, despite the frigid air, I started to sweat. “Where are we going?” I called to my friend who conveniently blocked the sign to the mountain we planned to ski.

I will never forget the playful grin that spread across his face as the lift chair scooped us up and started for the top. As the ground disappeared below us, and all opportunity for escape evaporated, I looked to the left to see the sign. We were preparing to ski a black diamond course. For you non-skiing people, black diamond courses are not for beginners. They are not even for people who have skied a few times. These difficult courses are intended only for people who have knees made of rubber bands, and nerves of steel. And also, lots of ski experience under their belts.

I had none of these things.

As our skis touched the snow at the top, my friend pulled me out of the safety of the lift. I strained to look over the edge of the mountain, desperately plotting my strategy for getting back to the bottom in one piece. The trouble was, I could not SEE the bottom. It looked like a straight drop off. I punched my friend hard in the arm and he took off shooshing down the mountain, snow flying in a cloud behind him.

“Come on!” he hooted as he whooshed past me.

I decided the best way down, was to angle my body parallel to the mountain and step down on the sides of my skis. My plan was brilliant except that by the third step or so, I hit a mogul and lost my footing. From that point, I don’t remember much except that the entire mountain consisted of a series of teeth-chattering moguls, which I bounced off of, one to the next, like a pinball. Apparently, I howled all the way down. I don’t remember this, but my friends, who were waiting for me at the bottom recounted the sounds of my howling for me in stereo. Bless them.

This goes down as one of the scariest, most exhilarating moments of my life. I was utterly terrified, but at the same time, inspired. The challenge to ski the mountain was not posed with malicious intent. My friends loved me and challenged me out of their own bravery.

It was risky. I could have been seriously injured. And while I don’t recommend that as friends we push each other off of black diamond mountains in life, my friend gave me a gift that day. As a a semi-experienced skier, I tended to stick towards the easier slopes. I wanted to stay on my feet. I didn’t want to risk looking like a fool. I wanted to play it safe.

If my friend hadn’t pulled me up the mountain, I’d have never have done it myself. Sometimes, we need to borrow from the bravery of those who have more experience than we do. That day my friend pushed me dangerously out of my comfort zone. I faced a fear and survived it.

While I am no longer tumbling down mountains, I am facing down other fears as I continue to step into places God has called me to, with my writing and work. My friends these days challenge me to get on the lift and ride it to the top of wherever God has invited me to meet Him. 

This is the gift of good, godly friends. Iron sharpens iron. Having friends that push us to go harder and further than we think we can, strengthens us.

Following Christ’s call on our lives doesn’t often look like life on the bunny slope. We are going to be asked to do hard, scary, seemingly-impossible things. True friends don’t let us off the lift. They hold our hand to the top and say, “come on, here we go!”

You’ve got to have friends, and if they love you, they’ll be waiting for you at the bottom of the hill, ready to recount your glorious decent, and remind you how far you have come.

What are the black diamond mountains God is calling you to descend? Who are the people pushing you on and cheering you on the way? Mention your friends in the comments and share this post with them so they know they are one of your people. 

 

On Taking The Narrow Way

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Thank God, we have an empty tomb. The glorious fact that the empty tomb proclaims to us is that life for us does not stop when death comes. Death is not a wall, but a door.” ~Peter Marshall

In these weeks after the celebration of Resurrection Sunday, I’ve spent some time reflecting on how the emptiness of the tomb signaled the fullness of God’s glory. The grave sat empty while heaven welcomed Her King. Jesus didn’t just make a way, he became the way–the bridge between an earthly, and heavenly world. He showed us death as a door, and in walking through, invites us each to take that same difficult path.

But the gateway to life is very narrow and the road is difficult, and only a few ever find it. (Matthew 7:14 NLT)

I’ve been thinking about how every day, we step, either towards the bridge or away from it. Every decision, every word, every dream or hope or action moves us either closer to the the narrow way, or further into the expanse of the wilderness.

We are never as stationary as we feel.

As Christians and writers, we have an opportunity, an invitation–or dare I say, a holy burden to help wandering souls to find the narrow way–to lead them to the doorway of death to self. We can use our stories and our words to circle ’round those who stand at the edges of the bridge, we can come beside those who see death as a wall, and whisper our resurrection stories to them.

In our writing, we can extend our hands to those who doubt and wrestle, and show them our own scars. We can reveal our own wrestling, and speak about the grace that buoys us when the water under the bridge rises. We can write about how hope keeps going along the difficult road of obedience. We can be proof that surrender is how to really live.

Our stories, held out as a light in the dim of doubt and uncertainty.

Our stories, as a gentle nudge to keep going when the path feels too hard, and muddy.

Our stories, as a companion for when the way feels lonely and isolating.

Jesus laid down His life that we might find ours. He became the way for us who wander and wonder at the edges of the empty tomb. Death is a door, not a wall. Jesus stretched Himself across the expanse between heaven and earth, inviting all to come weary, broken, bedraggled and walk across the narrow way.

What might it look like, if we boldly told our own resurrection stories? What stories are God writing in you?

The Honeymoon is Over

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The Honeymoon is Over

Oh boy. Chapters 13-15 ushered me into a full on meandering down memory lane. As BooMama recounted her early days before her marriage, and those first few years afterwards, I couldn’t help but recall my own adventures and misadventures. We married at 20; by all accounts we were still children, wrestling to live like grown-ups. Marriage was much harder than I imagined. Way harder than anyone let on.

In all fairness, it is possible that I was too busy drooling over floral arrangements and completely unaffordable bridal wear to really HEAR the sage advice that was being offered in the months leading up to our wedding. I might have been slightly distracted by the fact that I was working two jobs and driving myself back and forth to Macon in the sweltering heat of middle Georgia during the high noon of the summer.

Whether people had tried to tell me, or they hadn’t, that first year of marriage tried our patience with each other. Our cleaving rang with the sounds of doors slamming (me) and cars motoring off into the distance (him).

In Chapter 14 Sophie talks about how she had known David for 20 years and still they felt like strangers in the beginning. As I read this I nodded and said things out loud like, ” Right??!!” and “Amen”. After our 4 years of dating we felt confident that we knew each other well–and we did, but marriage and dating are NOT the same.

And as He did for BooMama and David, God used these hard days of growing up together to teach us about sacrifice, submission and what love really means. We moved a couple of times, and church hopped, just like they did. We fought and made up and found our way through the immaturity and selfishness of our youth, into a place of willing surrender, compromise and generosity. We learned to communicate and respect each other, and discovered that while challenging, demonstrating grace is not impossible.

While my husband maintained a steady job, I found myself job-hopping more than I would have liked. I had to laugh at BooMama’s eager search for an English teaching job, only to keep finding herself in the role of Spanish teacher. Oh God has such a sense of humor. I’ve worked everything from retail to waitressing, to working at a car dealership, to a brief stint as an admissions rep at a University. As much as I wanted to put my college degree to use, I continued to get jobs that had me spending huge amounts of time on the phone. I was good on the phone. But none of those were my dream jobs.

By the time I found a job that I really liked and was good at (and had potential for upward mobility), we started our family and I traded the office life for being a full-time mama. Then we moved. Again.

Thankfully, by this point, we had been married for 5 years and while the honeymoon was long over, God had brought us a long way into a much sweeter season of mutual respect and understanding. We had fully become a team in those 5 years before our first baby was born, which was a good thing because that first child–well, lets just say he wasn’t a good sleeper.

What I am saying is that he didn’t sleep through the night until he was 3 YEARS old. Three years of sleep deprivation is a ghastly thing–if that doesn’t test your marriage, nothing will. I’m grateful to say we passed the test. God knew what He was doing. (Of course He does.)

I sat down to read chapters 13-15, and found myself engrossed well beyond the end of chapter 17 before I had to set the book aside to make Easter dinner. If you’ve been reading along, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this season of life.

What were your early days of marriage like? How did God stretch you during a particular season of transition?

Home is Where My People Are

How To Succeed

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It’s 4:30 when the alarm goes off. Admittedly, I am a morning person but even at this hour, I groan at the thought of getting up. Most days it’s closer to 5 when I finally roll back the clovers to make my way to the coffee pot, and the couch for time in prayer, and the Word.

This is how most days begin partly because I like it this way, but mostly because I need it this way.

This time in the quiet with God, before the day stacks up around me is what helps me focus. This time of communion with my Maker is what centers me before my looming to-do list has time to knock me sideways.

We live full lives. Most of us (ahem) don’t have a lot of margin in our day. There’s not enough whitespace and in the steady flow of things that need to be addressed, handled, managed, sorted and processed, it’s easy to lose our focus, to get distracted, to forget why we do what we do–and how we ought to do it.

“Commit your work to the Lord”, the Psalmist writes, “and your plans will be established”.

We are all looking for ways to succeed in what we do–this is it, right here; “Commit your work to the Lord.” Turn your work over into His hands. Daily. Hourly, Every minute if you must. Keep your eyes on God, and watch how He leads you.

This is why I try to wake before dawn. The hand off that happens each morning in the quiet between me and Jesus is the only way I can handle all of the tasks I have before me.

I can’t do it in my own strength. I don’t want to. When I fail to work alongside the Lord, when I grab the reigns and work in my own strength and wisdom, I stumble. I run myself ragged and the various plates I’m spinning become unruly and burdensome. When it becomes about my ability to make things happen, things come undone.

I come undone.

Commit your work to the Lord, we’re told. That’s how to find success. He establishes our work for His glory when we surrender it to Him.

Entrust all of your work and ways to God, and watch how He guides the process. Watch How He leads you as you work.

Make time to meet with God as you plan your day. Set your schedule according to His purposes for you. Invite Him to your planning meeting.

On Being An Instrument

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Don’t let me ever think, dear God, that I was anything but the instrument for your story.   Flannery O’Connor

This summer I picked up a copy of Flannery O’Connor’s, A Prayer Journal to add to my ever-expanding personal library. I’d read a mix of reviews regarding the contents of her short journal and even now, after reading it myself, I am happy to have purchased it. It amazed me, how many of her prayers echoed my own mutterings and pleas to God. I can’t write apart from God and so my journals bulge with petitions and confessions on behalf of this gift He has given me.

Recently, I shared a few email exchanges with a couple of writer friends, in which both of them expounded on their feelings of frustration, doubt and sense of purpose and worth as it relates to writing. So many of their own thoughts reminded me of the words in O’Connor’s journal, and in my own. I’m grateful for their honesty and willingness to wrestle with the gift, and how it is to be used.

After sitting with their words for a while, I feel compelled to pray for us writers, because though our stories are different, when you know God has trusted you with this particular gift, the struggle to steward it well, is universal.

So, writer friends, join me in praying (or scroll down to hear the prayer, as I pray it over us both)–

Father God, you are the greatest storyteller the world will ever know. You speak and life is formed. You breathe and the wind and waves obey you. Your power is beyond understanding, beyond compare. God you believe in the power of words. You gave us language and voices with which to share your majesty among the nations. You invite us into your story, and grant us the grace to work alongside you, as word weavers, and storytellers. We would not know how, if you had not first shown us in your perfect and holy Word, the very Word who walked among us as a man, as God, as savior. Lord teach us to use our words for kingdom purposes. Part our lips to speak of your glory, of your redemption, of your unfathomable mercy. Jesus shape our craft to reflect all that is good and right and true, that we might draw people into the shelter of your wings. Give us the wisdom to speak honestly, and with love. Keep us from becoming clanging cymbals of self-promotion and idolatry. Lord, your story in us is the only one worth telling. Give us the heart to tell it well. Keep us humble Lord, in a world that determines worth by way of numbers and scales and dollar signs. Lord Jesus, teach us to build altars instead of platforms. Remind us of why it is we have a voice, and what it is you have asked us to do. Unite us in Christ, while defining the beauty of our individual creativity, generously given by your inspired, intentional design. Don’t let us ever think, dear God, that we are anything but the instrument for your story. In your holy and perfect name, Jesus, we pray. Amen.

What Actually Happens When You Rest

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I mentioned before, a need to step away from the din of the cyber-world. I quoted Thoreau and admitted a growing hunger to blow bubbles again–to sit still and rest. That was 2 months ago. I can’t actually believe it’s been that long. It feels like it was just last week.

Despite my slowing, time cruises on.

I fretted about how laying down my pen would affect my writing. “Writers write”, that’s what I kept saying. But I didn’t have a choice. Not only was I aching for some quiet, more importantly, I felt God calling me to it.

So, I stepped away.

At first, I did a terrible job of sitting still. I wanted to write, to push the words–I confess, I wanted the instant feedback that often comes with blogging. As an extrovert, that kind of stuff feeds me. (This is both blessing and curse.) I complained to God, I lamented to friends. I had a few false starts at settling down.

I wasn’t ready to listen. Yet, as much as I wanted to produce, the words simply weren’t there. I barely even journaled (something I normally do daily). So many mornings, I opened my journal, staring down at the blank page willing myself to write.

20 minutes later, I’d close it having written nothing but the date.

Instead of producing words, I filled my usual writing time consuming them. I read 5 books in 3 weeks. That’s a lot for me. Incidentally, those books all centered around the themes of quiet, whitespace, and sabbath.

Funny thing–when I finally surrendered to the quiet, I started to hear things, words began to gather again in my mind. God reminded me of stories I have yet to tell. 

I also began to dream again. I had visions. Fresh ideas percolating. Inspiration glowed at the edges of my mind–a new dream unfolding.

As writers it can be so hard to balance seasons of work with seasons of rest. But if I’ve heard anything these last 2 months, it’s that when we are quiet, we can hear so much better (a profoundly obvious truth, I know).

Taking seasons of deliberate rest are critical for the creative soul’s restoration and rejuvenation. 

If you’re feeling short on inspiration, if you’re in need of clarity and fresh perspective, try resting. Try quieting yourself, and asking God to show you the stories you ought to tell.

Set your pen down. Leave the journal on the nigh stand. Blow some bubbles. Bake something. Read a book–or 5.

Do anything other than write, that you find restful. Ignore the lie that there’s no time to rest. Ignore the voice in your head that calls you lazy.

Rest and be restored.

Q4U: When’s the last time you set your writing aside so you could listen? What did you hear? 

 

 

What You Must Do Before You Can Write

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What You Must Do Before You Write

When I started writing online, I didn’t call myself a writer. I wrote when I had time, and when I felt so inspired. I didn’t feel pressure to create, writing has always been a release for me.

That season lasted for a good while until things shifted. I wrote a book. In the months leading up to the books release, writing became a job. I elbowed things out of my way to sit down to write. I no longer waited for inspiration, I sat down and pursued it with a feverish desire to write words that mattered. This kind of passion isn’t all bad–Madeline L’Engle had it right when she said  “Inspiration comes during the work, rather than before it”.

After the book came out, I lost my balance. I had shoved everything aside to write, write, write–and in the words of James Howell, (and later, Steven King),  “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”. My energy waned. My desire to experience life away from the keyboard began to fade.

In my fiery pursuit of crafting word masterpieces, one painful letter at a time, I found myself increasingly frustrated by the serious and concerning disappearance of ideas of which to write about. Living as a mother of 4 young children, it seemed ideas should run through my head in abundance, with time for capturing them being the real problem.

But the opposite was true–the more time I devoted to trapping and transcribing ideas, the more stagnant my thought pool became.

Shuffling through an old filing cabinet I came across my creative writing folder from a class I took in high school. Scratched across the yellowing manila, I rediscovered a truth I’d practically forgotten.

Before You Write

In my pre-Jesus youth and fascination with transcendentalism, Henry David Thoreau was one of my favorite writers. I used to imagine myself trekking off with him to Walden Pond where we’d pick at the sweet grass and dip our rebellious toes in the water, while the forrest creatures lazed about on branches overhead and on the banks beside us, sucking up the marrow of our words as Henry and I mused about life, love and writing. On occasion, Emerson would join us…

Anyway. 

Thoreau said, “How vain is it to sit down to write when you have not yet stood up to live”.

And it occurred to me, on the trek towards publication, that’s exactly what I’d neglected to do–live. 

Writing is hard work. (In case you’ve been fooled in to believing otherwise.) And while it’s true, words don’t materialize while we’re off living life, failing to record it, the reality is, if we’re not really living life, there’s nothing to record. (Profound, yes?)

This is obvious, and yet it’s a struggle all writers face at some point. The balance between living life and writing about it is always in question.

Some seasons of writing call for more time in the chair. This is an inevitable part of doing the work. Deadlines, commitments, project milestones–all have to take priority in certain seasons. But these should be the seasons. They should not last, and we should not ignore the need for a change of scene.

While I sat behind a screen clicking away at the keys, I missed afternoon walks in the sun, and butterfly watching in the yard. I missed hiking in the park, and blowing bubbles on the porch. I missed the joy of cooking from scratch, as I served too many hurried meals from a bag.

I wasn’t living life, I was surviving. 

Among the things I neglected, my time in the Word had also grown shorter and more rushed. Forgetting that God is the source of all life, left me grasping for all the wrong things in an effort to produce.

You make known to me the path of life;
in your presence there is fullness of joy;
at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.Psalm 16:11

While God can create ex nihilo, the rest of us need a little something to work with. My creative well ran bone-dry and I panted after the memory of something I’d discounted.

I believe my writing reflected as much. The richness of inspiration does come during the work, but after the living of life.

If we want to produce stories that speak of glory, we have to spend time, on the other side of the screen, immersed in the rich, messy, full-color emotion of actual living. We have to stand up, and live. And then sit down and write.

I don’t pretend to have this balance thing all sorted.

As I write I’ this, I’m currently eyeball deep in deadlines and projects that cannot be ignored without consequences and repercussions. But I sense the time for living is very near and I can say, that I am writing this with one foot out the metaphorical door.

Walden pond awaits. Spring flowers have begun raising their fronds from beneath the hardened soil, in a beckoning wave of invitation. Soon the butterflies will return. Afternoon bubble-blowing is just days away.

It’s about time to escape to the woods for a little inspiration–it’s time to live.

Have you ever struggled with balancing working and living? When is the last time you “stood up to live” first?

Secrets And Deception

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“But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.” John Steinbeck

Wages Of Sin

The other night while my husband worked late, I sat in my bed flipping the channels mindlessly on the TV. I landed on a channel without noticing what it was, and then set the remote down to tend to one of my children.

I returned to hear a woman talking about her life as a swinger.

And yes, to be clear, we’re talking about the bed-sharing, wife-swapping variety. 

Because I have always been a people watcher, (though admittedly not a fan of reality TV), I watched for a minute because the woman on screen couldn’t stop talking about how freeing it was to live this secret lifestyle.

Wait–what?

I don’t know that I would ever pair the words freeing and secret together unless I was referring to the freedom I experience when I do not have to keep a secret.

The woman, talking to her primary partner, went on to describe how she loved “freeing herself” up in this way, to experience relations without relationship (my paraphrase) but that since she’d recently had a baby, she no longer felt attractive. The look of disappointment on her partner’s face was undeniable. He was ready to start swinging again, and she felt too round and unattractive for that kind of business.

She told him how uncomfortable she would feel next to another woman, one who hadn’t just given birth, she was afraid of being compared, of not measuring up–of not being enough.

Her eyes flashed and darted down, she seemed to have trouble looking directly at the camera. The camera cuts to footage of her working out, talking about how she’ll feel so much better when she looses the post pregnancy weight, she’ll be ready to get back to swinging then.

You know–because it’s so freeing.

This is one of the most powerful deceptions we face in life.  I witnessed a woman enslaved by sin, deceived into believing that her secret lifestyle was freeing–and this makes sense, because this is exactly how sin works. 

And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. 2 Corinthians 11:14 Esv

The enemy sells us half-baked truth that appears solid on the surface, but collapses to nothing when we begin to cut into it. Living enslaved to habitual sin is to live the most unsatisfying version of life. It appears to us, dressed up as freedom, success, power, beauty, influence, fame, wealth, and so on, and we whose pursuit is anything other than Jesus, cash in our lives for this illusion of freedom.

This sin is soul slavery that suffocates our faith and threatens spiritual death.

Sin promises solid gold, then swaps the gold for spray-painted tin, worth absolutely nothing. Less than nothing. It’s garbage.

Sin deceives. That’s what it does. That’s why the enemy is called the father of lies–because the truth is not in him.

I know this desert. I’ve wandered hot and hungry through the wastelands of habitual sin. I’ve gulped the lies down, confusing temporary satisfaction with real, lasting hope. I’ve fallen face first into the hot sand and gasped for breath, clinging tightly to my secrets, out of fear, and shame. And it was not freeing.

Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy. Proverbs 28:13

If you are living with a secret, that you think is making you free, I’d ask you–how do you define freedom?

Any freedom the world offers, that comes by way of living in opposition to God’s word is not freedom.

This is deception.

Keeping secrets doesn’t set us free. Keeping secrets is a form of enemy enslavement whose weapons are fear and shame. Secrets allow the enemy to bludgeon us with lies of rejection and failure.

Blessed is the man against whom the Lord counts no iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no deceit. For when I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer. Selah I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not cover my iniquity; I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,” and you forgave the iniquity of my sin. Selah. Psalm 32:2

I know this struggle. We all do. None of us is immune to the temptation of deception.

Real freedom is found in Christ. In confession. In obedience to God’s ways.

But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the fruit you get leads to sanctification and its end, eternal life. For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 6:22-23

 

When You Want In

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Until you conquer the fear of being an outsider, an outsider you will remain. C.S. Lewis, The Weight Of Glory 

I transferred to my new high school a month after the school year had started. Uprooted, (literally) two months prior by hurricane Andrew, I’d spent the very beginning of the school year attending a temporary school, while we waited for military moving orders.

I was the quintessential “new kid”. Coming from a very small private school to this (much larger) public high school was a most unexpected and somewhat fear-filled transition. (Did I mention we’d just lost virtually everything we owned in a natural disaster of record proportions?).

It’s safe to say, I entered this new social arena already battling the clutches of fear. I was in every way, an outsider.

New state, new house, new stuff, new school–no friends.

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I wandered through the maze of halls surrounded by circles of kids I didn’t know, living lives I couldn’t  relate to. Though my military upbringing had schooled me in the art of quick assimilation, high school is hostile territory at best, and for the new kid–it’s a virtual minefield of potentially embarrassing interactions.

I wanted to simultaneously hide and find my place within one of these social circles.

While reading C. S. Lewis’s, The Weight Of Glory, his essay,  The Inner Ring, struck me like a sucker-punch in the gut.

I’m not proud to say that during certain seasons of my life, I have hungered to be inside of certain social circles. Often, these were not necessarily circles I have been explicitly shut out of, but rather ones that are well established and grooved with the familiarity.

I’ve been both granted and denied entry into these various rings.

Amongst bloggers there exists these inner rings of small, somewhat exclusive communities. Most of them, I would say, developed naturally (as rings do), where people with common theology and interests gravitate towards each other sharing their vulnerabilities and lives in detail.

C.S. Lewis notes that inner rings are “certainly unavoidable”, and that “it is (in itself) a good thing that personal friendship should grow between those who work together”.

To this I am sure, we can all nod our heads in agreement.

The struggle we face, is our own personal desires to be included within the ring. It is possible (ahem) to let the desire to be included eclipse the calling as Christians to love one another.

The trouble comes when in pursuit of the inner ring, we are tempted (and many times do) compromise who we are and what we believe in order to cross the barriers.

In high school the rings were clearly defined: the cheerleaders, the jocks, the band “nerds” (forgive me–I married one), the “grunge” crowd, the promiscuous girls, the preppy kids, and so on.

I didn’t fit in with any of these groups, and so the temptation to make compromises ensued. Lewis warns,

Of all the passions the passion for the Inner Ring is most skillful in making a man who is not yet a very bad man do very bad things. The Weight Of Glory

Yikes.

We’re all adults now, free to make choices without having to answer to our parents–but what about heavenly Father? We are still accountable to Him.

The best way to guard against the desire to be inside of one of these elusive rings is, first, to get honest with ourselves about what it is we actually want.

We should ask ourselves:

Am I lonely?
Is this unchecked ambition?
Is this about glorifying God or myself?

My occasional hunger for a different inner ring springs up when I am feeling most vulnerable and spiritually weak. My desire to be a part of that group comes when I feel unnoticed, or irrelevant.  But the truth is, Jesus has called me friend (John 15:15 Esv) (In my head I hear that old spiritual, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”). This is not a trite statement. Jesus CALLS US, FRIEND. How’s that for being a part of an inner ring?

Here’s the truth: No VIP access to any worldly inner ring will fill the void of a heart that doesn’t know it is known by Jesus. (<–Why don’t you go ahead and tweet that puppy)

We are already within our own inner rings–and friends, the inner ring you are in is not an accidental happenstance. God places specific people in our lives for specific reasons and seasons. 

 Whatever online community your staring down with longing in your heart, let me say this, let it go. 

Pursue God. Pray for His guidance into the community of His choosing for you.

Chances are, you are already in it.

C.S. Lewis concludes this magnificent essay with this:

And if in your spare time, you consort simply with the people you like, you will again find that you have come unawares to a real inside, that you are indeed snug and safe at the centre of something which, seen from without, would look exactly like an Inner Ring. But the difference is that its secrecy is accidental,…for it is only four or five people who like one another meeting to do things they like. This is friendship.

You already belong, sister. Right where you are.

Embrace your community. We ‘re right here with you.

On Pancakes And Perseverance

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pancake_Allume

For years I couldn’t make a decent pancake. I could grill picture perfect steaks and bake bread that could amaze, but pancakes were impossible.

It’s been nearly 14 years since I first tried to make a pancake, and I can’t believe I am saying this, but it’s only been in the last 3 years that I have at last conquered pancake making with both consistency and near perfection.

The other night, I stood flipping my practically perfect pancakes, considering how a couple of years ago, I  had found the whole process so frustrating that I wanted to quit trying.

One day, probably at the request of one of my children, I got out the pan and tried again. I hovered anxious the whole time. I watched each bubble form on the upside of every pancake. I read and re-read the directions, while muttering prayers to  finally get this right.

And then, as if I’d been doing it my whole life, they turned out perfectly.

This is both a small miracle and also?–the fruit of perseverance.

I’ve thought about that moment repeatedly, trying to figure out why it took me so long to get such a simple meal right. Afterall, in the last 14 years I’ve prepared and cooked much more challenging dishes, so why was this one so relentlessly hard for me?

Here’s what learned:

Pancakes are a somewhat delicate food. Too long in the pan (by a mere matter of seconds) and they turn too dark and tough. Not enough time in the pan and they are gooey and raw inside, which is plain nasty.

For me, I needed to find the balance. I started with my cooking temperature. I discovered that for the particular pan I like for cooking pancakes, there is only one very specific setting the burner can be on. One notch higher, and the pancakes are impossible, every time. Once I figured this out, the pancakes were at least fully cooked (score!).

After fine-tuning my cooking temp, I discovered that while my pancakes were thoroughly cooked, they were too thick and not “floppy” enough. This I recognized was not a heat issue, but a batter problem. For years I hadn’t been stirring the batter enough. Because my cookbook cautions over mixing, I erred on the side of super-lumpy-barely-mixed. Again, crappy pancakes.

It turned out that my batter needed a more vigorous blending, and actually requires (sometimes) a splash or two more milk than the recipe calls for.

That’s it. Perfect pancakes. Every time.

And it only took 10 years of practice.

As I reflected on all of this, I saw the parallel to my writing journey. Even the very best writers “burned a few pancakes” when they first started writing. Writing is a gift, but also a skill to be honed and tweaked over time.

All serious writers learn the necessity and value of perseverance. <–tweet this

It takes practice and evaluation of our work to make it better. When something isn’t working, we go back to the beginning and look at where we went wrong. Maybe the words need to rest longer on the page before being served up. Maybe we’ve gone overboard on the salt and we need to add a bit more sugar. Maybe it works with oil, but tastes better when you use applesauce instead.

The thing about writing is, that while there is a basic formula for good story telling, there is always room to tweak the technique. Sometimes, more than anything, we just need a lot of practice–maybe even more than we think. On the surface, writing seems easy enough. But when you read writing that seems easy, you’re reading the work of a gifted, practiced writer. That’s what good writers do–make it seem easy. 

So get back to the desk. Sit down and start again. Read the words of those who have done this before. Tweak your methods. Believe that eventually, your perseverance will pay off. And pray–ask God to equip you for the task He’s called you to.

For some great books on writing check out a few of my favorites, Stephen King’s On Writing, Ann Lamott’s Bird By Bird, Luci Shaw’s Breath For The Bones, and Madeline L’engle’s Walking on Water. These are just a few brilliant writers who make it look easy, but in reality persevered through many a burned pancake.

So tell me, how are you at making pancakes? 

Why You Should Share The Stories That Scare You

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write scary

Ann Lamott says that “we write to expose the unexposed”.  For some writers, this may not be all that difficult. Some people are naturally good at sharing the sensitive underbelly of life, without getting tangled up in fear and apprehension about how these delicate subjects will be received. I’m not really talking to those writers today.

These words here, are for those of us who are afraid to tell the stories that rattle around inside of us. Consider this your pep-talk, I’m going to tell you why it’s okay tell the stories that scare you.

I think it’s fair to say that we are all living with stories we haven’t told yet, most of us, are not as transparent as we want to think we are, and to some extent, this is good. Not every story can or should be shared in the public arena, and discernment makes a wise and responsible writer. Unfortunately, determining which stories we can (or should) share is not black and white. I have seen writers catch all maner of flack for telling stories, others didn’t believe they had the right to tell–and the plain and simple truth is, we are responsible for the words we share, and how we share them.

But what about the stories we can share, but we’re afraid to? Does it matter if we keep them to ourselves?

Yes. It does.

God cares more about our stories than we might think. This recently came to my attention as I was looking back over the landscape of my life. There are stories in my past that scare me. They remind me of a time when I was less spiritually healthy, when I was fumbling through dark rooms, hiding in corners and suffering in shame. These are moments I’d prefer not to recount. Why would I tell these stories? What good could come of it?

These are the questions I asked God, as I felt Him nudging me to tell these stories. I begged Him not to make me, but through His gentle, yet persistent prodding, He led me to open up.

And almost immediately, He revealed the purpose behind sharing the scary truths–healing. 

In her book, Bird By Bird, Ann Lamott says this:

If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise you’ll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you’ve already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writers job is to see what’s behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words–not just any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.

That’s exactly what I’d been doing. I’ve spent years of my life, shuffling the uncomfortable stories of my life around, covering them with table cloths and fake flowers, keeping the curtains drawn tight, so that I wouldn’t have to examine them in full light.

But God is light, and the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:5 NIV). God wanted to heal me and in order to do so, I had to be willing to push back the curtains–to share the scary stories. What the enemy intends for harm, the Lord uses for good. (Genesis 50:20)

Our scary stories lose their power to torment us once we allow God to redeem them. <–Click to tweet

As writers, our willingness to expose the uglier experiences of our lives opens the doors for healing, not just our own, but often for our readers as well. 

The next time that scary memory re-surfaces, don’t be so quick to shove it back into the corner of your mind. Perhaps the Lord is prompting you, cracking the door a bit to let some light in.

Hold your story out to Him, ask Him for wisdom–He will tell you what to do.

 

 

Choose Your Words {The Stewardship of Language}

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Word Stewardship

I’d stepped inside for just a moment, just long enough to grab the pot of macaroni and cheese off of the stove–when I heard the shouting on the patio. Ugly words flying like fiery arrows across the iron table, wounds splitting in the fray.

 A calm morning, schooling on the back porch had quickly turned into to a battlefield, as one of my children verbally attacked another over some school work. That’s when I came in on the fracas.
Stepping out the door, I heard him tearing at her, ripping her apart for her failure to do the work the way he thought it ought to be done. But instead of offering her help, and accepting her decision to decline his help, he went on the offense, attacking her as a person, tearing at her character, shouting her down–calling her names.

I grabbed his arm firm, and leaned in close enough–eye to eye. I hushed him, and sent him immediately in the house. His head hung and my heart beat wild in my chest.

His showing was hideous. But it hit me even harder that day because I’m still trying to get over another painful display of words that I witnessed, only that one wasn’t in my back yard–it was in my online neighborhood, and that’s still too close for comfort.

There’s something that happens online–in comment boxes, and on social media. I’ve seen it in blog posts and status updates, in 140 character tweets. Poor stewardship of words. You’ve seen it too. I’ve done it. It’s ugly and it hurts.

We justify our poor choice of language by claiming that we are merely “speaking the truth in love” but the truth is that, out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks. And so these careless words–supposedly spoken out of love, are revealed for their true identity.

It can be easy in this online world to forget that attached to that tiny, motionless avatar, is a real living person, with feelings and a soul. Maybe they know Jesus. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they don’t know your brand of Jesus. Maybe they don’t share your politics. And with every difference, we find it a little easier to vomit stones in their direction, while we attempt to cover the mess under the blanket of Christian love.

Sisters, God has given us the gift (and it is a gift) of language, and like all of our gifts, we are called to use them wisely–for His glory. We are called to good stewardship of our words:

Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.

1 Peter 4:10 NIV

I’ve watched the body cut and rip at each other, attacking motives and character, when someone disagrees with our point of view. I have my own opinions about how I think things ought to be, and sometimes, I don’t see eye to eye with you.

Sometimes, all I have are ugly, sinful, hurtful words, and so I have to click away. I confess. I repent, I grieve my own sinful attitudes…

Because I have to choose–love or hate.

We don’t have to tear at the very fiber of those we disagree with, just because we disagree with them.

There’s a difference between civil dialogue and character assassination thinly disguised as discussion. <–Tweet this

***

Inside, I cornered my child by the stove. With a hand on his shoulder, I repeated his hurtful words to him, I asked him how he thought they sounded. His tears spilled and I fought hard to hold my own back.

“Your need to be right and have things your way, doesn’t trump the need to show love to her”. 

He won’t look at me, and I get it. Shame weighs a lot. We bow our heads together and I hold him. I’m thinking about his sister half torn on that patio and my online sister half shredded by the ugly words and accusations hurled in the name of  “love”.

Disagreement doesn’t come with permission to gnaw at the soul of another member of the body. We are called to be good stewards of our words. 

As members of one body our speech ought to be loving and kind.

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. Ephesians 4:29

“She’s your sister,” I told him. “You are to love her, to protect her, to build her up–not tear her down. If you cannot say something kind, walk away.”

What if we learned to walk away when we didn’t have anything nice to say?  What if we set aside our need to be right, and have it our way, in order to better demonstrate love to others?

Maybe, we need to love not lecture.

Good stewardship of our language sometimes looks like holding our tongues.

Choosing our words carefully.

Extending some grace.

And asking for forgiveness when we’ve mishandles the gifts we’ve been given.

8 Tips For Beginning Writers

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8 Tips for Beginning Writers
As a homeschooling mom of 4, finding time to write can be a bit of a challenge. My children are all young enough to still need quite a bit of help and attention doing everything from loading the dishwasher, to using the potty. To say I don’t have a lot of free time is an understatement.

A question I am often asked is this: “How do you have time to write like you do?“ Or, people sometimes say it in a statement form, like this: “I don’t know how you found the time to write a book!”

8 Tips for beginning writers, (You Can do it) <–Tweet this!

  1. I treat writing as a job. What I mean specifically is, I set aside specific time to work. I schedule it into my day, just as I would a doctors appointment or a girls night out. This helps me to plan our activities, and allow plenty of face time and class time with my kids, while still getting my projects done.
  2. I set deadlines. I’m jumping headfirst into another project and in order to make that happen, I have set deadlines for myself to complete different phases of the project. This prevents me from enjoying wasting hours of time watching Duck Dynasty, when I need to have something ready for editing.
  3. I guard my writing time fiercely. My children take a scheduled quiet time every day. This time is sacred to me. This is when I write most often (like right now) and I am very careful about things that would otherwise interrupt this time. It occurs at the same time everyday, and so I schedule our entire day around this 2 hour window. I’ve been known to turn down many activities that interrupt this hallowed time. Thankfully, my friends here know me well, and don’t often ask us to play or do anything during that time, and likewise, I avoid scheduling anything that will prevent me from being near my computer during this small window of time.
  4. I (sometimes) write at night. Part of the reason I guard my quiet time with such ferocity, is that in the evenings, I’d like to hang out with my husband. Therefore, in order to write, I must try and work around his schedule, which means limited night writing. When I was in the throws of finishing my book, many nights were spent writing, and we made do, because we knew that pace would not last. I try to have a once a week “write night” (#writenight for you tweeps out there) because honestly, sometimes, night writing is where the magic happens. I should add here that my husband is an absolute saint and supports me fully in my writing, which makes all the difference in the world. Amen.
  5. I write before the sun comes up. Early morning is an excellent time to get those first morning thoughts out on paper–and that’s specifically how I do my morning writing, on paper in my journal. I won’t speak too much to this because everybody has their method, but I will simply say this, if you write almost exclusively on the computer, I suggest you find a good legal pad or a journal and every now and then, write long hand. I am amazed sometimes at how different my writing can be when I take the time to draw out the letters.
  6. I take scheduled breaks. I have found this to be a critical component in my efforts to hold on to ideas. The more tired I am, the more often I lose the words. Scheduling rest is a key component in holding on to my story and making my deadlines. ( If you need accountability and encouragement to take time off from being creative, try this.) This leads me to my last point.
  7. I get offline. Sometimes I can be positively fed full by the online conversations I enjoy. But I can also easily waste a tremendous amount of time online, and get distracted from my own writing and work. If you want to write, get off line and do the work. Everybody knows this already, but yet, many of us still struggle with this one seemingly obvious point.
  8. I pray. This perhaps should have been the first point, but the fact that I list it last does not speak to the significance of this tip. If you want to write, take that desire to the Lord and give it back to Him. Ask Him to show you how to fit it into your life, and for the words and wisdom to share. I believe that God is honored most by our willingness to use the gifts He has given us, for His purposes. Don’t know what that looks like for you? Ask Him. He will direct your steps.

What tips do you have for other writers? Share them below–help a sister out! 

Fans Do Not Equal Friends {The Benefit Of A Smaller Blog}

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“The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in a circle of those who are.”

C. S. Lewis

I think it’s safe to say, I’m a “smaller” blogger. I don’t like that phrase very much because sometimes that word, small, can sound like “insignificant” and sometimes, I believe that’s what it really means. But today, when I say small, please know I am only referring to subscriber counts. Let’s not let that little word make us feel less-than, okay?

I’ve been publicly blogging for 2 years now. In the grand scheme of things, 2 years is a sneeze. A blip. A blink. But the truth is, I have been tempted at times to fret over the growth (or lack of growth) of my blog. I’ve watched other bloggers skyrocket to having hundreds of thousands of subscribers in the time I’ve been blogging. This hasn’t been the case for me, but during a recent blogging break, I realized that I couldn’t be more thankful for where I am right now, in my blogging journey.

For the last ten days I went mostly offline. It’s been a challenging season for me, balancing writing and publishing my first book with homeschooling my 4 kids, Coordinating MOPS, being a wife, while still managing to keep everyone fed and in clean underwear. I hit a wall of exhaustion and had no choice but to sequester myself for a bit.

What I didn’t expect during this time, was the overwhelming support that came in the form of phone calls, text messages, tweets and private messages on Facebook. 

98% of the people who contacted me during this break were friends I have made online. Ya’ll were calling me. I got your sweet texts offering prayers and encouragement. My small blog has served as the conduit for these relationships. The size of my blog doesn’t matter to me–my friends matter. The people I have met and been able to get to know through having a smaller blog, that’s the stuff that gets me all goose-bumpy.

Not having  thousands of blog comments to sift through is a blessing because I am able to read and reply to the people who take the time to encourage me, or cheer me on in my writing endeavors. I don’t need a team to handle my correspondence. Having the ability to connect with my readers has turned so many into real-life friends. I don’t give my phone number out to everyone, but some of my readers, they have it because they are more than ‘fans’–they are my friends. 

God’s faithfulness in my blogging journey hasn’t looked like a subscriber list 2 miles long. It’s better than that. God has blessed me with specific people in my life who I have met through blogging, who now journey with me.

The greatest gift of having a small blog is the community you can enjoy. Lets be honest, no one has time to reply to hundreds of comments. I read a post earlier today that had over 1,273 comments and the first thing I thought was, how do you connect with that? And the reality is, you don’t–not really. Fans do not equal friends. 

As much as I want people to read my writing, I care more about hearts than head-counts. <–Tweet this!

Friends, whatever the size of your blog–please know that you are touching lives with your words. On the other side of that screen sits a real person, who cries real tears or laughs genuinely when they read your words. Treasure this season of small. Embrace the joys of actually connecting with people for purpose. God has given  you a community, it may be 5 or 5000. Whatever it is, recognize that He has you where you are for a reason–and it may look different than you imagined.  

Smaller blogger have a unique opportunity–community. Embrace your community. You never know how it will change in time. This is where God has you right now.

Get to know your readers–love them, and when you need it most, you’ll be amazed at how they love you right back. 

Everybody Starts Somewhere (On Amateurs and Professionals)

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Stephen King wrote in his highly acclaimed book, On Writing,

Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.

Paul in his letter to the Colossians wrote,

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving. (3:23-24 NIV)

I know you’ve heard this before, but this time, I want you to really listen. Are you listening? Okay, here it is–

Everybody starts somewhere.

That dream you’ve been rolling around in your brain, the one that makes your heart lurch and your stomach churn a bit when you think about it, it’s okay to go after it–you have to start somewhere.

For years I bad-mouthed my own writing. I’ve wrestled fear and inadequacy like it was my job, and most of the time, they’d pin me in wicked defeat. I could almost hear their boastful cackling as they’d lift their boot off my face, leaving me there broken and reluctant on the mat of self-worth.

The problem was, I didn’t want to start somewhere, I wanted to be there already.

I’m going to share some hard truths with you, I call them hard because I learned them the hard way–and because for some of you, they might be difficult to hear.

The truth is, unless your last name is Rockefeller, or Vanderbilt or  Grantham, you will actually have to work at becoming a professional. (Hard truth #1)

Overcoming fear and anxiety about being an amateur among professionals, is no easy thing. I’ve been blogging out-in-public for about two years and still there are many (many) days when I feel very wet-behind-the-ears, like the new kid on the first day of school. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing and they all speak the same language which includes words like SEO and phrases like Google Analytics–please don’t ask me about either of these–ask Amy.

Starting somewhere can be scary. Somewhere feels a lot like nowhere. (Hard truth #2)

Working as unto men will leave you feeling unfulfilled and hollow–see the verse above from Colossians.

Here’s what I want you to know–

God created you for purpose, and sometimes, while serving that purpose (your art, your gifts) you’ll look like an amateur. (Hard truth #3) But look at what Paul says in Galatians,

“Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of Christ.”(1:10 NIV84)

It’s okay if the world sees an amateur, you’re not creating art to please people. You create to honor the One who created you.

The main difference between a professional and am amateur is this:

A professional doesn’t scoff at starting off in the mail room. Professionals put in the time necessary to become what they hope to be–even when they don’t feel like it. Professionals embrace humility.  (Hard truth #4)

As Christian artists, we will never overcome amateur status if we are working to please the world. (Hard truth #5) Becoming a professional is more about maturity and commitment, than talent.

When we commit to our art, and own our gifts, our art blooms. When we accept that starting somewhere is more important that never starting at all, we allow God to use us in our humility.

When pride comes, then comes disgrace,
but with humility comes wisdom. Proverbs 11:2 NIV

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