Christian Safehouse

On Joy

2011-11-30T05:11:00.001-08:00

Imagine yourself in a beautiful meadow.

This place is perfect. There are no insects. There is no humidity. There is only fresh, clear air, 72-degree temperatures and a wispy pleasant breeze for measure. Cotton-ball clouds dot an azure sky, and the golden sun bathes your back and shoulders in delicious warmth.

You're surrounded by flowers. These aren't just any flowers. They're all fragrant, but not the heady type of fragrance that gives you a headache. They're every imaginable hue on the spectrum ... periwinkle, scarlet, emerald, magenta and saffron.

Birds chirp a cadence of trills. And even the deer languidly graze near you, not even raising their heads to your presence.

You gaze at the beauty. You feel peaceful, secure.

Then one of the clouds blocks the sun. The breeze suddenly gives you a chill. More clouds gather, quickly. A drizzle falls. And then the rain begins. You look around for shelter, but there's nothing nearby to shield you, not even a thatch of trees. The air changes from warm ... to cold. The rain turns into giant fluffy snowflakes. The wind picks up. And now it's no longer even a pleasant snowfall. Now it's spitting sleet. You rub your arms and gaze at the sky, and the sleet turns to ice.

Now look around.

The deer are still grazing. The flowers are still colorful and fragrant. The birds are still singing. Nothing has changed, save what is falling on your head. You are in the midst of the meadow as the storm passes through, but the meadow is unchanged.

You close your eyes. You know you're cold. You know you're physically miserable. But you can still smell the flowers. You can still hear the birds. You can walk up to a deer and pat its head, and it doesn't run away. The only thing that has changed is what is being poured on your head and body. But the comfort of the place around you gives you strength to weather the storm.

OK.

This is joy.

We can't control what happens to us circumstantially. Yesterday started out great for me. I was standing in that meadow, and without warning, things overtook me. By the end of the day, I felt as if I'd been through a war.

But here's the thing.

My Christmas tree was twinkling.

My child was singing.

My dog was laying languidly at my feet.

My home was warm.

We were fed, not hungry.

We were comfortable.

We put on Elf.

We listened to Christmas carols.

We lit candles, and we put on soft flannel pajamas and laid down in a luxuriously comfortable bed with warm blankets and soft sheets.

We weren't in danger.

We laid our heads on our pillows, knowing that we were in the most secure country of the world.

My child is healthy. I'm not sick.

I have plenty of work coming in.

Do you see how many blessings I have?

There are more.

They're too many to count.

Despite the circumstances, I was still in the meadow. Despite what was falling on my head, I could rest secure.

Why?

Joy.

God gives me joy. Humanly, I can't cope alone. But God opens my eyes to see the beauty around me -- the colors of the flowers, the song of the birds. I know, no matter what happens, He has me at His breast, hemming me in before and behind me, protecting and securing me.

And giving me joy.

You can rest in that today. You can rest in Him today.

And you can be grateful that joy is steadfast, even when the meadow weathers an ice storm.

A Hug from Jesus

2011-11-20T15:52:00.001-08:00

There are moments that can't be explained, miraculous things that occur that remind a person of God's continued presence and love.

I spent this afternoon wondering if I should actually blog this, because more than one person will say I'm certifiable. But in retrospect, I decided to take the plunge for two reasons: 1) Writing this down serves as a reminder to myself in the future when I need to know that God is by my side and 2) Writing this down serves as a reminder to the rest of you (who are also strong believers) that God is by your side, always.

Church is a time of strong communing for me each week, and I don't just mean the encouragement I get from other believers. I sink into deep reflection and thanksgiving each Sunday. I'm a Lutheran. I enjoy the liturgy, while many people may find it boring. I repeat the words, sing the cadence, listen to those around me and most importantly, concentrate fully on the meaning that each Scripture and reading has to my life.

There was nothing particular about this week's sermon that related to my circumstances. There was nothing expressly moving about the organ music or the attempts of the choir at staying on key. Most people might even say the hour-and-a-half service was boring and uneventful.

But something profound happened to me.

I got a hug from Jesus.

And I don't mean something I conjured or mulled over. I had a real experience in which I felt His presence today.

We'd just finished with Communion. Communion is my favorite time of the service, because I enjoy coming to the Table and considering all of the suffering Jesus experienced so that I might live. It's a time when I can tell Him how grateful I am, how much I love Him and also confess any sins or speak with Him about someone with whom I have a grudge.

I returned to my seat, grasping Neil's chubby hand in mine, and continued to sing hymns while others partook in the Meal. And then my mind wandered. I started to worry about the upcoming week. I started thinking about bills. I started churning about whether I would get paid on time by my clients. I started fretting that my child would be leaving for a 14-hour car ride with his father for Thanksgiving and would be apart from me.

All of the goodness from the worship service suddenly started evaporating. All of the peace was filtering away, like water in a tub after a hot soak, leaving me feeling cold and needing comfort. I looked at my watch. I shushed my child, who was rustling pages of a coloring book. I clucked my tongue and rolled my eyes and thought, "When will this be over? I need to get home and take care of things before Monday starts."

Then the last of the people in the congregation sat. Communion was complete. The service was almost finished. The pastor stood to give his blessing over the Communion table and say a prayer. I stood with everyone else and bowed my head.

And that's when it happened.

Suddenly in my mind's eye, unbidden, I saw clearly a snapshot of me, standing there with head bowed, and behind me, His arms around my chest, his head bent forward to rest on top of mine, his robe enveloping my arms ... was Jesus.

Jesus gave me a hug.

In that very moment, all thoughts, all worries, suddenly vanished.

I was flooded with peace. It was as if nothing, none of that, had an ounce of matter. I felt loved and cherished. I felt protected and upheld. I felt no condemnation for allowing worry to take over, but a gentle assurance that He was taking care of me. There was nothing, nothing, standing in the way of His love for me.

Nothing.

I left that service feeling blessed, calmed, thankful ... and most importantly, loved.

Jesus gave me a hug today.

And you know what? Those hugs are available for you, too.

"What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things? Who shall bring a charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is he who condemns? It is Christ who died, and furthermore is also risen, who is even at the right hand of God, who also makes intercession for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written:

'For Your sake we are killed all day long;
We are accounted as sheep for the slaughter.'

Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." -- Romans 8:31-39

The French Connection

2011-11-19T04:34:00.001-08:00

When I was 16 and living in upstate New York, my family traveled to Montreal for a weekend getaway. I was studying French in high school, and my father thought it would be great for me to hear the language spoken around me.

In our hotel room, I discovered a New Testament in the traditional place: the drawer of the bedside table, placed by the Gideons. This NT was special, though. It was written in both English and in French. The pages were divided in half, so that while you were reading a verse in English, your eye could travel to the right and see the same message in French.

I wanted to take the Bible home with me, but my father said no. We'd write a letter to the Gideons, asking them how we might purchase a Bible like that.

About a month later, a package arrived in the mail for me ... and it was from the Gideons. Inside was one of the hotel Bibles with a beautiful note, saying they wanted me to have it for free. I took that Bible with me everywhere. In church on Sundays, as Scripture was read, I'd read it silently in French. I used that Bible in my personal devotions as I continued to study French in college.

I've lost a lot of the language knowledge in the past 25 years since graduating. But recently on Twitter, something interesting happened.

A person in another country suddenly started sending me Bible verses ... in French. His name is Mario, and he lives in La Ceiba, a port city on the northern coast of Honduras. When he sends me the Bible verses, he also includes the names of two or three other people who seem to be French.

I don't know why Mario decided to tweet to me in French, especially because he's in Honduras and I'm in the United States. His native language would obviously be Spanish. But I realized one thing: I suddenly was reawakened to connecting with other believers in their language.

Mario tweets Bible verses in various languages to people all over the world. I just happen to get his French tweet messages. What he's doing is taking on the role of missionary in cyber space -- ministering to those of us in other countries, despite our language, despite our culture.

I started to decipher the French and figuring out my old French grammar lessons. When something is too hard, I check it out on Google Translate. Then I go a step further. I look up another verse ... and I send it back to Mario ... in French.

We exchange one or two verses per day. And every day, when I get that tweet from Mario and go to the trouble of sending one back to him, something amazing happens: I feel the vital connection, the encouragement, the joy of sharing with another believer. When he sends my verses out to his 3,000 followers on Twitter, I realize that in French, I in turn am encouraging French-speaking believers, because Mario is willing to take that step for me.

We are commanded: "Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom, teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord." (Col. 3:16)

Mario took that command and acted on it. I thank God for Mario. Through Mario, I've rediscovered the meaning of brotherly/sisterly encouragement -- and the ever-vital mission of sharing with the world the message of Jesus's sacrifice and love.

Abundant Living

2011-11-18T05:40:00.001-08:00

Arctic air.
Azure sky.
Sun floods, bright and bold, enveloping, blinding.
Rhythmic drums.
Soulful song.

Heart swells.

Worship alone?
Hardly.
Worship in Presence?
Most definitely.

Heaven enfolds.
Peace invades.
Joy ensues.
Love clings.
God's promise to me.

Not alone.
Shielded.
Emboldened.
Strengthened.
Guided.
Uplifted.

Is this what He meant when He said, "I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly?"

Abundant Living.
Abundant Living, in the face of darkness.
Abundant Living, in the face of despair.
Abundant Living, no matter what the Thief steals and destroys.
Abundant Living, giving my all to One who experienced it all, too.

"I'll stand
with arms high and heart abandoned
in awe of the One who gave it all
I'll stand
my soul Lord to You surrendered
all I have is Yours."

I am living life abundantly
because of what He does for me
because He is my courage
He is my shield
He is my rock
He is my deliverer
He is mine.

Cheesy Broccoli Casserole and the Chinese Visitors

2011-09-05T06:10:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving. Say the word, and if you're a foodie like I am, the images that immediately come to mind are foods we usually (only) eat for that particular feast. As I grew up with a Southern mamma, my Thanksgiving table always consisted of Georgian-inspired dishes: cornbread "dressing" (never stuffed in the bird), fried okra (if we could get it at that time of year), green bean casserole, corn pudding ... and my favorite ... cheesy broccoli casserole. A couple of years ago, the church I was attending invited university students from China to celebrate Thanksgiving at a B&B here in central Kentucky. Our jobs as the parishioners were to sign up for one all-American favorite dish, so that the students could get a real "flavor," so to speak, for the American holiday. I prepared the cheesy broccoli casserole ... topped with Ritz crackers, of course ... and thought it would be scarfed down on sight. As I laid it on the table, I puffed up as fellow church attendees oohed and ahhed. The Cheesy Broccoli Casserole. Somebody had brought it! And it was large! It was one of the hugest casseroles I'd ever assembled. And it was steaming! And it was cheesy gooey! I knew those Chinese students were going to love it, love it, love it. Then I watched as they filed down the buffet table. They whispered to each other as they studied each dish. Suddenly, I realized ... they had no idea what they were putting on their plates. Sweet potato casserole ... a tiny spoonful. Green bean casserole ... the same. Stuffing? They barely touched it. And then they came to the cheesy broccoli casserole. They hesitated. Did they want to really try it? Out of politeness, each one did, but just on the edge of each plate, always in miniscule amounts. I realized that this was foreign food to them, just as if I'd been plopped down behind the Great Wall like Harrison Ford in an Indiana Jones movie and asked to eat a plate of Chou Dofu. I looked at the food not through my American eyes, but through theirs, as if I was seeing it for the first time. And I thought, "Wow. That cheesy broccoli casserole really looks disgusting, if I'm from China and I've never seen it before. It's GROSS!" Then something happened. One by one, each of them tried it. And I watched their eyes widen, their eyebrows go into their foreheads. I watched them poke each other and say something in Chinese and point to the broccoli casserole on their plate. I'd watch the other person look at it with some disdain and disbelief that it could be anything but awful. And then they would try it. And then they'd smile after one bite. Suddenly, they were getting up from their seats and HEADING BACK to the broccoli casserole on the buffet table. Within about 15 minutes, the casserole was empty, and the Chinese guests were chatting happily at the table, all with piles of cheesy broccoli casserole on their plates, all shoveling it happily into their mouths as if they'd eaten it all their lives. I got to thinking about this incident this weekend, because an atheist friend of mine is now embracing God. All things are new to him. And all things are a little scary and unknown, just like that cheesy broccoli casserole. He's hearing things for the first time, deciphering, questioning ... poking at it on his plate and wondering whether to partake. It's all foreign to him, you see. He's looking at it with curiosity, but also with a little trepidation. And yet, now he's giving that cheesy broccoli casserole a try, for the very first time. His eyes are opening. His eyebrows are going into his forehead. He's asking for more, more, more! More. He's reading the Bible for the first time. He wants to know what to hit first, and after that, what should he read? And what's next? And why doesn't he read one book before another? His questions are miraculous, probing, sincere ... hungry. He's hungry. This is what I want you to remember, as you share your faith with others: To an unbeliever, it might as well be cheesy broccoli casserole in the eyes of someone from China. It's daunting and scary. You're not doing them any favors by piling it in front of them and ordering them to eat it. Just give them the option to taste for themselves and find that it is good. Don't be offended if they're too scared to try it at first. Provide the food, but don't force feed it. Allow them to poke at it and taste. And be there for them when they ask you, "What's in this? How was it made? Why is it so delicious? ... Can I have more?" Until then, just look at that cheesy broccoli casserole with a secret smile on your face, knowing that when they finally taste the goodness that God has to offer ... they'll want it. They'll eat it. And they will be satisfied.

You are Good, You are Kind, You are Smart

2011-08-31T04:54:00.000-07:00

It's a quote from the book (now movie), "The Help." The African American maid says it to a little white girl in her keep in Jackson, Mississippi. The words are precious. The reaction is, too. The child repeats the words in a sing-song, placing her chubby hands on her caretaker's face. "You are good. You are kind. You are smart." I've seen the movie twice now and am almost finished with the book. This morning, it occurred to me to ingrain the words into Neil, to help his self-esteem. He's 8 and was recently diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, a form of autism. He struggles with social acceptance by his peers and occasionally is bullied. I thought that when I told him to repeat the words to me, he would react like the little girl in the movie. We sat in the shade of an ancient oak tree on the corner where we meet his school bus. "Neil," I said in the quiet of the morning, "I want you to repeat these words to me. Now look me in the eye." He put down the small toy with which he was playing in his lap and fixed his eyes on my face. "You are good." Neil immediately grabbed the top of his head with his arms and covered his ears. "Neil. Neil. You are kind." Neil ducked his head into his chest. "Neil, listen. Neil. You are smart." Neil shook his head violently and started to cry. "Neil, look at me. Look at me. Take your arms off of your head and look at me." It took me about 3 minutes to convince him to put his arms down and stare at me again. Tears covered his face. "Neil, don't you believe those three things?" He shook his head. "Has anyone told you differently?" He nodded. "Who?" He named children from school, one by one. "Neil, listen to me. They're lying. They are telling lies about you. You are not dumb. You are not stupid. You are not bad. You are not mean. You are good. You are kind. You are smart. You are good. You are kind. You are smart." He stared at me. He shook his head no again. "Do you know who also thinks you're good, kind and smart? God does. God loves you. You're his special boy. You are good. You are kind. You are smart. Don't believe people when they tell lies to you about you. Those are lies. Those are lies." As Neil got onto the school bus, my heart broke for my child. I had no idea that all of this time, he was hearing bad things about himself from others and was believing them -- actually believing them. It got me thinking ... how many of us believe lies about ourselves? How many of us don't fully pursue the love that God has to offer because we think we're not deserving of it? The truth is that we don't do anything to deserve God's love, but we are God's creation, God's children. And He created us to be good, to be kind, to have value -- to be loved. Why write this for the Christian Safehouse? Well, sometimes I think that we don't hear this enough, not nearly enough, actually. We believe lies from the Enemy of our souls. We internalize them. We don't seek out God as a result. We hide like Neil did, putting our hands over our heads and shaking our heads no, no, no, saying, "I'm not a person who has the capability of this calling, to become Christlike." The truth is that He makes us worthy. He makes us beautiful. He transforms us from the inside out, and He adores us. Can you hear Him? Do you hear Him telling you this? You are good. You are kind. You are smart. You are His. I intend on following the example in that book and telling Neil this every day until he believes it about himself. And now, I'm telling you, too.

Eternal Moment #5: Walking Around Wilmore

2011-08-12T16:36:00.000-07:00

Conclusion of this story series ...

Present Day.
Wilmore, Kentucky.

They walk around Wilmore at all hours, some in the early morning, most at twilight: the widows on my street.

Neil and I have lived here for a year now, since my marriage ended, since the time that I first started reassembling the shattered eggshell of my life. And on that very first day that I moved in, they were at my door, sharing eternal moments with me.

Two are across the street. One is to the left. The other is two doors down on the right. All widows. All at the end of their days. And all, walking around Wilmore.

During their walks, they wind up at my front door or on my car port that I recently transformed into a summer porch. One wants to walk my dog. Another chooses to "sit a spell" in a second-hand rocker that she'd given me. A third brings me homemade potato salad. Another knocks at the door to find out when Neil will be home, because her grandson is coming to visit.

They ask about Neil's school. They ooh and ah at the cats and the dog. They compliment the floral patterns on the porch pillows and take a whiff of a candle sitting on the antique table by the front door. They ask me how my mother is doing.

And then, they ask about me.

You'd think the poking and prodding of personal questions would put me off, but it doesn't. Maybe it's in their eyes. All of them search my face with compassion. All of them pat my hand, just like my grandmothers did. All of them nod sympathetically. All of them offer a hug when they leave.

That they walk around this tiny town, spreading their own version of joy to anyone who needs it, continually amazes me. I constantly wonder to myself, "Do their joints ache? Are they tired, unsettled? Do they wonder when their eyes will close for the last time and whether today is the last for breath in their lungs? Are they worried ... about anything?"

Because, you see, none of them seem to be worried. None of them seem to have a care. All of them bring with them a settled peace, a transcendent joy, a quiet presence that drench my soul just like burned skin absorbs aloe.

"We're glad you moved here," one says to me.

"I watch Neil through my window when he's on his skateboard," another offers.

Then the questions change.

"Do you ever think you'll find love again? Do you want to?"

"Are you happy? Can I pray for you?"

And then statements follow.

"You're strong. You'll make it."

"You're a good mom."

"You have so much to offer."

As they walk away from my home to theirs, I wonder ... do they know how much they encourage? Are they aware that they offer others the gift of eternal moments?

See, an eternal moment is so much more than an exchange of a thought, an idea, a debate, a song, a question.

It's about the connection.

It's about one person saying to another, "You matter. You matter to me, and you matter to God. I have your back. How can I lift you up?"

How many eternal moments do you have in your life? I've outlined five in this blog series, but truthfully, they are too many to count. I know one thing: those who have given me the gift of eternal moments are never forgotten. I bring their faces to mind and recall the way they made me feel in the darkest of days.

They become Jesus to me. They bring to me His solace, presence & hope.

So until we hit the other side of eternity, this is the question:

Am I willing to share eternal moments with others?

Are you?

Eternal Moment #4: When Animal Crackers Became Manna

2011-07-27T12:16:00.000-07:00

November 2002.
Fort Bragg, NC.

I am 37.

I was never supposed to be able to have a child of my own, but I'm about 2 1/2 months into my first and only pregnancy. The day I find out, I'm scheduled for a cancer biopsy. Ironically, that morning I'd had a terrible dream that the doctor told me I had to choose between cancer treatment and pregnancy. Then in real life, before my biopsy appointment, I have a blood test to make sure I'm not pregnant. Of course, I laugh at the whole thing, but then am stunned when I am told, "Not only are you pregnant, but you have a choice to make. These pre-cancerous cells may become more aggressive during the pregnancy. You can abort now and address the chance of cancer, or you can take your chances with the pregnancy."

Aborting, even if it means my life, isn't an option.

So I plunge into the world of first-trimester woes, whole-heartedly. I just don't know how difficult that is going to be.

I immediately become incredibly sick.

Sick, sick, sick, all of the time.

I can't hold anything down.

I ask my doctor, "Are you sure I don't have a tapeworm or stomach cancer?" He laughs at me."Nope. That's just the baby."

And so I lose weight, 15 pounds within 2 months.

I'm so weak that I can't stand for more than a few minutes, and even the sight of television commercials of food sends me over the edge.

I am existing on animal crackers and Gatorade, and I don't move from my home. As a freelance journalist, I do all of my magazine interviews by putting my laptop on my stomach and talking to people from bed. The rest of the time, I languish.

Then one day, she comes to my door.

She's a Bible study leader for military spouses at Fort Bragg, where I am attending a program called, Protestant Women of the Chapel.

She's soft-spoken and kind. Like my other eternal moments in life, the words she speaks to me are not that memorable.

But her actions are.

She rings the doorbell, standing in the North Carolina sun, her arms filled with boxes of animal crackers.

"I brought you something to eat!" she laughs. I'm amazed that she knew to bring me the only thing I could keep down.

She takes the recliner while I stretch out on the sofa and put one cracker in my mouth at a time, waiting for it to dissolve before I tackle the next one. She's patient. She doesn't quiz me about much except for how she can help me. She talks about the Bible study we've attended and brings me her notes from the lecture. She nods with sympathy as I regale her with tales of sleepless nights and endless days filled with nausea.

This will pass, she says. This will pass.

She visits me like this a minimum of once a week, sometimes more frequently.

When I finally clear the hurdle of my sickness, I meet other issues ... an infection of the heart in the 3rd month, kidney stones in the 5th month, receiving false news four times that my child is "dead," a false reading of Down syndrome during the 7th month .... and of course, the ongoing monitoring of the pre-cancerous cells, which are becoming more and more aggressive as each month passes.

She prays. She encourages other women to pray.

And all the while, she visits.

Each visit is akin to an eternal moment. Each visit, time stands still. Each visit, she steps into the sandals of Jesus and brings me peace. Each time she leaves, I feel more and more grounded, stronger, surer.

When the child is born healthy, when the pre-cancerous cells vanish, we hug and laugh at the miracle.

Have you ever met a kind soul who lavished so much love on you without any expectation for favor in return?

That's who this woman was to me.

Those animal crackers might as well have been Heaven's Manna in my wilderness.

And those moments .... they were eternal moments of extreme comfort and joy.

Tune in for Eternal Moment #5: Walking Around Wilmore ...

Eternal Moment #3: Cold Water in the Sahara

2011-07-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

November 1993.
York, Pennsylvania.

I am 28.

A year following my dad's death, I find myself in the rolling hills of south-central Pennsylvania, working at a mid-sized newspaper. Mostly, I've kept to myself. I've had many opportunities to socialize with my colleagues, who, like me are all the same age and all trying to make names for themselves so that they can achieve the gold ring of Woodward & Bernstein fame.

The difference between them and me is that 99 percent of them aren't believers. They mean well when they invite me to go dancing to nearby Baltimore's Inner Harbor. Staying out in bars until the wee hours is common, too, even during the work week. But I refuse each invitation.

I search for friends among local church congregations. I run into an unusual phenomenon: Every time I disclose I'm a newspaper reporter, I'm immediately held at an arm's length. I see the flash of distrust wash over faces, and formerly friendly "Christian believers" morph into stand-offishly polite church attendees. You know the difference, I'm sure.

I don't belong in either arena. I'm thought of as a prudish good girl in the newsroom and as a wayward child of the distrusted media in church settings. I realize that if I want to truly be "in the world and not of the world," I will have to consign myself to a temporary state of solitude.

For the most part, I'm okay with it. I'm still mourning my father's passing and usually spend my off hours sleeping. The one thing that brings me a spot of joy is the Civil War battlefield at Gettysburg. On weekends, when the weather is good, I wander the fields, gaze at the monuments, talk to the tour guides, mill among the tourist families, frequent the restaurants that serve courses of that era and shop among the quaint merchants selling country-like decor and home-made jams.

I'm living life, but on the fringes, on the edges. I'm not fully recovered emotionally from the loss of my father, and I'm also not fully engaged in the lives of those around me.

In summary, I feel as if I'm in the midst of my own Sahara.

This goes on for months.

Then one day, I get an unexpected call. An old friend from college is in town, raising money for missions. Do I want to get together?

I jump at it. It's the first "Christian" who truly knows me that I've seen in months.

You may find this hard to believe, a girl and guy hanging out in a very brotherly-sisterly manner ... but that's exactly the way it was. The way my friend connected with me was more than just someone looking to fill up time from boredom. He ministered to me. He immediately assessed my situation, fully. He saw it for what it was, and he was deeply concerned.

I showed him around Gettysburg and all of my little haunts. I cooked dinner for us at my tiny apartment. I plugged in my favorite DVDs, and, respectfully-brotherly to the end, he watched them (even the chick flicks) and left quietly after I'd fallen asleep.

When it was time to bid farewell, we stood in a church parking lot where my friend had just given a talk. The black of the November night settled around us, and the crisp air hung around my shoulders like a cape. As I talked, white puffs of steam traveled towards a street light. My ankle-length black wool coat and black leather gloves made me feel as if I was a child playing grown-up dress-up. For to me, my interaction with my friend was that real -- no pretenses. What the rest of the world saw, he saw right through.

He compassionately listened to me as I nervously prattled, not wanting to really let go of this drink of cold water in my Sahara. And then he said one thing to me that will stay with me forever:

"Of all of the people I know, all of the people we graduated with, you're the only person who is really in the world and not of the world."

The words stopped me cold. I'd always felt like that was my situation, but no one had ever spoken it out loud to me.

"Really?"

"Yeah, look at what you're doing -- you're in a newsroom with people who don't believe in God, and you're trying to go to church, and no one will accept you because you're in a newsroom. You're living the life that Jesus said we should expect."

I hugged him in gratitude, not wanting to let go of the presence of a true friend. Time stopped until I got into my car and drove away, wiping away tears -- not from sadness but from the recognition that I'd had the privilege of another eternal moment.

Have you ever been that for someone -- a drink of cold water in the middle of their Sahara?

Have you stopped time with your encouragement for them, so that they regain the strength they need to go on?

Do you allow yourself to be life-giving?

Tune in for Eternal Moment #4: When Animal Crackers Became Manna

Eternal Moment #2: "The Angel at Death's Bedside"

2011-07-11T10:43:00.000-07:00

The morning after Thanksgiving, 1991.
My father's hospital room.
Montclair, New Jersey.

I am 26.

My brother, my mother and I have been summoned with an early morning phone call to my father's bedside in a hospital in northern New Jersey.

He is dying.

He drags each breath with the same labored effort that Marley's ghost hauls his chains across Scrooge's floor, with a loud rattle and shuddering full-body shake. The moments fleetingly pass, but each second in and of itself is torturous.

It's only a matter of a few hours, perhaps a few minutes, before he will be gone forever.

During this nightmare, the angel offers a reprieve of peace.

No, she's not the type of angel you'd imagine, with fluttering wings or ethereal light.

She comes to the hospital dressed as if she herself had received the phone call at 6 a.m. and had hurried from her bed, throwing on whatever pair of slacks that were slung over the most convenient closet hanger and pulling a grey sweatshirt over tussled and curly white hair.

It's the first day I've ever met her (or remembered meeting her) in my entire life, although my mother knows her well. She is an old family friend, my mother tells me. She introduces us, and the woman takes my hand into her soft and warm grasp.

"I love your father, and I love you," she says.

Like the Londoner in the Illinois corn field a few years earlier, the memory of her exact words is a fog to me. Instead, what I can tell you is that her presence exudes peace and comfort. I lock eyes with her as if the sanity of my soul depends on her gaze. She speaks softly, gently. She smiles often, and she sympathetically listens to our report from the doctor and nurses.

Other visitors come, too, but there is something about this woman that sets her apart in an amazing way.

She, like the man of a few years earlier, becomes a miraculous vessel.

Her spirit is pure, genuine, kind, compassionate, lovely, gentle, loving.

Should I go on? Do you get the idea?

To be honest with you, I don't remember when she left the hospital. I remember later seeing her at my father's funeral. But those two encounters, at his deathbed and at his burial, are the only two I ever had with her.

Ironically, she died a few years later.

But I'll never forget her.

Our willingness to be used of God's presence at the most dire of times in people's lives ... it's a profound imperative.

Can you remember a time when you became Jesus for someone else, when you allowed Him to step into your shoes and be His tool?

I don't know if I ever have had the impact on someone that the "angel" had on me. If I ever do, though, I will consider it to be one of the highest of callings, one of the most honorable tasks given.

An angel of mercy at my father's bedside ... not for him ... but for me.

The gift ... the eternal moment ... still lingers in my mind as if it were the strongest and most beautiful perfume.

Someday, I hope to see her again. And when I do, when I am finally in her presence again in Heaven, I will tell her that God used her to be near me when I needed Him the most.

Tune in for Eternal Moment #3: Cold Water in the Sahara.

Eternal Moment #1: The Man from London in the Middle of a Cornfield

2011-07-07T06:18:00.000-07:00

Part one of our new story series, "Eternal Moments ..."

June 1985.
Peoria, Illinois.

I am 20.

My parents, who are Salvation Army officers (ministers), are on a one-year special assignment. They're in charge of something called an "International Youth Congress." During my entire sophomore year of college, they've been assigned to Peoria, Illinois, where they are preparing for the onslaught of 5,000 kids ages 13 to 24 from every part of the globe.

The "Congress" is to be held in July at Western Illinois University in Macomb, Illinois.

Until now, I've never been to this part of the country. The first thing that strikes me are the cornfields.

Corn. Corn. Corn.

Every road is lined with corn stalks.

There are no trees.

There is no grass.

There are no lakes.

There are no rivers.

There is only corn, row upon row of corn, as far as the eye can see.

I feel hemmed in and depressed.

It doesn't help that my summer job is to work in a warehouse for The Salvation Army, sorting cast-off clothing that people "donate" to the poor. I work in what I call a "dungeon," -- a basement rank with gasoline fumes and stinking hot from lack of ventilation. I spend eight hours a day doing nothing but sorting rags from garments that might be worn on a human body. When I come home, I rush to the shower to wash off the day's grime.

I know that I will get one week of reprieve from this drudgery, during the International Youth Congress. For that one week, I will be with other students my age. That thought keeps me going.

While my parents prepare and while I slave for my college tuition, we occasionally have visitors. These are Salvation Army officers from other countries, who travel to Illinois because they have an organizational hand in the Congress. Usually they pass in and out of my parents' office without me seeing them.

But today is different.

Today, I come home from my horrible job to hear laughter in the kitchen. I'm used to hearing the sound of my father's laughter ... but another man is laughing, too.

I poke my head into a room of sublime warmth -- not warmth from the summer heat, mind you, but congenial warmth emanating from our visitor.

His eyebrows rise when he sees me, and my father introduces me. I desire nothing more than to race to the shower, but something in this man's expression stops me. He isn't just someone filling up space or making polite remarks to pass time. He's genuinely interested in all of us.

I slowly approach the table and sit, listening to the friendly cadence of his British accent, mesmerized by his gentle tone, calmed by his presence.

You know ... the most interesting thing about this encounter ... is that I don't even remember this person's name. I don't remember his face. I don't remember exactly what he said. I can't tell you anything about him except that he was from London and was there for the business of the International Congress.

But I can tell you one thing:

The encounter with him had an eternal impact on me.

Why?

Something in me needed -- desperately needed -- a reminder of what it means to be joyful.

This humble man wasn't anyone who would stand out on the street. He wasn't a movie star with a hoard of paparazzi or a skilled athlete signing autographs. He didn't wear anything flashy, and he wasn't necessarily charming in the way you'd think a man would charm a 20-year-old co-ed.

He was just a vessel.

He was so filled with God's Spirit that he emanated joy and peace.

He didn't fill the time with grandiose philosophy or expository analyses of complex Scripture. He wasn't impressive or gregarious.

He just spoke quietly, earnestly, asking questions about each person and sharing small stories about his life at home and his own family. He just brought to the table the offering of himself -- a genuine interest in knowing others and in being known himself.

And there was one last thing he did before he left for his hotel room.

He shook my hand, looked me in the eye and said:

"If we never meet again in this life, we shall share again like this in Heaven."

Then he left.

I looked at the clock. It seemed as if he'd only been in our kitchen for a few minutes, but about four hours had passed. Time had gone by in a blink. And I yearned for another eternal moment -- another moment in which I could share so sincerely with another believer.

That man taught me a valuable lesson that night. The time we spend with others, even if we never see them again in this life, should be viewed as an eternal moment.

Do we bring Jesus to the table with our own actions, words, thoughts?

And when we leave the presence of others, do they feel that sense of eternal peace?

The man from London came to a cornfield ... and left me feeling as if I'd been standing in Heaven itself.

Tune in for Eternal Moment #2: "The Angel at Death's Bedside."

Eternal Moments

2011-06-29T18:21:00.000-07:00

Once in a great while, we receive snatches, glimpses, of eternity.

I'm not talking about earth-shattering, Spirit-filled church services, although yes, that's definitely one aspect of our eternal future.

No ... to what I am referring are the moments we have with other Christians who give us strength and encouragement in such a unique and profound way that we feel as if we have been sitting at the very feet of Jesus.

Ever had that happen to you -- a communing of souls, so rich in discussion, so pure in direction, so genuinely filled with concern, hope, joy and love, that you wish you could sit and talk with that person endlessly?

I'm going through a very traumatic time circumstantially right now. One day I started thinking about the friends of Job and how they brought him down. And then I thought to myself, "I don't have friends like that. I have eternal friends."

I began to call to mind numerous instances when people surrounded me -- both when times were good and when times were not so good -- and time, in essence, stopped eternally.

We'll start the story series on these encounters tomorrow.

Tune in.

The Hands of Jesus

2011-06-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday.
My Physical Therapy Appointment.
Nicholasville, KY.

What does the phrase "searing pain" mean?

Let me tell you.

I am undergoing physical therapy for my feet so that they won't break. They have high arches. Normal people's feet have arches that raise from the ground at about a 10 percent angle, according to my podiatrist. My foot arches measure an angle of 45 percent.

I call it the Barbie Doll Foot Syndrome.

What happens when you have a high foot arch? In my case, at my stage in life?

Searing. Pain.

Definition of searing? "To char, scorch, or burn the surface of with or as if with a hot instrument."

That would be the sum of it. I have physical therapy three times per week, for about two hours per session. It involves a lot of weight lifting with the legs ... stretching ... and even a climbing machine that I have nicknamed, "The Spanish Inquisition Instrument." (No kidding -- if they'd had that thing during the Spanish Inquisition, they would have convinced anyone to say anything.)

After I finish with my exercises, my physical therapist goes to work on my feet and calves.

Enter, Searing Pain.

Think of it this way: Someone takes a hot iron and moves it up and down the backs of your legs and on the bottoms of your feet.

Yes.

Usually I grab the sides of the table and hang on. Sometimes, I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Lately, I've held onto a towel and twisted it. And twisted it. And twisted it. Once I almost cried. But see ... I decide I'm going to own this pain, so it's just better to breathe through it.

OK, so it's not as bad as childbirth ... but if you're a woman, imagine a mammogram that lasts for 20 minutes.

There ya go.

Now you'll find this probably a little amusing, or maybe strange ... but there is one thing I do in my mind's eye to get through this.

I close my eyes and tell myself that the hands pummeling my legs and feet are the hands of Jesus.

Did you ever read Voyage of the Dawn Treader, by C.S. Lewis? There's a great description about how Aslan heals Eustace and transforms him from a dragon back to a boy. Here's how Eustace describes the encounter to his cousins, Edmund and Lucy:

"Then the lion said ... 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it. The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I'd ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. ... He peeled the beastley stuff right off .... And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. ... After that, it became perfectly delicious, and as soon as I started swimming and splashing, I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why, I'd turned into a boy again."

Now that's sort of a gruesome way of describing the healing process -- both figuratively and literally -- but really, that's the way it is. You have to go through a great deal of pain before things feel "delicious" again, to use Eustace's words.

What does this have to do with a Christian Safehouse?

I got to thinking how much this person who helps me really is healing me and how much of a gift from God he is. Circumstances have forced me into financial difficulty. This kind man has a hardship program, whereby people can receive therapy at a certain rate that they can afford. It's such a gift.

And as much pain as I'm in during the therapy, I am so very grateful for it. Without it, I might degenerate even more. I don't know my prognosis yet, but I do know that in the month since I started, I am much stronger and am already seeing improvements.

What would happen if there was not a person to be the hands of Jesus to me?

People say all the time, "I'll believe in a miracle if Jesus comes and heals me Himself." But they miss the obvious. In my case, the obvious is financial provision for a place that I otherwise could never afford. The obvious is a team of physical therapist assistants, who observe my own efforts on each machine and help me regain strength. The obvious is the physical therapist, who tears into my muscles with strong hands and, like Aslan, tears up the offending part of the body that is making me weak.

Sometimes we hear the words, "the hands and feet of Jesus," and we think of that abstractly. In my case, this man HAS BECOME the HANDS of Jesus. He is there for many hours, working on many people, using his hands as a gift to them -- as a gift from God.

How am I the hands of Jesus? How are you the hands of Jesus? We may not be physical therapists, but within the body of Christ (or, the Christian Safehouse, as it were), we can be that encouragement, that healing force, that peaceful presence to someone else. Check out Romans 12 for more detail on how members of the body of Christ uphold each other.

Today I am grateful for the hands of Jesus, shown to me through a humble soul who demonstrates God's love on a daily basis.

Today I resolve to be the hands of Jesus to another.

Will you?

The Prodigal Son, as told by 8-year-old Neil

2011-06-12T20:36:00.000-07:00

Neil will be 8 on Saturday. Recently he was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, which I'm still getting my brain around ... but basically, it's a form of autism.

This has helped to explain a lot of mysteries about my beautiful miracle boy ... but what has continually amazed me is that despite many of his struggles, he retains the details of Bible stories after hearing them only once.

Today he heard the story of the Prodigal Son. His version, though, is uniquely Neil's -- and uniquely gorgeous.

Here's how he told it to me a couple of hours ago:

"Well, Mommy, see, there was this little boy. And he told his daddy, 'Give me money!' So his daddy gave him lots of money, and he went away on a loooooooooong trip. He made lots of friends. They helped him spend the money.

But then, the money was gone! He was poor.

So he decided to get a job. And you know what his job was, Mommy? He decided to FEED PIGS! (laughs)

But he was soooooooooo hungry. He decided he'd eat the pig's food. It was yucky. So he said, 'I think I'll go home now.'

His daddy gave him a big hug and threw a party. He thought he'd be a servant, but his daddy said he was still his boy."

At this point, I interrupted Neil and started to interject the meaning behind the story, but he cut me off.

"Wait, Mommy. There's more!" he told me. "The little boy had a big brudder (Neil's pronounciation). And this brudder was good. (Neil holds up his chubby hands and makes the sign for quotes when he says, "good.")

But he really WASN'T good. He had a bad heart.

When he heard the party music, he got mad! He went to his room and played on his computer. He was MAD. So his daddy came to his room. He said, 'Why don't you come down to the party?' And the big brudder said, 'I've been a good boy, but you don't even give me a goat. My little brudder spent all the money, and you gave him a big party.'

His daddy wanted him to come down to the party, but you know what, Mommy? That big brudder wouldn't come. He just sat in his room and kept being mad."

I was amazed at how Neil relayed the story of the elder brother. But what amazed me even more was that he didn't understand the point of the story. We had to talk about it afterwards.

It got me thinking ... how many of us miss that part of the Prodigal Son's tale, or conveniently overlook it?

This past week I fielded some comments at another blog of mine, Family Giving. They were directed at my church's acceptance of homosexuals. I didn't post any of the comments .... but Neil's version of the older brother in the Prodigal Son jarred me today.

How many people will be surprised to see those they hate ... being celebrated in Heaven?

How many people who go in and out of church doors week after week after week ... who esteem their lifestyles as holier than others ... will be angry that those others will be at the Lamb's feast?

See ... did you notice that when the Prodigal Son showed up, he returned not as a shining example of the perfect kid? He was filthy, covered in pig slime. He'd spent all the money. He'd trashed his dad's name. He came home thinking that he'd just be a servant. Boy, was he ever surprised when his dad hugged him and threw a party, yes?

And boy, was that older brother angry about it.

We never find out what happened to the older brother. I suspect that was Jesus's point, because all of us at one point or another don't want the younger brother to show up.

The thing is, though -- when the younger brother does return, do we say, "Unforgiveable! You had your chance! Take your filthy self and leave!"

Or do we celebrate with the Father that the lost sibling has returned?

Maybe Jesus left this as an open ending on purpose. Who will welcome the younger brother home? Who will decide the younger brother isn't worthy?

And what does this mean for the church? Are you part of a church that rejoices at the sight of the lost child? Or are you part of a church that condemns him?

I have to tell you ... I'm happy to say that my church wants the younger sibling back.

As for those who condemn my church and others for accepting the LGBT community ... have you considered that you might be the "older brudder?"

I know who you are. 2 Cor 5:17, Chuck style.

2011-05-30T06:35:00.000-07:00

My friend Brenda got me hooked onto the television series, "Chuck," and then she got me hooked on one particular quote:

"I know who you are."

Chuck says it to his love interest, Sarah Walker. If you follow the show, you know that Sarah has a past, that she's a spy ... and that Chuck sees her true sweet character throughout all of the facades she may play.

Brenda ties the quote to this verse in 2 Corinthians 5:17:

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!"

I got to thinking about this today. I was flipping through a scrap book that my mother put together for me, and I found this photo from when I was 2.

Have you ever hit a time in life when you felt the Accuser was on your back, constantly?

It's amazing the types of messages you can get from other people -- even well-meaning people. In the past 2 weeks alone, I have been accused of being a bad parent, having religious "pride" (I was told that was my chief "sin") and being a hypocrite, a liar, a bully. I was accused of having a mountain of personal problems, because I had sinned and that God was punishing me for it.

Now ... when I hear things like that, I also have to think about people like my encouraging friend Brenda.

And I think about that verse.

We are new creations in Christ. The old is gone. The new has arrived! (And I love that Paul puts an exclamation point there, too!)

Who will condemn us? Who will accuse us?

Let me tell you something. When you're in a community of Christians and you hear words of condemnation like that, don't listen.

As a body of believers, we are to encourage each other, uphold each other, think the best of each other. We are to be Christ to each other.

Today, when I saw that photo of myself when I was 2, I realized something: This is how Jesus sees me. Innocent. Pure. Precious.

His.

I'm His.

Yes, we do have sins in our lives, but Jesus forgives them. Yes, we're not perfect, but He who was Perfect was made sin for us, so that our perfection can be made complete.

We are new creations.

So the next time the Accuser comes knocking on your door, tell him this:

"Jesus tells me, 'I know who you are.' That's Chuck-style for 2 Corinthians 5:17. I'm a new creation, and I'm loved. Now get behind me."

Put on your Chuck game face. Remember who you ARE.

Because God isn't finished with you yet.

My Safe Place

2011-05-13T16:58:00.000-07:00

Do you have a place where you run for solace? A place to commune and just be at peace with God?

This summer I decided to create my own special spot. Of course, we can talk to God anywhere. But sometimes it helps to have a place of refuge, where we know we'll curl up in the morning with a steaming cup of tea or coffee, open our Bibles and just ... sink in.

I made over my frumpy little car port into such a place, and I'm looking forward to the hot days and nights in my safe place. Click on the photo below to check it out.

Free digital ecard made with Smilebox

Second-Guessing God's Goodness: The Conclusion

2011-05-05T03:21:00.000-07:00

Conclusion of this story series ...

Let's face it. Bad things happen. Terrible things happen. And through all of it, all of us, even the strongest of believers, second-guess God's goodness.

I love the story of Lazarus's rise from death because of the complexity of reactions of the people affected by it. We can all see ourselves in at least one of these people.

Which one are you?

1) Thomas, the logical disciple: If you're a Thomas, you cling to the obvious. You may be loyal to Jesus on pain of death, but seeing past the small picture into the larger eternal one is a leap for you. You may feel like God allows bad things to happen, and you don't fault Him for it, but you also don't expect big things of Him, either. You're not going to get your hopes up that He'll rise to the occasion on your behalf. You're going to see the situation through, keep believing in God, but not believe enough that He will turn tragedy into victory.

2) Martha and Mary, the wounded sisters: If you're a Martha or a Mary, you ask the question, "If You loved me, why weren't You here to prevent this from happening?" You're mad at God, thinking that He ignored your plight, even though you've been faithful to Him. You don't understand why He'd sit silently by while a horrible thing occurred. And yet, when you do finally fall at His feet and weep, you sense His calm and love. Your heart turns towards Him. You believe in His goodness, and you trust that even in the blackest of days, God is working to bring good to your life again.

3) The Religious Leaders: If you're a Pharisee, you do a great job of faking faith. You put on a terrific show of loving God and being concerned for those in need. But when push comes to shove, you sincerely doubt God's goodness. When God does a miracle for you or in front of you, you easily dismiss it for a logical or scientific reason. In short, you're not going to believe in God for any reason. And you'll do anything you can to sow the seeds of doubt into the hearts of others.

And what is God's reaction to all of this?

Well, to know that, we have to look at what Jesus did.

1) He cried with those who were in pain. He didn't want them to have to go through any of it. But the fallen world brings along with it imperfections and evil -- and death. Man's sin brings bad things into men's lives. God won't prevent bad things from happening to you. But He will cry with you.

2) He felt anger at the situation. God is just as angry as you are at what has happened. In fact, He's angrier than you'll ever be. He knows more than any of us the cost. He gave His own Son to die on the cross so that we can live in a spirit of freedom. We can look at these tragedies in the face and say, "You will not defeat me, because God has defeated you." And God has. God defeated death. God defeated evil. God defeated sin. God doesn't prevent it from happening, no. But by Jesus's death on the cross, we can receive forgiveness for our sins, live in harmony and in trust and in love with God. And when this life is over, when we ourselves face death's grim face, death will not have power over us, just as it didn't over Lazarus. Our spirits will be raised to be with God in a place that is no longer touched by sorrow or pain.

3) He acted in spite of their unbelief. Even though some people were muttering against Him, saying He could have healed Lazarus, Jesus acted. Even though His closest friends doubted Him and asked where He'd been, Jesus acted. Even though His disciple Thomas gave a rousing show of support but fell short of expecting Jesus to do the impossible, Jesus acted.

In this case, Jesus brought the grave to its knees.

He brought a dead man back to life.

He turned mourning into dancing.

He proved He was God's Son.

And most of all, He demonstrated to all of us that even when we second-guess God's goodness, God loves us.

He loves us.

He loves us.

He loves us.

Do you get it, though?

The Plot to Kill The Formerly Dead Guy

2011-05-04T06:05:00.000-07:00

Part 9 in this story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

Now you can imagine that when Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, that had a serious effect on a lot of people who saw it happen. John, who writes the story, tells us that many people believed in Jesus that day.

Many people?

You mean, not all of them believed?

Logically, I would think that if I'd seen a dead guy walk out of a grave four days after being put in there, it would be enough for me to believe anything.

But guess what.

Some of those who were present high tailed it right back to Jesus's sworn enemies in Jerusalem. And when the chief priests heard about what happened, it set in motion their plans to kill Jesus. So Jesus withdrew until the Passover.

Now you know what happened at that Passover feast, right?

That happens to be Palm Sunday, when Jesus came into Jerusalem on a donkey, and many hailed Him as the Messiah.

Guess who else was there.

Yep -- Lazarus.

So .......... what do you think Jesus's enemies wanted to do with Lazarus? I mean, this guy was the proof in the pudding that Jesus was who He said He was -- the Son of God.

Yep: They made plans to assassinate Lazarus, too. They couldn't have that guy around! It would wreck everything for them!

Now let's look at this in more detail and how it pertains to us:

Has God ever done hand stands and back flips for you so that you'll believe? And when He does, do you recognize those things and sink your faith into Him more ... or do you look for excuses to kill the flicker of a flame of belief?

Here's the thing: There are people who, no matter what you say or do to share Jesus, will NEVER believe. NEVER. They will never believe. And you can't do anything about it. You know why? Because ultimately, it's between them and God. You can't force this.

When I was on Twitter trying to share my faith with atheists, I found that consistently they would say the same thing:

"If God is God, then why doesn't He grow an amputee's arm back? If I saw that, I'd believe in God."

My response always was, "What, raising Himself back from the dead isn't good enough for you?"

Because, listen.

God has already done the unthinkable -- the unimaginable. He resurrected Himself and conquered death. And we see from the story of Lazarus that even in that day -- EVEN PEOPLE WHO SAW IT HAPPEN -- did NOT believe.

So where does this leave us?

Tune in for the conclusion of the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness."

Asking the Unthinkable, Expecting the Impossible

2011-05-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

Part 8 in the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

Jesus stood at the face of Lazarus's tomb and then said the most unthinkable thing anyone could have imagined.

"Take away the stone."

UN-THINK-A-BLE.

How could He? Did He want to go inside the grave and look at the friend who He should have snatched from the jaws of death? If He'd just shown up earlier, none of them would even BE here at this grave! And now He wanted them to take the stone away? Was He out of His mind? How inappropriate! How selfish! How self-abasing, to want to grieve next to the dead body that He should have made whole when the man was alive! Take away the stone? Who did He think He was, anyway, God?

Martha spoke up on behalf of the group. Surely they were all thinking those things, and yet she managed to try to speak ease into the uncomfortable situation by offering a practical observation:

"But Lord, by this time there is a bad odor, for he has been there four days."

"Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?"

The words stung Martha and the entire crowd. And with that question, Jesus threw down the gauntlet between hearts of doubt and hearts of faith. But were the sisters willing to go that far? If they opened the grave and nothing happened, they'd be seen as foolish women following a false prophet whose only interest was in self-glorification. And yet ... were they willing to make their loyalty and friendship to Jesus even stronger, by placing faith that He'd do something good for them?

In short, did they really trust in God's goodness, or did they second-guess it?

They went for it. They moved the stone. In spite of Jesus asking the unthinkable, they did it. With that one action, they effectively were saying to him, "OK. You told us to do this, and we trust you, no matter what. You can do the impossible, and we expect the impossible."

Jesus prayed aloud.

"Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me."

Then He paused and stared at the tomb, one which was extremely similar to that which He knew He'd be laid shortly.

No one moved. All eyes focused on Jesus as they waited for ... what, exactly? They were almost afraid to guess.

Then Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!"

They heard a rustling from within the cave. Shuffling footsteps. Then they caught a glimpse of white linen as the head of a wrapped man bent underneath a low-hanging archway.

And Lazarus, wrapped in his grave clothes, some covering his face, walked out of the grave, four days after his death.

"Take off the grave clothes and let him go," Jesus said simply.

And yet.

After this miracle ... this unthinkable, impossible act of God Himself ... do you think it would be logical for all present to believe?

Yes, it would be.

But that isn't what happened.

Tune in for part 9 of the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness."

The Naysayer Masqueraders

2011-05-02T02:03:00.000-07:00

Part 7 of the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

Jesus's tears provoked an interesting reaction.

Some of the religious leaders were touched. "See how He loved him!" they commented.

But then there were the others. I call them the "naysayer masqueraders." You know the type. These are the people who show up to offer you comfort in a difficult time but ever so conveniently whisper doubt in your ear about God's goodness.

They masquerade as well-intentioned, good-hearted souls. And I'm sure they think they fit that definition. But in reality, they're the ones who actually can spur your heart to mistrust and poison you with subtle, smooth words.

Their logic is powerful. They state the obvious. They don't sugarcoat what they're thinking. They offer their "wisdom" with concerned expressions, a hand on the small of the back and kind eyes.

But let's call this what it is.

Insidious.

Why?

These are the people who, when you are at your most vulnerable state, can with one sentence throw your whole relationship with God into a storm-fest of disbelief.

When the naysayer masqueraders saw Jesus crying at Lazarus's tomb, this is how they called it:

"Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?"

Do you get it?

Look how logical that is.

Look how a statement like that could sneak into the side door of your heart and give you pause, causing you to slam the brakes on trust in the face of trauma.

What I love, though, is Jesus's reaction to this whole scene. What happened next cinches every situation in which you have reason to second-guess God's goodness.

Tune in for the next part of the story.

Understanding "Dakryo"

2011-04-27T05:23:00.000-07:00

Part 6 in the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

Jesus wept.

It's the shortest verse in the entire Bible, yet it stands alone like a punctuated shout to the heavens.

Jesus wept.

After Mary, the second sister, falls to Jesus's feet in sorrow over her brother's death, something interesting happens.

Let's look at the scene.

Mary and the others with her -- the religious leaders who are there to "comfort" her -- cry. (I put "comfort" in quotes, because actually they are Jesus's sworn enemies.)

The original language says they were "Klaio" -- the Greek word for "wailing." Have you ever been to a funeral where wailing was taking place? Have you ever wailed in grief? Do you know the bitterness of soul, the anguish of spirit, that provokes the sound of a wail? I do. I've had black days. A loved one of mine once told me that during a season of my grief, my wails sounded like that of a wounded animal.

Klaio.

Wailing.

This is what was happening around Jesus and at Jesus's feet.

Were they wailing for lack of faith? Of course, the religious leaders who were there as spectators were wailing for the great drama it added to the scene. But we'll get to that tomorrow. Mary, on the other hand, wailed with the pain of a tortured child in spirit.

This provoked an interesting response in Jesus.

"He was deeply moved in spirit and troubled," says our modern English translation in the NIV in John 11:33.

But even that phrase doesn't do justice to Jesus's response. The word used in the original text for "deeply moved" was, "embrimaomai."

This was no simple emotion Jesus was feeling.

The translation of embrimaomai was used to describe "the snorting of animals" -- and as it pertained to humans -- anger. Not just any anger, though. Commentaries note that the real way to put this was that Jesus was "angry in spirit and very agitated."

In other words, He was pretty darn furious.

At what, though?

His good friend Mary, although she had imperfect faith, was in deep emotional distress. The wailing provoked embrimaomai -- not against Mary -- but against death itself. The evil of death -- the way that death robs us of those dearest to our hearts and minds and separates us from their presence -- provoked embrimaomai in Jesus. Sure, He could have been agitated at the fake Pharisees and their fake wailing. But the word, "embrimaomai," connotes a much deeper agitation than that. It speaks to Jesus's mission -- to conquer that (death) which ultimately separated man from God.

"Where have you laid him?" Jesus asked. "Come and see," they replied.

And here we see the famous verse:

"Jesus wept."

Here's the most fascinating part about the story, though. The translation for "wept" is NOT the same word used for the word, "wail." It's another word: DAKRYO.

And what was Dakryo?

It's sadness -- sadness triggered by empathy.

See ... Jesus knew He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead in a few moments and that all of this wailing would stop in a heartbeat. But He still felt their pain and sorrow.

Dakryo.

He cried with them.

He longed to take all of this away from them, all of the pain they felt in the depths of their souls. He longed for death to no longer have power over mankind. And He knew that with His own death in a short time, that He would be the conquerer of death. After His own death, He knew that people would have an open invitation to come to God, to be reconciled, and to live eternally -- AND to be with one another again after each of them died!

This was pretty daggone glorious, if you ask me.

And yet ... Jesus wept.

Dakryo.

Jesus cried because they were crying.

The most beautiful description I've found that relates to this scene is in C.S. Lewis's "The Silver Chair," part of his Chronicles of Narnia series. In the book, King Caspian has died. Lewis beautifully re-creates the scene of Jesus at the tomb of Lazarus next.

Read it with me:

"Then they saw that they were once more on the Mountain of Aslan, high up above and beyond the end of that world in which Narnia lies. But the strange thing was that the funeral music for King Caspian still went on, though no one could tell where it came from. They were walking beside the stream and the Lion went before them: and he became so beautiful, and the music so despairing, that Jill did not know which of them it was that filled her eyes with tears.

"Then Aslan stopped, and the children looked into the stream. And there, on the golden gravel of the bed of the stream, lay King Caspian, dead, with the water flowing over him like liquid glass. His long white beard swayed in it like water-weed. And all three stood and wept. Even the Lion wept: great lion-tears, each tear more precious than the Eath would be if it was a single solid diamond."

Dakryo.

But wait ... this story isn't over -- not by a long-shot. Tune in for part 7 of the series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness."

That Thing Women Do

2011-04-23T09:11:00.000-07:00

Part five in the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

Women, you know the drill.

Something bad happens, and what's the first thing we do about it?

If you're like me, you pick up the phone, or you hit an Instant Message app, and you TALK. And you talk. And you talk. And you talk.

You analyze. You project. You decipher. You look for motives. You look for reasons. You look at behaviors. You examine yourself. You look for validity. You seek approval.

Now if the situation is really bad -- catastrophic, even -- what do you do?

You cry. You pass tissues. You hug. You console. You bemoan.

In short ... you don't let this thing go, and you'll talk to anyone -- ANYONE -- to understand what just happened in order to make yourself feel better about it.

Usually, if you're in a group of women, you'll hear everyone parrot the same phrases to you after a while. Before you know it, the entire group of gabbers has come to their save-the-friend conclusions, and everyone feels the same way about it, and everyone is giving the same assessment, and everyone is self-congratulating about how they each figured it out.

Now let's check out Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus, Jesus's good friend who got sick and died.

They send word for Jesus to come. Jesus doesn't come. Lazarus dies.

Then Jesus shows up.

What each of them says to Jesus -- individually, and NOT in each other's hearing -- is really quite fascinating and telling.

Ready?

John 11:21:

“Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

OK. That was Martha. Now here comes Mary:

John 11:32

When Mary reached the place where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” (italics, mine.)

Do you see a PATTERN here?

I wasn't there, but this is my take on it:

Isn't it interesting how both of those women were together at their house with "concerned" friends, waiting for Jesus, and each of them, independently, says the EXACT SAME THING to Him when they first see Him?

The words are exactly the same!

Have you ever been in a situation where you're questioning God's goodness or reasons for something, and it becomes a group discussion? If you're a woman, what do you think happens? I'll tell you what has happened in my personal experiences:

The doubters have very loud voices. And they are extremely convincing. Think about it. Mary and Martha are Jesus's good friends! But the first thing out of their mouths -- is the exact statement of doubt!

What was going on in their house?

We know they were surrounded by the religious leaders of the day, who had supposedly shown up to comfort them. Isn't it interesting how those same people were Jesus's enemies? And isn't it also interesting that by the time the sisters had a chance to talk to Jesus, their words to Him were words of accusation?

How often do you do this?

How often, in situations of crisis, do you consult others and come away feeling like God let you down?

I'm going to tell you something very plainly: The Person you need to be going to ... is God. Yes, it's fine for us to get support and prayer from other believers. But be careful. When your heart is in a vulnerable state, that window of opportunity arises for doubt to grab it in a vise. Before you know it, you're forgetting all of the good things God has done for you in the past.

And your words to Him are ... "If you had been here, this wouldn't have happened."

God is there.

God is with you.

God cares that you're crying.

And in part 6 of the tale, you'll see just how much Jesus cared about His friends. Tune in.

Back at the Ranch ...

2011-04-19T05:51:00.000-07:00

Part 4 of the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

Back in Bethany, another drama was unfolding that would give Jesus a human reasonable doubt to rush to Lazarus.

See ... by this time, news of the sickness of Jesus's good friend had spread to Jerusalem. And who, of course, had shown up to "comfort" the sisters?

You got it -- Jesus's enemies.

In John's Gospel, they're commonly referred to as, "The Jews." This was the coin phrase for the religious leaders of the day, the Pharisees.

We know at least one thing about Lazarus and his sisters. They were rich. How do we derive that? Because Lazarus was buried in a tomb, carved out of the side of a rock. Only wealthy people were buried in places like that, historians and archeologists tell us.

Now recently, historians have taken a bold step to voice yet another theory about Lazarus, Mary and Martha: They were from good stock. Super good stock.

In other words, their family was intricately linked to the religious leaders of Jerusalem. In the book, "The Mystery of the Beloved Disciple: New Evidence, Complete Answer" author Frederick Baltz asserts that Lazarus was "Eleazar son of Boethus, a former High Priest." Josephus names this same Eleazar. And, Rabbinic literature says that this Eleazar had two sisters: Martha and Miriam (another name used for Mary). The theory, then, is that Lazarus was not only seen as a pawn (being a good friend of Jesus) -- but he also was from the families of Israel's elite. Are you getting the full picture here?

Now.

Lazarus dies.

Jesus shows up.

And then ... all hell breaks loose.

Literally.

Tune in for Part 5 of the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness."

The Direct Disciple

2011-04-18T01:59:00.000-07:00

Part 3 of the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

You've known people like this. Maybe you're one of them. They're direct. They don't mince words. They call a situation the second they see it and give you a head-on, factual analysis of it, devoid of emotion. You ask them for advice, and they'll break down the picture in a very logical way, so that you can see your pros and cons and hang your feelings on the shelf to make a calculated decision.

Tom was that way.

Tom. No-nonsense Tom, who thought through everything and went with the straight-up facts.

Tom had another quality. He was intensely loyal. He took Jesus at His word, that if you loved someone, you'd be willing to lay your life down for them. That seemed to make sense to No-nonsense Tom. Back up your words with your actions. Be there for the dude. Set your face like flint and go with your loyalty, even if the facts show you that the situation is potentially dangerous.

Most people, when they think of Tom, remember him in an unflattering light. His unfortunate nickname has stuck to him like rubber cement for 2,000 years:

"Doubting Thomas."

That's another story.

But in this account of Lazarus's sickness and death, Tom is the one disciple who lays it on the line.

Jesus had just informed the group that Lazarus was dead, and that He was glad they weren't at Lazarus's bedside when the death occurred. But the death was necessary so that a greater purpose could be achieved.

All of this went over everyone's heads (of course). What the heck did Jesus mean, that a death could be a good thing? Where was God's goodness in all of that?

But even in the face of it, even as Jesus decided to go to Bethany into the lion's den of people who wanted to rip Him to pieces, Tom stepped up to the challenge.

I always see him in my mind's eye as a serious guy with a strong jaw and quiet but forceful voice when he uttered these words:

"Let us also go, that we may die with Him."

Poor Tom.

His heart was so right, in that he was willing to stay next to Jesus's side, even if it meant he could be stoned with Him.

But he missed the whole point.

Jesus wasn't in danger.

Not yet.

Jesus's time still hadn't come. And Tom would have a long way to go before he realized that after Jesus suffered the ultimate humiliation known to man, His death had a purpose that Tom could barely fathom.

We can learn a lot from Tom's words about this situation that Jesus was walking into and how people viewed it. The disciples had to figure He was nuts to head to Bethany, especially because Lazarus was beyond healing now.

For No-Nonsense Tom, the practicality and logic of Jesus's decision had to be driving him crazy with frustration.

And even so ... he was willing to stick to Jesus. If anyone was questioning God's goodness, it had to have been Tom. Why would God allow Jesus to make such a rash decision? Why would Jesus go along with it? He was needed to rescue Israel! He was the promised One! What in the world was going on in His mind?

Tom went along with it, despite how illogical it must have seemed to him.

No-nonsense Tom.

He and all of his no-nonsense were about to get knocked for a loop.

So was the entire nation of Israel.

What happens next? Tune in for part 4 of the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

The Dicey Drama Before Lazarus Got Sick

2011-04-17T01:24:00.000-07:00

Part 2 of the story series, "Questioning God's Goodness ...."

When Mary and Martha sent Jesus the message that their brother was sick, they and everyone else knew the practical human reasons why Jesus might not show up.

It all had to do with a dicey little incident in Jerusalem ... at Hanukkah, or, as people called it, "The Feast of Dedication."

"It was winter," recalls John, the disciple Jesus loved. "Jesus was in the Temple Courts walking in Solomon's Colonnade."

What happened next must have shaken John and the rest of the disciples to the core. Things got absolutely violent. Yes, violent.

Violence, right there in the Temple, during the holiday of the Festival of Lights. Imagine it. John tells a chilling story of brutality that all started with one question: "How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly."

Now read John's account of what happened ... see him in your mind's eye as if he's telling you the story over coffee at your kitchen table. He wrote it for you to get the full picture of what Jesus was facing. Two-thousand years later, his words still ring with a harbinger of dread that he and the other disciples must have felt acutely.

Jesus answered, "I did tell you, but you do not believe. The works I do in my Father’s name testify about me, but you do not believe because you are not my sheep. My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father’s hand. I and the Father are one."

Again his Jewish opponents picked up stones to stone him, but Jesus said to them, I have shown you many good works from the Father. For which of these do you stone me?”

“We are not stoning you for any good work,” they replied, “but for blasphemy, because you, a mere man, claim to be God.”

Jesus answered them, “Is it not written in your Law, ‘I have said you are “gods?”’If he called them ‘gods,’ to whom the word of God came—and Scripture cannot be set aside— what about the one whom the Father set apart as his very own and sent into the world? Why then do you accuse me of blasphemy because I said, ‘I am God’s Son’? Do not believe me unless I do the works of my Father. But if I do them, even though you do not believe me, believe the works, that you may know and understand that the Father is in me, and I in the Father.” Again they tried to seize him, but he escaped their grasp.

Then Jesus went back across the Jordan to the place where John had been baptizing in the early days. There he stayed, and many people came to him. They said, “Though John never performed a sign, all that John said about this man was true.” And in that place many believed in Jesus.

What in the world?

Stoning Jesus?

In the Temple Courts?

So of course, we see another reason behind the simplicity of Mary's and Martha's message, "Lord, the one you love is sick."

The girls knew full well that if Jesus put one toe into their neighborhood, people were waiting to pounce. They knew He' be risking His life to show up. Perhaps they felt it was enough to let Him know the circumstance. Perhaps they had enough faith that He could stay where He was, speak one word from where He was, and their brother would get better.

Or ... perhaps they had enough faith as well to know that if God protected Jesus from being stoned, it was a no-brainer that God would also envelope Him if He traveled to Lazarus's bedside.

The bottom line is, everyone in Israel by this time knew that Jesus was staying away from Jerusalem and the burbs around it, including Bethany, for good reason.

When He didn't show up, even though it was heartbreaking for the sisters, they had to have known the human logic of the why.

That said, if "the one you love is sick" then died, they must have faced the question that all of us do when bad things happen to us and to those we love:

"Why did God let this happen? Is God really good? Does God really love me?"

Tune in for part 3 of the story series.

The Mystery of Lazarus

2011-04-11T17:05:00.000-07:00

Part one of this story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness ..."

We don't know much about him.

We know he had two sisters.

We know he lived in a little town about two miles away from Jerusalem.

We know he was well-connected to Israel's leaders. (More on that later.)

We know he played host to Jesus and His disciples at his home.

But other than that ... there isn't much to go on about the man named Lazarus.

Except for one thing, and it actually holds the key to the entire mystery of who Lazarus was. It's just one line in John 11:3.

"Lord, the one you love is sick."

The one He loves.

Do you notice what's lacking in that statement? How about this?

"Lord, the one you love is sick, and we need you to heal him."

Or this?

"Lord, the one you love is sick, and we don't want him to die. It wouldn't be fair."

Or this?

"Lord, the one you love is sick. You've healed so many other people. He's your good friend. If anyone deserves to be healed more than anyone else, you know he does."

There's no expectation in that statement. It just is. It just hangs there, saying everything in seven words.

"Lord, the one you love is sick."

When you know someone well -- really well -- not much has to be said, does it? Ever visit someone in the hospital who you know well versus someone you don't know well at all? I have. There's a huge difference in the dynamic. When I don't know someone well, I find that a lot of words pass between people. A lot of explanation is given. A lot of pleasantries between family members occur. A lot of, "Thanks for coming," is offered, and a lot of polite nods and smiles are exchanged.

When I visit someone I know well -- a very good friend -- there isn't much of a need for any of that. The one I love is sick. Nothing else has to be said. The one I love is sick. I just am there. I just am present. I just am available, whether the family wants to talk, or the family wants to be silent. I am sensitive to whether the friend can take conversation or just needs a whispered prayer and then to be left quickly to rest. There is no pretense, no blustering, no overtures.

The one I love is sick. It's just enough for me to know it and be there with them.

"Lord, the one you love is sick."

When the sisters of Lazarus sent that message, they didn't need to say anything else. They and their brother were so close to Jesus -- so close -- that they knew He'd know what to do. They didn't demand anything. They didn't request anything. They just trusted Him with the information.

And in those seven words, we know more about Lazarus than any archaeological dig could tell us.

We know Jesus loved him, that they were very good friends. That alone should have set the stage for Jesus to rush to Lazarus's bedside, to comfort the women, to speak words of healing and make all right as rain again.

But it didn't happen.

Jesus stayed put, right where He was.

Lazarus died.

And to Mary and Martha, the silence must have been worse than their brother's death.

Jesus didn't respond.

Jesus didn't come to them.

The one Jesus loved had died.

And Jesus wasn't even there.

What would you have felt?

Tune in for part 2 of the story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness."

Second-Guessing God's Goodness

2011-04-10T12:08:00.000-07:00

When I debated atheists on Twitter, I was always amazed at one thing they consistently did, usually without even realizing it:

Rather than address the question of the existence of God, instead they questioned His character.

In fact, it was so rare that someone would actually bring up God's existence, that I had to question the person to whom I was speaking about whether they actually were an atheist.

"God hates you," one would say.

"God isn't good. He's evil," another would chime.

"God doesn't care about me," would say a third.

On and on. And on.

I found that if I started using the phrases, "God is love," or, "God loves you," I'd receive a vitriol of anger-filled comments. People didn't get angry if I said I believed in God. But mention to them that God loved them? Wow. Get ready for the fight of your life.

I bring this up because I was reminded today about a story in which God's love was questioned -- even by those who were closest to Jesus.

So tune in tomorrow for the beginning of the new story series, "Second-Guessing God's Goodness." See you then.

--Heidi

That Girl from Abu Ghraib

2011-04-06T11:34:00.000-07:00

If I say to you, "You know! That girl from Abu Ghraib," would you see her face in your mind's eye?

Maybe you'd picture the sullen official Army photo, lifeless eyes, thin lips, full cheeks. Serious. Chilling.

Maybe you'd envision that horrific shot of a naked man curled up in a fetal position, his neck collared, his head turned away from the young woman holding a leash to which he is tethered.

Or, maybe you'd see in your mind's eye the photograph of a pyramid of stripped men, a girl standing behind them, giving a thumbs up to the camera with one arm, the other draped around another smiling prison guard.

But when someone says to me, "That girl from Abu Ghraib," I see the woman I ran into at the Womack Army Medical Center on Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in spring twilight of 2004.

She was pregnant.

When I was a military spouse at Fort Bragg, I used to joke that Womack was my second home. That's because I was there all of the time. I had a pretty bad pregnancy that required physician visits every one to two weeks. And for at least a year after Neil was born, I had to keep up with regular checkups for different reasons. During one of these visits, I'd been at the hospital for three hours for lab work and other tests. I had one more stop to make before I could go home -- my primary physician on the first floor.

It was 6 p.m.

The hospital was devoid of activity by now, as most people had completed their health visits. Those of us who were left were either inbound patients or people like me -- the problem cases requiring more attention.

I was sitting in an empty waiting room when she walked in. I was flipping through a magazine I'd brought along and instinctively looked up when I heard the door push open. The soldier was wearing a maternity uniform, and I just saw her back as she checked in at the counter. An older woman with her, obviously her mother, sat down opposite to me. We made eye contact and exchanged brief acknowledgement smiles.

Then the soldier turned to sit down, and I was immediately transfixed with recognition.

She didn't make eye contact. She sat down next to her mother, who whispered something, and then they both continued their conversation in hushed tones.

Have you ever thought to yourself, "What would I do if I ever met someone like Hitler on the street?" I think about things like that at times. I always thought I'd walk up to a person like that and give them a tongue lashing, then strike them as hard as I could. And yes, in my mind's eye, at the time I compared that young woman to the likes of Hitler or to his Nazi concentration camp guards.

But as I sat there, actually in that situation I'd imagined with history's criminals, I was amazed at the wash of emotions.

I felt sick.

I felt angry.

I felt afraid.

I felt revulsion.

I felt anxiety.

I felt condemnation.

Then I felt other things.

I felt pity.

I felt sadness.

I felt concern.

And, most surprisingly, I felt love.

No, I didn't feel love as you'd imagine, but a sense of God's love, tapping me on the shoulder with gentle persistence.

"I died for her, too, you know," I heard Him say to my heart. "I died for her, too."

The inward struggle to say something to her -- to tell her how her actions had shamed those of American patriots and our country -- to instruct her on human rights -- to be her moral superior -- was overwhelming.

And at the same time, I yearned to walk across the waiting room to her, sit next to her, introduce myself and ask her if I could pray with her.

I'd like to tell you that I did the latter.

But in the end ... the door to the examination rooms opened, and a nurse called my name.

The moment had passed. I walked through to see my doctor, and Spc. Lynndie England passed out of my life in that eye flick, without even a word or a smile between us.

I often think back to those few seconds, which felt like a lifetime. What was the proper response?

I can tell you what it would not have been -- it would not have involved my dream to slap her silly. But I also wonder, what would she have said or done if I'd told her I'd pray for her or that God loved her? Would she have listened? Would she have been appreciative or accepting of my words? Or would I have aggravated and come off as the Saturday Night Live Church Lady?

I took something out of that encounter, though, something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Jesus died for her, too.

He loves her, too.

And because we're all sinners, none of us have the right to condemn another person. We're all culpable for our own sins, public and hidden.

If I had to do it over again, I would have offered Lynndie my hand. She was obviously there for an appointment when no one else would be in the hospital. She was a pariah. And it looked to me that the only person who was her friend ... was her mother.

Who needs God's love more than someone like that?

So next time you give thought to the atrocities of the war, your political enemies, your nemesis at the office or your family member who drives you to drink ... remember Lynndie England.

She -- and they -- have God's grace if they want to ask for it.

And you do as well.

Becoming a Woman of Integrity

2011-04-04T06:35:00.000-07:00

You may not know this about me, but I'm going through a divorce. I can't go into the reasons here, but suffice it to say, it has necessitated counseling every two weeks for me.

About a month ago, my counselor threw down the gauntlet and challenged me to be a woman of integrity.

I thought, "I'm already a woman of integrity."

But then I realized that integrity requires daily decisions. It isn't something where you can stand on your past laurels of moral high ground. It is a day-in, day-out, resilient and deliberate and conscious decision to stay above the fray of temptation.

And what is temptation?

For me, it has encompassed a few things:

1) Staying off of the social network Twitter. Believe it or not, I'm actually addicted to it like crack. But I had to realize that being on Twitter, for me, invites drama. Currently, my real life is so dramatic that I don't need anything else fueling adrenaline. It's time for me to rest, and it's time for me to step back. That said, to be a woman of integrity, I've set up parental blocks on my computer so that I can't even pull up the site without deliberately choosing.

2) Trusting God in the face of bleakness. I have another blog called, "Family Giving," in which I discuss being willing to give financially in spite of difficulty. But last week at church, I did not tithe. I was scared. I was facing an enormous hurdle in the coming week that I knew would decimate my financial future. So rather than trust God with my 10 percent, I clutched it. I allowed the offering plate to pass under my nose. To be a woman of integrity, I must trust God, even when I don't see the future. Especially when I don't see the future.

3) Staying single for the time being. My divorce probably will not be final until June, at the earliest. But already, I feel like I'd like to start dating again. I hear all of your collective groans right now. And that's exactly the point. To be a woman of integrity, I have to put my needs on a shelf. I have to focus on the well-being of my 7-year-old child and on his needs as he deals with the separation of his parents. I need to dig deep into my heart and mind and heal completely from several years of suffering. Even if I met someone for a cup of coffee, an emotional attachment could result. That would lead to a distraction from the matter at hand, which is healing fully and protecting my child. Will I ever heal? I'm sure I will, because I know I'm a very different person than I was this time last year. Some people might say, "Go for it! Have fun! You deserve it!" And that would be true, except that if I proceeded with dating right now, I would risk losing the richness of a meaningful relationship because I moved too quickly. It would be like settling for McDonald's one hour before sitting down to a meal at the Four Seasons. And not only that, doing so right now would just be morally wrong for me. So to be a woman of integrity, I have to say no, even to friendships with men to whom I am attracted. If it's God's will for me to find love again, I have to rest on Him for my best future.

You can see how being a woman of integrity for me isn't easy. Too many times, we'd love to take the smooth path and be happier in the short-term. But often, that results in decisions that compromise our very integrity.

But I can't become a woman of integrity on my own strength. That's where Jesus comes in. "My yoke is easy, and my burden is light," He tells us. Guess what. That applies to decisions that would affect our integrity.

So take His yoke upon you and lean into Him.

You can be a person of integrity. But trust Him for it.

The rest will fall into place.

Psalm 91 and Lessons Learned from "Prince of Persia"

2011-03-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

Jake Gyllenhaal leaps from one wall to the next, steadies himself and crashes into a foe with precision. Arrows whiz past his head within a hair's breath of slicing off an ear, and each of his steps fall with the swift sureness of a gazelle's, despite a harrowing battle raging around him.

Call me a sap, but when I saw the fight scenes from Disney's "Prince of Persia," I could only think of one thing:

Psalm 91.

Of course, the movie itself has nothing to do with the Bible or with the life of King David. But as I watched Gyllenhaal skirt past dangers with that winsome smile of his, all I could see was David personified, his trials and battles as told in 1st Samuel and his faith in God as told in the Psalms. When we read the Bible, we often see it through our 21st century American eyes. So sometimes it takes a fanciful movie to bring that reality home.

Why do I bring this up?

Currently I'm in the midst of personal traumas. But I can tell you with utmost certainty, Psalm 91 is true for me and has played out, day after day, week after week. Let's take a look at it:

Psalm 91
1 Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.[a]
2 I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”

3 Surely he will save you
from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
8 You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.

9 If you say, “The LORD is my refuge,”
and you make the Most High your dwelling,
10 no harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent.
11 For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
12 they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

14 “Because he[b] loves me,” says the LORD, “I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
15 He will call on me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation.”

And now, let's take a look at this short montage from "Prince of Persia," which is a compilation of battle scenes, sap and all. As you watch it, look past the Hollywood glitter and see this Psalm unfold in front of your eyes.

Then realize one thing:

He who promises to protect you is the same One who shielded David.

He is your fortress, in whom you can trust.

Check this out:

The Memory of Joy

2011-03-22T09:04:00.000-07:00

Conclusion of this story series.

So as I reflect about my friendship with Joy, her sickness, her acceptance of Jesus as her Savior after a lifetime of atheism and her death, one thing occurs to me:

We can be vessels to bring God to others ... but we can't force them to accept Him. Ultimately, He has to work with them individually, and their hearts have to be open to His voice.

Joy came to mind for me in the midst of a year of battling atheists on Twitter. Day after day, week after week, month after month, I tried sharing my faith with them. Sometimes people were receptive to a discussion. Sometimes they belittled me. Sometimes they mocked me. Sometimes they crucified my character. Sometimes they became my friends.

None of them, so far, have accepted Jesus as their Savior.

Does it mean the witness is ineffective?

I used to battle inwardly with that question. But when all is said and done .. it's up to them. It's between them and God.

All we can do is present the information.

Did I do anything super special or spectacular to get Joy to change her views?

Not at all. In fact, if you look over my friendship with Joy, you'll see that she was probably the better friend to me than I was to her. I guess that what it comes down to is being willing to share.

Be ready with your answers. Know your Scripture. Immerse yourself in prayer. And if you make a concerted effort to tell others about Jesus, especially those who deny His existence, get ready for the fight of your life. But leave the miracles to God.

Can an atheist become a Christ-loving believer?

I've seen it happen.

Is it common?

No.

Does that make it any less true, special or meaningful?

Not at all.

If just one sheep of 100 is lost, you know the Shepherd seeks it until it's found. One sheep -- one person -- matters to God as much as if he or she were the only person alive. It's our responsibility to see them as He does. Everyone -- everyone -- is that dearly loved.

I don't know what will become of the atheists I met on Twitter. But I know one thing -- the atheist friend of mine named Joy is now walking with Jesus. It was her choice, her decision. It was her willingness to open her mind and heart to Him and allow Him into her life.

I had nothing to do with it, but I can tell you one thing:

I'm super excited that this isn't the end of the story of Joy. One day, the memory of Joy will become a tangible soul, standing in front of me, welcoming me home.

One day, Joy and I will be together again, bathed in the light of His glory.

And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, others will be there, too.

A Mysterious Visitor & A Message from the Grave

2011-03-20T04:04:00.000-07:00

Fall 1997.
The Pennsylvania State Capitol.
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Pretentiously ornate, the state Capitol in Pennsylvania provides a grandiose backdrop for political drama at its finest. Dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt and built with the dirty influence of steel magnates in the early 1900s, the building represents all that which Americans find intriguing and insidious about their politicians.

Atop a sweeping marble staircase in a high-domed Rotunda adorned with murals ... was my office.

I'd scoot up the steps in spindly heels, pass through a door into a hidden hallway and enter the press corps's domain. Our Associated Press bureau had its own room apart from reporters of other newspapers, on the right. We were central to the action, and equally easy to find.

So it was no surprise that, even from her grave, Joy found me there.

I was clicking out a story on a clunky late-90s PC when a door knock stopped me. A young man shyly peeked in.

"Can we help you?" my bureauchief asked.

"I'm looking for Heidi."

I smiled and nodded at him, expecting this to be a lawmaker's intern with a press release in hand. But when he returned my gaze, I knew this was more than about a news story.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Joy has died. She's sent me here with a letter for you. She asked me to hand-deliver it. I've driven up here from Maryland to find you."

All action in the room halted. My co-workers looked up from their keyboards at me curiously. The bureauchief coughed nervously and suggested that I take the conversation elsewhere.

Feeling dizzy, I suggested to my visitor to sit with me on a small marble bench outside the door at the top of the Rotunda stair.

He silently handed me the letter, my name on the envelope written in Joy's feminine and loopy style.

"When did she die? Why didn't I know?"

"She didn't want you to know. She just wanted to pass away quietly without sadness. She gave me this letter and expressly said you weren't to know until I saw you face to face and could hand this to you myself."

I stared open-mouthed at this kind person, amazed that he'd travel three hours and actually track me down.

"We worked together," he explained. "She was a good friend. She talked about you all the time. She wanted to make sure that you knew how much she loved you."

He stood up.

"I've done what I came to do. I'm sorry to shock you like this, but I should really leave so that you can read that alone."

I nodded. "Thank you."

He turned and trotted down the staircase. My hands shook as I opened the envelope and read Joy's message from the grave.

She wanted me to know that before she died, she'd accepted Jesus as her Savior.
She wanted me to know that I wasn't to grieve. She was in Heaven with Him.
She would see me again.
She asked that I check on her little girl from time to time.
And she said she loved me.

I sat there for about 20 minutes, staring at the beauty around me and not quite sure how to feel.

She was gone. My friend was gone.

But my atheist friend had found Jesus before she took her last breath, and she was with Him.

And I would see her again. Her handwriting, a tangible memory of her, gave me the assurance that even at that moment, she was still very much alive ... just in another realm, the spiritual realm, no longer trapped in her body of pain.

But what's the upshot of all of this?

What did I take away from my friendship with Joy and what I learned about sharing Jesus with others?

We'll talk about it tomorrow. I hope you stop by.

The Eternal Conversation

2011-03-17T16:31:00.000-07:00

March 1995.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

You could call it the winter of my discontent.

I'd just begun my nine-month probationary training period with The Associated Press in Philadelphia, and already, I was burning all ends of every candle. Stuck on a night shift, I did nothing for the first three months but take newspaper stories and boil them into "30-second broadcast snippets" that could be ripped and read on television and radio.

If you've ever seen the Karate Kid, where Ralph learns martial arts by repeated motions from chores, you'll understand why the AP requires night after night of broadcast writing for its new recruits. The goal is to churn tight copy within minutes that can be read verbatim on CNN. After that, you can sling together any story off the top of your head and call it in from the back seat of a taxi.

It was in the midst of this endless night of Journalist Purgatory that Joy called. She said she wanted to travel to see me for a weekend, even if I was working odd hours.

When she showed up at my door, I had to force myself to hide my surprise at her appearance. Joy was a skeleton. Her head was wrapped in a colorful scarf, as her beautiful thick and curly hair had long ago fallen out. She spoke feebly and in a near whisper. She laughed as she brought out three different wigs from her suitcase and modeled them, resembling a mannequin wearing a mop. Despite popping one breath mint after another, she couldn't shake a perpetual breath odor that seemed to be straight from the grave.

She listened patiently as I regaled her with tales of my psychotic editor and fellow AP staff members, whose pretentious self-opinions of their writing gifts squeezed out any earnest attempt at objectivity. She wasn't strong enough to tour the city, and she really just wanted to stay in my apartment and veg with movies on the television. She slept while I worked. After I got home and slept a few hours, she made eggs and bacon and strong coffee for me like an older sister.

And then we talked.

Her life had taken a turn for the worse. Her husband was leaving her for another woman, and she knew she only had months to live, if that.

Then came the words that I never thought I'd hear.

"I've been reading the Bible. Really reading it," she said.

"No kidding. What have you been reading, specifically?"

"John."

"John's a good book to start with."

"I love it."

"Good."

I didn't press her. I allowed her to just talk and muse, dissect it and understand it. We didn't discuss her salvation or whether she was ready to believe. We just walked around the perimeter of that while I answered her questions about John's writings.

The hours flew, and before I knew it, Joy was on her way home again.

I had no idea it would be the last time I would see her. I didn't know that our conversation had eternal repercussions.

And I was in no way prepared for what would happen the next time I heard from her.

Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion of this story series.

A Breakthrough in the Backdrop of Baltimore

2010-12-24T01:56:00.000-08:00

Part 5 of this story series ....

Baltimore Inner Harbor's perpetual carnival-like atmosphere draws both kids and grownups by throngs. During the day, the place hums with street jugglers and musicians that wow the crowds. Tourists promenade a plaza while bathed in the Chesapeake Bay's breeze. A Naval ship is always docked alongside a length of shops and restaurants. It eclipses small "water taxis" that ferry families to the Fort McHenry National Monument (where Francis Scott Key composed "The Star Spangled Banner").

Seals playing in a pool outside the National Aquarium of Baltimore bark their greetings to kiddos. And if you'd rather eat your seafood than see it, restaurants galore offer the best of Maryland cuisine.

Combine all of this with Camden Yards, home to the Baltimore Orioles, and the bar-hopping night life in the nearby historically-quaint Fell's Point, and you have a recipe for weekend bliss.

All of this was just about an hour's drive from my little apartment near the Pennsylvania/Maryland border. I loved going to Baltimore as much as I possibly could manage it.
So when Joy suggested I meet her and her sweet little girl one Saturday at the Harbor, I enthusiastically said yes.

It had been about six months since Joy shared she was sick with breast cancer. I wasn't quite prepared for the physical change she'd undergone. Gaunt and frail, she still managed to keep her energetic child under control with her Steel Magnolia voice. She was obviously struggling physically to get through the aquarium exhibits, so when she suggested that we meander to the busy shops and restaurants, I was surprised.

"Are you sure you don't want to go home?" I asked.

"No!" she protested. "We came to meet you for the day! This is fun!"

We strolled by the street performers that were entertaining crowds under colorful, wind-whipped flags. Joy, never one to shirk an opportunity to tease, elbowed me as Navy seamen passed us and exchanged flirtatious glances. We indulged in Maryland crabcakes (ahhh, the days before my allergy to shellfish) and saltwater taffy.

Then Joy suggested that we hit a kids' science store, which contained shelves of "experiments," inflatable solar systems to hang from ceilings, butterfly nets, books about the human body and all manner of create-your-own-volcano kits.

"We love this store," Joy sighed, as if she was in her own personal heaven.

"I can see why," I agreed, not yet a mother but appreciating its kid-appeal. "I can probably find Christmas presents in here for my nephew."

As her child perused collections of plastic dinosaurs and plushy dolphins, Joy walked over to a large bin containing multi-colored crystals and rocks. I watched as she gingerly fingered each one, stroking edges as if the rocks were jewels.

"What are these?"

"These," she said dramatically, "have healing powers."

I laughed.

She shot me a dirty look.

"No, really. Why are you interested in these?"

"They really do have the power to heal!" she protested. "Native American tribes believe they have energies and can provide therapy."

"Joy," I sighed. "Joy, Joy, Joy. You're an atheist. Are you listening to yourself?" I said, but then stopped laughing when I saw the hurt look on her face. "Listen," I said, quickly realizing that I'd treaded too far. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you took this so seriously."

She was holding a smooth, flat, grey stone with a $20 price tag. "Would you like me to buy one for you, too?" she asked.

I caught my breath. I was flabbergasted at both her strong desire to believe anything -- anything, except for God -- and at her earnestness in wanting to share her newfound discovery of "crystal healing" with me. But I shook my head.

"Joy, you're so sweet. That's so kind of you to offer. But, no. If you need these to feel better, get one for yourself, but I'm okay. You know I don't believe in anything like that. I believe in God's power."

She nodded and asked me to watch her child while she went to the cash register, buying the rock and a stuffed dolphin that the little girl had selected.

As I drove home from the outing, I was extremely troubled, but at the same time, hopeful.

If Joy was willing to embrace the idea of the healing power of a rock, did that mean she was not far off from considering God's existence?

Would she die without knowing Him, continuing to search for life's meaning through things like crystals? Or was she on the cusp of finally accepting something so much greater?

I didn't know ... but I resolved to pray.

And I did.

Tune in for part 6 of the tale ...

Persisting Joy, Resisting Joy

2010-12-15T23:39:00.000-08:00

Part 4 in this story series ...

I don't know about you, but I always know that someone is the truest of friends when they love me and care for me in spite of myself.

Joy was one of those friends.

Three months after my father died, I landed a job at a much larger newspaper in Pennsylvania, hugged Joy goodbye and set off for "better things" in my career. However, I was a sick kitten emotionally, sinking into the blackness of grief.

At my new job and new location, I knew no one. I could have forged new friends, and as an extrovert, that's pretty easy for me. But I chose to isolate myself. I'd wake at 6 a.m., go to work, return home by 4:30, eat dinner at 5 ... and fall asleep at 6 p.m. I'd sleep for 12 hours and repeat the cycle the next day. On weekends, I slept. And slept. And slept. I turned down offers from colleagues for weekend outings and parties ... and slept.

My slumber of sadness lasted nine months. During that time, Joy persistently called me. Sometimes I returned the message. Usually I screened my calls and listened to her plaintiff sweet voice on the machine ... and then just went back to sleep.

Joy never stopped caring about me, even when I resisted her. And when I "woke" from my depression, she was still my faithful friend. She didn't have any expectations of me or any self-involved motives. She was just kind. She was just being Joy.

I realized how much she valued our friendship, when one weekend she took a three-hour drive with her 6-year-old daughter so that they could visit me. They showed up with sleeping bags and camped out on my tiny living room floor.

Joy was not going to let go of her friendship with me, even though I'd given her every indication that I was not worth it. During her visit, she regaled me with hilarious stories of the antics of my former newsroom colleagues and of the people in the community. We talked long into the night hours about Bonnie and Clyde and speculated about their post-prison futures. We ate Chinese, toured the Civil War battlefield of Gettysburg, watched Chick Flicks and inhaled one bowl of popcorn after another.

That "slumber party" weekend woke me into realizing that even if a person doesn't know God, they can still be the kindest and most noblest of people.

I honestly can't remember if God came up as a topic of discussion that weekend. All I can tell you is that Joy was the sincerest of people, someone who cared despite our differences of belief.

Joy was my true friend.

And so when she called a few months later to tell me that she had breast cancer, I realized it was my turn to be the friend to her that she'd been to me.

Tune in for part 5 of the story ...

"Comfort and Joy"

2010-12-13T22:22:00.000-08:00

Part 3 of this story series ...

No surprise -- the judge found "Bonnie" guilty after a week-long trial. Yes, Bonnie had opted for a judge trial over a jury trial, which amazed me. But after Joy explained Bonnie's logic that a jury of her peers would never believe her story, it made sense. That said, even Bonnie's good looks and scripted prairie-girl innocence didn't faze that Maxwell-House-drinking judge in the slightest. When he brought that gavel down, the girl was gone for years behind a wall of prison steel.

As for Joy, the trial had awakened a need for more permanency in her employment status. She was a correspondent, which is a fancy word for "freelancer" for her newspaper. My newspaper editors knew they'd glean a jewel if they could swipe her, so they offered her a full-time job with benefits as a senior reporter.

She took it.

Suddenly, I found that my competitor was in my own newsroom as a colleague. And I couldn't have been more excited.

While other women reporters looked askance at Joy's leggy size 4 body and whispered among themselves that she was probably sleeping with sources to get her scoops, I was enthralled. Joy was the epitome of the news reporter I aspired to be. Panache doesn't quite cover it, actually.

Joy could smooth-talk and coddle the toughest of sources, when other reporters would just get a grunt if they were lucky.

She'd sashay into a meeting of the county commissioners like Princess Grace on a cloud, mesmerizing men and drawing dagger looks from women. She'd whisper-talk in her femininely evocative way, oozing Southern honey to camouflage loaded, vinegar-laced questions.

And she always received the answers. To anything.

Joy made it her mission to mentor me, giving me insights not only on the local personalities, but also on human behavior in general. She taught me how to mine gems of quotes and transform the saltiest character into a sugar plum.

We never discussed God in those early months of our friendship. Every chat revolved around our profession, and Joy gave me the keys to reporting a story with style. An old Irish saying goes that, "An Irishman can tell you to go to hell and make you look forward to the trip." Pretty much, that summed up Joy, and she imparted her secrets to me on how to pull that off.

But the depth of my friendship with Joy continued to expand, after my father told me that he had less than a year to live.

At age 25, the concept of life without my father was unimagined.

Joy was there for me at every turn of my father's illness. She kept my spirits up on days when I didn't think I'd ever smile again. She'd gently encourage me and offer her shoulder for me when I didn't think I'd ever be able to put two words together on deadline. She showed me how to keep my focus on the job and compartmentalize the grief so that I could perform at top speed.

It was during this time of comfort from Joy that the whole "God subject" came up.

"What do you see happening to your dad after he passes away?" Joy suddenly asked me one day over a steaming coffee cup at a local haunt.

The question caught me off guard at first, but when I looked up from my plate of spaghetti into her gaze, I immediately knew what she was trying to ask.

"He'll be in Heaven. With God," I answered simply.

"And you really believe that, don't you?" she pressed.

"Yes. I really believe that."

Joy sighed, cast her eyes down at the coffee and tapped her index finger against the side of the cup. It was the first time I'd ever seen her drop the cool facade.

She looked back up at me.

"If that brings you comfort, you should keep believing it."

"You don't believe that?"

"No. I think this life is the end of life. There's nothing more after this. I don't think God exists. But I'm glad that you do. I'm glad you find comfort in believing that at a time like this."

I wasn't sure how to respond. She sincerely meant it, and I knew her words weren't supposed to be insulting. But I also saw that in her own way, Joy was pitying me.

And yet, she didn't know that even though I was facing my own personal tragedy, I was the one pitying her.

Tune in for part 4 of the story of how my atheist friend became a Christian ...

Bungles of Bonnie and Clyde Cement a Friendship

2010-12-10T09:50:00.000-08:00

Part 2 of this story series ...

The trial had all the drama and hilarity of the Keystone Cops meeting Bonnie and Clyde. I had to hand it to these two bank robbers. Their modus operandi was fascinating and brilliant, and they managed to avoid capture for several months as a result.

"Clyde" was a small, slight man, all of 5 feet, 5 inches and with a whisper-thin build. His angular face of delicate features and jet black hair gave the impression that the Stork got confused and had mistakenly put a woman's face on a man's body.

And Clyde knew that, too.

So his bank robbing scheme was simple. He dressed in a long black coat, topped his head with a wide-brimmed woman's hat -- and strapped pillows around his abdomen. He made up his face, wore women's gloves and carried a large tote bag. Then he robbed the bank -- as a pregnant woman.

In fact, when the Keystone crew first put out news reports, they said bank tellers described the robber just as that -- a small pregnant woman who was probably in her 7th month.

"Bonnie" was the getaway driver. And this was the funny thing (or, not so funny, depending on how you look at it). She really was pregnant. She sat behind the wheel waiting for Clyde, and as soon as he exited with the tote filled with cash, she took off with a tire squeal. That started everyone looking for two pregnant women with a Thelma-and-Louise streak.

When they were finally caught, no one was more surprised than the detectives that the robber who was politely taking money at the point of a gun -- was really a man. And, of course he was the father of Bonnie's child.

The trial that Joy and I were covering was for Bonnie. Clyde was a witness for the prosecution. See, he'd sold his girl out for lighter sentence. But she, loyal to the grave and even after having given birth in prison, vowed that she would never turn on him.

Ironically, it was this pair that united Joy and I in a unique friendship.

Each morning before the trial started, as I sat on a hard, pew-like courtroom bench, Joy would sidle in next to me with her conspiratorial smile and give me a gentle arm squeeze. "I heard some good gossip about Bonnie," she'd whisper, and then would regale me with the latest jail house activities of the femme fatale.

I was amazed that even though Joy knew I lived for beating her at the story, she still would share nuggets of color that she'd gleaned from bailiffs, detectives and court officials. She showed me how to work the ropes of the courthouse and gave me tips, the more experienced reporter to the cub reporter. She introduced me to people who had worked the case -- and even introduced me to Clyde himself.

Bonnie would show up for court usually in a prairie skirt or frilly white blouse, looking very much the ingénue. I'd marvel at her seeming innocence to the detective who would plant himself in the seat behind me and Joy.

"Don't feel sorry for her," he'd snarl in a Northeastern Maryland drawl. "She's not as sweet as she'd like you to think." He rolled his eyes at Joy, and she covered her mouth like a Southern Belle and quietly chuckled.

"But look at her," I said to both of them. "She just had a baby. There's no way that she wasn't manipulated by her boyfriend."

"Listen," the detective answered, leaning forward so that his head sat on the back of the bench between our two heads. "She's not going to fool the judge like she has you, I can tell you that much. The night we arrested her, she fought like a tomcat, kicking, scratching, biting."

I sucked in my breath, and Joy smiled at me and nodded her head.

"Not only that," the detective continued, "if you heard the words that came out of her mouth, you'd wonder if she'd risen straight from hell's belly. It's a good thing her child is in foster care, that's all I can tell you."

All three of us glanced in Bonnie's direction. As if sensing our collective gaze, she looked over her shoulder at the three of us, then made a face at the detective, whipped her head forward and defiantly crossed her arms.

"See?" he said with a laugh. "No remorse. To her, we're the bad guys for calling off her little bank robbing party."

"Um-hmm," said Joy in agreement as the bailiff announced the judge's entry.

We rose as the door to his chambers swung open and the aroma of the brewed Maxwell House filled the courtroom.

"I want coffee," I whispered to Joy.

"I know, it's not fair that he can brew that and make all of us smell it while we wait for him," she mumbled back.

"Wanna get some coffee after this?" I asked, catching myself by surprise that I'd even suggest lunch with my biggest competitor.

"I'd love it," she said. "I'll buy the coffee. And I'll take you to a place that has great Maryland She-crab soup."

"Deal," I said.

We sat simultaneously as the judge settled behind the bench and called the first witness, both of us flipping open our reporter notebooks and pulling the pencils that were tucked behind our ears.

And in that moment, I knew that Joy was going to be one of those friends I'd have for life.

I was too young to consider that within six years, she would be gone forever.

Tune in for part 3 of the story of how my atheist friend became a Christian ...

Joy in the Mourning

2010-11-23T06:26:00.000-08:00

Part one of this new story series ...

Maxwell House coffee.

Even today, 21 years since those three weeks in November 1991, I know the aroma of Maxwell House over any other brand.

And every time I snatch a whiff of it, I see Joy in my mind's eye:

Joy, with her Shirley Temple auburn tendrils that lushly framed an ivory complexion and soft brown eyes.

Joy, whose silky Alabamian drawl perpetuated a facade of seduction mixed with innocence.

Joy, the envy of every woman within 30 feet of where she stood, the embodiment of charisma and grace.

And Joy was my rival -- not only in the feminine sense, but also professionally.

We worked for competing newspapers in northeast Maryland -- she, for The News Journal of Wilmington, Del., and I -- for a 150-year-old daily rag called "The Cecil Whig," which had all of a whopping 13,000 readers.

What she had on me in experience and age, I had in pit bull aggression. For it was my goal to beat Joy on every daily story imagined. We both covered county politics and also occasionally court trials. Joy had an arm sleeve of contacts and sources that she'd developed over several years. I was an upstart who had only arrived on the scene a couple of months earlier.

Every time I beat Joy on a scoop, I did a little victory dance in front of my desk in the newsroom. Every time she walloped me? I put my head in my arms and moaned at her headline.

I didn't like Joy at first, not at all. To a cocky 24-year-old, Joy and her 38 years of maturity were infuriatingly annoying.

But that all changed in November 1991, when both Joy and I went head to head, covering a court trial for a Bonnie-and-Clyde bank robbing team.

You see, that's where I first took a whiff of Maxwell House coffee, which brewed every morning in the judge's chamber and wafted into the courtroom before proceedings began.

And that's where my life was changed forever ... by Joy.

Tune in tomorrow for part 2 of the story ....

New Blog Story Series to Start Soon

2010-11-20T06:05:00.000-08:00

Thanks to all of the readers who regularly check for new postings!

I'm in the midst of writing up 13 stories for one of my magazine clients. When I finish, we'll be jumping into a new story series. The topic? An atheist friend who accepted Jesus as her Savior before she died in 1996.

Stay tuned for "Joy in the Mourning ..." to be released this coming week on Christian Safehouse.

Thanks!

--Heidi Rafferty

HEIDI_RAFFERTY ON TWITTER IS NOT ME

2010-11-17T09:35:00.003-08:00

UPDATE ON THE POST BELOW: TWITTER HAS REMOVED THE IMPERSONATOR. MY NAME HEIDI RAFFERTY HAS BEEN RESTORED TO MY ACCOUNT AND IS PROTECTED BY AN OPEN CASE NUMBER ON FILE AT TWITTER. THANKS TO ALL OF MY SUPPORTERS AND FRIENDS WHO HELPED ME THROUGH THE ATTACK FOR MY FAITH.

MY IMPERSONATOR HAS JUST CREATED A "@HEIDI_RAFFERTY" ACCOUNT ON TWITTER. THIS IS NOT ME. PLEASE BLOCK AND READ STORY BELOW FOR MORE DETAILS. THAT'S @Heidi_Rafferty, with an underscore between first and last names. Thanks.

The Tale of Queen Aravis & The Thief in the Night

2010-11-17T03:07:00.000-08:00

Jesus told a parable that has come true in my life during the past few days.

"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full." -- John 10:10.

I had to change my Twitter name from Aslansmane to Queen Aravis after an atheist continually copied my identity, followed people I knew on Twitter and pretended to be me. He/she tweeted blasphemy as well as other things.

After I changed my name to Queen Aravis ... the thief found it and changed his name to Queen Arivas (He switched the I and the A). He is now following many people who know me and is doing what he can to destroy my name.

As a result, I have quit the social network Twitter to debate atheists for a few months, until I decide whether I want to continue with this. If you know anything about my personal life, you know that I have lost everything during the past 12 months. Now someone is trying to take the only thing I have left, which is my name. It's the one thing I have left to protect.

If you are being followed by Queen Arivas on Twitter and are my friend, please block this person, and please report this person to Twitter for impersonation. Twitter has allowed this person to continue to harass me unabated.

Additionally, a few minutes ago I learned that the impostor has copied a second protected Twitter account named, "abusedsurvivor." This was an account I was using to help victims of domestic abuse. He/she has renamed it "amusedsurvivor" and is now trying to pretend he's me. If you are followed by "amusedsurvivor," please block.

I also want to give everyone the heads-up that this impostor is now trying to copy my blog. I have changed the title to "Christian Safehouse" from "Priscilla's & Aquila's Place." I spent about two hours last night overhauling the design, after he/she repeatedly tried to copy mine. The address for this fake account is http://christianfakehouse.blogspot.com. The person has gone so far as to copy my former ID badge and copy my profile information word for word so that people will think this is me. I have reported this harassment to Blogger but am skeptical anything will be done. I realize the Internet is like the Wild Wild West with no rules, and this is the chance I take.

If you are willing to let me know if this person takes any other measures to rob my identity, you may email me at randrwriting@gmail.com.

And let's not forget -- the thief in the night comes to rob and destroy -- but Jesus does provide abundant life. We are treasured children. I believe on His Name.

Thanks.

Heidi Rafferty

Note To Readers from the How Good Is That Wordpress Blog

2010-11-11T07:42:00.000-08:00

A step out of the current story series for an important announcement:

It's come to my attention that a lot of you are now visiting Christian Safehouse because of a blog entitled, "How Good is That" on Wordpress.

I have not read the blog entry, because it has been written by a person who is angry with me for backing out of a book deal with him.

He is unemployed. I met him on Twitter and shared with him an idea I had for a book. He asked if he could co-write it with me. I received his first draft and saw he was going in a direction that was opposite of what I'd intended. I tried to back out. He persisted and suggested that I do two books, one with him and the other on my own with my original idea.

At the same time, I was working on his behalf to find him magazine freelance work with my editors. I write for eight magazines. I thought this guy deserved a break and wrote letters on his behalf to people in the industry.

At first it seemed to be like an okay arrangement. But then my co-author decided to smear me on his blog because he disagreed with a matter taking place on the social network Twitter. This matter had nothing to do with my professional life or the book we were supposed to be co-writing. I also was uncomfortable with the chapters he was submitting to me, as he seemed to be trying to determine the sole direction of the book content.

I decided it was in my best interest to back out of the book project. He'd only written 2 chapters, and not much work had gone into it. We did not have a contract. We always had the agreement that if we decided it wasn't going to work relationally, one of us could back out.

In retaliation for my decision, rather than accept it as a professional would and move on, he has chosen to write about me on his blog.

As I said earlier, I have no idea what the content is -- only that he is promoting this on Twitter and doing what he can to discredit my reputation.

You can believe what you want, but I just wanted to let everyone know that I tried to help this individual, and this was his repayment for my professional kindness and courtesy.

Oh. No comments will be posted on this entry. It's my blog, and it's my right to moderate comments and print them or not print them. If you don't like it, go read another blog.

Thanks.

Heidi Rafferty

ATHEISTS POST SECOND IMPERSONATION ACCOUNT OF ASLANSMANE ON TWITTER

2010-11-08T04:56:00.001-08:00

We'll continue with Part 5 of "The Great Twitter Experiment" tonight.

Please be advised that for the SECOND TIME, atheists on Twitter have created an impersonation account of my Aslansmane account.

If you are a Twitter user, be aware that they have switched the "L" and the "S" so that it reads "alsansmane." It is a protected account and so far is following 448 people.

PLEASE BLOCK THEM.

Thanks for your attention to this matter. Back to our story tonight! Be sure to tune in!

Heidi Rafferty.

Jesus Cooks Me Spaghetti

2010-08-26T18:07:00.000-07:00

In my dreams.
Last week, in REM sleep.

I am dreaming, and it's one of those dreams where you dream you've just awakened from sleep.

In my dream, I am in my soft bed, slumbering. Suddenly, the aroma of garlic wakes me. I see myself sit up from my pillow and look around. I know someone is in my house -- and I know exactly where they are because of the deliciousness wafting into my room. I pull my legs to the side of the bed and sink bare feet into pink slippers, pull on a robe and walk down my hallway, towards my kitchen.

The lights are dimmed. Only the sink light and the microwave light over the stove cast a glow. Steam rises from a pot of boiling spaghetti. The source of the garlic ... a pan of rich meat sauce.

And who is standing in front of my oven, stirring the pasta, sampling the sauce with a wooden spoon?

You won't get over this:

It's Jesus.

"Wow," I say to myself. "Jesus is in my kitchen, cooking me spaghetti!"

Spaghetti is my favorite meal. It has been since I was a small child. It symbolizes comfort, nourishment. It brings to mind lunches in first grade, when my mother would pack Ragu-flavored noodles into a small thermos. It is the embodiment of care-taking for me.

And Jesus is making it for me.

"You're here!" He says, smiling at me. I stand at His elbow, the steam from the boiling water surrounding me like a warm hug. I watch Him stir the sauce.

"I have something for you," He continues, turning to grab something on the counter. He hands me a heavy frosty glass, filled with a rosy liquid. "Have some Communion wine. It's your favorite."

I bring the wine to my lips -- ahhh! It's the same wine I receive during Communion every Sunday morning! And it's COLD! It's delicious! It coats my throat, gloriously quenching my thirst, setting off my taste buds like fireworks.

Jesus keeps smiling at me and turns back to the stove. I say nothing. I'm simply in awe of Him, amazed that He's actually here in my kitchen, making me dinner, giving me Communion wine with His own lovely pierced hands.

But what is most amazing ... there is a song playing over and over as Jesus and I stand side by side while He cooks. It sounds like a Lutheran liturgical chant. Lilting tenor voices tenderly massage the melody.

And these are the words they are singing:

He prepares a table before me ...

in the presence of my enemies ...

He prepares a table before me ...

in the presence of my enemies ...

He prepares a table before me ...

in the presence of my enemies ...

Over and over they sing the words.

Over and over.

Over and over.

And then I wake up.

I'm in my room. It' 6 a.m., time for Neil's school bus to arrive shortly. The bedroom is black. The sun hasn't risen. There is no garlic, no cozy kitchen, no Jesus standing at my stove.

But my heart is warm.

And within two hours of waking ... I face enemies.

I face people who don't understand me, who judge me, who fear me. I face betrayal. I face hate. I face mortification. I face undeserved shame. I face callousness.

But in the midst of it -- in the midst of all of it ... I see Jesus in my mind's eye, standing before my stove, cooking spaghetti for me, handing me an ice cold glass of wine.

I hear the song of monks.

He prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies.

He did. He prepared me for my day. He reminded me before it started that He would be with me, that no matter what was ahead of me ... He'd prepared the table.

On Sunday morning, a few days later, I went to the front of my church for Communion. As my pastor poured the wine into a small cup for me to drink and I lifted it to my lips, the same fragrant bouquet hit me as in my dream.

I closed my eyes and smiled.

"Hey," I said to Him.

"Thanks for the spaghetti. Thanks for preparing the table before me. Thanks for Communing with me. And thanks for Your love."

I heard Him speak in my heart.

"You're welcome."

Answer to the "Spiritual Atheist" Point of View

2010-07-30T03:48:00.000-07:00

Conclusion.

The video from yesterday by a young atheist who defined "spiritual" for himself was a great summation of what I've heard from atheists on Twitter who have seriously thought through their decision of non-belief.

And now for the other side of the coin.

Here's an excerpt from "The Silver Chair," which is part of the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, a former atheist turned Christian. And IT is the perfect summation of why Christians choose to believe. One reason I love the Narnia Chronicles is that although they're children's books, Lewis conveys difficult-to-understand spiritual concepts so succinctly and easily. This is a fantastic example.

Read it, compare it to the video posted below ... and post your thoughts. I'd love to hear from both atheists and Christians on this.

The Silver Chair – Chapter 12

“One word, Ma'am,” he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a playworld which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play-world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia.”

Spirituality for Atheists?

2010-07-29T09:14:00.000-07:00

An atheist on Twitter brought this video to my attention. It's completely gorgeous and well-done. I'd like opinions from both sides on this. What do you think? Let's open the door for some constructive discussion. Tomorrow we'll look at the other point of view, from the book "The Silver Chair," by C.S. Lewis.

Forgiving the Haters: Parental Discretion Advised

2010-07-22T17:42:00.000-07:00

Parents: Please make sure young children are not viewing the screen with you as you read this blog post. Thanks.

Have you ever been faced with someone who outright hates you because you proclaim the Name of Jesus?

This week, I have met several of them on Twitter. In fact, although I had a Twitter account with 2,200 followers, I had to shut it down due to incessant harassment from these individuals.

I received photos like this, which I won't post here because it's so shocking, but go to this link:

http://www.funny-games.biz/images/pictures/39-attention2.jpg

I received messages like this on my blog:

"You do recognize that it's not the fantasy of a loving "deity" we're offended by. It's the crazy bitch who won't SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GET OUT OF OUR FACES. In other words, it's YOU."

And I received messages like this on Twitter:

"Jesus did not die for me, he should have asked first, I would have told him not to be an idiot. I forgive you for being a moron."

I watched as people pilfered through my blog posts like voyeurs, quoting, misquoting, maligning, criticizing, deriding. I was amazed that they went so far as to look up my contact information on my professional Web site and conspire to publish my phone numbers and call them (no longer good numbers, by the way). They came up with a Twitter hashtag campaign, WWHRD (What Would Heidi Raff(erty) Do?) to mock me and also talked about a parody Twitter account called Heidi Rat. They pulled up my body of work, magazine articles I've written during the past nine years, and circulated them to laugh at them.

Then, when I closed down my Twitter account and launched a new one with an incognito identity, they trolled through the timelines of known friends of mine on Twitter. They figured out who was talking to someone new and discovered my account. Then they published that account with my ID and continued their harassment throughout today.

Here's the thing.

They aren't attacking me.

Whether they know it or not, they are attacking the One who loves them.

Why do you think people go out of their way to harass one individual like that, with such venom and hatred? Why do you suppose they get upset when told, "God loves you," or, "Jesus died for you?"

Could it be that deep down, they hear the Voice of the One who seeks them, even in their bigotry, even in their darkest actions?

Absolutely.

And here's what He brought to mind to me today, when all was said and done:

"You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.'But I tell you, Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.

"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? 48Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect." -- Matthew 5: 38-47

So.

I will love my enemies.

I will pray for those who persecute me.

I will bless those who deride me.

I will pray for them, pray for their children, ask God to bless them and to wrap them in His arms.

Why?

He commands it.

And He loves them.

And I forgive them.

Joe's (Unholy) Jihad Against Atheists

2010-05-27T05:28:00.000-07:00

SECOND NOTE TO READERS OF "HOW GOOD IS THAT" WORDPRESS BLOG:

Originally there was another blog post here, as you can see from the title. I'm not sure what's occurring on Twitter or why people have been hitting this particular blog entry in droves since yesterday (April 4). But I can tell you one thing:

I am no longer using Twitter. At all.

I am not seeking drama. At all.

I am minding my own business.

If Jim Gardner is now waging a new character assassination vendetta, please tell him to get a real life and that I'm praying for him.

And if you want to know what happened ... read the first note I posted to all of you in November (below).

Whatever is going on, I don't care. You shouldn't, either. But feel free to peruse my blog if you want to read more about Jesus.

Thank you, and God bless you. Even Jim.
Heidi Rafferty

FIRST NOTE TO READERS OF "HOW GOOD IS THAT" WORDPRESS BLOG: (This was posted in November 2011)

It's come to my attention that a lot of you are now visiting Christian Safehouse because of a blog entitled, "How Good is That" on Wordpress.

I have not read the blog entry, because it has been written by a person who is angry with me for backing out of a book deal with him.

He is unemployed. I met him on Twitter and shared with him an idea I had for a book. He asked if he could co-write it with me. I received his first draft and saw he was going in a direction that was opposite of what I'd intended. I tried to back out. He persisted and suggested that I do two books, one with him and the other on my own with my original idea.

At the same time, I was working on his behalf to find him magazine freelance work with my editors. I write for eight magazines. I thought this guy deserved a break and wrote letters on his behalf to people in the industry.

At first it seemed to be like an okay arrangement. But then my co-author decided to smear me on his blog because he disagreed with a matter taking place on the social network Twitter. This matter had nothing to do with my professional life or the book we were supposed to be co-writing. I also was uncomfortable with the chapters he was submitting to me, as he seemed to be trying to determine the sole direction of the book content.

I decided it was in my best interest to back out of the book project. He'd only written 2 chapters, and not much work had gone into it. We did not have a contract. We always had the agreement that if we decided it wasn't going to work relationally, one of us could back out.

In retaliation for my decision, rather than accept it as a professional would and move on, he has chosen to write about me on his blog.

As I said earlier, I have no idea what the content is -- only that he is promoting this on Twitter and doing what he can to discredit my reputation.

You can believe what you want, but I just wanted to let everyone know that I tried to help this individual, and this was his repayment for my professional kindness and courtesy.

Thanks.

Heidi Rafferty

The R.J. Corman Car Game

2010-05-06T09:35:00.000-07:00

Plunked in the middle of Kentucky's blue grass are rows upon rows of stark white fences. They roll from one hill to the next like dominoes and stretch on the horizon like a yoga master. They wall off the fiefdom of a 21st century railroad magnate named R.J. Corman.

Corman's presence in central Kentucky is distinctive. Besides the white fences, he has other trademarks: Red spindle-tops adorn white Churchill Downs-like barns. Stone gates to long driveways herald their owner's name. But what really stands out are the railway cars themselves. Around corporate headquarters, several are grouped like fattened cows by the River Nile, all of them, red, all of them, lettered in bold white: "R.J. CORMAN."

So when I drive Neil 45 minutes to his little country school, he and I make the most of our trip by playing what we call, "The R.J. Corman Game." Adults would quickly tire of it, but for a 6-year-old, this game is the bomb.

As we drive, whoever first spots a white fence, spindled barn, stone fence or railway car shouts, "R.J. Corman!" The winner, of course, shouts the name the most.

This would seem to be a pretty open-and-shut goal except for one thing. There are some copy cats along the road, people who have obviously admired the Corman panache and have tried to emulate it with their own red-and-white barns and fences.

Sometimes this really confuses Neil. In his excitement, he'll yell, "R.J. Corman!" only to have me shake my head and say, "No buddy, see? Look how that place doesn't look new or clean. And the fence is white, but it's really old."

"Oh, wight, Mommy," he says in his lisp, substituting his ws for rs. "I forgot!"

The game then goes downhill as we also coast downward and across the Kentucky river. Now there are grey barns, ramshackle homes and derelict structures. Neil loves to "put on his silly face," as I call it, and start pointing willy nilly at these lovely objects. "R.J. Corman! R.J. Corman! R.J. Corman! R.J. Corman!" he gleefully shouts, and I finally have to put the nix on it with a tickle in his ribs and a sighed, "Let's do this again tomorrow morning."

So what's my point in telling you all of this?

It occurred to me this morning, as we were playing this little game, that the return of Jesus to earth will be as easy to spot as ... well ... an R.J. Corman railway car.

Do you ever worry that this anti-Christ stuff will be just a little too confusing for you? Sometimes I have worried that. I'm like any other Christian, pulling out Revelation when I have insomnia and scaring myself with the various prophecies. But the anti-Christ prophecy is the one that scares me the most, because so many people will be fooled by this guy.

And it hit me today: I have nothing to fear. Neither do you, if you really know Him, because just like Neil and I can easily identify the Corman name and Corman properties, knowing them from the pretenders and even those that are obviously not anywhere near "Corman quality," we will also know -- clearly -- when Jesus has shown up.

Check out Matthew 24: 26-31 ... and take heart. It will be as clear to you as R.J. Corman:

"So if anyone tells you, 'There he is, out in the desert,' do not go out; or, 'Here he is, in the inner rooms,' do not believe it. For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. Wherever there is a carcass, there the vultures will gather.

"Immediately after the distress of those days
" 'the sun will be darkened,
and the moon will not give its light;
the stars will fall from the sky,
and the heavenly bodies will be shaken.'

"At that time the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the sky, and all the nations of the earth will mourn. They will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of the sky, with power and great glory. And he will send his angels with a loud trumpet call, and they will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of the heavens to the other."

The Indian Princess, Unveiled

2010-04-30T09:44:00.000-07:00

Conclusion of this story series.

A Performance of “Riverdance.”
Wednesday night.
Norton Center for the Arts.
Danville, Kentucky.

She dances.

My breath, caught in my throat, struggles to expel through my lungs, but I am holding it fast … while she dances.

She stands atop a staircase, against a backdrop of tall flames, her crimson dress matching the image of consuming fire.

She dances.

She raises her arms over her head, mimicking the arc of ire, moving, bending … writhing.

She dances.

Is she symbolic fire?

Is the fire symbolic of her?

Is the flame … within her?

I cannot tell which. Perhaps it is one, perhaps all three, but there’s no mistaking that as I watch muy bonita, she most definitely personifies one thing for me: My Indian Princess of long ago.

She whirls down the stairway, her skirt flaring as she whips her hips and stomps dainty dancing shoes. The drum rhythm, repetitive and primitive, accelerates. She and the beat are one, passionate, painful, unrelenting, unstoppable.

I see her dancing on the hot coals, my Indian Princess, unveiled, exposed, burning, hurting. She is all that I am, all that I feel, all that I have experienced. She is the anguish churning in my heart. Salt touches my lips, and I realize that tears have traveled down my cheeks. I am transfixed, just as I was on that long ago summer night around the campfire at age 10, listening to the teen-age camp counselor weave the tale of the princess in search of love.

Then.

She is surrounded by other dancers. They move with her, angling with the direction of her body, bringing their arms around her waist and behind her back.

And they lift her.

High above their heads, she is held. They dance in her place. I see in my mind’s eye the suitor who grabbed the princess, rescued her from the coals and danced in her place.

It all makes sense, this journey, one that began with a child’s imaginings, continued in a symbolic lifelong habit of walking on hot sand and pavement and culminated here, on this night, watching this skilled dancer unknowingly play out the tale.

No longer does it matter what I am experiencing – the harshness of life, the unfairness of circumstances, the heartache of my soul.

I do not have to dance on the hot coals alone.

I can be – and I am being – carried. Others are lifting me up, dancing in my place, bringing my concerns before my Father. They’ve always been there for me, too, these princes and princesses, stomping their feet, fervently praying, taking my place when I am too weak to stand alone and utter the words, “Help me. Dance for me.”

They are the Christian safe house.

They are the Indian suitor, rescuers, who love and who sustain.

They … are you.

The Indian Princess Dances

2010-04-23T05:57:00.000-07:00

After that summer camp story of the Indian Princess dancing on the hot coals, for whatever reason, my childhood mind aspired to do the same.

So everywhere I went in summer months, I went barefoot.

On scorching pavement and concrete, I went barefoot.

On blistering beach sand, I went barefoot.
On patios, sidewalks, on walking trails that meandered through public parks and on the melting Macadam of driveways in front of my houses … I went barefoot.

By the time I was a teen-ager, the desire to be an Indian Princess had recessed into the imagination of childhood … and I’d forgotten the reason I went barefoot everywhere.

I just did.

I continued to go barefoot, to traipse the heat of the world’s surface, because … well, it was just a habit.

My teens merged into my 20s. My 20s became my 30s.

And I was still going barefoot, hither and yon. Whenever the opportunity arose to shed my shoes, I did so with glee, not quite remembering the reason, just knowing that I loved to be free to walk … barefoot.

Then I got married.

My husband noticed that my feet were hard and calloused. He complained that they weren’t soft and supple, like other women he’d been with.

I started wearing shoes again.

I became embarrassed about the state of my soles.

And before I knew it, my body itself was protesting the long years of my barefoot existence. My feet grew painful corns, tough ridges of skin on the edges of my heels. I could feel the real skin underneath the protective layers – but the layers themselves were actually painful.

I tried to rid myself of the problem I’d created.

I used all manner of cutting devices, even a grating device, to recreate the feet I had before the summer of the tale of the Indian Princess – the feet of a child. I had infections in my feet, cuts, sores, blisters. I covered them in antibiotic ointments, always trying to self-correct them, then always trying to self-heal them.

All lotions, creams, pedicure instruments, advice from a doctor even – nothing would rid me of what I now saw as ugly, repulsive, disgusting, painful … and worst of all … ridiculous.

I would think to myself, “All of this started because of that stupid story about the Indian princess and the hot coals.” And I would berate myself and chide myself and even hate myself for it.

What I didn’t realize, though, was that the matter was much more than about calloused feet.

It had everything to do … with a Christian safehouse.

Tune in tomorrow for the next part of the story …

Gao Zhisheng Confirmed 'Alive!' Thanks to International Support

2010-03-30T02:52:00.001-07:00

A step outside of the story for an important announcement from China Aid:

SHANXI -- On Sunday, March 28, 2010, missing human rights lawyer Gao Zhisheng spoke to his wife and children for the first time in over a year - confirming he is still alive! False rumors of his death, torture, and escape from the custody of the Chinese Government have shrouded Gao's absence with mystery for over a year. Gao's brief phone conversations with western media mark the first official contact the public has had with him since his abduction by police on February 4, 2009.

Yesterday, Gao informed reporters that he had been released from detention six months ago, and had taken up residence at Wutai Shan mountain, a Buddhist landmark in northern Shanxi province. He refused to give details on his condition or whereabouts, saying he could not legally give interviews.

Close friend and fellow human rights lawyer Li Heping confirmed he had also spoken with Gao on Sunday. Gao told him he had "friends around him" - indicating he was being held under close surveillance by Chinese authorities.

Gao's wife Geng He and their children were overwhelmed with emotion as they spoke with Gao on Sunday morning. The children could not stop crying. In a statement released on Monday morning, Geng He appealed to the Chinese government to allow Gao Zhisheng to join the family in New York. Gao's family has suffered greatly in his absence. Geng He's parents have been severely harassed in recent months, for which Gao feels guilty.

He told the Associated Press, "I just want to be in peace and quiet for a while and be reunited with my family. Most people belong with family. I have not been with mine for a long time. This is a mistake and I want to correct this mistake."

While on his campaign in Europe to promote awareness of Gao's cause, ChinaAid President Bob Fu attributed the breakthrough to increased international pressure. "Thanks to the more than 124,000 supporters in over 180 countries around the world who have signed the petition to Free Gao, the Chinese Government has been forced to respond and to allow Gao Zhisheng to reconnect with his loved ones."

ChinaAid thanks you for your continued support and urges you to continue to take action. From Argentina to Zimbabwe, you, the international community have answered the call. And this is just the beginning.

Gao is not free yet. His movements are still being watched and monitored. He is not free to speak publicly or without surveillance. We must continue to press the Chinese government to free Gao Zhisheng, to uncensor his movements, and to allow him to reunite with his family.

Take Action:

Encourage more to Sign the Petition. Every voice counts, and every voice will be heard!
Call on your local representatives to take official action on behalf of Gao Zhisheng.
Urge U.N Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon to hold the Chinese government to the international covenants on human rights.
Thanks to you, the world has now regained contact with Mr. Gao Zhisheng. Because of you, Gao was able to reconnect with his family. With your continued support, we can make their dream of reunion a reality!

For more ways to get involved, visit www.FreeGao.com.

Tale of the Indian Princess and the Hot Coals

2010-03-25T10:14:00.001-07:00

Part one.

Summer 1975.
The Salvation Army's Camp Allegheny.
Near Ellwood City, Pennsylvania.

I am 10.

For the summer, I live with my parents at The Salvation Army's camp for inner city children. They run the entire operation, and my brother and I have full run of the place -- an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a creek, forest trails, even a barn with a rope for a swing and a massive pile of hay on which to fall.

And during one week in the summer, I get to experience what the other kids experience -- I get to be "a camper." As the school buses bring in children from all over Western Pennsylvania hovels, I am assigned with them to an A-frame cabin, where I sleep on a cot and trade ghost stories and participate in all of the programs as one of them.

This particular night, we're sitting around a campfire. As the logs pop and the sparks crackle in the cool northern Pennsylvania night air, my teen-age camp counselor puts a flashlight underneath her chin.

"Do you want to hear a freaky story?" she asks.

"YES!" we all shout, and we scoot to the edge of our log-carved seats so that we don't miss a word.

"Once," she begins, "there was a beautiful Indian princess. She feared no man. She hunted deer and bear and made beautiful winter coats and blankets from their skins and roasted their meat in open fires. She went to war alongside the warriors, while the squaws of the village tended the fires and took care of the babies. She had the heart of a lion.

"One day, the princess was in the field, gathering herbs for a special banquet. She was going to be married, you see, but she had to choose the man who would be worthy of her. It was her job to create the feast and judge each suitor as he came to eat it. She was perplexed, for there was more than one man who could easily become her husband.

"As she bent over to pull some of these herbs, she suddenly saw a pair of bare feet standing before her. They were rough and worn. She looked up into the face of a mysterious old woman.

"'Princess,'" the woman said, "'Tonight you will choose your husband. To find the man who is worthy of your heart, you must do one thing. While they eat, you must perform a dance. But this is no ordinary dance. You must take hot coals from the fire and while the men are dining, dance like you've never danced before -- atop the coals of the fire of the feast.'

"Suddenly, the woman vanished! The princess wondered if she was losing her mind, but she decided to do what the ghostly woman had commanded. As the men gorged themselves, she went to the fire and with stick pulled hot coals from it, laying it before their table. Then she stepped onto the coals to the beat of the drum. And as the coals seared the flesh of her feet, she began to dance wildly, chanting and singing.

"She didn't get far into her dance, when she felt strong arms grabbing at her and pulling her up from the fire. The warrior held her as a baby to his chest. And as the drum continued to beat, he danced on the coals for her.

"And this, my children, is how the Indian Princess found the true love of her life."

We were aghast, silent, amazed.

As I tucked into my sleeping bag on the small metal cot later that night, I stared at the slanted roof of the A-frame cabin. I replayed the story over and over in my mind.

I wanted so badly to become that Indian Princess, who danced on the hot coals.

What does this have to do with a Christian safehouse? Tune in tomorrow for the next part of the story.

How God Wants Us to Get Along

2010-03-21T08:10:00.001-07:00

Sometimes a picture really is a thousand words.

Take a look at this photo and just do one thing for me: Remember that no matter what differences you have with another believer, this is really how God wants us to love each other.

Please pray for His love to envelope us in the sweetness we see here.

An Uproar in Heaven

2010-03-17T03:57:00.000-07:00

Pause. Stop.

Consider.

When you pray for another person -- really pray -- you have just created an uproar in Heaven.

How do I know?

I have this week experienced a storm, a fallout, a catastrophe.

When I have been unable to think straight, other people have decided to pray on my behalf.

And when they prayed, I knew that all of Heaven was in an uproar.

For me.

I knew that the Son who died for my sins was pleading for me to the Father. I knew that the forces of His armies came to my aid.

And why?

Because I heard the sound of His voice, clearly, succinctly, without question.

Your prayers are powerful. When you take a cause to Him, when you stop in your day to ponder the plight of someone else, when you bow your head and whisper their name and beg for His intervention ... Heaven sounds alarms.

Heaven answers.

You may not know the result of your prayers immediately. You may not even realize that as you breathe the person's name in your thoughts that an answer is coming soon.

But I can tell you with all certainty: You've just summoned the aid of the Almighty, the Powerful, the Loving Father, the Prince of Peace, the Spirit of Truth.

Think of it.

There's an uproar in Heaven when you pray.

Have you prayed today? Have you summoned the alarm for someone else who needs it? Have you begged their cause to the King? If you love Him, you can be assured He's getting the message, loud and clear.

The uproar begins with a whisper on your lips and ends with a trumpeting shout before God Himself.

And in His mercy, love and kindness, He will rescue.

So try it now.

Pray for someone.

Raise an uproar in Heaven.

When is it OK to Leave a Church?

2010-03-16T06:32:00.000-07:00

My sweet cousin Windsor just sent this video to me. It's 2 minutes long, and it has some great points. If you've been following the blog you know the events of the past four days.

I'd like to say that I am in process of discussions with top leaders at Quest Community Church and also seeking the counsel of wise Christians who do not attend. This, coupled with prayer, the study of I John and also requests and acceptance of forgiveness on both sides, is helping me put Humpty Dumpty together again. Thanks to all of you who have supported and loved me. Take a moment to watch the video below, and I continue to covet your prayers. -- Heidi

Phillip Jensen asks Mark Dever - When is it ever right to leave a church? from Audio Advice on Vimeo.

My Rice-and-Bean Fast for Haiti

2010-03-06T19:16:00.000-08:00

On Thursday night, I was given the opportunity to fast for 2.5 days. While fasting, I was to pray for the people of Haiti. The menu – ½ cup of rice and ½ cup of beans – for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Nothing more. The fast was to end Sunday at noon. It is 10:15 p.m. on Saturday night, and I made it 50 hours.
While I did this, I kept this small journal. I’d like to share it with you. Please read it prayerfully and consider giving whatever you can to the people of Haiti. Here’s a link if you don’t know where to start: www.questcommunity.com/haiti.
Thank you.

Day One, Friday

7:15 a.m. My stomach is grumbling during my devotions. I see images in my mind of children with grumbling stomachs. I will wait for breakfast while I think about and pray for the people whose stomachs grumble with no relief in sight.

8:55 a.m. – Eating my first course of Vigo “completely seasoned, easy to prepare Black Beans & Rice” (and the package also says authentic Cuban recipe). Topped it with red wine vinegar. Actually, with Starbucks coffee, it’s tasty, even for breakfast. But then I start wondering … the seasoning offerings and the Starbucks are definitely not available in Haiti. Does this take away from the full experience?

3:17 p.m. – REALLY struggling now. Want so badly to stop this fasting. I had rice and beans for lunch, and I never thought it would be this difficult to stay focused. How do people do this, when food is scarce? It affects your mind, your mood, your alertness. Hunger is uncomfortable and painful. I am really hating this.

4:12 p.m. – HUNGER. IS. PAINFUL. I’m so sick.

Day Two, Saturday

8:33 a.m. – Last night I gave in and ate 8 gummy candies. Then I felt guilty and even sicker than I do with just the rice and beans. As I put Neil to bed and he went to sleep in my arms, I looked at his beautiful face, so full and healthy. He does not know what it means to be hungry. My stomach was hurting so badly, and I thought, “This is how someone’s baby feels right now in Haiti.” I cried, not just for the children who are hungry but also for their parents, who must feel so frustrated and heartbroken that their babies have nothing to eat. What a terrible thing this is. What a horrible predicament. I prayed so fervently for the children, while Neil’s breath puffed from his mouth and as he slept, totally unaware of the plight of others his age.

2 p.m. – Just ate my lunch of rice and beans. My head hurts. My stomach is raw. My concentration is off. My mood is grumpy. I’m sleepy. I don’t know how people exist like this. And it’s only been a day-and-a-half! Praying for God to help workers rebuild infrastructure so that the food can get to the people. It is so amazing how this is clarifying the situation in my mind.

5:20 p.m. – Woke from a three-hour nap. The lack of food made me so tired that I couldn’t keep my eyes open. What has surprised me, probably the most about this experience, is my cavalier attitude of the past towards people in famine. I would see photos on the news of people receiving rice and think, “Well now they have something to eat. I could survive on rice! It wouldn’t be completely nutritional, but it would be enough to live on.” How horrible of me. Only someone in a country like America, where there is plenty on top of plenty, could possibly think like that. I’m ashamed at my past calloused thinking. This experience, though short-lived, has given me such an incredible window into what happens to the body and mind. And I’ve only been doing this a day-and-a-half! What if we were without food for days, weeks, months? When we see photos of emaciated people and children with protruding stomachs, we are looking at suffering, plain and simple.

6:09 p.m. – I would give anything for an apple on my kitchen counter right now. I thought when this started, “I’ll probably crave pizza or a Big Mac.” Wrong. I crave sweet, juicy fruit. Even a glass of milk feels like a luxury. Why don’t I eat it? People tell me I’m not accomplishing anything by doing this. Here’s what I’m accomplishing: I’m learning how other people feel, experiencing something at the same time that they are. Though we are thousands of miles apart, every time my stomach grumbles, I hear their stomachs grumbling. Every time my head hurts, I know someone in Haiti has that symptom, too. Every time I feel like I want to cry for hunger, I think of the babies who are crying to their mothers, “I’m hungry, Mommy. I’m hungry.” And I think of the helpless moms, who can do nothing but try to shush and quiet them, as they themselves battle these same physical symptoms.
God, bring the resources to these people. Help rescue agencies build the infrastructure to get there. Rescue them! Help them! They are dying. They are dying.

10:06 p.m. – I broke my fast about 30 minutes ago. Came downstairs after putting Neil to bed, and I was dizzy. My head was pounding, and I was so nauseated. I opened up a small yogurt and weighed whether to stop fasting. I decided … I have to stop. I feel much better after eating that, plus an apple and a 4-inch pizza.

I made it 50 hours.

But my heart aches, knowing that while I can choose to stop eating like this, hundreds of thousands of people in Haiti are still on this rancid diet … if they are lucky to have food at all.

How do people live in these conditions?

Not only that, they’re in tents. They don’t even have a home. I have all of the trappings of American life around me.

Tonight, Neil and I went to Wal-Mart to pick up some milk and other sundries. I looked around me at all of the food, all of the people mindlessly throwing it into their baskets. Until Thursday night, when I started this fast, I was one of them. I will never go into a grocery store again with that attitude.

We have so much. They have so little. And the little they had was taken from them in one terrible moment.

No, I haven’t traveled there. I haven’t seen the tragedy with my own eyes. I really have no idea – NONE – about what they are experiencing. I can’t even fathom it.

But this was an amazing opportunity for me to try to get a tiny peek into what their bodies feel like. And with that physical discomfort, I get another look into their emotions. What if, on top of all of this, my child was dead? Or what if I were dead and my child was wandering a street, with his hand out, asking people for food, looking for shelter and protection with no one to help him? The idea of that alone just breaks me in half.

We can’t forget them.

We mustn’t forget them.

Pray.

Pray for Haiti.

Our Future with The Mysterious King on the Throne

2010-03-01T05:52:00.000-08:00

I told you the story wasn't over.

In fact, the ending hasn't even occurred yet. But if we believe in the Mysterious King on the Throne, if we place our trust in Him and accept His love and forgiveness, we have this assurance: We will be with Him forever.

An atheist friend of mine is trying to understand the concept of Heaven. What does it mean to worship eternally, she wondered. I have come to realize that for people who have not personally experienced this lavish presence of the Mysterious King on the Throne, it truly is inconceivable, and the reasons behind it may seem foolish.

When we love someone, we just want to spend every moment with them. I gave my husband a card once that said, "I'd rather do nothing with you than something with anybody else." That's how it is, isn't it? We just love being in the presence of the one we love. We don't want to separate from their warm embrace or be far from their voice.

If you know Jesus, then you know that with Him, the depth of feeling is indescribable -- all other human relationships are just tips of an undersea mountainous glacier.

Worship.

It seems unfathomable that we would worship Him forever. And yet, when I do have the opportunity to worship, when I have had the awesome experience of glimpses of that heavenly communion, I can barely stand the wait.

Just to give you a taste of it ... here's part of John's vision in Revelation. It won't surprise you that it matches up with what Isaiah saw in the temple, thousands of years earlier.

Guess what ... we will be there.

And we will worship Him.

Revelation 4

"After this I looked, and there before me was a door standing open in heaven. And the voice I had first heard speaking to me like a trumpet said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this." At once I was in the Spirit, and there before me was a throne in heaven with someone sitting on it. And the one who sat there had the appearance of jasper and carnelian. A rainbow, resembling an emerald, encircled the throne. Surrounding the throne were twenty-four other thrones, and seated on them were twenty-four elders. They were dressed in white and had crowns of gold on their heads. From the throne came flashes of lightning, rumblings and peals of thunder. Before the throne, seven lamps were blazing. These are the seven spirits[a] of God. Also before the throne there was what looked like a sea of glass, clear as crystal.

In the center, around the throne, were four living creatures, and they were covered with eyes, in front and in back. The first living creature was like a lion, the second was like an ox, the third had a face like a man, the fourth was like a flying eagle. Each of the four living creatures had six wings and was covered with eyes all around, even under his wings. Day and night they never stop saying: "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come." Whenever the living creatures give glory, honor and thanks to him who sits on the throne and who lives for ever and ever, the twenty-four elders fall down before him who sits on the throne, and worship him who lives for ever and ever. They lay their crowns before the throne and say:
"You are worthy, our Lord and God,
to receive glory and honor and power,
for you created all things,
and by your will they were created
and have their being."

The Mysterious King Hangs Out with Heidi

2010-02-26T02:14:00.000-08:00

Part five of this story series ...

My car.
Circle 4 Beltway, a highway.
Encircles Lexington, Kentucky.

It doesn't matter where I'm driving or the time of day.

Every time I pass this place on Circle 4, a loop around our city of Lexington, Kentucky, I feel the same magnetic pull.

I can see it in the distance, about two miles after I pull off the entrance ramp. As it gets closer, it's all I can do to keep my eyes on the road and other drivers.

I'm just drawn to it, you see.

Then I pass it, to the right, and my head just sort of turns so that I can gaze at it. I always smile. I always breathe it in.

And I never fail to want to completely abandon my original destination, pull off the highway, and drive straight to it. All I want to do is head to the parking lot, and without abandon, walk through the doors and stay there.

Just stay there.

Just sit and hang out with The Mysterious King.

The place, you see, is my church.

How can I describe this to you, this sense of longing to be there?

King David said it best in Psalm 26:8: "I love the house where you live, O LORD, the place where your glory dwells."

And in Psalm 84:10: "Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere; I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked."

Even though I know there is nothing going on in the place, sometimes I just want, like David, to sit in the quiet of the place where we worship. Just being near it -- just driving past it on a highway! -- fills me with indescribable joy. Often when I'm scurrying in my errands and I pass my church, I think to myself, "If only I could just go in there and sit for an hour, just sit, and talk to Him in the place where hundreds of people praise Him."

Worship.

For many people, it's a drudgery, a scheduled necessity to their week.

For me, it's the creme de la creme, the time when I get to hang out with The Mysterious King -- the same King who appeared to Isaiah thousands of years ago, the same King who admonished the Pharisees ... the same King who died for me. And I get to hear others around me in their joy as they worship Him, too.

And yet.

When I sense these urgings to sit in the place, to interrupt my day and just be there, He comes to me.

Yes, right in my car, He comes to me.

The Mysterious King hangs out with Heidi.

"I love hanging out with you, too," He speaks to my heart. In such moments, I turn to the passenger seat and in my mind's eye see Him sitting there, smiling at me.

In those moments, which I can tell you are completely the best of my week, I sing to Him.

And He sings over me, loving me, surrounding me, enveloping me.

My car? It becomes the place of worship to which I am longing to run.

Think of the original story of Isaiah, seeing the Mysterious King surrounded by beautiful angelic creatures. Think of his lips being touched with live coals and how his sin was forgiven. Think of the majesty that surrounded him, the glory.

Now do something for me.

Realize that all of that -- ALL of that -- is available to you, too.

The richness of His Presence is tangible. Worship does not have to be a chore for you. It can, and should be, the time when you feel the deepest joy, because after all, it's how you are made! You are made to worship and adore Him.

And in doing so, He will hang out with you, Friend with friend, and possess you with that indescribable and beautiful Presence.

Even in your car.

But wait! The story isn't over yet! Tune in tomorrow (and yes, I will blog it tomorrow!) for the awesome conclusion to the tale of The Mysterious King.

The Mysterious King Confronts False Followers

2010-02-22T04:06:00.001-08:00

Part 4 of this story series ...

The Passover Feast.
2,000 years ago.
Jerusalem, Israel.

They were the most highly esteemed men.

Religious leaders of their day, they propelled an entire nation through a stormy sea of Roman-era occupation.

They’d been taught the Law and the Prophets by the best experts: the scholars, the lawyers. They were raised in the best of homes. They had been taken to the Temple as week-old infants, and because of their Levite heritage, they were even then designated as part of the priestly remnant of the people.

They answered the most difficult questions, probing ancient manuscripts for answers.

They offered sacrifices to atone for the sins of others.

They alone had access to God’s inner court, the Holy of Holies.

Everywhere they went, they were revered. Respected. Elevated. Praised.

They went through the machinations of the Mosaic texts with determined accuracy, even building “rules for the rules” so that not one ink spot would be overlooked.

Their “worship” consisted of all of these trappings of outward religious activities and symbols.

But their hearts?

They preferred to overlook the hardship of their neighbor than break a rule for observing the Sabbath. In everyday life, they preached the intention of God’s word but failed to live it out.

In short, they were religious, not righteous.

Rule followers, but not loving.

And as a result, they were proud, arrogant, angry … and hateful.

What they didn’t realize was that centuries ago, when Isaiah saw the Mysterious King on the throne in the Temple, he also received a special prophecy – concerning them:

“He has blinded their eyes
and deadened their hearts,
so they can neither see with their eyes,
nor understand with their hearts,
nor turn—and I would heal them.”

They were so immersed in their regimented world that they didn’t recognize the King that Isaiah saw. He walked in their midst, and they didn’t accept Him. He talked with them, and they didn’t know His voice.

Isaiah, you see, had actually seen the glory of Jesus that day.

He was the Mysterious King on the Throne. (John 12:41)

And Jesus, knowing their hearts, knowing that they were more concerned with the praise of men than with the true worship and love of His Father, didn’t mince words with them. He confronted these false followers, just a few days before they crucified Him.

“When a man believes in me, he does not believe in me only, but in the one who sent me. When he looks at me, he sees the one who sent me. I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.

“As for the person who hears my words but does not keep them, I do not judge him. For I did not come to judge the world, but to save it. There is a judge for the one who rejects me and does not accept my words; that very word which I spoke will condemn him at the last day. For I did not speak of my own accord, but the Father who sent me commanded me what to say and how to say it. I know that his command leads to eternal life. So whatever I say is just what the Father has told me to say."

What do you think worship was like for these men?

When they arrived at the Temple for their morning prayers and business, did they see it as a chore, a redundancy in their weeks, a drudgery … a job?

If they’d seen it as Isaiah had experienced the Temple and that amazing vision of the Mysterious King, do you think they would have actually nailed that King to a cross?

And what does their attitude say to you about going to church, worshipping once a week the One who died for you?

If worship feels like a necessary evil, an interruption to your schedule, that can change for you.

How do I know?

Tune in for the next part of the story …

Shaking and Quaking and Mercy and Love

2010-02-19T04:35:00.000-08:00

Part three of this story series ...

The sight of the mysterious King on the throne was one thing. Indeed, He was magnificently beautiful. The train of His robe filled the entire Temple. He engulfed the gigantic place with majesty.

But what was even more unnerving to Isaiah were the words he heard.

These were not words from the King, no.

They were spoken by one angelic Being to others. These Beings hovered above the King's throne. Their appearance was like fire, hence, they were called "Seraphim," as the word "seraph" in Hebrew means, "to burn with fire." They had six wings each, and they used two wings to cover their faces, two to cover their feet and two to fly.

Then one of the Seraphim spoke. The words rendered Isaiah's heart into pieces.

"Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts;
The whole earth is full of His glory!"

The sound of the Seraphim's voice literally shook the door posts and filled the Temple with smoke.

Isaiah knew well the full meaning.

To say the word "holy" twice in his native Hebrew language was to describe a person as "most holy."

But to say it three times? It meant that the holiness of God was indescribable.

And the definition of holy? to be transcendent -- different -- distant.

Yet.

What was even more shocking was the second part of the Seraphim's song: "The whole earth is full of His glory."

Basically, the angelic Being was telling Isaiah that even though God transcends the universe, He is closely involved with the earth and its people.

The King on the throne would be involved -- someday -- intricately, here.

Isaiah realized how unworthy he was to be standing in the presence of such a King. He cried out that his lips were unclean, as were the people of his nation, and yet, he'd been given the honor of witnessing the King with his own eyes.

A seraphim flew over to him, holding a live coal that he'd taken with tongs from the altar. He touched Isaiah's lips with it.

"Behold, this has touched your lips; Your iniquity is taken away, and your sin is purged,"
the seraphim said.

What did it mean?

Who was the King on the throne, really?

And what does the story of Isaiah's experience in the Temple have to do with us worshiping in church?

Tune in for the next part of the story.

The Mysterious King on the Throne

2010-01-29T09:50:00.000-08:00

Part one of this story series ...

Second half of 8th Century, B.C.
The Hebrew Temple.
Jerusalem.

The king was dead.

He'd made a terrible error, one not of misunderstanding or accident, but of sheer pride, arrogance and deliberate disobedience.

He'd been mighty.

Blessed.

Revered.

Strong.

But he'd let all of that go to his head. His younger days, those in which he relied on God reverently and humbly, were a faint memory. He'd allowed the successes of his reign to fill his head, to pump him up, to give him a sense of self-exaltation and conceit.

It wasn't always that way.

He'd taken the throne at the tender age of 16 and immediately trusted God for guidance. As long as that frame of mind existed, God prospered him. He pummeled some of Israel's top enemies: the Philistines, the Arabians and the Meunites. Even the Ammonites, another vicious people, brought tributes to him. His fame spread, all the way to the palace halls of Egypt.

He enhanced the city of Jerusalem, building towers, digging wells, planting crops and vineyards, providing ample food supply for livestock, too.

Not only that, he had a team of warriors -- 2,600 "mighty men of valor" -- who oversaw an army of 307,500, which ws outfitted with shields, spears, helmets, body armor, bows and slings to protect the country. Skilled men, too, invented devices that shot arrows and large stones from the tall towers of Jerusalem.

And ironically, this very strength of his was the king's downfall.

He began to believe that he'd done all of this himself. And with that belief, he felt entitled to bypass the laws established through Moses.

One day, he strode into the Temple and walked right up to the altar, a place that was reserved for the priests. He began to burn incense. Eighty priests surrounded him and begged him to stop, but he continued. After all -- he was the king, wasn't he? He'd done all of these things, hadn't he? Who were they -- or who was God for that matter -- to tell him he couldn't burn a little bit of incense at the altar?

He told them so. Angrily. He spat the words at them.

And suddenly, they backed away from him, their faces filled with horror.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Leprosy!" one of them shouted. "You have leprosy! It's breaking out on your forehead!"

That was all it took. He knew he was doomed, not only to live a solitary life from that point forward, but also to never -- ever -- enter the Temple to worship again. Mosaic law viewed leprosy as a breach of God's holiness. It graphically symbolized defilement.

So the end of his life was spent not in his beautiful palace ... but in an isolated house. Control of the temple and the state now passed to his son, who exercised power on the king's behalf.

He died in disgrace.

And it was at this time in history when a regular guy encountered the true King -- a mysterious King on a throne. He was high and lifted up, in the very temple where the now-deceased king had made his fatal mistake.

Where had He come from? Who was He?

The guy, whose name was Isaiah, was soon to find out.

What does this have to do with going to church and finding joy in the act of worship? Tune in tomorrow for part 2 of the story ...

The Troublesome Question from a Radio DJ

2010-01-28T04:13:00.000-08:00

An introduction to a new story series ...

Radio chatter peppers my long drives around central Kentucky, from my home in the woods to various business appointments and church events in the city of Lexington.

Recently on one of these trips, a radio DJ on a Christian station posed a question that needled me.

"What I wonder," he said, "is what we're going to do in Heaven. I know we're going to worship God all of the time, but I'm not sure what that means. And I'm not sure if I really like the idea."

My jaw dropped. He continued.

"I mean, when we worship at church, most of us can only take about an hour of it, and then we're ready to go home. What will it be like to worship for an eternity? I guess we'll find out when we get there, but I'm trying to understand that, and I think a lot of other people are, too."

Do you feel that way? Do you dread going to church, look at your watch and think about your lunch, or feel like the fifth stanza of that last hymn is never going to end?

Or do you look forward to worship? Are you excited to get in your car on a Sunday morning and drive hurriedly so that you don't miss the opening prayer?

The DJ's question troubled me, because I realized that most people would agree with him.

But I have good news for you.

Worship doesn't have to be that way.

Tune in tomorrow, when we'll launch a new story series.

The title of the first one?

"The Mysterious King on the Throne"

The Atheist Drinking Game on Twitter

2010-01-21T11:08:00.001-08:00

I've seen references to this "drinking game" on Twitter among atheists for a while. Today I got to the bottom of it.

Now just in case you happen to think that your encounters with atheists are productive ... take a look at the rules of this game, which I have cut and pasted.

Yes, there are some atheists who are genuinely seeking and who have great questions. There are others who speak seriously to your face and mock the entire story behind your back. How can you tell the difference?

One way is just to shine a light on things like this and to see who is participating in it. Easy to figure out. The other way is to ask for prayer. A team of people at my church has devoted to praying solely for my encounters on Twitter with atheists. Since that practice started, I've been able to see the entire group of people much more clearly -- to wit, the discovery of this game today.

So take a look at it ... and if you're engaging someone, think twice about how you are using the lines below and whether you are a pawn in a game or a light that they are following. (grammatical errors, not my own. :-)

DRINKING GAME:

This is tacitly a drinking game but have a choccie, toke, drink, mark a score card... The point is to match the Christian argument to the list (the list will be expanded as needed)and share on thread,trend, where ever. so all players get a treat.

Psalm14:1 The fool says in his heart, “There is no God.” - One Drink
You can only understand the scripture if you beleive (the Tinkerbell Defence) - One Drink
Variations on Pascal's Wager - Two Drinks (bonus drink if you pull the Wotan gambit)
Altering scripture in violation of Rev 22:18-19 to 'prove a point' - One drink
Crazy redneck preaching - (Pentateuch, Revelations) one drink (Epistles) two drinks
Witnessing of banal miracles - one drink
Out of context, or 'String of Pearls' exegesis - two drinks
You were never a real Christian Gambit - one drink
Accusations of being devil bought, possessed, or being the antichrist - one drink
John 3:16 - one drink (counter with John 3:18 is a bonus drink)
It's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve - one drink
Where were You when I hung the stars? defence - one drink
Circular Logic - One drink
Pious threats of God cutting you so bad your mother won't know you - one drink
'We can't all be wrong' - argumentum ad populum - one drink
"Scientific evidence is fake!" style defence - one drink
Xian blocks you online - Triple to all players
"Scientists just want to disprove god" logic - one drink
Quoting Augustine as if 'scripture' - one drink (triple if you point out Augustines claims to see headless men and cyclopses in Africa)

A Car Journey

2010-01-20T02:50:00.001-08:00

My atheist friend Nick, who lives in the United Kingdom, wrote this really good story, entitled, "A Car Journey." I asked him if I could share it with you here at the Christian safehouse, and he agreed, provided that I allow him and other atheists to comment along with all of you.

The reason I want to share it is because it offers great insight into the point of view of someone who does not believe there is a God. When we chat and debate, it's really important that we first grasp the other person's rationality. This is one of the most well-stated atheistic positions I have come across. It's simple and to the point.

Please take a moment to read Nick's take on our faith. Then respond, constructively, with yours.

Note to atheists who would like to respond: I'll post your comments to this post provided they contain no vulgarity and address the issue. I won't post anything that attacks Jesus or people who believe in Him. I appreciate you stopping by the blog!

Here's Nick's story:

A Car Journey

We're going on a drive. We'll both have to be blindfolded, I'm afraid. But this is a very special car. It will never go off the road. But if we are at a junction, it can turn left or right. Or go straight on. But I don't know which way it's going to go. And neither do you.

But before we start: Look [circles a large area on the map]. This is where we are starting from.

Right. Blindfold on.

I'm going to drive for quite a while. So you might get a little bored. Sorry about that. Right ready? Good.

[Car moves off. Various left and right turns. Car stops and starts many, many times. More turns left and right. Sorry this journey is very boring.]

[Some hours later]

Right. Here we are! Blindfolds off.

See where we are now? Look at the map.This is where we are! (points at the map) What do you notice about the route we took? Anything you can say about it?

1) You could say. "It's amazing that we are where we are. Because of all those turns we took. And we just happened to have reached this point. Isn't that amazing. If we had taken just one wrong turn, we would have stopped somewhere else. It's like it's been planned. Like that was the ONLY place we could have stopped. And that we were supposed to stop here. After all, you didn't know what direction we were going in. You were blind folded, too. And you just stopped when you felt like it. Isn't that amazing."

2) Or you could say. "It's not amazing at all That we stopped here. Lets see [ look's around the car] Look, I've just found a lot of receipts on the floor of the car. And they have times and addresses on. And if I put them in time order, I can figure out roughly the route we took. Look! I can even say something about where we started with a little more accuracy! And I can say something about what happened when we were blindfolded. Isn't that amazing!"

So which is MOST amazing? The fact that we can sit and say, "Wow we are so lucky to have this big overriding plan for our lives. That can show us the way,"

Or, is it more amazing to look around us? Look at the information we have? And use it to learn something about the world? And what has happened in the past to inform our present?

Chinese Official Says Gao Zhisheng "Went Missing"

2010-01-15T04:18:00.000-08:00

I received this email this morning from China Aid, a ministry of Voice of the Martyrs. Please read about this brave Chinese Christian man who has been tortured and is now presumed dead. There is a link at the bottom for you to go and sign a petition. Prayerfully consider doing this. Thank you so much. -- Heidi.

Since mid-December, 2009, ominous rumors have circulated about Gao Zhisheng, hinting that he has died after brutal torture in prison. However, no reports have been confirmed, and the Chinese government continues to refuse comment on his condition and whereabouts.

Gege, Gao's daughter, had been reportedly "pale and tired-looking" with worry for months. After hearing a rumor of Gao's death just before Christmas, Gege became so emotionally distraught, she was forced to be hospitalized. She remains fragile and under medical watch in a New York hospital.

This week, after searching out the policeman who originally detained Gao Zhisheng back in February, 2009, Gao's brother Zhiyi was told that Attorney Gao allegedly "went missing while out on a walk" on September 25, 2009. Gao's wife refused to comment, but was reported to be extremely upset after hearing the news.

This is the first time a Chinese government official has hinted that they no longer have Gao Zhisheng in their custody, leading ChinaAid to believe Gao's condition has taken a turn for the worse.

"It is totally unacceptable for the Chinese government to lose track of their own prisoner," said President of ChinaAid Bob Fu. "It is absolutely clear that he was forcibly taken from his home in February 2009. Nearly a year later, the Chinese government now says they do not have him."

Though the rumors of death cannot be confirmed, Bob Fu remains extremely concerned for this new development.

"We have every reason to suspect that the Chinese government has something very serious to hide. Gao's family has every right to know what happened to him. It is unbelievable that a high security prisoner would go missing while "out on a walk," without suspecting that there is a major cover up of his condition."

The Chinese government can no longer hide their actions from the world and must be held accountable for their treatment of Gao Zhisheng. Now is the time to act!

Sign the Petition to Free Gao Zhisheng, and encourage your friends and family to join the effort.

Contact your U.S. Representative and call for them to pressure the Chinese government to disclose the true condition and whereabouts of prominent human rights Attorney Gao Zhisheng. Even if you have sent a letter in the past, this new development calls for renewed action.

Gao's family deserves to know the truth, and so does the world! For more ways to help Free Gao, visit www.FreeGao.com.

A Safehouse Hug of Encouragement

2010-01-08T06:06:00.000-08:00

Please listen to and enjoy this song from Switchfoot, which I hope will encourage your heart today. After all, at a Christian Safehouse, we should sing together sometimes, shouldn't we?

Who is The Golden Pitcher?

2010-01-05T06:58:00.000-08:00

Conclusion to this story series ...

The Temple guards returned empty-handed, their eyes glazed, their expressions vacant.

And jaws fell to the floor.

"Why didn't you bring him in?"

"No one ever spoke the way this man does," the guards answered.

"You mean he has deceived you also?" they quipped back. "Has any of the rulers or of the Pharisees believed in him? No! But this mob that knows nothing of the law — there is a curse on them."

See ... the gauntlet had been thrown. In that one moment when the Golden Pitcher made its appearance and its contents were poured over the altar ... in that one moment when Jesus chose to shout His declaration that He was the eternal God who could offer "living water," the stage had been set for a war that is being waged even now, and up to the end of time.

We all know the end of the story. We know that the Pharisees continued to harangue Him, set up traps for Him, and eventually, they managed to see Him crucified. And The Golden Pitcher is central to this drama.

Why?

Well, YOU are the Golden Pitcher.

Like the Pitcher, when you welcomed Him into your life, you experienced the abundance of the relationship with Him -- the same thing He proclaimed in that Temple all of those years ago. At the moment of your belief, the Spirit entered you and dwelled IN you -- like the water that fills the Pitcher and overflows it.

The story of the Golden Pitcher is a story of empowerment, too. When He permeats all aspects of your life, when He fills you with His living water, He EMPOWERS you! He desires to be your overflow, to be the blessing in your life!

With that empowerment, you become like Him. You proclaim to the world, just as He did loudly in that Temple in the moment of silence, that He is the living water, that He has the power to fill other precious Golden Pitchers now sitting on shelves. They, too, can overflow with Him.

Yet you must be ready. You have to understand that when Jesus courageously took that step during the Great Feast, it also sealed His fate. Those of us who love Him must be willing to endure what He did -- ridicule, anger, hatred, persecution, maybe even death.

But we are Golden Pitchers. We are treasures, used by Him, filled by Him, loved by Him. When we yield to Him, we will overflow with Him.

Do you need to yield?

Are you willing to be His vessel?

Are you willing to be The Golden Pitcher?

The Golden Pitcher and a Loud Voice

2010-01-04T05:18:00.000-08:00

Part 4 of this story series ...

His voice shook the silence of the Temple, at the pinnacle moment during that great feast.

His words were mysterious to many, excitingly hopeful to others and downright incensing to the rest.

For His decision to disrupt the silence was finely coordinated and not at all coincidental ... with the celebrated appearance of The Golden Pitcher.

You see, every day of Sukkot, a liquid religious offering was given. The Golden Pitcher was paraded to the Pool of Siloam, filled with the water from there, then taken to the altar, where it was poured along with a libation. This beautiful ceremony was for the people to express thirst and pray for autumn rains.

But on the last and greatest day, amidst all of the turmoil surrounding Jesus, He chose this precise time to make His proclamation.

It stunned all of them.

As the priests poured the water over the altar and the people stood silently and reverently, His voice rang out.

"IF ANYONE IS THIRSTY," He said, "LET HIM COME TO ME AND DRINK! WHOEVER BELIEVES IN ME, AS THE SCRIPTURE HAS SAID, STREAMS OF LIVING WATER WILL FLOW FROM WITHIN HIM!"

In that moment, with that statement, Jesus had elevated the prayer for rain to one of a prayer of spiritual thirst. He was offering an abundance of "water," a relationship with Him.

The crowd stirred. Some said among themselves that surely, Jesus was the Messiah. Others questioned whether He could be, because He was from Galilee, and prophecies said He'd be from Bethlehem. (They didn't know, of course, that He was born in Bethlehem.)

But the spiritual leaders of the people were angrier than ever.

They'd had enough.

So they sent the Temple guards to arrest Him.

What happened next? And what does the tale of The Golden Pitcher have to do with a Christian safehouse? Tune in for the conclusion of the story ...

The Interloper

2009-12-28T03:07:00.000-08:00

Part 3 of this story series ...

They'd been looking for Him.

He didn't show up until about half-way through the Feast, but when He did, there was no question that He had arrived.

And they thought they finally had their chance to arrest Him and kill Him.

They were already livid at what He'd done the last time He'd been in Jerusalem. He'd healed a cripple on the Sabbath.

On. the. Sabbath.

How dare He? The Law of Moses was clear that no work was to be done that day! Anyone knew that such an act was direct violation, and yet this man -- this Galilean -- had no regard for their teachings or rules. He actually told them off for being so offended.

They were incensed.

And they wanted Him dead.

DEAD.

So now He was back in Jerusalem, and they were ready to pounce.

But there was a small problem. They weren't prepared for it and hadn't foreseen it, either.

The crowds loved Him. They gathered around Him like hungry children at a father's knee, asking Him questions with the same insistence of a five-year-old who wants to know, "Why? Why? Why?" He was patient, guiding them through the ancient writings of the Scriptures.

And He was accessible -- infuriatingly accessible.

This man from a no-name hole-in-the-wall village in a lowly-esteemed place of Israel had positioned Himself right in the center of the place where He didn't belong -- the Temple Courts.

They whispered angrily among themselves that this was one of the biggest affronts He could have managed. They were appalled when they heard His Galilean accent ring through the resplendent colonnades, echoing in the place where they were solely supposed to be the teachers and guides of the people.

How dare He?

Who was He, to place Himself there? Jerusalem was known for its schools of rabbinical teaching, and the Temple Courts were reserved for the highest of highest teachers of the day. Throughout the Feast, it was tradition for the crowds to "teacher shop." Each of the most revered rabbis chose a colonnade to sit by and share his understanding and revelation of the Law. The people would move from post to post, listening and learning.

This time was only for those teachers.

And yet, here was their sworn enemy, putting Himself above the rest of them -- and drawing the biggest crowds of all!

So they decided to do something about it.

They would trap Him in His own words, this interloper.

They would interrogate Him before the largest group of people and prove to Israel, all of Israel, gathered for this Feast, that He was a big fake. A liar. A deceiver. A son of Satan.

He didn't belong here.

They were going to prove it.

And then they were going to kill Him.

What does this have to do with a Christian Safehouse? Tune in for part 4 of the story ...

The Most Popular Feast of the Year

2009-12-22T05:47:00.000-08:00

Part 2 in this story series ...

Think of it as an ancient Thanksgiving feast, except one that lasted a full seven days.

Sukkot.

The Feast of Tabernacles.

Americans think their turkey day is lavish. But this celebration more than eclipsed it.

And by far, it was the most popular feast of the year for the Jewish people 2,000 years ago.

It took place in the same time of year that our Thanksgiving takes place -- autumn. People made "booths," from tree branches. These little shelters peppered the streets, parks and even the roofs of houses throughout Jerusalem -- and along the roads leading into the city.

They signified the 40 years that the Israelites wandered through the wilderness to their Promised Land and the tents in which their forefathers lived before reaching their permanent home.

One of the highlights each day was the pouring of water in the Temple ... using the Golden Pitcher. The water also had its own symbolism: that of the water that poured when Moses struck a rock in the desert.

In the evenings, the priests lit two candelabra, which represented the pillar of fire that God used to lead the people through the Sinai peninsula.

Then, after the seventh day, the people came together for a solemn assembly, where they would remember all of the things God did, including the outpouring of water.

What they didn't realize was that the water held a deeper significance -- that of His Spirit that thoroughly quenches the thirst of the human soul.

Perhaps it was this lack of understanding that led to the most dramatic celebration of Sukkot when Jesus Himself attended the festivities.

It became a Sukkot that would be remembered for the next 2,000 years.

At the center of the controversy?

The Golden Pitcher.

What does this have to do with a Christian Safehouse? Tune in for part 3 of the story ...

Down for the Count

2009-12-18T10:40:00.001-08:00

Apologies for the break in storytelling. I received doctor's orders to rest yesterday, as I have bronchitis, which he also said was "borderline pneumonia."

When my mental faculties are in good running order again, we'll continue with the tale!

Thanks for your patience.

Heidi

The Golden Pitcher

2009-12-17T09:27:00.000-08:00

Part one of this story series ...

Once a year, it was pulled from its storage place for a very special occasion.

The Golden Pitcher.

It became the center of focus, the gleaming sight on which all eyes fell, the symbolic icon of layers upon layers of history, stories, rituals.

All tongues stopped wagging, all ears bent forward to hear, all irises followed the man that carried it, as it went from one end of the Temple to the other. The Golden Pitcher -- well, it was a sight to behold!

But for all of the hubbub that surrounded it, The Golden Pitcher was actually just a vessel. A container. A glorified Tupperware bowl.

There was nothing magical about it, nothing excitingly fresh or new of its purpose, nothing that changed in its shape or form.

It just was.

And yet, it represented so much more than anyone could have imagined.

The Golden Pitcher, a shining-in-the-sun work of art.

It was priceless.

Why?

What was this Golden Pitcher, and what does it have to do with the Christian Safehouse?

Tune in tomorrow for the beginning of its tale ...

DAY 308: GAO ZHISHENG TORTURED

2009-12-11T01:59:00.000-08:00

A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT FROM CHINA AID & VOICE OF THE MARTYRS:

ChinaAid recently received another report from inside sources in China that Gao Zhisheng has been severely beaten by authorities. The report stated his current living condition is worse than death and that Gao is crying daily in pain and desperation.

The Chinese government has responded to the increased worldwide pressure for Gao Zhisheng's release by cutting off communication with two of Gao's siblings living in China and placing them under police surveillance.

In a November 26th interview with Radio Free Asia, Gao's brother, Gao Zhiyi, stated, "For every question, there are three unknowns. No one knows anything. They won't talk to us and they won't meet with us... Even if Gao Zhisheng had committed a terrible crime, his family would still have the right to know what had happened to him!"

On Saturday, December 5th, Gao's older brother (Zhiyi) and sister lost all communication contact when their phone lines were disabled, following the release of the RFA interview.

Now more than ever, Gao Zhisheng needs our help!

In a recent visit to Washington, D.C., ChinaAid met with several leading congressmen who have been moved by their constituents (those like you) telling Gao's story - and they have proposed a Congressional Resolution on Gao Zhisheng's behalf. Our American leaders have begun to listen, and with more voices, we can make that resolution a reality!

So far, 5,284 people have contacted their local U.S. Representative to speak out on behalf of Gao Zhisheng. Continue to add your voice! We have to keep the momentum going on behalf of this innocent man who himself was a defender of the persecuted.

Please take action now.

Go to www.freegao.com. Sign a petition for his release. There is also a link so that you can contact your Congressman and voice your request that the House will pass a resolution on Gao's behalf, to be sent to the Chinese government.

Thank you!

So. Do We Debate the Atheist?

2009-12-04T19:26:00.000-08:00

Conclusion of this week's series ...

Friday Night.
My living room.
Harrodsburg, Kentucky.

It's a crisp 30 degrees outside, and within the log walls of our lake house we are snug and at peace. Neil slumbers. Brent taps away on his laptop for his work tomorrow morning. And I scan through posts on Twitter, catching up on people's thoughts, dreams, hopes, questions, emotions, routines ... lives.

Within each Twitter of up to 140 characters, is a story -- whether it's a businessman trying to improve his image, a mom sharing her day's frustrations, a senior citizen offering a nugget of wisdom from life lessons ... or an atheist, making a case for the non-existence of a Diety.

As I reflect on the past three weeks, the people I've met and the lessons learned, I wonder ... are Christians correct when they say, "Abandon the atheist to his or her desires. They will not hear. They are hostile. Spend your time with those who are open to hearing. Why waste your time?"

And resoundingly, the answer in my heart and mind ... is NO.

NO.

Yes, there are many angry people out there who take offense at the premise of a loving God, much less a crazy middle-aged loud-mouthed woman in America who thinks nothing of pushing her views on them.

But there are too many others.

Listen -- I don't know their stories, their pasts, presents or futures. Neither do you. Do you think that if, given the chance, 1st century Christians would have walked straight into the murderous path of Saul? We can see that they were afraid of him after his conversion and change of identity to Paul. What if they had pushed him aside, wouldn't believe it was possible for him to embrace the message of the Living Christ?

At some point, we have to be willing to love the skeptics.

Today I was called a whore. I was labeled a liar. I was ridiculed. I was bemoaned as a nuisance.

And that was just before noon.

I tell you what, though ... there is a deep-seated love that burns, that did not originate with me but with Him.

Do you share His passion for those who refuse to know Him?

Don't forget that the Prodigal son was welcomed home with a party. That father waited day and night, looking for that child to return to him. What if the story had been different, in that the older brother had said to the dad, "Dad, I know this is killing you. I'm going to go find my brother and your son. I'm going to reason with him. I'm going to do everything I can to bring him back. Don't worry, Dad. I'll do what I can to help you get your boy home again."

What if?

We can all be the older brother.

And when the Prodigals kick and scream, throw tantrums and curse, threaten and cajole ... we can just love them back.

Eventually, a few of them are going to come to their senses. A few of them will say, "At least in my Father's house, I had food to eat."

And, if we're willing to be used to seek them out for Him, eventually those few will hightail it home, back into the arms of our Dad.

Are you willing to go after them, though?

Leaning In for Clarity

2009-12-03T20:09:00.000-08:00

Part 6 of this story series ...

A favorite saying around our church is to "lean in." Basically, it means a willingness to surrender all control to God -- to lean into His chest -- and let Him handle a situation for you.

On that day, when I felt that an atheist's question was too tricky to answer, I leaned in. I prayed for a few hours for clarity, for wisdom -- and also for a loving response, because to be quite frank, by this time I'd had it with the guy.

When the answer came, I wasn't sure that I'd understood Him correctly.

He brought to mind how He'd been faced with many similar trick questions. And the primary way that He dealt with them ... was to answer questions with questions. You remember the most famous story, I'm sure ...

"Then the Pharisees went out and laid plans to trap him in his words. They sent their disciples to him along with the Herodians. 'Teacher,' they said, 'we know you are a man of integrity and that you teach the way of God in accordance with the truth. You aren't swayed by men, because you pay no attention to who they are. Tell us then, what is your opinion? Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar or not?'

But Jesus, knowing their evil intent, said, 'You hypocrites, why are you trying to trap me? Show me the coin used for paying the tax.' They brought him a denarius, and he asked them, 'Whose portrait is this? And whose inscription?'

'Caesar's,' they replied. Then he said to them, 'Give to Caesar what is Caesar's, and to God what is God's.'"

When they heard this, they were amazed. So they left him and went away."

"That's a great story," I prayed, "but what question am I to ask?"

The answer was as clear as the sun shining outside of my window, and yet ... the meaning behind it still stumped me. "Just do it," He spoke to my heart. "Just ask it."

About two hours later, I was sitting with my laptop open to Twitter, when the atheist pinged me again. This time, he wasn't alone. He'd solicited backup from a second anti-theist. A third person, who is a friendly atheist I know from Twitter, was also in on the discussion.

"Are you ready for round two?" he asked.

"Let's go."

"So ... did you get your answer? What is it? Am I going to Heaven, or to Hell?"

"I'll answer your question, but first you have to answer one for me." I typed.

Nothing changed on the computer screen for several minutes. I didn't know if he was consulting with the others or was just deciding whether this was worth his trouble. Then he responded. Yes. He'd take the question.

So I typed the question that God brought to my heart.

"OK. The question is ... Do you believe in good and evil?"

Now it really was quiet in Twitterland. It took what seemed an eternity before I saw a response. And as I waited, I prayed. I asked God, "What am I going to do if they come up with an answer? I don't even know what to say."

"Just wait," He told me. "It will be clear to you."

The atheist pinged back something nonsensical ... about Donny Osmond and ... wow, I can't even reconstruct it. Suffice it to say, it was gibberish.

"That's not an answer," I replied. "It's simple, yes or no. Do you believe in good and evil, or not?"

The other two decided to try to help communicate for their buddy.

"What he's trying to say," one typed, "is that good and evil is not black and white. There are shades of gray. You might kill someone, and killing is evil, but if you're killing for a moral cause, it isn't."

And WHAM.

Suddenly, it was completely clear to me why God prompted this question!

"So," my interrogator said, "I answered your question. Now you answer mine. Am I going to Heaven, or to Hell?"

I typed several Tweets to answer him -- after all, we only have 140 characters per Tweet. But this is what God prompted to me:

"You say that there is no way that we as humans can completely determine good and evil, that there are gray areas to both. If we as humans cannot determine it completely, how are we to judge whether an action is good or evil, perfectly? We can't. Because just like you said -- it can be a shade of gray. Now God is the perfect judge. And in Matthew 7:1, He tells us, 'Do not judge, or you, too will be judged.' He is the only one who sees good and evil and the shades of gray. He is the only perfect one to judge. Therefore, I don't know if you are going to Heaven or Hell. I am not your judge. God is your judge. He will decide where you're going."

Silence. Not a flicker of a word crossed the screen. Then ... suddenly ...

"ANSWER THE QUESTION! YOU DIDN'T ANSWER THE QUESTION!" he demanded.

"I did answer the question. You just told me there is no way for us to know the difference from good and evil because of the grays. God is the perfect judge. God knows what will happen to you, and that's between you and God. By my Scripture, I am NOT ALLOWED to say whether you are going to Heaven or to Hell, because, like you said, we cannot fully know as humans what is evil and what is good."

He ranted some more, and I just looked at the screen and smiled.

Then, I did what I always do when God surprises me with an answer to prayer. I looked to my right, closed my eyes, and envisioned Him sitting next to me on the couch.

"Hey. Thanks."

"I told you that you didn't have to worry."

I sighed and smiled.

"You're the best."

So ... what is the point of this story ... and what does all of it have to do with a Christian Safehouse? Tomorrow, tune in for the conclusion.

Unforeseen Pitfalls

2009-12-02T20:08:00.000-08:00

Part 5 of this story series …

For three days, an anti-theist, or “Atheist Enemy” for our purposes, had been pinging me with questions. Initially, I started off answering cordially. But soon it became apparent that this individual was only interested in one thing – shredding me and my beliefs.

It didn’t take long before his questions evolved from simple inquiries about faith and God to a hostile cross examination. He tried every which way to trip me up.

I answered his questions, at first because I was intrigued, and the mental exercise was good for me. But within about 24 hours after the barrage started, I felt tired from it. Still, I kept up the dialog.

And that’s when it happened – the pitfall for which I hadn’t bargained. My adversary came up with a trick question that was nearly impossible to answer:

“Do you think I am going to Heaven or to Hell?” he asked.

I sucked in my breath and looked at the question on the screen, the fonts boring into my eye sockets like poker irons. This was one I actually hadn’t considered.

At that very moment, my phone rang. You may think this is coincidence – but I count it yet another piece of evidence that God was hanging around with me. The caller was my Bible study leader.

“Hello?”

“Wow. What’s going on?” We haven’t known each other long, but she’s a sharp cookie, this one. “I can tell something’s wrong,” she added.

I explained what had been happening.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you praying every time you respond?”

That was a million-dollar question. Most of the time I allowed myself to be pressured into an immediate response. Even as I was talking to my friend, the atheist was sending ping after ping.

“I’m waiting!” said one tweet.

“You have a soul on the other end here that needs to be saved! Aren’t you concerned?” said another.

“Don’t you care where I go after I die? Why aren’t you responding?”

Chagrined, I read her the lines as they came in.

“But back to your question about whether I pray before I respond. To be honest, sometimes I do, but not always, because I feel pressured to get back to the person immediately, as you can see from these messages he’s now sending.”

“Don’t be,” she responded. “I think that before you give an answer, you need to pray long and hard about it. Listen. God will tell you what to say,” she told me. “Ask Him for words. He won’t disappoint you. And I’ll pray, too,” she added.

I agreed and sent the guy a one-line tweet: “I’ll answer your question, but I have to pray about it first.”

Of course, this triggered a huge guffaw on the other end.

“Hey!” he pinged to others who were following the conversation. “She’s going into conference about this! She’s working out a deal for me!”

I put the laptop aside.

And then I prayed.

The answer came almost immediately.

You know how this works, if you’re a whole-hearted pray-er. As you try to sort out a problem, suddenly, that little miracle takes place: It’s no longer a one-sided conversation. You know without a doubt that the answer in your mind did NOT originate with you, but with Him.

This was most definitely one of those cases.

“Are You sure?” I asked Him.

“Trust Me,” He spoke the words to my heart, as clearly as if they were audible. “Now. This is what you’re going to do ….”

Curious about how God intervenes on the spot when you need Him? Tune in tomorrow for the next part of the story series …

Scrapping with "Atheist Enemies"

2009-12-02T01:18:00.001-08:00

Part 4 in this story series ...

Are you scrappy?

If you choose to debate the other type of atheist, the "anti-theist," you have to be ready for an all-out-bare-knuckle-street-fight of words.

The Atheist Enemy is not interested in logic. Their sole aim is to destroy any ounce of credibility to you and God's message of love. If you go on Twitter and do a search under the hashtag #atheist, you'll easily be able to pick out the Friendlies versus the Enemies.

The Enemies get offended with an eye blink. Not only do they let you know they're affronted by your mere existence -- they'll also do everything possible to hold you up to public ridicule. I've had more than one instance where an "Atheist Enemy" even tried to circumvent my regular discussions with who I call "the normal people," when they realized people were engaging me.

Now ... the question is ... do you even bother dealing with an Enemy?

My honest opinion? Do everything possible to avoid them. They are not interested in what you have to say about God or Jesus. They are out to decimate you AND Him. What's the point? At the end of one of these debating sessions, you will feel spent and exhausted, perhaps a little bruised emotionally. And you might have wasted precious hours and time that could have been spent on someone who was truly seeking God.

The flip side, though, is what do you do if an Enemy approaches you and asks you for a debate? This is tough. I have to admit that it's tempting to me, as I love a good match of wits. But remember -- this debate is not about YOU or proving that YOU are right. It's about pointing someone to God's love. If that person is only out to crucify Christ all over again, then no matter what you do or say, it won't dent their steel heart.

But there is one reason to proceed -- it's for the benefit of others who are watching the match from the sidelines. These are people who you may not even know are there. As you banter in a public forum in a place like Twitter, regardless of whether the Atheist Enemy is receptive, there are other people who are taking notes on what both of you are saying.

This is the one and only reason I engaged two such pit bulls simultaneously in an open Twitter discussion.

From this debate, I learned one salient truth:

Each encounter must be covered -- COVERED -- in prayer.

Wanna know what happened? Tune in tomorrow for the next part of the story.

Chatting with "Atheist Friendlies"

2009-12-01T04:19:00.001-08:00

Part three in this story series ...

One of the most important things to do when you first meet and engage an atheist in debate is to determine right off the bat whether they are a "Friendly" or an "Enemy." We'll cover the times when it's not so easy to discern immediately, but for now, let's dive into how to handle conversation with someone who is an obvious "Friendly."

Keep in mind I've only been actively chatting with atheists on Twitter for about three weeks. I still have a lot to learn and don't have a lock on this, to be sure. But here are some general observations and pointers if you find yourself in a bantering situation with the "Friendlies:"

1. Know that their purpose is to glean information from you, not to antagonize you.
So ... don't antagonize them. If you were in a regular setting -- a workplace or a Christmas party -- and someone asked if you went to church, then revealed they were an atheist, how would you respond? Hopefully, in such a situation, you'd be polite and courteous. The same goes for an online discussion. Just because you are sight unseen doesn't give you license to speak down to them or to immediately charge them.

2. Assume the best in the person, not the worst.
It's easy for us to be defensive when we hear someone say, "God doesn't exist." But remember they've come to that conclusion for a good reason. As one "Friendly" pointed out to me yesterday (rightly so!), the choice for non-belief is very painful for many people. If this person was a former believer and became disenfranchised for some reason, they have already been through the pain of "realizing" that what they thought was true "wasn't," the Friendly told me. I never considered that before, and that's because I was assuming the worst of all atheists. That's a mistake you never want to make, especially if you espouse that you love Jesus.

3. See them for who they are: These are people with real lives, real families, real dreams. They are NOT Hannibal Lecter. They are very likable people, very smart people and also very kind people. When I sent out a note on Twitter that I was receiving anonymous threats to my other blog, Kingdom Treasures, the Friendlies responded with great concern and sadness. The Enemies will question whether you're telling the truth, because they are accustomed to dealing with lies. But Friendlies? They'll stick up for you, because like the rest of society, they're not any different when it comes to human compassion.

4. Understand that they feel misunderstood. And to a great degree, in the larger Christian community, they are misunderstood. When chatting, communicate that you accept them and love them as you do your fellow believers. Remember the famous "love" passage in Matthew?

This is a great one: "If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect." Matthew 5: 46-48

5. Don't be impatient for them to immediately accept your words.
Listen. I have a very dear friend of more than 20 years who is agnostic. We have gone rounds for hours and hours about my belief and his unbelief. Will he ever believe? I have no idea. But this guy is my friend. I still pray for him. I still believe that Jesus died for him. I still know that God's love and mercy will cover him when he's ready to ask for it. It's God's job to break the hearts of atheists and agnostics -- NOT. YOURS. So let God do it. And while you're about His business to share His love with them, do not give into the temptation of impatience.

So. Do you really love others as Jesus does? Be honest. When confronted with a person whose beliefs are opposite to yours, how do you see that person? Do you assume rotten things about them? Do you care for them? Before you decide to engage with an atheist, even a "Friendly," make sure your heart is right with God on all of these points. Otherwise ... the discussion is pointless.

Tomorrow ... we'll look at the other side of the coin -- the "Atheist Enemies." See you then!

"Toto, We Aren't in Kansas Anymore."

2009-11-30T04:26:00.000-08:00

Part 2 in this story series ...

It really is like entering the land of Oz, this realm of Christian debate with atheists. None of the rules to which you are accustomed apply. In one instant, you become Dorothy, swept away to a place where questions swirl like the tornado that brought you there.

This is especially true when you're dealing with a category of atheists who I deem, "The Enemies."

What's the difference between an atheist who is a "Friendly" and that who is "Enemy?"

This actually crystallized for me a little more this morning, when one atheist "Friendly" named Jason sent me a short description, taken from About.com. Hey Jason, you were right on the money when you assumed this is what I was referring to!

Here's what Jason wrote:

"Austin Cane of about.com has written a little on this. He says, "Atheism is simply the absence of belief in gods; anti-theism is a conscious and deliberate opposition to theism. People who are indifferent to the existence of alleged gods are atheists because they don't believe in the existence of any gods, but at the same time this indifference prevents them from being anti-theists as well. To a degree, this describes many if not most atheists because there are plenty of alleged gods they simply don't care about and, therefore, also don't care enough to attack belief in such gods. Anti-theism requires a couple of specific and additional beliefs: first, that theism is harmful to the believer, harmful to society, harmful to politics, harmful, to culture, etc.; second, that theism can and should be countered in order to reduce the harm it causes. If a person believes these things, then they will likely be anti-theists who work against theism by arguing that it be abandoned, promoting alternatives, or perhaps even supporting measures to suppress it."

So ... what are some real-life examples I can give you? Here's a comparison, based on my short time with them on Twitter and via email:

Atheist Friendlies will ask if you are willing to debate them. They are courteous and polite. They don't pull any punches. They wait for you to state what you believe, then follow up each of your statements with questions, asking you to qualify each explanation in more detail. Some will hear you and then disengage immediately. Others will ask for a continuation of the debate.

They also are interested in you as a person. At heart, we're all people, all seeking out new friendships and relationships that will also boost our businesses or allow us to chat about other matters, like parenting, schools, political views.

What's the best way to deal with an "Atheist Friendly?" Put on your friendship hat. Be a friend first. Jesus was a friend to those who didn't believe in Him before He tried to convince them of His love: Nicodemus. The Samaritan Woman. Even the disciple Peter.

Give them that courtesy. You will be surprised at the richness of the relationship that follows.

Atheist Enemies are on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. These are people who become easily offended by anything you say. Recently I engaged in a four-day chat marathon with someone who would fall into this category. He was very angry at one point in the discussion. So to demonstrate that I wasn't deliberately trying to anger him, I asked if he liked cheese cake.

That's a pretty innocuous question, don't you think?

This person ignored the question or the attempt to humanize the discussion in any way. In fact, when I checked out his Twitter timeline later, where you can view discussions between him and other atheists, I found that he was referring to me as "it" and was advising the others not to engage me on a personal level, because, "don't forget it is not human." The exchanges reminded me of a Nazi film I saw in high school, referring to Jewish people as rats.

Atheist Enemies will also espouse Biblical villains as their own heroes. This same person has a tagline on his Twitter home page that announces he is "a King Herod appreciator." For those of you who don't know, King Herod was the one who tried to kill the infant Jesus by slaughtering all boys ages newborn to 2 years in Bethlehem.

And of course, during their discussion with you, Atheist Enemies use various tactics to throw you off course. They will twist your verbiage, take your thoughts out of context, reapply Scripture in the way that suits them most, infer that your motives are not pure ... and in extreme cases, they will ridicule you, call you names, publicly make fun of you to others and may directly threaten you and your family with bodily harm.

So, at Priscilla's & Aquila's Place, what is our response supposed to be to both the Friendlies and the Enemies? Tune in tomorrow, and we'll discuss!

Why I Like Atheists

2009-11-29T05:54:00.000-08:00

Part one in this series ...

Do you ever pray about the types of people God would like you to reach for Him?

I do.

And recently, I have been really amazed at the love He has put in my heart for one particular group of people: atheists.

I'm a C.S. Lewis fan, through and through. One of my favorite books by Lewis is "Surprised by Joy," an autobiography that outlines the life circumstances that led Lewis to atheism and how and why his heart changed -- not only to embrace the concept that God exists but also to accept Jesus as his friend and savior.

If you've ever read this book, you'll agree that when you talk to people of other faiths -- or those who don't believe in anything at all -- they all have very valid reasons for their points of view. Like Lewis, life circumstances or the way in which they have been treated by others sets them up for a lifetime of struggle with believing in Jesus's Divinity and what He did.

This is especially true of many atheists I've met on Twitter in the past two to three weeks.

I've been reflecting about reasons I like atheists. Truly, I like them. I thought it might be helpful for other Christians at "Priscilla's & Aquila's Place" to gain some understanding and perspective on atheists they may encounter.

So to start, here are some things that spark my interest, fascination and general admiration of the atheist mindset:

1. They are ruled by logic. They are quick to point out that logically, the Bible doesn't have a lot of merit. They dissect each and every argument for God's existence with the precision of a surgeon's knife. My 20-year career has been in journalism. As a journalist, I have a strong appreciation for someone who painstakingly examines a concept or topic from all angles.

2. They easily figure out who is genuine.
If you have an ounce of hypocrisy in your soul, don't wrestle with an atheist. I would be lying if I said I'm not hypocritical on some issues. The atheists I've met have quickly pointed out these areas in my arguments to them. They've actually done me a huge favor by doing so, because on some levels, I wasn't even aware of the depth of my hypocrisy. I was able to confess those areas to God and apologize to the atheists in question. A wonderful gift, if you're willing to allow your character to be examined under a spotlight.

3. They are extremely (extremely!) intelligent. Many atheists I've met are either involved in the sciences or engineering fields ... or they are students who brighten at the prospect of a match of wits. They love to investigate the whys and the hows. Cleverness is a universal trait among them.

4. They're funny. Their sense of humor is highly developed. They trade barbs with each other and, once they accept you as a worthy "adversary," they are friendly with sharing their jokes with you. I also find that those atheists who are genuinely nice people censor themselves when talking to a Christian they respect. This level of courteousness is touching to me. Of course, there is another "category" of atheist not as "nice," but that's for the next blog entry. :-)

5. Those who are genuinely seeking answers in life have been hurt in the past. When we read the story about Jesus seeing the masses and having compassion on them, it's a great picture of how He feels about atheists. Those who have opened up to me are really very sweet and have extremely good reasons for their lack of faith. Usually, those reasons are based in either traumatic or horribly hurtful things that have been said or done to them. When I hear these stories, my heart just aches to the point where I cry for mercy over them. Jesus tells us, "To whom much is given, much is required." I understand this statement fully now, as I was given much in the way of unconditional love as a child. This fully made it easier for me to believe in an unconditionally-loving God. Many atheists have not had that advantage. They were not given much. They are deeply in need of His love.

So is there a group of people that God has tapped you to reach? Tune in tomorrow for the next part of my story in reaching atheists, when we'll chat about the different types of atheists: who I call "The Friendlies" and "The Enemies."

See you then!

"Talking Points for Christians-"What God Thinks of You"

2009-11-20T09:15:00.000-08:00

This is from the book, "Truefaced." Bruce Koenig, a Facebook friend, sent this out, and I thought it was so great, as it provides a great foundation for sharing your faith with others.

Comments welcome, team.

Thanks, Bruce!

Ever wondered what God thinks about you?

Do you know I knew you even before you were born? You can’t imagine the wonderful plans I have for your life. I don’t want you to fear me. What if I take away any element of condemnation, judgment or rejection? What if I tell you I love you and will always love you? That I can’t love you more than I love you now, no matter what you’ve done. That I love you as much as I love my only Son. That there’s nothing you can do to make My love go away. What if I told you that you could stop beating yourselves up? That you could stop being so formal, uncomfortable and jumpy around Me. What if I told you I am crazy about you? What if I told you even if you run to the ends of the earth and did the most unthinkable, horrible things, that when you came back, I’ll receive you with open arms and a party? What if I told you that I hate religion as much as you do? What if I told you it’s not about religion, it’s about a relationship? What if you found out that it isn’t possible for you to clean up your act enough for me to love you? What if you found out that my Son died on the cross for you? What if I told you that if you humble yourself and accept my Son, Jesus, as your Savior, you are going to heaven no matter what – it’s a done deal? What if I told you that you don’t have to “act like a Christian” but that accepting Jesus into your heart fills you with the Holy Spirit, and that the Holy Spirit will take all the fun out of sinning. That you will have your DNA re-written. That you will be fundamentally changed and rebuilt in His image. What if I told you that I’d then actually live in you? What if I told you that you didn’t have to put on a mask? That it’s ok to be who you are at this moment, with all your junk and not pretend about how close we are, how much you pray or don’t, how much you do or don’t read the Bible, or promises you’ve made to Me and didn’t keep. What if I told you that the record containing your past offenses would be erased…forever? What if you knew I will never, ever use the word punish in relation to you? What if you knew when you mess up, I’d never “get back at you?” What if you were convinced bad circumstances aren’t My way of getting even for taking advantage of Me? What if you knew the basis of our friendship isn’t how little you sin, but rather how much you let Me love you? What if you had permission to stop trying to impress Me in any way? What if you knew good deeds alone won’t get you into heaven? What if I told you that you could hurt My heart, but I’d try never to hurt yours? What if I told you I like Clapton’s music too? That the Thee’s and Thou’s have always bugged Me? What if I told you that you can open your eyes when you pray and still go to Heaven? What if I told you there was no secret agenda, no trap door? If I told you it wasn’t about your self-effort, but allowing Me to live My life through you? What if you knew? Would it change how you think of Me? I won’t force you…it’s your choice.

Why I Picked a Fight With Atheists on Twitter

2009-11-19T04:43:00.000-08:00

If you follow me on Twitter, you already know about this little drama that unfolded this week. I've received several messages and emails from people, concerned about ramifications -- both for my personal safety but most importantly for how Jesus is represented.

So let's address it here at Priscilla's & Aquila's Place, the blog for Christians to vent with each other and pray for each other. I'm open to your constructive criticism, observations and, most importantly, would appreciate your prayer for wisdom.

What went down?

My presence on Twitter is strong. I use it as a launching pad for conversations with non-believers and to promote my other blog, Kingdom Treasures.

Now some background for you non-Twitterers:

Twitter has a little tool called, "hashtag." You get people to comment on a particular subject by writing a phrase and putting a # sign in front of it. This is what is called, "a hashtag campaign." People look up that phrase and then send out Tweets on the topic.

So on Monday, I saw a hashtag campaign begin with the phrase, "You might be an atheist." (#youmightbeanatheist) Atheists followed this phrase with derogatory comments about Christianity. That was fine with me. I see that all of the time on Twitter.

But then something else happened. Some of the hashtag Tweets started attacking Jesus. And these weren't just casual phrases like, "You might be an atheist if you don't believe in Jesus." These were an all-out blasphemous assault. I then clicked on some of the Tweeters' home pages to read what else they were saying about Jesus.

It turned my blood into ice.

So.

I decided to do something about it.

I decided to send out my own hashtags on "You might be an atheist."

In short, I dished it right back at them. I sent so many out that I flooded their hashtag stream. And these weren't innocuous, either. I decided that to get my point across, I would speak their own language.

I taunted them.

Hard.

We're talking ... 5th-grade-on-the-playground-bully-you-into-hysterical-anger taunting.

Some of my atheist friends on Twitter -- those who engage with me positively and email me occasionally -- expressed concern. They understood why I was doing it, but, rightly so, pointed out that I might be goading people who would take their anger a step further.

They were right. I started receiving anonymous messages on Kingdom Treasures, which included my home address and direct threats to rape and kill me.

I know we're supposed to turn the other cheek. I know this.

When do we stand up for Jesus's Name, though? And in what method?

This story isn't over, though.

My incredible leader from Bible study called me in the middle of this drama. After listening to my rant on the phone, she wisely suggested I do one thing: Pray before I send out each and every Tweet.

So I did.

And of course, you know what happened next, if you're a strong prayer.

Some of those following the hashtag campaign started sending me private messages.

I now am constructively engaging in email conversations with five of those who were originally hostile. I discovered they are really hurting people. They have anger against God for reasons they don't understand.

And their hearts are searching.

I no longer saw them as "Enemy," but as those who were POWs in the Enemy's camp.

Their hashtags were in fact calls for help.

So.

How do you mix it up with unbelievers? Do you? What are your approaches? What are your struggles?

And you can tell me flat out what I should've done differently. We're all in this together. We're all on the same team.

Will you pray for me?

How can I pray for you?

Making Time for Discarded People

2009-11-12T05:19:00.000-08:00

Conclusion of this story series ...

So what does it all mean? What does the tale of Jesus's appointment with the Discarded Woman in Samaria have to do with a Christian Safe house?

Just this: We have all been discarded at one time or another. We all know the feelings of rejection, grief, disappointment. We know the type of people we were before we met Jesus and the type of people He has transformed us into being.

So do we share this hope with others?

Do we make time in our busy days and lives for other discarded people?

Yesterday I heard some women chatting about this very challenge. One said she struggled with the cashiers at Wal-Mart, who want to chat about their lives while bagging her groceries. All she cares about is car pooling the kids from school on time. She feels impatient. She doesn't want to listen.

Another said she struggles when people come to her door, asking if they can rake the leaves in her yard for money. Sometimes she wants to ignore the doorbell. She doesn't want to deal with the person or the interruption to her household activities. She doesn't want to think about the fact that maybe they lost their job and really need that money from raking her leaves.

We listened to each other and nodded, agreeing that interruptions in our routines are not pleasant. We want to be cocooned, dwelling on our children, our lives, our responsibilities. In our culture, we don't have time for others.

What if Jesus, on that hot day at noon, had decided He was too tired to talk to the Discarded Woman? He had every right to turn his back, or to just nod a greeting, then walk a few steps away while she drew her water. They may not have even spoken a word to each other.

But that's not what happened.

He allowed her into His world. He saw her hurt. He understood her pain. He cared about touching her life and healing her soul.

So give it some thought ... how much would the world change if you made time for discarded people? We all know them by sight. We hear the tremor in their voices that they try to control. We see the averted eyes and the nervous smiles. We know them, because He makes their plights plain to us.

If we know Him, then we love as He loves.

If we know Him, then we bring discarded people into His arms.

If we know Him, then we do everything we can to make sure they know: He wants to re-claim them as His own.

The Discarded Woman is Re-claimed as Daughter

2009-11-07T18:37:00.000-08:00

Part 4 of this story series ...

His Presence.

She didn’t know how much time had passed since He first asked her for a drink of water, because she had been utterly consumed with His Presence.

He took her off guard, first by speaking to her, then by drawing her in, not as a sexual conquest but as a beloved child.

And it all came down to His Presence.

His Essence.

His life-giving Spirit, as plentiful, as nourishing, as refreshing as the cold water from the depths of that well.

It deluged her in the scorching heat of that noonday sun, wiping out all memory of the burn of her shame, the loneliness of her life.

It poured down her parched throat, this Living Water … this Gift … this Presence.

He was all around her, speaking comfort to her, knowing her, understanding her … loving her. He was the Water. The Water was Him.

He had been willing to make His appointment – to put aside all to which He was entitled – peace, rest, quiet, solitude – to be with her.

But it was more than that.

He had been willing to relinquish His throne, His regal place, His honor, His might … to meet her on this day, in this moment, at this well.

He had been willing to come so that she could taste the Living Water, so that she could drink Him in and be satisfied.

As she plunged into the fountain of His wisdom, kindness, compassion and love, something miraculous happened.

The Discarded Woman was transformed into a Re-claimed Daughter.

And in that transformation, in that overwhelming and joyous reunion of Parent and child, she suddenly became willing to put aside all of her preferences, all of her rights, all of her pride, all of her reticence.

She was so excited to meet Him, to learn of Him, to know Him, to love Him … that she wanted to share Him with others.

She wanted other discarded children to drink of the Water, too.

So she dropped everything. She ran back to the village. She told everyone who would hear – “Come see Him! Could this be the Messiah?”

And they came.

They came in droves … dozens and dozens, all with needs, all with hurts, all with emptiness, all with fatigue and feelings of abandonment.

They came because she was willing to share.

They came because He came for them first.

He had an appointment, you see …. an appointment with an entire village of discarded people.

What does this have to do with a Christian Safehouse? Tune in for the conclusion of this tale …

The Inconvenient Meeting with the Discarded Woman

2009-11-02T07:29:00.000-08:00

Part 3 of this story series …

If he had been fully human, he would have easily been annoyed.

He was resting from a long journey, his feet gritty dry with dust, his muscles tired and achy, the back of his neck itchy and scorched with sunburn.

His buddies had left him sitting at Jacob’s well, a landmark dating before Israel’s history. Although the water was there for the taking, he had nothing with which to draw it.

And it was hot. So hot. The noonday sun beat into his skin as sweat unrelentingly covered his face and back. There was no relief from it.

In this human body, in this human place, far from His celestial home, he was in physical misery.

It was an inconvenient time to meet with her.

He was within his right to suffer in silence as he spied her coming over the crest of a hill.

Any man sitting by a well alone, seeing a woman coming to draw water at the hottest time of the day, knew one thing about that woman: She was an outcast. She was probably a prostitute. She was most likely open to any proposition.

Men with a place in rabbinical society, however, were expected to ignore her, shun her. If he were fully human, he would have withdrawn immediately from the side of the well and walked a few paces away, to avoid being seen talking to her. Otherwise, what would become of his reputation?

And yet.

She was the reason he was here.

He knew before he ever set foot on this journey that he would be meeting her.

He knew before she woke to the dawn that this would be the day to change her life.

He knew before she was even born … that she belonged to Him and that He had come to this earth for her and those like her.

As she approached the well, somewhat hesitantly at the surprise sight of him, his heart welled with compassion and love. He saw everything she had done. He saw everything that had been done to her. He saw every hurt she had experienced. He knew precisely how many tear drops she had shed and how many nights she had cried so hard that her head ached.

He knew.

And He loved.

Despite the inconvenient timing, despite his tiredness, despite his physical discomfort, despite his human desire to be left alone … He spoke to her.

That’s when everything changed for her – in that one moment when He said, “Will you give me a drink?”

She was about to learn that He instead was the giver of water.

What does this have to do with a Christian Safehouse? Tune in for the next part of the story …

The Discarded Woman’s Tale of Rejection

2009-10-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

Part 2 of this story series...

Five.

That’s how many husbands she’d had.

But this was no Elizabeth Taylor, wearing men on her arm like golden bangles and casting each aside for a more dashing charmer.

This was a woman who had been rejected.

Five times.

Five times she had married, and five times she had been left.

There’s one of two reasons that she had been abandoned – or a combination thereof:

The first would have been just sheer bad luck. Under the Law of Moses, after a man died, his widow was to have been married to his brother. This is so that the deceased’s name could be carried on – and so that the woman would continue to be cared for.

So it is possible that she had been married to five different brothers, who died one after the other.

But there was a second and more probable reason for her predicament.

She may have been barren. A woman unable to produce children was a scourge – so much so, that the Law also allowed a man to divorce her and move on to someone who could give him a son.

Whether she had been married off from one sibling to another … or whether she had been summarily dismissed for her lack of childbearing or any other type of displeasing reason … she was a discarded woman.

Sadly, she was older now, not as desirable as sinewy younger Samaritan women. A sixth husband? That would have been a feat. But like many others who had been discarded, she was in a pickle. No one else would have her. Her reputation was rock-solid now. But the larger issue was that she did not have the means or ability to provide for herself.

So, discarded women like her … often had to resort to prostitution.

She was living with a man, though, one who would not commit to marriage but who would support her monetarily. This seemed to be the best and only solution.

As such, even in this Samaritan culture that was less stringent than that of the Jewish brothers to the south, this woman was a pariah.

No one – not even other women – would have anything to do with her if they wanted to keep their own reputations intact.

The discarded woman had to resort to doing her daily business and errands apart from society.

And that’s why … at high noon, when the sun was burning brightest and hottest, when a breeze failed to even rustle weeds … she set out on a long trek outside the city gates to draw water from a well.

None of the other women would be there. They would be drawing water at the cool times of day, the early morning or twilight. But the discarded woman wanted to avoid their looks askance, their whispers, their pushing her out of the way, their raised eyebrows, their roll of the eyes. She didn’t need that. She already felt badly enough about herself.

She trudged out, water jug perched, sweat beading on her forehead, to Jacob’s Well.

And that’s when she saw Him.

That’s when her entire life changed.

What does this have to do with a Christian Safehouse? Tune in for part 3 of the story …

An Appointment with a Discarded Woman

2009-10-28T19:38:00.000-07:00

Part 1 of this story series …

He had an appointment.

He was on a trip home to Galilee.

His route could have taken him along the breathtaking western seacoast of Israel. He would have passed pretty Joppa, named so because the houses there reflected the sun. He would have gone by the Auja River flowing into the sea, where travelers saw the landscape change before their very eyes after crossing. Then He would have crossed the Plain of Sharon, noted for its flowery beauty.

Or, He could have chosen Route #2 … along the Jordan River in the Jordan Valley, rich with vegetation and wildlife galore. It would have been easy for food gathering, and the fresh water and coolness of the riverbed would have been a welcome sight for His weary band of travelers.

But He had an appointment.

And this required Him to choose the third and last Route … through Samaria.

Samaria.

It was home to Samaritans, half-breeds, despised by the Jewish people. Their society combined the worship of Jehovah with that of the many pagan gods. Hundreds of years ago when Israel had been conquered by invaders, the kings of old gave Samaritan land to people other than the Jews. Soon, they intermarried. Soon, they introduced other religions. Soon, the Samaritans were worshipping idols as well as the Jewish God.

Soon … they were reviled, seen as the enemy, by their brothers and sisters to the South.

He didn’t care about any of that. He had a mission in mind. And He had to choose a route through Samaria.

He had an appointment, you see,

an appointment ….

… with a discarded woman.

What does this have to do with a Christian safehouse discussion? Tune in for part 2 of the story …

Forced Words

2009-10-25T18:17:00.000-07:00

Take a moment and evaluate this:

When someone is in a bad spot … They’ve had a car accident and are laid up … They are sick from an unexplained illness … They’re going through a divorce … They’ve lost their job and are struggling financially …. Their family member just died ….

…Or, they’re simply lonely and need someone to listen …

How do you react?

Do you force your words?

In the heat of a moment where you feel embarrassed pity, do you make an offer to help?

If so, what do you say?

What do you promise?

If we love as He loved us, what are we doing … here in Priscilla’s and Aquila’s Place … to be there for those who are in need – physically, emotionally, spiritually?

Do we shrink away?

Do we say, “I’d love to help, but tonight I have Bible study. But I’ll pray for you.”

Do we say, “Call me if you need something!”

Because, see … both of those statements are empty promises. They are forced words. They don’t mean anything.

Be honest. Do you really think that someone who is needy is going to call you? Do you think they will take the risk to swallow their pride and say, “I am in need of help?”

Now what if you say, “Can I do something for you?” and the person actually takes you up on it and says, “Yes, thank you,” do you follow through?

Do you really mean it? Do you intend on action?

Here’s the rub about Christian living:

We can go to church every Sunday, volunteer at the soup kitchen and teach Sunday School. We can worship with our hands in the air while we sing at the top of our lungs and proclaim the salvation of Jesus to the world.

But what if our words don’t have actions to accompany them?

Consider this.

“Dear friends, do you think you'll get anywhere in this if you learn all the right words but never do anything? Does merely talking about faith indicate that a person really has it? For instance, you come upon an old friend dressed in rags and half-starved and say, ‘Good morning, friend! Be clothed in Christ! Be filled with the Holy Spirit!’ and walk off without providing so much as a coat or a cup of soup—where does that get you? Isn't it obvious that God-talk without God-acts is outrageous nonsense?

“I can already hear one of you agreeing by saying, "’Sounds good. You take care of the faith department; I'll handle the works department.’

“Not so fast. You can no more show me your works apart from your faith than I can show you my faith apart from my works. Faith and works, works and faith, fit together hand in glove.

“Do I hear you professing to believe in the one and only God, but then observe you complacently sitting back as if you had done something wonderful? That's just great. Demons do that, but what good does it do them? Use your heads! Do you suppose for a minute that you can cut faith and works in two and not end up with a corpse on your hands?”

That’s James 2: 14-20.

So what about it?

How are you reacting, or acting, towards the needs of those around you – not just strangers but friends or those in the church who need someone to prop them up?

Are you acting, or are you doling out empty promises, cloaked in polite conversation?

Are you speaking forced words?

Are you loving the way He intends you to love?

Note to Anonymous Commenter

2009-10-14T10:12:00.000-07:00

To the Anonymous commenter who continually leaves me messages:

It's a good thing that we don't live in the 1600's, because I am pretty sure you would accuse me of being a witch and burn me at the stake.

If my blog entries are so offensive to you, STOP READING.

I refuse to publish any more of your comments in the future.

This is a "Christian Safehouse."

That means that we support each other. We don't condemn each other. We don't judge each other. We don't suppress each other. We don't belittle each other. We don't deride each other. We are not hateful to each other. We do not speak evil to each other.

This is a safehouse.

Your entry into the conversation does not make it safe.

Therefore, you will be ignored from here on out. This is my final and last note to you.

And I'd advise you to take a hard look at Matthew 7:1 and resolve that within yourself before the day of judgment.

Recovering from Surgery

2009-10-06T20:40:00.001-07:00

Hi everyone,

At the wise counsel of a dear friend, I am taking this post-surgical time to rest and lean into Jesus. I do have stories swirling in my mind that I want to write for you. But my friend pointed out that this is a time for sitting still, listening and absorbing the love that Jesus has for me.

My surgery of a week ago did not go well. I lost a great deal of blood, which has made recovery difficult, and I am also battling the painful after-effects of anesthesia. I covet your prayers, especially as our family deals with "Mommy" being so sick.

When I am ready to finally post an entry, I will announce it on Twitter. You can follow me @heidiraff to know exactly when I am preparing the next story installment.

Thank you so much for your loyal following! It really encourages me immeasurably to see so many of you checking into the blog, and I am looking forward to sharing what Jesus has been teaching me during this time of immense physical suffering.

With gratefulness and love,

Heidi

Ah! Regular Readers, I Have Not Forgotten You

2009-09-27T07:37:00.001-07:00

I know you've been pinging, and I know how many times. So sorry everyone. The past week, I was inundated with finishing my deadline magazine articles. I am having major abdominal surgery on Tuesday and have had to focus solely on getting my home-based business ready for a long absence. Thankfully, all the work is now finished, and I am taking these last two days to fully relax before the operation.

I will be posting another entry or two, tonight and tomorrow. And then it may be a minimum of a week before I am able to do another one. As I will be bed-bound for two to three weeks, I'll have lots of time to write and reflect ... but again it depends on pain levels and medications.

Thanks for your patience & loyal following. I'll see you here later today or tonight.

Blessings,
Heidi

Prayer Among the Palm Trees

2009-09-17T13:03:00.001-07:00

June 1998.
My hotel room.
St. Simon's Island, Georgia.

I am 33.

I toss my suitcase on the bed and make my way to open heavy blinds and turn on the A/C, the stuffiness of the room mirroring my heaviness of heart.

Vacationing solo, I have arrived at a writers' conference on this quaint Georgian island, as loaded with Spanish Moss and Kudzu as it is with antebellum homes.

But I'm not excited to be here.

I know that when I get home after this week away, I will break up with my boyfriend of two years. He is Jewish. We have reached an impasse in our relationship. He feels that if we get married and have children, we should not discuss Jesus with them.

I feel oppositely.

So here I stand in my conference hotel room, with a week of solitude looming, and dreading the pain I'll feel when the relationship has finally been severed.

Music fills my mind -- a tune of sheer grief. I've never actually heard this song before ... it's something that my mind has conjured suddenly all on its own. It's as if my soul has transformed into the music itself, that I am the music personified. It bathes me in my sadness.

I stare at the palm trees. They bend in the oven-like wind. I focus on the swaying palms and dwell on the time when Jesus marched into Jerusalem on a donkey, while people waved palms in His face and hailed Him as King. I ask myself, "Am I willing to put Him back on his throne, make Him King in my life again?"

I am. I pray among the palm trees.

"I know it's not possible for me to stay in this relationship. If I do, I will always doubt any decision he makes for You. I will always wonder. If he tells me in the future that he has changed and is now a Christian, I will doubt it. I would rather spend a lifetime apart from him, knowing that my distance from him might someday help him to give his life to you, unreservedly. I am in the way right now. I am his hurdle. I will remove myself from his life completely, in the hopes that someday he will find You."

And I do. I end it on my return home.

I tell him I will never marry him. But I keep the reason to myself. Giving him the reason will further be an impediment for his belief.

I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than allow that to happen.

And I pray. I pray for a decade. Each time my old boyfriend comes to mind, I pray that he will not die before he meets Jesus. I plead for his salvation. We are apart for good on this earth, but I have not let go of pleading his case before God's throne.

Eleven Years and Two Months Later.
Today.
My home.
Harrodsburg, Kentucky.

I am 44.

I'm happily married now. My husband loves Jesus, and we lavish our faith and love on our 6-year-old son.

But within the past week, I have had Internet correspondence with my old boyfriend. He found me on Facebook and then saw me post a note that my pastor would give a very special talk: "What happens 30 seconds after you die?"

So on Sunday, he logged onto the church Web site and watched live. He chatted with online moderators about the meaning of the message. When it was over, he emailed several questions.

This morning, he told me he was ready to give his heart to Jesus.

I close my computer laptop, my hands shaking.

Did this really just happen?

It did.

And the best part is ... it happened without my pressure or cajoling. It happened without my presence in his life. It happened just as I had hoped it would -- a full and complete submission to the heart of Jesus, sans me.

It happened.

Tonight my friend goes to bed, covered in the amazing love of Jesus, his sins washed clean. Tonight I can sleep for the first time in 11 years, knowing that God is faithful, even in circumstances that may seem dark and ominous.

Look at what He just did.

I saw my prayer among the palm trees answered today. I was able to move on with life. I was able to meet my husband, the man of my dreams, and receive the golden gift of a child. The blessings have been ten-fold since then.

And now I have a new blessing for which to be thankful: my friend's salvation.

Is someone in your life who needs to know Him? Don't give up hope. Keep praying. Keep the faith. Don't stop. Even if you are miles apart emotionally and physically, remember the reason you cared for them in the first place.

So what about you and the people in your life who don't know Jesus? How can I pray for them?

How can I pray for you today?

An Oatmeal-Encrusted Body & A Pileated Woodpecker

2009-09-14T05:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday.
My home.
Harrodsburg, Kentucky.

We are two seconds from leaving our house for church, when my torso starts to feel hot and then begins to itch.

I scramble into the bathroom to inspect for the cause. I'm horrified by the mirror's reflection.

My stomach, back, arms and legs are covered in a red rash. Suddenly, my entire body is on fire with the pain of it.

Grabbing my Aveeno oatmeal bath supply, I make a paste and smear it where ever there is discomfort.

"I can't go to church like this," I tell Brent. "I'm sorry."

And I am.

I have been looking forward to this particular church service for a week. Our pastor Pete His is going to talk about what happens to someone 30 seconds after they die. I've been hyping the event on my Twitter page, my Facebook page and my other blog, Kingdom Treasures. Already I have been fielding questions about it from my friends and followers.

The rash, though, is the cherry on top of horrific days. I've been battling a sinus infection, plus I have been in extreme pain and will undergo surgery at month's end. My entire week has been spent in my living room recliner, mostly feeling sorry for myself.

And now. Now I have this .... RASH.

But I quickly learn there is a reason I am allowed to suffer.

I open up my church service on my computer, where I can see it live. I am surprised to discover two of my facebook friends there. They have all kinds of questions as the talk about death and our immorality unfolds. I realize ... I'm an instrumental part of their lives. Sure, anyone could speak to them in the chat room, had I gone to church and not had this rash. But to be present for them -- to be able to interact with them as they processed the somber message -- is a gift straight from Heaven.

Suddenly I hear a faint rustling at my dining room door.

I look up from the computer to see a Pileated Woodpecker, sitting on the edge, staring into my eyes. He cocks his head to the side, studying my house. He is beautiful. His shock of red feathers top his crown like a Robin Hood beret.

And then he takes flight into the trees.

He is my second gift from Heaven.

I don't know how things will turn out with my friends, whether they will fully absorb all of the information they received yesterday -- and whether they will admit it into their hearts.

But I can tell you that in that one moment when I saw the woodpecker, I was grateful for my illnesses. Had I been to church, I would have missed all of this!

When you have a bad day or a health scare or a disappointment, where do your thoughts go? How do you accept what has happened?

"All things work together for good," the writer of Romans tells us.

Do you believe that?

I can honestly tell you that despite my oatmeal-encrusted body, I was living with joy -- joy from the ability to share with my friends and joy from the ability to see such a beautiful and rare creature ... on a day when my first choice to go to church had been painfully demolished.

What about you? What are you struggling with today? Do you see the blessings in the midst of hardship?

How can I pray for you?

Engaging Hate

2009-09-11T04:24:00.000-07:00

Hatred.

It's what we encounter when we present the Name of Jesus to skeptics and to different religious groups. If you ever doubt the veracity of Jesus's claim to be the Son of God, ask yourself why the mention of His Name is so objectionable to most people.

I've had some interesting discussions lately with Christians who are befuddled by this rancid attitude, and I thought I'd share some coping methods I've adopted. I don't know if they'll help you, but these are some ways that I deal with frontal attacks on my faith.

1) Remember who they hate. Take yourself out of the equation. Their argument is not with you but with God Himself. Their views reflect the war in their hearts against Him. When you remove yourself from this battle, you can deal with their anger rationally and without fear.

2) Engage them with love. That means, don't argue for the sake of proving you are right. This is your pride at work. Take the discussion to their personal lives. Find out who they are -- what are their interests? Do they have children? What do they do for a living? When you ask these questions, they become a person to you, not an adversary. You can't help but love them. The result is that your responses will be more in keeping with Jesus's heart.

3) Are they throwing questions at you like darts? Take those questions in small chunks. Explain that you want to answer their questions but that it is not possible to tackle every one of them in one fell swoop. This is logical, and anyone who has a smidgen of a fallow heart will follow your point. If the person refuses to allow constructive dialogue on each question, they will not be won. There's no point in continuing the discussion. Tell them you will have to agree to disagree and move on.

4) Engage only the people who are willing to courteously listen. There is a difference between someone who is arguing for the sake of arguing and someone who is arguing for the sake of answering questions in their minds. The former will hurl insults, profanity and diatribes at you. The latter will appreciate that you are taking their questions seriously. Even if you are ploddingly slow at answering them, they will understand your sincerity and respond in kind.

5) Don't get sucked into trying to convert someone with whom you have a sexual attraction. If you're single and this person is a potential boyfriend/girlfriend, back off completely. Allow the arguments to be handled by a strong spiritual leader in your life. Otherwise you will fall into the trap of entering or staying in a relationship "to convert" them, and this has absolutely no good end for you.

6)Pray. Pray. Pray. If you are online in an instant message discussion, pray as the person types their notes. If you don't have an answer, disengage, explain that you have to pray about how to answer and then contact them when God makes it clear to you. It serves no purpose to keep talking if you are not allowing God's Spirit to pepper the conversation with His grace. He has to be the one speaking through you. When you sense that you have taken over the conversation from Him, it's time to request a break from the discussion. Promise the person you will get back to them. Then pray.

Do you have your own methods for dealing with skeptics? Questions? Post them here! Let's open up the discussion so that we can support each other and pray for each other.

How can I pray for you?

The Miracle after the Pain

2009-09-06T20:00:00.001-07:00

Wracked with pain, eaten with frustration, dizzy with weakness, I slump in my recliner.

Tears of self-pity wash my face, their saltiness a bitter reminder to me of what I am missing.

For months I have been looking forward to this weekend, anticipating the moment when we will open doors to our new church and also throw a big festival party for the city of Lexington, Kentucky. The object of this annual event is to get more people interested in coming to church and hearing about Jesus.

I have yearned to hear my favorite band, Third Day, bring home the message of God’s love. I have been anxiously praying for people who will process these ideas – perhaps for the first time in their lives.

I was supposed to volunteer at this event.

I was supposed to help shepherd kids in their entertainment corner of this large festival. I was supposed to also hop online with other Web chatterers and talk to people viewing the event from around the world. I was supposed to take Neil around to carnival rides and buy him a funnel cake and help him play games.

Instead, I languish. I wilt. I droop more than the tomato plants that are dying at the base of my porch steps.

I am ill. I have discovered this week that I will have surgery. At first it was thought I had cancer – a type of which only 50 percent of women survive the first five years. I gritted my teeth and worried for 24 hours until it was determined the abnormal growth in my body was not cancerous … but then I found out I would still have to subject myself to the knife.

It will be the fourth time in four years.

Then, one day before this big festival occurred, the pain overtook me. It pummeled my body. It was relentless. It ate at my insides like shark teeth.

It. Never. Quit.

And so I quit.

And here I sat, on Sunday morning, my husband and son off to the church, off to the festival, while my dog buried his web nose in the palm of my hand and licked the salt from my cheeks.

“I am useless. I can’t be used. I am done.” I said to God.

Resigned, I opened my laptop to watch the first online service at my church, which was being broadcast live on the Internet.

And that’s when she came.

My friend, far away.

I had so desperately wanted her to watch. And she was there, in the chat room, watching. She began asking questions. She chatted with others. She processed the story of the Prodigal son. She began to grasp the meaning of God’s unconditional love.

She said she will be back next week.

Later tonight, I chatted online during the festival, also broadcast live.

And as the band Third Day praised Jesus, I also began to praise Him, typing in messages to the chat room about His Glory, His Beauty, His Grace.

Others followed suit.

They too started talking about their experiences with Him. They started sharing how He had changed their lives. We dug deep together, clinging to each other via the light of a computer screen, united only by our thoughts and our hearts.

And that’s when people started to write that they were moved, that they were crying, that they needed prayer.

That’s when I realized … I am being used! He is allowing me to participate, even though I thought I had been tossed to the sidelines like a limp rag doll.

Others sent me emails. They told me that my prayers had helped them. They said that they had grasped a formerly difficult concept about God for chatting with me.

They said I had brought a smile to their faces.

I’m not writing this to you to brag.

I writing this because I want to show you, to tell you – God can use you, no matter your circumstances.

God allowed my body to be used as a punching bag for illness so that I would become weak this week … so that I would learn from Him.

What did I learn?

He is the one who brings people to Himself. We are helpless to do it without Him. And despite our weaknesses, His strength is made perfect through us. He uses us anyway, no matter our limitations! He loves us! He guides us! He prods us to help others!

And with His Mercy and Grace, with His infinite strength, we are allowed to become His vessels of glory. We are allowed to be used to draw others into His arms.

The Miracle after the Pain … that He would deign to use even me.

I can sleep, knowing that every second of suffering … was worth it.