Last week, Erin and Josh moved out of the one-bedroom apartment they had been in since their wedding. As newlyweds should, they spent most of the last year focused on each other. Now they are looking for extra space to accommodate their expanding lives.
Their new place is 60% larger than the previous one. It has room for a dining table, hobbies, and office space. It also has lots and lots of space for their houseplants that fill a space to rival a tropical rainforest. Erin has been giggly for weeks just thinking about it.
I offered to help coordinate the move. My hope was to wrap the young couple in community support by helping them carry some of the load and once everything was securely inside, to pray together over their new home.
It was a simple project compared to the dozens of others I’ve coordinated, except this one took place in a pandemic. The dates changed unexpectedly. Some of the people had COVID-19 symptoms and were a question mark for being able to help. Whether or not to wear facemasks became a question.
I spent a lot of time considering details. I asked if they had enough boxes, whether they needed to borrow a tape gun, what they should pack vs carry by the armload. I checked frequently on whether or not the manager had confirmed the date and peeked through the windows of the new place to see if any surprises lay inside.
I built a new dining table for them and refinished chairs for them to use. I offered to build shelving for extra storage. I wanted to do anything I could to make their new place perfect.
Somewhere along the line, Kim warned me to back off and let them control their own destiny. At the time, I didn’t listen. I pushed her counsel to the back of my mind and went scurrying about my details.
Just before moving day, I had a troubling dream. It was one of those dreams that you can’t shake loose when you awaken.
I was living in my childhood home in the same bedroom I had when I was 16 years old. I was going about my routine getting ready for the day when I opened the closet door to get my clothes. I looked down and saw that the closet floor was falling apart. Not only was the carpet gone, but the subfloor had holes in it that revealed the basement below. The floor joists were also damaged. It was a mess.
After recovering from the initial shock, I started to make a plan for repairing the damage. When I told my dad about my proposal, he pointed out potential problems and left me to start over developing a new course of action. Time after time, the same thing happened. No matter what idea I had, it wasn’t good enough.
Although I had never done this specific job before, I felt confident in my ability to figure it out. However, my patience was exhausted by seemingly endless conversations and Dad would never release me to do the work. His well-intentioned criticism was as persistent as my desire to do things by myself.
My frustration level climbed with each concept I proposed that Dad found some reason to challenge. The dream became one of those endless loops that seem to last all night.
I woke up in my bed in my house, but still filled with the same resentment that had haunted my dream. As I got my day started, the emotions I carried into my waking world simmered just under the surface. When Kim woke up and came downstairs, I told her about my dream. I described my exasperation that my father would never just accept that I had things under control.
When I looked at her confused expression, I realized that all of it had merely been a bad dream. My dad doesn’t overreach his boundaries or constantly meddle in my affairs. There isn’t anything that he has prevented or even discouraged me from moving forward with.
It has been thirty years since I stepped out on my own. Back then, I wanted so badly to emerge from my family’s shadow and begin to do things my way. It was not because their lives or solutions were bad or wrong, but I wanted to grow up. Their offers for help were a chain around my leg that snapped taut whenever I tried to run free.
As those memories flooded back, I began to recognize the same expression on my kids’ faces. It is especially evident with James. When I offer him advice, he looks back at me as if he wants to plug his ears and yell “Bah, Bah, Bah, Bah!” until I stop talking. Most of the time he disappears from the room within a few moments.
Erin’s response is different than James’s, but the message is the same. She quietly ignores my advice and waits for me to become weary in my efforts. Now that I think about it, she did that several times when I was “helping” her plan her move.
The slow realization began to sink in that my dream was a warning. What I had suppressed when Kim told me to back off and give the kids freedom on their moving day had escaped through my subconscious. I had only viewed the dream wrong. In it, I was the son who had now become the father.
Ultimately, her move was a success. Their new place is perfect and with the help of some fantastic friends – Steve Hermann, Rick Clark, and Hank Cates – their keys to the old apartment were ready to turn in by 5pm the same day.
The kids are becoming the leaders of tomorrow. Upgrading an apartment is a small step toward setting a broader vision for their lives. By pitching in to ensure their success, James is setting aside his own priorities and placing others above himself. One day at a time, one decision at a time, they are learning to fulfill God’s command in Genesis 1:28 to be fruitful, to subdue the chaos of the world, and to remake it in God’s image.
It is still early and they have a long way to go, but the smell of change is already in the air. The seeds they have begun to plant are showing small sprouts emerging through the soil. Soon enough, they will take my place as the leaders of a generation.
I will have to learn to offer assistance generously but to be satisfied if they decline. Hopefully, they will find ways to involve us in their plans. They wil have to learn in their own way though.
For now, it will start with surrendering control of our Christmas schedule to them. Because their work schedules are more pressing than ours, they will choose when we open gifts and when (or even if) we have a formal meal. It is a small thing, but it’s a beginning. I trust them to figure it out and watching them is better than getting my preferences.
Exiting 2020 and entering 2021, more of my thoughts are drifting to how to help the kids establish their lives. I have accumulated a lifetime of wisdom, skills, and other resources that I would love to make available to them. As my dream reminded me, it is a lot harder to help than it seems at first glance.
Hopefully, the kids will begin to see that my offer to give them full access to anything that is mine isn’t an effort to control them. It is a sign that I have faith in them. We will have to proceed at a pace that satisfies us both.
That’s just how it is with God, right? He is ready to throw open the floodgates and give us the full authority of his name. We aren’t ready yet, and we resist him while we fight to do things our way. But He is patient with us too. One glorious day, we will find our peace in full communion with him. Then everything He has will be ours.
I am a Facebook guy. I enjoy a comfy chair and spending time scrolling through screen after screen looking for things that capture my attention. It makes me part of a cozy community of 2.7 billion people worldwide who visit the site/app each month.
For all of its popularity, Facebook is also widely criticized. Many people credit it with being part of society’s problems with how we view each other and ourselves. Others believe it is part of a social reprogramming effort. They avoid it because of its powers of broad reach and ability to profoundly influence the minds of its users.
I believe that Facebook is incredibly powerful, but not from a conspiracy-to-alter-reality kind of perspective. It has a unique ability to immerse you in whatever your eyes are drawn to.
If you scroll through your feed, you may expect to find update after update from your “friends”. My last count shows that these posts account for 50% of my feed. The rest is advertisements. It is an incredible amount of paid content and exceeds any other platform that I can think of. If you don’t believe me, count yours. From the people I’ve seen who tried, they got similar ratios.
In order to keep people engaged in all these commercials, Facebook seems to closely monitor which posts you pause on and gives a special priority to any that you click. They match what will show up in your future stream based on what captured your attention previously. It is a powerful way to captivate audiences and influence the way you think.
Which gave me pause to think. Could Facebook be used for good? Could the world’s largest social media platform become a source of encouragement and inspiration that raises the spirits of its users? Is it a tool of enormous power that could be good or evil based on how it is used?
I put it to the test.
As anyone who regularly reads my posts is aware, I am a work in-process. God has done a lot in and through me, but he has a lot of work left to do. I am painfully aware of many of my shortcomings. This blog is an effort to improve me and the world, making it more like the kingdom God has imagined.
If Facebook can adapt to my habits, can it be used to build me up? Can it find and stream content that encourages me?
One at a time, I began to avoid images or messages that I don’t want to surround me. I tried to scroll as quickly as possible past anything condescending, judgmental, angry, or mean. Then I took the time to look at and reflect on things that give me pleasure, hoping that Facebook would do the hard work of figuring out a pattern and finding more content for me.
It has worked. Over time, a few themes began to emerge. Anyone who views my stream would see a pattern that reflects my struggles and what I am choosing to do about them.
A few screenshots from today’s feed indicate who I aspire to be.
I love to build things. It is one of the ways God allows me to influence the world. However, I am not highly creative and require a lot of inspiration. I love to watch people who have amazing talents build things to see how they do it. Then I make mental notes to copy later. Facebook found Crafty Panda and similar sources who show in fast-motion how a project was completed. It is amazing to see people all over the world build beautiful, amazing things in less than 5 minutes. It encourages me to pursue big dreams.
I am a fan of “the best”. I love to see the amazing abilities God has given to people in all kinds of different areas, whether it is athletics, arts, entertainment, or industry. Stuff like Mental Floss introduces me to the odd facts that humanize these people of enormous talent. I already know their accomplishments, but this presents their humanity. It shows me how much we have in common and reminds me that God can do just as much through me.
I love superheroes. They possess enormous power and are dedicated to using their abilities to save others regardless of the risk to their own lives. They shun lives of opulence and choose to place themselves between unfathomable danger and people they may have never met or who have tried to harm them. I know that they aren’t real, but their creators are. They imagined the noble heart of a Superman and a Batman whose pain drives inspires him to protect his city. They tell stories of people who step into their moments and make a difference. I want to live like that.
There have been so many mornings that Kim comes downstairs and says “You’re listening to the Crazy Russia Hacker again, aren’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, she knows his voice almost as well as I do. I love how he look at the little things that surround him differently. Some people are blessed with the ability to shake off preconceived notions and look at things in a new and different way each day. I want to see my life as surrounded by infinite possibilities, where any small thing can be a solution or an adventure. I want to find wisdom and joy in the everyday objects and situations of my life.
Movies have always had a special place for me. They were first a family outing when I was a child then a getaway with my teenage friends or on a date night, and later as a popcorn-filled treat with my kids. I love to laugh and cry, to sit in breathless anticipation, and believe beyond hope that everything will work out in the end. These reminders keep the joys of my past within easy reach, as available as a warm blanket on a cold night.
Certainly not the least, but sometimes the hardest to find, are the special moments in the lives of people I care about. They are glimpses into the hearts and souls of the ones I am blessed to walk this life with. These are vitamins for my day, fortifying me for the challenges that lie ahead. I am profoundly thankful to be able to share these fleeting moments that happen in a glimpse and are too-soon gone. Loving my neighbor is so much easier when I get to see their love of life.
This is not an advertisement for Facebook or any other social media. Use it or don’t use it. It is a reminder that our eyes are the windows to our soul and that the images we fill them with will determine how we view the world around us. The inputs we receive from the people, television programming, news feeds, and social media in our lives all come with a choice – Is this what I choose to see in life?
Older and wiser people continue to remind me to select what I allow into my life and not become a victim of it. Years of careful selection are like choosing the stones to build your home. It takes time to find just the right pieces, but their effect is enduring.
Guard your heart above all else, for it is the source of life. Proverbs 4:23
I used to read this verse as a warning of things to avoid. Now I see it as an encouragement to choose those things that I surround my heart with. I want to select the sentinels of my soul with intention.
There is so much good out there. Seek it like a lost treasure. Allow it to envelop and influence you. Let it course through your veins and build you into the person you want to become.
Then go out and become someone else’s positive feed.
This past week, one of the kids got sick. Over the next day or two, all of us had a touch of whatever bug it was. The low-grade fever, headaches, and other mild symptoms wouldn’t have gotten much interest in another time, but this is the winter of COVID. While we waited for testing appointments and results that ultimately came back negative, I decided to work from home and avoid any risk of spreading something.
Kim works half-time and is based out of the house. She has a real office with a glass-top desk and a chair with wheels. A bookcase full of supplies and decorations adorns the back wall and a guest chair that has never been used sits quietly in the corner. It is professional.
When I work from home, my conditions are more primitive. We have plenty of empty space since the kids moved out, so I grab a folding table from my workshop in the garage then scrape off the top layer of paint and glue and haul it into a spare bedroom. I sit on a wooden chair that is borrowed from the dining table and use a bath towel as a seat cushion. Whenever Kim tells me it’s ugly, I shrug and say “Eh. It’s temporary.”
This week, I overheard a call between her and a co-worker. Apparently, it was someone she had worked with for a while, but their interaction had all been email. They had never spoken to one another on the phone or met face to face. After the initial, short introductions, I heard Kim pause for a moment while she listened.
Then she said, “I know. You don’t sound like I had imagined either.”
I didn’t think much about it at the time. We all know how it feels to have an imagined face or voice that you associate with someone, only to find out how wrong that preconceived notion was when you encounter them. It’s a simple reminder of how you don’t really know people.
In a strange way, I think that is why God made Christmas the way he did.
The Old Testament God is usually presented as distant and removed. The people of Israel seldom hear directly from the Father. Whatever messages they receive come through one of the prophets. Unfortunately for the prophets, the messages aren’t usually for them, they are merely a vehicle to deliver a reminder, warning, or glimpse of the future to whichever person or group they are instructed.
When the people of Israel heard the word of God coming out of a person’s mouth, they are left to imagine how He really talks and what He looks like. Kind of like Kim’s co-workers had to guess from her email messages.
It wasn’t always like that. In the beginning, He took long walks with Adam & Eve in the garden (Gen 3:8-9). They knew him in a way that no one else would for a long time. They talked with him and got to hear not only his words, but the way he pronounced each word in ways unique to him. They could hear the emotion. They could see his emotion when he spoke and see the way He tilted his head when He listened to them.
They were the last to casually spend time with him, enjoying his full presence. They knew him in a way their children never would.
It wasn’t God’s choice to speak to us through a prophet, but our sin made it necessary. How badly he must have longed for things to be like they were in those first days when He excitedly created us in His image so that we could enjoy time together. How his heart must have ached to be separated from his children.
Suddenly, there was a necessary distance between us. His majesty became terrifying to us. In our brokenness, His infinite love became overshadowed by the ultimate power He yielded while he created universes or swallowed them up again. Drowning in guilt, we could not embrace a supreme being. We could be subjects of the King, but not family.
We weren’t ready for a relationship with an all-powerful God, so He built a plan that would let us become reacquainted. He found a way for us to hear the sound of his voice again, to walk with him in the cool of the evening, to be mutually fulfilled by each other.
He sent us his son, the heir to his glory, but he was not to arrive on a clap of thunder as the heavens split open. Instead, he came as a newborn baby. The same son who spoke life into the universe made himself vulnerable, requiring us to feed him, give him clothing, and shelter him from the weather. He became weak so that he would be approachable.
It took decades of him living quietly among us, following our daily routines, and behaving like we do before we were ready to listen to the thoughts of his heart. After countless, long years had passed, he was finally able to once again walk with us in the cool of the evening. He was able to talk with us face to face like he had in the beginning.
Imagine the joy that filled the Father’s heart when when he held hands with Mary as they walked through a busy market. Imagine how much he enjoyed sitting quietly by the sea with Joseph, listening to the waves and soaking in the peace of the moment. Imagine his delight dancing at a wedding in Cana.
It was the beginning of the restoration.
To every scholar that insists that Jesus was about theology, I would counter that there are infinite ways that a perfect sacrifice could have been made. God chose the one way that allowed him to be among us again. It only lasted for a while but gives us a glimpse of His true nature and what eternity will look like.
This December, I hope everyone will take the time to read the Christmas story in the second chapter of Luke. Consider how much God must have wanted to be with us to humble himself completely. Consider the patience he showed setting aside his displays of raw power to live in a small town doing menial labor for years while he waited for his chance to bring us together. Consider the joy he felt finally being able to walk with the disciples, speak to the crowds, lay his hands on the sick, and embrace the people he loved.
Christmas isn’t about religion. It isn’t about church services. It isn’t about a distant deity who demands your personal surrender. It isn’t the story of an elf who shows up one night a year shrouded in secrecy only to disappear again.
It is the story of someone who has done everything to be with you. It is a reminder of a love so deep that it is worth recreating the universe to make it whole again. It is an invitation for you to open your heart and be surprised that God’s voice doesn’t sound like you expected.
After our wedding ceremony and brief reception, Kim and I left the church with all the typical birdseed-throwing and fanfare. Most of the car decorations blew off as we barreled down I-40 to our honeymoon in the mountains of North Carolina.
Without any accrued vacation on my new job, I had managed to beg my boss for three days off. The first one was spent picking up tuxedos, going to rehearsals, etc. That left us with Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday to relax and unwind. However, we checked out of the hotel a day early and drove to South Carolina.
It wasn’t that we didn’t enjoy the honeymoon, which was wonderful. We left because we were so excited to get to our new, shared home that everything else paled in comparison. We were ready to begin our life together, and nothing was going to get in our way.
I was so proud when I opened the door to show Kim everything I had done to get ready. All of the new wedding dishes, cookware, etc were carefully stored in the kitchen cabinets. Our new appliances were arranged on the countertop. All of Kim’s clothes that I had transported on previous trips were arranged on her side of the closet and her shoes were in neat rows beneath them. Our brand-new bed was crisply made.
You could smell the blanket of Carpet Fresh I had sprinkled in an effort to conceal the odor left by the previous occupant’s cat. Every simulated wood surface smelled like lemon Pledge. The bathroom was scoured and shining. The refrigerator was filled with all of the condiments and cooking supplies that I supposed were needed for a grown-up house.
I beamed with pride as Kim walked through each space, checking everything out. We thought it was perfect.
Anyone else would have seen that the building was run-down and paint was falling off the outside. Giant ant hills filled the yard. Grass grew freely through the concrete parking area. The sliding door that served as the entrance to our apartment stuck and took some “getting into it” to make it open. The vertical blinds were arranged to minimize the gaps left by missing or broken slats.
It was a typical first apartment and we thought it was paradise.
I worked hard at my job and we budgeted every penny, making grand plans about how we would make it even more wonderful than it already was.
I did everything I could to convince Kim that I would be a good provider and that she shouldn’t worry because we would make it on our own.
A few weeks later, the phone rang and when I answered, my dad was on the other line. In an unusual twist, he asked if he could talk to Kim. She took the phone and chatted for a few moments, then smiled real big and said “That would be great. Thank you!”
When she handed the phone back to me, I asked Dad what that was all about. He said that my mom had bought a new car and he had offered the old car to Kim as a gift so that we would have a second vehicle. Kim had readily accepted it.
I said, “Dad. I’ve got this. I appreciate the thought, but I can take care of her. I would have told you ‘No’ if you had asked me.”
He replied, “I know. That’s why I asked to talk to Kim.”
I am now the age my father was when he uttered that memorable quote. Erin and Josh are the same age that Kim and I were. I’m pretty sure I have said similar things that are equally confusing to them, but I understand Dad’s perspective now.
Since then, I have learned that making it on my own isn’t much of a goal.
First, if I succeeded in making it totally on my own then I would end up on my own. I would be alone, separated, cut off. I want to grow my circle of friends and family, not shrink it.
Second, I never made it on my own. Our founding fathers crafted the delicate democracy that allows me to enjoy the choices I make. Countless patriots have defended that freedom, willingly laying down their lives so that I could thrive “on my own”. Writers, musicians, actors, and artisans have inspired me. Police address dangers that I never have to know exist.
Teachers poured knowledge into me and spoke over me that I would accomplish great things. Pastors have guided me along a path of righteousness. Co-workers cover for me when I make mistakes. All the staff in my local stores remind me that we are a community. Neighbors watch out for me. Friends hang out and share their lives with me.
Pets have stood by my side throughout my life with a loyalty that never faltered. Family is only a whisper away no matter what or when. My parents provided everything they had for my success. Angels offer their protection against dark forces. Jesus died so that I could live forever.
In his infinite grace, God showers me with blessings and tells me he loves me.
I am a connected part of all creation. Why would I ever want to make it on my own? How could I force anyone else to make it on their own?
I’m thankful that years ago Dad asked me to hand the phone to Kim. He looked past the impetuous pride of a young husband and embraced a new daughter. He showed her that she would never have to make it on her own. It was a perfect gift.
As COVID-19 has erupted everywhere, this holiday season isn’t going to look the same. We will likely have three people around the Thanksgiving table. Christmas parties will be canceled. I don’t know what to do about our annual New Year’s Eve Boat Burning. Perhaps in the stillness though, the holidays will shine more brightly.
I have more opportunities to think about all the people who have shared my life. For the first time in a long time, I am looking forward to shopping for gifts that are “just right”. I want to remind everyone that surrounds me that I am thankful for them. We have more time for that this year.
Next month, Erin and Josh are planning to move from a one-bedroom into a larger two-bedroom apartment in the same complex. They excitedly dream about how they will fill their infinite cavern of newfound space. Their joy transports me across time to when Kim and I first stepped into our apartment.
I want them to know that they will never have to make it on their own. I want to help them move, not because they can’t do it otherwise, but because I want them to feel a connection with family, neighbors, and friends that will change them forever. Life may be hard, but we will do it together. They will grow into mighty leaders that shape our community because they know who they are and what they are a part of.
Their planned move date is Tuesday, Dec 1st. It is the most inconvenient time possible. However, if you want to share in their celebration, please let me know. Just being there is the greatest gift, even if you don’t have much help to offer. We will take appropriate steps to ensure everyone’s safety. This is our gift to them.
May 2020 be a year where we learn to distinguish being by ourselves from being alone. Hallelujah! The holidays are here.
The end of 2017 was only three years ago but is already difficult to recall in detail. Although I chronicle most of the paths I have traveled, I have avoided that period of time. I don’t like to think about it.
That life season seemed like a vivid nightmare that I couldn’t awaken from. Even now, recalling specific snippets holds me captive to the same raw emotion from which I struggled to escape. For a long time, I was afraid that exploring those memories would throw open doors that imprisoned demons I was not ready to fight. I hoped that period would fade quietly into the forgotten past.
But as difficult as it was, it is my origin story.
Back then, Mom’s dementia was rapidly progressing. She was losing the ability to recognize the people she loved. The activities that had given her a lifetime of joy were increasingly beyond her reach. The home that had been her sanctuary now presented an abundance of dangers – hot stoves, unlocked doors, unattended stairs, etc. Her irregular sleep magnified her declining capabilities. She was unable to clearly communicate with others, and her frustration level grew with a world that no longer seemed to have a place for her.
My worry that she would get hurt or be afraid laid on my heart the same pain that I prayed she would avoid.
Dad was her full-time caretaker. His loyalty was beyond question, but he was increasingly unable to provide what she needed. He was caring for a spouse that didn’t always know him and he became her only outlet for the irritation she faced. It had been weeks since he slept more than two hours at a time and his mental state reflected his exhaustion.
He spent his days caring for someone in isolation. It was taking a toll on his emotional well-being and I felt responsible for not bearing more of the weight.
Meanwhile, I was in Texas doing my best to transition a nuclear family into independent adults interested in their own pursuits. Everyone was impatient for a future that was slow arriving and uncertain how to deal with each other in the meantime. Many days I was afraid I was losing my family.
I wanted to quit my job and go to Chattanooga to help care for my parents but knew that my own family needed me more than ever.
I felt forced to choose which family I would save while watching the other in a slow-motion train wreck that I couldn’t turn away from.
At the same time, the First Fruits ministry that had comforted me for years was disbanding. I had kept my own problems in perspective by serving others, but that security blanket was disappearing. In what may have been our last organized event, I got the gang together for a project directed at helping my mother.
I had heard that simple activities like sorting and stacking were comforting to Alzheimer’s patients, so I printed 90 days of devotional cards for Mom to collate with Dad’s help. He would mail them to anyone who requested them and in exchange, they would send her a card telling her she was loved. It was my last gasp effort to hold onto a ministry and provide my mom with some comfort.
Like lots of the things I attempted in those days, it did not work. People didn’t connect with the concept. Mom was unable to perform even simple tasks by then. The whirlwind of activity I created caused more chaos than peace.
Stacks of pre-printed devotional cards sat in my house and virtually no one requested them. Eventually, I threw them away because they were a reminder of my inadequacy.
But I faithfully read them. Each morning for three months, I selected the daily card. I looked for comfort and sought hope. One of the cards spoke to me more than any of the others.
I had no idea what to do with the simple message, but it wouldn’t let go of me. I questioned its relevancy to no avail. While my heart searched in vain for my own peace, it was a bitter irony that this card held my attention.
Although I got a new card each day, I kept my special one in a place where I would see it throughout the day. Many times I wanted to throw it out but couldn’t. Somehow, it was important. It moved from my desk to the dashboard of my truck and reminded me every day to share a peace I could not find.
I prayed for comfort. I focused on the intertangled mess of emotions that filled my heart. Slowly, I began to unravel the knots in my soul. One issue at a time, I sought God’s guidance, challenged my own beliefs, confessed where I was wrong, and sought hope for a better day.
With each knot that was removed, peace filled the void. I spent hours converting my experience into words, writing down my story, and what I had learned. Eventually, I summoned the courage to share my stories with others, just like the card said.
That is when Making Waves was born two and a half years ago.
And as I share my story this time, it is my 100th post.
With each piece I have written, I have done my best to share the peace I have found as I work to become a better Christ-follower, husband, son, father, brother, and friend.
I have tried to withhold judgment over anyone else and focus on my own growth. I have tried not to exaggerate or diminish either my failures or victories, but in all things to remain true. Sometimes, it is hard to be fully authentic, but out of my transparency, I have found peace.
Day after week after month after year, I have sat in my chair waiting for God to speak to me and say what we were going to work on next. Some lessons flowed fast and free. Others required wrestling to the ground over days of intense effort. Easy or hard, proud or embarrassing, I have laid out my heart for the world.
My web counter shows that someone has clicked on a posting more than 15,000 times since I began sharing my peace. A few people leave a comment or send me a message, but most quietly read and go on their way. Some people read them as soon as they arrive while many check intermittently. Others will discover them in days that are still to come.
At times, I have become discouraged after baring my soul for everyone to see, only to have silence be my reward. When it becomes too difficult, God has always sent someone to thank me for my candor, telling me it came when they needed it most. I am proud that He can use me for His glory, even if it requires me to tell the world about my issues.
I have found unexpected courage on this journey. Giants that seem unbeatable shrink before my eyes as I take time to put into words the power they possess. As I capture my first thoughts about their ferocity, I frequently realize that I don’t actually believe it. Many of my fears are unfounded and collapse under scrutiny.
One post at a time, I am figuring out who I want to be, what I need to do differently, and celebrating the joys in life. The process of writing it down has forced me to be intentional with these choices. Finding just the right word has helped me to illuminate my path and hopefully shine some light for others to see more clearly.
If you have been with me through all of my 100 lessons, then I thank you. If you haven’t, I hope you have enjoyed what you have seen. Either way, I hope that you have been able to receive the peace that I have tried to share.
I treasure the time we have spent together Making Waves.
This past week, the Salvation Army’s Communication Team released a printed article and associated video announcing the opening of the Prayer Garden at the Service Center in Lewisville. I am prominently featured in each of them.
Our local newspaper, the Lewisville Leader, picked up the story and ran it on their front page (click here to see). I’m planning a trip to Walmart this morning to pick up a copy (or maybe two, but definitely no more than four). In a house that provides no safe haven for knick-knacks, I have no idea what I will do with them, but I’m excited nonetheless.
The two-minute video that features me is promoted on the Salvation Army’s Facebook page. Click here to watch it!
Last, Steve Thomas asked me to mount a plaque in the garden yesterday, thanking me and the First Fruits team for our efforts “serving the community in His name”. It memorializes our contribution and is also very thoughtful.
Most of what I do is performed quietly in the background. It has been uncommon to get a chance to explain my motivation to construct the garden or serve my neighbors. My excitement to have a moment of spotlight is hard to overstate.
I realize that the Lewisville Leader isn’t exactly The Washington Post, a Facebook video isn’t 60 Minutes, and the plaque isn’t a billboard on Times Square, However, the media’s attention gave me a chance to tell neighbors about my faith and to spread hope in our city in Jesus’ name.
My quote below made the front page of the local paper. It surprises me that they would print such an overtly spiritual statement, but here it is.
“My hopes are that it just physically changes the city. I think it is powerful that as you come into Old Town Lewisville the first thing you see is a cross that reminds you what Jesus did for us, and then you get an invitation to be still and spend time in prayer.”
The plaque Steve ordered for the garden was carefully worded to include both my name and the First Fruits team. Those names are featured throughout my book, Build Neighbors. If anyone asks Steve who they are, he has free copies to distribute. The book is all about loving your neighbor and connecting with them while you serve. The small plaque is intended as a guide to that larger message.
It is exciting to have a voice to tell people that we are the church, and our building is not our home. Our hands are dirty and our shirts sweat-soaked because we want to restore our city in God’s image, with his peace resting on every home, with his love painted across every wall, and his Spirit guiding each heart.
Although actions get attention, words provide clarity. People naturally question the motives behind actions they don’t understand. Our answers expose our hearts. The strength of our message reflects the consistency between our actions and words.
When the Apostle Peter wrote a letter to the early churches, he described how they should act. Because his prescribed direction was so different than the world’s norms, he cautioned believers to be ready to explain their actions.
But in your hearts revere Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect. (1 Peter 3:15)
I am not a natural speaker, so I have to practice my message. Anyone who worked with me during the prayer garden’s construction endured me endlessly refining the same quotes that I gave in the interview. It’s my way of developing my message and being prepared.
I have watched the video repeatedly, trying to see if my reason for hope was clear and if it was delivered with the gentleness and respect that Peter directed. In the end, I gave up interpreting how other people would respond but concluded that my passion was on full display, evidenced by the unbounded energy that causes my arms to flail wildly when I talk.
Even though I believe in the power of speaking my faith, I frequently avoid it.
First, everything that I do is a shared effort. It is uncomfortable to stand in front of a beautiful garden that was built by a great team and answer questions alone. I worry that my friends will feel their participation was marginalized. I want to lift them up, but spotlights draw a clear line between who is illuminated and who is not. It is simple to avoid offending people if I avoid center stage.
Second, I worry about pride. When the camera shines in my direction, it is like a grow-light for my ego. If the truth is known, I like me a lot. Too much sometimes. Attention has a way of warping the good pride in what was done through me into the bad pride in myself. The book of Proverbs warns that pride comes before destruction. That’s scary. Many times it is enough to keep me offstage.
The easiest way to avoid doing the wrong thing is to stay away from places where you can be tempted. Recovering gamblers should change the venue for their Vegas getaway weekend and prideful people should pass the mike, right? You won’t say the wrong thing if you don’t talk. You won’t appear to be prideful if you stay in the shadows.
A spotlight only displays the fear and pride that are already in my heart. Even if it may feed them, It doesn’t create them. There are a multitude of paths that will hide the ugly stuff inside me and prevent it from spreading.
There is only one path that is reckless in its passionate pursuit. It is full of mistakes, embarrassments, failures, and offenses. It requires an exhausting focus to stay on task while it leads to what Jesus referred to as the narrow gate that leads to life, and only a few find it.
Sometimes it passes through a spotlight.
I hope that the world sees me in all of my shortcomings – bumbling over word choice, waving my arms when they should be still, and occasionally talking about myself too much. That is who I am and who I was created to be. While they may laugh about my style, maybe my message will bind to my actions.
In this case, one thousand square feet was transformed into a vision of the coming kingdom. That place is now sacred. As a child of the King, I have His authority to say so. That is how I want to spend my moment of spotlight.
