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A glance at my watch told me it was only ten o’clock in the morning, but the perspiration trickling between my shoulder blades told me that the temperature was already approaching 90. They told us we were lucky: it had been 115 degrees in Martin, South Dakota, just the week before. Perched atop the little white church, the sun radiated off the asphalt shingles, and I was pretty sure I knew what 115 degrees felt like. My daughter and I spent the week in Martin on a YouthWorks mission trip. The little town in western South Dakota, bordering a Native American reservation, struggled with alcoholism, unemployment, and racial tensions. Each week, 60–70 volunteers rolled into the local high school armed with water bottles, paintbrushes, and prayers. We were slated to spend two days painting and two days helping out with a children’s program at the city park. I was on my first mission trip and came to change their world. Was I Making a Difference At All? I guess I had come with visions of transforming weather-beaten homes in the housing projects into American suburbia—maybe they’d let me put in a white picket fence. Rather, here I was at this little white church. It actually looked pretty good. I mean, really good. The crew from the week before had already scraped and primed and had made quite a bit of progress with the first coat of white paint. My task was to climb up onto the entryway and finish the peak. From below, with the sun shining off it just right, you could see where the shiny new white paint ended and the dull primer started. Once I climbed onto the entryway roof, however, it was nearly impossible to see what needed to be done.   I started at the peak and moved down, trying to be somewhat systematic so I could remember where I had already been. I stroked, wiped the sweat out of my eyes, stroked, wished I had remembered my water bottle, stroked. Wait, had I already done this section? What about that eave? It looked pretty white—but was it shiny white or primer white? Oh, I’d just do it anyway. A second coat wouldn’t hurt. I stroked, swatted at a fly, stroked, blinked as a paint drip narrowly missed my squinting eyes, stroked. Was this what I had signed up for? Was I making a difference at all? Resolution Reset   I crawled down off the roof, getting scratched by an overgrown evergreen bush on my way down. It was time for lunch. As I pulled out my soggy sandwich, I made a mental note to myself not to put fresh tomatoes on a sandwich that you prepare four hours before it will be eaten. The pastor and his family lived in a little house next to the little white church. His wife came out to visit with us as we ate our sack lunches. She seemed genuinely grateful for our help. In visiting with her, I learned that she had grown up as a missionary’s daughter and ended up marrying a pastor. Although she wasn’t in the jungles of Africa or smuggling Bibles into China, she too had chosen to be a missionary. She and her husband adopted a family of five Native American children, allowing them to stay together after they were taken from a mother who struggled with alcohol. Instead of choosing American suburbia, she chose to live in a little house next to a little white church in a town where life wasn’t always easy . . . and make a difference in the lives of five kids.   Lunch break was over, and I headed back up the ladder. It was even hotter than before, and I still couldn’t tell the difference between where I had been and where I needed to go. Somehow it seemed better, though. Just think what a fresh coat of paint would mean during the next hard rain (did it ever rain in this hot, dry town?). The driving snow of the next South Dakota blizzard wouldn’t find its way up and under the siding, only to melt and rot out the wood. I stroked, smiled at the stories of the girls from Michigan painting the east side, stroked, laughed at the youngest boy playing with his dog, and stroked. At the end of the day, my little bucket of white paint was empty once again, and that little white church was looking fine, if I did say so myself. Painting with Hot Pink   The next day, we returned to the same place. Our next project was to tackle an old barn/garage on the back corner of the lot. It had once been dark green, but now the bare wood was exposed in as many places as there was old paint. We were to paint it a creamy beige with a pretty salmon trim. With my first strokes of the day, my spirits lifted. Now, this is what I came to do! Each brush stroke brought about a miraculous transformation. The dark, dingy surface was brightening up. We made up a crew of nine, more than half of whom were teenage girls. Like bees to honey, we swarmed about the exterior—some on ladders, some painting trim. It was kind of amazing, the amount of work that could be done in such a short amount of time. There was a lot more laughing that day, and even some singing! Though we could not finish the entire project, by the end of the day, we stood back and looked at our accomplishments with immense satisfaction.   It was an emotion-filled week. Hard work was interspersed by devotions, praise songs, and heart-wrenching testimonials. I had come there wanting to change their world; instead, they had changed mine. I’m not sure when it occurred to me, but it became clear that witnessing is a lot like using white paint. Sometimes you can see where you have spread your faith, but many times you cannot.   On Christian radio, you always hear stories where an evangelist sits down next to a troubled young woman on an airplane. In the two hours it takes to get from Minneapolis to Seattle, she has shared her life story, he has shared the entire message of the gospel, she bursts into tears, and her life is transformed. Talk about painting with hot pink! Or maybe it’s still white paint. Against the darkness of a soul without the light of Jesus, a little bit of hope makes a remarkable difference. Ready with Roller - God Picks the Color   As much as I would love to make such a difference, I’d never seen that amazing transformation. I found myself wondering the same question I asked up on the roof of the little white church: Was I making a difference at all?   Thinking back on my own walk in the Christian faith, I recognized a point on that path where I was a lot like the little white church. I had a good coat of primer: I had always been taken to church and Sunday school and had been baptized and confirmed. And there was a pretty good start on my coat of white paint: we started attending church more regularly again once the kids reached Sunday school age. But like the little church, there were still spots where a good wind could drive the snow up under the siding. My beliefs were not all convictions, and rather than black or white, wrong or right, many issues were just varying shades of gray. I needed more white paint.   There was a mechanic who played a Christian radio station in his shop, the same one who didn’t even charge me a dime to find out my car’s issue was only loose spark plugs. I’m sure he’ll never know that I now listen to that station daily—white paint. There was the friend that suggested a Christian book series that centered on pioneer life. I thought I was reading  Little House on the Prairie  books for big people. White paint. Then there’s my mother. She carries a five-gallon pail of white paint. Whether she knows it or not, her faith spills over to all who know her—white paint.   I know I still have spots where the paint is thin, and, like the little white church, the paint will chip and peel without upkeep. For that reason, God places Christians among Christians with their little buckets of white paint to touch up where needed. No glaring transformations, just reassurance when faith is shaken, peace when times get tough, and hope when there seems no reason for it.   So now I pray for patience, for acceptance that I may never see the fruits of my witness, to be satisfied with applying primer—letting someone else put on the finishing coats. I pray for a willing spirit to carry my little bucket of white paint and weatherproof those around me from the storms that life throws at them. But you know, I still hope I get to use hot pink paint someday!   “I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor. For we are co-workers in God’s service; you are God’s field, God’s building.”  1 Corinthians 3:6–9 NIV   “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’” Isaiah 6:8 NIV

It has become easier to see the breadcrumbs God lays out for me, and I eagerly pick them up now. But once I have picked them up, I find I still struggle to know exactly where the trail leads. It’s like breadcrumbs in the fog. There is this great excitement in hearing from God and seeing him move in some amazing way. But ahead lies a huge wall of fog, and I really have no idea what lies within it or beyond it. Maybe it’s better that way . . . maybe we are not meant to know. Maybe we would say no if we knew what lie ahead! But in the vacuum of not knowing, I find I have this tendency to prepare grand visions along the way. Unsatisfied with the breadcrumb alone, I build castles in the air. Elaborate plans of how God and I are going to save the world. I do believe that some of them are, at least in part, of God. But often, I run ahead, making my own plans, too impatient to wait on God. Looking back, I can see this definite pattern: The breadcrumb—clear signs and invitations from God . . . The grand vision I tend to create . . . Then walking on, past my grand vision, to the place God had intended for me in the first place. I have come to believe the breadcrumbs aren’t really even about work he wanted to do in the world—an event, a program, a ministry. More often, I believe, they are about the work he wanted to do in me. What happens in the world as a result of the transformation in me . . . well, that’s completely up to God. Reminiscing on Revelation So, as I sat in seclusion with God in this moment away from the world, I reflected back on the journey . . . God called me from a career in medical research to HorsePower. I was going to expand programs to help people with disabilities and start this horse ministry to help troubled youth. I would build grandiose facilities and develop a network of collaborations in the community. God showed me how to love people who were very different from me. How to hear his voice, and trust his provision. God opened my eyes to the lukewarm church . . . and to the Pharisee that lived within me. God called me to a Christian church camp. I was going to build a big barn and offer all kinds of programming, using horses to help everyone from the disabled, to churched youth, to troubled youth, to women from the jail and their families. God taught me to buck “the system,” to make room for him to show up and show off so that all could see his glory. He revealed once again, in an even bigger way, that he would provide. He continued to break my heart for what breaks his and provided so much textbook and real-life training on trauma and how it affects his children—even his grown children. He moved me from operating under the Law . . . to yielding to the Spirit. He was teaching me how to love . . . lavishly. God opened the doors to ministry with FaithSearch International. I was going to speak to large audiences at all the local churches and I planned elaborate conferences. God sent me into the jail and the behavioral health center where at times I ministered to just one or two people. God showed me the power of ministering in the moment, to whomever he called for that day. God helped me set planning aside and learn to trust the Holy Spirit. God gave me glimpses of true discipleship and the power of exponential multiplication like that of the early church. Not by any of my own doing . . . but by the power of the Spirit moving in me and through me. There was a brief season where I held many “jobs.” Looking back, I still don’t know if it was a necessary time of “tent-making,” or if it was my disobedience or lack of trust. But even in that season, God continued to teach me many things. My eyes were opened even further to the ways that business practices have encroached upon ministry, where faithful missionaries can be crippled by the expectations of boards and bosses. The allure of a well-paying job and a brief foray back into science, brought rise to some of the “old me” —faint whisperings of comfort from a steady salary, accolades from peers, power from position . . . but the taste was bitter in my mouth. Rather, he sent a promise of provision so I could pursue him more fully. God called me to Chrysalis. I was going to provide a place to live, a place to work, and a place to heal. I pursued million-dollar properties. Almost singlehandedly, I was going to save these women, “fixing” them and all their problems. There was a rise of the Pharisee and a resurgence of the Law. God brought me back to my knees. God walked me deeper into the darkness. My heart was broken even more . . . even as I realized my complete inadequacy to fix any of what he had revealed to me. Less is More Perhaps the scientist in me will never really go away because, in looking back, what I could clearly see was an inverse relationship, which can be defined this way: “An inverse relationship is one in which the value of one parameter tends to decrease as the value of the other parameter in the relationship increases.” Plotted on a graph, over time, there was a clear inverse correlation between God . . . and me. Along each step of that journey, God became greater, I became less. That’s biblical, I know. But rather than a lofty, theological concept, I now see it as this big X on a graph, with God’s line rising over time, even as my line goes steadily down. I don’t know exactly where I am on the graph. I know we are past the midpoint, where God has definitely become greater than me in my own eyes. I pray now that I will continue to surrender until I hit zero on the x-axis. That I am nothing, but for Christ in me. I find comfort that this tendency I struggle with is not unique to me. Oswald Chambers, a man after God’s own heart and writing over a century ago, said it like this: “We always have visions, before a thing is made real. When we realize that although the vision is real, it is not real in us, then is the time that Satan comes in with his temptations, and we are apt so say it is no use to go on. Instead of the vision becoming real, there has come the valley of humiliation. Life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And batter’d by the shocks of doom To shape and use. God gives us the vision, then He takes us down to the valley to batter us into the shape of the vision, and it is in the valley that so many of us faint and give way. Every vision will be made real if we will have patience. Think of the enormous leisure of God! He is never in a hurry. We are always in such a frantic hurry. In the light of the glory of the vision we go forth to do things, but the vision is not real in us yet; and God has to take us into the valley, and put us through fires and floods to batter us into shape, until we get to the place where He can trust us with the veritable reality. Ever since we had the vision God has been at work, getting us into the shape of the ideal, and over and over again we escape from His hand and try to batter ourselves into our own shape. The vision is not a castle in the air, but a vision of what God wants you to be. Let Him put you on His wheel and whirl you as He likes, and as sure as God is God and you are you, you will turn out exactly in accordance with the vision. Don’t lose heart in the process. If you have ever had the vision of God, you may try as you like to be satisfied on a lower level, but God will never let you.” Obedience is the End So, as I reflect on this breadcrumb trail that he has led me down, it begins to make more sense. God’s plan does look very different in the rearview mirror than it did when I started down any given stretch of the trail. I see now that the breadcrumbs were still clearly from God, but what I thought would happen in between the breadcrumbs was often different than what God did in between the breadcrumbs. And, again . . . his plan was always better than mine. To quote Oswald Chambers one more time . . . “What we call the process, God calls the end. . . . If we have a further end in view, we do not pay sufficient attention to the immediate present; if we realize that obedience is the end, then each moment as it comes is precious.” May I learn to live in obedience . . . and in the moment. Trusting God with the plan, and the outcome of my obedience. A willing servant. Here am I Lord. Send me. I think of the “fires and floods” of these past years and I find myself grateful, for I am different than I was. Far from perfect . . . but hopefully just a little more Christ-like, every day. In this chrysalis of God’s making, I am being transformed by the renewing of my mind. I am a new creation. The old is gone, the new has come. I have been born again! So, take heart, my dear Nicodemus. There is more. Start picking up breadcrumbs . . . and trust God in the fog! With love, Kaia “He must become greater; I must become less.” John 3:30 NIV “Obey me, and I will be your God and you will be my people. Walk in obedience to all I command you, that it may go well with you.” Jeremiah 7:23 NIV “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”” Isaiah 6:8 NIV “However, I consider my life worth nothing to me; my only aim is to finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me— the task of testifying to the good news of God’s grace.” Acts 20:24 NIV

Life was busy, and it was a crazy summer. Even though I still worked only part-time as a research scientist, work seemed to be trying to demand more and more of me. My husband was a landscape designer, and it was his busy season. The kids were getting involved in more and more activities—swim lessons, ball games, 4-H activities, camps. We still tried to fit in some fishing and camping and horseback riding. I was on the hamster wheel, running as fast as I could and yet not really getting anywhere! Looking back, I don’t know if it was a foretaste? A prelude? Or an invitation. But there were a couple things that happened that summer that set some wheels in motion. Glimpses of a Foreign World   In late spring, I had attended some scientific meetings in Florida. At the very last minute, an undergraduate student had found a way to attend but did not have a room. Another professor and I were already sharing a room, and we invited her to bunk up with us. Indeed, she ended up sharing my bed! (Turns out they didn’t let you set up a rollaway anymore—fire code or something.) So, here we were. Sharing a room. Sharing a bed. And, ultimately, spending a lot of time together and sharing quite a bit about ourselves.   It was a beginning to the education God had in store for me. Learning the things I didn’t know I didn’t know. A glimpse into a world that was foreign to me. Eye opening. She was a single mom with a nine-year-old girl. She was only about 24 herself. You can do the math. If I thought life was "hard" as a married mother of two, with an education, a good job, and a supportive family, I had another think coming. This young woman was juggling being a mom, working to provide for herself and her daughter, and going to school. There was no one else to tag at the end of the day and say, “Your turn, I’m taking a hot bath!” There was just her. She shared more. A story of poverty, abuse. My struggles dwindled and my gratitude swelled. Here was this young woman with so many challenges but still seeking more for herself and her daughter. So hopeful. Even joyful. I should quit complaining. Through the Eyes of a Child   Another thing I had learned was that her daughter loved horses. So, upon returning, we vowed to find a time to get her out to the farm for a ride. The day came—a beautiful, sunny day. They emerged from the tunnel of trees leading to our farm, and we welcomed them to our home. They were greeted by the menagerie that roamed freely about our acreage—a calf, a sheep, a goat, a goose . . . dogs and cats and chickens. They got to meet my husband and the kids. We walked to our two-story farmhouse for a snack and a refreshing drink. Finally, we made our way down to the barn, saddled up, and took a spin around the section. I don’t think the little girl ever stopped smiling! Even as they pulled out of the driveway, disappearing into the tunnel of trees, I could see her look back and wave . . . smiling ear to ear.   Shortly after, I received a letter in the mail. It was a thank you from my newfound friend. I don’t remember all that was in the letter, but I remember this: “When we were in the car, she looked at me all wide-eyed and said, ‘Wow, Mom, their family and their house and all their animals they have is like from a fairytale. It was like we drove into a fairytale for the afternoon!’”   It really gave me pause. So often, as I drove down our drive after work, I saw grass needing to be mowed, fences needing repair, paint chipping on the house. As that little girl emerged from that magical tunnel, she saw lush grass and beautiful trees, sleek horses leaning over the fence to be stroked, a beautiful home filled with love. Her life so far had been far from a fairy tale. I should quit complaining. So Much to Learn   Later that same summer, our pastor and his wife asked if we might be willing to host two girls for the weekend. The girls had been staying with the pastor’s family, but the family would be gone for the weekend, and they needed to find a place for the girls to stay. We quickly agreed. As we were finalizing plans for the weekend and getting our instructions, the pastor’s wife assured me that she had already told the girls they couldn’t smoke in our house. Couldn’t smoke in our house?! These girls were like 11 and 13! I couldn’t imagine kids smoking at that age. Another case of, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I had so much to learn. And learn, I did.   The girls were delightful. They were grateful to be at our home, and they were polite and respectful. On Saturday afternoon, we decided to go for a ride. This time, I trailered the horses to a nearby state park that had a beautiful trail system. As we meandered these trails, we chatted about many things—about their likes and dislikes, about school, about life. It was on these trails that my world was to be broadened once again. In the peace of the quiet trees, with no one else around, looking ahead at the trail not directly into their eyes—they began to share . . . It turns out their mother had left their father and was living in a homosexual relationship with another woman. The father had tried to kidnap their brother from their home. Now, their father was in jail and their mother was in the hospital for mental health issues. There was no one else to care for them. That’s how they came to stay at my pastor’s house. I wouldn’t have guessed the script. I couldn’t have even  imagined  the script! This was simply not a reality to me. These things didn’t happen in my world. But that didn’t mean they didn’t happen. A Foretaste or an Invitation?   I can remember our trip home—driving in the truck, pulling the horses behind. We were all hot and sweaty, a good sweaty with the faint smell of leather and horse. We were all quiet as the rig rolled over gentle hills and my mind processed their revelations. And then I said, “You know girls, you may not have had a lot of choice in many of the things that have happened to you. You can’t help what you are born into. But there are a lot of things you will have a choice in in the years to come. You can decide if you will study and work hard at school. You can decide who you will choose as friends and who you spend time with. You can decide if you will stay pure until marriage. You can feel sorry for yourself and your circumstances and stay stuck in this cycle, or you can make different choices. I am praying that you will be strong and make good choices. Your life could be different.”   I never saw any of those girls again. I don’t know if that one little point of contact in time made any difference in any of their lives. I  know  it made a difference in mine. I had gotten a glimpse of the world outside my picket fence. There was another reality out there that people were living through every day. Again, looking back, I don’t know if it was a foretaste? A prelude to what would come? Or if it was an invitation, right then and there, to step in and be a part of the difference. If it was an invite, I missed the party. I was too busy running on the hamster wheel.   "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world." James 1:27 NIV   "Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow."  Isaiah 1:17 NIV

Early in the season of waiting, shortly after leaving HorsePower and as I was still wondering what might come of the apparent call to the Christian camp, a friend mentioned an apologetics ministry that I should know about. Now, for those who are unfamiliar with the term, apologetics comes from the Greek word apologia . It is not  making apologies for our faith, but rather it is making a reasoned defense  for our faith. My friend had lived for some time up near the Twin Cities in Minnesota, where this apologetics ministry had been flourishing for nearly forty years.    While I knew it wouldn’t hurt to look into it, the Cities seemed a bit far for close collaborations—it was about a four-hour drive. I was busy with my volunteering, and perhaps a little deaf to his call.  In the end, I never did reach out to them. I walked right past that breadcrumb. Then, one day, my husband asked me to take his hearing aid in to be looked at. He said the volume knob was kind of poking out, and he hoped to have it fixed before it really broke.    When I took it in, they told me they could take a look at it right away, could I wait? I had time—after all, I was waiting —so   I took a seat in their lobby. On the coffee table in front of me lay a copy of our local newspaper. I never read the paper. But the front page was folded poorly and sort of propped up . . . with the front-page photo almost staring me in the face . . . with a headline that grabbed my attention:  Father’s Heroism Ends in Tragedy. I picked up the paper and started to read.   The photo was of the founder of that same apologetics ministry . . .  His son had drowned in a tragic accident as he attempted to save his own son from the currents along a rocky California coastline. While this man’s grandson was saved, his son was not. It was a tragedy indeed. I also learned from the story that in the years that had passed since my friend had met him, he had apparently moved to the Sioux Falls area—his house was only 16 miles from mine! Clearly, this was not the time to impose upon him, but I certainly took note. Seemed like God had wanted to make sure I knew.    I was noticing that—that if I missed one breadcrumb, he would often lay down another. It was ironic that I had been sitting in a place that sold and repaired hearing aids. Seems as though my husband wasn’t the only one who was hard of hearing! The other little piece of irony . . . there was nothing wrong with my husband’s hearing aid. That "volume knob" that was poking out was the stem that you used to pull the hearing aid out of your ear. My husband had had that hearing aid for years. I shouldn’t have even been in that store.   Turns out this man and his wife not only moved to my area, they attended my mom’s church and, after a time of grieving and healing, he was going to be doing a teaching series over the course of the summer. I decided to attend and introduce myself. I came to find out that he had been praying for a Timothy! Someone to pour into who may carry on his ministry as he moved towards retirement. The Siouxland Region was formalized not too much later, and we began to address how and where I would be doing my apologetics ministry.    This gentleman had been very successful in getting into churches and sharing with congregations and small groups, putting on conferences and the like. We decided to take a similar approach in the Siouxland Region and went about starting conversations with a number of local churches . . . without too much luck. With my experience in research and with a local hospital, we started a conversation about how to carry this message to some of the doctors and medical professionals in town . . . without too much luck. However, don’t ever sell God short. As I shared earlier, in this time of waiting, God had strategically placed me as a volunteer at my church and at a prayer ministry. It was in those appointed places that the doors flew open for me to carry this message—the gospel with evidence—into the county jail and the behavioral health center. The opportunities would grow to include the juvenile detention center, halfway houses, sober living homes and more. Isn’t it just like God, to find a way to reach the least and the lost?  To carry the light into the darkness . . .   “But they refused to pay attention; stubbornly they turned their backs and covered their ears.” Zechariah 7:11 NIV   “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” Psalm 43:19 NIV     “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” Matthew 25:40 NIV   “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.” Luke 19:10 NIV   “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:5 NIV

I can’t say how it started or when the journey began. It wasn’t sudden or abrupt. It was more like a sunrise—the light slowly spilling over the horizon, night gradually turning into day. And as my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to see . . . I was a modern-day Pharisee. Following the Rules . . . Not Jesus   I don't know if this gradual, drawn-out process was a merciful act from God—that he didn’t just rip the blinders off, or if it was reluctance or obstinance on my part—an unwillingness to see. But I am thankful for the dawning realization that, for far too long, I had been following the rules. Not Jesus.   If you find yourself to be anything like me, the biblical account of the Pharisees is one from which we could learn—particularly from one named Nicodemus, a very religious man who went in search of Jesus.   You see, in Jesus’ day, the Pharisees were an influential Jewish sect—the "churchy" people of their time. They were distinguished by their strict observance of traditional and written law. And while they had gathered much prestige and power, they also tended to be self-righteous, judgmental, and hypocritical. As descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, they had a rich heritage and were renowned as God’s chosen people. They took their godly heritage for granted and lorded it over others. They stressed the importance of ritual and tradition over love. And Jesus called them out on it. Whitewashed tombs, he called them. Beautiful on the outside but full of death on the inside. Missing the Messiah   Jesus was the antithesis of the politically connected, rich Pharisees—and his preaching threatened their position. Who was this carpenter’s son from the backwater of Galilee, with no rabbinical training or pedigree, who claimed to be the Messiah and challenged them ? Much of the persecution of Jesus and his followers would come at the hands of the Pharisees themselves—the ones who knew the Scriptures and the prophecies. They celebrated the Passover meal every year, which was rife with symbolism pointing to the coming of the Messiah. Yet, when he came, they knew him not.   In the three short years of Jesus’ ministry here on earth, he and his disciples caused quite a stir. There were many miracles—people were healed, and demons were cast out. Many began to follow Jesus. It was a revival. Jesus was restoring what God had originally intended. It wasn’t just about rules; it was about relationship. It was about truth shared in love . In Search of Jesus   Even as the Pharisees seemed determined to stop this man who threatened their comfortable existence, some were apparently curious. The Bible tells us of Nicodemus, the Pharisee who approached Jesus under the cover of darkness. Nicodemus was one of the most prominent Pharisees of the day. He was part of the Sanhedrin, the Jewish supreme council. He was very religious, and he was quite comfortable, but this man named Jesus had him wondering if perhaps there was more. Was he willing to give up his comfortable existence, go against his fellow Pharisees, and follow Jesus? We hear of Nicodemus two other times in Scripture. He stood up for Jesus as the Sanhedrin set out to arrest him, and he assisted Joseph of Arimathea with the burial of Jesus. While there is no written or recorded proclamation of faith, his actions and later church history indicate that he did become a follower.   And so it was with me. I had been very religious, an excellent church lady—faithfully attending, teaching Sunday school, singing in the choir, and serving at the coffee hour. I had checked all the boxes. Or so I had thought. Yet with my new foundation, set firmly on the word of God, came this dawning realization—where was the part about being the hands and feet of Christ? How was I helping the widows and the orphans? What about the lost and the least? Indeed, who was I helping? Who knew Christ because of me? I was beginning to realize there had to be more. I think I had let the comfortable existence of a "good life" lull me into complacency. Worse yet, I fear that I may have fallen into the same trap as the Pharisees, with a tendency to be self-righteous, judgmental, and hypocritical. I had retreated within the church walls and was pointing my finger rather than stepping out of the church and offering my hand. I had chosen legalism over love.   So—like Nicodemus—I went in search of Jesus. Piece by piece, I surrendered my heart more fully to him, receiving far more than I was ever asked to give. In exchange for my heart, I was blessed to experience him in ways I had never imagined. I could see God at work around me—and I was invited to join in! I was led to places I wouldn’t have dreamed of going, and I was getting to see hope restored, lives redeemed, and faith ignited. It hasn’t always been comfortable or easy, but I wouldn’t go back for anything! What Would God Do With Your Yes?   Where are you on your journey? Perhaps the sun is peeking over the horizon for you. Whether you are just beginning to consider a life with Christ or you are miles into your journey, perhaps—like Nicodemus—you have begun to wonder if there is more: more to this life, this faith, more to following Jesus. I hope that—like Nicodemus—you found yourself here today, reading this blog post because you are in search of more. As a recovering Pharisee myself, I can assure you that there is so much more! Don’t miss the Messiah, as the Pharisees did. Don’t miss the relationship with your Creator at the expense of religion. Come and ask questions. Come and seek answers. Come in search of more!   Through this series of blog posts, I will tell of my journey—my ongoing journey—from Pharisee to follower. From the murmurings in my conscience to radical steps of obedience, these stories will share the many ways that God—the living God—has transformed me by the renewing of my mind. Your story will look completely different, but surrender and obedience are common denominators. If you are willing to surrender your life to Jesus completely and receive him as your Savior and your Lord, you will discover what he will do with your yes. It may not be jail ministry or apologetics, but you will discover the joy of becoming a follower! I pray that as you read, God will open your ears to hear and your eyes to see, and may he open your very heart to receive him if you have not already, giving him every last piece of it if you have. May there be a new revival, at least in your soul. There is more.   With love, my dear Nicodemus, from your fellow Pharisee, Kaia   “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean.” Matthew 23:27 NIV “While Jesus was having dinner at Levi’s house, many tax collectors and sinners were eating with him and his disciples, for there were many who followed him.” Mark 2:15 NIV “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13 NIV “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.” John 3:3 NIV

This whole coronavirus thing . . . it is consuming people. They are baptized into the fear of COVID-19! We have put it on the throne. We give our time, attention, energy, resources—all to “the king” virus. It is probably no irony that it is a corona virus . . . corona means crown. Who will we crown as Lord in our life? Not just by flippant claims made on Easter Sunday, but by the way we live our lives. Whom shall we fear? Fear is not from the Lord. Where, oh death, is your victory? Where is your sting? I shall fear no evil, even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Our society is COMPLETELY being taken over by this thing that could take our life . . . our physical life. But the Bible tells us, “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell” (Matthew 10:28 NIV). I have found myself wondering . . . Is the goal to not die? Or is it to live? I wonder what God is thinking of us now. Even some of the strongest Christians in my life talk only of this virus—the deaths, the spread, the masks, the ventilators, the stories repeated on the news . . . where does our hope come from? We should look different! We should not look like the rest of the world. We can still be respectful and social distance and cover our mouths and wash our hands. But we should be thinking of and praising and lifting up our Lord MORE than we think or speak of this virus. In all of this, however, though I may be “right,” I’m afraid I have been looking less like Christ. Crabby, ornery, short-tempered. How do I stand up for God and still look like Christ? Hmmm . . . I am realizing how much I miss my ministry!!! I am no longer allowed to go into the jail, the behavioral health center, the halfway houses, the juvenile detention center. It used to be that I would find myself waiting for the weekend to end, where I am more “normal,” so that I could go back to my crazy walk with the lost and the broken. Most people find themselves “making it” through the week so they can recharge on the weekends. I find myself charging myself all week and, while I enjoy my weekends, I can’t wait to get back at it. This crazy coronavirus season gives me time to reflect on what I am missing. What is “charging me”? Is it God? He hasn’t gone anywhere! Is it my service? Who am I doing it for, anyway? Who am I trying to impress? Do I miss captive audiences (quite literally!) where I get to espouse my beliefs and convictions, largely unchallenged? While bits of these may be true, I do really believe what I miss is being with others who are consumed by God! People who, that’s all they want to talk about. People who are not comfortable. People who NEED God. People who have hope, in the worst of circumstances, because they KNOW God. Not just know of him, KNOW him. People who see him at work. People who put their trust in him. I am missing my mission field . . . what does it look like now? The whole world is consumed because of the fear of death . . . what if we were just as consumed by the Lord of life?! Are we, maybe, to fear the Lord? Scripture says that all the time . . . we have really softened it in our culture. The fact that we aren’t consumed by God is a reflection that we don’t really fear the death we should. It is not the death of this physical body we should be worried about. This life is just brief and momentary. There is eternity ahead of us . . . and that is a long time. What if, rather than coronavirus, all our thoughts were consumed by him? What if, rather than sitting in front of the TV hanging on the words of the president and the director of the CDC and scientists, we couldn’t wait to sit down and read scripture and hear from the Lord? What if, rather than every conversation turning back to talk of this virus, every conversation began to be about God? What if on the door of every business, rather than a reminder to wash our hands and practice social distancing, there was a reminder to pray and to love your neighbor? What if, rather than a worldwide pandemic (that will destroy our bodies), it was an awareness of our sin (that will destroy our soul) that moved us to worldwide action and unity? What if, rather than being hypervigilant of those around us as “germ carriers” we were just as aware of them and their brokenness and need? What if, rather than trying to keep at least six feet from people, we were just as worried about drawing them close and loving them well? So, how do I respond? How do I behave in these crazy times? I may be “right” and maybe we should all be focusing on God more. BUT, how do I let God be magnified on the altar of my life? I don’t think my short fuse and critical tone is magnifying God very well! If I was filled with the Holy Spirit, I wouldn’t be acting this way . . . A-ha! If I am watching the news and filling even my visits with godly friends with talk of the virus, I am no different. I have been filling with and focusing on the wrong king! If I am not getting to go do my ministry and pour out the love of Christ and witness the transformations, my fuel is running low. My ministry in this time may be to remind others of this. To point people back to Christ. To not allow it to consume us. To find people who will talk about GOD, not the coronavirus. I look like the fruits of the flesh listed in Galations 5 rather than the fruits of the Spirit. I need more Jesus! I need to ( continuously ) be filled with the Holy Spirit! “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.” Matthew 10:28 NIV “You shall have no other gods before me.” Exodus 20:3 NIV “Dear children, keep yourselves from idols.” 1 John 5:21 NIV “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable— if anything is excellent or praiseworthy —think about such things.” Philippians 4:8 NIV

It was a small group at the women’s jail, only four of them. While I used to count my success by the numbers who attended, I have come to cherish the more intimate small groups. It’s often when we can dig a little deeper. Little did I know that today, this group would be willing to go real deep. To share with such honesty and raw vulnerability that I was left once again acutely aware of how brightly the light shines in the darkness. It started with their simple question, “What verses tell us about how we can find hope?” By the end of the hour, I knew why they so desperately needed an answer to that question.   By God’s providence, we had "stumbled" upon a verse in Romans in the group just the hour before. It was about hope, and so I knew where we would at least start. However, the passage shares a difficult message. Difficult enough in privileged and blessed Christian homes . . . more challenging by far in the light of what these women had faced. Romans 5:3-4 shares that “ . . . we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”  I went on to say how God could use even these hard times in their lives to shape them into something useful for his kingdom; that through these trials he was building their perseverance and character and that, in time, he could use the suffering to produce hope. And then they started to share their sufferings . . . One had been kidnapped, her captor telling her that she would either leave with him or in a body bag. The next had recently been raped, which she went on to describe in more detail than I wanted to know. Perhaps even more surprising was her trauma from it, because later she shared that there was a time in her life she had prostituted herself to make ends meet because she felt there was no other way. The third shared that she had turned to cutting, which she had hid from her family for three years—until it covered so much of her body she could no longer hide it. All of these women shared that at times they had felt so hopeless they had considered or attempted suicide. And I was trying to share with them that they should rejoice in these sufferings!   Wrestling With God   Even as I wondered how to help them make sense of that verse, the one who had been raped and prostituted shared yet another difficult issue to address. She said that she believed in God and everything, but she just didn’t believe in all the rules. She shared that since she was twelve, she had been in custody—incarcerated or in residential or treatment facilities . . . she felt as though she had never been free. Now she was at a place in her life where she  wanted to be in control for once! She didn’t want anybody telling her what she could do or couldn’t do or how she should act—including God. She wanted to have fun !    Recalling her account of her sufferings, I found myself gently asking her, “How has that worked out for you so far?” I went on to share what I had learned—if from the opposite end of the spectrum. I have learned that you don’t know what you don’t know. As I lived a very pious, religious life and enjoyed a nice home and a loving family, I thought I had it all! I thought what I had was "fun." And then God broke me to the point of surrender. I gave up control and let him in the driver’s seat of my life. At times I still try to grab the wheel! But I know now that life is far more exciting and rewarding with God in control. While I had been satisfied with "bread," God then let me taste "cake." I shared with that gal that her idea of "fun" was merely bread…God wanted to give her cake! I think so many have settled for "bread"—the things of the world that bring us temporary satisfaction, the best we know in our worldly striving. But once we have experienced what God truly has to offer—peace, joy, hope…in us and in others—that’s when we don’t want to settle for what we  thought was good, but rather for what God has called good. And as we give up our control, as we take that step of obedience, submit to his authority, we get to experience God in ways we never imagined possible. And that in itself can be addictive! We seek more and more of him, and we can’t help but tell others what we have seen and heard.   The Gentle Leading of the Holy Spirit   Sometimes I wonder why in the world God leads me where he does during these times of study, why that  scripture would come to mind, and this was one of those times. At first it seemed there was no way we could get from the suffering these women had experienced to finding hope through it! But God is good to provide all we need and as the women peppered me with questions I had verse after verse come to mind. We jumped throughout scripture, God’s word itself providing answers I never would have had on my own.   At one point, the same woman shared that she wanted desperately to be moved back into the dorms. She said she just couldn’t take being in "max"—where each individual got locked up in their own rooms at night. Downstairs in the dorms there was always noise, light, activity—at all hours of the day or night. There were always things to keep her mind busy, to keep her from dwelling on her sufferings. Why would God make her sit in a quiet, dark cell—alone with her thoughts? Immediately, the story of Elijah and his time in the cave came to mind. We went on to read the story in 1 Kings chapter 19. Elijah, a mighty prophet and a man of God, was running from those who wanted to kill him when he found himself hiding in a cave, all alone, mired in self-pity, confused and angry with God. God wanted to speak to Elijah and he wasn’t in the roaring wind or the mighty earthquake or the fire . . . he was just a still small voice. I said to her, “Could God possibly be telling you to stop running from those thoughts? That he wants to sit with you and tackle those issues . . . together? To deal with them and put them behind you?”    As we were wrapping up, the one with all the questions apologized for making us jump all over, but then I was able to point out that that is exactly how the Bible works! Every question we have can be answered in scripture. We need only to seek and we shall find, ask and it shall be given, knock and the door shall be opened unto us. They all nodded in agreement, marveling at the way their questions had been answered—through scripture, from Genesis to Revelation.    Sweet Surrender   The girl who struggled with cutting had been largely silent throughout all of this. She had come several times now and I had learned she had never believed in God, never really even opened a Bible. She had always appeared kind of quiet and reflective. She pointed out that normally she would be the loud, brash, know-it-all in the group (which I found hard to believe!). But then she said that she just loved listening to me talk. She was just soaking it all in! I assured her that I prayed they were not my own words, but those of the Spirit in me. That I was nowhere near wise enough to come up with the answers God’s word provided. She began slowly nodding and said, “I never wanted to be a believer. I never could see the need for it. But now I am starting to see that it is good. I think I am ready. I think I want to go all in! I think I want to let God be in control of my life!” We prayed, amongst many other things, that she might indeed surrender her life to Christ. That all of us would allow him to be in control. That he would not just be our Savior, but our Lord . As they went to leave, the air was lighter, the heaviness was lifted. There was light shining into their darkness. They left not only feeling heard and satisfied . . . but hopeful —even in the midst of such sufferings. Only by the grace of God!   “Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” Romans 5:3-4 NIV   “Therefore, rid yourselves of all malice and all deceit, hypocrisy, envy, and slander of every kind. Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation, now that you have tasted that the Lord is good.” 1 Peter 2:1-3 NIV   “But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you.”  John 14:26 NIV

We sat at a booth in the coffee shop as my friend poured out her heart. She and her husband had been hosting a little boy through Safe Families for Children, a program that helped families get through some tough seasons. It was a safe place for kids to go while their parents worked through some things—maybe to undergo surgery, find housing, go into treatment, or maybe even serve a stint in jail. It gave the parents time to get things in order so that the little ones could go back to safer and more stable environments—at least, that was the idea.   A Broken Childhood, On Repeat   My friend was at her wit’s end. They had had this little boy for a long time, most of his little 3-year-old life, in fact. And the mother just couldn’t get her ducks in a row. She kept making bad choices; the little boy was being exposed to things he should never have experienced. Tears were flowing by now. She was sad and  angry  at this mom, who didn’t seem to care about this little boy. She didn’t deserve him! It didn’t even seem like she wanted him!   I sat with my dear friend, and my heart broke to see her heart break for this little boy. They had given so much—not just of their time and money, but of themselves. And my heart broke for the little boy. I let her talk and vent her frustrations; her love for this little boy was evident. But as she railed against the mother, my heart broke for the mother, too. By now, I had met so many of these moms who once were just like that little boy—living in unsafe and unstable environments with parents who kept making bad choices and being exposed to things they should never have experienced. They  did  love their children; they just didn’t know how to be good parents. No one ever showed them.   I found myself thinking about all the trauma training I had received in order to be a host family for Safe Families for Children. We couldn’t expect these kids to behave or respond “normally” because of all the trauma they had experienced in their young lives. Rather than asking, “Why did you do that?” we should ask, “What has happened to you?” Yet, we expected these parents—who have also undergone so much trauma—to “make better choices.” Not that it was okay for this little boy to be mistreated or put in unsafe situations, but could we find it in our hearts to have compassion for the mom, too—especially since we cannot know all the circumstances involved? When we saw the hurting children, this was hard.   To Say or Not To Say   I sat without speaking, just listening . . . well, listening and trying to decide if I should say anything or not. This internal wrestling happens to me often—to say or not to say. It is times like this when I can empathize with Jeremiah, the prophet. There were words within me that I knew I was supposed to share—words I knew she wouldn’t want to hear. And yet the words were like fire in my bones, so they started to come out—my appeal for this mom, my plea for compassion. We needed to love them, not hate them. We needed to try to understand, not judge. It was  not  what my friend wanted to hear. “Kaia, right now, I just want to be angry!” And I didn’t really blame her.   She was crying, and now I was crying, too. It was time to go, and we hugged, loving each other even amid such a hard conversation. My heart was heavy. Maybe I should have prayed more and talked less? Even if what I said was true, had it been the time to bring it up? Like I said, I wrestled with that one a lot.   A Providential Prayer Partner   The next morning, I received a text from my friend . . . a long text. After she had left the coffee shop, she went to walk on the bike trails. She just wanted to cry, to grieve the lot this little boy had drawn. She was supposed to go to a prayer service at church that evening with a friend. She really didn’t feel like going, but she had already told her friend she would go with her. So, she gathered herself together, and off she went.   At one point during the service, they broke up into small groups to pray. There were half a dozen or so in her group. As they went around the circle, sharing what had brought them there that night, they got to one woman, and what she said raised goosebumps on my friend’s neck. “I just got out of jail. I am here tonight because there were these women that would come into the jail. They came every week. They seemed so happy and full of hope. They just loved us . . . and I want what they have.”   My heart was filled by these words. Somehow, even as I had brought the truth that would reveal their sin, it had been received as love! The Lord had been working so hard on this old clanging cymbal, revealing to me that while love and acceptance are two different things, truth and love are not. I could absolutely love these women without accepting their lifestyle choices. I could speak the truth and genuinely love them at the same time. And this woman had received it in a way that brought conviction without condemnation. It had brought hope. She wanted what I had, and she had found a church that welcomed her and would continue to walk with her in truth  and  love.   My friend’s text went on to say that it was as if God had sent this woman to confirm what I felt compelled to share. What she  really  needed to hear. How would these mothers ever change if all they felt from those who professed to be Christians was frustration, anger, and judgment? How would that ever draw them into a healing relationship with the Great Physician—the only one who could bring hope and healing to them? After all, who is drawn to the sound of a clanging cymbal? She stood so convicted. She must try to love better.   She looked at the woman in the prayer circle and said, “I know those women! We have coffee every week. Would you like to join us?” And you know what? She did! She joined us in that little coffee shop in a neighborhood far from the one she had grown up in, and all of us learned how to love better. I think she was a little incredulous that  she  was invited to coffee with us. And, to be honest, sometimes there were awkward conversations about topics that probably weren’t often discussed in that particular coffee shop! But they were conversations we all needed. We were all growing. That woman’s testimony against the backdrop of my seemingly insensitive remarks had made God that much more real—to all three of us.   Seeing the Backside of Our Obedience   It’s funny, but I didn’t even remember that woman from the jail. I had no idea I had impacted her or her faith. I meet so many; unless they contribute a lot to the discussion or ask for prayers, I may not even learn their name. But God is so good to show us, at times, “the backside of our obedience”—as another friend puts it—giving us glimpses of the fruits of the seeds we have sown. It encourages me to press on and to fight the good fight. My husband and I would pick this woman up on Sundays and bring her to church. She lived in a little trailer house on the west side with thick blankets hung over every window—attempting to keep her old world out as she made steps toward a new one. She sat in the darkness of that little trailer, ignoring the knocks of people seeking to draw her back into the darkness, but she had more light in her life than ever! Her contact list had gone from over two hundred (mostly customers in her drug-dealing world) to eight (her mom, her children, one other godly friend, and me). She lost so many “friends” but gained the Savior she really needed. This woman and I have become good friends, and she will often comment about how crazy it was—that God would bring an ex-research scientist and an ex-drug dealer together and that they would become  friends . God is good all the time.   “But if I say, ‘I will not mention his word or speak anymore in his name,’ his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot.” Jeremiah 20:9 NIV   “There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy. But you—who are you to judge your neighbor?” James 4:12 NIV   “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:35 NIV   “Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.” Romans 12:16 NIV

The Interrogator   She just kept asking questions. Even as I tried to answer one, she would pepper me with another. One, after the other, on and on it went. I leaned into every question she brought, but I would barely get started, and she would ask another. To be honest, it was pretty frustrating. The other women may have been both a little annoyed and, perhaps, a little entertained by the rapid fire being shot at me and my futile attempts to respond. I was pretty sure I was losing this little war. Even as I attempted to respond to her latest inquiry, I heard her saying, “I always quit coming to these things,” meaning Bible studies offered at the jail. “Every time, they tell me I have to  just believe in Jesus . Well, I believe in my native religion, too. I suppose you’re going to tell me the same thing.” Again, there it was. A split second to decide how best to stand for truth, without losing her. But truth always wins, so I fired up my own cannons.   “I do believe Jesus is the only way. The Bible tells us he is the way, the truth, and the life. There is no way to the Father but through him.” But I didn’t stop there. I went on to talk about the tower of Babel. How I believed that even as God confused the languages, the various people groups that went out from the plain of Shinar would eventually form the basis for all the world religions. That while there was one true God, people would slide from that truth—adding to and taking away from the truths we read in the Bible, choosing their own gods to follow. How you could see some basic tenets that were the same in many of the religions—don’t lie, don’t steal, don’t murder—but that when it came to the characteristics of their god, it wasn’t the same deity. It was like the telephone game. By the time the story gets all the way around the circle, there is a core of truth to the story, but the details have all been changed.   I told her that it made me love people who don’t believe as I do even more. So many are truly seeking after God, they have just been led ever so slightly off-center and end up missing the mark. How, often, you will hear something in one of the other religions that echoes the truths of Scripture. What they are missing is the  end  of the story. Christianity is the  only  religion that teaches we can never be good enough on our own. Every other religion is based on works—we must earn our way to heaven. But God knew we could never make it. We would need grace. And the gift of his son, Jesus, was his answer to that profound truth. He made a way— the  way—and that way is Jesus.   I was surprised at how much time I was given for that response. She actually seemed to be listening rather than formulating her next question. But soon her rapid fire resumed, and as we parted, I couldn’t help but feel that may be the last I would see of her.   The Heckler   The following Monday, I went into the behavioral health center for spirituality group with the adolescents. A young man sat over by the window, chair tipped on its back legs, arms crossed. He had a black eye and a bandage across his cheek. I didn’t know the cause, but if I had to guess, he had probably been in a fight. He sure seemed to want to pick one with me.   He had a snide comment for almost everything I said and, at one point, he pointed to the Bible that was always on the table next to me. “So, what’s your favorite fairy tale in that book?” The other kids snickered. I felt like I was losing any credibility I may have had. Close on the heels of the warfare at the jail the week before, my confidence was failing. I don’t even remember my responses . . . I just remember my deflated spirit. It felt like I was losing this war, too.   It was only a couple days later that I was due back in the jail for the Wednesday Bible study. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would face the interrogator again. Part of me thought it might be easier if she didn’t join us! But most of me prayed she might return. Maybe a little seed had been planted. Maybe . . . but as they filed out and the slider clanged noisily shut, she wasn’t among them. I felt defeated. Before we even went into the Bible study, I felt as if I were losing this war. A war I didn’t even always realize I was fighting.   The Blue Billboard Battleground   As I left the jail and drove down a busy street, my eyes were caught—as so often in the past—by the blue billboards that peppered our city. A wealthy man with an agenda had purchased time on billboards up and down the main arteries of my hometown. An atheist spewing anti-God messaging on blue billboards, using science to disparage his name. They had actually been part of why I had left my job in research. Someone had to counter this message! But today, the blue billboards not only stood out to me but seemed to be laughing at me. I could literally feel the evil one’s presence, and he was mocking me:  Who are you to think that you could help anyone? You are no good at this. Why do you even try? You thought you could make a difference? You can’t. You should just quit.  I drove down that busy street with tears sliding down my cheeks. There was another voice, struggling to be heard over the din. It was whispering:  You aren’t the first to suffer in my name. I warned you this would be hard. People have been hated and even martyred for trying to bring the good news since the very beginning! Did you think it would be different for you?  I knew I should be listening to the second voice. But it felt like I was losing the battle.   Miracle at Walmart   I continued to make my way across town to pick up the bouquet of balloons and a gift for the baby shower I needed to be getting to. No time for a meltdown just now. I made my purchases and was making my way out of the store when she caught my eye. Two women entered together, both wearing sunglasses. There’s really no way I should have recognized her, but I had a laser-like focus on this woman walking into Walmart. She saw me too. Pulling off her glasses, she made her way over and gave me the biggest hug! It was the interrogator from the jail.   “Hi!” she exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you! You know, no one has ever talked to me about God or the Bible the way you did. I  do  believe that Jesus is the only way! After you left, I f*#@ing prayed!” A panicked look crossed her face as she quickly began to apologize for her profanity in front of the church lady. “But seriously, I just prayed and prayed…and I got out!” So, that was why she hadn’t made it back to the Bible study earlier that afternoon. She was out—and praising the Lord! Praise the Lord!   As we parted ways, I searched my brain for her name. I always tried so hard to remember their names. There is something so personal about being called by your name. And, lo and behold, even though we had only met the one time, her name floated to the top of my jumbled memory. Miracle. Her name was Miracle! And I felt like I had just seen one.   As if that God-sighting weren’t enough, my phone rang as I pulled away from the store. It was the director of the prayer center. She had just wanted to call to tell me that she had heard about my heckler at the Monday adolescent group at the behavioral health center and what a tough session it had been. She thought I might want to know that same young man had chosen to attend chapel that afternoon, and he had even gone back for prayer with one of the prayer warriors! So, even as he had sat with arms crossed defiantly and hurled insults and jeers, my words seemed to have somehow penetrated his tough facade—my words or Christ’s love? Maybe, hopefully, one and the same. But once again, praise the Lord!   The Invisible Battle   The Bible tells us in Ephesians 6:12 that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” My battle was not with the interrogator or the heckler. It was against the evil one—and it was real. But the Bible also tells us that he who lives in me is greater than the one who lives in the world, and we have been given the authority to overcome all the powers of the enemy. Heady thoughts, maybe even a little scary or intimidating. But thoughts that were becoming truths for me.   This is a battle we don’t see. At least not in the sense that we might see gunfire and bombings on a battlefield. But if we are alert and watchful, we  will  see the battle. And we will see that we are not alone. You see, I may have never crossed paths with the interrogator or heard about the heckler because I was supposed to already be at that baby shower. While I thought it started at 6:30, it actually started at 6. So, I was a half-hour late—with the table decorations—but, in God’s timing, I was right on time. Apparently, I had a more important meeting at the entrance to Walmart, and there was a call I had needed to take. So, I could rest assured that I was not in this battle alone. He is not a God of chance. He is a God of miracles!   “Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’” John 14:6 NIV   “God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us.” Acts 17:27 NIV   “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.” Ephesians 2:8–9 NIV   “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” Ephesians 6:12 NIV   “You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them, because the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world.” 1 John 4:4 NIV   “He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.” Job 5:9 NIV

When I first started going to the jail, the sights and sounds and smells were unfamiliar and intimidating. The stark halls, the masses of concrete and metal, the slamming doors. It became familiar and less intimidating, but for the longest time there was one thing that was just so frustrating. The wait. You would approach a door, push a button and wait. Get to the next door, maybe only four feet ahead of you, push a button and . . . waaaiiiitttt.    I remember waiting at one door in a tiny little vestibule, for what seemed an interminably long time. In the early days, I was still in my "efficient," "productive" mode—you know what they say, "time is money." So, this waiting was for the birds! Absolutely nothing was going on in the halls in front of or behind me—to the right or to the left. Why in the world couldn’t someone simply push the button that made this door open?! I became more accustomed to it and I think that I also began to just be a little more laid back in general but, still, I would find myself wondering, “What is the hold up here?” I could see no reason for the wait.   In the weeks and months that passed, I came and went from the jail and one thing I observed was that behind the front desk there was a room. This room had darkened windows where shadowy figures moved silently about and the faint glow from so many screens found its way past the heavy tint. Over time, it registered that these screens monitored every part of the jail, all the hallways, all the activity. It was like the "all-seeing eye." The power to open and shut all the doors resided in that room.    The other thing I observed over the weeks and months was that, at times, long lines of inmates—many in shackles and chains—would make their way from the jail to the courtroom. At times, the sound of pounding feet and the sight of guards running down the hallway would be the only indication of some skirmish or uproar somewhere in the bowels of the jail. At times, a gurney and medical staff—attending to one of the inmates suffering from sickness . . . injury . . . overdose . . . suicide attempt—would rush past the door and round the corner.    Over the weeks and months, glimpses of these incidences birthed an awareness and an understanding of just why there were periods of . . . waaaiiiitttt. And from this awareness and understanding came an epiphany, of sorts. Isn’t that just like our walk with God? We are ready—or at least we think we are. We see no reason to wait. Why won’t the doors of opportunity open already?! But then, God is the ultimate "all-seeing eye." He knows what obstacles lie ahead, what danger lurks around the corner, what needs to be prepared before we move ahead. He sees the past, the present, and the future . . . and his timing is perfect.    I now wait for the doors in the jail with a lot more patience. I pray that I will grow in my patience as I wait upon the Lord, as well. I now trust that the guards know what they are doing and when it is safe for me to advance to the next door. How much more should I put my trust in the God of the universe?! After all, scripture promises that those who wait upon the Lord will soar on wings like eagles.  I long to soar! So . . . I will wait. Imperfectly and impatiently at times, but I will wait.   “The eyes of the Lord are everywhere, keeping watch on the wicked and the good.” Proverbs 15:3 NIV   “Tell us, you idols, what is going to happen. Tell us what the former things were, so that we may consider them and know their final outcome. Or declare to us the things to come, tell us what the future holds, so we may know that you are g ods. Do something, whether good or bad, so that we will be dismayed and filled with fear. But you are less than nothing and your works are utterly worthless; whoever chooses you is detestable.” Isaiah 41:22-24 NIV   “…Grace and peace to you from him who is, and who was, and who is to come,…” Revelation 1:4 NIV

I was happily married, a mother of two, a successful career woman, and an excellent church lady. I had life by the tail. I was busy with my exciting research and very active in my church. I just never really tried to resolve the two. Some say you have to leave your heart at the door of the lab and your head at the door of the church. Maybe that’s what I had been doing, but then . . . My Heart and My Head Collided   I had to go to some scientific meetings in Washington, D.C., and my mother decided to tag along. It was a busy few days filled with scientific sessions and various meetings, interspersed with sharing some amazing food and doing touristy things with my sweet mom.   One afternoon found us at the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. There, lining the walls of the exhibit on human origins, was a series of skulls. From very apelike to very human, the series depicted a gradual transformation that supposedly took place over millions of years. So there I stood, with my model of faith (my mom) and what seemed to be clear evidence for evolution (skulls) right there in the room . . .  together. My heart and my head collided. I looked at my mom and said, “What do I do with this?”   How did I balance what Genesis taught—that we were created on day six of creation week, some 6,000 years ago—and what my extensive scientific training had taught me—that we evolved from apelike creatures over millions of years? I can still hear her simple response: “Just have faith.” Oh, how I wished it were that simple! But this wrestling that I had glossed over and shoved down so many times came rising to the surface, and the nagging doubt that had been hanging out in the shadows of my faith was revealed. This doubt had been keeping me from really believing, from fully surrendering—without my even realizing it. Would I Trust God or Man?   It wasn’t but a few weeks after our return that I got a call from a friend. She told me there was a conference coming to town that I just had to go to. I am embarrassed to admit this, but in my intellectual arrogance, I thought the conference was called Answers TO Genesis. Surely, they would be able to get the first chapter of Genesis squared up with all that we had proven through science! Turns out, the conference was called Answers IN Genesis. The answers would be found in God’s Word. The squaring up needed to be done in me! Would I trust God or man? In whom did I put my faith? Looking Through a New Lens   Despite a raging South Dakota blizzard, I made every session of that three-day conference. A parade of educated, intelligent, articulate scientists came across the stage, unveiling, not new evidence, but a new lens. A biblical lens. If you looked at the evidence believing the Bible to be true, it made perfect sense. It was like slipping into a pair of comfortable old shoes when I had been trying to walk in stilettos!   This was a pivotal moment in my faith. I became ravenous for "evidence." Working at the university, I took advantage of the library—poring over scientific journals from geology to anthropology to archaeology. It was like scales falling from my eyes. To read the observations and conclusions through a biblical lens put everything in a whole new light. And it made so much sense! My heart and my mind could live in the same room! I could now take my heart to the lab and my brain to church. And it would change everything . . .   “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.”  Genesis 1:27 NIV   “It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to trust in man.” Psalm 118:8 NIV   “I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.”  Psalm 121:1–2 NIV

We come from different places. Each of us, really. Our world may have more similarities with some people than others, but even then . . . we each come from our own, unique place. It’s like our own room, our private room. Our childhood, our families, our friends, our spouses, our co-workers and bosses. Our home, our school, our workplace. Every one of those people and each of those places brings experiences and interactions that are unique, to us. We keep all those interactions and experiences—and our responses to them—tucked away in our rooms. We get to decide who gets to see in our room. Some leave the door wide open. Others put up the Do Not Disturb sign. We meet in the hallway. We emerge from our rooms and mingle with others—at school, at work, at Walmart. We choose how we portray ourselves, we choose how we see others. Some wear a tight-fitting mask, choosing a façade to hide who they really are. Others are transparent, with a window to their very soul. For most of my life I spent almost all my time in my room or the hallway. I chose a nice mask that I donned as I left my room to convey to others that I had it all together. In the hallway, I could be quick to judge others. With just a glance, I was certain I had them pegged. I knew what kind of people they were . . . As I ran on the hamster wheel, I didn’t have time to knock on any doors. To see who might let me into their room for a visit. I just ran through the hallway and then retreated to my room. And then, when God finally got me to get off the hamster wheel, I suddenly found myself with time to sit. To simply be. I realized I had been a human doing when God created us to be a human being ! In that space of slowed time, of stillness, I began to see people. Rather than quickly judging, I was finding time to sit with others over a cup of coffee, or an open Bible, or to take a walk in a park together . . . and I began to let my mask loosen. I even dared to take it off at times. And people began to let me into their rooms. Some rooms were hard to enter. Some things were hard to hear. But I grew closer to those people more quickly and with a depth and richness that I hadn’t had with many others—even people I had “known” my whole life. And I came to realize that I had been wrong. Probably almost every time. I didn’t have the people in the hallway “pegged.” That girl at school that got labelled the fast floozy . . . when I was invited into her room, I found no love. So, she was trying to find it in the hallway. The quarrelsome board member at work who seemed angry about everything . . . when I was invited into her room, I came to discover she had suffered numerous miscarriages, was never able to bear a child, and she was on the verge of divorce. The guy at Walmart with the tattoos, and the foul mouth, and the baggy pants that threatened to drop to his ankles at any time . . . when I was invited into his room, I realized his mother had abandoned him, his dad was a Vietnam vet crushed by PTSD and numbed with medications. He had been left to fend for himself since he was a very little boy. Maybe we should try to peek past people’s masks or, better yet, be invited into their rooms before we put them in a labelled box . . . I was recently in a conversation with someone (who could have absolutely been me, earlier in my life) and I listened to her “peg” the people in the hallway. I heard quick judgments and opinions and a diatribe of what they should do and what should be done about them. I found myself so defensive! My heart ached for my new friends. I thought, “How dare you judge them! You haven’t been in their room!” I wondered if her opinion would change if she realized that prisoner she so quickly judged had been duct-taped to the floor of the closet as a toddler so his mom could go out drinking. I wondered if she would have more grace and compassion for that prostitute if she knew that she had been shown pornography as a 5-year old as they groomed her for the sex industry. As I found myself reeling from her rant, I heard a voice of caution trying to be heard over my own defensive diatribe that I was getting ready to launch in response. I realized I tread on dangerous ground. I teetered on the verge of hypocrisy. I had this opinionated woman “pegged.” And I had never been in her room. We were merely meeting in the hallway. Maybe I will ask her to coffee . . . “Be still, and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10 NIV “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him; fret not yourself over the one who prospers in his way, over the man who carries out evil devices!” Psalm 37:7 NIV “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.” Matthew 7:1 NIV “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms. ” 1 Peter 4:8-10 NIV