When the Storms Blow...

This week my church loaded a truck with diapers, food, baby food, toiletries, and kids clothing and sent it to Joplin, Missouri. The picture doesn't begin to convey how many boxes are layered in there. I really didn't think it would all fit...but it did!

A pastor from the church we are working with spoke at our church. He and his wife shared stories that would break your heart -- yet gave such hope at the same time. God is on the move.

In storms like this, I think we see who we really are. How strong we really are. What our core values are. What we are fundamentally made of at the core of our existence.

Some people experience a massive tornado -- possibly the most destructive in United States history. But for most of us, the storms are other things. In the last few days a friend had a husband tell her he never loved her and their life together has been a lie. F-5 on the scale of storms. Another friend learned that her cancer returned, this time in her bones. Another F-5 shock. Yet another friend went in for an ultrasound and learned her baby had no heartbeat. An F-5. Another friend learned that she was being asked not to continue on a public project. A F-5.

I'm sure you've had something similar happen. And as writers we have to place our chracters in the middle of life's storms, too. We have to run them through the wringer and see what emerges on the other side. Who they become.

So what do we do personally? And what do our characters do?

Do we lean into Jesus and His promises? Or do we rail against Him and shake our fists at heaven? Do we sink into His loving embrace like my six-month-old curls into mine? Or do we go rigid and turn away?

Praying that whatever the storm in your life, that Jesus would be bigger, present, and still it.

It's all About Him

Every go somewhere and walk away thinking about something you're pretty sure nobody planned on you focusing on?

That is the story of my life!

Seriously. Last week I took my 9 yo daughter and three of her friends and their moms to the Rock and Worship Road Show. It was a truly great Christian concert. Seven bands and lots of great music. David Crowder Band. Fee. Mercy Me. Sidewalk Prophets. Francesca Batistelli. etc.

But what I'm still focused on is the way that the show wasn't about egos. Instead, it was all about worshipping God and bringing glory to Him. Mercy Me closed the concert by walking off as the audience was singing one of their current worship songs.

That's what I want my life to be. That no matter what people say or think about me, that I am always pointing to God. That my life is about reflecting glory to Him. That it takes people five minutes to realize where my heart is focused. Some days I do well at this. Other days not so well. But my heart's cry is to bring glory to Him. For all the ways He has changed my life.

And that blur in the photo? My little girl getting a bag signed by Francesca. Made her day! My daughter's that is.

Dad, the story teller

I remember as a child listening to my father read to us, both from the Bible and the plethora of story books on our shelves. He has a certain intonation, a gentle inflection that brought the words to life for me. I can picture him sitting there on the bed, with his thick fingers delicately turning the pages. He was the one who told me about God in a way I could understand, showing unconditional love both in the passages he read and the time he spent with me.
Fast forward a few decades to the arrival of my own two children. Somehow I do not see my father enough, anymore. The days are filled with business and though we live in the same town, our lives travel down different roads. Imagine my surprise when I first read to my own children, and found that I used the same phrasing and inflection that my father used with me, trying to wrap the words in the same web of warmth that he did. My daughters were caught up in the same storytelling web that I had been as a child.
So was it the stories? The voice? Or the fact that my father took the time out of his always busy days to read to me? Probably a little of everything. The fact is I will always hear my father’s voice, reading the Bible or the magical stories of “the great gray green greasy Limpopo River” and the Giant Jam Sandwich and though the stories have faded, his voice will not. Thank you, Dad.