When the Shock Brings Truth

I was electrocuted twice as a child. The first time was with my 80-year-old great-grandmother. That was bad. But the one that stands out most in my mind was the other one. 

I must have been about ten. Braids, bell bottoms, and a smattering of freckles I tried to scrub off on a daily basis. I had followed my older sister and her next-door-neighbor friend into the woods. I’m not sure if they knew I followed them or if they intentionally tried to ditch me. I imagine it was the latter, as I was a tag-a-long and wanted to be included at any cost. Even if I was the “villain” in all the make-believe games or given the Barbie doll without the head, I was fairly determined to be a part of anything my older sister did, and so I persevered. 

I trampled the damp path through the woods alone, as the others had gotten far ahead. The path weaved its way between patches of skunk cabbage and over plank-boards bridging mud holes. For a ten year old, it seemed a good long way from home, though it was probably yards from the girl’s house. 

My sister’s friend had a small barn tucked at the edge of the path. She kept her horse there, within the boundary of an electric fence. By the time I reached the outer perimeter, my sister and her friend were swinging around the dilapidated hay loft, already full bore in some game I was missing.

I should have assumed the fence was hot when I went to climb through it. I’m not sure why it hadn’t occurred to me, especially since we had horses too, and it wasn’t my first rodeo with electric fences. I guess I wanted to join the fun, and my focus was on the loft. If you’ve ever been caught on an electric fence before, one of the first things you learn is that you can’t get off. When I gripped the wire to shimmy through it, the voltage spliced through my body, contracting every muscle I owned. My fists clenched the wire in the current and couldn’t be opened. Not for anything. The rule of thumb is there’s no getting off until someone unplugs the power. My great-grandmother had tried the first time to wrench me free, and that just got both of us stuck.

I don’t know if I screamed or if my sister and her friend had seen me, but the power shut off some time after, maybe only seconds later. The girls rushed down and circled around me to make sure I was okay. The buzz of current remained under my skin, leaving me weak and shaky all over. Wrung out and zapped. I could barely stand, but I assured them I was okay. I was fine. 

They ushered me up the twisting path, back over the bridges and through the skunk cabbage toward home. Those details are a little blurry to me, either from the shock’s aftermath or time’s. But there are some details I’ll never forget.

As we climbed the girl’s driveway and my own came into view, my father stood at the edge of our drive waiting for me. To this day, I don’t know how he knew he needed to be there or why he was looking for me. How he knew I needed him so badly at that moment. 

But there he was. 

When I saw him, I ran to him. He held me, and everything let loose inside me. The pain of the shock. The hurt of being left out. The shame of going through all of it just because I wanted to belong so badly. It came in a deluge of tears that never found words. Grimy and unkempt sobs that bled down my cheeks and held nothing back. 

My sister still teases me about it. She’ll say that everything was fine until I saw Daddy. That I had gotten over it ten minutes before, shrugged it off, righted myself, and marched through the woods all better from my escapade. Just up until the point I saw him. Then I crumbled. Soaked it for all the attention it was worth, she’d say. 

And she was right, in part. But here’s the deeper truth. Here’s the thing I understand now from this side of life:  

That in that moment, wrapped in my father’s strong arms, beyond feeling safe and secure, it was okay not to be fine.

It was okay that the burden was too heavy to carry. That I could no longer hold the weight of it, not just the physical pain, but the heaviness of shame and unworthiness. Insignificance. That I had trekked through mud and stinky weeds to belong to something I was never a part of. To try so hard to fit in. It was okay to no longer have the strength to wear a plastic smile and pretend everything was all right, that I was untouched and unaffected by the shock waves that ripped through my world.

Because maybe I wasn’t.

And maybe they look different today, those waves, but they’re still there. I still pretend to have it all together. To be smart and organized and on top of everything. To hide the cobwebs in the corners and the laundry in the basement. The shortcomings and the fears. And though I’ve made peace with my freckles, the adult version of my mask is the same. I just want to be loved. To be a part of the good stuff. To be okay.

When I look in my Father’s eyes and gather up close in His arms, when I come to Him with muddy tears and shaky knees, His words wash over me: I know where you’ve been, child. I understand the hurt and heartache you feel. The heaviness you cannot bear. The pain you try to conceal. I see it all because you are Mine. I know your deepest need. I see YOU. And I love you just as you are. 

And it’s there, in that place, we let it all out. We give it to him. The walls. The facade. The pretending. Our heart settles. Our breathing regulates. And we don’t have to work so hard at being okay. 

Because who we are is just who we’re supposed to be.

And when we come face-to-face with that kind of love, we no longer have to lie.

A Convict's Love

Cal (name changed for anonymity) was probably the last person you would choose to bring into your home. Six feet tall. Strong and broad in shoulders. Ex-con. Coyote. Wanted by both the police and the cartels for knowing too much. His first arrest happened at 7 years old, when he held an American couple at gunpoint to rob them. He spent years in prison. And years running.

I don’t remember exactly how he came to us, but when he did, he had already met Jesus, and the redemption was down to his soul. His last act of violence, stopped cold by the hand of God, was when he aimed a pistol at the head of a downed police officer. Cal stood over the man and slipped his finger into the trigger. In that split-second pause between life and death, he heard a voice say Do not kill this man. Do not kill him, Cal.

He didn’t. He spared the man, and his own life was forever changed.

Cal spent several years in a Mexican prison similar to Alcatraz for his crimes, incarcerated under the highest level of security. But he spent those last few praying, seeking God, and healing prisoners’ wounds with tropical plants he harvested on the island. It was a rugged, harsh, nearly peaceful time in his life, where he cultivated his relationship with the Lord and his gift of service.

Cal came to live with us out at the ranch shortly after his release from prison. It was there that he rediscovered how to love again. And it was through the animals he connected most deeply. That was his heart. That was his place. He spent hours with the horses and goats. The chickens and cows. He had a gentle hand and a soft spirit. He never raised his voice in anger or chose harsh methods of training so prevalent in the area we lived.

My most profound memory of Cal was on a particular day it was just the two of us at the ranch. I will never forget it. My husband and the team had gone into town for supplies. My children with them. And there was no one else on the property. I don’t remember what took us to the barn that day. Maybe a broken pipe. Or a birthing horse. But on our walk together across the dirt field with no hammering or yelling or activity of any kind from the team, I had a fleeting moment of fear. I questioned my safety and wisdom in being completely alone with a man who had lived such a violent life for years. Who had lied and stolen and probably murdered. And here I was, alone with him. No one else on the ranch. No one for miles. He towered over me, possessing a strength ten times my own. And when Cal stopped in the middle of the field for no apparent reason and turned to face me, my heart jumped into my throat.

“Puedes orar por mi?” he said. Can you pray for me?

“Mande?” What?

“Puedes orar por mi?”

“Si.” Yeah. Okay.

And in the middle of that dusty field, this colossal man—who in his lifetime had witnessed and been a part of so much unthinkable depravity and brokenness—dropped to his knees and bowed his head for prayer. It was the most visual representation of humility I have ever witnessed in my life, and it has followed me for many years.

I hesitated then, not sure what to do. Not from fear but from awe. From knowing I should take off my shoes because I had just entered holy ground. That the Lord’s spirit resided in that lowliest of places. And I was at a loss for words.

I laid my hand on his bowed shoulder and prayed in broken Spanish. I thanked God for Cal’s life and asked that he would be a vessel of love and grace. For myself, I silently prayed that I would somehow understand this depth of surrender.

When our favorite horse was dying from a botched surgery, we called Cal. At first, it was just to know what to do. How to help the beautiful stallion who was bleeding out. Cal came immediately, but our beloved horse was too far gone. There was nothing we could do to save him. He would surely die in the night. While we all went to bed saddened and helpless to do anything else for the horse, Cal took his rusted pickup and threw a skinny mattress in the bed. He drove his truck into the corral with the horse, built a fire to keep the coyotes and buzzards away, and stayed by that horse’s side the entire night. The stallion drew near the warmth of the fire and the compassion of the man for his last hours. He died at 4am. Cal never left his side.

I loved that horse. But Cal loved him more.

I have tears in my eyes still as I relay this years later. As I am reminded of the power of love and grace in the most unlikely of places. Cal’s transformation was soul deep. Down to his core. He was a new man, regenerated, and full to overflowing because he had met Jesus on the road to Damascus. He had heard his voice and seen His glory in the midst of unspeakable sin. He had dropped to his knees in the dusty desert and surrendered his life to Him.

And he was changed forever from the inside out.

Do you know this love? This love that takes our stone-cold hearts, imprisoned and ravished, and makes them beat again? That pours out a love so deep, so complete, that we are never the same? A love that enters into the very darkest of places within our own soul and shines a light so bright others will take off their shoes because we have become holy ground.

Do you know this love? His name is Jesus.

I am dry. And I thirst for Him.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul longs after You, O God (Psalm 42:1).

Today I am dry. And I thirst for Him. 

I had a vision once when I was in Mexico. It happened in the middle of the night when I had gotten up to use the bathroom. The moon was full over the desert ranch as I passed the window, and its light spilled a cascade of silver on my newly planted garden below. The tilled soil. The baby plants. All of the day’s labor. And somewhere in my mind, wherever visions are planted, I was barefooted in that garden. The mud squished between my toes as I danced. I danced with the Lord, beneath the moon, my arms raised to Him. Free and unhindered like a child, with hope and joy bursting from my heart. And I said to Him, “If you will plant it and grow it, I will share it.”

We lived in a land of great need. Of hunger and poverty. Scarcity in life. And that little garden was what I had to give. It was my part to bring hope into the hurt others. And I was longing to share it.

Only, it never amounted to much on my watch. I am not so great with plants, and the hot sun, little rain, and sandy earth are hard to compete with. Nothing really grew. We got a few vegetables, that was it. Nothing to feed the hungry. To meet the deep need of those around us. And there has always been a little part of me that mourned that garden. I think I believed somewhere inside, I had made a promise to God I could never keep. That I had failed Him.  

To know me is to understand. I am a child who seeks approval. Who desires to be recognized. Who tries very hard to be perfect. I am that child who hears a thousand good things yet crumbles underneath the weight of one bad. Not outwardly. No, you will not know it. 

Writing is vulnerable for one like me. It opens me up to opinions, both good and bad. Accolades, acknowledgements, judgements. And I can try as hard as I can to please, but I will never gain approval from everyone. I will not be perfect to the world. And so, I will fail. I will ingest the highest praise and the lowest rebuke, all of it, and it will be a reflection, not of what I do, but who I am. 

You say, but you are a child of God, you should gain your identity from Him. Yes, you are right. But often I do not. And criticism can devour me one whisper at a time. 

So, my writing has taken its toll. Sometimes I don’t know what to say. Or I am afraid to say the wrong thing. One friend after reading something I wrote said to me, “I thought I knew you. Now I don’t know who you are at all.” 

No, maybe not. Maybe I don’t know either.

My husband says to me, “You need to write more. It is a gift that God is using in people’s lives.” And I say in my heart, But I am empty. I have nothing to give unless the Lord gives it. Unless I hear from Him, I have nothing for anyone. 

You say, that is the right perspective. But it wasn’t. You have to hear the I am empty part. 

I have nothing to give.

I am a dry and weary land. And I thirst for Him.

We had a ladies’ retreat at the farm this last weekend. Twelve women in the upper room. The worship experience was overwhelming. One of the songs says: 

Lord, take me back. 

Back to the beginning. 

When I was young. 

Running through the fields with you. 

…Running through the fields with You.

And He took me to that place I had met Him in the garden. Under the moon. When I had kicked off my shoes, threw off all care, and danced with Him. Where my dreams and hopes were birthed. That place I wanted to change my world. To have the greatest impact for Him. 

He took me, also, to that same garden where I had failed Him. Where the soil was dry and cracked and did not bring life. That place where I had nothing to give. He took me there. 

And He said to me: My child, don’t you see? It wasn’t about the plants in the ground. It wasn’t so small as that. It was about what I’ve planted in you. In you. I have done the work. In the soil of your heart, I have planted my garden. 

I will nourish it. I will water it.

It will grow. 

And you will share it. 

On the way out of the retreat, through tears I shared with my dearest friend what the Lord had shown me. That it wasn’t about the garden in Mexico at all. That He had planted in the soil of my soul. And someday, I would know exactly how He was using it.  

She turned to me and said, “Wasn’t it in Mexico, during that same exact time you had the vision of the garden, when the Lord gave you the gift of writing?”

Yes. It was.

So, my friend, here is a seedling planted just for you and just for me. The Gardener will tend to whatever it is He has planted in your heart. He will till the dry and cracked land. He will nourish it back to life. He will grow it to be all it is meant to be. 

And you will share it with your world.

Whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a fount of water springing up to eternal life (John 4:14).

In the Chaos

When I was a young mommy, I followed a woman online called The Fly Lady. I don’t know if she’s still around. But she was one of those wise people who taught young women how to manage their days. How to organize their households. How to get through the whirling chaos that comes with infants and toddlers and home life in those early years. Her advice was simple. Start with the kitchen sink. Just the kitchen sink. Begin there. Wash the dishes. Scrub the basin. Bleach it. Dry it until it shines.

Well, that’s fine. That’s easy. But what about the rest of my house? What about the scattered toys? The clogged toilet? The muddy carpet? What about the sleepless nights? The cranky husband? The crying baby? What about all those things I don’t know how to manage? What about those?

Just start with the sink. Clean the sink.

I think in my younger years I understood part of the truth. The practical side. I realized that in the midst of the craziness, I could manage cleaning the sink. It was a small part I could take some control over. I could do that. I would be able to claim a tiny part of my world. Accomplish something, even small. And move on from there. Like eating an elephant one bite at a time. It was a small bite, but it helped me begin the climb.   

But as I stand here at my kitchen sink thirty years late, I think about The Fly Lady. And I realize maybe I didn’t understand the deeper meaning of her lesson—maybe she didn’t either. And maybe her advice wasn’t just about managing a household. Because today, my first grand baby of six months old lies in a hospital bed after a terrible fall. We’re waiting for news from the neurosurgeon and neurologist. For the 4-hour MRI results. For the seizures to stop. For him to open his eyes and be normal again. For some tiny control over our shattered lives.

And all I can do is stand at the kitchen sink. I stand and I weep.

What about the living room where his toys are? What about Christmas and his presents under the tree? What about all the what-ifs and should-haves that torture my mind? Where do I go when all around me is a reminder that just days ago, moments ago, we celebrated and laughed and planned, never knowing the tragedy right around the corner? What do I do with that, Lord?

And through blurry tears, I wash one fork.

One single fork.

Because that’s about all I can do.

The pain and the chaos is too great.

And thinking about anything else will bring me crashing down.

So, I scrub the fork. And then a bowl. I wash them, dry them, and put them away.

But in this moment, I understand the Fly Lady’s lesson a little bit deeper. And give it eternal breath. Because maybe it’s not so much about managing my household, but managing my soul. Because I can do the next right thing. I can take the tiniest step, the smallest part. I can do that. I can wash the dishes. Dry the sink. Fold the towel. Cry the tears.

But I can’t calm the waters.

I can’t silence the storm.

Only Jesus can do that.

In this empty, fragile, chaotic place, only He can sustain me.

And in that quiet space alone at the kitchen sink, that still moment when the warm water washes over my hands and I take up that next fork, I find just a sliver of courage, a moment of victory, to give it back to Him.

Surviving New Life

I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about birth lately, given that my very first grand baby is on the way. And I’ve been thinking about the miracle and design of the process, how a baby passes from one world to the next. From womb to earth. Water to air. And how those painful minutes in between are the most vital of all. Because as that baby passes through the birth canal, squeezed and pressed through, physiological changes are happening within him, water is forced from his lungs, and he has a compulsion to take his first breath. Without this very process—the squeezing and pressing—he would struggle in this new world. He would find himself ill-equipped. Unprepared. And chances are he would not survive.

Yet, we question the design. Why did God make it so hard? We ask for ease and comfort.

Every farmer knows this truth even in the animals. For if you help a struggling chick out of an egg, you’ve debilitated him for life. He may not survive. Because there is a process, beyond ourselves, that we cannot see. A process designed by our Father to give us the best chance in this new world. There is a greater purpose to the pain. A triumph at the end of the struggle.

I have some new friends. A young couple breaking out of the throes of addiction, trying hard to get on their feet again. He’s been clean for a good 90 days. She has a couple weeks maybe. No more. It’s new for her, this world, and hard. She is overwhelmed by the pressures around her. She has been thrown out of her home. She has nowhere to go. No footing. No grounding. She feels lost and alone and afraid not knowing how to breathe in this new place. All the while her old life and the comforts there call her back. The ease to escape the trial. To return to the place she knows.

The struggle is real.

But there is a new spark in her eyes—a reflection of the love she is finding on this side. A place she truly belongs. And she is holding on. She is pressing through.

And since God has been teaching me about these things—lovingly giving me these truths you and I are talking about now—I had words in this precious moment in time when He allowed me to be a conduit of His love for His child. I shared with her just this—how the growing pains and the pressure and the squeezing—even that—are vital. How the process prepares us, strengthens us, and helps us to not only survive, but thrive in this new world.

That each thing she is experiencing is not in vain.

It will allow her to breathe.

To be fully alive.

And His little lamb asks why does it need to be so hard?

I don’t know all the answers. I didn’t know what I did wrong when I broke a chick out of an egg one day on the ranch and held its last breath in my hands. When I cried for its life because I had done everything I thought was right to help it survive. But in the very act of bringing it ease, I had lost it.

I don’t have all the answers, but He does. And if we’re in His hands, we trust the process because we can’t always see how it makes us strong. How the very fight equips us to survive.

This beautiful young girl looked at me then, with all the weight bearing down on her shoulders, and the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. She whispered, “Thank you. I’m going to think about that the rest of the day.”

And the breath of the universe caught between us. I felt it.

He was right there. Right there to help her forge into new life.

And, yes, little one, we all need to think about that.

When You Breathe

Image by Nanda Dian Prata, Unsplash

Some words stop me in my tracks. 

They have a way of affecting me deeply and changing the way I look at things—the way I look at life. 

The words I recently heard by Sandra Thurman Caporale did that for me. They turned my day upside down, brought me to that space before my Creator, and gave me a sweet glimpse of Him in a new and fresh way.

I pray you are equally moved.

YHWH

There was a moment when Moses had the nerve to ask God what His name is.

God was gracious enough to answer, and the name He gave is recorded in the original Hebrew as YHWH.

Over time, we’ve arbitrarily added an “a” and an “e” to get Yahweh, presumably because we have a preference for vowels. But scholars and rabbis have noted that the letters YHWH represent breathing sounds, or aspirated consonants. When pronounced without intervening vowels, it actually sounds like breathing. YH (inhale), WH (exhale).

So a baby’s first cry, his first breath, speaks the name of God.

A deep sigh calls His NAME—or a groan or gasp that is too heavy for mere words.

So when I can’t utter anything else, is my cry calling out His name?

Even an atheist would speak His name, their very breath giving constant acknowledgement to God.

Likewise, a person leaves this Earth with their last breath, when God’s name is no longer filling their lungs.

Being alive—breathing—means I speak his name constantly.

Is it heard the loudest when I’m the quietest?

In sadness, we breathe heavy sighs.

In joy our lungs feel almost like they will burst.

In fear we hold our breath and have to be told to breathe slowly to help us calm down.

When we’re about to do something hard, we take a deep breath to find our courage.

When I think about it, breathing is giving Him praise. Even in the hardest moments!

This is so beautiful and fills me with emotion every time I grasp the thought.

God chose to give Himself a Name that we can’t help but speak every moment we’re alive.

All of us, always, everywhere. 

Waking, sleeping, breathing, with the Name of God on our lips.

—Sandra Thurman Caporale

Where Does the Fairy Tale Go? (Hope in the Disappointment)

Photo by Jill Wellington from Pexels

He was the cutest boy I had ever seen. Three and a half feet tall. Baby brown eyes. He lived right across the playground and over the chain-link fence. Brett Elmblad … the name forever embedded in the recesses of my mind.

We were five when he chose me – me – to be his wife. We were playing house on our street. My best friend Kim was elected to be the child—the baby. Brett and I were married without much ceremony, and we moved into our tree house home. Just climbed right in and started our new life together. It was divine. Everything I had hoped for in a marriage. When he looked into my eyes, I knew I belonged to him forever.

Sadly, we were divorced a few months later when our family moved two towns over. No papers to sign. Not even a goodbye. I had lost him, but it wasn’t the end. One day he would find me, and that day would be glorious.

 My mom had done some shopping while we settled into our new home. She bought me clothes, including a lime green, frilled nightgown. Fancy, like a princess would wear. I knew it was the one. The very night I wore my brand new lacy green princess pajamas would be the very night my prince would come for me. He would find me, even two towns away. I kept the nightgown folded neatly, tags still on, and tucked it into my top drawer, waiting for the perfect evening. I would know the time when it came.  

And I did. It happened. It was a clear, winter evening. The stars hung low and bright. Magical. It was the night. I removed the tag and dressed in my frilly nightgown. The lacy hem reached the floor. I brushed out my long hair and sat on my stairs in range of the front door. I felt every bit the princess and knew my prince would come that night.

One hour passed, my focus glued to the door. To the tiny windows on either side. To the expectant trill of the doorbell. Two hours. My mother told me to go to bed. But how could I sleep on this fated night. I would miss his arrival for sure.

Three hours pushed the limits of any six-year-old, and I returned to my room and changed my pajamas. I folded the gown neatly and stuffed it in my top drawer. I crawled into bed in my worn cotton run-of-the-mill pajamas and pulled the covers way up.

In that moment, hinged between reality and fairy tale, I understood the truth . . . I had picked the wrong night.

You see, when it doesn’t turn out the way we thought it should, we have the chance to pivot, not to give up. Because so many times the dream doesn’t look exactly like we thought it would. The prince doesn’t come … quite yet. The nightgown, though pretty, didn’t hold the power we gave it. But the dream is not gone because of these things. That hope rising up within us … it remains. And, believe it or not, we have all we need to move forward despite the setback. Because it isn’t really a setback at all. It’s a chance to choose another way . . . another path to get to the dream.

For more blogposts from Cher related to this one, check out …

A Stripping Away

The Road Less Traveled and How We Find It

When Fear Says We Can't

Photo by Sven Brandsma on Unsplash

We’ve always told our youngest son the story of the day he turned three. He woke up that birthday morning down in Texas (during language school) and told my husband, Peter, he had a dream he could ride a two-wheeler bike. He asked his dad to get it out of storage so he could ride it.

So, doing what all great dads do, my husband dragged out the bike and got ready to launch our little guy down the paved road on his fledgling flight. And, like all good moms, I scolded him. “Are you kidding me? You’re going to send him down the pavement? You’re not even going to start him in the grass? No helmet or training wheels? He’s three!”

“He said he can ride it.”

“He had a dream he could ride it!”

“Yeah,” my husband shrugged. “Let’s see what he can do.”

A three-year-old! Really? A two-year-old just the day before. Are you kidding me?

I’m not even going to tell you how the story ends because just the other day, I broke into our old computer and guess what I found? I had taped it. The whole thing. I didn’t remember that. But, here it is, my baby’s first try on a two-wheeler after a dream that said he could do it:

What happened? What made it possible for him in that moment to take a dream and make it real? How did he do it? 

The answer is in him: He believed with all his heart he could ride that bike. That he had everything he needed within him to make it happen. He didn’t stop to ask what if he failed. If he fell. If he got banged up along the way. He never allowed the fear of what “might” come to stop him in his tracks—to debilitate his dream.

Fear can do that. It can knock us out. And it’s usually not the expected punch—the jab or the right hook—the straight-in-the-face warnings to keep us safe; the reason we have fear in the first place (to avoid the cliff, to run from the snarling dog). But it’s the sucker punch, the one from behind. The one that didn’t feel like a punch until we’re down on the ground.

Fear speaks loudest through the voices in our heads. Voices from our past. From those around us. The ones that say we can’t do it. There’s too much at risk. We’ll fail. We’re not good enough. The ones that, by the time the list is complete, the dream is dead.

So, how do we conquer fear? How do we move forward?

Step One: Silence the Voices.

That sounds easy, but we all know it’s not. It takes work and effort to “take all thoughts captive in obedience to Christ” (2 Cor. 10:5). The voices and messages are embedded deep within us. And, even when we’re not aware, they can dictate our choices. Whose voice do you hear when you’re measuring your steps? When you’ve found form to a dream? Think about it. Listen quietly. The voices are talking whether you want them to or not. 

How often we allow people power over us; power in our heads, power in our lives. Often, it’s people closest to us, but sometimes, we even give this power to strangers. People we don’t even know. How do they gain a voice in our head, a place to determine our own value? Strangers? We give them an ear because somewhere, deep down, they confirm the lie. The lie that we don’t measure up.

Even good voices can hinder us. We all need cheerleaders, encouragers in our life, people to spur us on. But when we seek those out, when we allow the accolades to dictate our worth, we can end up as approval-seekers. We’ve listened to the wrong voice. 

But here’s the secret. There’s only one Voice that really matters. One that holds the truth of who you are and what you can do.

Step Two: Listen to the One.

Can you hear your Father’s voice? The One who calls you “dearly beloved child.” The One who formed you and knows you intimately. The only One with the power to give you worth, the One to place value on your life. His voice says you are held, forgiven, adopted, strong, whole, victorious, fearfully and wonderfully made, never alone, complete, dearly loved, and nothing can take you out of His hand. And His opinion of you does not falter because it doesn’t depend on you. It’s not a worth you need to prove. So, if that’s the case, how can another person, even a stranger, gain more access to your heart then Him? 

Step Three: Keep Pedaling.

When the disciple Peter saw Jesus on the water, he first asked, “Is it you, Lord.” When the answer was ‘yes,’ he got out of the boat. And because he got out—and he was the only one—he walked on water. He experienced the miracle. Do you hear Him? Is He saying, ‘I have placed this dream in you. You have everything you need, and I’m right here with you.’?

If that’s you, if you hear Him calling, step out. If He’s given you a dream, it won’t happen with training wheels or soft grass. Not even with an audience (even your own mother) yelling on the sidelines, “It’s not safe, don’t try it.”

I could watch this video over and over again. Not because it’s my little guy—and he’s pretty darn cute—but because it reminds me to carry my dreams with me, to pull them out of storage. To climb on. Pedal like the wind. And most of all, believe in my heart that, if God has given me a dream, I can do it.

A Stripping Away

Photo by Daiga Ellaby on Unsplash

I’ve been off for a while. The pandemic and all. I just didn’t know how to speak into it. So much pain and heartache and loss. Isolation. A re-routing on life, I guess. Maybe a stripping away.

I sat around the table last night with my kids. We talked and laughed, not about the things today, but stories of yesterday. My youngest son shared one of his earliest memories. He was two, and we were packing up for Mexico. Such a vivid memory for a little one. He remembers looking out the window at our garage sale one week before we left. All of our belongings scattered across the lawn. When he saw another kid pick up his race track to buy, he ran outside and tried to hand him something else—a different toy, so he wouldn’t have to part with his favorite track, his favorite matchbox cars. But I stopped my little guy because we just couldn’t take it along, and I let the sale go through. He had to let go. He was young for such a grand lesson.

Sometimes life doesn’t feel like “letting go” but “stripping away.” It sometimes feels as if we have no say in it. The decision doesn’t seem to be ours.

That day at the garage sale, we got rid of everything that wouldn’t fit in our van and travel trailer. With a family of seven, trust me, it didn’t feel like much came with us. And each of my children remembers something they lost that day. But we packed in everything we could—everything we thought we needed—waved to our best friends down the driveway, and drove 2000 miles to our language school in Texas.

I remember too the day we left Texas one year later with as much Spanish under our belts as we could grab hold of and the whole world open to what lay ahead for our family in Mexico. Our last stop before pulling out of the school was the bodega where our things had been in storage. For a good two hours, we worked in the sweltering heat to shove our belongings back in the places they should have fit. Believe me, my husband is the best packer around. If he can’t puzzle it in, it can’t be puzzled.

Yet, at the end, there were still six plastic bins on the sidewalk.

“We can’t take these,” he said.

“We have to.” There was no bending in my mind. No compromise. Not now. We had already given away so much. This was the bare minimum.  

“We can’t,” he said. Period.

I sat down on one of those bins and cried. It poured out from some untapped reservoir inside of me. The anger first. I already had nothing. Why more? God, will you take everything from me? I cried, not for the “things”—children’s clothing and pots and pans—but for the hope. The dreams. All that those bins somehow represented inside of me. My family’s chance to start again. To have a home. A new life together.

We took those bins to the school’s thrift shop. One by one the woman lifted the lid and explored the items inside. Oh, I had needed that … I had a place for those, I thought. Like my two-year-old trying to hold onto his race track that day, I had to let go. The woman smiled at all the items she could re-home, and we left.

I think I might have cried to the border.

And we entered a land so foreign to us. People we didn’t know. A language we could barely speak. Unspoken rules we kept breaking. When our first team came down from our home church—our friends, faces we knew and loved—I remember the sheer panic I felt as they boarded the plane to leave. Please, take me with you. Don’t leave me behind. When our friends left, I experienced a whole new level of stripping. Not things, but people I loved. And I felt very alone.

One day, a man came from the states. I don’t even remember his name or why he was there. But I remember him. I stood with him at the ranch while activity whirled around us. A team was digging a trench. They were laughing despite the dirt and grime and heat. The man told me about a ministry he was involved in back home. He said the old-timers would sit around the fire and talk about the good ole times. The inception. The beginning. The glory days. The days that were rough and hard and took everything from you. He said how he wished he could have been a part of the stories, of the life when it all began.

Then the man turned and looked at me and said, “Someday, you’ll be sitting around a fire talking about the ranch. Because, right now, right here … these are the glory days.”

You know what? He was right.

But sometimes we can’t see it in the moment. Sometimes, we just feel the loss. We feel like we don’t have a choice. That things are happening around us we have no control of. And every day something else is taken from us. But often we can’t see from where we’re standing. We don’t know what’s just around the corner.

And what we think is a stripping away … is actually a new beginning.

Photo by Danielle Macinne (Unsplash)

A PAIR OF DUCKS- And how we find higher ground.

Photo by Christian Bowen on Unsplash

When we came off the mission field after ten years on the ranch, our debrief coaches handed us two plastic ducks. The kind you had in the bathtub as a kid. These “pair of ducks,” they explained, represented both the good and the bad of our experience on the field. There were parts we loved—launching a ministry, meeting a new culture and new people, freedom to dream. And parts we hated—unending demands, new rules we didn’t understand, less comforts.

But both were a part of it. Both the good and the bad. And both were a part of life.

A “pair of ducks”—A paradox. 

That’s what life is.

We run and hide. We fear. We question. We become angry with the system, angry at each other. And then we don’t. Then we find peace. And joy. And we rest in the blessings around us—the extra time with our kids. The new cadence and rhythm of our lives.

After the mission field, we lived in a 900 square foot house with seven people and one bathroom. In the frustrating craziness of that, we reminded ourselves that someday we would look back on that house with gratitude. We would see it as just what we needed in that moment—just the thing God knew we needed. And that the solitude would bring a measure of joy. A dose of healing. And a portion of rest. But it was hard to see when we were fighting for the bathroom or sleeping with the laundry spinning next to the bed. Or when we questioned why we were there and worried about what our future held.

So yes, a few years later, we see it much differently. But why couldn’t we see it then. Why couldn’t we see that house, the solitude shut away from the world for just a moment, as the haven it would become. Our chance to stop and breathe deeply for a while. Just a little while. To take it all in.

That’s how life rolls. That’s the paradox. That in the midst of the storm, there is something beautiful brewing. A new respect for one another. A new quietness in our souls. A new trust in our Lord.

And it’s not so much that we ignore the bad and focus on the good, but that in both, we find the higher ground. The greater purpose. We open our eyes to see the depth of both the shadows and the highlights. Because the full revelation requires both.

The question is, how will we look back on this moment? What will we see? And how can we find that now, not later?

The house on Cullen Street became a sanctuary when we bathed it in gratitude. When our shortcomings were laid bare before a good, good father. When we trusted all that He had for his children even when it looked scary and unpredictable. When we took a blind step, knowing He held us up. When we put on our spirit eyes and knew it went beyond what we thought we saw in front of us.

When we trusted. And allowed ourselves to grow and deepen with both pair of ducks in hand.

IN THROUGH THE DOOR - How our Medical Families are Coping with Covid-19

Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash

I asked my high school students this week to share how the Corona Virus is affecting them. No school. More downtime. Extra projects. Those are some of the answers I got. One student, however, whose mother is a nurse in the local hospital, gave us a glimpse of the added stresses on a family in the medical field. Here’s an excerpt of her journal shared with permission:

This has been affecting me more than I thought it would. I’m not so much stressed about the disease itself, but it’s bringing a lot of stress on my family. First of all, my mom is taking care of a lot of Corona patients, so she’s working overtime and often comes home crying, sleep-deprived, and exhausted. She works the night shift, and all the doctors she works with are high-risk and can’t go into the rooms to evaluate the Corona patients, so she does. They don’t have enough tests or beds. Someone stole their proper masks, so she doesn’t have the right protection for her job. When she comes home all the boys go to their rooms, and I help her discretely undress before coming inside. While she showers, I wash her scrubs. Then I sanitize everything she’s touched, including the entire laundry room before the boys are allowed to come out of their rooms. My dad is working 14-hour days from home, plus doing night school. And my mom is either working or sleeping, so I have taken over a lot of the general responsibilities, like grocery shopping for my family and for my grandparents who live 20 minutes away but can’t leave the house. I help my grandma too with her 16 medications like my mom normally does. And I am cooking meals for my family and cleaning. My life has totally stopped. My mom’s job has added a lot of stress to our whole family. She says that it’s almost definite that she will end up with Corona, and probably we will too because of exposure to her.

Let’s remember to pray for our families serving sacrificially during this time. Those who are going above and beyond to help others at the risk of themselves and even their own families.

Thank you, nurses, doctors, and medical staff. Thank you, teenagers who are shouldering more than you ever thought you would or could in this time. Our hearts go out to you. And we are grateful!

From the Desk of CS Lewis ... on fear and dying.

This is an excerpt from Steve Laube’s blog:

I want to thank Matt Smethurst for posting the following on his blog for the Gospel Coalition last Thursday (you can find the original here). He found a brilliant selection of words from C.S. Lewis that apply to us 72 years after they were first published. Just substitute the words “atomic bomb” with the word “coronavirus.”

In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. “How are we to live in an atomic age?” I am tempted to reply: “Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.”

In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways. We had, indeed, one very great advantage over our ancestors—anesthetics; but we have that still. It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty.

This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things—praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.

— “On Living in an Atomic Age” (1948) in Present Concerns: Journalistic Essays

The Road Less Traveled- And How We Find It

The road less traveled was the ranch road. Four miles of washboard sand through the high desert. No signs. The landmark— the first possible right after the last convenience store. Then drive toward the mountain, fork right at the cattle-crossing, and keep going until you hit the dry river bed.

The day we found it, we dragged our five kids in our 15-passenger van looking for the place we knew God had called us to. An abandoned homestead donated for the purpose of being used for God’s glory. Not all of us were sure it was the place we were supposed to be. But some of us knew deep down.

We couldn’t reach the end of the road. Our van wouldn’t make it down the worn embankment that had become more of a trail than a road. So, we all got out and decided to go by foot. Down the rocky slope, we found the river bed. White-washed sand, hot from the cloudless sky. Rocky outcroppings. Sparse, thorny vegetation waiting for the twice-a-year rainfall. The occasional palm whose roots ran deep enough to find life.

And from that place, we saw the roof. Rusted tin. Just peeking over the bramble hedge. That was it. We knew it instantly. We had found the ranch.    

A chain-linked fence defined its boundary—an attempt to keep some goats in and any stragglers out. But the goats no longer existed. No one knew their fate. The fruit trees were gone too. Burned years ago after the wells dried up. An earthquake had shifted the stone foundation beneath the land and the flow of water had ceased. The springs shut down. The land had died. Until another quake only a handful of years earlier had reopened the ground and the water began again.

See, I am doing a new thing. Do you not perceive it? Now it springs up. I am making rivers in the desert, streams in the wasteland, to bring drink to my people … my chosen people that they may praise my name (Isaiah 43:18-21).

We had to climb the fence. All seven of us. Our youngest child, three years old. Our oldest, twelve. But we made it. And we walked around the broken land. Mostly dirt and rock. A few palm trees. Dry heat like your grandmother’s oven. Silt that kicked up and covered our clothes. One block structure—only one— with windows of bars and broken glass. We cut our hands on a tree named Uñas del Gato or The Cat’s Nails and were stung by a nest of yellow jackets. We realized then that everything in the desert either bites or stings. And we should probably go home.

Instead, we sat down on the cracked cement steps that would soon be our home. The place our children would grow up. Our baby of three would be twelve the day we would leave. We didn’t know that then. Or the ministry God had in store. That it would touch thousands of lives because on that day, we said yes. We looked around at the emptiness. The abandonment. The brokenness. And my husband prayed, “God, please tell me if this is you. If you are leading us here—to this place. For surely without you, we will die.”

And God answered: Yes, Peter. This is Me. And everything you need is right here. 

Everything we need. Right there. Really, God? Cause it doesn’t look like that from here. It doesn’t feel like that from here. How could that be? No running water. No electricity. No resources. Just the seven of us … and the sting of the desert. Yet, it was. Because that’s what God does. He invites us to share in the miracles He is about to do. He took that abandoned piece of land in the middle of nowhere and made it a beacon on a hill that shone bright in the lowliest of places. And still does.

Ashes to Gold.

And I’ve come to realize that whether it’s land, or people, the truth remains. He takes the farthest, most out of reach places on the earth—and those in our own soul. He takes the brokenness and the grime. The thirst and the hunger. Even the bites and the stings. The lonely. The empty. The lost. He takes it all and shines His glory through it … if we let Him.  

See, I am doing a new thing? Do you not perceive it? Now it springs up.

And everything you need is right there. Right where you are. Today. Who would have guessed from where you’re standing now how it would all unfold?

Look for it. Search for it. And then say yes.

The reality is, it’s already waiting to be birthed in you.

Merry Christmas 2019

From our family to yours!

photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

I didn’t realize there would be a “read on” at the bottom of the post and that maybe someone would click it and there would be nothing more to read. Like opening an empty box. Sort of a let down. Not that you probably care about a newsletter so much. In fact, the shorter, the better.

But, if you did click “read on”, you’re probably a dear friend. Someone who has touched our lives in a significant way, and even in the busyness of the holiday season, relationships mean more. We are blessed by you and could never travel this journey alone. Merry Christmas to you, dear friend!

Here are some super quick highlights for our family …

Peter’s ministry R-HUB (Recovery-Hub) has launched this year. He is bubbling with passion and vision. The Lord is raising up an army. Visit us at www.recovery-hub.org.

Cher just finished her second novel. Edits are in process. You can read the first chapter here.

Meagan and Arthur celebrated their first year of marriage AND Arthur received his GREEN CARD this week!

Sam flew to Colorado two months ago to record his first song set! He continues to lead worship at Grace Bible Chapel with richness and vitality!

Maddie is back from NY and will launch her grooming business here in NJ. Look for updates if you have a dog… she is an amazing groomer!

Zach is finishing his last year of high school and will graduate in June! Amazing to see what the Lord will do with this gifted and funny young man!

Noah is an amazing athlete and continues to push himself to the limits. He and Zach are the comic relief for our family. Check out my Instagram for many hilarious moments!

Merry Christmas from our family to yours! May you walk with Jesus more closely in 2020 then ever before!

LOVE YOU! THE GATTOS

Thin Blankets

Photo by Daiga Ellaby on Unsplash

Autumn for me is no longer a time of dying.

No longer thin blankets on a cold night.

Or the last embers of a forgotten fire.

It’s no longer good-byes or letting go.

Because fall is not bringing on the cold of winter.

It’s not banishing the last kiss of warmth.

Or merely shrinking days and darkening mornings.

No. It is the rest before new life.

The necessary pause to recreate and restore.

The repose before the coming spring.

It is the shaking off of the old to put on the garment of joy once more.

So wrap tightly in the old, weary blanket.

The thin place between you and heaven.

Trace the final leaf that releases its grip and floats to the earth.

And breathe.

For the awakening is close.

Cher Gatto

Saturated

photo by Nathan Cowley

The beaches in Mexico are out of this world. White sand, clear water. And empty as far as the eye can see. For eight years we lived sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez, our lifeline to survive the desert heat.

Every few days, when the work had devoured our energy, and the stress had cluttered our minds, we would pack a cooler and head to the beach. The kids would snorkel for Sergeant Majors and search the rocks for hermit crabs. I would stretch out in my chair under the umbrella and read my next novel. My husband, Peter, would get in the water and never leave.

You think, Imagine that. How awesome it would be. Only a short drive from one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. I would love that. And you would be right … at least in the beginning.

Somewhere, along the line, the beach began to meld into routine. It lost its glimmer and took on the form of a task. Another thing to be done. It became effort and boredom. A burden in the end. And no one wanted to go, except Peter. He hung on until he found himself going alone.

A beautiful thing became saturated in our world. We lost the eyes to see it.

I am amazed at how well our senses become dulled from overuse. This is a good thing, in some instances, to avoid sensory overload.

The cold water becomes tolerable.

The unpleasant odor dissipates.

The yelling becomes background noise.

But it’s not always good.

Our favorite song becomes obnoxious.

The food we loved, tasteless.

 We no longer recognize the beauty in our hands.

The day forgets its joy.

And life loses its contentment.

All from saturation.

Did you see that sunset? Yeah, I’ve seen it a thousand times.

 Again, I am no theologian. But, I wonder if that’s what Jesus meant when he said, “You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?” (Matthew 5:13)

This is a challenge, especially for the one who’s been a Christian a long time. The stories get old and lose their spark. And time spent in scripture becomes a chore. A task. A burden.

 We stop hearing God’s voice.

 But, one day, we went to the beach. My husband had found a new cove where the kids could jump off the rocks into the water. Same beach. New discovery. For hours they jumped, and laughed, and played. Before we were home, they asked if we could go again the next day. They had found the treasure. It was always there. They just hadn’t seen it.

Today, I opened my Bible and read, “I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” (Isaiah 49:16). I’ve been a Christian my whole life. I never read that. The idea that I am engraved on the palm of God’s hand is beyond comprehension. And suddenly, I am swept away into the magnificent reality of God’s love for me. It’s life changing. And I want more. I want to go back and discover the treasures hidden there.

Why did my husband never tire of the beach? Because he never lost sight of its glory.

May you find the beauty of the new hiding in the normal of today.

The Stray

Photo by fancycrave.com

If you were a stray in my childhood, I collected you and brought you home. I wrapped you in cloth, found out what food you ate, fed you—by eyedropper sometimes, made you a shoe box with tissue paper nest, put your box by my pillow, and stroked your fur or feathers until you calmed and slept. Baby mice, baby birds, baby rabbits. Anything lost or abandoned or too weak to survive on its own. I had a place for you in my house and in my heart.  

I thought of myself as an animal Mother Theresa. And I imagined if I lived in Calcutta, I would do the same with people.

My husband jokes that he was the final stray I brought home.

When we moved to Mexico, I carried my love for animals with me. Many days out on the desert ranch, I helped village children learn compassion and gentleness toward the animals they came in contact with. This wasn’t always an easy task because the outlook on animals is different there. For the most part, they provide a means to an end—food, protection, transportation. Very rarely are they coddled or adopted as a pet, especially in the villages. The people often struggle with feeding their own family, let alone a dog or cat. And without funds for spaying and neutering, the homeless population grows exponentially.

Extremes exist on both ends. Both cultures—whether we neglect or pamper. This isn’t about that. This is about what happens to a heart turned cold.

Many nights on the ranch, we cooked our meals outside, in the open air. We built fires and sat around them enjoying food, rest, and good stories from the day. Smells travel far on desert wind, and we often had uninvited guests on these nights. Strays looking for their next meal, their next comfort.

A few of those homeless dogs who found their way to the ranch we adopted and took them into our pack. But we had trouble with them eventually as they never fully lost their street sense. On occasion, they would attack the farmer’s livestock and damage our relationships with our neighbors. So, we stopped taking them in.

Our own dogs, two German Shepherds, helped with border control. We never trained them, they just lived off our cues. When a stray dog came onto the property, our dogs would determine how to respond by our actions. If we welcomed the animal, they would too. If we yelled to scare them off, the chase would ensue. Most often, the strays high-tailed it off the property. Our dogs would stop at the fence line and then return to the fire, a job well done.

When the work day began next morning, we’d shore up our fences and tighten our barrier against further intrusion.

One day, however, things went all wrong. I can still see the dog without effort, even years later. His image embedded in my thoughts. Rooted there to remind me of something eternal. The dog was a tan and black terrier cross, with desperate eyes. He came onto the property slowly. Slinking from the fence line, closer and closer to the warmth and smells and laughter of the circled fire.

When he got too close, I stood. My dogs came to attention. And when I yelled, “Yaah, get out of here!”, our dogs took up the chase. But the visitor did not run like most. Instead, he cowered. Curled himself in a ball while the large shepherds barked and nipped at him. He growled and nipped back, but would not be moved.

I stepped closer and reached down for a stone. The people taught us that if you are afraid of a street dog, just pretend to pick up a stone and they will run off. They know stones.

When I faked the motion, the intruder ran a few paces toward the fence, then crumpled again in the dirt.

“Get out of here,” I yelled with little response, except to rile my own dogs more.

In one final effort to be free of the trespasser, I launched the rock in my hand. Never had I had such precision in my aim or even considered the consequence of my actions. The stone found its mark and the crouched dog let out a yelp. A bitter cry from a heart of despair.

I froze in place. Dropped my arms and cried for the choice I had made. Maybe you think it’s no big deal, or you empathize with my heartache. Either way, think about the questions I considered …

What am I doing? How—how in heaven’s name—did I get here? And when did throwing rocks become justified in my mind?

I called my dogs off and approached the intruder. He remained huddled on the ground, but barred his teeth expecting the hurt to continue. But he didn’t move. Because when you have nothing left, how do you give up on the only string of hope you have?

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Then I gave him something to eat, and he never came back. But I haven’t forgotten him.

The outcast. The exiled. The unclean. Pushed to the borders and left to starve—physically, emotionally, spiritually. And we wonder why they huddle in the streets and on the corners. Why they curse and snarl, and sometimes steal. We wonder how they got there, and how we came to the place of shutting them out. Or even throwing the stone in our hand. How?

I was not who I imagined myself to be.

Why do you enter my gate when I don’t want you here? Why do you refuse to leave when you make me so uncomfortable? I have nothing for you.

Ah, but I do.

I have a shoe-box and a cloth. I have tissue paper and an eye dropper. I have a gentle hand to heal your wounds and a smile to calm your fears. And I have the One to give you—one much better at loving you than I am.

The one who removes stones from hands and hearts.

And in Him, friend—when I come to the end of my meager offering—you’ll find your hope.

I Don't Like People

Image by David Clarke

Some days, I don’t like people very much. Not just the mean kind. Not only the thieves who break into my house or my car, but those who break into my time. Who steal my energy, my focus. Those who ask me to step out of my world, put down my program, and pay attention to them at just the wrong time. Even those who want to do life together when I don’t want to. When I want to do it alone.

You can imagine choosing life as a missionary would disrupt this plan. Open someone up for the deluge of “other.” And Mexican parking lots are a great place for life lessons.  

Walk with me through the build-up.

I leave home on my way to the grocery store. Five children in tow. I usually send my husband for these trips, since I’m not comfortable still with all I need to learn in another culture. At the gas station, a young man pumps my gas. He finishes and waits for a tip. This is how he makes pocket change to survive. I’m on board. I dig through my cup holder and come up with a good amount of pesos. He is grateful and tucks away the change. At the first intersection, the light is red. While I wait, someone fire-breathes in front of my car. A slightly talented performance with the added risk of swallowing gasoline all day. When he approaches my car, I dig for some more change and drop it in his hand. He needs to eat too. At the next intersection, I get another red light. Someone washes my windshield (even though I said, no thanks). But they’re working, right? A few more pesos. I arrive at the grocery store, and someone attempts to direct me into a space in a wide-open parking lot. That’s insulting because I’ve been driving for over 30 years and certainly know how to park a car. He’s not a store employee even. Just some guy with a whistle. When I pretend not to see him, he curses me out for taking the space he suggested and not paying him for it.

Inside the store, I drag my five kids up and down the tight aisles. I buy what looks like the food I’m used to. At the check-out counter someone bags my groceries and waits for another handful of change. I dig through my purse to give her the rest of my pesos.

Meanwhile, I’m still agitated over the guy in the parking lot. I haven’t totally let it go. I don’t like being cursed at by strangers. And little by little, my annoyance meter has risen. My kids are tired and hungry and sick of being stared at for being different. I’m feeling a bit used and abused with all the hand-outs. Especially the entitled ones. I’m hot and ruffled and my generosity has tanked. I pity the poor soul who asks me for one more thing.

And here he comes.

An oversized teenager offers to help me with my cart before I can take two steps from the cashier. He’s got a hand on the metal basket already blocking my forward progress. I politely decline, but he follows me out the door. He looks both ways and guides my cart across the drive. As he shuffles next to us, I say, “Thank you for your help, but I’m fine. I have my own children to help me. Please, I don’t need you to walk me to my car and unload my groceries. Have a nice day.”

My Spanish is okay. I think he understands, but he follows me anyway. My kids cast wary glances, as if this over-assertive person could be a danger. When I get to the car and open my trunk, he reaches for a bag.

“Really, I’m okay. We can do this. I don’t need your help. Thanks anyway.”

Please, just go away!

Of course, I don’t say that. I just feel it. It crawls under my skin and into my bones.

With all the composure I have left, I corral the kids into the car, grab a dollar from my wallet and stand by the trunk to wait for the teen to finish unloading my groceries. And to make sure he doesn’t walk off with anything.

He is meticulous. Conscientious. Too absorbed in perfecting the task than any teenager I know. He lines the bags up perfectly—all part of the tip gauge. A job well-done surely demands a higher wage. I just want to chuck in my own groceries, slam the trunk, and be out of there.

When he’s done, he closes the trunk softly and smiles.

When I attempt to hand him the dollar, he waves it off.

“No, please,” I say. “Take it.”

He waves it off again and shakes his head, no.

I offer once more, because now I have to live with my attitude.

He says good-bye, and walks away.

And as I climb in my car, the rear view mirror reflects the depravity in my soul.

How often do I misjudge someone right in front of me? I tag him with motivations and intentions that I take the freedom to make up. If someone cuts me off, he’s a jerk. If I cut someone off, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. My motive is pure. My intentions, certainly wholesome.

On the flip side, how often do I serve expecting nothing in return? Absolutely nothing. Not only expecting nothing, but accepting nothing. When that something could also be the very thing I needed most.

I heard a message soon after that moment by John Maxwell. It broke my heart and stayed with me until this day. He said something like, “Every morning when I wake up I ask the Lord to help me bring value to each person He puts in my life. And when I lay down at night, a think about how well I accomplished it.”

John Maxwell understood something so profound. That his job, his goal, his motivation for the day was not for himself. It was not for A, B and C. Not for the task or the outcome. But for the people. And miraculously, if I take the focus off me (i.e., I need to speak well, write well, perform with excellence) and put it on them … how, O Lord, can I serve them—value them—today, the pressures and stress of my day vanish like vapor. Because it’s not about me trying hard to be something I’m not. And every new day, every new moment becomes an opportunity to place value—the highest value—on God’s most treasured creation.

 And I find that I actually like people … a lot.

For me, the message came from a teenage boy who broke all odds. A kid who, though he had little, demanded nothing. A kid who served, just to serve.

A kid who changed my heart.

an audience of one

They say that when we speak, or preach, or write, we should focus on just one person in the crowd. Maybe a loved one. Maybe a friend. Or maybe all the faces need to blur into one so that no one person becomes clear.

I wrote my first book almost in a closet. A back room in the middle of the desert. I wrote it because I needed to, and I wrote it for my eyes only. My fingers flew over the keys as I outran the demons of depravity and chased a dream. I cringed at the first encouragement to let it go, and I never imagined it would land in the hands of hundreds of people.

Now I sit at my desk, half way through my current novel. As I write I am haunted by voices. What will this person think about my words? Is this too raw? Too dark? Can I soften this reality so it doesn’t make someone flinch? And all of a sudden, I am writing to every face, every friend and acquaintance, every stranger who I have now given a measuring stick to. Who now somehow has an input on my value, my worth as a writer. And deeper, my worth as a person.

I have a rank now. I didn’t before. But now I am ranked against 8 million people. It changes every day. When the number soars, I relish in it. But when it drops, I think, how can I improve? How can I keep the plate spinning and the numbers climbing? How can I please everyone around me? Everyone, all at once.

Why? I ask myself that. Where does the fear come from and why does it creep in to stifle my creativity? Silence my voice? How can it stumble my footing and steal my joy to just write? Write for those who matter most.

Today, my friend texted me. She had started on another book after reading mine. She said, “In this one, the main character loses his faith, so much so that he rejects God. At the end he finds his faith again and one line was like ‘even when I didn’t want a father He was still there.’ I feel like I’m seeing Billy everywhere! And that’s how I’ve felt since finishing your book... stirred, awakened... Instead of searching for God all the time, I feel like I can finally “see” Him, and I finally know that He’s loved me all along.”

Her words sank deep. What more could I ever want. A million reviews. A Best-Seller Banner. No not that. Even an outpouring of accolades will only pale in comparison.

Because whatever I have, whatever scanty fishes and loaves I can pull out, become LIFE in His hands. Not in mine. All I have to do is let go. Stop worrying about the outcome or the voices or the measuring stick. It doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t depend on me. I can’t do what Jesus can do no matter how hard I strive.

I can write, but I can never transform. I can speak, but I can’t change lives. Something else happens. Something soul-deep. Eternity-flooded. A Father’s arms wraps around deep wounds. And the healing begins.

Only He can do that.

Only in His hands will my meager portion feed thousands.

And my audience becomes one.