After a fourteen-month break and a gracious God willing, I’m about to duck my head back under a stack of books and commentaries and drain a heap of ink cartridges dry as I peck, type, and tap my fingernails on my desk toward another Bible study. When I was 30 years old, the thought of the first one never occurred to me. After that one was finished and originally placed on a shelf, I didn’t imagine a second one.

It’s not that writing had never crossed my mind. I’ve been obsessed with the feel of a pencil sliding across a page since my earliest memories. My young childhood years were spent on a hill in Arkadelphia, Arkansas in a small house splitting at the seams with eight people and tickled in the ribs by pine needles. I must have swung a thousand miles on the stuffed burlap bag my dad hung by a rope from an oak’s flexing bicep. I’d twist the rope as tightly as I could then hop on the bag and twirl around in dizzying circles with my head reared back, rope unwinding, and hair flying. And life has gone by pretty much like that ever since.

Because my maternal grandmother lived with us, my mom wasn’t obliged to stuff all of us kids in the station wagon every time she went to the grocery store. On occasion, however, I’d beg to go with her and she’d let me. There was a little gray plastic horse with a red saddle and loose brown rein that I’d befriended at the auspicious entrance to the Piggly Wiggly. Most of the time, I’d stay perched right there on his rigid back until the checker dug herself out from under an avalanche of groceries, can by can. A child was safer to let go of her mother’s skirt in those days. While she was inside fetching buttermilk, pork ‘n beans, and light bread, I was outside hugging that plastic horse so fiercely that sometimes flecks of chipped paint would stick to my arms and legs until my next scrubbing.  That would occur the next Saturday night.

We, of course, were forced to bathe or shower every day and we often did so two by two, rather like a reverse Noah’s Ark. The youngest of five girls in the house, I might get thrown in with anyone from six years old to seventy-five. A disembodied voice would yell, Can I throw Bethy in there? Then the next thing I knew, a hand would appear ex nihilo and snatch me through the heavy veil. But there was a fearsome thing in our household called “the Saturday bath.” You didn’t come out of that one unscathed.

What skin you had left when it was over was usually exfoliated by the brisk drying off. It was something akin to the flaps in a car wash. The other six days a week I don’t even recall dry-before-dressed being a top priority but, come Saturday night, cleaning was a near killing. The water, however, was only phase one of the ritual. We girls then sat in a row at my mother’s feet while she pin-curled our hair so tight our eyes would turn to slits. All this was so that we’d look fancy for church the next morning. She also pin curled Nanny’s hair and had done so for years. That Nanny only had about 73 hairs left on her whole head was no wonder to me. I often pictured waking up on Sunday morning, crawling out of bed, and the pin curls remaining right there on the pillowcase completely intact, broken off at the roots.

Years passed before I realized that the horse outside the Piggly Wiggly would have rocked back and forth for the better part of a minute if somebody rolled a nickel into it. My mom could still laugh herself into a coughing fit about that very thing till the year she died. That old stiff beast wasn’t my only motivation anyway. I also hitched a ride for the Big Chief Tablet. If my four siblings and I hadn’t frazzled Mom down to her last nerve and pitched her into an absolutely not, I could usually harass one out of her with incessant incantations of pretty-pretty-please. There could also be measurable success if we kids had managed to break her will.  You had to play it just right since she was like most moms. Sometimes you didn’t know if it was resignation or rage until you were decidedly sorry you’d asked.  However I attained it, as soon as I had that tablet in hand and back home on the hill, I’d snatch a pencil from the kitchen drawer, sharpen it, and scribble for hours until every single line was filled on every last page.

Five and six years old, I wrote fastidiously in my own brand of cursive. Mind you, I hardly knew how to spell a word with basic print, let alone write in cursive but how could any literature be taken seriously in disjointed characters? So, I made up my own script, big on curlicues, loop de loops, ocean waves and dolphin fins. This was not the stuff of Christian books penned with a fury there in the dark red shadow of the Big Chief. My books were more inclined toward elementary romance novels. They involved characters like Little Joe Cartwright on Bonanza and probably me, and Barbie’s dark-plastic-brown-headed Ken and probably me, and a host of doll babies or trolls and probably me. I would stare off into space a little while, mutter and ponder, then throw my head down dramatically and scribble for all I was worth.

Writing came easier back then.

As I grew up, my interests widened. I loved English and social studies and student government. I eventually got my undergraduate degree in political science with thoughts of going on to law school and threw in a teacher’s certificate to boot but, with any musing time at all, I still scribbled and doodled on every bare inch of paper. My official writing days were now long behind me, leaving soirees with Big Chiefs in a smattering of dust. I’m not sure when it first hit me that I might write a Christian book but, even then, those pages were scribbled out of a romance – the most enduring one I’ve ever had – and not without copious curlicues and loop de loops.

I’ve never mastered writing. I read the works of others and say with much admiration, now that’s a real writer.  But this many excursions in, I am no longer naïve about what these many months ahead are going to take. So, I’m steadying myself, taking a deep breath, and whispering underneath it, “Well, here we go again” and all with that inseparable mixture of stomach-churning dread and it’s-great-to-be-back hope. This is what I love. And this is what I sometimes hate. Well, that’s not true. Hate is too strong a word but on occasion it does occur to me that there are work-lives that could be substantially less stressful and less dependent on an endless list of variables like mood, atmosphere, weather, relative-quietness-versus-too-much-quietness where you can hear the clock ticking louder and louder until it sounds like an ear-splitting gong in a torture chamber. Under most circumstances, you need just the right inspiration for just the right amount of time, not to mention exactly enough pain to stir up some passion but not so much that you consider killing yourself. Or at least seriously.  And that’s another thing. You have to read and reread any whimsical sentence you write for fear that someone will take what you said too seriously and pass a kidney stone over it.

Writing can be a hard, grueling profession. It has moments of beauty, mystery, and emotion so strong that you can’t see the screen but, nipping at their very heels are harassing fears that you might not have another. That you’ve started a book you can’t finish. And worse yet, you told someone you’re writing a book and now it appears that the devil could die of frostbite before you can construct another intelligible sentence.

I feel this strange sensation of dread and hope every time I start to write something of any length but only in the last few journeys have I thought intently about you.  About you new writers, you lovers of words, stirred of heart and mind to lasso your swirling thoughts onto a page, let them be still, and wonder if anyone on earth will care to actually read them. And, if they do, will they ridicule them? I think of you now because of the groundswell of obstacles that have emerged out of a giant social earthquake. A dazzling mountain range has jumped in the path between the first word of every decent book and its last. Its lung-searing climb, its slippery summit, and harrowing descent are woefully beyond the muscle of the weak-willed.

Many of you are young enough to know no other writing world but this one. Others of us have been around long enough to recognize the glaring climate changes. A dyed-in-the-wool sanguine, I feed off a social frenzy with all the patience of a crackhead just like other people-persons do. I love it. I crave it. I’m just saying it’s next to impossible to actually eek out a decent book in the batting eye of it.  Long-term writing has always been difficult but these present winds, they are a-blowin’, and those of us who insist on keeping every window wide open will have our pens whipped into knots and our floors swept by swooshes of blank pages.

Because one thing will never change.

A decent piece of writing demands concentration.

It’s hard – not impossible but hard – to bring it to completion with a semblance of originality and, Lord, help us, anointing amid the constant cacophony. Amid unhindered choruses of…

Oh, for a thousand texts to ping.

Or

There’s a tweet, tweet spirit in this place.

Others are more qualified to speak to this than I. Obviously, I’m just putting off the first sentence of a project with one last rabbit-chase. I have no great word on lasting penmanship in a frenetic climate. My take on the subject comes from my own subjective experience and perspective. For that handful of you who have hung on this long, however, I’m going to throw a few things on the counter that I have learned along the way (true to frustrating form, the hard way). This is why: because I believe in you young writers and in you not-so-young-but-new writers. I see great men and women of God out there with things to say that need to be documented into a format with a shelf life longer than an iPhone upgrade. So, here goes.

Writing a book will be harder than you think and take longer than you want.

You very often will lose passion for the project somewhere in the middle of it and even sprint mentally in a mad blaze toward a new direction and new title. Expect it. It’s completely normal and, on occasion, projects really do need to be abandoned. Maybe God’s just not in it. Maybe it was better off as a blog post or a thought-worthy entry on Tumblr. Maybe we didn’t think it through and mistook it for a long-term project. It just wasn’t the right direction. We miss it sometimes. But, more often, the maddening ebb is part of the writing process that you must work and pray and cry and press through until the fire returns because, if you don’t? Well, if you don’t, you will start fifteen books and finish none of them. And, if you do, your blaze for the project will often boomerang with a satisfaction that plunges all the deeper because you fought the demon and won. In the immutable words of Hebrews 10:36, you need to persevere.

You have to factor in more than writing time. Decent writing requires much more time than it takes to actually type the sentences. Decent writing requires thinking and spinning and mulling and living and watching and listening and experiencing and reaching. These bring the strokes to the page that turn the transfer of information into true connection.

Limitless opportunities have come with the global blast of information and communication. What believer couldn’t entertain the notion that God may have foreordained all this access for the purpose of Gospel wall-leaping? It’s a gorgeous thing. But omnipresence is a burden only God can bear. Insisting on being ten places at once for twenty hours a day for weeks on end will ultimately make aloneness almost intolerable. Thankfully, that doesn’t mean we’ll never hear from God since He can well reveal Himself in corporate contexts. It just means that we will less likely sense what He’s trying to communicate to us personally and use us to communicate to someone else. The Biblical art of meditating can turn a parched cistern into a fountainhead.

I meditate on all You have done; I ponder the work of Your hands. I stretch out my hands to You; my soul thirsts for You like a parched land. Psalm 143:5-6

Turn to the psalmists and trace with your fingertips the times they talk about meditating on God and His precepts, His ways, His acts, and the human condition with and without Him.  Study the contexts. See the results. The loss of such an art may be gradual but make no mistake. It will also be incalculable.

The NIV translates Jesus’ words in John 12:49 in terms that stand up on the page like a pop-up book for any believer hoping to communicate.

For I did not speak of my own accord, but the Father who sent me commanded me what to say and how to say it.

Only Jesus is capable of speaking solely what the Father has commanded but a concept dripping from it like honey is enough to wet the tongue of the driest human mouth: Communicating is not only about what to say. It’s about how to say it.

That takes pondering. And pondering takes time. The word “Godspeed” may be the most overlooked oxymoron in the English language. He rarely does. Speed, I mean.

Panic only exacerbates inevitable waves of writer’s block. I don’t care how elementary and predictable this piece of advice is going to sound. When it happens – and it will – get up from your desk, down on the floor, tell God your struggle and pray for Him to move you past the block. Then, as you get up from the floor, thank Him for His kindness and mercy and complete dependability. The block may pass right away. It may not pass until the next day. Or week. Or month. But, if the project is from God, the boulder will most definitely tumble from the path and, when it does, you’ll know who kicked it. Appropriately, God wants us to credit Him with every victory. Hasten to it.

Do the work. Study. Prepare. Don’t have all of your research done by someone else. The discovery itself is often the gift.

God will most often take the message we’re writing and prove us genuine by hammering the themes relentlessly on the anvil of our souls. Does it say anything that I had to type the word “anvil” very slowly to keep from writing “advil”?  Knowing how much time to allow on the manuscript due-date for a holy hammering is hard to navigate but, whenever it’s finished, it will be ten times the untested version. Oh, I know, I know. We all hope we’ve already lived the process in advance which is why we feel qualified to speak to it in book form but, from my experience, that’s a sweet dream.  If we sow to our flesh we’ll reap the flesh. Only if we go to the extra trouble to sow to the Spirit will we reap something of authentic, eternal spiritual value.

Submit to the angst of decent editing. That means we have to let our works and ourselves be critiqued. Criticized. Questioned. Challenged. A good editor can be a solid gold pain in the neck that we oughtn’t to want to trade for all the e-book space in the universe. Think of all we’ve gotten in trouble for saying, then think of all we could have said. Lord, help me. An editorial cut can sometimes swerve you right out of the path of a flatbed trailer full of fertilizer. If we don’t trust our editor enough to give us some pretty solid advice, we really do need to seek a new one. Some statements are well worth fighting for and it can come down to finding a different way to say them. Other times authors might get their way with an editorial disclaimer we shouldn’t take lightly: “Ok, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” A number of statements along the way have been worth some controversy to me but some of the things that have hurled me into the hottest water weren’t even important to me. Many words, much folly.

Perfectionism will snuff the flame. Period. Give it up. It’s cheating us out of hearing your genuine voice.

These are a few reasons why we may never read books by some of the greatest writers on the planet. Some are too narcissistic to take the criticism, too undisciplined to see it through the dry spells, or too committed to greatness to settle for publishing something good.

For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works. We don’t have to strive for fabulous. Purely doing some good can be really great.

Just one more.

Don’t just think twice before you sign a multi-book contract. Think fifty times. Resist it at all costs (see below) unless God writes a go across the sky. As tempting as the sight may be, God may not spell go like this:

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

 
God can lead His children any way He pleases. You could flourish under conditions that I find crushing. But, for me, there’s nothing like the pressure to write that leaves me with fewer things to say. God is all-powerful, compassionate, mysterious, and sometimes almost humorous. He freely admits to the enjoyment of showing the wise foolish and the foolish wise. He can do anything He wants any way He wants but, as a general rule, holy passion is a better guide than human pressure. It is dangerous to sign contracts for unwritten books. And taking money for them can burn a hole right through the lining of your stomach.

So. I guess I’ve put off the process long enough and will go get to it. Maybe all this rambling was just a reminder to me. Thanks for giving me the space to hash it out.

 

Ecclesiastes 12:12 says, Of making many books there is no end.

 

And I – more reader than writer – for one am glad.

Write on, sister or brother. Don’t wait for a publisher or a book deal. A true writer has to write even with no one to read. Scribble down rogue phrases and incomplete sentences as they come whether or not they seem strung together. Write on the backs of sales receipts or the palm of your other hand. Just write! That book is in there somewhere.

If it seems slow, wait for it. (Habakkuk 2:3)

And when it comes, may God speak.

 

 

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Ladies! I think a Friday afternoon deserves a celebration. We’ve almost made it through the entire work week! Woo hoo! We can see the light at the end of the tunnel. This is always the hardest part of the giveaway because we’d love to gift all 3,911 of you, but alas, we cannot, which I guess is what makes a giveaway so fun. With that said, join me in celebrating our SIX beloved winners for this fabulous giveaway. Believe me when I say we here at the office are coveting each of the gifts and almost threw a fit when we realized we couldn’t enter the giveaway ourselves. We love fun stuff like this just as much as you do!

So, without further ado, congratulations to…

Grand Prize Winner: Cara Koski

Second Prize Winner: Ansley DuRant

Gift number 3: Victoria Gelberg

Gift number 4: Kim Tipton

Gift number 5: Anne Dailey

Gift number 6: Leslie Wood

If y’all would please email me (Lindsee) at [email protected] with your mailing address we willl get these prizes to you ASAP. We love y’all so very, very much. Thanks for playing along. Hope you each have a beautiful, fall weekend!

 

 

 

DEAR SIESTAS! THE MERE THOUGHT OF YOU IS MAKING ME GO ALL-CAPSY.

It has been FOREVER and then some but I have been thinking about you. I know I haven’t been in this here blog-space much recently but I can assure you that I’m still at LPM. My days are full since I’m working and going to school part-time. AGAIN. Yes, again. Somehow even when I vow to walk away for good, I end up right back in the classroom in some capacity. This time around I’m working slowly on a M.A. in Biblical Languages at Houston Baptist University. When I’m not researching something for a project at LPM, I’m taking a Greek class in the Septuagint and a Hebrew readings class in the Joseph narrative. Oh, and how could I forget to mention Winston Jeffrey Fitzpatrick?! A little over a year ago Colin brought home a baby rottweiler and our life has never been the same since (even when I desperately want it to be!). Winnie is SO, SO bad but we love him madly.

Here is W posing in my dining room. Or demanding a filet mignon cooked over medium, I’m not really sure.

Here he is again furious about having to wear his birthday hat:

But really, enough about us.

I want to talk about YOU and a fall giveaway we are doing because we love you and appreciate you.

Now, I should mention at this point that if you are one of those people who is SO OVER all the talk about pumpkin-flavored anything, then you will want to run for your life.

RUN FOR YOUR LIFE.

Do I have a faithful fall remnant?

This weekend we had our first legit “cold-front” here in Houston. It was even down in the forties one night. Glory be! The crisp cold air in my lungs got to me in the best way possible and, of all things, I wanted to cook. There’s just something about fall that always brings me back to the kitchen. Nothing better than listening to a little Norah Jones or The Civil Wars with the windows cracked open, cool breeze dancing through the house, while a chili or stew simmers on the stove. I thought just maybe fall might do the same for some of you so the grand prize winner will get a red Le Creuset signature round dutch oven (red not orange like the one on the box).

I love it passionately and do not want to let it go. I even enjoy posing with the beloved dutch oven:

The second prize to be claimed is a $100 gift card to Pottery Barn because, let’s be honest, Pottery Barn during the fall season is heaven on earth:

Gift number 3 includes an amazing decorative pillow, fall flower arrangement, and Hill Country Home candle.

Gift number 4 includes a fun little clutch from Anthro, a scarf, several pairs of boot socks, and some gorgeous MAC makeup in fallish colors.

Here is Lindsee modeling the scarf. Love her and she can work a scarf better than anyone I know:

This MAC stuff is tough to photograph but fantastic (includes three eye shadow kits and two lipsticks in shades of Russian Red and Viva Glam III).

Gift number 5 has a bunch of fun stuff: Cook’s Illustrated Fall Entertaining magazine, kitchen towels, mulling spices, Hill Country Home candle (again this is one of my faves!), autumn cupcake decorating set, beautiful engraved silver dish, Trader Joe’s Pumpkin bread mix, and more.

Gift number 6 comes with a fun autumn welcome mat, potpourri, decorative kitchen towel, and my favorite ever mulled apple cider candle. DIVINE.

Here is Mom sorting out all the gifts. Isn’t she cute?

So dear friend, for a chance to win one of the six prizes, please leave a comment with your first and last name and tell us something you love about fall.

We love you so much,

Melissa

(Lindsee not pictured here ONLY because she was out of the office when we snapped this photo)

 

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Good morning, Siestas! I realize this post is a day early, however, as we said yesterday we have a really fun giveaway planned for you ladies so we’re doing a little flip flop around here. So instead, be looking for that not-so-secretive, exciting giveaway post tomorrow morning! Does it feel a little bit like Christmas Eve to you now? You know something fun is coming in the morning, but it’s still a mystery to you today. I love it!

Did y’all know that this weekend’s conference is the last LPL of the year? With all of the sobering storms that have swirled around in the Eastern part of the U.S. I have a feeling that the Lord wants to do something only He can do this weekend.

With that said, we have 20 scholarship tickets to give away thanks to the Siesta Scholarship Fund. If you have a desire to attend, but financially just cannot afford it at this time, please call our office toll free at 1.888.700.1999 during regular business hours (8:30 – 4:30 CST) and ask for Kimberly Meyer. If you happen to reach us while we’re at lunch, leave a message and Kimberly will get back to you.

We sure love y’all. Happy Wednesday!

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*For those of you who missed the livestream, you can watch it here. Be blessed, y’all.

Hey, beloved sisters! We had such a fun post for you today to celebrate Autumn but Melissa, Lindsee, and I agree that today is not the day. With all the chaos people are enduring over the storm, let’s get together for a half hour of prayer today instead. I know it’s last minute but we don’t have to have a mighty throng to be heard. All we need is a mighty all-glorious God inclining His ear to hear because we intercede in His Son’s powerful Name. If you can join, we’ll meet with you at 11:15 AM on the dot, CST. I love you guys!

Click this link to join us in praying.

*Important: We will remove the password on our livestream channel ten minutes prior to going live at 11:15. If you try to log in early, don’t be turned away by the password as we will take care of it after we’ve tested out our channel. 

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A Video Devo on the Deceptive Heart from LPV on Vimeo.

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At work I share an office with one of my co-workers, Jenn. Jenn is one of the sweetest, most genuine, kind, compassionate, Jesus-loving women you’ll ever meet. I instantly clicked and fell in love with her. Because she has three little one’s vying for her undivided attention, I only get to see her every now and then, especially when we’re not in Bible study season.

The other day she was at the office de-cluttering her desk when she found a stack of papers piled up in her drawer about an event LPM had put on about eight years or so ago called “Tell Me How”. That specific event was for college aged girls ages 18 – 25.

Just about eight years ago, I was 19 and attended that event. It was my sophomore year of college and I remember that being a really pivotal time in my walk with the Lord and I was all ears. I wanted to soak up any and all wisdom I could from gain from these wise ladies because after all, I was a sophomore in college, and what in the world did I want to do with my life? I was desperate to know how to not royally mess it up, my life that is. Little did I know, and nor would I have ever dreamed, that almost a decade later I’d be serving alongside these sweet ladies. That was a really neat thought for me.

Sometimes life brings you to a full circle moment and that was one of them.

I told Jenn that I attended that conference and that to this day I still refer back to those notes. I think it was fun for both of us to walk down memory lane because we were both able to see fruit from that conference, almost ten years later.

The keynote speakers were our very own Siesta Mama, Beth, Priscilla Shirer and Christy Nockels, who not only led worship, but also taught a session. I clearly knew who Beth and Christy were at the time (we’re obviously on a first name basis), but it was my first introduction to Priscilla, whom from then on, I fell in love with. Her teaching was so powerful, she was hilarious and her passion was contagious.

The three of them each took a main session, there were breakouts to attend throughout the weekend and then at the very end, the three of them did a Q&A session with us. This was by far my favorite part of the weekend. It is amazing to me the rawness and vulnerability people express when asking a question anonymously. (They wrote in questions.) Questions ranged from Christy’s lipstick color (which was a MAC color and made my heart happy) to things I’d be too embarrassed to even mention on here.

I know I’m only 27 and have years ahead of me to mess up, but I didn’t want to be, and still don’t want to be, just a statistic.

One girl geared her question specifically to Christy asking her how she gets to do what she does? For those of you who don’t know, Christy Nockels is not only gifted, but an extremely anointed worship leader. She serves the Lord with such grace and humility. This girl in particular had felt called to be in ministry similar to Christy’s and wanted some guidance. I totally understand that.

Like always, Christy was so gracious and had such wise words to share along with words of encouragement.

I was glued to her as she shared her journey with us. Not that I felt called to that particular area of ministry, but we’re all called to something and I so badly wanted to know how to know what I was called to and how to pursue that calling.

She said one thing at the end that is forever etched on my heart.

“Bloom where you’re planted.”

Serve where you are. Do the mundane thing. It may be mundane to you, but it’s certainly not mundane to God. Even if it’s something you don’t enjoy at the moment, rest assured, you probably will not be doing it the rest of your life. Be faithful in the little things. Be faithful in general. Stay committed.

If you told me in high school that I’d be working in ministry one day, I would have laughed in your face. Not because I disliked church and not because I didn’t love Jesus. I loved each of those things, but my heart was always drawn to teaching. As in, decorate my own second grade classroom kind of teaching. I was the little girl that grew up playing school.

However, during my senior year of high school the Lord really started stirring up different passions in my heart personally. I wasn’t sure what it all meant or what would come of it, but instead of sitting on it, I sought counsel and leadership from some older and much wiser ladies about what was going on to hopefully makes some sense of all the Lord been birthing in me.

Hindsight is always 20/20 so what I know now is that the Lord was clearly shifting my desires. Aren’t you so thankful for His leadership? And the fact that He knows what’s best for us? And for people in your life who can speak truth and life into you? And for His Word that is a lamp unto our feet? I could go on and on.

That year I actually applied for an internship with a traveling girl’s ministry and I was turned down. I was heartbroken, but knew that if the Lord had truly placed these desires to work with girls in my heart, he’d be faithful and guide me to serve in other ways. Although he shut that door, I decided to press on instead of give up and bail out doubting everything I was feeling. But I also trusted that the Lord would change my desires if I wasn’t called to that specific area of service.

My freshman year of college I stayed home and attended a community college here. During that year, I helped lead a small group of freshman girls. It was a good taste of teenage drama, yet I loved them so much.

When I went off to college that next year, I immediately got involved in a Christian sorority, Sigma Phi Lambda and through the next three years served as chaplain, rush captain and little things here and there. Do you see how the Lord threw me into girl’s ministry long before I made it my actual career?

As graduation neared, the desire to work in ministry exploded. I don’t think I talked about it a lot because it kind of scared me. After all, I went to school to learn how to be a teacher, not how to lead or speak to teenage girls. Or work in a church. That was a totally different ballgame.

But God is faithful and his grace is perfect. He opened doors in ministry that I never pursued on my own. I really struggled at that time with deciding whether to pursue teaching full time or take on the ministry position at church as the Girl’s Ministry Director. But how could I not take this ministry position when my heart was really there? When I look back I see how he really prepared me for this exchange of career paths. It is a beautiful thing.

Had I tried on my own, I can honestly tell you that I wouldn’t be doing what I am doing today. The Lord planted a seed in me years ago with a heart for young women, and I simply watered it along the way, again, by His still small leading, His still small voice. I tried my hardest to do what I felt He called me to do for that season and honestly, that’s all I still know to do.

It’s one thing to be passionate about something and walk out that passion, it’s another thing to think you’ve arrived. What does that really mean anyway? We won’t arrive until we reach Heaven’s gates. That’s our goal after all, is it not?

I don’t know what’s next for me or for you. But I can say with confidence and with experience that God is faithful. If He’s been faithful in the past, we can be sure that He’ll most certainly be faithful in the present and future. However, we must humbly throw ourselves under his hand. Under His leadership.

Trust the desires he’s given you. But check to make sure they’re desires that exalt Christ and not yourself. I could be really off saying this, but I’m not sure he’ll grant us selfish desires that steal his glory. He won’t waste His glory on us. Selfish idols and desires are things that rarely get his blessing, if ever.

How many times does he say in the Psalms that He satisfies our desires with good things. These are the desires that are rooted in what pleases and exalts Him. (Psalm 103:5, Psalm 145:16)

Bloom where you’re planted. And no matter what, don’t ever quit serving, dear sister.

“Don’t bother your head with braggarts 
or wish you could succeed like the wicked. In no time they’ll shrivel like grass clippings
 and wilt like cut flowers in the sun. Get insurance with God and do a good deed, settle down and stick to your last.
 Keep company with God,
 get in on the best. Open up before God, keep nothing back; he’ll do whatever needs to be done:
He’ll validate your life in the clear light of day
 and stamp you with approval at high noon. Quiet down before God, be prayerful before him.
 Don’t bother with those who climb the ladder,
 who elbow their way to the top.” Psalm 37:1-7 (The Message)

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Good morning, y’all! Here is the Long Beach LPL recap video for those of you that were able to attend and for those of you that enjoy watching to get a little taste of what the Lord did. I happen to be in the latter category. Grin. If you were there, we’d love to hear how the Lord spoke to you. Enjoy, friends!

Living Proof Live Long Beach 2012 from David Lowe on Vimeo.

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Good morning, y’all! I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve actually gotten on here and said hello, but thankfully, our sweet Siesta Mama has kept you all busy. But, today I come to you with more of  a business item rather than pleasure. At least it’s fun business!

This post is becoming so routine that these days we have people calling weeks in advance for scholarship tickets. Thanks to our Siesta Scholarship fund it is our great joy to get to do this, but I just wanted to graciously remind you that these tickets are truly for those that honestly don’t have a dime to spare but so desire to attend the conference. Please know y’all are really so good about this, but a friendly reminder here and there doesn’t hurt and it really helps out our Kimberly when she’s answering phones and explaining what these tickets are about!

So, with that said, we DO have 20 scholarship tickets for this weekends Living Proof Live in Long Beach. If you qualify, please call our office toll free at 1.888.700.1999 during regular business hours (8:30 – 4:30 CST) and ask for Kimberly Meyer. If you happen to reach us while we’re at lunch, leave a message and Kimberly will get back to you.

We love y’all so much. As always, prayers for Beth and the team are appreciated. They head out today and are thrilled to see you all! Have a great Thursday!

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I won’t publish this post until Monday morning but I’m writing it to you a little after 6:00 PM on Sunday evening. I’m only giving myself a little while to finish it so that I won’t awaken tomorrow morning wanting to whisper, woe is me, it’s work, work, work. Blah, blah, blah. Work martyrs are fake martyrs. They don’t count. They’re too self-important. It dawned on me about 2 years ago that no one was making me work nonstop but me so why, then, did I want to find somebody to blame for driving this skeleton like a shovel into quicksand? Anyway, I want to dance with my grandchildren at their weddings.

So, wonders never cease, some things in my life actually changed for a change but that’s another story for another time.  I like work. That’s the biggest issue. I love it even. But the body makes certain demands that are harder to ignore in more, how shall I say, seasoned years. That there is not always energy to spare after decades of flying high on fumes has been a glorious, unsolicited gift to me and one that came as a shock after major surgery and a serious cancer threat. I have savored what I do – researching, studying, serving – and what God has placed around me – many friends and fellow sojourners – and what I get to experience in my 4-generation family so much more in an ever-so-slightly less revved up gear.

For instance, I’m more apt to let time suspend for a few seconds and count the steps it takes for Annabeth to run to me from the car with a smile stretched from sea to shining sea. And I make notes – at least mental and sometimes actual handwritten – of the statements that cause the most prominent lisps with Jackson’s three missing front teeth. Friday night I had to purely look away at the dinner table when he said, “Did my mommy show you the pictures of the two postcards they sent?” Show-pictures-postcards-sent. Perfect. I tried to act like I was reflecting with my elbow on the table and my chin on my fist while I steeled myself to answer, “No, but she told me about them. I want to see them!” (It was everything I could do not to ask him to please repeat the question.) Amanda and I laughed later until we nearly had to kick our legs for relief.

I thank God for lessons only time can adequately teach and for still leaving room for airplanes, short nights, hikes, books, Bible dictionaries, and bikes. And still a fair amount of revving up. I’m not sure I could bear revlessness.

My man’s been gone for the day so it was all mine for the taking. I had a reflective, worshipful morning at church despite four shots of coffee strong enough to cleanse the sinuses and shear the throat like a spring sheep. (Remind me to get Jackson to read that sentence later.) I sat next to my firstborn on the front row and received a word about forgiveness from a pastor I greatly respect and took the Bread and the Cup with a depth of seriousness that made them feel especially healing to me. Maybe even filling. I was touched in my soul when I saw the elements on the edge of the stage in the chapel, just waiting to be served. I had not known we were to receive them but I had hoped. Right at the Clay Road exit on Beltway 8 as I was nearing our church that morning, a few lines turned in my head. I jotted them down in the parking lot.

O Glorious Lord’s Day

Our souls to awake

Saints to be gathered

Awash in glad grace

Called to the table

Jesus the Head

Partake, all you ransomed ones

By love come be fed.

I love church. What a harbor it has been to me through the years. I love the Table. I love its Head. My life would be a black hole without Christ and the communion of saints.

I drove my nearly 40 minutes home from church, fired up the stove and heated up Keith’s homemade chicken soup from yesterday – perfect for our first bona fide autumn day in Houston, Texas – and I ate a blistering bowlful by a wide-open book. Satisfied and sleepy, I heaved myself into the king-size hammock my coworkers gave me last year and held on tight till it quit swinging. It takes about 3 minutes. I read a little more, laughed, sighed, reflected. This is said hammock. I clipped this particular shot the day before.

Then, after a cup of tea, I pulled on my rubber boots to pay up on that promise of a walk I’d made to Queen Esther who’d nearly knocked me out of the hammock earlier, book sent flying, with her obsessive compulsion for closeness.

I was only about three minutes into our usual walk in the country when I said to the air what I’ve said to Keith one hundred times. “This is my favorite spot on this walk.” So I pulled out my iPhone to take a picture of it for at least the 15th time. I’m not exaggerating. I take the same exact shot over and over. Then I looked at it, blew out my lips in frustration and said again to the air, “I can never get this picture to turn out as fabulous as this really is.”

Then I looked at it again. And that’s when I realized for the very first time that the reason why I can never fully capture the beauty of it is because it’s really not all that spectacular. Quaintly pretty, yes. To us nature lovers anyway. Maybe a four. Maybe just a three.

But, it’s not what high-dollar sightseers would throw hand to chest over, bracing for visually-induced coronary thrombosis, exclaiming Breathtaking! Stunning! Well, I never!

No, now, THIS is the kind of thing you clutch your heart over:

I took that picture from a Delta airplane window exactly two years ago just before landing in that valley for a couple of days. I’m not sure there is a place more beautiful than Jackson Hole, Wyoming in the pioneered universe. Not to me anyway. But somehow when I’m there I can never get past the sight of it. I always plan to do my most creative writing there but I rarely do. Somehow, when nothing is left to my imagination, well, then…nothing is left to my imagination. It’s all filled up. And that’s that.

That’s the revelation I got today. The reason I can’t capture the beauty in these crude woods on camera is because it’s a beauty felt more than seen. It doesn’t scream anything. It won’t interrupt you while you’re talking. It doesn’t beg anyone to pen or paint it.

Simple things tend to have more manners. They won’t say a word if you don’t let them. If we don’t shut up, they will. But it will be our loss.

The beauty in the threadbare. The beauty in the unswept scenes that refuse to finish everything out for you. Or think for you. They leave the spiderwebs to walk into and the realistic fear of a snake slithering by. They leave you to have to kick the dried-up mud off your boots when you get home and to run the water hose over your slobbering dog. And, while you’re at them, they won’t leave you so speechless you can’t answer the phone in your back pocket. Go right ahead if you want to. And sometimes you’ll be glad you did. But other times, you might just get that sense that you walked and talked right past something special, if only vaguely special in a world overwrought with specialties.

The chance not only to see beauty.

But to feel it.

May God grant us this day a whisper of His beauty that sweeps right past our vision and dives deeply like a stream into our world-parched souls.

 

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