Andy the Businessman

About 2 1/2 years ago, I started this story series for a dear friend of mine who is an agnostic. He'd called saying he was troubled, because someone (a believer) had compared him to the disciple Andrew. Not knowing anything about Andrew, he did some digging and discovered a couple of stories in the Gospels. And he was chagrined. It seemed to him that Andrew was like a "spare wheel," the guy who was "there" but just sort of one of those side-kicks who doesn't do anything of note. Why was he compared to this disciple? He wanted me to explain it.

I honestly didn't know the answer, so I did some of my own digging, and the results of what I was finding prompted me to start this story series here on this blog. But about two days after I posted this entry, I was hit by some personal unforeseen circumstances that really threw me under the bus. I sidelined the entry and didn't return to it.

Recently, though, as things have settled down in my own life, I have been reminded that I never finished this piece.

So here is Part 1 of the tale. In the next few days, I will post the rest of the story parts.

For my friend who originally asked the question ... this is really for you. And for anyone else who wonders whether you have a significant role in life .... this is for you, too.

Thanks for taking time to read, and now on to ...

Part one.

(Research for this story was provided by "Cast Your Nets: Fishing at the Time of Jesus," by Elizabeth McNamer)


When I was 12, a teacher assigned a family tree project. We were to interview our grandparents about their memories and get any information they could recall about ancestors.

My paternal grandfather, who I called, "Pop," had immigrated from Newfoundland to New England in the 1920s. I knew he'd been in the British Navy in World War I. And I knew he loved the sea. But other than that, I had nothing.

I remember sitting at a breakfast room table, notebook paper at the ready, and calling Pop to find out about the family's past.

"What did your father do?" I asked Pop.

"He was a fisherman." Pop replied shortly in a raspy voice.

I wrote that down.

"And do you know what his father did, my great-great grandfather?"

"He was a fisherman," Pop replied.

"OK. Well, this is going back a lot, but what about my great-great-great grandfather?"

"He was a fisherman."

My dad, who was listening on another line, chuckled when he heard me sigh.

"Pop, was my great-great-great-great grandfather a fisherman?"

"Yes. He was a fisherman."

We went on like this a few more times until Pop finally said, "Well, I don't know that far back, but I'm pretty sure that everyone else was a fisherman."

Today, as I read the story about Andy's life before he met Jesus, I can't help but recall that long-ago conversation with Pop.

See, Andy's family was in the fishing business, too. Now you might have heard sermons at your church about the lowly lives of fishermen. More than once, I've heard pastors wax poetically about Jesus hanging out with the stinky smelly men of the sea and how great it was that He gave them His attention.

But that description, quite frankly, is condescendingly incorrect.

In fact, fishermen were integral to the economy in First Century Palestine. And the men who owned fishing operations were savvy and successful businessmen. Think of them as active Chamber of Commerce members or pillars of your local community.

Consider the skills that the average Galilean fisherman needed. They weren't just sitting around in a boat. They had to be skilled at marketing their product. Israel's population at the time was about 500,000, and fish was a staple food. Not only that, dried fish from the Sea of Galilee was a "gourmet" menu item for Roman aristocracy. And in Jerusalem, fish was in high demand during religious festivals and seasons. So this required the fishermen to travel a lot.

And with travel during the era of the Roman Empire came along the need to know more than one language. The native tongue would have been Aramaic. But to converse with those who were buying the fish? You would've needed to know other languages like Hebrew, Greek ... and Latin, if they were selling to the Romans.

Are you getting the picture?

Andy was no dummy.

Fishing business owners also had to be skilled organizers in the running of their operations. They hired sailors and other fishermen to do labor (fish, mend nets, count fish). They were engaged in legal partnerships with each other. They had to maintain their equipment (nets and boats), deal with tax collectors and be skilled bargainers with their workers and buyers alike.

Andy and his brother Pete were in a partnership with two other guys, Jim and John, and their father, Zeb (a really wealthy fish business owner).

And it is against this highly successful backdrop of the business world that Jesus entered the picture and met Andy for the first time.

Tune in for part 2 of our tale ...

The Story of Job, Doubt, Unbelief and Faith

A crisp early morning breeze, unseasonal for June in Kentucky, jarred slumber, and a red Kentucky cardinal, his pre-sunrise song unabated, refused to let me return to my dreams.

It's one of those mornings where the doubts with which I have wrestled for the past four years nag me, much like the bird's ardent chirping.

And what is it that I can't get out of my mind?

The story of Job.

This is a blog entry I have wanted to write for at least three years. But until this morning, the ruminations haven't crystallized. Just as the soft sunlight broke through the nighttime shadows, the resolution to this silent, ongoing debate with myself finally illuminated my heart's recesses.

But let me rewind and give you the back story.

This whole thing first started when I was in my early 20s, with one of those late-night conversations that never leaves your consciousness and stays with you throughout the years.

I have a brilliant younger brother, four years my junior. Usually the older sibling is the one to whom the younger must aspire. In our case, I was the underachiever in the family, bringing home report cards filled with mostly B-grade averages (with a great deal of studying and effort). He was the child who could ace a test without barely cracking a book open and sailed through school at a 4.0. At age 13, he hacked into Syracuse University's IT system and changed students' grades -- and those were the days before we had an Internet.

While I was superficially focused on making the cheerleading squad or playing pranks on my college campus, he was a diligent, deep-thinking philosophy major. He studied ancient Greek, delved into the underpinnings of C.S. Lewis's complex works and successfully challenged the establishment everywhere he went.

Now I tell you all of this about my brother, because I need you to understand why and how this late-night conversation was so poignant, and continued to be poignant many years after the fact. A debate with my brother on any subject meant entering into a decision to challenge one's long-held beliefs and perceptions.

In short, nothing about these conversations was ever comfortable.

Basically, he vociferously made the argument that we really didn't know if certain stories in the Bible were about real living, breathing human beings ... or if they were Jewish folklore, cobbled together as metaphors and parables to help the ancients grasp the meaning of life.

At the time, I was aghast at the mere suggestion. Not take the Bible literally? How could any believer consider such a thing?

He drilled through the list of names, starting with Adam and Eve ("Really? We all came from these two people?"), moving to Noah ("A flood over the entire Earth?") ... and then he hit Job.

His reasons for Job being just a fable were rooted in the storytelling approach of the book of Job itself ... Satan presents himself to God in the middle of all of the angels, and he and God get into a debate about one guy that God thinks is doing great. Satan says, "If You strip him of all he has, he will curse You."

And you know the rest of the story ... God allows Satan to take everything from Job as a test of his faith, and when Job stays faithful to God, God restores everything to him again, except with more bounty than with which he started.

My brother's point of view was that the book read like a Greek myth -- good versus evil -- and that there was absolutely no proof that a guy like Job ever existed. The basis for the story, he said, was an attempt to help the ancients understand why bad things happen to good people. But it was not to be taken literally. There was no reason, in fact, to take it literally, he said.

Besides -- he asked me -- why was it so important to me to take it literally? Why did it have to be read literally? What was the reason, the drive within me, to insist that Job was a real person who lived and breathed on this earth? Why did I feel I had to cling to the idea that there really was a conversation between Satan and God and that this poor sap was targeted? Why couldn't I just be happy with the idea that Job was a great piece of Jewish literature but was nothing more than folklore?

I have to admit ... I was stumped. And I was bothered. And I didn't know why I was bothered. I couldn't get my head around my own strong desire to want this story to be true, to be literal, to be an actual event.

And for the next 26 years, this conversation ate at me.

Until this morning at 4 a.m.

All of it clicked together like a World War II code cracking tumbler, the mosaic pieces of my bewilderment suddenly falling together into a complete picture and making sense.

(Usually on this blog, I would break here and tell you to tune in tomorrow for the rest of the story ... but this has been pressing on me so hard for the past three-and-a-half hours that I'm just going to keep writing here ... and if you want to break off here and return to it later, you can. :-)

See, at the time that this conversation took place in my life, I had experienced no hardship. None. I had lacked for nothing in my childhood and had been raised by two God-fearing, loving parents. I hadn't been touched by any sickness or tragedy. The story of Job was just that -- a story -- to read with interest and curiosity.

And for a long time in my life, that was the case. I did have some hardships, don't get me wrong ... my father died when I was 26, which was devastating ... and I watched my former husband go to war in Iraq when I was three weeks out of a C-section with a colicky newborn, following one of the worst pregnancies known to women ... and during my marriage, I went through some horrible illnesses. And all of those life events tested me at various stages.

But even at that, I can honestly say that I didn't know hardship -- really know hardship.

Four years ago, all of that changed, however.

I lost everything.

I won't go into detail, because many of my readers already know the story and it's too long for this blog entry's purposes, anyway.

But let's just use the Cliffs Notes version and say again:

I lost everything, including my health, to the extreme where at one point I thought I only had a few months left to live.

It was then that the first piece of my mosaic came into focus.

The reason I wanted the story of Job to be true -- even when I was at a point in life when nothing bad had happened to me yet -- was that I wanted to be able to know that someone else had lived and experienced the worst and still came through it with blessings for God on his lips and blessings from God after it was over. For me, it was crucial for this to be a true story, because I needed the assurance that if the worst ever came to my door, I had a real life person to look to as an example of how to handle it.

In short, I needed Job to be a real guy, for my own emotional coping strategy when the going got tough.

For a while, when I would think back to the conversation with my brother, I thought it was as simple as that ... my emotional needs being met by the truth of the story.

But this morning, I realized it was so much more.

Job's story also illustrates that God is involved in the lives of each and every person. When bad things happen to us, we're not on a limb alone. I needed the story to be true, because I needed to know that God knew about each plight. We are not isolated. He is with us. And because of the promise of Isaiah 7:14 and Matthew 1:23 (the birth of "Immanuel," which means "God with us") and the promise of John 14:16-17 (the coming of the Comforter), we are further assured that just as God was involved in the events of Job's life, so is He in ours.

As for my brother's argument that these stories could be fables ... I look to Hebrews 11, which we know as "The Faith Chapter." If you haven't read it, you should. It details the ancients whose stories of faith and trust are examples for us in our own walks. I don't think that the author would have listed each of these individuals if they hadn't lived. And in Matthew 1, we have the genealogy of Jesus, which provides the lineage that traces His origins ... to Adam and Eve and even Noah.

Is Job mentioned in either of these passages? No, he is not. That said, I think this establishes a Scriptural pattern of identifying these people in the stories of old as real individuals ... and if Job's story was important enough to be included among the writings of the Old Testament, I am confident he existed, too.

There are readers of this blog who may point out to me that I am a supporter of the theory of evolution and that I have made the argument that it is not mutually exclusive from the story of the Creation in Genesis. For more on that, we need another blog entry, but my reason in bringing it out is that you may argue with me, "You can't cherry pick which stories in the Bible are true and which aren't. You can't say you take one thing literally and another not so literally."

But I would say that you can't put God in a box, nor can you do that with the Bible. I think there are some instances in the Bible where you have to read with the understanding that these were ancient people communicating ancient happenings in the way they understood them. With something like creation, where they did not have the benefits of scientific knowledge, the story would be written in the way they would be able to communicate it best. With something like a story about an individual's life, however, that is pretty straight-forward. You wouldn't need the benefit of science to grasp it or understand it, which is why I think it can be taken literally. My point is that we would have to be very short-sighted to demand that all of the Bible be taken literally or all of the Bible be taken as fable or folklore. If the Bible is God-inspired, then it can be read with wisdom, inspired by God. And for that, we simply need faith to ask Him to reveal His mysteries to us as we read it.

Finally, there is one final (and most important) reason that I believe Job to be a literal story:

It is a story of hope.

It is a story of one man's destitution and loss following a life of great blessing. And it is a story of redemption, faith, courage, honor ... and blessing following his refusal to curse God in spite of all that had happened to him.

During the past four years of my arduous personal journey, I have repeatedly turned to the story of Job as a lifeline to get through. I have repeatedly relied on his example as my predecessor for how I should respond to hardship. I have repeatedly realized that if one person can go through what he did, then my sufferings can also be endured. And I have repeatedly realized that with his faith and trust, God smiled ... and God smiled on him and blessed him and more than repaid what had been lost because of Job's persistent love and hope in Him.

Hardship is a part of life, and life isn't fair.

But God is God.

God is on His throne, and He sees the evil that is done to His children.

And if we take the story of Job literally ... if we hold on to Job's example as one to which we can aspire ... if we grasp firmly the faith and love in God as Job did ... God will give us grace, peace, assurance, but most importantly, His love ... to carry us through.










 

On Joy

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

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

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

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

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.

The Plot to Kill The Formerly Dead Guy

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."

The Naysayer Masqueraders

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"

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

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 ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"

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

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.