Journey of a Novel - Step 2

In many ways, 2010 proved to be a difficult year for me. I was unemployed, downsized out of my job right in the middle of the recession. In fact, this blog began as a plea for all of us to stay in hope – no matter what the circumstances.
My unemployment taught me several things about trusting in God’s provision, about the miracles that still happen in the 21st century, about giving when there’s nothing available to give. But right smack in the middle of that scary time, God interrupted my life with Step 2 of the novel journey.

For 40+ years, I wrote and published in the nonfiction genre. Tell the facts. Teach the reader. And even though God had whispered a different direction in my ear and provided me with a textbook (see the blog post about Step 1), I was not ready to change my entire focus for a mere fiction mindset.

But one morning, still without a job and wondering how in the world to buy groceries that week, I woke up with an idea. Floating in the middle of my forehead was a character, then several ideas about that character, then more ideas and a setting, then some conversation and a story line.

Not quite sure what to do, I sat down and started writing. This action, in itself, was completely out of character for me. As an organized, Type A personality, I never start writing without an outline or research or some idea of the topic I wanted to pursue. But I could not escape from this fascinating character in my head. It was almost as if I needed to move my fingers over the keyboard in order to discover more about her – like reading a book via my hands.

After a few hours, I stood up and stretched. “What am I supposed to do with this, God?”

“Save it,” he said. “Keep going.”

So I did. The next day I woke up with more ideas, more conversation and more of a story line. I kept going, sometimes laughing at my character and what she did – sometimes grabbing a Kleenex because I was so moved by what had just happened on the computer screen. The next day and the next and the next. No outlines. No research. No idea about what was going to happen until I woke up, turned on the laptop and started moving my fingers.

When an interview or a job fair interrupted the writing, I missed my characters. I wondered what they were doing that day and longed to get back to them, to peek into their lives, to hear their conversations. Definitely hooked by the process, writing fiction totally surprised me yet delighted the heck out of me.

I had no idea fiction could be so much fun. Writing fiction just wasn’t me. Yet, it seemed that writing fiction indeed was me. I was so engrossed in the story, I couldn’t imagine going back to the same old nonfiction facts. I wanted to find out more about Reverend G and Chris, about Jacob and Jessie, about life at Cove Creek.

After six months, I read my 53,000 words with no idea what to do next. Was this just something that God gave me to do, to survive the emotional trauma of long-term unemployment? Or did God have a more expansive plan? What did he want me to do with this novel idea?

The answer began to take shape in Step 3.

Journey of a Novel - Step 1

For the past almost 40 years, I have written nonfiction. Four nonfiction books, 11 compilations and hundreds of published articles. With my Type-A personality and my spiritual gift of teaching, nonfiction has always been my comfort zone. And since I have had success with nonfiction, it also seemed to be my life’s genre. Tell the facts. Teach the reader.

Then God started healing me from some of those Type-A strongholds and stretching me away from comfort zones. The first step in the process seemed innocent enough, and truthfully – until I signed my latest publishing contract – I had not realized how important Step 1 actually was.

About four years ago, I was minding my own business as I listened to another writer teach a workshop. Like so often in life, I had no idea that a momentous turn of events was about to happen. During the workshop, I took notes and planned another nonfiction article. At the end of the evening, I won a free Writer’s Digest book – my choice.

For writers, the Writer’s Digest books are like the epistles of the Bible – great information in readable form. Most beginning writers can’t afford these books, so we spend hours in the library soaking in knowledge from best-selling writers who have found success. Since I now had the opportunity to own a free Writer’s Digest book, I jumped at the chance.

On the gift table were scores of books, all with fascinating titles and how-to instructions. I thumbed through the nonfiction books, looking for the one that might teach me how to sell more articles or how to become one of those best-selling authors. From the corner of my eye, a dark purple cover seemed to stand out. I pulled it out of the pack, but quickly put it back. "The Handbook of Novel Writing" certainly wasn’t the book I needed. I was, after all, a nonfiction writer – teller of facts, teacher of readers.

I tried for at least fifteen minutes to ignore that purple cover, but God kept whispering, “That’s the one. Take that one.”

I don’t know why we even bother to argue with God. He’s going to win. Always. “But God, I’m a nonfiction writer and this is a free book. Got it? FREE. I don’t want to waste a free book on fiction. I don’t write fiction. I don’t even read fiction.”

He repeated. “Take the purple one. The one about writing a novel.” When God repeats something, pay attention.

Totally disgusted, I picked up the book and tucked it inside my briefcase. At home, I put it on a far shelf and tried to ignore it for at least two weeks. But every time I walked into my office, that purple cover stared at me. Every time I started to read another book, that novel-writing book seemed to yell, “Pick me. Pick me.”

Finally. “Okay, okay. I’ll read the stupid thing.”

Like most Writer’s Digest books, it was thorough and interesting. I highlighted several sections, certain that I would never use the information but fascinated with the process. Without committing myself to ever write a novel, I began to realize that while nonfiction writers tell the facts, well-written novels tell the truth. And in that process, they also teach the reader.

Hmm – could it possibly be that within the healing of strongholds and the stretching of comfort zones, God might be changing my genre? Was there a story God wanted me to tell? And if so, how should that happen?

Stay tuned for Step 2.

4 Possibilities

I began 2012 with the possibility of four – count ‘em – four part-time jobs. All the jobs seemed to be valuable places where I could serve God. But two of them were more people-oriented than the others. Those were the ones I was sure God would call me to do.

I began to pray and asked others to pray for me, so that I could make the best choices. One choice was inevitable – the part-time job that brings in the most income – the one that we need right now to survive. I do enjoy this job as it also includes one of my passions – helping women to become all that God created them to be. This job takes up approximately 35 hours/week, so that was the major source of income and the major time-consumer.

But what of the other three?

One of the three was freelance writing and editing – continuing to work with the creative side of my brain to inscribe the words God whispers to me. This was the job that I really wanted to do, wanted to succeed at and wanted to continue. But I was also willing to give it up if I could serve God more fully in the other part-time jobs. In fact, I pretty much convinced myself that God didn’t want me to write anymore because I did want it.

That old pattern of legalism and suffering for the Lord is hard to break. Why would a loving God not allow me to do the thing I am gifted for – the work that I love to do? Because to serve God we must suffer and not enjoy life. Old patterns die hard.

So I continued to pray, dreading the fact that I might have to quit writing buhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gift wanting to serve God. Then simultaneously, those other two part-time jobs just disappeared - sucked into God’s black hole Suddenly, all that was left were the two jobs that include my passions – writing and helping women.

Then God sent a confirmation. A publisher was suddenly, inexplicably interested in my novel. This is the first book of a series that came as a direct divine inspiration. I’ll write more about that journey in a later blog. To learn more, check out my Facebook author page at facebook.com/rjthesman.

What a joy it is to work at the things I enjoy – the desires of my heart that God has gifted me for! Each day, I look forward to meeting women and working with them. Then I go home and write and find new words to describe this incredible God who calls us to do what we deeply love and thereby provides hope.

The Stewardship of Pain

We usually think of stewardship in connection with finances – how much we tithe, save or give away – how we manage our money. But in “The Joy of Fearing God,” author Jerry Bridges encourages us to think about the stewardship of pain. Since God sometimes allows us to go through difficult trials and various stages of pain, how do we handle this? Can we be good stewards of the pain?

A friend of mine has learned this lesson well. Several years ago, this young mom began to detect hearing loss. As her ability to hear grew less and less, she learned to read lips and sign. She has moved through this journey with grace and even joy, although it hasn’t been easy. She has grieved the hearing loss, accepted it and now is using her pain to make a difference.

In her church, she initiated captioned services which have allowed the hearing impaired community to understand what the pastor is saying and how the word of God applies to their lives. Currently, she petitions major networks to include more captioning of videos and news reports. She targets movie theaters that do not include captions, and she enlists a cadre of people to help her fight for the hearing impaired.

This incredible woman wrote a novel which told the truth about hearing loss and how people sometimes deal with the trauma of losing their hearing. Now, she is writing a nonfiction book about the confessions of a lip-reading mom – her story and the journey she has traveled. From denial to acceptance to learning how to confront her fears, she has dealt with this loss in a way that touches others and creates joy in her own soul.

My friend, Shanna Groves, is an example of a person who has managed her pain and become an example of effective stewardship. Her life reminds me of a poem by an unknown author:
“Lord, I am willing
To receive what You give
To lack what You withhold
To relinquish what You take
To suffer what You inflict
To be what You require
And to become a good steward of the pain.”

A Different Christmas

The wrappings are thrown away and extra ribbons stored for another celebration. Although pearl lights still reflect off my mantel, Christmas has come and gone for 2011. It was a joyous time with family and a wonderful reminder of the baby in the manger who became the Savior on the cross.

But this Christmas was different than any other. For the first time in my life, my mother did not give me any kind of gift. Usually, each of her children receives some money or a roll of stamps or a desk-top calendar – something practical to use throughout the year and remember who it came from every time we use it.

Not this year. Dementia and Alzheimer’s have stolen the traditions of the past. Oh yes, I know that Christmas isn’t really about gifts, and I am truly thankful for all the blessings God has given. But it was so odd to not receive anything from my mother – for the first time in my life. It’s not that she has lost the capability to give or the joy of the season. She simply forgot to buy something for her children. She even forgot what day it was. We had to remind her over and over and then remind her when it was done.

I so hate this disease. I hate how it steals the recent past and the vitality of the present from an active and intelligent person. The far past is still intact as Mom remembers Christmases long ago and the young faces of departed loved ones. But now she has forgotten how to bake peppernuts and where to put the pans we use for cooking. She does not recognize the plate we filled with deviled eggs, although it was given to her just one flip of the calendar before. She may remember the dolls she once bought for my sister or the basketball she wrapped for her young son, but she doesn’t remember December 25th and has to keep looking at the calendar to find out what day it is.

This Christmas, Mom forgot it all. My sister bought the present for Mom’s grandson and wrote her name on the “From” tag. We showed Mom how to make deviled eggs, drove her to the family gathering and reminded her to take her own presents home. This Christmas was different – blessed and joyous – but sad, because it marked another notch in the fatal gun of dementia and underlined the truth that Mom is disappearing day by day.

I hope and pray that my son will never face a Christmas where I forget him. May the Lord of the manger return before that happens and bring true peace to every heart on earth.

Wrapped in Prayer

Ribbons, scotch tape, colorful paper – all these wrappings of the season in my office just waiting for me. One day soon, I’ll pull the Christmas presents out of their hiding places and begin my wrapping routine.

I love to wrap presents and spend time choosing just the right paper for each person, a coordinating ribbon and the proper box. For me, it’s more than just another chore of the Christmas season because I wrap my presents in prayer.

As I choose each box and cut the paper to size, I think about the person who will receive the gift. My niece or her daughter, my son or a friend who lives in Lawrence. Each person has special needs and cares, so I pray as I wrap.

“Thank you, God, for protecting my son through another year and for the clean MRI. No more cancer. Bless him, Lord. Keep him safe and meet all his needs.”

“Be with my great-niece, Lord. Grow her up in you and give her a wonderful Christmas. Help her do well in school and love you at an early age.”

“My friend needs you, Lord. She’s a single mom, too, and life is hard. Give her a wonderful Christmas with her family and meet every need. Thank you, God.”

In no time, the presents are wrapped and under the tree. A Christmas chore has become a special evening of worship. Gifts represent more than ribbons, tape and paper. They are now a pathway to the King of kings – the real reason for Christmas.

Creative Beauty

This morning, I stood at the back door, hoping to see the little finch that sometimes comes to feed. No finch joined the sparrows and jays, but instead – an incredible visual of God’s creative beauty.

Across the back acre stood a hedgeapple tree that suddenly decided to shed its leaves. No wind ruffled the morning stillness, but a bright sunbeam glittered from the tree’s branches.

Then – like a papery rainstorm, the leaves let loose of their tiny limbs and floated in a spontaneous dance to the ground. Silent. Serene.

It was as if God’s alarm had suddenly clicked and the leaves knew they were destined for a move. This was the day, the moment that they dropped and began mulching the autumn ground.

I sighed and thought, so like life. We live from day to day, just breathing, hoping to project God’s beauty in our dark world. Then one day – suddenly it’s time to make our move. To drop from sight, to begin a new ministry, to graduate from earth to heaven.

The timing is unknown yet specific. And we hang on tight until God says, “Now!”

The Encourager

Part of my job description involves encouraging the group leaders and the volunteers that I supervise. So I regularly send out emails and cards to let them know how great they are and how much they are appreciated.

Other encouragements are an important part of my life. Every day, I try to encourage my son and once a week I call my sister to encourage her as she lives with our “memory-challenged” mother. Every couple of weeks, I call my brother to encourage him in the daily stresses of life. Several of the people on my prayer list need encouragement, so I try to be there for them. Last week, I met with a beginning writer and encouraged her in her pursuit of the dream of publication.

But the other night, I hit the wall and wondered, who will encourage me?

As I cried out to the Lord, he answered with Isaiah 41. He reminded me that each of us encourages the other. Neighbors encourage brothers. The craftsman encourages the smelter and he who smooths metal encourages the blacksmith. We lift each other up by kind words and actions – by praying for each other in the dark corners of life.

Encouragement is such an important task in these last days. We all need to be encouraged. But the One we can always count on is the Lord Himself. “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, surely I will help you, surely I will uphold you with my righteous right hand” (Isa. 41:10).

Then God repeats Himself. Whenever God repeats a message, we need to listen. “Do not fear…I will help you…your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel” (vs. 14). “I will not forsake you. I, the Lord, will answer” (vs. 17).

Do not fear. Do not be discouraged. The Almighty One holds your hand and upholds you. He encourages you. He is with you. He prays for you.

He is the One who nudges me to encourage others and when I hit the wall, He is the One who lovingly picks me up and holds me close.

If you’re hitting the wall today, let Him hold you.

The Value of Women

Maybe it’s because I’m working for a faith-based women’s center, and I’m seeing more of the struggles. Maybe it’s because of a phone call yesterday – a woman crying on the phone, seeking counsel for her and her boyfriend – domestic violence, pain, fear. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived long enough to wonder why the church is still silent about many women’s issues – even though women represent half the church.

Growing up in a legalistic religion, I heard about submission at least once every calendar quarter. It was drummed into us from the pulpit, in the Sunday school and in every day life. Men are the head of the home. Men should do all the really important jobs in the church. Men are in authority over women – always. Women must submit, even to the point of denying their right to live.

While some of the teaching was indeed biblical, no mention was made of the serious issues of abuse – physical, emotional or spiritual. Not once did I hear a sermon about mutual submission as recorded in Ephesians 5:21. No one ever explained why it was okay for Abraham to force Sarah to lie about their marriage, because he was afraid. The leadership of the church seemed to negate that example by pounding into my feminine brain once again that my own gifts of leadership were not acceptable in the male-dominated world of church. I wondered then and still wonder – are the sons of Abraham still afraid? Do they not know how to deal with women who might balance out their gifts, females who might be able to deal with women’s issues and exercise leadership?

Many of us women who were called to serve ended up in parachurch ministries where our abilities and gifts were acceptable and welcomed. Some of us, myself included, who wanted to attend seminary and earn a Master’s of Divinity swallowed our dreams and bowed to the authority of the traditional male model. Many of us still wonder – what if?

Last week, I read a novel where the main character was an Episcopal minister – a woman minister. In considering her call, she said, “Christ had nothing against women; he knew their value. He liked having them around.”

Of all the religious leaders in the world, Jesus Christ was the only one who truly valued women and respected their giftings. He let Mary sit at his feet when it was culturally unacceptable for a woman to learn. He inspired Aquila and Priscilla to serve with Paul and possibly (?) co-write the book of Hebrews. Jesus called Rachel Saint and Anne Graham Lotz and Joyce Meyer to teach the Gospel to anyone who would listen – male or female. And today, this Savior of the world, this Jesus reminds us that time is short and in the last days – men and women will prophecy.

I do believe that Jesus values me and likes having me around. I honor Jesus as my Husband and Maker. I find purpose in hearing him whisper, “Don’t be afraid. You are one of my chosen women. I have given you the right to serve me.”

In the Bible Study Magazine, Tod Twist writes, “We all have skewed ideas about how our lives should look so that we can do what God wants us to do.”

I think he’s right. Sometimes I am certain that God wants me to suffer unabashedly for my faith and be willing to face the martyr’s blade (always hoping it won’t hurt too much). More often, I would very much like to hole up in a cabin somewhere and write incredible words that would influence the world. The pen-mightier-than-the-sword type of words.

Rarely do I consider the fact that each day and each moment might be a special calling for what God wants me to do – a service of the seemingly mundane. Washing dishes and carefully stacking them so that they’ll drip dry – at the same time, praising God for the hot water that cleanses plates and bowls.

Or answering the phone and listening – really listening – to a frantic voice on the other end, then praying with that person about a specific trauma so she can hope again.

Or kissing my son goodnight and telling him once again, “I love you.” That seems like such a normal service, yet surely God is pleased whenever we love others as we love ourselves.

This weekend as we celebrate the tenth anniversary of 9-11 and the horrible tragedy of that day, we will be reminded of all the ordinary moments those people lived. Boarding an airplane and turning into a hero over the plains of Pennsylvania. Going to work in a diner and later helping a debris-covered man phone his wife with the news, “I’m alive.” Watching the news over and over that day and holding our children close. All types of service that surely pleased the heart of God.

What does God really want us to do? Just live and love. In all the normalcies of each day, without the skewed attitude that we must be in the pulpit or on the mission field or listed as church staff in order to be accepted by God. Just live and love. Be God’s people in the everyday moments of life. And be grateful.

Vision vs. Memories

Recently, I heard a wonderful explanation about the importance of vision. Do you know why the windshield of a car is so much larger than the rearview mirror? Because vision is more important than memories.

So many times we get caught in the pain and confusion of memories. Therapists make a living on our memories. Our journals contain page after page that relates to the past while our memoirs make sense out of the years we have lived.

We can learn much from the past, especially how to avoid repeating it. But if the past and its experiences create strongholds that hold us back from being all God created us to be – then we are in actuality traveling backwards. Our rearview mirrors have exchanged places with our windshields.

Psalm 71:17-18 reminds us to keep looking forward and keeping reaching out to the next group of memory-makers. “O God, you have taught me from my youth, and I still declare your wondrous deeds. Even when I am old and gray, O God, do not forsake me, until I declare your strength to this generation, your power to all who are to come.”

In order to reach the next generation with the power of Christ’s love, we have to have vision. We may be old and gray, but as long as God gives us breath – we can share the truth in love. We can still use our spiritual gifts, because God does not stamp them with an expiration date. We can experiment with new ways to reach out and not let tradition trap us in that rearview mirror.

Memories can be sweet, but vision propels us forward. And ultimately, it is vision that brings produces hope.

My Tree is Gone

After an Oklahoma-style hurricane: 96mph winds, straight-line force and no warning; the country paradise where I grew up has been decimated. The roof of the house has been lifted and transported to various sections of the pasture. Outbuildings which protected valuable machinery lie in tatters while the lovely trees are now a brush pile waiting for the farmer’s torch.

It is a time of loss for my family that involves days of sweat under the August heat, experts in appraisals and insurance as well as questions that begin with “What now?” I grieve for the disruption of all that was good in a place where I grew up with sunsets, fresh air and the freedom of childhood.

For me, the greatest loss is the felling of my special tree. This particular elm was created for climbing. With a giant knothole just the right height for boosting one’s adolescent self upward and another branch for hanging on – it took only minutes to vault from the ground into the security of upper limbs. On a quiet day – admittedly, that rarely happens in northwestern Oklahoma where the wind comes sweeping down the plains – I could hide within the still boughs of my tree and pretend I did not have to learn to wear a bra or start my period or deal with one more math quiz. In the solace of my tree, I cried out to God to rescue me from the hormonal rages I did not understand and the zits that dotted my face. That tree heard about my first boyfriend and my first heartache, about the prize I won at the county fair for my rock collection, about the first rejection from the words I sent to a New York publisher.

The tree represented safety when fear of the unknown gripped me – when I grew more and more serious about a particular boy in college and when I applied for a short-term missions trip and read the acceptance letter. Even before I walked down the aisle to marry another Okie, I spent an evening in my tree – reminiscing about childhood, knowing I would never again have the opportunity to whisper secrets therein.

In the cruel moments of one afternoon, a microburst reached down its powerful fist and toppled my tree. Nothing is left except the memories of a young girl who grew up on the plains of Oklahoma and found a solid foundation in the arms of an elm. How I wish I could climb there now.

Where are we Hiding?

Such a curious scripture. Adam and Eve knew they had sinned. They bit into the forbidden fruit and disappointed Creator God. They forgot how he provided for all their needs and how they enjoyed those long talks with him each evening. One bite was enough to send them into panic mode. They looked for a giant bush and hid.

God walked in the garden, longing to talk with his favorite creation and asked, “Where are you?”

How strange that the One who painted dots on lady bugs and stripes on zebras asked that question. Obviously, the one true God who knew how to position planets so they wouldn’t slam into each other also knew where this fearful man and his wife were hiding.

But he asked, “Where are you?”

God asks the same of us. When he wants us to slow down our frantic pace and listen for his soft baritone – where are you? When we’re afraid to approach him because we’ve disappointed the only One who loves us completely, he knows we’re hiding from repentance. Where are you? When we’re angry because he took someone away from us or allowed us to lose jobs or didn’t rescue us from that dreadful diagnosis, he reminds us that he has a bigger plan. Where are you?

Of all the phrases in the Bible, this may be the most poignant. The question of a loving God who cares so much for our frail substance that he constantly searches. The Almighty who is lonely for his loved ones and just wants a few moments of uninterrupted conversation. The longing heart of divine intimacy, searching and pleading and always knowing the answer.

Where are you?

Hiding from God delays His loving arms wrapped around us and His whispered, “I love you.” But only for an instant. He will always find us, because He already knows where we are.

We are where we have always been – in need of Him.

Private Pain

Recently, I was given a free pass to a fitness center. What a blessing to walk around a spongey track in an air-conditioned facility during one of the hottest times of the year.

As I circled the track, trying to increase my speed, I noticed the other people working out. Most of them were alone, plugged in to their MP3 players or some sort of encouragement tape to keep them going. One lady read her Kindle while bicycling. Another man measured his heart rate every few miles. Their faces grimaced as they tried another weight or increased the speed of the machine. They fought through the pain – alone.

We were never meant to bear our pain alone. Even walking around the track is more enjoyable with another person. And certainly, the struggles and burdens of life are easier to bear when shared with someone else. We need accountability partners and cell groups and mentors to help us talk through things and figure out how to deal with life, how to pray, how to learn more about trust.

Even Jesus felt uncomfortable bearing his pain alone. “Couldn’t you stay with me?” he asked his disciples. “Why have you forsaken me?” he cried out to his Father.

Whether we struggle to get our bodies into shape or work on soul-stretching, it helps to have another human being beside us. Isolation digs a rut that makes the pain worse and deepens the aggravation. But sharing life with another Christ-follower lightens the load. We sense relief in the struggle.

Then we find hope as we work out life together.

Sensory Connections

In the writing class I’m teaching, we’re studying sensory connections – those incredible five senses God has given us to enrich our lives. Where would we be without the sight of a blooming red hibiscus or the powder-fresh smell of our babies or the juicy taste of summer watermelon or the soft-as-a-lamb’s-ear rose petal or the majesty of a 500 member male chorus belting out the Hallelujah Chorus? How bland our lives would be without the five senses!

Yet there is another sense that we sometimes neglect and that is the spiritual sensory connection that God so longs to have with us. In his book Taste and See, Tim Dearborn writes, “Sensory spirituality restores passion to the spiritual life…we constantly seek signs of God’s presence, the sounds of God’s voice in everything that surrounds us.”

During so much of our 24-hour opportunities, we suffer from TMI Disease (Too Much Information). This invasion of our senses blasts from television screens, from radios on the daily commute, from the IPad and the phone apps and the PCs we automatically set to retrieve our “Favorites.” Some of this invasion descends from the necessary plots of life, the workforce and the electric baby-sitter and the “need” to keep up with what’s going on.

But I wonder how lonely God is – for the sound of his children spending valuable minutes in conversation with him, for the precious sight of his sons and daughters on our knees with our heads in his lap. Chained by TMI, we cannot discern the divine whisper nor feel the spiritual electricity of the Spirit’s companionship. We miss the aroma of a thousand angels posting guard at our babies’ cribs, and we wonder at our own loneliness.

My monthly planner fills up quickly, but I have challenged myself to schedule time for more sensory connections with my Maker. I was created for more than just information. To glorify God and enjoy Him forever, I promise to spend more time – reveling in the sensory connection of grace.

Readings

Lately, I’ve been reading a couple of books that deal with the giftings of women. Hidden in Plain View by Jacqueline Tobin and Raymond Dobard describes how the women of the 1860’s used quilts to help the slaves who were using the Underground Railroad. The different patterns on the quilts signified which direction to go toward freedom or which house might provide safety. The women hung quilts on their front fences or folded them and took them inside, depending on the signals they needed to give. These creative women pointed black people toward liberty by using design and color, disguised as a quilt.

The other book, Half the Church, by Carolyn Custis James uses insights and experiences to point out another type of slavery. James reminds us that sex trafficking and abuse occur all over the world – including the squalid jungles of our American cities. Young girls are sold into bondage to be used and abused by the lust of men and the greedy cravings of their owners. As Christian women, we spiritual warriors must put on our armor and do whatever is necessary to stop this tragedy.

James also reminds us that as women, we have many giftings and should not hide our gifts behind the cement walls of submission. Although Biblically, we should submit to leadership when a difference of opinion occurs, that does not mean we should accept a spirit of apathy about our gifts – especially when we might be able to save a life.

At first glance, these books might seem vastly different. One deals with a subject pertinent to the Civil War while the other involves our present 21st century. But in actuality, both books shout the same theme – human rights. Freedom for captives of race and gender deserves the attention of all God’s children, and we women can rally to meet the need.

Since God has gifted us with compassion and creativity, we have a responsibility to use our giftings to help others. We, the female portion of the dust people, must continue to hang our quilts to point captives toward freedom – whether that means a physical or a spiritual liberty. We, the female half of the church, must also loosen the bonds of spiritual abuse within the Church so that we can develop programs and work beside our brothers.

I challenge all of us to do whatever necessary – even if it means a march against the status quo – to use our creativity and our intelligence to be an equal half of the Church, to rescue those in slavery, to follow the radical social justice outlined in Micah 6:8.

Since Jesus risked it all to save us, can we do any less to save others?

Signature of God

Recently, a friend gave me some information about geese. I had told her about a previous blog post and the lessons I learned from geese. She relayed an internet site which helped me learn more about these graceful and gracious creatures.

It seems that when geese fly in a V, they are using aerodynamic principles. No surprise there. But when they honk, they’re not just announcing to the world that they’re flying past us, they are encouraging each other to continue – to push past the fatigue and persevere. When one goose tires or is injured, two or three others will land and stay with him until he is well again and able to travel.

The spiritual analogies seem clear. We Christians need to keep encouraging each other to persevere – even when the world makes fun of us, even when we can’t find anything decent to watch on TV, even when the solid values of family and hard work and the inerrancy of scripture are being redefined. Honk – encourage each other to remain true and strong and faithful.

If one of us should fall, that is not a time for self-righteous judgment nor should we leave our brothers and sisters behind. Our role then is to come alongside, to actually be with each other in the middle of the mess, to grieve with each other until we are restored and can journey on.

How I love these lessons from nature that teach us Biblical and common sense principles. The nature of geese is to follow their instincts, to fly but always to endure the flight together. As we do the same, our very lives will bear the signature of God.

Planted in Place

During a wildflower tour in the abundant Flint Hills of Kansas, I learned about the various grasses and plants that live there. God, in one of his creative jaunts, planted wild strawberries, coneflowers and goldenrod in the tallgrass prairie. Many of the wildflowers and grasses contain essential nutrients to feed and heal animals as well as human beings. But driving through the Flint Hills, we may fail to see the beauty of the prairie or to appreciate the way God planned it.

If we were to find some of those wildflowers and grasses in our well-manicured lawns, we would pull them. “A weed – yuck – grab the chemicals and destroy the roots.” But as our tour guide told us, “A weed is simply a plant out of place.”

God places us in particular places during particular seasons of life. Whether we think geographically or within the broader scope of life’s experiences, we are planted for a reason. God wants us to be spiritually nourished with the Word, with His presence, with music and nature and friends. He longs for us to grow closer to Him, to find our strength within the joy of His being and then share that joy with others. He wants us to produce and reproduce and praise the Master Gardener. He has designed us with particular gifts and talents so that we can bear His good news of love to a hungry world.

If we follow what He has told us to do and give our all to growth, then we will see the results of a bountiful harvest. We’ll flourish like the wildflowers and grasses of the prairie, reflecting the beauty of sunsets and the glory of thunderstorms.

But if we let every wind of change and every nudge of the flesh move us from the place God put us, we’ll become weak and useless – producing nothing but empty pods of legalism and strife. In the proper place, with the best God has to offer, we produce fruit. But planted out of place in the trails of rebellion, we become weeds.

I long to bear fruit. What about you?

Memorials

Several years ago, we toured Washington DC and discovered the difference between a memorial and a monument. Structures such as the Washington Monument stand as beautiful reminders of American history and are named for famous people or events.

But memorials, such as the Lincoln Memorial and the Jefferson Memorial, actually house the statue of the person for whom the memorial is named. I stood in front of the granite likeness of Abraham Lincoln and marveled at the inscribed words of the Gettysburg Address that surrounded him. As I remembered all that Lincoln did to help our nation survive the Civil War, I prayed a prayer of agreement with him, that “this government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

On this Memorial Day, we honor the heroes of our nation – men and women who have left homes and families to fulfill their duty. Some of them returned to this land they fought for. Some are buried in foreign countries, remembered by their loved ones and a grateful nation.

I’m also grateful for the missionaries who leave home and family so that they can present the spiritual freedom we have in Christ to a hungry world. They live with modest incomes, rent tiny apartments and depend on the goodness of others to support them. These people are not listed on granite walls, but they are inscribed in the heart of God and someday will receive special rewards.

Missionaries are more than just monuments, human structures that designate a piece of history. They are memorials to the truth as they carry within them the image and power of Jesus. Today I honor these heroes and heroines of faith. They know what real freedom is all about.

The Personality of the House

Throughout my lifetime, I have lived in various houses and have found that each one has a personality. From the farmhouse where I grew up to my current duplex, I have experienced the unique pleasure of memories, colored by the personality of the house.

The adobe apartment in Honduras kept me warm during the rainy season yet cool during the hotter months. It brought me joy when my students camped inside for Bible study or knocked on the door, asking me if they could dissect frogs. The downside of that apartment was the giant tarantulas that crept into my bedroom until one of the men designed a special trapdoor to keep them out. Relief was the emotion that lived there.

My bachelorette house stood near the school where I taught in a small Oklahoma town. With two bedrooms and a cozy eat-in kitchen, I had everything I needed. My house had the only basement in the area, so when the wind twisted through tornado alley – the neighbors came running. We huddled together until the all-clear sounded. Safety was the watchword of that house.

The big two-story where my son was born sported four bedrooms, a gigantic dining room, a parlor off the stairway and a smaller living room. I re-decorated every room of that house, learning how to do stencils and wallpaper, plus scraping the nasty rubber stuff from under the carpet so that we could install tile. That was the house where my son learned to walk, where he said his first word (“kitty”) and where he came running into the kitchen to help me bake bread. We lived longest in that house, and I loved it. Security seemed to ooze from every corner.

The split level in Lawrence had everything I had ever wanted in a house. I didn’t need to re-decorate and loved looking out from the kitchen sink onto the expansive back yard. The wildflowers I planted waved in the Kansas wind. But that became the divorce house. I labeled it sorrow.

A beautiful townhome was next, provided by a wonderful couple who wanted to serve God by helping single moms. The townhome was where I learned more about trusting God than ever before. My son and I bonded as we worked through the pain. That was my healing house.

The current duplex where we now live started out as an idea – to move forward in life and eventually flip it as an investment. But the recession deleted that idea and my son was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. My cat died, and then I lost my job. Our dog died. It seemed this house would become another structure where sadness reigned.

But then May 12th happened (note the previous post) and the Keller Williams team changed everything. Now I drive up to a freshly-painted exterior. My fireplace has been rebuilt. I walk around the backyard and smile at the abundant plants and flowers that raise their colorful heads to God’s sky. I plan exotic meals with flavors from my new herb garden. And I marvel that the personality of this house has changed. From the house of struggle, it now wears a new name tag – one I thought I might never again experience. Joy. This is my house of restored joy.