Splenda, Sophie, and Sunshine

Before the Christy Awards, I had a nervous stomach. Wish I didn't. But I guess I'm human (well, let's hope so.) Sophie kept telling me to calm down, which I tried to do, but my body rebelled. In retrospect, I should've chilled, but alas, everything is easier to say in retrospect.

We'd joked before the ceremony that I could make a scene if I didn't win (believe me, this was a joke). How? By eating a Splenda packet and swelling up. Apparently, I am allergic to nothing in this entire world, except Splenda. Makes my throat swell up and my lips tingle. I set Sophie's joke aside and went on fretting.


I rehearsed the thank you I'd say if I won, which turned out to be a futile exercise (even if I did win, this year the winners didn't give speeches). But since I don't like to waste a good three hours of mental wrestling, here's what I would've said:

"For consider your calling, brethren, that there were not many wise according to the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble; but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong, and the base things of the world and the despised God has chosen, the things that are not, so that He may nullify the things that are, so that no man may boast before God." 1 Corinthians 1:26-29.

Thank You God for stooping to earth to choose weak little me. Thank You for using my small words to touch others. Thank You that You are the God who sees my unspoken words. Thank You for sustaining me on this writing journey. Thank You for my cheerleading family, for my critique group, for Andy, my editor, for Beth, my former agent, and Esther my current one. Thank You for the staff at Zondervan who shepherded this book to publication. But all the thanks turn brightly to You, Jesus. Any scrap of fame, any hint of glory must be turned on its head for the sake of Your fame and glory. 

The speech didn't make its way to the microphone. When they read the first line of the winning book, I knew this. I had peace. And joy. And a little disappointment too. It's hard to work year in and year out as a writer, shouldering deadlines and bad reviews and angry readers. (It's also hard to navigate fame and praise--probably more so). I guess a part of me wanted to be recognized for all those hours at the keyboard, to prove to me that I did what was valuable. That others saw. That industry professionals believed me to have talent.

My friend D'Ann reminded me that it's really what God thinks that matters. He is the One who sees every single word typed or thought or written. He is THE Word. He is the One who spoke this earth into existence. He loves me. Oh how He loves me.

I rested in that as I applauded the winners. And then my daughter Sophie slipped something my way. A Splenda packet. Her sly smile tore into me in the best possible way. I laughed. She laughed. And I remembered how important it is not to take myself (and awards ceremonies) so seriously.


I didn't eat the packet. I did laugh. And I did learn a lesson in the futility of fretting.

Our Fantastic Road Trip!

Here is daughter Sophie at Ouachita Baptist University. She liked it!

Proof of the loooooooong drive. And Sophie's craziness.

We went inside the arch. Small!!!!

Quote from Sophie: "This looks like the very first muppet." :)

Me staring at art in Chicago.

Sunny Sophie.

Fun times at the Christys with my agent, Esther.

Me and my friend Lisa Samson. She's amazing!

Me and novelist friend Alice!

Please help me title my next book!

Click here to take survey

This is for what was formerly known as Authentic Parenting in a Postmodern Culture.  I'd really appreciate your feedback!

Oh redemption!

Julia, our youngest daughter, met Jesus in France. She knew about Him before that, of course, but she gave her heart and life to Him there as she struggled in several different ways. I will never forget her baptism on a public beach in Antibes.

Patrick asked her if she loved Jesus and if she had made Him Lord and Savior.

"Yes," she answered.

He baptized her in the Mediterranean Sea in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. When she came out of the water, her face shined with joy.

The Devil's Greatest Weapon: Discouragement

I'm convinced that the devil's greatest weapon is plain ol' discouragement. He whispers things in our ears, helping us along the pathway of discouragement.

• We look at others who don't seem to suffer and ask why we have a hard life.
• We covet someone else's lot in life.
• We allow our minds to go down streets they shouldn't go, living in the treacherous land of What If.
• We listen to the tidbits of worthlessness he says, then rehearse them. And then we say them back to ourselves!
• We view a problem as gigantic, and our heart and courage weakens

Here's a quote that might help:

"Are you in the midst of a situation where, as you pray, you find yourself putting the problem first? If so, you're starting where you should end. You're rehearsing the problem, making it seem larger than it is, when what you need to do is rehearse God's greatness and bigness. Then the problem shrinks to its right portions." Mark Buchanan, The Rest of God, page 74-75.

Oh to kick discouragement in its teeth by simply believing God is bigger than any obstacle. Oh to have that faith today!

A great book and a getaway contest.

My friend Ashley Weis wrote a great novel. It garnered lots of interest in the publishing world. After much prayer and seeking, she and her hubby George (who is my amazing graphic designer) decided to publish this book about porn and its effects on both side of the screen. It's a brave book. An important one. 

If you decide to pre-order it, there's a really cool contest they're running for a getaway. A really great getaway. It's worth the book to enter because you'll get an important read about restoration and a chance to go somewhere romantic. Read the Exposed contest rules here.

Exposed: A Novel

Allyson Graham, marriage counselor and lover of love, lived a life of romance few could imagine. Until her husband's secret addiction stared at her from the computer screen. Will she be able to forgive the man who lied to her all of those precious years?

Follow her painful story alongside the heartbreaking story of Taylor Adams, a young girl searching for her worth in the world. As Allyson struggles to forgive her husband for lying about his addiction, Taylor naively falls into the same self-destructive industry and discovers that the attention and fun is nothing like she thought it would be.

Discover the hearts of these two women as they search for beauty after the rain.

Here's my endorsement:

Honest, raw, redemptive, surprising, fearless—Exposed is storytelling at its finest. Ashley Weis has woven two compelling stories into one, highlighting the devastation of both sides of the porn screen.
Mary DeMuth, author
Thin Places and Life in Defiance

Pictures from a recent photo shoot with the kids

I have great kids!

Circling back around

Have you ever felt like God has taken you back to a path you've been on before? Recently I've felt this way about worry and finances. I've had brilliant times of faith where I truly believed God would provide, and the anxiety level I experienced during deprivation was low.

And then there are times like recently where I can't stop worrying about stupid money. God has reminded me of the leaner, scarier times, when I seemed to have faith. And I've asked Him to please help me remember better. To remember enough to act differently, believe differently.

It probably circles back to security and control, if I let myself think about it enough. Money=Security. Having money=Control. Why is it that I want total, easy provision where I'll never need faith when a life of faith is what pleases God? I fear that money sometimes becomes an idol that way. It replaces God because it makes life less worrisome. But it saps my need to lay it all down, to trust.

I'm circled back on this as a reminder. God is my provider, whether times are lean or plenty. He owns it all. Now all I need to do is learn this lesson right. Why? Because it's hard to keep circling back on the same old problem.

Pictures from my writers retreat in NC!

What a well needed respite. God must've known I needed the ocean! And I'd not seen the Atlantic from the US side! (I said hello to it in Portugal instead).

Pictured are five of us authors, the neighborhood the beach house lived, the boardwalk to Sunset Beach, my friend MaryBeth writing a note to the Kindred Spirit mailbox (which her excellent beach read, The Mailbox, was based on), the water, and a beautiful shell a little smaller than my foot.

The Missing Ingredient

Sometimes it happens by neglect. Sometimes, hurry. I'm not sure which it was this time around, but nonetheless I realized it last night. Perhaps my discouragement about my career runs deeper without it. What am I talking about?

The Bible.

My lifeline, my encouragement, my perplexity, my hope. Why do I let it slip from my grasp when I most need it? I'm running back to its pages today, resting in its embrace and tangle of life-giving words. Here's a sample. I pray these holy words touch you today.


2 Corinthians 4:7 NLT: We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.

Romans 5:5 NLT: And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love.
 
Hebrews 12:1, 2 NAS: Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Psalm 3:3 NAS: But You, O LORD, are a shield about me, My glory, and the One who lifts my head.

Psalm 145:9 NIV: The LORD is good to all; he has compassion on all he has made.

John 3:30 NLT: He must become greater and greater, and I must become less and less.

2 Corinthian 3:17 NIV: Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.

Dear Jesus, I want freedom. I want You to lift my head, to feel Your compassion. I want joy to typify my life, to see beyond circumstances to grasp joy. You are the splendid power inside. Forgive me for squelching it by magnifying my own issues above Your kingdom and glory. Fill my heart afresh. Refresh my intentions. Be so near I can taste Your presence. I love you. I love you. I love you. Amen.

Happy Birthday, dear Julia!

She turns twelve today, my youngest. What a beautiful girl she is with a sweet, sensitive, caring heart. I'm privileged to be her mommy.

Her birthday is usually right around Father's Day, which brings an ache to me as a fatherless girl. I wrote about her birth, Father's Day, and my heart in a poem for Thin Places when she was turning nine. May it bless you all.

Two come by, year by year
At least for the last nine
When sometimes they collide
Birth shaking hands with Death,
Death not returning the favor

Father’s Day is never easy
for the fatherless
Half-orphaned, starved to the bone
For Daddy love
No man can fill

Thirty years is a terrible lifetime
to weave through days
without his hand
his words
his I love yous

Nine years ago, she yowled hello
to her Daddy
So alive, she bawled and bawled
He held her
I melted
Crumbled

I will not know
what my daughter
wears like a birthright
around her heart
Her daddy’s love

But I can taste it
I can see it
I can marvel
from the sidelines of parenthood

God’s father-heart knew
I needed resurrection
Julia’s life on my day of sorrow
Joy mingled with my gaping heart
united in her

Strange how life
Can’t be helped
Or hindered
Even when Death snatches
fathers away

Resurrection is always
The answer to grief
New life, new yowls, new hopes
Mingled with
the life that was,
old tears,
old cynicisms

Thank You kindly
for the juxtaposition,
Jesus of the resurrection,
the One who weeps on Father’s Day
Alongside me

Who pulled His beard
While the world ripped his flesh
And His father died to Him
in that terrible moment
history hinged upon

You understand resurrection
Invented it
Wove it into my life
on Father’s Day
when my daughter
Cried her way into my arms

 

What will she be when she grows up?

Last summer, my eldest daughter Sophie went to Accra, Ghana. She played with children, shared the gospel, and saw God answer prayers. She has a heart for those less fortunate, and she's fluent in French. Perhaps God will use all this someday in a cool, unique way.

It's a privilege to see her walk through these kinds of decisions, particularly as she tries to figure out where she should go to college. We'll be taking a road trip soon to see a few more colleges. I love her faith. I love the way she says, "Mom, I just feel that I'll know, that God will show me when I step on the campus I'm supposed to be at."

So I walk alongside her as she prays, seeks, and loves this big beautiful world. My heart is full because hers is captured by Jesus. She wants to live a big story, and I enjoy turning the page.

One Million Years Ago

It seems like a lifetime ago that we flew to France as a family to explore our calling and see if that's where God would have us serve. This picture was taken at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam. The kids did really well when we traveled, though they were all very tired. They were 10, 7, and 5.

A year later, we flew again, this time with our cat in tow and ten pieces of luggage. We spent a week at our staff conference (again, with the kitty), then drove to Southern France. We slept on cots and mattresses that people let us borrow. For a time we had no fridge. In a flash, France absorbed us. We had to learn how to shop, how to get things like bus passes and schooling and electric bills and drivers licenses. We had to navigate healthcare, as I spent the first two months with an undiagnosed illness. We had friends in who helped us with the kids during the transition. And we had many, many guests.

We got to know our team, started dreaming about the church we'd plant. Within three weeks, our kids were in school. I will never forget how it felt to drop them off. Excruciating. Alarming. All three were nervous and edgy, and tears came easily.

But we faced our time in France with hope. Little did we know that so much would fall apart in a very short time, and continue to haunt us throughout our 2 1/2 years there. Even so, as I look back on it, I'm so proud of my kids. They were brave. They were (and are) my heroes. They endured so much. If I could give them a standing ovation, I would. They showed me what it meant to suffer gracefully.

Praise Him under Open Skies

There's something mystical and enormous about a large, open sky. Growing up around mountains, I've come to appreciate open skies, the way they speak of God, his vastness, his otherness. That's probably why I love David Crowder's song of the same. I used to crank "Praise Him Under Open Skies" when I went running in France, even though the skies were obscured by foothills and the Alps.

Now under the wide expanse of sky that defines my little corner of Texas, I'm praising Him still. Thankful. Amazed. The One who fashioned it all, who flung stars hither and yon in a creation dance, loves me. He loves me. I may feel small under the canopy of sky, but I am deeply and wonderfully loved by the Creator.

Alleluia!

Dancing in Africa...a story of worship

When my son Aidan was twelve years old, he had a dream. He wanted to help provide water for a village on the other side of the world. Through a series of amazing events, he helped raise money for a well project in Northern Ghana. A few months after he told me about his dream, we stood on the dusty ground, making new friends.

If you asked him what he remembered most about the trip, he’d tell you it was the night he let loose and danced with his new friends. I envied him, so free, so alive. He abandoned himself to the dance as worship music wafted through the village. I believe God ignited a deep fire in him that evening to the beat of drums and joyful singing.

Now, back in suburbia, Aidan worships freely. Others have noticed. Some have said, "I really like that he doesn’t care what people think. You can tell he loves Jesus by the way he worships." I love that he learned that abandon through the arts, integrated into a village from years and years ago. He dances because they danced.

One of the best things I’ve heard in recent years that has freed me is that God has created us each uniquely in the way we like to worship. Some worship via music, others through service. Folks like my husband find connection with God through theological study, while others need silence and solitude. Nature is another pathway. Mine is music. Aidan’s is music. And as we worship side by side, we see an aspect of God we don’t see apart from that artistic expression.

Ghana opened my son up. While he traveled there to help provide clean drinking water, he left there in love with the Living Water, and he’s spilling over onto the lives of many.

Speaking Vs. Busy Family

I love to speak. Love to share what Jesus is doing in my heart and life. There was a time when I aggressively pursued speaking engagements, believing them to be my pathway to more book sales. While speaking is probably the best way to sell books, I soon got overwhelmed with travel and preparations. As a result, I've let go a bit.

Why? First because God has slowed me down, thankfully.

Second, because my kids are important to me. Now that all three are in secondary schools, it seems their need for an available Mommy who listens is escalated. Next year my eldest daughter graduates from high school. I need to be there, savoring every moment.

I've learned to rest in the pace of life God assigns to me. And I get excited to see how He brings in speaking engagements. I am also embracing the whimsical way He provides financially for our family.

Rest is a good thing. There will be time for me to be a speaker, a time to embrace that calling. But right now, it's time to speak into the lives of my kids.

I love this time of year: Garden highlights

Pictures of the front of our house, the window boxes my husband put up, the flowers, and my veggie garden.

The Dream

I awoke with that strange feeling that my dream was reality, only to find out it wasn't. My family and I had moved into a huge house on several acres, but the previous owners had left a lot of their stuff everywhere. Apparently they had an open door policy with their friends and neighbors, so as I was sleeping, a woman came into my bedroom and told me it was time to wake up.

I didn't know her. She was surprised to see me and not her friend in bed. I wore a nightgown and wanted to dress, but she wouldn't leave. I couldn't find any of my clothes, so I had to put on the former owner's clothes, feeling strange and self conscious.

Then the former woman's husband came in and told me all about his infidelity, wearing it like a badge of honor. Ew. All I wanted was for these strangers to leave. But more than that, I wanted my old life back, in my own home, with my own clothes. I wanted my smaller house and the comfort it afforded. Then I woke up.

So I'm starting the day with contentment. For a home that's homey, a family that's near, my own clothes, and no strangers coming in. Perhaps there's some strange spiritual lesson in this dream. Perhaps I've worried too much about making money and this is my warning not to want something bigger. (Not that I want a different house.) I don't know. Or maybe it's the chicken I ate last night taking revenge on my dreams.

Or maybe it's nothing at all.

Community: Idolizing, Experiencing Disillusionment, now Embracing?

We moved to France to plant a church. We knew we'd be having folks in our house all the time. We knew we'd be hosts. And all that turned out to be very true. For a long time, we reveled in community, but then it became messy. So messy that it strangled us. At the end of our first year on the mission field, counselors diagnosed us both with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). This made sense to me, because every time I flew home to the states for business, all I could say about our experience was, "I feel like I've been in a war zone."

We had many people over. A typical week we'd have 10 or so for lunch, then 20+ for dinner, plus another dinner with a family. This was a light week. When we returned to the US, the last thing I wanted to do was cook and have people over. Complete exhaustion and burnout laid me low for three years. I'm finally in that place where we can invite friends over, where we can welcome community into our lives in a deeper way.

Which is why I clipped out the top picture from Southern Living this month. I remembered our time in France, how we had two large tables outside and constantly fed people under the expanse of sky. In our home here, I've longed for an excessively long outdoor table, chunky and able to sit 15-20. I found this one, but it's waaaaay beyond our budget, so I'm waiting to see how beautifully God will provide one someday. I'm just thankful I'm thinking about embracing community again.

The second picture is the postcard I designed for our very first bi-lingual church service in France. It's a bit bittersweet to see it and remember, but I'm also very grateful that our friends Nicole and Vincent Derieux are doing an amazing, beautiful work in our stead. That makes it all worthwhile.

So, with trepidation, I'm stepping forward into community, even though I first idolized it, and then became disillusioned by it. Just wanting a big long table is a good first step. May the Lord fill the table as He sees fit.

Easily Startled

I startle easily. Everyone in my family knows this. On some level, I knew this was because of the sexual abuse I experienced as a child, but today I'm connecting the dots further. One of the most sacred parts of me, my sexuality, was stolen. And when it was stolen, it startled me. Took me off guard.

As a child I'd have these terrible chasing dreams where perpetrators would run after me. I'd always end up running on a pier, with nowhere to run but the air and water beyond the pier's end. And when I leaped into the air, a gunshot rang out. I woke with a startle, wondering if I were dying.

And maybe I was. Maybe my soul was dying from the abuse. The dream symbolized how I felt, how helpless I'd become--without rescue. I had nowhere to turn in the dream, and even when I jumped to save myself, someone shot me, and I started the process of death.

Why all this today? I don't know. While I've been deeply healed, I think I'll always startle easily. It's a painful leftover from a traumatic past. How can that be hopeful? Well, maybe you're hollering at yourself for not getting over your own abuse. Maybe you're angry that you still have things you wished you didn't do (that directly relate to the abuse). Maybe you think NO healing has taken place because you still have residual reactions.

Don't believe that lie. You are healing. And someday you'll be fully healed in heaven. The scars and startles are little leftovers to gently remind you that you're human, and that you all-the-more need Jesus.

Undone again by Oswald

I love how this daisy pokes its way through sticker bushes. Sometimes I feel that way about life, that prickles abound, but God calls me to grow still higher, above the brambles, reaching to Him.

And sometimes I taste life beyond the matrix of everyday life. I read a post by a friend about learning to live with less, and I'm humbled afresh that I worry about my "too much."

Always, He calls me deeper, higher, wider than comfort. Often He speaks to my soul, beckoning me beyond the mundane toward relationship and trust.

Today Oswald Chambers reminded me of the true life God wants. "It is much easier to do something than to trust in God; we mistake panic for inspiration."

I've been living in that place of panic for several months. I've taken panic into myself, digested it, then produced more work and more to-do lists than humanly possible. Has that frenetic activity helped me rise above the thorns? No. Instead, trapped in myself and worry, I've settled into the thorns, let them have their way. And I'm bleeding.

Again Oswald slays me: "We would far rather work for God than believe in Him."I prefer activity over trust. Do you? And yet, belief and trust in Jesus should be the hallmark of my life. Why do I think I can solve all my problems merely by hard work, relegating God to the background? He is that splendid power within, but I forget so easily. I prefer cultivating my own splendid power.

"The degree of panic is the degree of the lack of personal spiritual experience." Oswald, please say no more! How long have I panicked instead of prayed?

And yet, there is hope for little me. My petals still splay in worship to the Son, and He causes growth despite my frail worries. Panic won't grow me; He does. My plans will burn into ash, but His will flourish. Because He is God. And I am not.