At the McAfee house, there is one New Year’s tradition that dwarfs all others. The new year ushers in budget season.
Kim and I put our first household budget together as soon as we got home from our honeymoon. It was 1992, and the world still ran on paper. We kept every receipt in our wallets until we stuck them on the refrigerator with a magnetic clip. When the pile got too big for the clip, one of us would pull down the pile and assign a spending category to each receipt. Then I would enter all the numbers into a spreadsheet on my giant, desktop computer, and we would have a family meeting on how things were going.
We didn’t have much money back then, and it took teamwork to make ends meet. Surprises were painful. The electric bill would occasionally come in way over our expectations, or we would discover that South Carolina had a very expensive wheel tax. Every dollar that was above the plan had to come out of another category.
It wasn’t just the bills though. We wanted to improve our condition. Kim longed for furniture that looked better than my grungy, college apartment had. I “needed” an ever-expanding list of power tools. We both wanted to run away to the beach for the weekend. Before any actions were taken, we had to make sure we would be able to balance the month.
We had a simple agreement. Once we settled on the budget, either of us could do whatever we wanted, as long as our actions fit within each spending category for that month. If something took more money than a particular category had available, we needed to sit down together and hammer out a plan first.
When we started, I naively thought that following a budget was about making sure to have enough money. In reality, it was much more important.
Kim and I had dreams that vastly exceeded our resources. As a starry-eyed young husband, I wanted to make all of her dreams come true. She felt the same way about me. We spent a lot of time listening to each other’s aspirations and tried to build financial plans to achieve them. I would never have overspent a category without discussing it with her first because it would have violated a trust.
It was years before I understood that budgeting was the foundation for good communication, building faith in each other, and fulfilling our dreams. The numbers and the money were just tools used to accomplish them.
For twenty-seven years, we have called them budgets, but they are actually recipes for turning our dreams into reality.
Until this year.
I’m not building a budget this year. It’s not that I don’t believe in them anymore, because I do. After a year that rocked everything, I don’t know what my dreams are. Having a budget without a dream is like following a recipe without knowing what it will make.
2019 was a year that changed everything. I lost my mom and grandmother. I gave my daughter in marriage to someone else. I watched James survive his own hardships like a man. A short-term health condition has become prolonged and changed what and how I do things. My role in the family is forever altered, and I don’t know how to deal with it yet.
In February of last year, I prophesied that a great storm would soon blow into my life (click to read “Riders on the Storm”). Now that it has come and gone, the job of rebuilding a new future stretches in front of me.
Humans are unique in all of creation. Instead of speaking us into existence, God took the time to form us with his hands into his own image and then breathe life into us out of his own lungs. He instructed us to rule over every living thing, to be fruitful and multiply.
God has given us his ability to imagine something and bring it into existence. He has given us the responsibility to use those gifts to expand his kingdom to cover the earth. It is territory that must be reclaimed with every new life that is born, and every person that grows into adulthood.
The violence of the storm has passed. My previous responsibilities are gone. I am left standing in an empty field with nothing but his words ringing in my ears – Be fruitful. Multiply. Expand my kingdom.
It is pointless to go blindly about the same tasks that the last season required. Nor is it time to act. First, it is time to dream.
I need to get in touch with the ambitions crafted into my heart. It is important for me to hang out with Kim while we lay on our backs staring at the shapes of the clouds that blow past. We will practice letting our imaginations run wild and remembering a time when anything was possible.
Like an artist staring at a blank canvas, the vision will burst from my heart. While I go about the business of imagination, my heart must be in harmony with God and his creation. The life areas that have guided budgets in the past will serve to keep me in balance. Born of a pure heart, dreams will come into focus.
Lord, grant me a very great dream of the future you have planned, then strengthen me to pursue it with all of my heart.
Making Waves just reached a major milestone – 10,000 times someone has clicked to read a post. I am so thankful for the time each of you shares with me. In recognition of this landmark moment, I’d like to take a few moments to reflect on the journey.
It’s been a little more than two years since October, 2017 when I self-published my book, Build Neighbors. A year had passed quickly as I focused on creative writing, enduring editorial criticism, designing graphics, and marketing for online sales. When the first copy arrived in the mail, I tore open the package like an excited kid at Christmas. It was everything I had hoped for, but suddenly it was finished.
At the same time, the First Fruits ministry came to an end. After seven years of coordinating workdays and meeting with troubled neighbors, God thanked me for serving well and released me from that role.
It didn’t take long to start asking “What’s next?”
In May, 2018, I mailed a letter to a friend that was titled “Redeemed” (click to see). While I was writing it and again when reading it afterward, God’s presence was tangible, like being wrapped in a warm blanket. I began to spend more time in a quiet corner of the living room, processing my thoughts and capturing them on my laptop.
I was hooked and Making Waves was born. Each of the past 67 posts has been part of my continuing effort to experience God in everyday life.
It began with blessings spoken over my family – my dad, brother, Erin and James. I have mourned the changing of seasons – the kids moving out in “Letting Go“, coping with my mom’s dementia in “My Mom’s Pictures” and her subsequent passing in “Living in the Moment“.
I searched to find a voice of joy in “We All Have a Psalm Inside“, and questioned greatness in “Granny’s Cookies“. When I grew weary of being labeled by the world, “The ADHD Test“, challenged whether our weaknesses were part of God’s design and our created purpose, only to turn around and question the pursuit of bigger things in “Make a Joyful Noise“.
I chronicled the family’s growth that came with my daughter’s wedding beginning with “My Blessing” and continuing for several other posts. I also begged my friends to stay with me in “Please, Don’t Hit That Button!” My family and my life are different than they were. I suspect yours are, too.
Through all of the changes that have come, a few constants have emerged. I’d like to share these with you, because they have grown beyond a blog into a greater part of how I try to live my daily life.
Here they are.
The blog can belong to God, or it can belong to me. It can’t be both.
Sixty-seven posts may have been published, but more than a hundred have been discarded. So many times, I sat down to begin writing and felt that the process was going nowhere. In those times, I have stopped and prayed for God to guide my thoughts before writing anything further. Eventually, he would put something on my heart and I would begin again.
When God’s favor rests on my work, a calmness comes with it. It can still be difficult, though. Wrestling with a specific truth can require hours of deliberation, but there is peace in the effort.
During the times that I want to write, but God takes issue with the timing, it can be frustrating. Summoning him on command as my captive muse does not work, and he reminds me that our relationship doesn’t work that way.
Then I have to decide if I would rather do things my way or do it with him at my side. Although it is difficult to release control and choose to wait, the rewarding time in his presence is my true goal.
Keep it real.
I began to realize how much of my own words I disagree with after I wrote them down and read over them. The platitudes made me shudder, knowing that nobody is comforted by them. They are shallow and insincere. My reality is more complex and it deserves better.
The difficult truth is that I have feelings that I know I shouldn’t have. I want to get better and the first step is admission. While I was writing “What If Jesus Couldn’t Read a Map?“, I had to face the truth that Jesus gets on my nerves occasionally. I’m certainly not proud of that, but until I faced it, I couldn’t get healthier.
Asking myself if I truly believe what I just said is a hard question and leads to confessions. I want a real relationship with Jesus, though, and honesty is the foundation.
Don’t exaggerate your weaknesses or minimize your strengths.
I reveal things about myself even at the expense of losing people’s respect. I want to be loved as God made me, not embraced because of a false image.
I have admitted that I make bad choices. I have shared immature emotional responses. I have acknowledged that I have limitations. But, I have tried to be as honest as possible about them.
Less than two months after starting Making Waves, God put it on my heart to tell How I Met Jesus. It was really hard. I’ve never been proud of that part of my past, and God asked me to make it one of my earliest posts published on Facebook. I learned that my fears were wrong. My story is His story and sharing it gave me freedom.
The fear of being mocked for my past is mild compared to that of being ridiculed for my ambitions. Even in my post, Candle in the Wind, I couldn’t reveal my secret wish. I wasn’t strong enough to imagine people quietly laughing at me, but I am trying to build my faith in who He says that I am.
We all face the same struggles. I hope that my honesty provides encouragement to other people who feel the same way.
Speak the hope of what will become, avoid dwelling on what is not.
When I am angry, I rage against the unfairness of life. I am hyper-critical of people’s actions and quick to point out what was wrong. However, I would rather be known for what I love. Criticism hasn’t brought me peace, but faith in the good things to come has, and it gives me a blueprint for my life.
The post “Breaking Free” was born out of a time when I was exasperated with a friend of mine. When I wanted to attack this person, I tried to back down and offer hope. I don’t know if my friend gained anything from the post or not, but I did. I learned to try and see a better day instead of complaining about a lesser one.
The past months have been wonderful. God gave me a gift in Making Waves and I hope it helps me to become a better man. I hope it helps you, too. Whatever life holds for us, I look forward to sharing it with you.
It’s already been a week since we had a great Thanksgiving. Erin put together a vegetarian spread that was awesome, and we chose to supplement it with a melt-in-your-mouth brisket and skipped the turkey altogether. The five of us had a great meal, a good time, and naps abounded afterward.
Kim handed out cards for us to write down things we were thankful for. We passed them around like gifts and read them out loud. The newlyweds were thankful for each other, as they should be. Kim shared the usual mom stuff. James and I were kind of all over the board with our lists. We are all truly blessed, and it is easy to feel that way on a special day like that.
Thankfulness lies at the heart of Christianity. Accepting God’s grace creates an attitude of thankfulness that follows you throughout your day. Every morning, I try to start out my prayer with a moment of thanksgiving to start my day off right.
However, on some days I just can’t find it in me to be thankful.
In general, I am a morning guy. I don’t hit “snooze” and hope for an extra ten minutes. I like to get out of bed and enjoy a hot cup of coffee while contemplating the great things the day will hold. Being thankful should come automatically.
But many times it doesn’t. As I stare at the bottom of my coffee cup, my heart can feel just as empty. Kim has patiently endured countless tirades while I prepare for work. The potential causes are endless. The kids are on my nerves. Work assignments landed on my desk that shouldn’t have. I feel sick or sore. Friends act in ways that continue to invite trouble.
Listening to myself, I know how my tantrums sound. In defiance of a remarkably blessed life, complaints erupt like a geyser. I pout like a spoiled child. Indulging these feelings doesn’t make them go away, but neither does ignoring them.
A couple of mornings ago, I was on a roll. The more I complained, the longer my list of grievances became. With each item that added to the list, the angrier I got. As I walked out the door to go to work, I was a mess.
Some days, I listen to praise music and my frustrations are drowned out. Not this time. I felt like Eeyore with a rain cloud hovering over me. So much was unfair and it demanded a response.
Then I remembered a passage from my devotional that morning.
For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.(Hebrews 4:15-16)
Jesus doesn’t tell us to ignore our problems and put on a coat of sunshine. He’s been there himself and knows how hard it can be. He wasn’t always the King of Kings, after all. There was a time when he was a carpenter, an older brother, and a regular guy.
I imagine him leaving for work on a Wednesday morning when it was still dark outside, knowing that he would spend the entire day rebuilding a table because someone changed their mind. He knew that he would be coming home late from a job he shouldn’t have to be doing after listening to constant whining about how he was disrupting someone’s precious routine.
Jesus woke up on cold mornings with a headache and a low-grade fever. As he got dressed, he couldn’t find the sandals his brothers had borrowed without asking. He hurried off to work anyway because he was the oldest son and had a family that depended on his income.
Jesus got splinters and smashed his thumb. At times, his family didn’t believe in him. His friends betrayed him. His neighbors laughed at him. He had a hard, troubled life.
So when I scream out in frustration, he understands because he’s lived through it all. He sits with me patiently while I vent and holler. When I am done, he walks with me to the throne of God and asks for mercy on my behalf.
Some people may think that having God’s son in my corner asking for my special treatment would make me selfish. After all, if he will go with me to God’s throne, why not ask for every comfort in life?
But it doesn’t work that way. The time I spend with an understanding savior who has already given his best for me calms my angry spirit. It makes me realize everything he has already done for me.
On the mornings that I wake up and my heart is empty, it’s OK to be angry. It’s OK to complain about unfair treatment. Instead of burdening my wife with my complaints, though, I should share them with the Prince of Peace. When I’m finished, he will walk with me to the throne of God’s grace.
This week, I had breakfast with a friend of mine. If you read one of my earlier posts, The Serpent and the Dove, then you already know his story. If not, you can click on the title and catch up.
I’ve been worried about him for the past couple of months. There are powerful forces aligned against him. Some are threatening to take away his freedom. Others challenge his ability to provide for his family. The good name he has built for himself hangs in the balance.
The heat he is taking from all sides is intense.
I wish that I could help him, but I don’t know what to do. His situation is so complex that it is difficult to keep track of all the characters, let alone know where to offer assistance. It is a powerless feeling.
I send him messages regularly letting him know that I am praying for him and his family. When I see him across the crowded cafe at church, I weave through the crowd to hug him. This week, I met him for breakfast. It seems like so little, but it’s all I know how to give right now.
I arrived at Einstein’s Bagels a few minutes early for our breakfast together and found an empty table while I waited for him to arrive. I expected him to walk through the door with the weight of the world obvious on his face and in his posture. I wondered what I would say.
When he walked in, it wasn’t what I had expected. He had an easy smile. He told me “Good morning” and thanked me for inviting him. We ordered our food and while we waited for it, he brought me up to speed on his situation. He spoke with seriousness but didn’t seem scared or defeated. The magnitude of his situation was at odds with the tranquility of his disposition.
He described to me how blessed he was by his small group. They had surrounded him with compassion and prayed for him regularly. He and his wife had sought out powerful prayer warriors to ask for the Father’s help. Then he thanked me again for my prayerful support.
His future is uncertain, but his faith is unshaken. Through all of the peril, he trusts God to deliver him. Looking forward, he told me that when this was over his testimony would be powerful and that he would be prepared to share it with the whole world that currently seems aligned against him.
Eventually, we parted ways. While I was walking across the parking lot, I was thinking about the testimony he would inevitably share. What would his story be?
I got to my car and climbed behind the wheel. As I reached to set my phone into its cradle, I noticed the familiar blue light that announces an awaiting message. It was from James, who is also going through a tough time. I’ve been worried about him, too. His text message said:
“Someone sent a slow day Christian
playlist in the group chat for my
small group and this song on shuffle
played two different versions in a
row out of about 60.
So I’d call that a message at least.”
The link that followed was to the song “Another In The Fire” by Hillsong. You can click the thumbnail picture to hear it.
James was right. It was a message. It was meant for him and for me.
The song’s title is a reference to a story from the third chapter of Daniel in the Old Testament. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego refused to worship their king as if he were a god. The enraged king ordered them to be bound and thrown into a blazing furnace. The furnace was so hot that the guards who threw them in died from the heat. But the three friends weren’t consumed by the flames. Instead, they danced inside, untied and unharmed.
When the surprised king looked into the fire and saw them dancing inside, he peered closer and saw a fourth person. He said that there was another in the fire, who looked like a son of the gods.
When people hear this story, they don’t visualize the three friends walking out of the furnace, or the reward they later received from the king, or even their story being told for generations afterwards. When people hear the story, they imagine the three dancing in the flames, joined by another in the fire, who saved them.
My friend doesn’t have to wait for his testimony to be revealed. He has inspired me with it already. Encircled by danger and surrounded by flames, he is dancing. He knows that there is another in the fire, dancing with him. That is his testimony.
In this world, all of us will constantly experience difficulty, danger, and pain. But Jesus is alive. He is our salvation and we are never alone. Our story does not have to wait until the final victory to be told. Our present peace influences others more than our future reward.
Our story is told while we dance in the flames, knowing there is another in the fire with us.
My friend was right. His testimony is powerful and I am thankful that he shared it with me.
When I was an emerging adolescent, sex was one of those things nobody talked about in my house. My parents approached the subject with a Victorian-era level of modesty that extended from activities to anatomy. It was don’t ask and don’t tell.
At some point in junior high school, the changes to my body became impossible to ignore. First, my voice changed. It wasn’t like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. It introduced a long, messy period when people laughed at my awkwardness. Second, I slowly started to get taller. Last, pimples popped up. It was a mess.
Instead of initiating a direct discussion, my folks planted a copy of The Changing Me where they knew I would find it. Over the coming months, I spent afternoons reading through it. As any honest man would admit, I wasn’t really hoping for education as much as a cheap thrill, but regardless of the viewing angle, the sketches reflected the same level of modesty that had led my mother to select the book in the first place.
When I had enough of it, Preston inherited the copy. I expect his experience was much the same as my own. A generation later, I bought a copy for James. By that time, it was a family joke. Any reference James made to physical growth would end up with us handing him his copy of The Changing Me and telling him to read all the chapters, not just to look at the pictures. Ask him about it, please.
Forty years later, I am dealing with enormous changes in my life. I’m learning that The Changing Me missed some key points and ended a few chapters early.
The pages inside revealed how I should expect to get taller and stronger. There was lots of information on growth, but not much on what I would have to let go – like childlike innocence, naiveté, bones that bent before breaking, smooth skin, clear voice, and more.
Growth in one area is accompanied by surrender in another. The book didn’t prepare me for that.
Lots more than physical differences came over the next few years. Things that had been icky became intriguing. It was like my brain had been rewired. Body, mind, and spirit are intertwined. Each of them continues to evolve. Changes to one affect the others. The book definitely didn’t prepare me for that.
The unwritten chapters at the end should have told me that these changes weren’t a one-time thing. The Changing Me is a lifetime process.
Too often, my perception of who I am is frozen, a compilation of various characteristics that were true at differing points of my life. My reality is evolving. I look different. I think different. I want different things. My patchwork view of myself doesn’t match who I am now, and probably never did.
My growth spurts are no longer physical, but they continue to happen fast and generate lots of confusion. The lazy part of me wants to do nothing but sit back and wait for God to reveal everything. The Bible teaches differently.
As a teenager, I was constantly encouraged to try new things – sports, academics, jobs, foods, and friends. Paul tells us that we should be transformed by the renewing of our minds (Rom 12:2). He wasn’t talking about a one-time thing. He meant for us to get out there and challenge ourselves with experiences that are constantly renewed.
Growth means change, but I value constancy in my life. However, the nature of love is to set aside previous ways of thinking (1 Cor 13:11) and reach for more. That takes both courage and a lot of effort.
God wants us to live a life pursuing him(Jer 29:13). If we never changed, that pursuit would end. It is ironic that when we refuse to embrace the changes happening to us, we complain about how “things aren’t like they used to be”, or how “people today are different”. Things aren’t supposed to be the same and neither are we.
In my season of epoch change, may God grant me the courage to discover my emerging strengths and the bravery to let go of things that no longer fit.
Growing is a lifelong process and you never get grown up. The Changing Me left that part out.
Mike was ignoring my best attempts to get off the phone.
I had returned his call as I left the office but the drive home was now over and I was sitting in the driveway in the dark. It had been good to hear that his trip home from the wedding was smooth, but it was time for me to transition to my task list inside. That meant ending the call.
If he had noted my not-so-subtle clues, he wasn’t letting on. He finally got to the point of his call.
“Jimmy, you need to take the night off. Take a hot shower, eat a good dinner, get a cold beer and watch something pointless on TV.”
I was getting out of the car and hanging up as I told him that I would do that, but I had no intention of following through on my promise. There was stuff to do. I needed to find some missing wingnuts for a propane heater we had sold. The garage was still a mess from the wedding. The ceramic flooring that ran through our house was gross and needed a thorough mopping. When those things were done, there was a backlog of new projects to start. So much to do.
Walking up the sidewalk to the front door, I realized that Mike wasn’t the only one who had told me the same thing. It seemed like a lot of people lately had echoed the same sentiment.
Things have been crazy recently. My grandmother passed away thirteen weeks ago. Erin’s wedding prep was a mad dash for the past seven weeks. Mom passed away three weeks ago. James’s personal issues over the past week had me worried and not sleeping well. Our wedding guests just left town after four days at the house. Returning to work, I realized there were eight key items to complete in the next six weeks.
It would be fine, though. The pace was fast, but I could go faster. It would all get done, I just needed to stay focused. Eventually, we would catch up and things would slow down.
But they won’t slow down, will they? Mike was right. I needed the night off.
I opened the front door and Tarzan raced around the corner and down the hall to meet me. Instead of walking past him, I got down on my knees and took time to pet him. He likes to stand on his back legs and put his front legs on my chest, staring me eye to eye while I scruffle his neck and back. When I eventually stood back up, he ran ahead of me into the other room, announcing my entry.
I love that one-eyed pug.
I followed him into the kitchen and found Kim there. I hugged her, and we embraced for a long moment, not like I usually do with my patented move, the quick-squeeze-and-push-away. It was nice. I hadn’t taken the time to do that lately.
We took the night off as Mike had prescribed. It was an unproductive evening, although I did sneak out to find those missing wingnuts.
Those few quiet hours were nice, but I’m fighting the temptation to downshift and floor the accelerator to return to top speed and attend to the details that are stacking up. Instead, I need to pause and process all of it.
In less than 100 days, the changes in my family have been epoch.
The last of the Greatest Generation has been laid to rest. My mom is also receiving her reward, making two generations of women who have suddenly been silenced. Kim’s reign as the matriarch of our family has unwillingly begun.
Erin has started a family of her own and someone else has pledged to care for her.
James is flown and now grown. He is building his own team to give him counsel and to support him through tough times.
It is hard to keep your footing when the circle of life lurches forward.
The world and my place in it are changing. The old me won’t fit into the new order, and I need God to show me my place while I figure out how to best relate to my friends and family in this new season. Meanwhile, God is granting me new gifts and transferring some of my former abilities to the emerging leaders in my life.
It will take time to understand. Burying myself in my work won’t change the reality of my situation. I need quiet time with God for him to put the pieces together.
In those quiet times, I’m thankful for my dog, who helps me put life into focus. Life has been crazy for him lately, too. He moved to Erin’s place while we were at mom’s funeral. When we returned, an army of visitors invaded his sanctuary. As the crowds left, Erin’s dogs moved in during her honeymoon. Now it is back to normal, but he must wonder for how long.
Instead, he rests comfortably. It is enough for him to know that I am there.
I’m going to take a tip from Tarzan about how to rest in the Father. That part of my life should never change.
